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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9543-8.txt b/9543-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b49014 --- /dev/null +++ b/9543-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18352 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in +Two Volumes, Volume I, by George MacDonald + +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: The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #9543] +Release Date: December, 2005 +First Posted: October 7, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS--GEORGE MACDONALD, VOL I *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS + +OF + +GEORGE MACDONALD + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. I + +1893 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +A HIDDEN LIFE + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE + +THE DISCIPLE + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN-- + 1. The Mother Mary + 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice + 3. The Mother of Zebedee's Children + 4. The Syrophenician Woman + 5. The Widow of Nain + 6. The Woman whom Satan had bound + 7. The Woman who came behind Him in the Crowd + 8. The Widow with the Two Mites + 9. The Women who ministered unto Him + 10. Pilate's Wife + 11. The Woman of Samaria + 12. Mary Magdalene + 13. The Woman in the Temple + 14. Martha + 15. Mary + 16. The Woman that was a Sinner + +A BOOK OF SONNETS-- + The Burnt-Offering + The Unseen Face + Concerning Jesus + A Memorial of Africa + A.M.D + To Garibaldi, with a Book + To S.F.S + Russell Gurney + To One threatened with Blindness + To Aubrey de Vere + General Gordon + The Chrysalis + The Sweeper of the Floor + Death + +ORGAN SONGS-- + To A.J. Scott + Light + To A. J. Scott + I would I were a Child + A Prayer for the Past + Longing + I know what Beauty is + Sympathy + The Thank-Offering + Prayer + Rest + O do not leave Me + Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth + Hymn for a Sick Girl + Written for One in sore Pain + A Christmas Carol for 1862 + A Christmas Carol + The Sleepless Jesus + Christmas, 1873 + Christmas, 1884 + An Old Story + A Song for Christmas + To my Aging Friends + Christmas Song of the Old Children + Christmas Meditation + The Old Castle + Christmas Prayer + Song of the Innocents + Christmas Day and Every Day + The Children's Heaven + Rejoice + The Grace of Grace + Antiphon + Dorcas + Marriage Song + Blind Bartimeus + Come unto Me + Morning Hymn + Noontide Hymn + Evening Hymn + The Holy Midnight + Rondel + A Prayer + Home from the Wars + God; not Gift + To any Friend + +VIOLIN SONGS-- + Hope Deferred + Death + Hard Times + If I were a Monk, and Thou wert a Nun + My Heart + The Flower-Angels + To my Sister + Oh Thou of little Faith + Wild Flowers + Spring Song + Summer Song + Autumn Song + Winter Song + Picture Songs + A Dream Song + At my Window after Sunset + A Father to a Mother + The Temple of God + Going to Sleep + To-Morrow + Foolish Children + Love is Home + Faith + Waiting + Our Ship + My Heart thy Lark + Two in One + Bedtime + A Prayer + A Song Prayer + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS-- + Songs of the Summer Days + Songs of the Summer Nights + Songs of the Autumn Days + Songs of the Autumn Nights + Songs of the Winter Days + Songs of the Winter Nights + Songs of the Spring Days + Songs of the Spring Nights + +A BOOK OF DREAMS + +ROADSIDE POEMS-- + Better Things + An Old Sermon with a New Text + Little Elfie + Reciprocity + The Shadows + The Child-Mother + He Heeded Not + The Sheep and the Goat + The Wakeful Sleeper + A Dream of Waking + A Manchester Poem + What the Lord Saith + How shall He Sing who hath No Song + This World + Saint Peter + Zacchaeus + After Thomas Kemp + +TO AND OF FRIENDS-- + To Lady Noel Byron + To the Same + To Aurelio Saffi + A Thanksgiving for F.D. Maurice + George Rolleston + To Gordon, leaving Khartoum + Song of the Saints and Angels + Failure + To E.G., dedicating a Book + To G.M.T. + In Memoriam Lady Caroline Charteris + + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT: + + +A Dramatic Poem. + + What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather-- + With outward maker's force, or like an inward father. + + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_. + +_Written December and January_, 1850-51. + +TO L.P.M.D. + + Receive thine own; for I and it are thine. + Thou know'st its story; how for forty days-- + Weary with sickness and with social haze, + (After thy hands and lips with love divine + Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine, + Though with a watery lustre,) more delays + Of blessedness forbid--I took my ways + Into a solitude, Invention's mine; + There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee. + Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book; + My child, developed since in limb and look. + It came in shining vapours from the sea, + And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me, + When the red life-blood labour would not brook. + + + _May_, 1855. + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + + +PART I. + + Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door; + And pray to Him in secret: He will hear. + But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear + The numberless ascensions, more and more, + Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before + Thou comest to the Father's likeness near, + And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear + That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. + Be thou content if on thy weary need + There falls a sense of showers and of the spring; + A hope that makes it possible to fling + Sickness aside, and go and do the deed; + For highest aspiration will not lead + Unto the calm beyond all questioning. + +SCENE I.--_A cell in a convent_. JULIAN _alone_. + + _Julian_. + Evening again slow creeping like a death! + And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, + On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars + Of the poor window-pane that let them in, + For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven! + Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. + But what is light to me, while I am dark! + And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, + Reflected flushes from the Evening's face, + Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, + Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left + His chamber in the dim deserted east. + Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea! + The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light, + As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, + And the insphered glory bubbled forth! + Or the sun were a splendid water-bird, + That flying furrowed with its golden feet + A flashing wake over the waves, and home! + Lo there!--Alas, the dull blank wall!--High up, + The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night + Come on me like a thief!--Ah, well! the sun + Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray: + The terror of the night begins with prayer. + + (_Vesper bell_.) + Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons; + My knees would not so pain me when I kneel, + If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. + I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, + Then will I praise him from the heights of peace; + But now my soul is as a speck of life + Cast on the deserts of eternity; + A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more. + I am as a child new-born, its mother dead, + Its father far away beyond the seas. + Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him: + He goeth by me, and I see him not. + I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes, + My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul. + + (_Choir and organ-music_.) + I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting. + What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies + Have just departed in the sun's bright coach, + And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me, + Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness. + Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold! + How should my cell be filled with wavering forms! + Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher; + Trembling and hesitating to float off, + As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy + Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues, + Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die. + --Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves! + Is it for this that I have left the world?-- + Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes + Of that night when the closing door fell dumb + On music and on voices, and I went + Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance, + Under the clear cope of the moonless night, + Wandering away without the city-walls, + Between the silent meadows and the stars, + Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit, + And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God; + When straight within my soul I felt as if + An eye was opened; but I knew not whether + 'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me? + It closed again, and darkness fell; but not + To hide the memory; that, in many failings + Of spirit and of purpose, still returned; + And I came here at last to search for God. + Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content + Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free! + + _A knock at the door. Enter Brother_ ROBERT _with a light_. + + _Robert_. + Head in your hands as usual! You will fret + Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. + Come, it is supper-time. + + _Julian_. + I will not sup to-night. + + _Robert_. + Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint. + + _Julian_. + A saint! The devil has me by the heel. + + _Robert_. + So has he all saints; as a boy his kite, + Which ever struggles higher for his hold. + It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;-- + He should let go his hold, and then he has you. + If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. + Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings. + + Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk. + That's the life of the jolly monk_. + + SONG. + + They say the first monks were lonely men, + Praying each in his lonely den, + Rising up to kneel again, + Each a skinny male Magdalene, + Peeping scared from out his hole + Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole; + But years ring changes as they roll-- + + Cho. _Now always merry, &c_. + + When the moon gets up with her big round face, + Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, + Down to the village below we pace;-- + We know a supper that wants a grace: + Past the curtsying women we go, + Past the smithy, all a glow, + To the snug little houses at top of the row-- + + Cho. _For always merry, &c_. + + And there we find, among the ale, + The fragments of a floating tale: + To piece them together we never fail; + And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. + And so we have them all in hand, + The lads and lasses throughout the land, + And we are the masters,--you understand? + + Cho. _So always merry, &c_. + + Last night we had such a game of play + With the nephews and nieces over the way, + All for the gold that belonged to the clay + That lies in lead till the judgment-day! + The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch, + But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. + How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch! + + Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_. + That's the life of the jolly monk! + + _Robert_. + The song is hardly to your taste, I see! + Where shall I set the light? + + _Julian_. + I do not need it. + + _Robert_. + Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies. + I wish you were at table, were it only + To stop the talking of the men about you. + You in the dark are talked of in the light. + + _Julian_. + Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me. + + _Robert_. + No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say, + You would be thought a saint without the trouble; + You do no penance that they can discover. + You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, + Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. + You are a prince, say others, hiding here, + Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. + To-night, there are some whispers of a lady + That would refuse your love. + + _Julian_. + Ay! What of her? + + _Robert_. + I heard no more than so; and that you came + To seek the next best service you could find: + Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's. + + _Julian_. + One part at least is true: I knock at God's; + He has not yet been pleased to let me in. + As for the lady--that is--so far true, + But matters little. Had I less to think, + This talking might annoy me; as it is, + Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; + I keep in-doors. + + _Robert_. + Gloomy as usual, brother! + Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send + The light that all day long gladdened the earth, + Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire + Transformed the weathercock into a star, + That you should gloom within stone walls all day. + At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: + We will salute the breezes, as they rise + And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours + Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss-- + Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring + Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. + Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light + Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, + And thence descend triumphant, step by step, + The stairway of the hills. Free air and action + Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain. + + _Julian_. + My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, + "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" + Through every open room the child would pass, + Timidly looking for the friendly eye; + Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder + At what he saw, until he found his sire; + But gathered to his bosom, straight he is + The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. + And so with me: not having seen Him yet, + The light rests on me with a heaviness; + All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; + A voice is in the wind I do not know; + A meaning on the face of the high hills + Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. + A something is behind them: that is God. + These are his words, I doubt not, language strange; + These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; + And he is present, but I find him not. + I have not yet been held close to his heart. + Once in his inner room, and by his eyes + Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, + 'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, + And sounds that never lose love's mystery. + Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him. + + _Robert + (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess_). See, there + is God revealed in human form! + + _Julian (kneeling and crossing_). + Alas, my friend!--revealed--but as in nature: + I see the man; I cannot find the God. + I know his voice is in the wind, his presence + Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth; + And there stands Manhood: and the God is there, + Not here, not here! + + (_Pointing to his bosom_.) + [_Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone_--] + + You do not understand me. + Without my need, you cannot know my want. + You will all night be puzzling to determine + With which of the old heretics to class me. + But you are honest; will not rouse the cry + Against me. I am honest. For the proof, + Such as will satisfy a monk, look here! + Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here! + Did one week's scourging seam my side like that? + I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show + Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you, + And cannot bear but you should think me true. + Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk + Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried, + And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate, + Let out one stray beam of its living light, + Or humbled that proud _I_ that knows not God! + You are my friend:--if you should find this cell + Empty some morning, do not be afraid + That any ill has happened. + + _Robert_.] + Well, perhaps + 'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, + But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [_Goes_. + + _Julian_. + Amen.--A good man; but he has not waked, + And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. + God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; + And so he does, as possible for him. + How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! + He thinks me an enthusiast, because + I seek to know God, and to hear his voice + Talk to my heart in silence; as of old + The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, + He lay communing with his heart; and God + With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until + In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. + My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, + And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God; + And let me know the living Father cares + For me, even me; for this one of his children.-- + Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought. + God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, + And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. + See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou + Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. + I am a child, a fool before thee, God; + But thou hast made my weakness as my strength. + I am an emptiness for thee to fill; + My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie + Diffused, abandoning myself to thee.... + --I will look up, if life should fail in looking. + Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring! + Ah me! A life lost from its father-life! + + + + +SCENE II.--_The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation_. +ROBERT _enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in_. + + _Stephen_ + (_speaking across the table_). + You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic; + Or, if you like it better, stand to reason; + For in this doctrine is involved a _cause_ + Which for its very being doth depend + Upon its own _effect_. For, don't you see, + He tells me to have faith and I shall live! + Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall + Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven; + What is salvation else? If I believe, + Then he will save me! But, so, this his _will_ + Has no existence till that I believe; + And there is nothing for my faith to rest on, + No object for belief. How can I trust + In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo. + Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence; + To all intents save one, most plenary-- + And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd. + + _Monk_. + 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. + And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling + At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one + Should find it poison. I have no pique at him-- + But there's that Julian!-- + + _Stephen_. + Hush! speak lower, friend. + + _Two_ Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_. + + _1st Monk_. + Where did you find her? + + _2nd Monk_. + She was taken ill + At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, + And so they called me in. I found her dying. + But ere she would confess and make her peace, + She begged to know if I had ever seen, + About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, + Moody and silent, with a little stoop + As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, + And a strange look of mingled youth and age,-- + + _1st Monk_. + Julian, by-- + + _2nd Monk_. + 'St--no names! I had not seen him. + I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, + And urged her to proceed; and she began; + But went not far before delirium came, + With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, + Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past + Was running riot in her conquered brain; + And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group + Held carnival; went freely out and in, + Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed + As some confused tragedy went on; + Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant + Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain + Lay desolate and silent. I can gather + So much, and little more:--This Julian + Is one of some distinction; probably rich, + And titled Count. He had a love-affair, + In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.-- + Give me the woman; love is troublesome!-- + She loved him too, but falsehood came between, + And used this woman for her minister; + Who never would have peached, but for a witness + Hidden behind some curtain in her heart-- + An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, + Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude + His story to some double-ghostly father, + For she is ghostly penitent by this. + Our consciences will play us no such tricks; + They are the Church's, not our own. We must + Keep this small matter secret. If it should + Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye-- + A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns! + And so the world will have the benefit + Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. + I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else + Until our Abbot comes. + + _1st Monk_. + That is to-morrow. + + _Another group near the bottom of the table, in which + is_ ROBERT. + + _1st Monk_. + 'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him. + Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, + Which passes like a thought across his face, + When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, + A while to our discourse?--he never joins. + + _2nd Monk_. + I know quite well. I stood beside him once, + Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking: + He chanced to say the words, _Our Holy Faith_. + "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips, + Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words + Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure + He is an atheist at the least. + + _3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_). + And I + Fear he is something worse. I had a trance + In which the devil tempted me: the shape + Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. + _Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame. + I am sure of one thing--music tortures him: + I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_, + When the whole chapel trembled in the sound, + Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain, + And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, + Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees. + + _2nd Monk_. + He does not know his rubric; stands when others + Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice + With his missal upside down. + + _4th Monk (plethoric and husky_). + He blew his nose + Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, + And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat. + + _Robert_. + When he returns, we must complain; and beg + He'll take such measures as the case requires. + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, +its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at +the light_. + + + _Julian_. + And so all growth that is not toward God + Is growing to decay. All increase gained + Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. + 'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, + Towering above the light it overcomes, + But ever sinking with the dying flame. + O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life! + No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! + Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? + Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none + That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. + Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me? + I have done naught for thee, am but a want; + But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; + And this same need of thee which thou hast given, + Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, + And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. + Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled + This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead + For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. + + Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; + Or was it but my heart that spoke for him? + "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give; + My longing is thy promise, O my God! + If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, + Why doth the longing yet remain with me, + And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?" + Methought I heard for answer: "Question on. + Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds + Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, + A hungering and a fainting and a pain, + Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead + While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. + Better to live in pain than die that death." + + So I will live, and nourish this my pain; + For oft it giveth birth unto a hope + That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. + Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his, + Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. + A still small voice I cannot but believe, + Says on within: God _will_ reveal himself. + + I must go from this place. I cannot rest. + It boots not staying. A desire like thirst + Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, + To be abroad on the mysterious earth, + Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. + + 'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. + For many months I had not seen her form, + Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, + Until I laid me down an hour ago; + When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes, + The memory passed, reclothed in verity: + Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze + Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon; + The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, + "Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep, + All save the poplar: it was full of joy, + So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. + Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea, + She issued radiant from the pearly night. + It took me half with fear--the glimmer and gleam + Of her white festal garments, haloed round + With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there + I am bewildered. Something I remember + Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound, + Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; + Of agony, as when a spirit seeks + In vain to hold communion with a man; + A hand that would and would not stay in mine; + A gleaming of white garments far away; + And then I know not what. The moon was low, + When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet, + Dripping with dew-- + + _Enter_ ROBERT _cautiously_. + + Why, how now, Robert? + + [_Rising on his elbow_.] + _Robert (glancing at the chest_). + I see; that's well. Are + you nearly ready? + + _Julian_. + Why? What's the matter? + + _Robert_. + You must go this night, + If you would go at all. + + _Julian_. + Why must I go? + [_Rises_.] + _Robert (turning over the things in the chest_). + Here, put + this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. + No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat, + + [_Going to the chest again_.] + + Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub + Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow. + + _Julian_. + Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all. + + _Robert_. + No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you. + Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar + The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian! + + [_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.] + + _Julian_. + Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend. + Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again. + + _Robert_. + Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow + passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, + and closes the door behind him_.] + + + + +SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while +his horse is brought out_. + + _Abbot_. + Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, + Within the holiest of the holy place! + I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, + With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; + And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, + Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, + Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved + By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem. + And over him shall bend the Mother mild, + In silken white and coroneted gems. + Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now-- + The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; + Nor know I any nests of money-bees + That could yield half-contentment to my need. + Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet + In journeying through this vale of tears have I + Projected pomp that did not blaze anon. + + + +SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the +roadside_. + + + _Julian_. + So lies my journey--on into the dark! + Without my will I find myself alive, + And must go forward. Is it God that draws + Magnetic all the souls unto their home, + Travelling, they know not how, but unto God? + It matters little what may come to me + Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, + Social condition, yea, or love or hate; + But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence? + My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_, + Goes darkling forward into something--what? + O God, thou knowest. It is not my care. + If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, + It were a fearful thing to be and grow + We know not what. My God, take care of me; + Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, + Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. + And let thy own design in me work on, + Unfolding the ideal man in me; + Which being greater far than I have grown, + I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. + One day, completed unto thine intent, + I shall be able to discourse with thee; + For thy Idea, gifted with a self, + Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, + And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. + Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; + I ask not whither, for it must be on. + + This road will lead me to the hills, I think; + And there I am in safety and at home. + + + +SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks. + + _Abbot_. + Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name? + + _Monk_. + She did. + + _Abbot_. + What did she call the lady? What? + + _Monk_. + I could not hear. + + _Abbot_. + Nor where she lived? + _Monk_. + Nor that. + She was too wild for leading where I would. + + _Abbot_. + So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: + You have kept this matter secret? + + _Monk_. + Yes, my lord. + _Abbot_. + Well, go and send him hither. + + [Monk _goes_.] + Said I well, + That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me? + That God would hear his own elect who cried? + Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means + That it shall draw the eyes by power of light! + So tender in conceit, that it shall draw + The heart by very strength of delicateness, + And move proud thought to worship! + I must act + With caution now; must win his confidence; + Question him of the secret enemies + That fight against his soul; and lead him thus + To tell me, by degrees, his history. + So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation + For future acts, as circumstance requires. + For if the tale be true that he is rich, + And if---- + + _Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_. + + _Monk_. + He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty. + + _Abbot_ (_starting up_). + What! You are crazy! Gone? + His cell is empty? + + _Monk_. + 'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes! + + _Abbot_. + Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear! + There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied! + Some one is in his confidence!--who is it? + Go rouse the convent. + + [Monk _goes_.] + + He must be followed, found. + Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag! + But by and by your horns, and then your side! + 'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating. + I'll go and sift this business to the bran. + Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--God's + curse! it shall fare ill with any man + That has connived at this, if I detect him. + + + +SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven! + I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak + Is miles away, and high amid the clouds. + Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, + With the fantastic rock upon its side, + Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window + Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze + With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, + Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, + The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond, + A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, + Might be the depths of the unfathomed space, + This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. + Upon its very point I have watched a star + For a few moments crown it with a fire, + As of an incense-offering that blazed + Upon this mighty altar high uplift, + And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. + From the next window I could look abroad + Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted + With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, + Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, + In white and green; but still I turned to look + At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: + All here I saw--I knew not what was there. + O love of knowledge and of mystery, + Striving together in the heart of man! + "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."-- + Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: + "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!" + But I must hasten; else the sun will set + Before I reach the smoother valley-road. + I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has + Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, + Four years of wandering since I left my home, + In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, + Must have worn changes in this face of mine + Sufficient to conceal me, if I will. + + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the +floor_. ROBERT. + + + _Robert_. + One comfort is, he's far away by this. + Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. + Where shall I find a daysman in this strife + Between my heart and holy Church's words? + Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, + Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must + Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, + Be subject to the written law of words; + Impulses made, made strong, that we might have + Within the temple's court live things to bring + And slay upon his altar; that we may, + By this hard penance of the heart and soul, + Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; + I ought not to have let poor Julian go. + And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- + Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, + Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life + That he might be in peace. Still up and down + The balance goes, a good in either scale; + Two angels giving each to each the lie, + And none to part them or decide the question. + But still the _words_ come down the heaviest + Upon my conscience as that scale descends; + But that may be because they hurt me more, + Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. + Would God forbid us to do what is right, + Even for his sake? But then Julian's life + Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! + I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God + Commanded different things in different tones. + Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest + God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, + Like Mary singing to her mangered child; + The other like a self-restrained tempest; + Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, + Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_. + O for some light! Would they would kill me! then + I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, + And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; + And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. + I should not fear, for he would comfort me, + Because I am perplexed, and long to know. + But this perplexity may be my sin, + And come of pride that will not yield to him! + O for one word from God! his own, and fresh + From him to me! Alas, what shall I do! + + + + + +_PART II_. + + + Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense! + It is thy Duty waiting thee without. + Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; + A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; + Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; + Go forth into the tumult and the shout; + Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: + Of noise alone is born the inward sense + Of silence; and from action springs alone + The inward knowledge of true love and faith. + Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, + And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: + One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, + Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death. + + + +SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse. + + + _Julian_. + Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember: + A man about my height, but stronger built? + I have seen him at her father's. There was something + I did not like about him:--ah! I know: + He had a way of darting looks at you, + As if he wished to know you, but by stealth. + + _Nurse_. + The same, my lord. He is the creditor. + The common story is, he sought the daughter, + But sought in vain: the lady would not wed. + 'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, + Which caused much wonder, for the family + Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni + Contrived to be the only creditor, + And so imprisoned him. + + _Julian_. + Where is the lady? + _Nurse_. + Down in the town. + _Julian_. + But where? + _Nurse_. + If you turn left, + When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house + Upon this side the way. An honest couple, + Who once were almost pensioners of hers, + Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home + With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis + A wretched change for her. + + _Julian_. + Hm! ah! I see. + What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse? + + _Nurse_. + Here he is little known. His title comes + From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. + He looks ungracious: I have seen the children + Run to the doors when he came up the street. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay--one thing more: + Have any of my people seen me? + + _Nurse_. None + But me, my lord. + + _Julian_. + And can you keep it secret?-- + know you will for my sake. I will trust you. + Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.] + Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid + His plans for nothing further! I will watch him. + Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. + Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father, + Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame; + My love had no claim on like love from thee.--How + the old tide comes rushing to my heart! + + I know not what I can do yet but watch. + I have no hold on him. I cannot go, + Say, _I suspect_; and, _Is it so or not_? + I should but injure them by doing so. + True, I might pay her father's debts; and will, + If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well + During my absence. _I_ have not spent much. + But still she'd be in danger from this man, + If not permitted to betray himself; + And I, discovered, could no more protect. + Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt + Her footsteps like an angel, not for long + Should I remain unseen of other eyes, + That peer from under cowls--not angel-eyes-- + Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. + No; I must watch. I can do nothing better. + + + +SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_. + + _Man_. + How's the poor lady now? + + _Woman_. + She's poorly still. + I fancy every day she's growing thinner. + I am sure she's wasting steadily. + + _Man_. + Has the count + Been here again to-day? + + _Woman_. + No. And I think + He will not come again. She was so proud + The last time he was here, you would have thought + She was a queen at least. + + _Man_. + Remember, wife, + What she has been. Trouble like that throws down + The common folk like us all of a heap: + With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, + It sets the mettle up. + + _Woman_. + All very right; + But take her as she was, she might do worse + Than wed the Count Nembroni. + + _Man_. + Possible. + But are you sure there is no other man + Stands in his way? + + _Woman_. + How can I tell? So be, + He should be here to help her. What she'll do + I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. + And for her work, she does it far too well + To earn a living by it. Her times are changed-- + She should not give herself such prideful airs. + + _Man_. + Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard + On one another! You speak fair for men, + And make allowances; but when a woman + Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. + But where is this you're going then to-night? + Do they want me to go as well as you? + + _Woman_. + Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. + They cannot give the money to me, except + My husband go with me. He told me so. + + _Man_. + Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see: + I don't expect a groat to come of it. + + + +SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess. + + + _Host_. + That's a queer customer you've got upstairs! + What the deuce is he? + + _Hostess_. + What is that to us? + He always pays his way, and handsomely. + I wish there were more like him. + + _Host_. + Has he been + At home all day? + + _Hostess_. + He has not stirred a foot + Across the threshold. That's his only fault-- + He's always in the way. + + _Host_. + What does he do? + + _Hostess_. + Paces about the room, or sits at the window. + I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, + To see what he's about: he looks annoyed, + But does not speak a word. + _Host_. + He must be crazed, + Or else in hiding for some scrape or other. + + _Hostess_. + He has a wild look in his eye sometimes; + But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, + If he were mad, or anything on his conscience; + And though he does not say much, when he speaks + A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way. + + _Host_. + Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come? + + + +SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half +hidden by the curtain_. + + _Julian_. + With what profusion her white fingers spend + Delicate motions on the insensate cloth! + It was so late this morning ere she came! + I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale! + Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. + Do I not love he? more than when that beauty + Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond + The confines of her wondrous face and form, + And animated with a present power + Her garment's folds, even to the very hem! + + Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest + In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door, + As for her husband. Something will follow this. + And here he comes, all in his best like her. + They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk, + With short steps down the street. Now I must wake + The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes! + + + +SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_. + + _1st Serv_. + Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There! + That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head, + I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say; + We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten. + + _2nd Serv_. + Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare + She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already, + As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were + Under some roof or other. I fear this business + Is not of the right sort. + + _1st Serv_. + He looked as black + As if he too had lightning in his bosom. + There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo! + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face +pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_. + + _Julian_. + Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares! + I wish the wind would leave or blow it out. + Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm + Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind! + That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he + Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear + This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain + Has blotted all my view with crossing lights. + 'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over, + And take my stand in the corner by the door. + But if he comes while I go down the stairs, + And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently + Up the stair to the landing by her door. + + [_He goes quickly toward the door_.] + + _Hostess (opening the door and looking in_). + If you please, sir-- + + [_He hurries past_] + + The devil's in the man! + + + +SCENE VII.--_The landing_. + + _Voice within_. + If you scream, I must muffle you. + + _Julian (rushing up the stair_). + He _is_ there! + His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream! + + [_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs + forward on the other side_.] + + Back! + + _Nembroni_. + What the devil!--Beggar! + + [_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which + he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he + springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.] + + _Julian (taking him by the throat_). + I have faced worse + storms than you. + + [_They struggle_.] + + Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, + + [_He stabs him_.] + + Your ribs will not mail your heart! + + [NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the + dead man's coat_.] + + If men _will_ be devils, + They are better in hell than here. + + [_Lightning flashes on the blade_.] + + What a night + For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven! + + [_Approaches the lady within_.] + + Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope + It will not pass too soon. It is not far + To the half-hidden door in my own fence, + And that is well. If I step carefully, + Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints. + What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think! + Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me. + That's awkward now. + + [_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.] + + Pardon me, dear lady; + + [_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.] + + 'Tis not to save my blood I would defile + Even your handkerchief. + + [_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.] + + I am pleased to think + Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength. + + [_Looking out of the window on the landing_.] + + For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him. + + [_He goes down the stair_] + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse. + + _Julian_. + Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse. + You have put your charge to bed? + + _Nurse_. + Yes, my dear lord. + + _Julian_. + And has she spoken yet? + + _Nurse_. + After you left, + Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once: + _Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me, + And her eyes wandered over all my face, + Till half in comfort, half in weariness, + They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is + As feeble as a child. + + _Julian_. + Under your care + She'll soon be well again. Let no one know + She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her. + + _Nurse_. + Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress. + + _Julian_. + That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire. + Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you. + + _Nurse_. + Leave? + + _Julian_. + Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again + Over the earth and sea. She must not know + I have been here. You must contrive to keep + My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke + When a branch caught me, but she could not see me. + She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her; + Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse. + Let her on no pretense guess where she is, + Nor utter word that might suggest the fact. + When she is well and wishes to be gone, + Then write to this address--but under cover + + [_Writing_.] + + To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I + Will see to all the rest. But let her know + Her father is set free; assuredly, + Ere you can say it is, it will be so. + + _Nurse_. + How shall I best conceal her, my good lord? + + _Julian_. + I have thought of that. There's a deserted room + In the old west wing, at the further end + Of the oak gallery. + + _Nurse_. + Not deserted quite. + I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, + Because you loved it when a boy, my lord. + + _Julian_. + You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: + I found a sliding panel, and a door + Into a room behind. I'll show it you. + You'll find some musty traces of me yet, + When you go in. Now take her to your room, + But get the other ready. Light a fire, + And keep it burning well for several days. + Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, + Take everything to make it comfortable; + Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, + Bind her to be as secret as yourself. + Then put her there. I'll let her father know + She is in safety.--I must change attire, + And be far off or ever morning break. + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + My treasure-room! how little then I thought, + Glad in my secret, one day it would hold + A treasure unto which I dared not come. + Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!-- + But not with even a heavenly gift would I + Go begging love; that should be free as light, + Cleaving unto myself even for myself. + I have enough to brood on, joy to turn + Over and over in my secret heart:-- + She lives, and is the better that I live! + + _Re-enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; + She's in a dreadful fever. We must send + To Arli for the doctor, else her life + Will be in danger. + + _Julian_ + (_rising disturbed_). + Go and fetch your daughter. + Between you, take her to my room, yours now. + I'll see her there. I think you can together! + + _Nurse_. + O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + _Julian_. + I ought to know the way to treat a fever, + If it be one of twenty. Hers has come + Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. + I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna! + + + +SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot. + + _Abbot_. + 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. + One hope remains: that fellow has a head! + + _Enter_ STEPHEN. + + Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told + You said to-day, if I commissioned you, + You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave. + + _Stephen_. + I did, my lord. + + _Abbot_. + How would you do it, Stephen? + + _Stephen_. + Try one plan till it failed; then try another; + Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes + And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: + Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. + I have no plan; but, give me time and money, + I'll find him out. + + _Abbot_. + Stephen, you're just the man + I have been longing for. Get yourself ready. + + + +SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_. +JULIAN _watching_. + + _Julian_. + I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then + She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! + My heart is beating as if it would spend + Its life in this one night, and beat it out. + And well it may, for there is more of life + In one such moment than in many years! + Pure life is measured by intensity, + Not by the how much of the crawling clock. + Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across + The window-blind? or is it but a band + Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed + Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself, + Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this-- + + _Lilia_ + (_half-asleep, wildly_). + If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!-- + Julian! Julian! + + [_Half-rising_.] + + _Julian_ + (_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_). + I am here, my Lilia. + Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream, + A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not? + + [_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on + the pillow. He leaves her_.] + + How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me! + But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long + She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead + In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced, + And leave her to console my solitude. + Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it! + And what a grief! I will not think of that! + Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own! + O God, I did not know thou wast so rich + In making and in giving; did not know + The gathered glory of this earth of thine. + What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy? + Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take + Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born + In thee, and send it home to dwell with me? + + [_He leans on the wall_.] + + _Lilia_ + (_softly_). + Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad, + As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am. + I see the flashing of ten thousand glories; + I hear the trembling of a thousand wings, + That vibrate music on the murmuring air! + Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool + Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!-- + What is it, though, that makes me glad like this? + I knew, but cannot find it--I forget. + It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall, + The endless going of the stream of life!-- + Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty! + + [_Querulously_.] + + [JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him + again, with large wondering eyes_.] + + Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty! + + [_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He + extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.] + + _Julian_. + The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless; + With its obtrusive _I am_ written large + Upon its face! + + [_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with + clasped hands; then returns to the window_.] + + She sleeps so peacefully! + O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep. + Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep. + You must be near her when she wakes again. + I think she'll be herself. But do be careful-- + Right cautious how you tell her I am here. + Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep! + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Nurse_. + Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter, + That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks, + And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!-- + Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life + From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see + Your shutters open, for I then should know + Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back, + To peep at morning from her own bright windows. + Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her, + To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams + Have but betrayed her secrets honestly! + Will he not give thee love as dear as thine! + + + +SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look +around him_. + + _Stephen_. + Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound + would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged + good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind + thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not + hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not. + Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man + that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not + follow thee. + + [_Sings_.] + + + Oh, many a hound is stretching out + His two legs or his four, + And the saddled horses stand about + The court and the castle door, + Till out come the baron, jolly and stout, + To hunt the bristly boar! + + The emperor, he doth keep a pack + In his antechambers standing, + And up and down the stairs, good lack! + And eke upon the landing: + A straining leash, and a quivering back, + And nostrils and chest expanding! + + The devil a hunter long hath been, + Though Doctor Luther said it: + Of his canon-pack he was the dean, + And merrily he led it: + The old one kept them swift and lean + On faith--that's devil's credit! + + Each man is a hunter to his trade, + And they follow one another; + But such a hunter never was made + As the monk that hunted his brother! + And the runaway pig, ere its game be played, + Shall be eaten by its mother! + + + Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail + monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and + precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_ + the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with + his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally + heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't + keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave + his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts + I am. + + +SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN +_seated by her; an open note in his hand_. + + _Lilia_. + Tear it up, Julian. + + _Julian_. + No; I'll treasure it + As the remembrance of a by-gone grief: + I love it well, because it is _not_ yours. + + _Lilia_. + Where have you been these long, long years away? + You look much older. You have suffered, Julian! + + _Julian_. + Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much, + Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself, + I'll tell you all you want to know about me. + + _Lilia_. + Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong; + It will not hurt me. + + _Julian_. + Wait a day or two. + Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all. + + _Lilia_. + And I have much to tell you, Julian. I + Have suffered too--not all for my own sake. + + [_Recalling something_.] + + Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!-- + I don't know when it was. It must have been + Before you brought me here! I am sure it was. + + _Julian_. + Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards. + You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must. + + _Lilia_. + I will obey you, will not speak a word. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + Blessings upon her! she's near well already. + Who would have thought, three days ago, to see + You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders. + + _Julian_. + My art has helped a little, I thank God.-- + To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Lilia_. + Why does he always wear that curious cap? + + _Nurse_. + I don't know. You must sleep. + + _Lilia_. + Yes. I forgot. + + + +SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers +on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_. + + _Julian_. + Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me. + You sent that note privately to my friend? + + _Steward_. + I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money, + Putting all things in train for his release, + Without appearing in it personally, + Or giving any clue to other hands. + He sent this message by my messenger: + His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it. + He will be secret. For his daughter, she + Is safe with you as with himself; and so + God bless you both! He will expect to hear + From both of you from England. + + _Julian_. + Well, again. + What money is remaining in your hands? + + _Steward_. + Two bags, three hundred each; that's all. + I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more. + + _Julian_. + One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance + Befall us, though I do not fear it much-- + have been very secret--is that boat + I had before I left, in sailing trim? + + _Steward_. + I knew it was a favorite with my lord; + I've taken care of it. A month ago, + With my own hands I painted it all fresh, + Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail + I'll have replaced immediately; and then + 'Twill be as good as new. + + _Julian_. + That's excellent. + Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast + To the stone steps behind my garden study. + Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put + The money in the old desk in the study. + + _Steward_. + I will, my lord. It will be safe enough. + + + + +SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay +dress, coming up to him_. + + _Stephen_. + Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow? + + _Waggoner_. + Its present owner's of the Uglii; + They call him Lorenzino. + + _Stephen_. + Whose is that + Down in the valley? + + _Waggoner_. + That is Count Lamballa's. + + _Stephen_. + What is his Christian name? + + _Waggoner_. + Omfredo. No, + That was his father's; his is Julian. + + _Stephen_. + Is he at home? + + _Waggoner_. + No, not for many a day. + His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful + Whether he be alive; and yet his land + Is better farmed than any in the country. + + _Stephen_. + He is not married, then? + + _Waggoner_. + No. There's a gossip + Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!-- + That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors, + To wander here and there, like a bad ghost, + Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge! + + _Stephen_. + Most probably. I quite agree with you. + Where do you stop? + + _Waggoner_. + At the first inn we come to; + You'll see it from the bottom of the hill. + There is a better at the other end, + But here the stabling is by far the best. + + _Stephen_. + I must push on. Four legs can never go + Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend. + + _Waggoner_. + Good morning, sir. + + _Stephen (aside_) + I take the further house. + + + +SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the +window_. + + _Julian_. + But do you really love me, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Why do you make me say it so often, Julian? + You make me say _I love you_, oftener far + Than you say you love me. + + _Julian_. + To love you seems + So much a thing of mere necessity! + I can refrain from loving you no more + Than keep from waking when the sun shines full + Upon my face. + + _Lilia_. + And yet I love to say + How, how I love you, Julian! + + [_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She + raises her head and looks at him_.] + + Did I hurt you? + Would you not have me lean my head on you? + + _Julian_. + Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt + Not yet quite healed. + + _Lilia_. + Ah, my poor Julian! How-- + I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember! + I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream! + I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him? + + _Julian_ + (_calmly, but drawing himself up_). + I killed him as I would a dog that bit you. + + _Lilia_ + (_turning pale, and covering her face with her + hands_.) + Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you! + + _Julian_. + Shall I go, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, no, no, do not.-- + I shall be better presently. + + _Julian_. + You shrink + As from a murderer! + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, I love you-- + Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian; + But blood is terrible. + + _Julian_ + (_drawing her close to him_). + My own sweet Lilia, + 'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, + As it had been a tiger that I killed. + He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling; + His blood lies not on me, but on himself; + I do not feel its stain upon my conscience. + + [_A tap at the door_.] + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, the steward waits on you below. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + You have been standing till you're faint, my lady! + Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something. + + + +SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_. + + _Julian_. + Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect + To hear from you soon after my arrival. + Is the boat ready? + + _Steward_. + Yes, my lord; afloat + Where you directed. + + _Julian_. + A strange feeling haunts me, + As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast + The chain around the post. Muffle the oars. + + _Steward_. + I will, directly. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Julian_. + How shall I manage it? + I have her father's leave, but have not dared + To tell her all; and she must know it first! + She fears me half, even now: what will she think + To see my shaven head? My heart is free-- + I know that God absolves mistaken vows. + I looked for help in the high search from those + Who knew the secret place of the Most High. + If I had known, would I have bound myself + Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds + Never a lark springs to salute the day? + The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best + Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! + It cannot be God's will I should be such. + But there was more: they virtually condemned + Me in my quest; would have had me content + To kneel with them around a wayside post, + Nor heed the pointing finger at its top? + It was the dull abode of foolishness: + Not such the house where God would train his children! + My very birth into a world of men + Shows me the school where he would have me learn; + Shows me the place of penance; shows the field + Where I must fight and die victorious, + Or yield and perish. True, I know not how + This will fall out: he must direct my way! + But then for her--she cannot see all this; + Words will not make it plain; and if they would, + The time is shorter than the words would need: + This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.-- + It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat + Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear + That the fair gladness is too good to live: + The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, + The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down; + But how will she receive it? Will she think + I have been mocking her? How could I help it? + Her illness and my danger! But, indeed, + So strong was I in truth, I never thought + Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. + My love did make her so a part of me, + I never dreamed she might judge otherwise, + Until our talk of yesterday. And now + Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me: + To wed a monk will seem to her the worst + Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. + I cannot take the truth, and, bodily, + Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. + She loves me--not as I love her. But always + --There's Robert for an instance--I have loved + A life for what it might become, far more + Than for its present: there's a germ in her + Of something noble, much beyond her now: + Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not. + + This evening must decide it, come what will. + + + +SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, +Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_. + + _Stephen_. + Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; + Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband. + + _Hostess_. + I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; + My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say + I am a judge myself. + + _Host_. + I'm confident + It needs but to be tasted. + + _Stephen_ + (_tasting critically, then nodding_). + That is wine! + Let me congratulate you, my good sir, + Upon your exquisite judgment! + + _Host_. + Thank you, sir. + + _Stephen_ + (_to the_ Hostess). + And so this man, you say, was here until + The night the count was murdered: did he leave + Before or after that? + + _Hostess_. + I cannot tell; + He left, I know, before it was discovered. + In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, + He rushed into the street, half tumbling me + Headlong down stairs, and never came again. + He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; + So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one! + + _Stephen_. + What was he like, fair Hostess? + + _Hostess_. + Tall and dark, + And with a lowering look about his brows. + He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. + One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, + Indoors as well as out. I dare not say + He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange + He always sat at that same window there, + And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if + There were much traffic in the village now; + These are changed times; but I have seen the day-- + + _Stephen_. + Excuse me; you were saying that the man + Sat at the window-- + + _Hostess_. + Yes; even after dark + He would sit on, and never call for lights. + The first night, I brought candles, as of course; + He let me set them on the table, true; + But soon's my back was turned, he put them out. + + _Stephen_. + Where is the lady? + + _Hostess_. + That's the strangest thing + Of all the story: she has disappeared, + As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, + White as my apron. The whole house was empty, + Just as I told you. + + _Stephen_. + Has no search been made? + _Host_. + The closest search; a thousand pieces offered + For any information that should lead + To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother, + Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, + Seeking in vain for some intelligence. + + _Stephen_. + 'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard + For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; + I have to write some letters. + + _Hostess (rising_). + Thank you, sir, + For your kind entertainment. + + [_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.] + + _Stephen_. + We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw + him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not + be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and + corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a + wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother + Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away + with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll + be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the + old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! + Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve. + The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old + mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her + children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her + dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's + nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to + marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is + displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable + progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the + cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory + couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the + chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll + go find the new count. The Church shall have the + castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new + count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well + have the thousand pieces as not. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN. + + _Lilia_. + How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + My Lilia, will you go to England with me? + + _Lilia_. + Julian, my father! + + _Julian_. + Not without his leave. + He says, God bless us both. + + _Lilia_. + Leave him in prison? + + _Julian_. + No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe, + And far from this ere now. + + _Lilia_. + You have done this, + My noble Julian! I will go with you + To sunset, if you will. My father gone! + Julian, there's none to love me now but you. + You _will_ love me, Julian?--always? + + _Julian_. + I but fear + That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough + To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it. + + _Lilia_. + I know why you think that; and I deserve it. + But try me, Julian. I was very silly. + I could not help it. I was ill, you know; + Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian, + How your arm is to-day? + + _Julian_. + Almost well, child. + Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid. + + _Lilia_. + Never mind that, if it be well again. + + _Julian_. + I do not mind it; but when I remember + That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch + Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours. + And there are more scars on me now than I + Should like to make you own, without confession. + + _Lilia_. + My poor, poor Julian! never think of it; + + [_Putting her arms round him_.] + + I will but love you more. I thought you had + Already told me suffering enough; + But not the half, it seems, of your adventures. + You have been a soldier! + + _Julian_. + I have fought, my Lilia. + I have been down among the horses' feet; + But strange to tell, and harder to believe, + Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood + Save what I lifted from the gory ground. + + [_Sighing_.] + + My wounds are not of such. + + [LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a + kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.] + + No. Penance, Lilia; + Such penance as the saints of old inflicted + Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know; + As a lord would exalt himself, by making + His willing servants into trembling slaves! + Yet I have borne it. + + _Lilia_ + (_laying her hand on his arm_). + Ah, alas, my Julian, + You have been guilty! + + _Julian_. + Not what men call guilty, + Save it be now; now you will think I sin. + Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.-- + Lilia, I have been a monk. + + _Lilia_. + A monk? + + [_Turningpale_.] + + I thought-- + + [_Faltering_.] + + Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say...? + + [_Very pale, brokenly_.] + + I thought you said ... + + [_With an effort_.] + + I was to be your wife! + + [_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.] + + _Julian_ + (_speaking low and in pain_). + And so I did. + + _Lilia_ + (_hopefully, and looking up_). + Then you've had dispensation? + + _Julian_. + God has absolved me, though the Church will not. + He knows it was in ignorance I did it. + Rather would he have men to do his will, + Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, + Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. + The vow was made to him--to him I break it. + + _Lilia_ + (_weeping bitterly_). + I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ... + It never can ... be right to break a vow; + If so, men might be liars every day; + You'd do the same by me, if we were married. + + _Julian_ + (_in anguish_). + 'Tis ever so. Words are the living things! + There is no spirit--save what's born of words! + Words are the bonds that of two souls make one! + Words the security of heart to heart! + God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God! + + _Lilia_ + (_not heeding him_). + Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon + Gave late repentance; I should weep away + My life within a convent. + + _Julian_. + Come to England, + To England, Lilia. + + _Lilia_. + Men would point, and say: + _There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth, + Called me not by a harder name than that. + + _Julian_. + There are no monks in England. + + _Lilia_. + But will that + Make right what's wrong? + + _Julian_. + Did I say so, my Lilia? + I answered but your last objections thus; + I had a different answer for the first. + + _Lilia_. + No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it. + + _Julian_. + Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot. + --I would have told you all before, but thought, + Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;-- + I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more; + I would not hurt your body, less your soul, + For all the blessedness your love can give: + For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say. + Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard + From infancy--it may---- + + [_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.] + + _Steward_. + My lord, there's such an uproar in the town! + They call you murderer and heretic. + The officers of justice, with a monk, + And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied + By a fierce mob with torches, howling out + For justice on you, madly cursing you! + They caught a glimpse of me as I returned, + And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm; + But I escaped them, old man as I am, + And was in time to bar the castle-gates.-- + Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut + The river from the moat! + + [_Distant yells and cries_.] + + Escape, my lord! + + _Julian_ + (_calmly_). + Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph? + + _Steward_. + A little while, my lord; but those damned torches! + Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls! + + _Julian_. + Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window, + And tell us of their progress. + + [JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.] + + Farewell, Lilia! + + [_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.] + + Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me. + My presence would but bring down evil on you, + My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear, + The terrible things that you have imaged out + If you fled with me. They will not hurt you, + If you be not polluted by my presence. + + [_Light from without flares on the wall_.] + + They've fired the gate. + + [_An outburst of mingled cries_.] + + _Steward_ + (_entering_). + They've fired the gate, my lord! + + _Julian_. + Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph. + You and old Agata tell all the truth, + And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me; + I shall be safe--you know me--never fear. + + _Steward_. + God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord! + + [_Is going_.] + + _Julian_. + But add, it was in vain; the signorina + Would not consent; therefore I fled alone. + + [LILIA _stands as before_.] + + _Steward_. + Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master! + + [Goes.] + + _Julian_. + Put your arms round me once, my Lilia. + Not once?--not once at parting? + + [_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.] + + O God! farewell! + + [_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the + panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both + behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, + and flies after him, but forgets to close + the panel_.] + + _Lilia_. + Julian! Julian! + + [_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door + of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of + the mob_.] + + _1st_. + I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still! + + _2nd_. + Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his + own. Look under the bed, Gian. + + _3rd_. + Nothing there. + + _4th_. + Another door! another door! He's in a trap + now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with + difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up + the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into + the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.] + + _Voices from within_. + I have him! I have him! Curse + your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You + won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. + Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the + light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! + The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles! + + [_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with + torches and follow_.] + + * * * * * + +SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN +_handing her the bags_. + + _Julian_. + There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it + is heavy.-- + Put them right in the middle, of the boat: + Gold makes good ballast. + + [_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, + then pushes gently off_.] + + Look how the torches gleam + Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped! + + [_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with + cries of search_.] + + (_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length + In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white, + And would return the torches' glare. I fear + The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this. + + [_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.] + + Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars! + The water mutters Spanish in its sleep. + My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife! + God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults, + Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!-- + Once round the headland, I will set the sail; + The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream. + Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all, + White angel lying in my little boat! + Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm, + Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks, + Should make me rich with womanhood and life! + + [_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.] + + SONG. + + Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife, + Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled; + Unresting yet, though folded up from life; + Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind, + O cover me with kisses of her mouth; + Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind; + To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing + From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing, + Us to a new love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + + + +PART III. + + + And weep not, though the Beautiful decay + Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes; + Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies, + Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. + Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away; + Her form departs not, though her body dies. + Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies, + Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day, + Through the kind nurture of the winter cold. + Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive + The summer-time, when roses were alive; + Do thou thy work--be willing to be old: + Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold + A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive. + + + +Time: _Five years later_. + +SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single +candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN +_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks +older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_. + + _Julian_. + What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_: + +"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At +length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the +Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what +he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, +spake as follows:--" + +"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and +there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near +the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and +above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and +strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a +rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining +between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who +had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou +sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A +song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead +thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly +came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose +eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom +he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the +youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a +dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was +a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide +within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw, +far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His +guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of +the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men +leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a +far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they, +I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a +windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it +seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard +a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it +was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat +down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I +ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it +means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the +Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who +cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he +sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to +take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where +God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of +his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The +sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal; +and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could +not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove +well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall +upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their +eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it +likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that +of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled +within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my +son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary +step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave +hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and +said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what +songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath +told his tale to the Immortals.'" + + [_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and + walks up and down the room_.] + + And so five years have poured their silent streams, + Flowing from fountains in eternity, + Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf, + Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed; + And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept. + And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born; + The day that showed how like to God himself + Man had been made, since God could be revealed + By one that was a man with men, and still + Was one with God the Father; that men might + By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God, + Who had come near to them in tenderness. + O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye + That oft hath opened on me these five years; + Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit + That let me know thy thought was toward me; + Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years, + Telling what converse I should hold with God. + I thank thee for the sorrow and the care, + Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks + Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which + Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee. + Five years ago, I prayed in agony + That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then, + With that close speech I craved so hungrily. + Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart; + And thou wast all the time instructing me + To know the language of thy inmost speech. + I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour + Thou spakest every word my heart could hear, + Though oft I did not know it was thy voice. + My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul; + As if a world far-off in depths of space, + Chaotic, had implored that it might shine + Straightway in sunlight as the morning star. + My soul must be more pure ere it could hold + With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart + That shall see God. As if a well that lay + Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown + Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass + Over its surface, could give back the sun! + Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield + Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven! + And though I am not yet come near to him, + I know I am more nigh; and am content + To walk a long and weary road to find + My father's house once more. Well may it be + A long and weary--I had wandered far. + My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me. + I am content, rejoicing to go on, + Even when my home seems very far away; + For over grief, and aching emptiness, + And fading hopes, a higher joy arises. + In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright, + High overhead, through folds and folds of space; + It is the earnest-star of all my heavens; + And tremulous in the deep well of my being + Its image answers, gazing eagerly. + + Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus, + Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul + Thus far upon its journey home to God. + By poor attempts to do the things he said, + Faith has been born; free will become a fact; + And love grown strong to enter into his, + And know the spirit that inhabits there. + One day his truth will spring to life in me, + And make me free, as God says "I am free." + When I am like him, then my soul will dawn + With the full glory of the God revealed-- + Full as to me, though but one beam from him; + The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it: + In his light I shall see light. God can speak, + Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear. + Not yet like him, how can I hear his words? + + [_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.] + + My darling child! God's little daughter, drest + In human clothes, that light may thus be clad + In shining, so to reach my human eyes! + Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth, + To call me _father_, that my heart may know + What father means, and turn its eyes to God! + Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me, + How all unfit this heart of mine to have + The guardianship of a bright thing like thee, + Come to entice, allure me back to God + By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home, + And radiating of thy purity + Into my stained heart; which unto thee + Shall ever show the father, answering + The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes. + O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways, + All ignorant of wherefore thou art come, + And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward, + Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light + And pour it forth on me! God bless his own! + +[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.] + + My child woke crying from her sleep; + I bended o'er her bed, + And soothed her, till in slumber deep + She from the darkness fled. + + And as beside my child I stood, + A still voice said in me-- + "Even thus thy Father, strong and good, + Is bending over thee." + + +SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers; +gentlemen looking on_. + + 1_st Gentleman_. + Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves + As if her body were instinct with thought, + Moulded to motion by the music's waves, + As floats the swan upon the swelling lake; + Or as in dreams one sees an angel move, + Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air, + Then folding them, and turning on his track. + + 2_nd_. + You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it; + She is a glorious woman; and such eyes! + Think--to be loved by such a woman now! + + 1_st_. + You have seen her, then, before: what is her name? + + 2_nd_. + I saw her once; but could not learn her name. + + 3_rd_. + She is the wife of an Italian count, + Who for some cause, political I think, + Took refuge in this country. His estates + The Church has eaten up, as I have heard: + Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach. + + 2_nd_. + How do they live? + + 3_rd_. + Poorly, I should suppose; + For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons: + That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing! + + 2_nd_. + If she sings as she looks or as she dances, + It were as well for me I did not hear. + + 3_rd_. + If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford + To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth. + + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_. + + _Julian_. + I wish she would come home. When the child wakes, + I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest + On me, then wander searching through the room, + And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia! + 'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go + From this dull place, and for a few short hours + Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee; + For thou art very young for such hard things + As poor men's wives in cities must endure. + + I am afraid the thought is not at rest, + But rises still, that she is not my wife-- + Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child + Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead, + She thinks I have begun to think the same-- + Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin + Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia! + When every time I pray, I pray that God + Would look and see that thou and I be one! + + _Lily_ + (_starting up in her crib_). + Oh, take me! take me! + + _Julian_ + (_going up to her with a smile_). + What is the matter with my little child? + + _Lily_. + I don't know, father; I was very frightened. + + _Julian_. + 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you. + + _Lily_. + I am wake now; I know you're there; but then + I did not know it. + + [_Smiling_.] + + _Julian_. + Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again. + + _Lily_ + (_beseechingly_). + Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again; + It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up, + And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother? + I cannot see her. + + _Julian_. + She's not at home, my child; + But soon she will be back. + + _Lily_. + But if she walk + Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her. + + _Julian_. + She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet? + + _Lily_. + I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_). + Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you + A story I have read this very night. + + [_She looks in his face_.] + + There was a man who had a little boy, + And when the boy grew big, he went and asked + His father to give him a purse of money. + His father gave him such a large purse full! + And then he went away and left his home. + You see he did not love his father much. + + _Lily_. + Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone! + + _Julian_. + Away he went, far far away he went, + Until he could not even spy the top + Of the great mountain by his father's house. + And still he went away, away, as if + He tried how far his feet could go away; + Until he came to a city huge and wide, + Like London here. + + _Lily_. + Perhaps it was London. + + _Julian_. + Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent + All, all his father's money, buying things + That he had always told him were not worth, + And not to buy them; but he would and did. + + _Lily_. + How very naughty of him! + + _Julian_. + Yes, my child. + And so when he had spent his last few pence, + He grew quite hungry. But he had none left + To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce; + Nobody gave him any. He had been + Always so idle, that he could not work. + But at last some one sent him to feed swine. + + _Lily_. + _Swine_! Oh! + + _Julian_. + Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do; + And he was glad to eat some of their food. + + [_She stares at him_.] + + But at the last, hunger and waking love + Made him remember his old happy home. + "How many servants in my father's house + Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go + And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father; + I am not worthy to be called your son; + Put me among your servants, father, please.'" + Then he rose up and went; but thought the road + So much, much farther to walk back again, + When he was tired and hungry. But at last + He saw the blue top of the great big hill + That stood beside his father's house; and then + He walked much faster. But a great way off, + His father saw him coming, lame and weary + With his long walk; and very different + From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging + In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes-- + + [_She bursts into tears_.] + + _Lily_ + (_sobbing_). + Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my dear child. + + _Lily_. + And was he dirty too? + + _Julian_. + Yes, very dirty; he had been so long + Among the swine. + + _Lily_. + Is it all true though, father? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far + Than you can think. + + _Lily_. + What was his father like? + + _Julian_. + A tall, grand, stately man. + + _Lily_. + Like you, dear father? + + _Julian_. + Like me, only much grander. + + _Lily_. + I love you + The best though. + + [_Kissing him_.] + + _Julian_. + Well, all dirty as he was, + And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes, + His father knew him, the first look, far off, + And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms + Around his neck and kissed him. + + _Lily_. + Oh, how dear! + I love him too;--but not so well as you. + + [_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.] + + _Julian_. + There is your mother. + + _Lily_. + I am glad, so glad! + + _Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_. + + _Lilia_. + You naughty child, why are you not in bed? + + _Lily_ + (_pouting_). + I am not naughty. I am afraid to go, + Because you don't go with me into sleep; + And when I see things, and you are not there, + Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out, + And stretch my hands, and so I come awake. + Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come. + + _Lilia_. + What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed. + + [_Lays her down_.] + + _Julian_ + (_gazing on the child_). + As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother, + So are we lost in life without our God. + + + +SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the +street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_. + + _Lilia_. + Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time + My thoughts would wander to my dreary home. + Through every dance, my soul walked evermore + In a most dreary dance through this same room. + I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard, + As now, his measured step in the next chamber, + Go pacing up and down, and I shut out! + He is too good for me, I weak for him. + Yet if he put his arms around me once, + And held me fast as then, kissed me as then, + My soul, I think, would come again to me, + And pass from me in trembling love to him. + But he repels me now. He loves me, true,-- + Because I am his wife: he ought to love me! + Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty. + Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid, + Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven, + He used me like a slave bought in the market! + Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own; + And words of tenderness would falter in, + Relenting from the sternness of command. + But I am not enough for him: he needs + Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. + So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me + Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. + Italian lovers love not so; but he + Has German blood in those great veins of his. + He never brings me now a little flower. + He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child; + But never sings to me what the voice-bird + Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. + I would I were his child, and not his wife! + How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts + Fit to be women to his mighty men; + And he would love them, if he saw them once. + + Ah! there they come, the visions of my land! + The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs + Purple above the blue waves at their feet! + Down the full river comes a light-blue sail; + And down the near hill-side come country girls, + Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits; + Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad + For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment + At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought; + And to their side come stately, youthful forms, + Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:-- + Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day. + Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look + With pity on their poor contentedness; + For he sits at the helm, I at his feet. + He sung a song, and I replied to him. + His song was of the wind that blew us down + From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea. + Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea, + Where I should cry for comforting in vain, + Was the expanse of his wide awful soul, + To which that wind was helpless drifting me! + I would he were less great, and loved me more. + I sung to him a song, broken with sighs, + For even then I feared the time to come: + "O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now? + And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?" + Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart. + "And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend, + And suck my soul in vapours up to thee? + Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours. + Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I + In the warm valley, with the lily pale, + Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves; + Where odours are the sole invisible clouds, + Making the heart weep for deliciousness. + Will thy eternal mountain always bear + Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot? + Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow, + The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head, + Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door, + And goest from me into loneliness." + Ah me, my song! it is a song no more! + He is alone amid his windy rocks; + I wandering on a low and dreary plain! + + +[_She weeps herself asleep_.] + + + +SCENE V.--LORD SEAFORD, _alternately writing at a table and +composing at his pianoforte_. + + SONG. + + Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, + Sweetly, softly, sadly bright! + Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, + Radiant mists of ecstasy. + + Be not proud, O glorious orbs! + Not your mystery absorbs; + But the starry soul that lies + Looking through your night of eyes. + + One moment, be less perfect, sweet; + Sin once in something small; + One fault to lift me on my feet + From love's too perfect thrall! + + For now I have no soul; a sea + Fills up my caverned brain, + Heaving in silent waves to thee, + The mistress of that main. + + O angel! take my hand in thine; + Unfold thy shining silver wings; + Spread them around thy face and mine, + Close curtained in their murmurings. + + But I should faint with too much bliss + To be alone in space with thee; + Except, O dread! one angel-kiss + In sweetest death should set me free. + + O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on, + Till thou hast won my soul in sighs; + I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne, + If thou wilt keep those eyes. + + And if the meanings of untold desires + Should charm thy pain of one faint sting, + I will arise amid the scorching fires, + I will arise and sing. + + O what is God to me? He sits apart + Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold. + Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart; + O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold. + + With too much life, I fall before thee dead. + With holding thee, my sense consumes in storm. + Thou art too keen a flame, too hallowed + For any temple but thy holy form. + + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room next morning; no fire_. JULIAN _stands at +the window, looking into a London fog_. + + _Julian_. + And there are mountains on the earth, far-off; + Steep precipices laved at morn in wind + From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap, + Springing from rock to pool abandonedly; + And all the spirit of the earth breathed out, + Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame, + Aloft to God! And there is woman-love-- + Far off, ah me! + + [_Sitting down wearily_.] + + --the heart of earth's delight + Withered from mine! O for a desert sea, + The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs! + Where I might cry aloud on God, until + My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain, + And fled to him. A numbness as of death + Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live, + But my dull soul can hardly keep awake. + Yet God is here as on the mountain-top, + Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle; + And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me, + As once I thought she did. But can I blame her? + The change has been too much for her to bear. + Can poverty make one of two hearts cold, + And warm the other with the love of God? + But then I have been silent, often moody, + Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought + That I was tired of her, while more than all + I pondered how to wake her living soul. + She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber, + Except a goaded conscience were my grief; + Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun. + Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus + Of that which makes her mine for evermore, + It is no wonder if her love grow less. + Then I am older much than she; and this + Fever, I think, has made me old indeed + Before my fortieth year; although, within, + I seem as young as ever to myself. + O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame; + I'll love thee more than ever; I will be + So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead! + For carefully men ope the door, and walk + With silent footfall through the room where lies, + Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore, + The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit. + Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love's child? + + I must go forth and do my daily work. + I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes + To do my daily labour; for, of old, + When men were poor, and could not bring thee much, + A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask; + And so in poverty, and with a heart + Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do + My day's work well to thee,--my offering: + That he has taught me, who one day sat weary + At Sychar's well. Then home when I return, + I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee. + Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance-- + Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice; + Thou only wise enough to teach the soul, + Measuring out the labour and the grief, + Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own. + He neither chose his glory, nor devised + The burden he should bear; left all to God; + And of them both God gave to him enough. + And see the sun looks faintly through the mist; + It cometh as a messenger to me. + My soul is heavy, but I will go forth; + My days seem perishing, but God yet lives + And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe. + + [_He rises and is going_. LILIA _enters, looking weary_.] + + Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out! + + _Lilia_. + Shines out indeed! Yet 'tis not bad for England. + I would I were in Italy, my own! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + 'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy. + + _Lilia_. + But never more will shine upon us there! + It is too late; all wishing is in vain; + But would that we had not so ill deserved + As to be banished from fair Italy! + + _Julian_. + Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think + That God is angry when we suffer ill. + 'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger. + + _Lilia_. + Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish + I felt as you feel. + + _Julian_. + God will hear you, child, + If you will speak to him. But I must go. + Kiss me, my Lilia. + + [_She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh_.] + + _Lilia_. + It is plain to see + He tries to love me, but is weary of me. + + [_She weeps_.] + + _Enter_ LILY. + + _Lily_. + Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear! + + [_Pulling her hand from her face_.] + + + + +SCENE VII.--_Julian's room. Noon_. LILIA _at work_; LILY _playing in +a closet_. + + _Lily_ + (_running up to her mother_). + Sing me a little song; please, mother dear. + + [LILIA, _looking off her work, and thinking with + fixed eyes for a few moments, sings_.] + + SONG. + + Once I was a child, + Oimè! + Full of frolic wild; + Oimè! + All the stars for glancing, + All the earth for dancing; + Oimè! Oimè! + + When I ran about, + Oimè! + All the flowers came out, + Oimè! + Here and there like stray things, + Just to be my playthings. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Mother's eyes were deep, + Oimè! + Never needing sleep. + Oimè! + Morning--they're above me! + Eventide--they love me! + Oimè! Oimè! + + Father was so tall! + Oimè! + Stronger he than all! + Oimè! + On his arm he bore me, + Queen of all before me. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Mother is asleep; + Oimè! + For her eyes so deep, + Oimè! + Grew so tired and aching, + They could not keep waking. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Father, though so strong, + Oimè! + Laid him down along-- + Oimè! + By my mother sleeping; + And they left me weeping, + Oimè! Oimè! + + Now nor bird, nor bee, + Oimè! + Ever sings to me! + Oimè! + Since they left me crying, + All things have been dying. + Oimè! Oimè! + + [LILY _looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering + what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. + After a little she comes running with a box in her hand_.] + + _Lily_. + O mother, mother! there's the old box I had + So long ago, and all my cups and saucers, + And the farm-house and cows.--Oh! some are broken. + Father will mend them for me, I am sure. + I'll ask him when he comes to-night--I will: + He can do everything, you know, dear mother. + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A merchants counting-house_. JULIAN _preparing to go +home_. + + _Julian_. + I would not give these days of common toil, + This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks + Into the very soul, and mars its hue-- + Not for the evenings when with gliding keel + I cut a pale green track across the west-- + Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted + With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low, + So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails, + That pointed to the south, and wavered not, + Erect upon the waters.--Jesus said + His followers should have a hundred fold + Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.-- + In all the labourings of a weary spirit, + I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things. + The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul, + No more look in from far.--I never see + Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about + A gently opening eye into the blue, + But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee, + Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before, + Signed only that the hour for prayer was come, + But now it moves my inmost soul to pray. + + On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked + Upon its thousand glories; read them all; + In splendour let them pass on through his soul, + And triumph in their new beatitude, + Finding a heaven of truth to take them in; + But walked on steadily through pain to death. + + Better to have the poet's heart than brain, + Feeling than song; but better far than both, + To be a song, a music of God's making; + A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame, + In words harmonious, of triumphant verse, + That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear, + That out of darkness he hath called the light. + It may be voice to such is after given, + To tell the mighty tale to other worlds. + + Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope + That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds + Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were + Most blest of men, if I were now returning + To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God, + I can but look to thee. And then the child!-- + Why should my love to her break out in tears? + Why should she be only a consolation, + And not an added joy, to fill my soul + With gladness overflowing in many voices + Of song, and prayer--and weeping only when + Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance? + + + +SCENE IX.--LILIA _preparing to go out_. LILY. + + _Lily_. + Don't go to-night again. + + _Lilia_. + Why, child, your father + Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me. + + _Lily_. + Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad + When you're not here! + + _Lilia_ + (_aside_). + He cannot look much sadder + Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief + To find his child alone when he returns. + + _Lily_. + Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry + Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, + And tell such lovely tales: you never do-- + Nor sing me songs made all for my own self. + He does not kiss me half so many times + As you do, mother; but he loves me more. + Do you love father, too? I love him _so_! + + _Lilia_ + (_ready_). + There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool, + And look at the pictures till your father comes. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lily_ + (_putting the book down, and going to the window_). + I wish he would come home. I wish he would. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + Oh, there he is! + + [_Running up to him_.] + + Oh, now I am so happy! + + [_Laughing_.] + + I had not time to watch before you came. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her in his arms_). + I am very glad to have my little girl; + I walked quite fast to come to her again. + + _Lily_. + I do, _do_ love you. Shall I tell you something? + Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream + That I went into, somewhere in last night. + I was alone--quite;--you were not with me, + So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like + That one you took me to, long, long ago, + When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, + But some of the poor leaves were growing tired + With hanging there so long. And some of them + Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay + Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. + I saw one falling--down, down--tumbling down-- + Just at the earth--when suddenly it spread + Great wings and flew.--It was a butterfly, + So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white-- + + [_Laughing heartily_.] + + I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf. + Away it flew! I don't know where it went. + And so I thought, I have a story now + To tell dear father when he comes to Lily. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. + But I am tired--will you go find another-- + Another dream somewhere in sleep for me? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will.--Perhaps I cannot find one. + + [_He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing_.] + + _Julian_. + What shall I do to give it life again? + To make it spread its wings before it fall, + And lie among the dead things of the earth? + + _Lily_. + I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing + The song about the little thirsty lily. + + [JULIAN _sings_.] + + + SONG. + + Little white Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little white Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little white Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little white Lily + Said, "It is good: + Little white Lily's + Clothing and food! + Little white Lily + Drest like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crowned beside!" + + Little white Lily + Droopeth in pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little white Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling, + And filling it up. + + Little white Lily + Said, "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have nice rain! + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full!" + + Little white Lily + Smells very sweet: + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + "Thanks to the sunshine! + Thanks to the rain! + Little white Lily + Is happy again!" + + [_He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her_.] + + _Julian_. + She is asleep, the darling! Easily + Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. + Gone home unto thy Father for the night! + + [_He returns to his seat_.] + + I have grown common to her. It is strange-- + This commonness--that, as a blight, eats up + All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit. + + [_Looking round_.] + + This room is very common: everything + Has such a well-known look of nothing in it; + And yet when first I called it hers and mine, + There was a mystery inexhaustible + About each trifle on the chimney-shelf: + The gilding now is nearly all worn off. + Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world, + Seems less mysterious and worshipful: + No wonder I am common in her eyes. + Alas! what must I think? Is this the true? + Was that the false that was so beautiful? + Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round? + Or was love to the eyes as opium, + Making all things more beauteous than they were? + And can that opium do more than God + To waken beauty in a human brain? + Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth-- + A skeleton admitted as a guest + At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask? + No, no; my heart would die if I believed it. + A blighting fog uprises with the days, + False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about + The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever + Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out: + On past and future pours the light of heaven. + The Commonplace is of the present mind. + The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful + Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms + The great child-heart has withered, backward look + To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly, + A mere delusion to which youth is subject, + As childhood to diseases. They know better! + And proud of their denying, tell the youth, + On whom the wonder of his being shines, + That will be over with him by and by: + "I was so when a boy--look at me now!" + Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love. + So with all worship of the high and good, + And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser! + Their god, Experience, but their own decay; + Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them. + Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss, + And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it, + Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming. + But he in whom the child's heart hath not died, + But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past; + Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours + Will melt the mist; and that, although this day + Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn, + A morning light will break one morn and draw + The hidden glories of a thousand hues + Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots + And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before. + Far in the future lies his refuge. Time + Is God's, and all its miracles are his; + And in the Future he overtakes the Past, + Which was a prophecy of times to come: + _There_ lie great flashing stars, the same that shone + In childhood's laughing heaven; there lies the wonder + In which the sun went down and moon arose; + The joy with which the meadows opened out + Their daisies to the warming sun of spring; + Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear + Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul: + To reach it, he must climb the present slope + Of this day's duty--here he would not rest. + But all the time the glory is at hand, + Urging and guiding--only o'er its face + Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil: + He knows the beauty radiant underneath; + He knows that God who is the living God, + The God of living things, not of the dying, + Would never give his child, for God-born love, + A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun. + Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil + Will melt away, destroyed of inward light. + + If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou + And I might, as two children, hand in hand, + Go home unto our Father.--I believe + It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet. + + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room. Christmas Day; early morn_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world + On this one day that blesses all the year, + Just as it comes on any other day: + A feeble child he came, yet not the less + Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth, + Where nothing now is common any more. + All things had hitherto proclaimed God: + The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid + The far horizon of the fading sea; + The low persistent music evermore + Flung down upon the sands, and at the base + Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup; + All things most common; the furze, now golden, now + Opening dark pods in music to the heat + Of the high summer-sun at afternoon; + The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top, + O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke, + Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid, + Singing like children down the rocky sides;-- + Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing, + For that sang God with all its voice of song? + But men heard not, they knew not God in these; + To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange; + For with a stammering tongue and broken words, + With mingled falsehoods and denials loud, + Man witnessed God unto his fellow man: + How then himself the voice of Nature hear? + Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader, + He in the chorus sang a discord vile? + When prophet lies, how shall the people preach? + But when He came in poverty, and low, + A real man to half-unreal men, + A man whose human thoughts were all divine, + The head and upturned face of human kind-- + Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth, + And men began to read their maker there. + Now the Divine descends, pervading all. + Earth is no more a banishment from heaven; + But a lone field among the distant hills, + Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home. + Now, now we feel the holy mystery + That permeates all being: all is God's; + And my poor life is terribly sublime. + Where'er I look, I am alone in God, + As this round world is wrapt in folding space; + Behind, before, begin and end in him: + So all beginnings and all ends are hid; + And he is hid in me, and I in him. + + Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!-- + The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue + Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west, + While the dank wind is running o'er the graves; + Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow; + The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow; + And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars! + Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick, + Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades-- + Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space, + The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams-- + Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon! + All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth, + Changing with every cloud that passes o'er; + All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost + Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air, + To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps, + The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun; + All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice, + To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers--all, all + The unlike children of her single womb! + Oh, my heart labours with infinitude! + All, all the messages that these have borne + To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls; + And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts, + That since the first-born, young, attempting day, + Have gazed and worshipped!--What a unity, + To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all! + O centre of all forms! O concord's home! + O world alive in one condensed world! + O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed + The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven! + Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine! + + I sought my God; I pressed importunate; + I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart + It seemed he answered me. I said--"Oh! take + Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life! + I faint, I die; I am a child alone + 'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night." + + "Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee, + Trod the highways and deserts of the world." + + "Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight! + Thou wilt not have me--I am not worth thy care!" + + "I send thee not away; child, think not so; + From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak, + I call to guide thee in the path by which + Thou may'st come soonest home unto my heart. + I, I am leading thee. Think not of him + As he were one and I were one; in him + Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one. + Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine, + And see that God dwelleth in lowliness." + + I came to Him; I gazed upon his face; + And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!-- + Yea, let them laugh! I _will_ sit at his feet, + As a child sits upon the ground, and looks + Up in his mother's face. One smile from him, + One look from those sad eyes, is more to me + Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts. + O perfect made through the reacting pain + In which thy making force recoiled on thee! + Whom no less glory could make visible + Than the utter giving of thyself away; + Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed, + More than a child embracing from full heart! + Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief + Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God, + Or rather, bear in being unto us + Thy own pure shining self of love and truth! + When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts, + To love the truth beyond the power to know it, + To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross, + Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake, + But an unprofitable servant still,-- + My highest sacrifice my simplest duty + Imperative and unavoidable, + Less than which _All_, were nothingness and waste; + When I have lost myself in other men, + And found myself in thee--the Father then + Will come with thee, and will abide with me. + + + * * * * * + +SCENE XI.--LILIA _teaching_ LADY GERTRUDE. _Enter_ LORD SEAFORD. +LILIA _rises_. _He places her a chair, and seats himself at the +instrument; plays a low, half-melancholy, half-defiant prelude, and +sings_. + + SONG. + + Look on the magic mirror; + A glory thou wilt spy; + + Be with thine heart a sharer, + But go not thou too nigh; + Else thou wilt rue thine error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye. + + The youth looked on the mirror, + And he went not too nigh; + And yet he rued his error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye; + For he could not be a sharer + In what he there did spy. + + He went to the magician + Upon the morrow morn. + "Mighty," was his petition, + "Look not on me in scorn; + But one last gaze elision, + Lest I should die forlorn!" + + He saw her in her glory, + Floating upon the main. + Ah me! the same sad story! + The darkness and the rain! + If I live till I am hoary, + I shall never laugh again. + + She held the youth enchanted, + Till his trembling lips were pale, + And his full heart heaved and panted + To utter all its tale: + Forward he rushed, undaunted-- + And the shattered mirror fell. + + [_He rises and leaves the room. LILIA weeping_.] + + + + +PART IV. + + + And should the twilight darken into night, + And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong; + Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong + Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright. + That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light. + Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long; + Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. + But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight, + There lies no cause for beauty's slow decay; + If for completeness and diviner youth, + And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth; + If thou hast learned to give thyself away + For love's own self, not for thyself, I say: + Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth! + + + +SCENE I.--_Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of +poems_. + + + Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower; + A sleepiness filleth the earth and air; + The rain has been falling for many an hour; + A weary look the summer doth wear: + Beautiful things that cannot be so; + Loveliness clad in the garments of woe. + + Love me, beloved; I hear the birds; + The clouds are lighter; I see the blue; + The wind in the leaves is like gentle words + Quietly passing 'twixt me and you; + The evening air will bathe the buds + With the soothing coolness of summer floods. + + Love me, beloved; for, many a day, + Will the mist of the morning pass away; + Many a day will the brightness of noon + Lead to a night that hath lost her moon; + And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring, + Thy love to my soul is a needful thing. + + Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie + Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + Love me, O love me, and let me know + The love that within thee moves to and fro; + That many a form of thy love may be + Gathered around thy memory. + + Love me, beloved; for I may lie + Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain, + The stronger thy hope till we meet again; + And forth on the pathway we do not know, + With a load of love, my soul would go. + + Love me, beloved; for one must lie + Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky; + The pale stiff lips return no kiss + To the lips that never brought love amiss; + And the dark brown earth be heaped above + The head that lay on the bosom of love. + + Love me, beloved; for both must lie + Under the earth and beneath the sky; + The world be the same when we are gone; + The leaves and the waters all sound on; + The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live, + Gifts for the poor man's love to give; + The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, + Tell the same tales to others than thee; + And joys, that flush with an inward morn, + Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn; + A youthful race call our earth their own, + And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne; + Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace. + The maid beside him, his queen of the race; + When thou and I shall have passed away + Like the foam-flake thou looked'st on yesterday. + + Love me, beloved; for both must tread + On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead; + Where now but in thinkings strange we roam, + We shall live and think, and shall be at home; + The sights and the sounds of the spirit land + No stranger to us than the white sea-sand, + Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon, + Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon. + I pray thee to love me, belov'd of my heart; + If we love not truly, at death we part; + And how would it be with our souls to find + That love, like a body, was left behind! + + Love me, beloved; Hades and Death + Shall vanish away like a frosty breath; + These hands, that now are at home in thine, + Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine; + And thou shall be mine, my spirit's bride, + In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide, + If the truest love that thy heart can know + Meet the truest love that from mine can flow. + Pray God, beloved, for thee and me, + That our souls may be wedded eternally. + + [_He closes the book, and is silent for some moments_.] + + Ah me, O Poet! did _thy_ love last out + The common life together every hour? + The slumber side by side with wondrousness + Each night after a day of fog and rain? + Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse, + And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot? + Is she dead, Poet? Is thy love awake? + + Alas! and is it come to this with me? + _I_ might have written that! where am I now? + Yet let me think: I love less passionately, + But not less truly; I would die for her-- + A little thing, but all a man can do. + O my beloved, where the answering love? + Love me, beloved. Whither art thou gone? + + * * * * * + +SCENE II.--_Lilia's room_. LILIA. + + _Lilia_. + He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn. + Were it not better that I went away, + And left him with the child; for she alone + Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face? + Alas, he used to say to me, _my child_! + Some convent would receive me in my land, + Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned; + And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell, + To take me likewise in, beside him there. + + Had I not better make one trial first + To win again his love to compass me? + Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet, + And beg and pray for love as for my life? + Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven, + That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles? + What if endurance were my only meed? + He would not turn away, but speak forced words, + Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love, + And giving service where I wanted smiles; + Till by degrees all had gone back again + To where it was, a slow dull misery. + No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him-- + And that I will do--free him from my sight. + In love I gave myself away to him; + And now in love I take myself again. + He will not miss me; I am nothing now. + + * * * * * + +SCENE III.--_Lord Seaford's garden_. LILIA; LORD SEAFORD. + + _Lord S_. + How the white roses cluster on the trellis! + They look in the dim light as if they floated + Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round. + One could believe that those far distant tones + Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent, + Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers, + As the low rushing from a river-bed, + Or the continuous bubbling of a spring + In deep woods, turning over its own joy + In its own heart luxuriously, alone. + 'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days, + The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes + Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees, + With likeness undefinable retained + In higher human form to their tree-homes, + Which fainting let them forth into the air, + And lived a life in death till they returned. + The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech + Gave forth the perfect woman to the night; + From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole + The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown. + The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm, + The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams, + And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands. + The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth + Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy. + All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood + Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass + Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated + Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim. + O what a life they lived! in poet's brain-- + Not on this earth, alas!--But you are sad; + You do not speak, dear lady. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon me. + If such words make me sad, I am to blame. + + _Lord S_. + Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things: + Beauty and sadness always go together. + Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth + Upon the earth without a meet alloy. + If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness, + Poets had never needed this dream-life; + Each blessed man had but to look beside him, + And be more blest. How easily could God + Have made our life one consciousness of joy! + It is denied us. Beauty flung around + Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts + To worship her; then when the soul is full + Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe, + And colours that bring tears into the eyes-- + Steeped until saturated with her essence; + And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing + More beautiful than all, containing all, + Essential Beauty's self, that it may say: + "Thou art my Queen--I dare not think to crown thee, + For thou art crowned already, every part, + With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee, + The utterance of the beauty of the earth, + As of the trees the Hamadryades; + I worship thee, intense of loveliness! + Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean, + Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling + To give thee birth, to utter each its thought + Of beauty held in many forms diverse, + In one form, holding all, a living Love, + Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen + By virtue of thy dignities combined!"-- + And when in some great hour of wild surprise, + She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced, + At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee, + And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy, + And his soul thinks not, having lost itself + In her, pervaded with her being; strayed + Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form, + Clothing her with the only beauty yet + That could be added, ownness unto him;-- + Then falls the stern, cold _No_ with thunder-tone. + Think, lady,--the poor unresisting soul + Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss + To house in central deep the ideal form; + Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed, + From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine, + To set it on the Pisgah of desire;-- + Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain! + Stormy confusions! far gray distances! + And the dim rush of countless years behind! + + [_He sinks at her feet_.] + + Yet for this moment, let me worship thee! + + _Lilia_ + (_agitated_). + Rise, rise, my lord; this cannot be, indeed. + I pray you, cease; I will not listen to you. + Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be! + + [_Moving as to go_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_rising_). + Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself + On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, + All the bright morning, as I walked alone; + And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words. + It is a weakness with me from my boyhood, + That if I act a part in any play, + Or follow, merely intellectually, + A passion or a motive--ere I know, + My being is absorbed, my brain on fire; + I am possessed with something not myself, + And live and move and speak in foreign forms. + Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive + My rudeness with your gentleness and truth. + That you are beautiful is simple fact; + And when I once began to speak my thoughts, + The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire, + And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust. + I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame, + I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness. + + _Lilia_. + Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray. + --What is this purple flower with the black spot + In its deep heart? I never saw it before. + + + +SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing +with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_. + + _Julian_. + I see her as I saw her then. She sat + On a low chair, the child upon her knees, + Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, + Her full face beamed upon the face below, + Bent over it, as with love to ripen love; + Till its intensity, like summer heat, + Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, + Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, + The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing! + [_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a + little table, and writes_.] + + THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING. + + My child is lying on my knees; + The signs of heaven she reads: + My face is all the heaven she sees, + Is all the heaven she needs. + + And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, + If heaven is in my face-- + Behind it, all is tenderness, + And truthfulness and grace. + + I mean her well so earnestly. + Unchanged in changing mood; + My life would go without a sigh + To bring her something good. + + I also am a child, and I + Am ignorant and weak; + I gaze upon the starry sky, + And then I must not speak; + + For all behind the starry sky, + Behind the world so broad, + Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie + The Infinite of God. + + If true to her, though troubled sore, + I cannot choose but be; + Thou, who art peace for evermore, + Art very true to me. + + If I am low and sinful, bring + More love where need is rife; + _Thou_ knowest what an awful thing + It is to be a life. + + Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap + My waywardness about, + In doubting safety on the lap + Of Love that knows no doubt? + + Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, + My child upon my knee; + She looketh up unto my face, + And I look up to thee. + + + +SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY +GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the +girl's hand in both hers_. + + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you to come! And you will stay + And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well? + I am better since you came. You look so sweet, + It brings all summer back into my heart. + + _Lilia_. + I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt + No one could nurse you quite so well as I. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; + And put your white cool hands upon my head; + And let me lie and look in your great eyes: + 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing. + + _Lilia_. + I must not let you talk too much, dear child. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, + And must not speak much, will you sing to me? + Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; + 'Twill keep me quiet. + + _Lilia_. + What was it, child? + + _Lady Gertrude_. + It was + Something about a race--Death and a lady-- + + _Lilia_. + Oh! I remember. I would rather sing + Some other, though. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + No, no, I want that one. + Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, + But won't stand long enough to show itself. + You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, + Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me. + + _Lilia_. + Well, I'll sing it. + + + SONG. + + Death and a lady rode in the wind, + In a starry midnight pale; + Death on a bony horse behind, + With no footfall upon the gale. + + The lady sat a wild-eyed steed; + Eastward he tore to the morn. + But ever the sense of a noiseless speed, + And the sound of reaping corn! + + All the night through, the headlong race + Sped to the morning gray; + The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face-- + From Death or the morning? say. + + Her steed's wide knees began to shake, + As he flung the road behind; + The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, + And a cold breath came down the wind. + + When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside, + With a silver mane and tail; + A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride, + With never a coat of mail. + + He never lifted his hand to Death, + And he never couched a spear; + But the lady felt another breath, + And a voice was in her ear. + + He looked her weary eyes through and through, + With his eyes so strong in faith: + Her bridle-hand the lady drew, + And she turned and laughed at Death. + + And away through the mist of the morning gray, + The spectre and horse rode wide; + The dawn came up the old bright way, + And the lady never died. + + + _Lord Seaford_ + (_who has entered during the song_). + Delightful! Why, my little pining Gertrude, + With such charm-music you will soon be well. + Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks + I owe you for your kindness to my daughter: + She looks as different from yesterday + As sunrise from a fog. + + _Lilia_. + I am but too happy + To be of use to one I love so much. + + +SCENE VI.--_A rainy day_. LORD SEAFORD _walking up and down his room, +murmuring to himself_. + + + Oh, my love is like a wind of death, + That turns me to a stone! + Oh, my love is like a desert breath, + That burns me to the bone! + + Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow, + And a purple scent all day! + But a black spot lies at the heart below, + And smells all night of clay. + + Oh, my love is like the poison sweet + That lurks in the hooded cell! + One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, + And then the passing bell! + + Oh, my love she's like a white, white rose! + And I am the canker-worm: + Never the bud to a blossom blows; + It falls in the rainy storm. + + + +SCENE VII.--JULIAN _reading in his room_. + + "And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me." + + [_He closes the book and kneels_.] + + +SCENE VIII.--_Lord Seaford's room_. LILIA _and_ LORD SEAFORD. +_Her hand lies in his_. + + _Lilia_. + It may be true. I am bewildered, though. + I know not what to answer. + + _Lord S_. + Let me answer:-- + You would it were so--you would love me then? + + [_A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street, + melting away in a low cadence_.] + + _Lilia_ + (starting up). + Let me go, my lord! + + _Lord S_. + (_retaining her hand_). + Why, sweetest! what is this? + + _Lilia_ + (_vehemently, and disengaging her hand_). + Let me go. My husband! Oh, my white child! + + [_She hurries to the door, but falls_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_raising her_). + I thought you trusted me, yes, loved me, Lilia! + + _Lilia_. + Peace! that name is his! Speak it again--I rave. + He thought I loved him--and I did--I do. + Open the door, my lord! + + [_He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes_.] + + Once more, my lord-- + + Open the door, I say. + + [_He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it + wide, and is throwing herself out_.] + + _Lord S_. + Stop, madam! I will. + + [_He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly + out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself + on the couch, and hides his face_.] + + _Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Dear father, are you ill? I knocked + three times; You did not speak. + + _Lord S_. + I did not hear you, child. + My head aches rather; else I am quite well. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + She is gone. She had + An urgent message to go home at once. + But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not + Set out to-morrow? You can travel now; + And for your sake the sooner that we breathe + Italian air the better. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + This is sudden! + I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow. + + _Lord S_. + It will oblige me, child. Do what you can. + Just go and order everything you want. + I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love; + I have a reason for my haste. We'll have + The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear. + + +SCENE IX.--_Evening. Hampstead Heath_. LILIA _seated_. + + _Lilia_. + The first pale star! braving the rear of Day! + And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn + His long train after him! then half creation + Will follow its queen-leader from the depths. + O harbinger of hope! O star of love! + Thou hast gone down in me, gone down for ever; + And left my soul in such a starless night, + It has not love enough to weep thy loss. + O fool! to know thee once, and, after years, + To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp! + How could I for one moment hear him speak! + O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought + To bring that love itself, bound and resigned, + And offering it a sacrifice to thee, + Lead it away into the wilderness; + But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb; + Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary, + Not flattering itself to die for thee. + And yet, thank God, it was one moment only, + That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee, + Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead + Through very weariness and lack of love, + My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray + That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes, + And seemed to promise rest and hope again. + My presence shall not grieve thee any more, + My Julian, my husband. I will find + A quiet place where I will seek thy God. + And--in my heart it wakens like a voice + From him--the Saviour--there are other worlds + Where all gone wrong in this may be set right; + Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still, + And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee. + I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why. + But what to say about my late offence, + That he may understand just what it was? + For I must tell him, if I write at all. + I fear he would discover where I was; + Pitiful duty would not let him rest + Until he found me; and I fain would free + From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. + + [_Sound of a coach-horn_.] + + It calls me to rise up and go to him, + Leading me further from him and away. + The earth is round; God's thoughts return again; + And I will go in hope. Help me, my God! + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN _reading. A letter is brought in. +He reads it, turns deadly pale, and leans his arms and head on the +table, almost fainting. This lasts some time; then starting up, he +paces through the room, his shoulders slightly shrugged, his arms +rigid by his sides, and his hands clenched hard, as if a net of pain +were drawn tight around his frame. At length he breathes deep, draws +himself up, and walks erect, his chest swelling, but his teeth set_. + + + _Julian_. + Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say _my_ wife? + + [_Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address_.] + + Why, if she love him more than me, why then + Let her go with him!--Gone to Italy! + Pursue, says he? _Revenge_?--Let the corpse crush + The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!-- + What if I stabbed-- + + [_Taking his dagger, and feeling its point_.] + + Whom? Her--what then?--Or him-- + What yet? Would that give back the life to me? + There is one more--myself! Oh, peace! to feel + The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!-- + But to be driven along the windy wastes-- + To hear the tempests, raving as they turn, + Howl _Lilia, Lilia_--to be tossed about + Beneath the stars that range themselves for ever + Into the burning letters of her name-- + 'Twere better creep the earth down here than that, + For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain. + + [_He throws the dagger on the floor_.] + + Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I? + A pride of innocence darts through my veins. + I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha! + I laugh at insult. _I_? I am myself-- + + Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill; + When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:-- + But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly. + Lilia! my worship of thy purity! + Hast thou forgotten--ah! thou didst not know + How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain, + When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare, + I turned my eyes away, and turning drew + With trembling hand white darkness over thee, + Because I knew not thou didst love me then. + Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing + That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance, + Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn-- + Shaped all about thy image set within! + But that were fearful! What rage would not, love + Must then do for thee--in mercy I would kill thee, + To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse. + If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow; + Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed, + Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away. + Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep, + My hand upon thy heart!--not fit to lie, + For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave! + + +[_His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an +emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and +covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale, +his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears_.] + + + O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child! + How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine? + Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears? + God, can she never more be clean? no more, + Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well + In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can + Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down + Into the friendly earth--would it were lying + There in my arms! for there thy rains will come, + Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod, + Summer and winter; and we two should lie + Mouldering away together, gently washed + Into the heart of earth; and part would float + Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds + Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God! + Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death + Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit + In some still place together, glory-shadowed. + None would ask questions there. And I should be + Content to sorrow a little, so I might + But see her with the darling on her knees, + And know that must be pure that dwelt within + The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia! + I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot; + I would endure it endlessly, to save + One thought of thine from his polluting touch; + Saying ever to myself: this is a part + Of my own Lilia; and the world to me + Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her: + Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me, + And this is all that's left of her. My wife! + Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself! + Come back to me; I will be all to thee: + Back to my heart; and we will weep together, + And pray to God together every hour, + That he would show how strong he is to save. + The one that made is able to renew-- + I know not how.--I'll hold thy heart to mine, + So close that the defilement needs must go. + My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire, + Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.-- + But if she love him? Oh my heart--beat! beat! + Grow not so sick with misery and life, + For fainting will not save thee.--Oh no! no! + She cannot love him as she must love me. + Then if she love him not--oh horrible!--oh God! + + [_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.] + + What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_? + I care not--loving more than that can touch. + Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame, + As men call perishing, so she be saved. + Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas, + Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep, + Till her soul wept itself to purity! + Far, far away! where my love cannot reach. + No, no; she is not gone! + + [_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.] + + It is a lie-- + Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love. + I must do something.-- + + [_Enter_ LILY.] + + Ah! there's the precious thing + That shall entice her back. + + [_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.] + + My little Lily, + I have lost your mother. + + _Lily_. + Oh! + + [_Beginning to weep_.] + + She was so pretty, + Somebody has stolen her. + + _Julian_. + Will you go with me, + And help me look for her? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will. + + [_Clasping him round the neck_.] + + But my head aches so! Will you carry me? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet. + + _Lily_. + Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white! + + [_Putting her finger to his cheek_.] + + +SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round +it. To them enter another_. + + _1st Gentleman_. + Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter? + + _Bernard_. + Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done. + + _2nd G_. + A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard, + But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth + Of our impatient curiosity. + + _Bernard_. + Most unexpectedly I found myself + Spectator of a scene in a home-drama + Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw. + + _All_. + What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat. + + [_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.] + + _Bernard_. + I went to call on Seaford, and was told + He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, + Went to his cabinet to write a note; + Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. + Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice-- + "The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?" + And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse + Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest + In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, + And on his left arm sat a little child. + The porter gave short answer, with the door + For period to the same; when, like a flash, + It flew wide open, and the serving man + Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, + 'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. + In walked the visitor; but in the moment + Just measured by the closing of the door, + Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if + Heading a column, with an eye and face + As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot + Up suddenly within his wasted frame. + The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, + But with a look of triumph in her eyes. + He glanced in each room opening from the hall, + Set his face for the stair, and came right on-- + In every motion calm as glacier's flow, + Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick, + Of his right hand across to his left side: + 'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms. + + _3rd G_. + Did no one stop him? + + _Bernard_. + Stop him? I'd as soon + Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy + In passion to meet passion; but it is + A daunting thing to look on, when the blood + Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. + Besides, this man had something in his face, + With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, + A self-reliance, and a self-command, + That would go right up to its goal, in spite + Of any _no_ from any man. I would + As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. + Over the porter, lying where he fell, + He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go-- + I listened as it were a ghost that walked + With pallid spectre-child upon its arm-- + Along the corridors, from door to door, + Opening and shutting. But at last a sting + Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, + And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. + I met him at the top, quiet as at first; + The fire had faded from his eyes; the child + Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove + Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, + He turned him to the porter, who had scarce + Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying, + "The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford," + Turned him again, and strode into the street. + + _1st G_. + Have you learned anything of what it meant? + + _Bernard_. + Of course he had suspicions of his wife: + For all the gifts a woman has to give, + I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see + The gentle fairy child fall kissing him, + And, with her little arms grasping his neck, + Peep anxious round into his shaggy face, + As they went down the street!--it almost made + A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child! + + + +SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The +child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy +_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_. + + _Julian_. + Look at the monkey, Lily. + + _Lily_. + No, dear father; + I do not like monkeys. + + _Julian_. + Hear the poor boy sing. + + [_They listen. He sings_.] + + SONG. + + Wenn ich höre dich mir nah', + Stimmen in den Blättern da; + Wenn ich fühl' dich weit und breit, + Vater, das ist Seligkeit. + + Nun die Sonne liebend scheint, + Mich mit dir und All vereint; + Biene zu den Blumen fliegt, + Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt. + + So mich völlig lieb du hast, + Daseyn ist nicht eine Last; + Wenn ich seh' und höre dich, + Das genügt mir inniglich. + + _Lily_. + It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father? + + _Julian_. + My boy, you are not German? + + _Boy_. + No; my mother + Came from those parts. She used to sing the song. + I do not understand it well myself, + For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + My mother was a German, my poor boy; + My father was Italian: I am like you. + + [_Giving him money_.] + + You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees, + Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street! + + _Boy_. + My mother sings it in her grave; and I + Will sing it everywhere, until I die. + + + +SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child; +undresses her, and puts her to bed_. + + _Lily_. + Father does all things for his little Lily. + + _Julian_. + My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet. + + [_Sitting by her_.] + + "Wenn ich seh' und höre dich, + Das genügt mir inniglich." + + [_Falling on his knees_.] + + I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast, + Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear, + Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free, + That thou art not enough for me, my God. + Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear + Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me. + Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear. + O give me back my wife; thou without her + Canst never make me blessed to the full. + + [_Silence_.] + + O yes; thou art enough for me, my God; + Part of thyself she is, else never mine. + My need of her is but thy thought of me; + She is the offspring of thy beauty, God; + Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee: + Thou wilt restore her to my very soul. + + [_Rising_.] + + It may be all a lie. Some needful cause + Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think + One moment that my wife could sin against me! + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + I never can forgive my jealousy! + Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house! + + + [_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her + sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in + his bosom_.] + + It will be all explained. To think I should, + Without one word from her, condemn her so! + What can I say to her when she returns? + I shall be utterly ashamed before her. + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + + [_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.] + + + +SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY +_in his arms. Three_ Students. + + _1st Student_. + Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man? + There is a character for that same novel + You talk of thunder-striking London with, + One of these days. + + _2nd St_. + I scarcely noticed him; + I was so taken with the lovely child. + She is angelic. + + _3rd St_. + You see angels always, + Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals. + She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid. + I wonder what the old fellow is about. + Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract, + That lingers at the door he cannot enter! + Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon, + And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds. + Here's mine. + + _1st St_. + And mine. + + _2nd St_. + And mine. + + [_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.] + + _Julian_ + (_very quietly_). + No, thank you, sir. + + _Lily_. + Oh! there is mother! + + [_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.] + + _Julian_. + No, no; hush, my child! + + [_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_. + Women _talking_.] + + _1st W_. + I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his. + + _2nd W_. + There's a suspicious look about him. + + _3rd W_ + True; + But the child clings to him as if she loved him. + + [JULIAN _moves on slowly_.] + + + +SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_. +LILY _playing in a corner_. + + _Julian_. + Though I am lonely, yet this little child-- + She understands me better than the Twelve + Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord. + Ten times last night I woke in agony, + I knew not why. There was no comforter. + I stretched my arm to find her, and her place + Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain + Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being; + Then would I lay my aching, weary head + Upon her bosom, promise of relief: + I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world! + + [_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.] + + You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp. + Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear. + + [_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.] + + 'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty + As it was once! + + [_Thinking aloud_.] + I picked the jewels out + To buy your mother the last dress I gave her. + There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily. + Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I, + Saving thee only for a greater ill! + If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;-- + Is she not part of thee, and all my own? + But now---- + + _Lily_ + (_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_). + Father, what is a poetry? + + _Julian_. + A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful + That God has made. + + _Lily_. + As beautiful as mother? + _Julian_. + No, my dear child; but very beautiful. + + _Lily_. + Do let me see a poetry. + + _Julian_ + (_opening a book_). + There, love! + _Lily_ + (_disappointedly_). + I don't think that's so very pretty, father. + One side is very well--smooth; but the other + + [_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.] + + Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning, + + [_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.] + + Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it. + + _Julian_ + (_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_). + You do not understand it yet, my child. + You cannot know where it is beautiful. + But though you do not see it very pretty, + Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. + + [_He reads_.] + + _Lily_ + (_looking pleased_). + Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty. + It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother. + + _Julian_. + There's something in it very beautiful, + If I could let you see it. When you're older + You'll find it for yourself, and love it well. + Do you believe me, Lily? + + _Lily_. + Yes, dear father. + + [_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.] + + I wonder where its prettiness is, though; + I cannot see it anywhere at all. + + [_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.] + + _Julian_ + (_musing_). + True, there's not much in me to love, and yet + I feel worth loving. I am very poor, + But that I could not help; and I grow old, + But there are saints in heaven older than I. + I have a world within me; there I thought + I had a store of lovely, precious things + Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass; + Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels; + And glimmering daylight in the cloven east; + There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column, + 'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees; + There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge, + Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth, + And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds: + The distant meadows and the gloomy river + Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.-- + Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture: + Of this fair world I would have made her queen;-- + Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond + Into that farther world of things unspoken, + Of which these glories are the outer stars, + The clouds that float within its atmosphere. + Under the holy might of teaching love, + I thought her eyes would open--see how, far + And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out, + And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere; + Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber, + Open the little window, and look forth + On the wide silent ocean, silent winds, + And see what she must see, I could not tell. + By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake + The sleeping music of her poet-soul: + We read together many magic words; + Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art; + Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound; + Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs; + And evermore I talked. I was too proud, + Too confident of power to waken life, + Believing in my might upon her heart, + Not trusting in the strength of living truth. + Unhappy saviour, who by force of self + Would save from selfishness and narrow needs! + I have not been a saviour. She grew weary. + I began wrong. The infinitely High, + Made manifest in lowliness, had been + The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there, + And set her down by humble Mary's side, + He would have taught her all I could not teach. + Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus + Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? + + [_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book + to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; + then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.] + + _Julian (bursting into tears_). + Father, I am thy _child_. + Forgive me this: + Thy poetry is very hard to read. + + +SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_. + + _Lily_. + Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad + Not to have any mother! Shall I ask + This gentleman if he knows where she is? + + _Julian_. + No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by. + + +BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together. + + _Bernard_. + Have you seen Seaford lately? + _Gentleman_. + No. In fact, + He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. + Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; + And if I hear aright, one more is missing-- + Just the companion for his lordship's taste. + You've not forgot that fine Italian woman + You met there once, some months ago? + + _Bern_. + Forgot her! + I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough: + Her husband is alive! + + _Lily_. + Mother was Italy, father,--was she not? + + _Julian_. + Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word. + + _Gentleman_. + Oh, yes; no doubt! + But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature! + + _Bern_. + Something quite different, I assure you, Harry. + Last week I saw him--never to forget him-- + Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast. + + _Gentleman_. + Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely. + 'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize + Worth sinning for a little more than little. + + _Lily_ + (_whispering_). + Why don't you ask them whether it was mother? + I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it. + + _Gentleman_. + Look what a lovely child! + + _Bern_. + Harry! Good heavens! + It is the Count Lamballa. Come along. + + +SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_. + + + _Julian_. + I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, + To whom I never lift my soul, in hope + To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears + Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart + That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought + Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, + And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, + Alone, unreachable, the making thought, + Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, + A living, thinking will, that cannot know + The power whereby I am--so blest the more + In being thus in thee--Father, thy child. + I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me. + My being shares thy glory: lay on me + What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me + Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I + May do it as my best, my highest joy; + For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee. + + Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know + The power in thee to purify from sin. + But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive. + Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault. + She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!-- + I will love her the more, to fill the cup; + One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled; + For if I love her not, how desolate + The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not. + + I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:-- + Give me my wife again, that I may watch + And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell + What loving-kindness I have found in thee; + And she will come to thee to make her clean. + Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, + To know a dead one lieth in the house: + Let me be near her in that agony, + To tend her in the fever of the soul, + Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, + Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh; + And when I cannot comfort, help her weep. + God, I would give her love like thine to me, + _Because_ I love her, and her need is great. + Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, + And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell: + Help me to love her with a love like thine. + + How shall I find her? It were horrible + If the dread hour should come, and I not near. + Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang, + One writhing of self-loathing and remorse, + For she must hate the evil she has done; + Only take not away hope utterly. + + _Lily (in her sleep_). + Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall. + _Julian (going to her_). + She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill. + I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless. + To-morrow I will take her to the sea. + + [_Returning_.] + + If I knew where, I would write to her, and write + So tenderly, she could not choose but come. + I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream + I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well. + + [_He sits down and writes_.] + + My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe. + I was alone upon a desolate moor; + And the wind blew by fits and died away-- + I know not if it was the wind or me. + How long I wandered there, I cannot tell; + But some one came and took me by the hand. + I gazed, but could not see the form that led me, + And went unquestioning, I cared not whither. + We came into a street I seemed to know, + Came to a house that I had seen before. + The shutters were all closed; the house was dead. + The door went open soundless. We went in, + And entered yet again an inner room. + The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if + From striking on it. The door closed behind. + And then I saw that there was something black, + Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up + In the middle of the room. And then I saw + That there were shapes of woe all round the room, + Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, + With long veils hanging low down from their heads, + All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound + Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing + Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures + Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, + The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left + The house in long procession. I was walking + Alone beside the coffin--such it was-- + Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing. + And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes: + Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up + White arms of lamentation; Desdemona + In her night-robe, crimson on the left side; + Thekla in black, with resolute white face; + And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow-- + That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen + Upon her face. And many more I knew-- + Long-suffering women, true in heart and life; + Women that make man proud for very love + Of their humility, and of his pride + Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife. + On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills + Began to rise on each side of the path + Until at last we came into a glen, + From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven, + Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies. + Upon the eastern side one mighty summit + Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air; + And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint, + A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night. + From base to top, on climbing peak and crag, + Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes, + Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth + Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired + Great men of old--up, even to the apex + Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen + From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel + Of Michelangelo laid him reclining, + And stood upon the crest. + A cry awoke + Amid the watchers at the lowest base, + And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth, + Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top; + And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died + Away in silence; for no voice said _No_. + The bearers stood and set the coffin down; + The mourners gathered round it in a group; + Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why. + So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke, + And clomb the mountain-side, and died away + In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came. + + How long we waited thus, I cannot tell-- + How oft the cry arose and died again. + + At last, from far, faint summit to the base, + Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes, + A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!" + Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side, + From all that multitude's melodious throats, + Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer! + It ceased, for hope was too intense for song. + A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out, + Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose + Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen + Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group. + + What God did for the rest, I know not; it + Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.-- + I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own! + Thy lovely face angelic now with grief; + But that I saw not first: thy head was bent, + Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between. + I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise, + Once only lifting that sweet face to mine, + Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream + Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream; + Thou art not rescued yet. + + Earth's morning came, + And my soul's morning died in tearful gray. + The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped + In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring; + The last I heard, a chant break suddenly + Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound: + I had not listened in the excess of joy. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lord S_. + Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry. + If you could go alone, I'd have you go. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel. + Believe me, father, I am happier + In your sick room, than on a glowing island + In the blue Bay of Naples. + + _Lord S_. + It was so sudden! + 'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly. + But have your walk before the sun be hot. + Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Good-bye then, father, for a little + while. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lord S_. + I never knew what illness was before. + O life! to think a man should stand so little + On his own will and choice, as to be thus + Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent + To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone + From the rich world! No sense is left me more + To touch with beauty. Even she has faded + Into the far horizon, a spent dream + Of love and loss and passionate despair! + + Is there no beauty? Is it all a show + Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, + A reflex of well-ordered organism? + Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart + No more mysterious, no more beautiful, + Than I am to myself this ghastly moment? + It must be so--it _must_, except God is, + And means the meaning that we think we see, + Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. + O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if + There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower + Before it blew on any bank of spring, + Then all is untruth, unreality, + And we are wretched things; our highest needs + Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; + And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts + Die with the voidness of the universe. + + But if thou art, O God, then all is true; + Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes + Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain + Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams. + And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her! + + O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned + Against thy beauty and thy graciousness! + That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine. + Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed + Before my eyes, a bright particular star: + Like foolish child, I reached out for the star, + Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content + That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, + Mine to revere, though not to call my own. + Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia! + + My love has taken vengeance on my love. + I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content. + Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find + That thou art not a phantom, but God's child; + That Beauty is, though it is not for me. + When I would hold it, then I disbelieved. + That I may yet believe, I will not touch it. + I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, + Denying him in grasping at his work. + + +SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_. +LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_. + + _Julian_. + O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, + Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, + O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children-- + Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, + Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom + Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, + Fearless of any morn; as a new babe + Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: + That home of blessedness is all there is; + He never feels the silent rushing tide, + Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, + Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. + But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last + Ready for him when weary: well the green + Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. + O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed + To which I bore thee with a nobler joy! + --Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream + Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain. + + How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart + Was all so tender to thee! But I fear + My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed + With questions to be solved, before my face + Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me + Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain. + Ah, now I know I did not well for thee + In making thee my wife! I should have gone + Alone into eternity. I was + Too rough for thee, for any tender woman-- + Other I had not loved--so full of fancies! + Too given to meditation. A deed of love + Is stronger than a metaphysic truth; + Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words. + Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it? + How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight-- + For life must ever need the shows of life? + How fail to love a man so like thyself, + Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood? + I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones, + But never white flowers, rubied at the heart. + O God, forgive me; it is all my fault. + Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, + Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty? + Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart, + And I have kept her like a caged seamew + Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead. + O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully: + I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride, + That kept me back from speaking all my soul. + I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst + Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never + Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, + In burning words of openness and truth? + Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, + Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not + Have been content to minister and wait; + And if she answered not to my desires, + Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say, + Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower: + I gave not five years to a woman's soul! + Had I not drunk at last old wine of love? + I shut her love back on her lovely heart; + I did not shield her in the wintry day; + And she has withered up and died and gone. + God, let me perish, so thy beautiful + Be brought with gladness and with singing home. + If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow + To be her slave, and serve her with my soul. + I in my hand will take my heart, and burn + Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain. + I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou! + + [_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up + to him, stumbling over the graves_.] + + _Lily_. + Why do they make so many hillocks, father? + The flowers would grow without them. + + _Julian_. + So they would. + + _Lily_. + What are they for, then? + + _Julian (aside_). + I wish I had not brought her; + She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all. + + (_Aloud_). + + 'Tis where they lay them when the story's done. + + _Lily_. + What! lay the boys and girls? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own child-- + To keep them warm till it begin again. + + _Lily_. + Is it dark down there? + + [_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.] + + _Julian_. + Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet! + For out of there come all the pretty flowers. + + _Lily_. + Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk + That tries to touch the little frightened clouds? + + _Julian_. + It did, my darling.--There's a door down there + That leads away to where the church is pointing. + + [_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and + then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.] + + +SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_ +LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + I have found an old friend, father. Here he is! + + _Lord S_. + Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here! + + _Bern_. + I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. + I know not which of us was more surprised. + + [LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.] + + _Bern_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + Countess! What do you mean? I do not know. + + _Bern_. + The Italian lady. + + _Lord S_. + Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me! + + _Bern_. + I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; + For since I saw the count, I would not have you + Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. + + [LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.] + + You have not then heard the news about yourself? + Such interesting echoes reach the last + A man's own ear. The public has decreed + You and the countess run away together. + 'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, + And that she has been often to your house. + The count believes it--clearly from his face: + The man is dying slowly on his feet. + + _Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_). + O God! what am I? My love burns like hate, + Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath! + + _Bern_. + What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving? + + _Enter_ Waiter. + + _Lord S_. + Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly. + + [_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.] + + +SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_. + + _Lily_. + O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. + Another story is very nearly done. + + [_He takes her on his knees_.] + + I am so tired! Think I should like to go + Down to the warm place that the flowers come from, + Where all the little boys and girls are lying + In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels. + --No, no, no--it is so dark down there! + Father will not come near me all the night. + + _Julian_. + You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you. + + _Lily_. + O will you keep me always, father dear? + And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me? + Oh, I should be so happy, never to move! + 'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms! + Don't let it take me; do not let me go: + I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so. + + _Julian_. + Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good + Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, + And try to make you sleep? + + _Lily_. + Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head! + Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father. + + [_He tries to sing_.] + + Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love! + Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. + It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, + God on his throne, and man below. + + But sun would not shine, nor waters go, + Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, + God be on high, nor man below, + But for love--for the love with its hurt alone. + + Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows; + Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain: + Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, + Help us love on in the hope of thy gain; + + Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever; + Love for love's sake, like the Father above, + But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never + Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. + + [_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child + leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in + which he talks_.] + + _Julian_. + A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault: + _Man with the heart, praying for woman's love, + Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice: + Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What + is it? Statue trembling into life + With the first rosy flush upon the skin? + Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings? + I see her--where I know not; for I see + Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain-- + God keep me!--in celestial nakedness. + She leaneth forward, looking down in space, + With large eyes full of longing, made intense + By mingled fear of something yet unknown; + Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands + Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms. + + O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone + To find my own ideal womanhood-- + Glory grown grace, divine to human grown? + + I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word: + She will array herself and come to thee. + Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes, + Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_! + --I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep, + Close by the white foot of the wonderful. + It is the same shape, line for line, as she. + Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. + Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come, + O infinite woman! my life faints for thee. + + Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first: + I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man! + Choose then between them_. Ah! ah! + + [_Silence_.] + + Her I knew + Some ages gone; the woman who did sail + Down a long river with me to the sea; + Who gave her lips up freely to my lips, + Her body willingly into my arms; + Came down from off her statue-pedestal, + And was a woman in a common house, + Not beautified by fancy every day, + And losing worship by her gifts to me. + She gave me that white child--what came of her? + I have forgot.--I opened her great heart, + And filled it half-way to the brim with love-- + With love half wine, half vinegar and gall-- + And so--and so--she--went away and died? + O God! what was it?--something terrible-- + I will not stay to choose, or look again + Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife, + The woman of the old time on the earth. + O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands, + Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain + + If thou descend to earth, and find no man + To love thee purely, strongly, in his will, + Even as he loves the truth, because he will, + And when he cannot see it beautiful-- + Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep. + Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come. + + 'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet! + In the same dress, same flowing of the hair, + As long ago, on earth: is her face changed? + Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower; + My dove descending rests upon thy head; + I bless and sanctify thee for my own: + Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee. + + Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers! + She rises--turns it up from me to God, + With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars + Might find new orbits there, and be content. + O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure + Their opening must be prophecy or song! + A high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth! + + Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk + That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;-- + O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form, + With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet, + And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal! + The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes + Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia, + My wife, with homely airs of earth about her, + And dearer to my heart as my lost wife, + Than to my soul as its new-found ideal! + Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel: + Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear. + Yea, all eternity-- + + [_He is roused by a cry from the child_.] + + _Lily_. + Oh, father! put your arms close round about me. + Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear. + Now! I am better now. + + [_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her + eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.] + + +SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_. + + _Lilia_. + Now I have told him all; no word kept back + To burn within me like an evil fire. + And where I am, I have told him; and I wait + To know his will. What though he love me not, + If I love him!--I will go back to him, + And wait on him submissive. Tis enough + For one life, to be servant to that man! + It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride, + That drove me from him. He and my sweet child + Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart. + How lonely is my Lily all the day, + Till he comes home and makes her paradise! + + I go to be his servant. Every word + That comes from him softer than a command, + I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart, + And serve him better for it.--He will receive me. + + +SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_. + + _Julian_. + The light of setting suns be on thee, child! + Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns + Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy; + Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy; + Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy. + Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love. + Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy. + + Children, they say, are born into a world + Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think, + Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth + Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief, + If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story, + And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God, + Let not my Lily turn away from me. + + Now I am free to follow and find her. + Thy truer Father took thee home to him, + That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife. + I thank him for his gift of thee; for all + That thou hast taught me, blessed little child. + I love thee, dear, with an eternal love. + And now farewell! + + [Kissing her.] + + --no, not farewell; I come. + Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. + Yes, they will also lead me on to her. + + _Enter a Jew_. + + _Jew_. + What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir. + + + _Julian_. + Walk into the next room; then look at this, + And tell me what you'll give for everything. + + [Jew goes.] + + My darling's death has made me almost happy. + Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again. + When I have laid my little one to rest + Among the flowers in that same sunny spot, + Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way; + And, calling up all old forgotten skill, + Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind, + I'll be a man once more in the loud world. + Revived experience in its winding ways, + Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love, + If all the world were sworn to secrecy, + Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death. + I'll follow my wife, follow until I die. + How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep, + Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me? + How find her in great Hades, if not here + In this poor little round O of a world? + I'll follow my wife, follow until I find. + + _Re-enter_ Jew. + + Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal. + + _Jew_. + Let me see this room, too. The things are all + Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little. + + _Julian_. + Say what you will--only make haste and go. + + _Jew_. + Say twenty pounds? + + _Julian_. + Well, fetch the money at once, + And take possession. But make haste, I pray. + + +SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S +_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_. + + _Julian_. + Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep; + Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child! + Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb + Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek + And find the wandering mother of my lamb. + I cannot weep; I know thee with me still. + Thou dost not find it very dark down there? + Would I could go to thee; I long to go; + My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too; + And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat. + O gladly would I come to thee, my child, + And lay my head upon thy little heart, + And sleep in the divine munificence + Of thy great love! But my night has not come; + She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one. + + [_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.] + + Now for the world--that's Italy, and her! + + +SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + How am I here? Alas! I do not know. + I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know! + I have come here to die. + + [_Lies down on the floor_.] + Where's Lilia? + I cannot find her. She is here, I know. + But oh these endless passages and stairs, + And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia! + Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast, + But something holds me. Let me go, devil! + My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you. + You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife. + O pardon me, my beautiful, my own! + + [_Sings_.] + + Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing + From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing-- + Us to a new, love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float-- + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + [_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.] + + JULIAN _descries him suddenly_. + What are you, man? O brother, bury me-- + There's money in my pocket-- + + [_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.] + + by my child. + + [_Staring at him_.] + + Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse-- + I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton! + _I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute! + Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child, + And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up + With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes. + Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs, + Nor is there any maid to bind them on: + + I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee. + Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go. + + _Lord Seaford (stooping over him_). + I am Seaford, Count. + + _Julian_. + + Seaford! What Seaford? + + [_Recollecting_.] + + _--Seaford_! + + [_Springing to his feet_.] + + Where is my wife? + + [_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.] + + _Lord S_. + Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He + wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.] + + _Julian_. + Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead. + I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God! + + [_He is quiet a little_.] + + So then thou didst not take the child away + That I might find my wife! Thy will be done. + Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire + I send away with grief, but willingly. + I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer: + Take thou thine own way, only lead her home. + Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might; + But thou art mighty, with a power unlike + All, all that we know by the name of power, + Transcending it as intellect transcends + 'The stone upon the ground--it may be more, + For these are both created--thou creator, + Lonely, supreme. + + Now it is almost over, + My spirit's journey through this strange sad world; + This part is done, whatever cometh next. + Morning and evening have made out their day; + My sun is going down in stormy dark, + But I will face it fearless. + The first act Is over of the drama.--Is it so? + What means this dim dawn of half-memories? + + There's something I knew once and know not now!-- + A something different from all this earth! + It matters little; I care not--only know + That God will keep the living thing he made. + How mighty must he be to have the right + Of swaying this great power I feel I am-- + Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him! + O God, I come to thee! thou art my life; + O God, thou art my home; I come to thee. + + Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up + Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see + But that which _is_, the living awful Truth-- + All forms of which are but the sparks flung out + From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun, + Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me: + Christ said to Martha--"Whosoever liveth, + And doth believe in me, shall never die"! + I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door + Of God's wide theatre be open flung + To let me in. What marvels I shall see! + The expectation fills me, like new life + Dancing through all my veins. + + Once more I thank thee + For all that thou hast made me--most of all, + That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee. + I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her; + Forget her not, my God. If thou save her, + I shall be able then to thank thee so + As will content thee--with full-flowing song, + The very bubbles on whose dancing waves + Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet. + + My heart sinks in me.--I grow faint. Oh! whence + This wind of love that fans me out of life? + One stoops to kiss me!--Ah, my lily child! + God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall. + + [_Re-enter_ LORD SEAFORD _with the doctor_. JULIAN _takes no + heed of them. The doctor shakes his head_.] + + My little child, I'll never leave thee more; + We are both children now in God's big house. + Come, lead me; you are older here than I + By three whole days, my darling angel-child! + + [_A letter is brought in_. LORD SEAFORD _holds it before_ + JULIAN'S _eyes. He looks vaguely at it_.] + + _Lord S_. + It is a letter from your wife, I think. + + _Julian (feebly_). + A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me-- + I'll read it in my chamber, by and by: + Dear words should not be read with others nigh. + Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God. + + _Lord S. (pending over him_). + Your wife is innocent. I _know_ she is. + + JULIAN _gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his + eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes. + He dies_. + + + +PART V. + + AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain + More than the Father's heart rich good invent? + Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent, + We know the primrose time will come again; + Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. + Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent + Is confidence unto the Father lent: + Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. + His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways + Other than thine, but by pure opulence + Of beauty infinite and love immense. + Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, + A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; + Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. + + + +A DREAM. + +SCENE I.--"_A world not realized_." LILY. _To her_ JULIAN. + + _Lily_. + O father, come with me! I have found her--mother! + + +SCENE II.--_A room in a cottage_. LILIA _on her knees before a +crucifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on her +face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHAPTER VIII. +Behind her stands an Angel, bending forward, as if to protect her +with his wings partly expanded. Appear_ JULIAN, _with_ LILY _in his +arms_. LILY _looks with love on the angel, and a kind of longing +fear on her mother_. + + _Julian_. + Angel, thy part is done; leave her to me. + + _Angel_. + Sorrowful man, to thee I must give place; + Thy ministry is stronger far than mine; + Yet have I done my part.--She sat with him. + He gave her rich white flowers with crimson scent, + The tuberose and datura ever burning + Their incense to the dusky face of night. + He spoke to her pure words of lofty sense, + But tinged with poison for a tranced ear. + He bade low music sound of faint farewells, + Which fixed her eyes upon a leafy picture, + Wherein she wandered through an amber twilight + Toward a still grave in a sleepy nook. + And ever and anon she sipped pale wine, + Rose-tinged, rose-odoured, from a silver cup. + He sang a song, each pause of which closed up, + Like a day-wearied daisy for the night, + With these words falling like an echo low: + "Love, let us love and weep and faint and die." + With the last pause the tears flowed at their will, + Without a sob, down from their cloudy skies. + He took her hand in his, and it lay still.-- + blast of music from a wandering band + Billowed the air with sudden storm that moment. + The visible rampart of material things + Was rent--the vast eternal void looked in + Upon her awe-struck soul. She cried and fled. + + It was the sealing of her destiny. + A wild convulsion shook her inner world; + Its lowest depths were heaved tumultuously; + Far unknown molten gulfs of being rushed + Up into mountain-peaks, rushed up and stood. + The soul that led a fairy life, athirst + For beauty only, passed into a woman's: + In pain and tears was born the child-like need + For God, for Truth, and for essential Love. + But first she woke to terror; was alone, + For God she saw not;--woke up in the night, + The great wide night alone. No mother's hand, + To soothe her pangs, no father's voice was near. + She would not come to thee; for love itself + Too keenly stung her sad, repentant heart, + Giving her bitter names to give herself; + But, calling back old words which thou hadst spoken, + In other days, by light winds borne afar, + And now returning on the storm of grief, + Hither she came to seek her Julian's God. + Farewell, strange friend! My care of her is over. + + _Julian_. + A heart that knows what thou canst never know, + Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell. + + [_The_ Angel _goes_. JULIAN _and_ LILY _take his place_. + LILIA _is praying, and they hear parts of her prayer_.] + + _Lilia_. + O Jesus, hear me! Let me speak to thee. + No fear oppresses me; for misery + Fills my heart up too full for any fear. + + Is there no help, O Holy? Am I stained + Beyond release? + + _Julian_. + Lilia, thy purity + Maketh thy heart abuse thee. I, thy husband, + Sinned more against thee, in believing ill, + Than thou, by ten times what thou didst, poor child, + Hadst wronged thy husband. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon will not do: + I need much more, O Master. That word _go_ + Surely thou didst not speak to send away + The sinful wife thou wouldst not yet condemn! + Or was that crime, though not too great for pardon, + Too great for loving-kindness afterward? + Might she not too have come behind thy feet, + And, weeping, wiped and kissed them, Mary's son, + Blessed for ever with a heavenly grief? + Ah! she nor I can claim with her who gave + Her tears, her hair, her lips, her precious oil, + To soothe feet worn with Galilean roads:-- + She sinned against herself, not against--Julian. + + My Lord, my God, find some excuse for me. + Find in thy heart something to say for me, + As for the crowd that cried against thee, then, + When heaven was dark because thy lamp burned low. + + _Julian_. + Not thou, but I am guilty, Lilia. + I made it possible to tempt thee, child. + Thou didst not fall, my love; only, one moment, + Beauty was queen, and Truth not lord of all. + + _Lilia_. + O Julian, my husband, is it strange, + That, when I think of Him, he looks like thee? + That, when he speaks to comfort me, the voice + Is like thy voice, my husband, my beloved? + Oh! if I could but lie down at thy feet, + And tell thee all--yea, every thought--I know + That thou wouldst think the best that could be thought, + And love and comfort me. O Julian, + I am more thine than ever.--Forgive me, husband, + For calling me, defiled and outcast, thine. + Yet may I not be thine as I am His? + Would I might be thy servant--yes, thy slave, + To wash thy feet, and dress thy lovely child, + And bring her at thy call--more wife than I. + But I shall never see thee, till the earth + Lies on us both--apart--oh, far apart! + How lonely shall I lie the long, long years! + + _Lily_. + O mother, there are blue skies here, and flowers, + And blowing winds, and kisses, mother dear! + And every time my father kisses me, + It is not father only, but another. + Make haste and come. My head never aches here. + + _Lilia_. + Can it be that they are dead? Is it possible? + I feel as if they were near me!--Speak again, + Beloved voices; comfort me; I need it. + + _Julian (singing_). + + Come to us: above the storm + Ever shines the blue. + Come to us: beyond its form + Ever lies the True. + + + _Lily (singing_). + + Mother, darling, do not weep-- + All I cannot tell: + By and by you'll go to sleep, + And you'll wake so well. + + _Julian (singing_). + + There is sunshine everywhere + For thy heart and mine: + God, for every sin and care, + Is the cure divine. + + _Lily (singing_). + + We're so happy all the day, + Waiting for another! + All the flowers and sunshine stay, + Watching for my mother. + + + _Julian_. + My maiden! for true wife is always maiden + To the true husband: thou art mine for ever. + + _Lilia_. + What gentle hopes keep passing to and fro! + Thou shadowest me with thine own rest, my God; + A cloud from thee stoops down and covers me. + + [_She falls asleep on her knees_] + + + +SCENE III.--JULIAN _on the summit of a mountain-peak. The stars are +brilliant around a crescent moon, hanging half-way between the +mountain and the zenith. Below lies a sea of vapour. Beyond rises a +loftier pinnacle, across which is stretched a bar of cloud_. LILY +_lies on the cloud, looking earnestly into the mist below_. + + _Julian (gazing upward_). + And thou wast with me all the time, my God, + Even as now! I was not far from thee. + Thy spirit spoke in all my wants and fears, + And hopes and longings. Thou art all in all. + I am not mine, but thine. I cannot speak + The thoughts that work within me like a sea. + When on the earth I lay, crushed down beneath + A hopeless weight of empty desolation, + Thy loving face was lighted then, O Christ, + With expectation of my joy to come, + When all the realm of possible ill should lie + Under my feet, and I should stand as now + Heart-sure of thee, true-hearted, only One. + Was ever soul filled to such overflowing + With the pure wine of blessedness, my God! + Filled as the night with stars, am I with joys; + Filled as the heavens with thee, am I with peace; + For now I wait the end of all my prayers-- + Of all that have to do with old-world things: + What new things come to wake new prayers, my God, + Thou know'st; I wait on thee in perfect peace. + + [_He turns his gaze downward.--From the fog-sea + below half-rises a woman-form, which floats toward him._] + + Lo, as the lily lifts its shining bosom + From the lone couch of waters where it slept, + When the fair morn toucheth and waketh it; + So riseth up my lily from the deep + Where human souls are vexed in awful dreams! + + [LILY _spies her mother, darts down, and is caught in + her arms. They land on_ JULIAN'S _peak, and + climb_, LILY _leading her mother_.] + + _Lily_. + Come faster, mother dear; father is waiting. + + _Lilia_. + Have patience with me, darling. By and by, + I think, I shall do better.--Oh my Julian! + + _Julian_. + I may not help her. She must climb and come. + + [_He reaches his hand, and the three are clasped in + an infinite embrace_.] + + O God, thy thoughts, thy ways, are not as ours: + They fill our longing hearts up to the brim. + + [_The moon and the stars and the blue night close + around them; and the poet awakes from his dream_.] + + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + +TO MY FATHER: + _with my second volume of verse_. + + +I. + + Take of the first fruits, father, of thy care, + Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude, + Late waked for early gifts ill understood; + Claiming in all my harvests rightful share, + Whether with song that mounts the joyful air + I praise my God, or, in yet deeper mood, + Sit dumb because I know a speechless good, + Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer. + Thou hast been faithful to my highest need; + And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore, + Shall never feel the grateful burden sore. + Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed, + But for the sense thy living self did breed + Of fatherhood still at the great world's core. + + +II. + + All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined, + As for some being of another race; + Ah, not with it, departing--growing apace + As years did bring me manhood's loftier mind, + Able to see thy human life behind-- + The same hid heart, the same revealing face-- + My own dim contest settling into grace, + Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined! + So I beheld my God, in childhood's morn, + A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart, + Moveless and dim--I scarce could say _Thou art_: + My manhood came, of joy and sadness born;-- + Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn, + Revealed man's glory, God's great human heart. + +G.M.D. jr. + +ALGIERS, _April, 1857_. + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + Proudly the youth, sudden with manhood crowned, + Went walking by his horses, the first time, + That morning, to the plough. No soldier gay + Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt + (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath, + As lightning in the cloud) with more delight, + When first he belts it on, than he that day + Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against + His horses' harnessed sides, as to the field + They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill + The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil. + + A farmer's son, a farmer's grandson he; + Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed those fields. + Tradition said they had been tilled by men + Who bore the name long centuries ago, + And married wives, and reared a stalwart race, + And died, and went where all had followed them, + Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth + Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil; + And death is far from him this sunny morn. + Why should we think of death when life is high? + The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. + The daylight's labour and the night's repose + Are very good, each better in its time. + + The boy knew little; but he read old tales + Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift + As charging knights upon their death-career. + He chanted ancient tunes, till the wild blood + Was charmed back into its fountain-well, + And tears arose instead. That poet's songs, + Whose music evermore recalls his name, + His name of waters babbling as they run, + Rose from him in the fields among the kine, + And met the skylark's, raining from the clouds. + But only as the poet-birds he sang-- + From rooted impulse of essential song; + The earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; + His heart was glad--he knew not it was glad; + He walked as in a twilight of the sense-- + Which this one day shall turn to tender morn. + + Long ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops + Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill, + His horses leaned and laboured. Each great hand + Held rein and plough-stilt in one guiding grasp-- + No ploughman there would brook a helper. Proud + With a true ploughman's pride--nobler, I think, + Than statesman's, ay, or poet's, or painter's pride, + For little praise will come that he ploughs well-- + He did plough well, proud of his work itself, + And not of what would follow. With sure eye, + He saw his horses keep the arrow-track; + He saw the swift share cut the measured sod; + He saw the furrow folding to the right, + Ready with nimble foot to aid at need:-- + Turning its secrets upward to the sun, + And hiding in the dark the sun-born grass, + And daisies dipped in carmine, lay the tilth-- + A million graves to nurse the buried seed, + And send a golden harvest up the air. + + When the steep sun had clomb to his decline, + And pausing seemed, at edge of slow descent, + Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, + They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, + And homeward went for food and courage new. + Therewith refreshed, they turned again to toil, + And lived in labour all the afternoon; + Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough + Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea, + And home with hanging neck the horses went, + Walking beside their master, force by will: + Then through the lengthening shades a vision came. + + It was a lady mounted on a horse, + A slender girl upon a mighty steed, + That bore her with the pride horses must feel + When they submit to women. Home she went, + Alone, or else her groom lagged far behind. + Scarce had she bent simple acknowledgment + Of the hand in silent salutation lifted + To the bowed head, when something faithless yielded: + The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl + Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins. + + Three paces bore him bounding to her side; + Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there; + But with main force, as one that grapples fear, + He threw the fascination off, and saw + The work before him. Soon his hand and knife + Had set the saddle firmer than before + Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned + To mount the maiden. But bewilderment + A moment lasted; for he knew not how, + With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne, + Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: + A moment only; for while yet she thanked, + Nor yet had time to teach her further will, + About her waist he put his brawny hands, + That all but zoned her round; and like a child + Lifting her high, he set her on the horse; + Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, + Nor turned aside, although a radiant blush + Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes. + And he was never sure if from her heart + Or from the rosy sunset came the flush. + Again she thanked him, while again he stood + Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word + Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones + Round which dissolving lambent music played, + Like dropping water in a silver cup; + Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, + Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, + And called himself hard names, and turned and went + After his horses, bending like them his head. + + Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door, + Although she came not in, the house is bare: + Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house! + Why seems it always that she should be ours? + A secret lies behind which thou dost know, + And I can partly guess. + + But think not then, + The holder of the plough sighed many sighs + Upon his bed that night; or other dreams + Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep; + Nor think the airy castles of his brain + Had less foundation than the air admits. + But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name, + And answer, if he had not from the fair + Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, + An angel vision from a higher world. + + Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life, + Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge, + Ran down the southern side, away from his. + It was not over-blessed; for, I know, + Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve, + From her who told, and him who, in the pines + Walking, received it from her loving lips; + But now she was as God had made her, ere + The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, + And half succeeded, failing utterly. + Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child + That looks in every eye; fearless of ill, + Because she knew it not; and brave withal, + Because she led a simple country life, + And loved the animals. Her father's house-- + A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- + Was distant but two miles among the hills; + Yet oft as she had passed his father's farm, + The youth had never seen her face before, + And should not twice. Yet was it not enough? + The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon + That goeth on her way, and knoweth not + The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills + With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men, + Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue + Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him, + Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes + Return uncalled, with wonder that they come. + Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills, + And rounded with dead glitter, not the shine + Of leaves and waters dancing in the sun; + While he abode in ever breaking dawns, + Breathed ever new-born winds into his soul; + And saw the aurora of the heavenly day + Still climb the hill-sides of the heapy world. + + Again I say, no fond romance of love, + No argument of possibilities, + If he were some one, and she sought his help, + Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams. + As soon he had sat down and twisted cords + To snare, and carry home for household help, + Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen + On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields. + But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, + (The exultation of his new-found rank + Already settling into dignity,) + Behold, the earth was beautiful! The sky + Shone with the expectation of the sun. + Only the daisies grieved him, for they fell + Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads + Just out, imploring. A gray hedgehog ran, + With tangled mesh of rough-laid spikes, and face + Helplessly innocent, across the field: + He let it run, and blessed it as it ran. + Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet + Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood. + For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam + Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot, + Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far, + Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, + Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws, + In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, + His eye was cheated with a spectral smoke + That rose as from a fire. He had not known + How beautiful the sunlight was, not even + Upon the windy fields of morning grass, + Nor on the river, nor the ripening corn! + As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept + On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, + And gazing down into the glory-gulf, + Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire-- + Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out. + + God, and not woman, is the heart of all. + But she, as priestess of the visible earth, + Holding the key, herself most beautiful, + Had come to him, and flung the portals wide. + He entered: every beauty was a glass + That gleamed the woman back upon his view. + Shall I not rather say: each beauty gave + Its own soul up to him who worshipped her, + For that his eyes were opened now to see? + + Already in these hours his quickened soul + Put forth the white tip of a floral bud, + Ere long to be a crown-like, aureole flower. + His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient tales, + Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed + That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him, + Yet not the less mellowing all his spring: + Like summer sunshine came the maiden's face, + And in the youth's glad heart the seed awoke. + It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers, + Its every flower a living open eye, + Until his soul was full of eyes within. + Each morning now was a fresh boon to him; + Each wind a spiritual power upon his life; + Each individual animal did share + A common being with him; every kind + Of flower from every other was distinct, + Uttering that for which alone it was-- + Its something human, wrapt in other veil. + + And when the winter came, when thick the snow + Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost, + When the low sun but skirted his far realms, + And sank in early night, he drew his chair + Beside the fire; and by the feeble lamp + Read book on book; and wandered other climes, + And lived in other lives and other needs, + And grew a larger self by other selves. + Ere long, the love of knowledge had become + A hungry passion and a conscious power, + And craved for more than reading could supply. + Then, through the night (all dark, except the moon + Shone frosty o'er the heath, or the white snow + Gave back such motes of light as else had sunk + In the dark earth) he bent his plodding way + Over the moors to where the little town + Lay gathered in the hollow. There the student + Who taught from lingering dawn to early dark, + Had older scholars in the long fore-night; + For youths who in the shop, or in the barn, + Or at the loom, had done their needful work, + Came gathering there through starlight, fog, or snow, + And found the fire ablaze, the candles lit, + And him who knew waiting for who would know. + Here mathematics wiled him to their heights; + And strange consent of lines to form and law + Made Euclid a profound romance of truth. + The master saw with wonder how he seized, + How eagerly devoured the offered food, + And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge + Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls + That see a truth, and, turning, see at once + Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight, + Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered + To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways + To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert, + Caught at the offer; and for years of nights, + The house asleep, he groped his twilight way + With lexicon and rule, through ancient story, + Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old; + Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue, + Through reading many books, much aided him-- + For best is like in all the hearts and tongues. + + At length his progress, through the master's pride + In such a pupil, reached the father's ears. + Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed, + If caring, sparing might accomplish it, + He should to college, and there have his fill + Of that same learning. + + To the plough no more, + All day to school he went; and ere a year, + He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves. + + Awkward at first, but with a dignity + Soon finding fit embodiment in speech + And gesture and address, he made his way, + Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect + Of students and professors; for whose praise + More than his worth, society, so called, + To its rooms in that great city of the North, + Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first + By brilliance of the shining show, the lights, + The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes, + He stole into a corner, and was quiet + Until the vision too had quieter grown. + Bewildered next by many a sparkling word, + Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds, + Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets, + Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth + As if they were home-born and issuing new, + He held his peace, and silent soon began + To see how little fire it needs to shimmer. + Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander + Back to the calm divine of homely toil; + While round him still and ever hung an air + Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe-- + A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls + Saw but the clumsiness--another sort + Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke, + Saw the grace only; and began at last, + For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd, + And find him unexpected, maiden-wise. + But oftener far they sought him than they found, + For seldom was he drawn away from toil; + Seldomer stinted time held due to toil; + For if one night his panes were dark, the next + They gleamed far into morning. And he won + Honours among the first, each session's close. + + Nor think that new familiarity + With open forms of ill, not to be shunned + Where many youths are met, endangered much + A mind that had begun to will the pure. + Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest + With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop + Of pestilential vapours following-- + Arose within his sudden silent mind + The maiden face that once blushed down on him-- + That lady face, insphered beyond his earth, + Yet visible as bright, particular star. + A flush of tenderness then glowed across + His bosom--shone it clean from passing harm: + Should that sweet face be banished by rude words? + It could not stay what maidens might not hear! + He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest, + Should meet in _his_ house. To his love he made + Love's only worthy offering--purity. + + And if the homage that he sometimes met, + New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles, + Assents, and silent listenings when he spoke, + Threatened yet more his life's simplicity; + An antidote of nature ever came, + Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months, + His former haunts and boyhood's circumstance + Received him to the bosom of their grace. + And he, too noble to despise the past, + Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil, + Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide + Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain, + Or that a workman was no gentleman + Because a workman, clothed himself again + In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade, + The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain, + Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged. + With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields, + Returning still with larger powers of sight: + Each time he knew them better than before, + And yet their sweetest aspect was the old. + His labour kept him true to life and fact, + Casting out worldly judgments, false desires, + And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil, + New thoughts would rise, which, when God's night awoke, + He still would seek, like stars, with instruments-- + By science, or by truth's philosophy, + Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old. + Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once, + Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons + Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white. + + His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, + Because his learning did not make him proud: + He was too wise to build upon his lore. + The neighbours asked what he would make his son: + "I'll make a man of him," the old man said; + "And for the rest, just what he likes himself. + He is my only son--I think he'll keep + The old farm on; and I shall go content, + Leaving a man behind me, as I say." + + So four years long his life swung to and fro, + Alternating the red gown and blue coat, + The garret study and the wide-floored barn, + The wintry city and the sunny fields: + In every change his mind was well content, + For in himself he was the growing same. + + In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts; + To no profession did he ardent turn: + He knew his father's wish--it was his own. + "Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows, + Leave therefore the old patriarchal life, + And seek distinction in the noise of men?" + He turned his asking face on every side; + Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw + The inner form of man laid skilful bare; + Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand + Made Nature do in little, before his eyes, + And momently, what, huge, for centuries, + And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, + She labours at; bent his inquiring eye + On every source whence knowledge flows for men: + At some he only sipped, at others drank. + + At length, when he had gained the master's right-- + By custom sacred from of old--to sit + With covered head before the awful rank + Of black-gowned senators; and each of those, + Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word + To speed him onward to what goal he would, + He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown, + And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, + Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray + In all the blandishments of youthful spring, + Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm. + + With simple gladness met him on the road + His gray-haired father--elder brother now. + Few words were spoken, little welcome said, + But, as they walked, the more was understood. + If with a less delight he brought him home + Than he who met the prodigal returned, + It was with more reliance, with more peace; + For with the leaning pride that old men feel + In young strong arms that draw their might from them, + He led him to the house. His sister there, + Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes + Were full of watchfulness and hovering love, + Set him beside the fire in the old place, + And heaped the table with best country-fare. + + When the swift night grew deep, the father rose, + And led him, wondering why and where they went, + Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path + Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above + The stable, where the same old horses slept + Which he had guided that eventful morn. + Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand + Had been at work. The father, leading on + Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain + Opened a door. An unexpected light + Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp, + That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale: + Behold! a little room, a curtained bed, + An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk; + An old print of a deep Virgilian wood, + And one of choosing Hercules! The youth + Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love + Had sought and found an incarnation new! + For, honouring in his son the simple needs + Which his own bounty had begot in him, + He gave him thus a lonely thinking space, + A silent refuge. With a quiet good night, + He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath, + The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain. + + Three sliding years, with slowly blended change, + Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring, + Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart. + He laboured as before; though when he would, + And Nature urged not, he, with privilege, + Would spare from hours of toil--read in his room, + Or wander through the moorland to the hills; + There on the apex of the world would stand, + As on an altar, burning, soul and heart-- + Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer; + Gaze in the face of the inviting blue + That domed him round; ask why it should be blue; + Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart + Go down to lower things with lofty cares. + + When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son + Walked to the church across their own loved fields. + It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign + Of what makes English churches venerable. + Likest a crowing cock upon a heap + It stood--but let us say--St. Peter's cock, + Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm + For one with whose known self it was coeval, + Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen! + And its low mounds of monumental grass + Were far more solemn than great marble tombs; + For flesh is grass, its goodliness the flower. + Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard + On sunny afternoons! The light itself + Nestles amid the grass; and the sweet wind + Says, _I am here_,--no more. With sun and wind + And crowing cocks, who can believe in death? + He, on such days, when from the church they Came, + And through God's ridges took their thoughtful way, + The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, + Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; + But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: + What mattered it to him? + + And as they walked + Homeward, right well the father loved to hear + The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well. + For the old man clung not to the old alone, + Nor leaned the young man only to the new; + They would the best, they sought, and followed it. + "The Pastor fills his office well," he said, + In homely jest; "--the Past alone he heeds! + Honours those Jewish times as he were a Jew, + And Christ were neither Jew nor northern man! + He has no ear for this poor Present Hour, + Which wanders up and down the centuries, + Like beggar-boy roaming the wintry streets, + With witless hand held out to passers-by; + And yet God made the voice of its many cries. + Mine be the work that comes first to my hand! + The lever set, I grasp and heave withal. + I love where I live, and let my labour flow + Into the hollows of the neighbour-needs. + Perhaps I like it best: I would not choose + Another than the ordered circumstance. + This farm is God's as much as yonder town; + These men and maidens, kine and horses, his; + For them his laws must be incarnated + In act and fact, and so their world redeemed." + + Though thus he spoke at times, he spake not oft; + Ruled chief by action: what he said, he did. + No grief was suffered there of man or beast + More than was need; no creature fled in fear; + All slaying was with generous suddenness, + Like God's benignant lightning. "For," he said, + "God makes the beasts, and loves them dearly well-- + Better than any parent loves his child, + It may be," would he say; for still the _may be_ + Was sacred with him no less than the _is_-- + "In such humility he lived and wrought-- + Hence are they sacred. Sprung from God as we, + They are our brethren in a lower kind, + And in their face we see the human look." + If any said: "Men look like animals; + Each has his type set in the lower kind;" + His answer was: "The animals are like men; + Each has his true type set in the higher kind, + Though even there only rough-hewn as yet. + The hell of cruelty will be the ghosts + Of the sad beasts: their crowding heads will come, + And with encircling, slow, pain-patient eyes, + Stare the ill man to madness." + + When he spoke, + His word behind it had the force of deeds + Unborn within him, ready to be born; + But, like his race, he promised very slow. + His goodness ever went before his word, + Embodying itself unconsciously + In understanding of the need that prayed, + And cheerful help that would outrun the prayer. + + When from great cities came the old sad news + Of crime and wretchedness, and children sore + With hunger, and neglect, and cruel blows, + He would walk sadly all the afternoon, + With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow; + Arriving ever at the same result-- + Concluding ever: "The best that I can do + For the great world, is the same best I can + For this my world. What truth may be therein + Will pass beyond my narrow circumstance, + In truth's own right." When a philanthropist + Said pompously: "It is not for your gifts + To spend themselves on common labours thus: + You owe the world far nobler things than such;" + He answered him: "The world is in God's hands, + This part of it in mine. My sacred past, + With all its loves inherited, has led + Hither, here left me: shall I judge, arrogant, + Primaeval godlike work in earth and air, + Seed-time and harvest--offered fellowship + With God in nature--unworthy of my hands? + I know your argument--I know with grief!-- + The crowds of men, in whom a starving soul + Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes + For bare humanity, nay, room to grow!-- + Would I could help them! But all crowds are made + Of individuals; and their grief and pain, + Their thirst and hunger--all are of the one, + Not of the many: the true, the saving power + Enters the individual door, and thence + Issues again in thousand influences + Besieging other doors. I cannot throw + A mass of good into the general midst, + Whereof each man may seize his private share; + And if one could, it were of lowest kind, + Not reaching to that hunger of the soul. + Now here I labour whole in the same spot + Where they have known me from my childhood up + And I know them, each individual: + If there is power in me to help my own, + Even of itself it flows beyond my will, + Takes shape in commonest of common acts, + Meets every humble day's necessity: + --I would not always consciously do good, + Not always work from full intent of help, + Lest I forget the measure heaped and pressed + And running over which they pour for me, + And never reap the too-much of return + In smiling trust and beams from kindly eyes. + But in the city, with a few lame words, + And a few wretched coins, sore-coveted, + To mediate 'twixt my _cannot_ and my _would_, + My best attempts would never strike a root; + My scattered corn would turn to wind-blown chaff; + I should grow weak, might weary of my kind, + Misunderstood the most where almost known, + Baffled and beaten by their unbelief: + Years could not place me where I stand this day + High on the vantage-ground of confidence: + I might for years toil on, and reach no man. + Besides, to leave the thing that nearest lies, + And choose the thing far off, more difficult-- + The act, having no touch of God in it, + Who seeks the needy for the pure need's sake, + Must straightway die, choked in its selfishness." + Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good + Held his poor peace, and went his trackless way. + + What of the vision now? the vision fair + Sent forth to meet him, when at eve he went + Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft he dreamed + She passed him smiling on her stately horse; + But never band or buckle yielded more; + Never again his hands enthroned the maid; + He only worshipped with his eyes, and woke. + Nor woke he then with foolish vain regret; + But, saying, "I have seen the beautiful," + Smiled with his eyes upon a flower or bird, + Or living form, whate'er, of gentleness, + That met him first; and all that morn, his face + Would oftener dawn into a blossomy smile. + + And ever when he read a lofty tale, + Or when the storied leaf, or ballad old, + Or spake or sang of woman very fair, + Or wondrous good, he saw her face alone; + The tale was told, the song was sung of her. + He did not turn aside from other maids, + But loved their faces pure and faithful eyes. + He may have thought, "One day I wed a maid, + And make her mine;" but never came the maid, + Or never came the hour: he walked alone. + Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed + One of the common crowd: there must be ore + For the gold grains to lie in: virgin gold + Lies in the rock, enriching not the stone. + She was not one who of herself could _be_; + And she had found no heart which, tuned with hers, + Would beat in rhythm, growing into rime. + She read phantasmagoric tales, sans salt, + Sans hope, sans growth; or listlessly conversed + With phantom-visitors--ladies, not friends, + Mere spectral forms from fashion's concave glass. + She haunted gay assemblies, ill-content-- + Witched woods to hide in from her better self, + And danced, and sang, and ached. What had she felt, + If, called up by the ordered sounds and motions, + A vision had arisen--as once, of old, + The minstrel's art laid bare the seer's eye, + And showed him plenteous waters in the waste;-- + If the gay dance had vanished from her sight, + And she beheld her ploughman-lover go + With his great stride across a lonely field, + Under the dark blue vault ablaze with stars, + Lifting his full eyes to the radiant roof, + Live with our future; or had she beheld + Him studious, with space-compelling mind + Bent on his slate, pursue some planet's course; + Or reading justify the poet's wrath, + Or sage's slow conclusion?--If a voice + Had whispered then: This man in many a dream, + And many a waking moment of keen joy, + Blesses you for the look that woke his heart, + That smiled him into life, and, still undimmed, + Lies lamping in the cabinet of his soul;-- + Would her sad eyes have beamed with sudden light? + Would not her soul, half-dead with nothingness, + Have risen from the couch of its unrest, + And looked to heaven again, again believed + In God and life, courage, and duty, and love? + Would not her soul have sung to its lone self: + "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise. + He knows what God, and goodness, and fair faith + Mean in the words and books of mighty men. + He nothing heeds the show of worldly things, + But worships the unconquerable truth. + This man is humble and loves me: I will + Be proud and very humble. If he knew me, + Would he go on and love me till we meet!"? + + In the third year, a heavy harvest fell, + Full filled, before the reaping-hook and scythe. + The heat was scorching, but the men and maids + Lightened their toil with merry jest and song; + Rested at mid-day, and from brimming bowl, + Drank the brown ale, and white abundant milk. + The last ear fell, and spiky stubble stood + Where waved the forests of dry-murmuring corn; + And sheaves rose piled in shocks, like ranged tents + Of an encamping army, tent by tent, + To stand there while the moon should have her will. + + The grain was ripe. The harvest carts went out + Broad-platformed, bearing back the towering load, + With frequent passage 'twixt homeyard and field. + And half the oats already hid their tops, + Their ringing, rustling, wind-responsive sprays, + In the still darkness of the towering stack; + When in the north low billowy clouds appeared, + Blue-based, white-crested, in the afternoon; + And westward, darker masses, plashed with blue, + And outlined vague in misty steep and dell, + Clomb o'er the hill-tops: thunder was at hand. + The air was sultry. But the upper sky + Was clear and radiant. + + Downward went the sun, + Below the sullen clouds that walled the west, + Below the hills, below the shadowed world. + The moon looked over the clear eastern wall, + And slanting rose, and looked, rose, looked again, + And searched for silence in her yellow fields, + But found it not. For there the staggering carts, + Like overladen beasts, crawled homeward still, + Sped fieldward light and low. The laugh broke yet, + That lightning of the soul's unclouded skies-- + Though not so frequent, now that toil forgot + Its natural hour. Still on the labour went, + Straining to beat the welkin-climbing heave + Of the huge rain-clouds, heavy with their floods. + Sleep, old enchantress, sided with the clouds, + The hoisting clouds, and cast benumbing spells + On man and horse. One youth who walked beside + A ponderous load of sheaves, higher than wont, + Which dared the lurking levin overhead, + Woke with a start, falling against the wheel, + That circled slow after the slumbering horse. + Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep, + And quit the last few shocks; for the wild storm + Would catch thereby the skirts of Harvest-home, + And hold her lingering half-way in the rain. + + The scholar laboured with his men all night. + He did not favour such prone headlong race + With Nature. To himself he said: "The night + Is sent for sleep; we ought to sleep in the night, + And leave the clouds to God. Not every storm + That climbeth heavenward overwhelms the earth; + And when God wills, 'tis better he should will; + What he takes from us never can be lost." + But the father so had ordered, and the son + Went manful to his work, and held his peace. + + When the dawn blotted pale the clouded east, + The first drops, overgrown and helpless, fell + On the last home-bound cart, oppressed with sheaves; + And by its side, the last in the retreat, + The scholar walked, slow bringing up the rear. + Half the still lengthening journey he had gone, + When, on opposing strength of upper winds + Tumultuous borne, at last the labouring racks + Met in the zenith, and the silence ceased: + The lightning brake, and flooded all the world, + Its roar of airy billows following it. + The darkness drank the lightning, and again + Lay more unslaked. But ere the darkness came, + In the full revelation of the flash, + Met by some stranger flash from cloudy brain, + He saw the lady, borne upon her horse, + Careless of thunder, as when, years agone, + He saw her once, to see for evermore. + "Ah, ha!" he said, "my dreams are come for me! + Now shall they have me!" For, all through the night, + There had been growing trouble in his frame, + An overshadowing of something dire. + Arrived at home, the weary man and horse + Forsook their load; the one went to his stall, + The other sought the haven of his bed-- + There slept and moaned, cried out, and woke, and slept: + Through all the netted labyrinth of his brain + The fever shot its pent malignant fire. + 'Twas evening when to passing consciousness + He woke and saw his father by his side: + His guardian form in every vision drear + That followed, watching shone; and the healing face + Of his true sister gleamed through all his pain, + Soothing and strengthening with cloudy hope; + Till, at the weary last of many days, + He woke to sweet quiescent consciousness, + Enfeebled much, but with a new-born life-- + His soul a summer evening after rain. + + Slow, with the passing weeks, he gathered strength, + And ere the winter came, seemed half restored; + And hope was busy. But a fire too keen + Burned in his larger eyes; and in his cheek + Too ready came the blood at faintest call, + Glowing a fair, quick-fading, sunset hue. + + Before its hour, a biting frost set in. + It gnawed with icy fangs his shrinking life; + And that disease bemoaned throughout the land, + The smiling, hoping, wasting, radiant death, + Was born of outer cold and inner heat. + + One morn his sister, entering while he slept, + Spied in his listless hand a handkerchief + Spotted with red. Cold with dismay, she stood, + Scared, motionless. But catching in the glass + The sudden glimpse of a white ghostly face, + She started at herself, and he awoke. + He understood, and said with smile unsure, + "Bright red was evermore my master-hue; + And see, I have it in me: that is why." + She shuddered; and he saw, nor jested more, + But smiled again, and looked Death in the face. + + When first he saw the red blood outward leap, + As if it sought again the fountain-heart + Whence it had flowed to fill the golden bowl, + No terror seized--an exaltation swelled + His spirit: now the pondered mystery + Would fling its portals wide, and take him in, + One of the awful dead! Them, fools conceive + As ghosts that fleet and pine, bereft of weight, + And half their valued lives: he otherwise;-- + Hoped now, and now expected; and, again, + Said only, "I await the thing to come." + + So waits a child the lingering curtain's rise, + While yet the panting lamps restrained burn + At half-height, and the theatre is full. + + But as the days went by, they brought sad hours, + When he would sit, his hands upon his knees, + Drooping, and longing for the wine of life. + For when the ninefold crystal spheres, through which + The outer light sinks in, are cracked and broken, + Yet able to keep in the 'piring life, + Distressing shadows cross the chequered soul: + Poor Psyche trims her irresponsive lamp, + And anxious visits oft her store of oil, + And still the shadows fall: she must go pray! + And God, who speaks to man at door and lattice, + Glorious in stars, and winds, and flowers, and waves, + Not seldom shuts the door and dims the pane, + That, isled in calm, his still small voice may sound + The clearer, by the hearth, in the inner room-- + Sound on until the soul, fulfilled of hope, + Look undismayed on that which cannot kill; + And saying in the dark, _I will the light_, + Glow in the gloom the present will of God: + Then melt the shadows of her shaken house. + + He, when his lamp shot up a spiring flame, + Would thus break forth and climb the heaven of prayer: + "Do with us what thou wilt, all-glorious heart! + Thou God of them that are not yet, but grow! + We trust thee for the thing we shall be yet; + We too are ill content with what we are." + And when the flame sank, and the darkness fell, + He lived by faith which is the soul of sight. + + Yet in the frequent pauses of the light, + When all was dreary as a drizzling thaw, + When sleep came not although he prayed for sleep, + And wakeful-weary on his bed he lay, + Like frozen lake that has no heaven within; + Then, then the sleeping horror woke and stirred, + And with the tooth of unsure thought began + To gnaw the roots of life:--What if there were + No truth in beauty! What if loveliness + Were but the invention of a happier mood! + "For, if my mind can dim or slay the Fair, + Why should it not enhance or make the Fair?" + "Nay," Psyche answered; "for a tired man + May drop his eyelids on the visible world, + To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free, + Will bring the sunny excellence of day. + 'Tis easy to destroy; God only makes. + Could my invention sweep the lucid waves + With purple shadows--next create the joy + With which my life beholds them? Wherefore should + One meet the other without thought of mine, + If God did not mean beauty in them and me, + But dropped them, helpless shadows, from his sun? + There were no God, his image not being mine, + And I should seek in vain for any bliss! + Oh, lack and doubt and fear can only come + Because of plenty, confidence, and love! + Those are the shadow-forms about the feet + Of these--because they are not crystal-clear + To the all-searching sun in which they live: + Dread of its loss is Beauty's certain seal!" + Thus reasoned mourning Psyche. Suddenly + The sun would rise, and vanish Psyche's lamp, + Absorbed in light, not swallowed in the dark. + + It was a wintry time with sunny days, + With visitings of April airs and scents, + That came with sudden presence, unforetold, + As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring + In the great world where all is old and new. + Strange longings he had never known till now, + Awoke within him, flowers of rooted hope. + For a whole silent hour he would sit and gaze + Upon the distant hills, whose dazzling snow + Starred the dim blue, or down their dark ravines + Crept vaporous; until the fancy rose + That on the other side those rampart walls, + A mighty woman sat, with waiting face, + Calm as that life whose rapt intensity + Borders on death, silent, waiting for him, + To make him grand for ever with a kiss, + And send him silent through the toning worlds. + + The father saw him waning. The proud sire + Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold, + Like snowdrop on its grave; and sighed deep thanks + That he was old. But evermore the son + Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news + Across the waste, of tree-buds and primroses. + Then all at once the other mood would come, + And, like a troubled child, he would seek his father + For father-comfort, which fathers all can give: + Sure there is one great Father in the world, + Since every word of good from fathers' lips + Falleth with such authority, although + They are but men as we! This trembling son, + Who saw the unknown death draw hourly nigher, + Sought solace in his father's tenderness, + And made him strong to die. + + One shining day, + Shining with sun and snow, he came and said, + "What think you, father--is death very sore?" + "My boy," the father answered, "we will try + To make it easy with the present God. + But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, + It seems much harder to the lookers on + Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath + We call a gasp, may be in him the cry + Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob + With which the unclothed spirit, step by step. + Wades forth into the cool eternal sea. + I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- + One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth + Is every day half sunny and half dark. + We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; + They on the other, looking down in light, + Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours." + "Be near me, father, when I die," he said. + "I will, my boy, until a better Father + Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, + When my time comes--you in the light beyond, + And knowing well the country--I in the dark." + + The days went by, until the tender green + Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope + Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; + For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, + With promises, and he went forth to meet her. + + But he who once had strode a king on the fields, + Walked softly now; lay on the daisied grass; + And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon + The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, + Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing. + + But though I lingering listen to the old, + Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old + And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- + Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart + To look the blank unknown full in the void; + For he had hope in God--the growth of years, + Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, + Of prayers and readings and repentances; + For something in him had ever sought the peace + Of other something deeper in him still-- + A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony + With other fainter sounds, that softly drew + Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths + Where the Individual goeth out in God: + The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, + And sought the way by which the music came, + Hoping at last to find the face of him + To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, + And on his bosom fearless leaned the while. + + As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, + The new creation inside of the old, + Pressed up in buds toward the invisible. + And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay. + Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; + He looked away from earth, and loved the sky. + One earthly notion only clung to him:-- + He thanked God that he died not in the cold; + "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad + When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.--It + may be that we know not aught of place, + Or any sense, and only live in thought; + But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light. + I _may_ pass forth into the sea of air + That swings its massy waves around the earth, + And I would rather go when it is full + Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog + Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick. + Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- + Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, + And going with the light. And when they say, + 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;' + I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'" + + The weary nights did much to humble him; + They made the good he knew seem all ill known: + He would go by and by to school again! + "Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou _art_!" + Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, + Who, longing for his mother, has forgot + The arms about him, holding him to her heart: + _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up + That he may see her face, and sleep indeed. + + Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; + We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; + But through them all thy strong arms carry us, + Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief. + Because thou lovest goodness more than joy + In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: + We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, + But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, + And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain + Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: + We never grasp the zenith of the time! + We have no spring except in winter-prayers! + But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That + one day we shall thank thee perfectly + For every disappointment, pang, and shame, + That drove us to the bosom of thy love. + + One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. + His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, + Through which bright pictures passed of the outer world: + The regnant Will gazed passive on the show; + The magic tube through which the shadows came, + Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, + Glided across the field the things that were, + Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: + Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, + And old brown letters are more sad than graves. + + At length, as ever in such vision-hours, + Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse. + Will started all awake, passive no more, + And, necromantic sage, the apparition + That came unbid, commanded to abide. + + Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: + How had she fared, spinning her history + Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings + Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer? + Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or + Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained? + "I know," he said, "some women fail of life! + The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?" + + The fount of possibilities began + To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: + Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- + For purest souls sometimes have direst fears + In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth + Is cast on half her children, and the sun + Is busy giving daylight to the rest. + + "Oh, God!" he cried, "if she be such as those!-- + Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still + Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, + But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, + Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- + It cannot, cannot be! She is of God!-- + And yet things lovely perish! higher life + Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- + Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!" + Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul + But found at last a spot wherein to rest, + Building a resolution for the day. + + The next day, and the next, he was too worn + To clothe intent in body of a deed. + A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, + Making him feel as he had come to the earth + Before God's spirit moved on the water's face, + To make it ready for him. + + But the third + Morning rose radiant. A genial wind + Rippled the blue air 'neath the golden sun, + And brought glad summer-tidings from the south. + + He lay now in his father's room; for there + The southern sun poured all the warmth he had. + His rays fell on the fire, alive with flames, + And turned it ghostly pale, and would have slain-- + Even as the sunshine of the higher life, + Quenching the glow of this, leaves but a coal. + He rose and sat him down 'twixt sun and fire; + Two lives fought in him for the mastery; + And half from each forth flowed the written stream + "Lady, I owe thee much. Stay not to look + Upon my name: I write it, but I date + From the churchyard, where it shall lie in peace, + Thou reading it. Thou know'st me not at all; + Nor dared I write, but death is crowning me + Thy equal. If my boldness yet offend, + Lo, pure in my intent, I am with the ghosts; + Where when thou comest, thou hast already known + God equal makes at first, and Death at last." + + "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, + My thoughts moved toward thee with a gentle flow + That bore a depth of waters: when I took + My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, + Precipitate and foamy. Can it be + That Death who humbles all hath made me proud?" + + "Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, + As if I were thy heritage bequeathed + From many sires; yet only from afar + I have worshipped thee--content to know the vision + Had lifted me above myself who saw, + And ta'en my angel nigh thee in thy heaven. + Thy beauty, lady, hath overflowed, and made + Another being beautiful, beside, + With virtue to aspire and be itself. + Afar as angels or the sainted dead, + Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, + Thy form hath put on each revealing dress + Of circumstance and history, high or low, + In which, from any tale of selfless life, + Essential womanhood hath shone on me." + + "Ten years have passed away since the first time, + Which was the last, I saw thee. What have these + Made or unmade in thee?--I ask myself. + O lovely in my memory! art thou + As lovely in thyself? Thy glory then + Was what God made thee: art thou such indeed? + Forgive my boldness, lady--I am dead: + The dead may cry, their voices are so small." + + "I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead. + Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful + As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; + Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure + That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God, + Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself + I pray. For if I die and find that she, + My woman-glory, lives in common air, + Is not so very radiant after all, + My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, + Unused to see such rooted sorrow there. + With palm to palm my kneeling ghost implores + Thee, living lady--justify my faith + In womanhood's white-handed nobleness, + And thee, its revelation unto me." + + "But I bethink me:--If thou turn thy thoughts + Upon thyself, even for that great sake + Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, + Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half + Is to forget the former, yea, thyself, + Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day, + Turning thy being full unto thy God. + Be thou in him a pure, twice holy child, + Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness-- + Having God in thee, thy completing soul." + + "Lady, I die; the Father holds me up. + It is not much to thee that I should die; + It may be much to know he holds me up." + + "I thank thee, lady, for the gentle look + Which crowned me from thine eyes ten years ago, + Ere, clothed in nimbus of the setting sun, + Thee from my dazzled eyes thy horse did bear, + Proud of his burden. My dull tongue was mute-- + I was a fool before thee; but my silence + Was the sole homage possible to me then: + That now I speak, and fear not, is thy gift. + The same sweet look be possible to thee + For evermore! I bless thee with thine own, + And say farewell, and go into my grave-- + No, to the sapphire heaven of all my hopes." + + Followed his name in full, and then the name + Of the green churchyard where his form should lie. + + Back to his couch he crept, weary, and said: + "O God, I am but an attempt at life! + Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. + Light goeth from me in the morning hour. + I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill + Of pure emotion, save in dreams, ah--dreams! + The high Truth has but flickered in my soul-- + Even at such times, in wide blue midnight hours, + When, dawning sudden on my inner world, + New stars came forth, revealing unknown depths, + New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, + And for a moment I saw formless fact, + And knew myself a living lonely thought, + Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway! + I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my God; + Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, + Harebells, red poppies, daisies, eyebrights blue-- + Gathered them by the way, for comforting! + Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, + Striving for something visible in my thought, + And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? + Make me content to be a primrose-flower + Among thy nations, so the fair truth, hid + In the sweet primrose, come awake in me, + And I rejoice, an individual soul, + Reflecting thee--as truly then divine + As if I towered the angel of the sun. + Once, in a southern eve, a glowing worm + Gave me a keener joy than the heaven of stars: + Thou camest in the worm nearer me then! + Nor do I think, were I that green delight, + I would change to be the shadowy evening star. + Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, + So be thou will it! I am safe with thee. + I laugh exulting. Make me something, God-- + Clear, sunny, veritable purity + Of mere existence, in thyself content. + And seeking no compare. Sure I _have_ reaped + Earth's harvest if I find this holy death!-- + Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt." + + He laid the letter in his desk, with seal + And superscription. When his sister came, + He told her where to find it--afterwards. + + As the slow eve, through paler, darker shades, + Insensibly declines, until at last + The lordly day is but a memory, + So died he. In the hush of noon he died. + The sun shone on--why should he not shine on? + Glad summer noises rose from all the land; + The love of God lay warm on hill and plain: + 'Tis well to die in summer. + + When the breath, + After a hopeless pause, returned no more, + The father fell upon his knees, and said: + "O God, I thank thee; it is over now! + Through the sore time thy hand has led him well. + Lord, let me follow soon, and be at rest." + Therewith he rose, and comforted the maid, + Who in her brother had lost the pride of life, + And wept as all her heaven were only rain. + + Of the loved lady, little more I know. + I know not if, when she had read his words, + She rose in haste, and to her chamber went, + And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth, + A dawn of holier purpose gleamed across + The sadness of her brow. But this I know, + That, on a warm autumnal afternoon, + When headstone-shadows crossed three neighbour graves, + And, like an ended prayer, the empty church + Stood in the sunshine, or a cenotaph, + A little boy, who watched a cow near by + Gather her milk where alms of clover-fields + Lay scattered on the sides of silent roads, + All sudden saw, nor knew whence she had come, + A lady, veiled, alone, and very still, + Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat + And moved not, weeping sore, the watcher said-- + Though how he knew she wept, were hard to tell. + At length, slow-leaning on her elbow down, + She hid her face a while in the short grass, + And pulled a something small from off the mound-- + A blade of grass it must have been, he thought, + For nothing else was there, not even a daisy-- + And put it in a letter. Then she rose, + And glided silent forth, over the wall, + Where the two steps on this side and on that + Shorten the path from westward to the church.-- + The clang of hoofs and sound of light, swift wheels + Arose and died upon the listener's ear. + + + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + + +TO THEM THAT MOURN. + + Let your tears flow; let your sad sighs have scope; + Only take heed they fan, they water Hope. + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + +INTRODUCTION. + + I sought the long clear twilights of my home, + Far in the pale-blue skies and slaty seas, + What time the sunset dies not utterly, + But withered to a ghost-like stealthy gleam, + Round the horizon creeps the short-lived night, + And changes into sunrise in a swoon. + I found my home in homeliness unchanged: + The love that made it home, unchangeable, + Received me as a child, and all was well. + My ancient summer-heaven, borne on the hills, + Once more embraced me; and once more the vale, + So often sighed for in the far-off nights, + Rose on my bodily vision, and, behold, + In nothing had the fancy mocked the fact! + The hasting streams went garrulous as of old; + The resting flowers in silence uttered more; + The blue hills rose and dwelt alone in heaven; + Householding Nature from her treasures brought + Things old and new, the same yet not the same, + For all was holier, lovelier than before; + And best of all, once more I paced the fields + With him whose love had made me long for God + So good a father that, needs-must, I sought + A better still, Father of him and me. + + Once on a day, my cousin Frank and I + Sat swiftly borne behind the dear white mare + That oft had carried me in bygone days + Along the lonely paths of moorland hills; + But now we sought the coast, where deep waves foam + 'Gainst rocks that lift their dark fronts to the north. + And with us went a girl, on whose kind face + I had not looked for many a youthful year, + But the old friendship straightway blossomed new. + The heavens were sunny, and the earth was green; + The large harebells in families stood along + The grassy borders, of a tender blue + Transparent as the sky, haunted with wings + Of many butterflies, as blue as they. + And as we talked and talked without restraint, + Brought near by memories of days that were, + And therefore are for ever; by the joy + Of motion through a warm and shining air; + By the glad sense of freedom and like thoughts; + And by the bond of friendship with the dead, + She told the tale which here I tell again. + + I had returned to childish olden time, + And asked her if she knew a castle worn, + Whose masonry, razed utterly above, + Yet faced the sea-cliff up, and met the waves:-- + 'Twas one of my child-marvels; for, each year, + We turned our backs upon the ripening corn, + And sought some village on the Moray shore; + And nigh this ruin, was that I loved the best. + + For oh the riches of that little port!-- + Down almost to the beach, where a high wall + Inclosed them, came the gardens of a lord, + Free to the visitor with foot restrained-- + His shady walks, his ancient trees of state; + His river--that would not be shut within, + But came abroad, went dreaming o'er the sands, + And lost itself in finding out the sea; + Inside, it bore grave swans, white splendours--crept + Under the fairy leap of a wire bridge, + Vanished in leaves, and came again where lawns + Lay verdurous, and the peacock's plumy heaven + Bore azure suns with green and golden rays. + It was my childish Eden; for the skies + Were loftier in that garden, and the clouds + More summer-gracious, edged with broader white; + And when they rained, it was a golden rain + That sparkled as it fell--an odorous rain. + And then its wonder-heart!--a little room, + Half-hollowed in the side of a steep hill, + Which rose, with columned, windy temple crowned, + A landmark to far seas. The enchanted cell + Was clouded over in the gentle night + Of a luxuriant foliage, and its door, + Half-filled with rainbow hues of coloured glass, + Opened into the bosom of the hill. + Never to sesame of mine that door + Gave up its sanctuary; but through the glass, + Gazing with reverent curiosity, + I saw a little chamber, round and high, + Which but to see was to escape the heat, + And bathe in coolness of the eye and brain; + For all was dusky greenness; on one side, + A window, half-blind with ivy manifold, + Whose leaves, like heads of gazers, climbed to the top, + Gave a joy-saddened light, for all that came + Through the thick veil was green, oh, kindest hue! + But the heart has a heart--this heart had one: + Still in the midst, the _ever more_ of all, + On a low column stood, white, cold, dim-clear, + A marble woman. Who she was I know not-- + A Psyche, or a Silence, or an Echo: + Pale, undefined, a silvery shadow, still, + In one lone chamber of my memory, + She is a power upon me as of old. + + But, ah, to dream there through hot summer days, + In coolness shrouded and sea-murmurings, + Forgot by all till twilight shades grew dark! + To find half-hidden in the hollowed wall, + A nest of tales, old volumes such as dreams + Hoard up in bookshops dim in tortuous streets! + That wondrous marble woman evermore + Filling the gloom with calm delirium + Of radiated whiteness, as I read!-- + The fancied joy, too plenteous for its cup, + O'erflowed, and turned to sadness as it fell. + + But the gray ruin on the shattered shore, + Not the green refuge in the bowering hill, + Drew forth our talk that day. For, as I said, + I asked her if she knew it. She replied, + "I know it well. A woman used to live + In one of its low vaults, my mother says." + "I found a hole," I said, "and spiral stair, + Leading from level of the ground above + To a low-vaulted room within the rock, + Whence through a small square window I looked forth + Wide o'er the waters; the dim-sounding waves + Were many feet below, and shrunk in size + To a great ripple." "'Twas not there," she said, + "--Not in that room half up the cliff, but one + Low down, within the margin of spring tides: + When both the tide and northern wind are high, + 'Tis more an ocean-cave than castle-vault." + And then she told me all she knew of her. + + It was a simple tale, a monotone: + She climbed one sunny hill, gazed once abroad, + Then wandered down, to pace a dreary plain; + Alas! how many such are told by night, + In fisher-cottages along the shore! + + Farewell, old summer-day! I turn aside + To tell her story, interwoven with thoughts + Born of its sorrow; for I dare not think + A woman at the mercy of a sea. + + + + THE STORY. + + Aye as it listeth blows the listless wind, + Swelling great sails, and bending lordly masts, + Or hurrying shadow-waves o'er fields of corn, + And hunting lazy clouds across the sky: + Now, like a white cloud o'er another sky, + It blows a tall brig from the harbour's mouth, + Away to high-tossed heads of wallowing waves, + 'Mid hoverings of long-pinioned arrowy birds. + With clouds and birds and sails and broken crests, + All space is full of spots of fluttering white, + And yet the sailor knows that handkerchief + Waved wet with tears, and heavy in the wind. + Blow, wind! draw out the cord that binds the twain; + Draw, for thou canst not break the lengthening cord. + Blow, wind! yet gently; gently blow, fair wind! + And let love's vision slowly, gently die; + Let the bright sails all solemn-slowly pass, + And linger ghost-like o'er the vanished hull, + With a white farewell to her straining eyes; + For never more in morning's level beams, + Will those sea-shadowing sails, dark-stained and worn, + From the gray-billowed north come dancing in; + Oh, never, gliding home 'neath starry skies, + Over the dusk of the dim-glancing sea, + Will the great ship send forth a herald cry + Of home-come sailors, into sleeping streets! + Blow gently, wind! blow slowly, gentle wind! + + Weep not yet, maiden; 'tis not yet thy hour. + Why shouldst thou weep before thy time is come? + Go to thy work; break into song sometimes-- + Song dying slow-forgotten, in the lapse + Of dreamy thought, ere natural pause ensue, + Or sudden dropt what time the eager heart + Hurries the ready eye to north and east. + Sing, maiden, while thou canst, ere yet the truth, + Slow darkening, choke the heart-caged singing bird! + + The weeks went by. Oft leaving household work, + With bare arms and uncovered head she clomb + The landward slope of the prophetic hill; + From whose green head, as from the verge of time, + Far out on the eternity of blue, + Shading her hope-rapt eyes, seer-like she gazed, + If from the Hades of the nether world, + Slow climbing up the round side of the earth, + Haply her prayers were drawing his tardy sails + Over the threshold of the far sky-sea-- + Drawing her sailor home to celebrate, + With holy rites of family and church, + The apotheosis of maidenhood. + + Months passed; he came not; and a shadowy fear, + Long haunting the horizon of her soul, + In deeper gloom and sharper form drew nigh; + And growing in bulk, possessed her atmosphere, + And lost all shape, because it filled all space, + And reached beyond the bounds of consciousness-- + In sudden incarnations darting swift + From out its infinite a gulfy stare + Of terror blank, of hideous emptiness, + Of widowhood ere ever wedding-day. + + On granite ridge, and chalky cliff, and pier, + Far built into the waves along our shores, + Maidens have stood since ever ships went forth; + The same pain at the heart; the same slow mist + Clouding the eye; the same fixed longing look, + As if the soul had gone, and left the door + Wide open--gone to lean, hearken, and peer + Over the awful edge where voidness sinks + Sheer to oblivion--that horizon-line + Over whose edge he vanished--came no more. + O God, why are our souls, waste, helpless seas, + Tortured with such immitigable storm? + What is this love, that now on angel wing + Sweeps us amid the stars in passionate calm; + And now with demon arms fast cincturing, + Drops us, through all gyrations of keen pain, + Down the black vortex, till the giddy whirl + Gives fainting respite to the ghastly brain? + O happy they for whom the Possible + Opens its gates of madness, and becomes + The Real around them!--such to whom henceforth + There is but one to-morrow, the next morn, + Their wedding-day, ever one step removed, + The husband's foot ever upon the verge + Of the day's threshold, in a lasting dream! + Such madness may be but a formless faith-- + A chaos which the breath of God will blow + Into an ordered world of seed and fruit. + Shall not the Possible become the Real? + God sleeps not when he makes his daughters dream. + Shall not the morrow dawn at last which leads + The maiden-ghost, confused and half awake, + Into the land whose shadows are our dreams?-- + Thus questioning we stand upon the shore, + And gaze across into the Unrevealed. + + Upon its visible symbol gazed the girl, + Till earth behind her ceased, and sea was all, + Possessing eyes and brain and shrinking soul-- + A universal mouth to swallow up, + And close eternally in one blue smile! + A still monotony of pauseless greed, + Its only voice an endless, dreary song + Of wailing, and of craving from the world! + + A low dull dirge that ever rose and died, + Recurring without pause or change or close, + Like one verse chaunted ever in sleepless brain, + Still drew her to the shore. It drew her down, + Like witch's spell, that fearful endless moan; + Somewhere, she thought, in the green abyss below, + His body, at the centre of the moan, + Obeyed the motions whence the moaning grew; + Now, now, in circle slow revolved, and now + Swayed like a wind-swung bell, now swept along + Hither and thither, idly to and fro, + Heedlessly wandering through the heedless sea. + Its fascination drew her onward still-- + On to the ridgy rocks that seaward ran, + And out along their furrows and jagged backs, + To the last lonely point where the green mass + Arose and sank, heaved slow and forceful. There + She shuddered and recoiled. Thus, for a time, + Sport-slave of power occult, she came and went, + Betwixt the shore and sea alternating, + Drawn ever to the greedy lapping lip, + Then, terror-stung, driven backward: there it lay, + The heartless, cruel, miserable deep, + Ambushed in horror, with its glittering eye + Still drawing her to its green gulfing maw! + + But every ocean hath its isles, each woe + Its scattered comfortings; and this was one + That often came to her--that she, wave-caught, + Must, in the wash of ever-shifting waters, + In some good hour sure-fixed of pitiful fate, + _All-conscious still of love, despite the sea_, + Float over some stray bone, some particle, + Which far-diffused sense would know as his: + Heart-glad she would sit down, and watch the tide + Slow-growing--till it reached at length her feet, + When, at its first cold touch, up she would spring, + And, ghastful, flee, with white-rimmed sightless eye. + + But still, where'er she fled, the sea-voice followed; + Whisperings innumerable of water-drops + Would grow together to a giant cry; + Now hoarse, half-stifled, pleading, warning tones, + Now thunderous peals of billowy, wrathful shouts, + Called after her to come, and make no pause. + From the loose clouds that mingled with the spray, + And from the tossings of the lifted seas, + Where plunged and rose the raving wilderness, + Outreaching arms, pursuing, beckoning hands, + Came shoreward, lengthening, feeling after her. + Then would she fling her own wild arms on high, + Over her head, in tossings like the waves, + Or fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense, + Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. + Sometimes she sudden from her shoulders tore + Her garments, one by one, and cast them out + Into the roarings of the heedless surge, + In vain oblation to the hungry waves. + As vain was Pity's will to cover her; + Best gifts but bribed the sea, and left her bare. + In her poor heart and brain burned such a fire + That all-unheeded cold winds lapped her round, + And sleet-like spray flashed on her tawny skin. + Her food she seldom ate; her naked arms + Flung it far out to feed the sea; her hair + Streamed after it, like rooted ocean-weed + In headlong current. But, alas, the sea + Took it, and came again--it would have _her_! + And as the wave importunate, so despair, + Back surging, on her heart rushed ever afresh: + Sickening she moaned--half muttered and half moaned-- + "She winna be content; she'll hae mysel!" + + But when the night grew thick upon the sea, + Quenching it almost, save its quenchless voice, + Then, half-released until the light, she rose, + And step by step withdrew--as dreaming man, + With an eternity of slowness, drags + His earth-bound, lead-like, irresponsive feet + Back from a sleeping horror, she withdrew. + But when, upon the narrow beach at last, + She turned her back upon her hidden foe, + It blended with her phantom-breeding brain, + And, scared at very fear, she cried and fled-- + Fled to the battered base of the old tower, + And round the rock, and through the arched gap + Into the yawning blackness of the vault-- + There sank upon the sand, and gasped, and raved. + Close cowering in a nook, she sat all night, + Her face turned to the entrance of the vault, + Through which a pale light shimmered--from the eye + Of the great sleepless ocean--Argus more dread + Than he with hundred lidless watching orbs, + And slept, and dreamed, and dreaming saw the sea. + But in the stormy nights, when all was dark, + And the wild tempest swept with slanting wing + Against her refuge, and the heavy spray + Shot through the doorway serpentine cold arms + To seize the fore-doomed morsel of the sea, + She slept not, evermore stung to new life + By new sea-terrors. Now it was the gull: + His clanging pinions darted through the arch, + And flapped about her head; now 'twas a wave + Grown arrogant: it rushed into her house, + Clasped her waist-high, then out again and away + To swell the devilish laughter in the fog, + And leave her clinging to the rocky wall, + With white face watching. When it came no more, + And the tide ebbed, not yet she slept--sat down, + And sat unmoving, till the low gray dawn + Grew on the misty dance of spouting waves, + That made a picture in the rugged arch; + Then the old fascination woke and drew; + And, rising slowly, forth she went afresh, + To haunt the border of the dawning sea. + + Yet all the time there lay within her soul + An inner chamber, quietest place; but she + Turned from its door, and staid out in the storm. + She, entering there, had found a refuge calm + As summer evening, as a mother's arms. + There had she found her lost love, only lost + In that he slept, and she was still awake. + There she had found, waiting for her to come, + The Love that waits and watches evermore. + + Thou too hast such a chamber, quietest place, + Where that Love waits for thee. What is it, say, + That will not let thee enter? Is it care + For the provision of the unborn day, + As if thou wert a God that must foresee? + Is it poor hunger for the praise of men? + Is it ambition to outstrip thy fellow + In this world's race? Or is it love of self-- + That greed which still to have must still destroy?-- + Go mad for some lost love; some voice of old, + Which first thou madest sing, and after sob; + Some heart thou foundest rich, and leftest bare, + Choking its well of faith with thy false deeds-- + Unlike thy God, who keeps the better wine + Until the last, and, if he giveth grief, + Giveth it first, and ends the tale with joy: + Such madness clings about the feet of God, + Nor lets them go. Better a thousandfold + Be she than thou! for though thy brain be strong + And clear and workful, hers a withered flower + That never came to seed, her heart is full + Of that in whose live might God made the world; + She is a well, and thou an empty cup. + It was the invisible unbroken cord + Between the twain, her and her sailor-lad, + That drew her ever to the ocean marge. + Better to die for love, to rave for love, + Than not to love at all! but to have loved, + And, loved again, then to have turned away-- + Better than that, never to have been born! + + But if thy heart be noble, say if thou + Canst ever all forget an hour of pain, + When, maddened with the thought that could not be, + Thou might'st have yielded to the demon wind + That swept in tempest through thy scorching brain, + And rushed into the night, and howled aloud, + And clamoured to the waves, and beat the rocks; + And never found thy way back to the seat + Of conscious self, and power to rule thy pain, + Had not God made thee strong to bear and live! + The tale is now in thee, not thou in it; + But the sad woman, in her wildest mood, + Thou knowest her thy sister! She is fair + No more; her eyes like fierce suns blaze and burn; + Her cheeks are parched and brown; her haggard form + Is wasted by wild storms of soul and sea; + Yet in her very self is that which still + Reminds thee of a story, old, not dead, + Which God has in his keeping--of thyself. + + Ah, not forgot are children when they sleep! + The darkness lasts all night, and clears the eyes; + Then comes the morning with the joy of light. + Oh, surely madness hideth not from Him! + Nor doth a soul cease to be beautiful + In his sight, that its beauty is withdrawn, + And hid by pale eclipse from human eyes. + As the chill snow is friendly to the earth, + And pain and loss are friendly to the soul, + Shielding it from the black heart-killing frost; + So madness is but one of God's pale winters; + And when the winter over is and gone, + Then smile the skies, then blooms the earth again, + And the fair time of singing birds is come: + Into the cold wind and the howling night, + God sent for her, and she was carried in + Where there was no more sea. + + What messenger + Ran from the door of heaven to bring her home? + The sea, her terror. + + In the rocks that stand + Below the cliff, there lies a rounded hollow, + Scooped like a basin, with jagged and pinnacled sides: + Low buried when the wind heaps up the surge, + It lifts in the respiration of the tide + Its broken edges, and, then, deep within + Lies resting water, radiantly clear: + There, on a morn of sunshine, while the wind + Yet blew, and heaved yet the billowy sea + With memories of a night of stormy dreams, + At rest they found her: in the sleep which is + And is not death, she, lying very still, + Absorbed the bliss that follows after pain. + O life of love, conquered at last by fate! + O life raised from the dead by saviour Death! + O love unconquered and invincible! + The enemy sea had cooled her burning brain; + Had laid to rest the heart that could not rest; + Had hid the horror of its own dread face! + 'Twas but one desolate cry, and then her fear + Became a blessed fact, and straight she knew + What God knew all the time--that it was well. + + O thou whose feet tread ever the wet sands + And howling rocks along the wearing shore, + Roaming the borders of the sea of death! + Strain not thine eyes, bedimmed with longing tears, + No sail comes climbing back across that line. + Turn thee, and to thy work; let God alone, + And wait for him: faint o'er the waves will come + Far-floating whispers from the other shore + To thine averted ears. Do thou thy work, + And thou shalt follow--follow, and find thine own. + + And thou who fearest something that may come; + Around whose house the storm of terror breaks + All night; to whose love-sharpened ear, all day, + The Invisible is calling at the door, + To render up a life thou canst not keep, + Or love that will not stay,--open thy door, + And carry out thy dying to the marge + Of the great sea; yea, walk into the flood, + And lay thy dead upon the moaning waves. + Give them to God to bury; float them again, + With sighs and prayers to waft them through the gloom, + Back to the spring of life. Say--"If they die, + Thou, the one life of life, art still alive, + And thou canst make thy dead alive again!" + + Ah God, the earth is full of cries and moans, + And dull despair, that neither moans nor cries; + Thousands of hearts are waiting helplessly; + The whole creation groaneth, travaileth + For what it knows not--with a formless hope + Of resurrection or of dreamless death! + Raise thou the dead; restore the Aprils withered + In hearts of maidens; give their manhood back + To old men feebly mournful o'er a life + That scarce hath memory but the mournfulness! + There is no past with thee: bring back once more + The summer eves of lovers, over which + The wintry wind that raveth through the world + Heaps wretched leaves in gusts of ghastly snow; + Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, + The brother's and the sister's faithfulness;-- + Bring in the kingdom of the Son of Man. + + They troop around me, children wildly crying; + Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears; + Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone; + Yea, some consuming in cold fires of shame! + O God, thou hast a work for all thy strength + In saving these thy hearts with full content-- + Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink, + And that, my God, were all unworthy thee! + + Dome up, O heaven, yet higher o'er my head! + Back, back, horizon; widen out my world! + Rush in, O fathomless sea of the Unknown! + For, though he slay me, I will trust in God. + + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + + + +DEDICATION. + + To all who fain + Would keep the grain, + And cast the husk away-- + That it may feed + The living seed, + And serve it with decay-- + I offer this dim story + Whose clouds crack into glory. + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + +I. + + The times are changed, and gone the day + When the high heavenly land, + Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, + And men could understand. + + The dead yet find it, who, when here, + Did love it more than this; + They enter in, are filled with cheer, + And pain expires in bliss. + + All glorious gleams the blessed land!-- + O God, forgive, I pray: + The heart thou holdest in thy hand + Loves more this sunny day! + + I see the hundred thousand wait + Around the radiant throne: + Ah, what a dreary, gilded state! + What crowds of beings lone! + + I do not care for singing psalms; + I tire of good men's talk; + To me there is no joy in palms, + Or white-robed, solemn walk. + + I love to hear the wild winds meet, + The wild old winds at night; + To watch the cold stars flash and beat, + The feathery snow alight. + + I love all tales of valiant men, + Of women good and fair: + If I were rich and strong, ah, then + I would do something rare! + + But for thy temple in the sky, + Its pillars strong and white-- + I cannot love it, though I try, + And long with all my might. + + Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, + And I am speechless then; + Almost a martyr I could be, + To join the holy men. + + + Straightway my heart is like a clod, + My spirit wrapt in doubt:-- + _A pillar in the house of God, + And never more go out_! + + No more the sunny, breezy morn; + All gone the glowing noon; + No more the silent heath forlorn, + The wan-faced waning moon! + + My God, this heart will never burn, + Must never taste thy joy! + Even Jesus' face is calm and stern: + I am a hapless boy! + + * * * * * + + +II. + + I read good books. My heart despairs. + In vain I try to dress + My soul in feelings like to theirs-- + These men of holiness. + + My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling + Into a country fair: + Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing, + They to my ark repair. + + Or comes a sympathetic thrill + With long-departed saint, + A feeble dawn, without my will, + Of feelings old and quaint, + + As of a church's holy night, + With low-browed chapels round, + Where common sunshine dares not light + On the too sacred ground,-- + + One glance at sunny fields of grain, + One shout of child at play-- + A merry melody drives amain + The one-toned chant away! + + My spirit will not enter here + To haunt the holy gloom; + I gaze into a mirror mere, + A mirror, not a room. + + And as a bird against the pane + Will strike, deceived sore, + I think to enter, but remain + Outside the closed door. + + Oh, it will call for many a sigh + If it be what it claims-- + This book, so unlike earth and sky, + Unlike man's hopes and aims!-- + + To me a desert parched and bare-- + In which a spirit broods + Whose wisdom I would gladly share + At cost of many goods! + + * * * * * + +III. + + O hear me, God! O give me joy + Such as thy chosen feel; + Have pity on a wretched boy; + My heart is hard as steel. + + I have no care for what is good; + Thyself I do not love; + I relish not this Bible-food; + My heaven is not above. + + Thou wilt not hear: I come no more; + Thou heedest not my woe. + With sighs and tears my heart is sore. + Thou comest not: I go. + + * * * * * + + +IV. + + Once more I kneel. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + If light there be, 'tis but a spark + Amid a world's despair-- + + One hopeless hope there yet may be + A God somewhere to hear; + The God to whom I bend my knee-- + A God with open ear. + + I know that men laugh still to scorn + The grief that is my lot; + Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne, + But easily forgot. + + What matter that my sorrows rest + On ills which men despise! + More hopeless heaves my aching breast + Than when a prophet sighs. + + AEons of griefs have come and gone-- + My grief is yet my mark. + The sun sets every night, yet none + Sees therefore in the dark. + + There's love enough upon the earth, + And beauty too, they say: + There may be plenty, may be dearth, + I care not any way. + + The world hath melted from my sight; + No grace in life is left; + I cry to thee with all my might, + Because I am bereft. + + In vain I cry. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + Of light there trembles now no spark + In my lost soul's despair. + + * * * * * + +V. + + I sit and gaze from window high + Down on the noisy street: + No part in this great coil have I, + No fate to go and meet. + + My books unopened long have lain; + In class I am all astray: + The questions growing in my brain, + Demand and have their way. + + Knowledge is power, the people cry; + Grave men the lure repeat: + After some rarer thing I sigh, + That makes the pulses beat. + + Old truths, new facts, they preach aloud-- + Their tones like wisdom fall: + One sunbeam glancing on a cloud + Hints things beyond them all. + + * * * * * + + +VI. + + But something is not right within; + High hopes are far gone by. + Was it a bootless aim--to win + Sight of a loftier sky? + + They preach men should not faint, but pray, + And seek until they find; + But God is very far away, + Nor is his countenance kind. + + Yet every night my father prayed, + Withdrawing from the throng! + Some answer must have come that made + His heart so high and strong! + + Once more I'll seek the God of men, + Redeeming childhood's vow.-- + --I failed with bitter weeping then, + And fail cold-hearted now! + + +VII. + + Why search for God? A man I tread + This old life-bearing earth; + High thoughts awake and lift my head-- + In me they have their birth. + + The preacher says a Christian must + Do all the good he can:-- + I must be noble, true, and just, + Because I am a man! + + They say a man must watch, and keep + Lamp burning, garments white, + Else he shall sit without and weep + When Christ comes home at night:-- + + A man must hold his honour free, + His conscience must not stain, + Or soil, I say, the dignity + Of heart and blood and brain! + + Yes, I say well--said words are cheap! + For action man was born! + What praise will my one talent reap? + What grapes are on my thorn? + + Have high words kept me pure enough? + In evil have I no part? + Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff + That weighs upon the heart"? + + I am not that which I do praise; + I do not that I say; + I sit a talker in the ways, + A dreamer in the day! + + +VIII. + + The preacher's words are true, I know-- + That man may lose his life; + That every man must downward go + Without the upward strife. + + 'Twere well my soul should cease to roam, + Should seek and have and hold! + It may be there is yet a home + In that religion old. + + Again I kneel, again I pray: + _Wilt thou be God to me? + Wilt thou give ear to what I say, + And lift me up to thee_? + + Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high! + The clouds of heaven dispart; + An opening depth of loving sky + Looks down into my heart! + + There _is_ a home wherein to dwell-- + The very heart of light! + Thyself my sun immutable, + My moon and stars all night! + + I thank thee, Lord. It must be so, + Its beauty is so good. + Up in my heart thou mad'st it go, + And I have understood. + + The clouds return. The common day + Falls on me like a _No_; + But I have seen what might be--may, + And with a hope I go. + + +IX. + + I am a stranger in the land; + It gives no welcome dear; + Its lilies bloom not for my hand, + Its roses for my cheer. + + The sunshine used to make me glad, + But now it knows me not; + This weight of brightness makes me sad-- + It isolates a blot. + + I am forgotten by the hills, + And by the river's play; + No look of recognition thrills + The features of the day. + + Then only am I moved to song, + When down the darkening street, + While vanishes the scattered throng, + The driving rain I meet. + + The rain pours down. My thoughts awake, + Like flowers that languished long; + From bare cold hills the night-winds break, + From me the unwonted song. + + +X. + + I read the Bible with my eyes, + But hardly with my brain; + Should this the meaning recognize, + My heart yet reads in vain. + + These words of promise and of woe + Seem but a tinkling sound; + As through an ancient tomb I go, + With dust-filled urns around. + + Or, as a sadly searching child, + Afar from love and home, + Sits in an ancient chamber, piled + With scroll and musty tome, + + So I, in these epistles old + From men of heavenly care, + Find all the thoughts of other mould + Than I can love or share. + + No sympathy with mine they show, + Their world is not the same; + They move me not with joy or woe, + They touch me not with blame. + + I hear no word that calls my life, + Or owns my struggling powers; + Those ancient ages had their strife, + But not a strife like ours. + + Oh, not like men they move and speak, + Those pictures in old panes! + They alter not their aspect meek + For all the winds and rains! + + Their thoughts are full of figures strange, + Of Jewish forms and rites: + A world of air and sea I range, + Of mornings and of nights! + + + +XI. + + I turn me to the gospel-tale:-- + My hope is faint with fear + That hungriest search will not avail + To find a refuge here. + + A misty wind blows bare and rude + From dead seas of the past; + And through the clouds that halt and brood, + Dim dawns a shape at last: + + A sad worn man who bows his face, + And treads a frightful path, + To save an abject hopeless race + From an eternal wrath. + + Kind words he speaks--but all the time + As from a formless height + To which no human foot can climb-- + Half-swathed in ancient night. + + Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart, + Unkind words from him go! + Surely it is no saviour's part + To speak to women so! + + Much rather would I refuge take + With Mary, dear to me, + To whom that rough hard speech he spake-- + _What have I to do with thee_? + + Surely I know men tenderer, + Women of larger soul, + Who need no prayer their hearts to stir, + Who always would make whole! + + Oftenest he looks a weary saint, + Embalmed in pallid gleam; + Listless and sad, without complaint, + Like dead man in a dream. + + And, at the best, he is uplift + A spectacle, a show:-- + The worth of such an outworn gift + I know too much to know! + + How find the love to pay my debt?-- + He leads me from the sun!-- + Yet it is hard men should forget + A good deed ever done!-- + + Forget that he, to foil a curse, + Did, on that altar-hill, + Sun of a sunless universe, + Hang dying, patient, still! + + But what is He, whose pardon slow + At so much blood is priced?-- + If such thou art, O Jove, I go + To the Promethean Christ! + + +XII. + + A word within says I am to blame, + And therefore must confess; + Must call my doing by its name, + And so make evil less. + + "I could not his false triumph bear, + For he was first in wrong." + "Thy own ill-doings are thy care, + His to himself belong." + + "To do it right, my heart should own + Some sorrow for the ill." + "Plain, honest words will half atone, + And they are in thy will." + + The struggle comes. Evil or I + Must gain the victory now. + I am unmoved and yet would try: + O God, to thee I bow. + + The skies are brass; there falls no aid; + No wind of help will blow. + But I bethink me:--I am made + A man: I rise and go. + + +XIII. + + To Christ I needs must come, they say; + Who went to death for me: + I turn aside; I come, I pray, + My unknown God, to thee. + + He is afar; the story old + Is blotted, worn, and dim; + With thee, O God, I can be bold-- + I cannot pray to him. + + _Pray_! At the word a cloudy grief + Around me folds its pall: + Nothing I have to call belief! + How can I pray at all? + + I know not if a God be there + To heed my crying sore; + If in the great world anywhere + An ear keeps open door! + + An unborn faith I will not nurse, + Pursue an endless task; + Loud out into its universe + My soul shall call and ask! + + Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea + Are but a chaos wild! + Is there a God--I know that he + Must hear his calling child! + + +XIV. + + I kneel. But all my soul is dumb + With hopeless misery: + Is he a friend who will not come, + Whose face I must not see? + + I do not think of broken laws, + Of judge's damning word; + My heart is all one ache, because + I call and am not heard. + + A cry where there is none to hear, + Doubles the lonely pain; + Returns in silence on the ear, + In torture on the brain. + + No look of love a smile can bring, + No kiss wile back the breath + To cold lips: I no answer wring + From this great face of death. + + +XV. + + Yet sometimes when the agony + Dies of its own excess, + A dew-like calm descends on me, + A shadow of tenderness; + + A sense of bounty and of grace, + A cool air in my breast, + As if my soul were yet a place + Where peace might one day rest. + + God! God! I say, and cry no more, + But rise, and think to stand + Unwearied at the closed door + Till comes the opening hand. + + +XVI. + + But is it God?--Once more the fear + Of _No God_ loads my breath: + Amid a sunless atmosphere + I fight again with death. + + Such rest may be like that which lulls + The man who fainting lies: + His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, + Draws darkness o'er his eyes. + + But even such sleep, my heart responds, + May be the ancient rest + Rising released from bodily bonds, + And flowing unreprest. + + The o'ertasked will falls down aghast + In individual death; + God puts aside the severed past, + Breathes-in a primal breath. + + For how should torture breed a calm? + Can death to life give birth? + No labour can create the balm + That soothes the sleeping earth! + + I yet will hope the very One + Whose love is life in me, + Did, when my strength was overdone, + Inspire serenity. + +XVII. + + When the hot sun's too urgent might + Hath shrunk the tender leaf, + Water comes sliding down the night, + And makes its sorrow brief. + + When poet's heart is in eclipse, + A glance from childhood's eye, + A smile from passing maiden's lips, + Will clear a glowing sky. + + Might not from God such influence come + A dying hope to lift? + Might he not send to poor heart some + Unmediated gift? + + My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, + Abandoned, sore dismayed; + Her fancy's world with horror teems, + Her soul is much afraid: + + I lay my hand upon her breast, + Her moaning dies away; + She does not wake, but, lost in rest, + Sleeps on into the day. + + And when my heart with soft release + Grows calm as summer-sea, + Shall I not hope the God of peace + Hath laid his hand on me? + + +XVIII. + + But why from thought should fresh doubt start-- + An ever-lengthening cord? + Might he not make my troubled heart + Right sure it was the Lord? + + God will not let a smaller boon + Hinder the coming best; + A granted sign might all too soon + Rejoice thee into rest. + + Yet could not any sign, though grand + As hosts of fire about, + Though lovely as a sunset-land, + Secure thy soul from doubt. + + A smile from one thou lovedst well + Gladdened thee all the day; + The doubt which all day far did dwell + Came home with twilight gray. + + For doubt will come, will ever come, + Though signs be perfect good, + Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb, + And both are understood. + + +XIX. + + I shall behold him, one day, nigh. + Assailed with glory keen, + My eyes will open wide, and I + Shall see as I am seen. + + Of nothing can my heart be sure + Except the highest, best + When God I see with vision pure, + That sight will be my rest. + + Forward I look with longing eye, + And still my hope renew; + Backward, and think that from the sky + _Did_ come that falling dew. + + +XX. + + But if a vision should unfold + That I might banish fear; + That I, the chosen, might be bold, + And walk with upright cheer; + + My heart would cry: But shares my race + In this great love of thine? + I pray, put me not in good case + Where others lack and pine. + + Nor claim I thus a loving heart + That for itself is mute: + In such love I desire no part + As reaches not my root. + + But if my brothers thou dost call + As children to thy knee, + Thou givest me my being's all, + Thou sayest child to me. + + If thou to me alone shouldst give, + My heart were all beguiled: + It would not be because I live, + And am my Father's child! + + +XXI. + + As little comfort would it bring, + Amid a throng to pass; + To stand with thousands worshipping + Upon the sea of glass; + + To know that, of a sinful world, + I one was saved as well; + My roll of ill with theirs upfurled, + And cast in deepest hell; + + That God looked bounteously on one, + Because on many men; + As shone Judea's earthly sun + On all the healed ten. + + No; thou must be a God to me + As if but me were none; + I such a perfect child to thee + As if thou hadst but one. + + +XXII. + + Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not + A blessing just for me? + Shall I be, barely, not forgot?-- + Never come home to thee? + + Hast thou no care for this one child, + This thinking, living need? + Or is thy countenance only mild, + Thy heart not love indeed? + + For some eternal joy I pray, + To make me strong and free; + Yea, such a friend I need alway + As thou alone canst be. + + Is not creative infinitude + Able, in every man, + To turn itself to every mood + Since God man's life began? + + Art thou not each man's God--his own, + With secret words between, + As thou and he lived all alone, + Insphered in silence keen? + + Ah, God, my heart is not the same + As any heart beside; + My pain is different, and my blame, + My pity and my pride! + + My history thou know'st, my thoughts + Different from other men's; + Thou knowest all the sheep and goats + That mingle in my pens. + + Thou knowest I a love might bring + By none beside me due; + One praiseful song at least might sing + Which could not but be new. + + +XXIII. + + Nor seek I thus to stand apart, + In aught my kind above; + My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart + Must rest ere thee it love! + + If God love not, I have no care, + No power to love, no hope. + What is life here or anywhere? + Or why with darkness cope? + + I scorn my own love's every sign, + So feeble, selfish, low, + If his love give no pledge that mine + Shall one day perfect grow. + + But if I knew Thy love even such, + As tender and intense + As, tested by its human touch, + Would satisfy my sense + + Of what a father never was + But should be to his son, + My heart would leap for joy, because + My rescue was begun. + + Oh then my love, by thine set free, + Would overflow thy men; + In every face my heart would see + God shining out again! + + There are who hold high festival + And at the board crown Death: + I am too weak to live at all + Except I breathe thy breath. + + Show me a love that nothing bates, + Absolute, self-severe-- + Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates + I should not "taint with fear." + + +XXIV. + + I cannot brook that men should say-- + Nor this for gospel take-- + That thou wilt hear me if I pray + Asking for Jesus' sake. + + For love to him is not to me, + And cannot lift my fate; + The love is not that is not free, + Perfect, immediate. + + Love is salvation: life without + No moment can endure. + Those sheep alone go in and out + Who know thy love is pure. + + +XXV. + + But what if God requires indeed, + For cause yet unrevealed, + Assent to one fixed form of creed, + Such as I cannot yield? + + Has God made _for Christ's sake_ a test-- + To take or leave the crust, + That only he may have the best + Who licks the serpent-dust? + + No, no; the words I will not say + With the responding folk; + I at his feet a heart would lay, + Not shoulders for a yoke. + + He were no lord of righteousness + Who subjects such would gain + As yield their birthright for a mess + Of liberty from pain! + + "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?" + The priest makes answer high. + 'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim: + My hope is in the sky. + + +XXVI. + + But is my will alive, awake? + The one God will not heed + If in my lips or hands I take + A half-word or half-deed. + + Hour after hour I sit and dream, + Amazed in outwardness; + The powers of things that only seem + The things that are oppress; + + Till in my soul some discord sounds, + Till sinks some yawning lack; + Then turn I from life's rippling rounds, + And unto thee come back. + + Thou seest how poor a thing am I, + Yet hear, whate'er I be; + Despairing of my will, I cry, + Be God enough to me. + + My spirit, low, irresolute, + I cast before thy feet; + And wait, while even prayer is mute, + For what thou judgest meet. + + +XXVII. + + My safety lies not, any hour, + In what I generate, + But in the living, healing power + Of that which doth create. + + If he is God to the incomplete, + Fulfilling lack and need, + Then I may cast before his feet + A half-word or half-deed. + + I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair, + To thee, love-glorious, + My very lack of will and prayer, + And cry--Thou seest me thus! + + From some old well of life they flow! + The words my being fill!-- + "Of me that man the truth shall know + Who wills the Father's will." + + +XXVIII. + + What is his will?--that I may go + And do it, in the hope + That light will rise and spread and grow, + As deed enlarges scope. + + I need not search the sacred book + To find my duty clear; + Scarce in my bosom need I look, + It lies so very near. + + Henceforward I must watch the door + Of word and action too; + There's one thing I must do no more, + Another I must do. + + Alas, these are such little things! + No glory in their birth! + Doubt from their common aspect springs-- + If God will count them worth. + + But here I am not left to choose, + My duty is my lot; + And weighty things will glory lose + If small ones are forgot. + + I am not worthy high things yet; + I'll humbly do my own; + Good care of sheep may so beget + A fitness for the throne. + + Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus? + Ambition's very fool! + Through high and low, each glorious, + Shines God's all-perfect rule. + + 'Tis God I need, not rank in good: + 'Tis Life, not honour's meed; + With him to fill my every mood, + I am content indeed. + + +XXIX. + + _Will do: shall know_: I feel the force, + The fullness of the word; + His holy boldness held its course, + Claiming divine accord. + + What if, as yet, I have never seen + The true face of the Man! + The named notion may have been + A likeness vague and wan; + + A thing of such unblended hues + As, on his chamber wall, + The humble peasant gladly views, + And _Jesus Christ_ doth call. + + The story I did never scan + With vision calm and strong; + Have never tried to see the Man, + The many words among. + + Pictures there are that do not please + With any sweet surprise, + But gain the heart by slow degrees + Until they feast the eyes; + + And if I ponder what they call + The gospel of God's grace, + Through mists that slowly melt and fall + May dawn a human face. + + What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought, + That face may dawn on me + Which Moses on the mountain sought, + God would not let him see! + + +XXX. + + All faint at first, as wrapt in veil + Of Sinai's cloudy dark, + But dawning as I read the tale, + I slow discern and mark + + A gracious, simple, truthful man, + Who walks the earth erect, + Nor stoops his noble head to one + From fear or false respect; + + Who seeks to climb no high estate, + No low consent secure, + With high and low serenely great, + Because his love is pure. + + Oh not alone, high o'er our reach, + Our joys and griefs beyond! + To him 'tis joy divine to teach + Where human hearts respond; + + And grief divine it was to him + To see the souls that slept: + "How often, O Jerusalem!" + He said, and gazed, and wept. + + Love was his very being's root, + And healing was its flower; + Love, human love, its stem and fruit, + Its gladness and its power. + + Life of high God, till then unseen! + Undreamt-of glorious show! + Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!-- + How poor am I! how low! + + +XXXI. + + As in a living well I gaze, + Kneeling upon its brink: + What are the very words he says? + What did the one man think? + + I find his heart was all above; + Obedience his one thought; + Reposing in his father's love, + His father's will he sought. + + * * * * * + +XXXII. + + Years have passed o'er my broken plan + To picture out a strife, + Where ancient Death, in horror wan, + Faced young and fearing Life. + + More of the tale I tell not so-- + But for myself would say: + My heart is quiet with what I know, + With what I hope, is gay. + + And where I cannot set my faith, + Unknowing or unwise, + I say "If this be what _he_ saith, + Here hidden treasure lies." + + Through years gone by since thus I strove, + Thus shadowed out my strife, + While at my history I wove, + Thou wovest in the life. + + Through poverty that had no lack + For friends divinely good; + Through pain that not too long did rack, + Through love that understood; + + Through light that taught me what to hold + And what to cast away; + Through thy forgiveness manifold, + And things I cannot say, + + Here thou hast brought me--able now + To kiss thy garment's hem, + Entirely to thy will to bow, + And trust thee even for them + + Who in the darkness and the mire + Walk with rebellious feet, + Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire + For heavenly floor unmeet! + + Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how-- + With this blue air, blue sea, + This yellow sand, that grassy brow, + All isolating me-- + + Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, + My thoughts to thine draw near; + But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart, + Who gav'st me words must hear. + + Thou mad'st the hand with which I write, + The eye that watches slow + Through rosy gates that rosy light + Across thy threshold go; + + Those waves that bend in golden spray, + As if thy foot they bore: + I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, + Shall know thee evermore. + + I know thy father thine and mine: + Thou the great fact hast bared: + Master, the mighty words are thine-- + Such I had never dared! + + Lord, thou hast much to make me yet-- + Thy father's infant still: + Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, + That I may grow thy will. + + My soul with truth clothe all about, + And I shall question free: + The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, + In that fear doubteth thee. + + + + + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN. + + + + +I. + + _THE MOTHER MARY_. + +I. + + Mary, to thee the heart was given + For infant hand to hold, + And clasp thus, an eternal heaven, + The great earth in its fold. + + He seized the world with tender might + By making thee his own; + Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height + Was to thyself unknown. + + He came, all helpless, to thy power, + For warmth, and love, and birth; + In thy embraces, every hour, + He grew into the earth. + + Thine was the grief, O mother high, + Which all thy sisters share + Who keep the gate betwixt the sky + And this our lower air; + + But unshared sorrows, gathering slow, + Will rise within thy heart, + Strange thoughts which like a sword will go + Thorough thy inward part. + + For, if a woman bore a son + That was of angel brood, + Who lifted wings ere day was done, + And soared from where she stood, + + Wild grief would rave on love's high throne; + She, sitting in the door, + All day would cry: "He was my own, + And now is mine no more!" + + So thou, O Mary, years on years, + From child-birth to the cross, + Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, + Keen sense of love and loss. + + His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; + His godlike tenderness + Would sometimes seem, in human speech, + To thee than human less. + + Strange pangs await thee, mother mild, + A sorer travail-pain; + Then will the spirit of thy child + Be born in thee again. + + Till then thou wilt forebode and dread; + Loss will be still thy fear-- + Till he be gone, and, in his stead, + His very self appear. + + For, when thy son hath reached his goal, + And vanished from the earth, + Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul, + A second, holier birth. + + +II. + + Ah, there he stands! With wondering face + Old men surround the boy; + The solemn looks, the awful place + Bestill the mother's joy. + + In sweet reproach her gladness hid, + Her trembling voice says--low, + Less like the chiding than the chid-- + "How couldst thou leave us so?" + + But will her dear heart understand + The answer that he gives-- + Childlike, eternal, simple, grand, + The law by which he lives? + + "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear, + The gulf already opes + That will in thee keep live the fear, + And part thee from thy hopes! + + "My father's business--that ye know + I cannot choose but do." + Mother, if he that work forego, + Not long he cares for you. + + Creation's harder, better part + Now occupies his hand: + I marvel not the mother's heart + Not yet could understand. + + +III. + + The Lord of life among them rests; + They quaff the merry wine; + They do not know, those wedding guests, + The present power divine. + + Believe, on such a group he smiled, + Though he might sigh the while; + Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child + Was born without a smile. + + He saw the pitchers, high upturned, + Their last red drops outpour; + His mother's cheek with triumph burned, + And expectation wore. + + He knew the prayer her bosom housed, + He read it in her eyes; + Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused + Ere yet her words arise. + + "They have no wine!" she, halting, said, + Her prayer but half begun; + Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, + Show what thou art, my son!" + + A vision rose before his eyes, + The cross, the waiting tomb, + The people's rage, the darkened skies, + His unavoided doom: + + Ah woman dear, thou must not fret + Thy heart's desire to see! + His hour of honour is not yet-- + 'Twill come too soon for thee! + + His word was dark; his tone was kind; + His heart the mother knew; + His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined; + They gave her heart the cue. + + Another, on the word intent, + Had read refusal there; + She heard in it a full consent, + A sweetly answered prayer. + + "Whate'er he saith unto you, do." + Out flowed his grapes divine; + Though then, as now, not many knew + Who makes the water wine. + + +IV. + + "He is beside himself!" Dismayed, + His mother, brothers talked: + He from the well-known path had strayed + In which their fathers walked! + + With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud + Some one the message bore:-- + He stands within, amid a crowd, + They at the open door:-- + + "Thy mother and thy brothers would + Speak with thee. Lo, they stand + Without and wait thee!" Like a flood + Of sunrise on the land, + + A new-born light his face o'erspread; + Out from his eyes it poured; + He lifted up that gracious head, + Looked round him, took the word: + + "My mother--brothers--who are they?" + Hearest thou, Mary mild? + This is a sword that well may slay-- + Disowned by thy child! + + Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear-- + They are our humble lord's! + O mother, did they wound _thy_ ear?-- + _We_ thank him for the words. + + "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say, + Stretching his hand abroad, + "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they + That do the will of God!" + + _My brother_! Lord of life and me, + If life might grow to this!-- + Would it not, brother, sister, be + Enough for all amiss? + + Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice: + Thou art his mother still, + But may'st be more--of thy own choice + Doing his Father's will. + + Ambition for thy son restrain, + Thy will to God's will bow: + Thy son he shall be yet again. + And twice his mother thou. + + O humble man, O faithful son! + That woman most forlorn + Who yet thy father's will hath done, + Thee, son of man, hath born! + + +V. + + Life's best things gather round its close + To light it from the door; + When woman's aid no further goes, + She weeps and loves the more. + + She doubted oft, feared for his life, + Yea, feared his mission's loss; + But now she shares the losing strife, + And weeps beside the cross. + + The dreaded hour is come at last, + The sword hath reached her soul; + The hour of tortured hope is past, + And gained the awful goal. + + There hangs the son her body bore, + The limbs her arms had prest! + The hands, the feet the driven nails tore + Had lain upon her breast! + + He speaks; the words how faintly brief, + And how divinely dear! + The mother's heart yearns through its grief + Her dying son to hear. + + "Woman, behold thy son.--Behold + Thy mother." Blessed hest + That friend to her torn heart to fold + Who understood him best! + + Another son--ah, not instead!-- + He gave, lest grief should kill, + While he was down among the dead, + Doing his father's will. + + No, not _instead_! the coming joy + Will make him hers anew; + More hers than when, a little boy, + His life from hers he drew. + + +II. + + _THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE_. + + Filled with his words of truth and right, + Her heart will break or cry: + A woman's cry bursts forth in might + Of loving agony. + + "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare! + The bosom that thee fed!" + A moment's silence filled the air, + All heard the words she said. + + He turns his face: he knows the cry, + The fountain whence it springs-- + A woman's heart that glad would die + For woman's best of things. + + Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, + He never quenched or chode: + "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear + And keep the word of God!" + + He would uplift her, not rebuke. + The crowd began to stir. + We miss how she the answer took; + We hear no more of her. + + +III. + + _THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN_. + + She knelt, she bore a bold request, + Though shy to speak it out: + Ambition, even in mother's breast, + Before him stood in doubt. + + "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, + My sons on thy right hand + And on thy left shall sit when thou + Art king, Lord, in the land." + + "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay + A baptism and a cup + She understood not, in the way + By which he must go up. + + Her mother-love would lift them high + Above their fellow-men; + Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, + Share in their grandeur then! + + Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, + Counted her prayer well heard, + Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, + Hung dying, first and third? + + She knoweth neither way nor end: + In dark despair, full soon, + She will not mock the gracious friend + With prayer for any boon. + + Higher than love could dream or dare + To ask, he them will set; + They shall his cup and baptism share, + And share his kingdom yet! + + They, entering at his palace-door, + Will shun the lofty seat; + Will gird themselves, and water pour, + And wash each other's feet; + + Then down beside their lowly Lord + On the Father's throne shall sit: + For them who godlike help afford + God hath prepared it. + + +IV. + + _THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN_. + + "Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; + She crieth after us." + Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; + Serve not a woman thus. + + Their pride, by condescension fed, + He shapes with teaching tongue: + "It is not meet the children's bread + To little dogs be flung." + + The words, for tender heart so sore, + His voice did seem to rue; + The gentle wrath his countenance wore, + With her had not to do. + + He makes her share the hurt of good, + Takes what she would have lent, + That those proud men their evil mood + May see, and so repent; + + And that the hidden faith in her + May burst in soaring flame: + With childhood deeper, holier, + Is birthright not the same? + + Ill names, of proud religion born-- + She'll wear the worst that comes; + Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, + To share the healing crumbs! + + "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small + Under the table eat + The crumbs the little ones let fall-- + That is not thought unmeet." + + The prayer rebuff could not amate + Was not like water spilt: + "O woman, but thy faith is great! + Be it even as thou wilt." + + Thrice happy she who yet will dare, + Who, baffled, prayeth still! + He, if he may, will grant her prayer + In fulness of _her_ will! + + + +V. + + _THE WIDOW OF NAIN_. + + Forth from the city, with the load + That makes the trampling low, + They walk along the dreary road + That dust and ashes go. + + The other way, toward the gate + Their trampling strong and loud, + With hope of liberty elate, + Comes on another crowd. + + Nearer and nearer draw the twain-- + One with a wailing cry! + How could the Life let such a train + Of death and tears go by! + + "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: + They stand, the dead who bear; + The mother knows nor hope nor fear-- + He waits not for her prayer. + + "Young man, I say to thee, arise." + Who hears, he must obey: + Up starts the body; wide the eyes + Flash wonder and dismay. + + The lips would speak, as if they caught + Some converse sudden broke + When the great word the dead man sought, + And Hades' silence woke. + + The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare + Gives place to ordered sight; + The murmur dies upon the air; + The soul is dumb with light. + + He brings no news; he has forgot, + Or saw with vision weak: + Thou sees! all our unseen lot, + And yet thou dost not speak. + + Hold'st thou the news, as parent might + A too good gift, away, + Lest we should neither sleep at night, + Nor do our work by day? + + The mother leaves us not a spark + Of her triumph over grief; + Her tears alone have left their mark + Upon the holy leaf: + + Oft gratitude will thanks benumb, + Joy will our laughter quell: + May not Eternity be dumb + With things too good to tell? + + Her straining arms her lost one hold; + Question she asketh none; + She trusts for all he leaves untold; + Enough, to clasp her son! + + The ebb is checked, the flow begun, + Sent rushing to the gate: + Death turns him backward to the sun, + And life is yet our fate! + + + +VI. + + _THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND_. + + For years eighteen she, patient soul, + Her eyes had graveward sent; + Her earthly life was lapt in dole, + She was so bowed and bent. + + What words! To her? Who can be near? + What tenderness of hands! + Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? + New hope, or breaking bands? + + The pent life rushes swift along + Channels it used to know; + Up, up, amid the wondering throng, + She rises firm and slow-- + + To bend again in grateful awe-- + For will is power at length-- + In homage to the living Law + Who gives her back her strength. + + Uplifter of the down-bent head! + Unbinder of the bound! + Who seest all the burdened + Who only see the ground! + + Although they see thee not, nor cry, + Thou watchest for the hour + To lift the forward-beaming eye, + To wake the slumbering power! + + Thy hand will wipe the stains of time + From off the withered face; + Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime + Of youthful manhood's grace! + + Like summer days from winter's tomb, + Shall rise thy women fair; + Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, + Lo, is not anywhere! + + All ills of life shall melt away + As melts a cureless woe, + When, by the dawning of the day + Surprised, the dream must go. + + I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, + Whate'er the needful cure; + The great best only thou wilt do, + And hoping I endure. + + + +VII. + + _THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD_. + + Near him she stole, rank after rank; + She feared approach too loud; + She touched his garment's hem, and shrank + Back in the sheltering crowd. + + A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame: + Her twelve years' fainting prayer + Is heard at last! she is the same + As other women there! + + She hears his voice. He looks about. + Ah! is it kind or good + To drag her secret sorrow out + Before that multitude? + + The eyes of men she dares not meet-- + On her they straight must fall!-- + Forward she sped, and at his feet + Fell down, and told him all. + + To the one refuge she hath flown, + The Godhead's burning flame! + Of all earth's women she alone + Hears there the tenderest name: + + "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; + Thy faith hath made thee whole:" + With plenteous love, not healing mere, + He comforteth her soul. + + + +VIII. + + _THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES_. + + Here _much_ and _little_ shift and change, + With scale of need and time; + There _more_ and _less_ have meanings strange, + Which the world cannot rime. + + Sickness may be more hale than health, + And service kingdom high; + Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, + To give like God thereby. + + Bring forth your riches; let them go, + Nor mourn the lost control; + For if ye hoard them, surely so + Their rust will reach your soul. + + Cast in your coins, for God delights + When from wide hands they fall; + But here is one who brings two mites, + And thus gives more than all. + + I think she did not hear the praise-- + Went home content with need; + Walked in her old poor generous ways, + Nor knew her heavenly meed. + + + +IX. + + _THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM_. + + Enough he labours for his hire; + Yea, nought can pay his pain; + But powers that wear and waste and tire, + Need help to toil again. + + They give him freely all they can, + They give him clothes and food; + In this rejoicing, that the man + Is not ashamed they should. + + High love takes form in lowly thing; + He knows the offering such; + To them 'tis little that they bring, + To him 'tis very much. + + + +X. + + _PILATE'S WIFE_. + + Why came in dreams the low-born man + Between thee and thy rest? + In vain thy whispered message ran, + Though justice was its quest! + + Did some young ignorant angel dare-- + Not knowing what must be, + Or blind with agony of care-- + To fly for help to thee? + + I know not. Rather I believe, + Thou, nobler than thy spouse, + His rumoured grandeur didst receive, + And sit with pondering brows, + + Until thy maidens' gathered tale + With possible marvel teems: + Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale + Returneth in thy dreams. + + Well mightst thou suffer things not few + For his sake all the night! + In pale eclipse he suffers, who + Is of the world the light. + + Precious it were to know thy dream + Of such a one as he! + Perhaps of him we, waking, deem + As poor a verity. + + + +XI. + + _THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA_. + + In the hot sun, for water cool + She walked in listless mood: + When back she ran, her pitcher full + Forgot behind her stood. + + Like one who followed straying sheep, + A weary man she saw, + Who sat upon the well so deep, + And nothing had to draw. + + "Give me to drink," he said. Her hand + Was ready with reply; + From out the old well of the land + She drew him plenteously. + + He spake as never man before; + She stands with open ears; + He spake of holy days in store, + Laid bare the vanished years. + + She cannot still her throbbing heart, + She hurries to the town, + And cries aloud in street and mart, + "The Lord is here: come down." + + Her life before was strange and sad, + A very dreary sound: + Ah, let it go--or good or bad: + She has the Master found! + + + +XII. + + _MARY MAGDALENE_. + + With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, + She hither, thither, goes; + Her speech, her motions, all reveal + A mind without repose. + + She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, + By madness tortured, driven; + One hour's forgetfulness would be + A gift from very heaven! + + She slumbers into new distress; + The night is worse than day: + Exulting in her helplessness, + Hell's dogs yet louder bay. + + The demons blast her to and fro; + She has no quiet place, + Enough a woman still, to know + A haunting dim disgrace. + + A human touch! a pang of death! + And in a low delight + Thou liest, waiting for new breath. + For morning out of night. + + Thou risest up: the earth is fair, + The wind is cool; thou art free! + Is it a dream of hell's despair + Dissolves in ecstasy? + + That man did touch thee! Eyes divine + Make sunrise in thy soul; + Thou seëst love in order shine:-- + His health hath made thee whole! + + Thou, sharing in the awful doom, + Didst help thy Lord to die; + Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, + Didst hear him _Mary_ cry. + + He stands in haste; he cannot stop; + Home to his God he fares: + "Go tell my brothers I go up + To my Father, mine and theirs." + + Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; + Cry, cry, and heed not how; + Make all the new-risen world rejoice-- + Its first apostle thou! + + What if old tales of thee have lied, + Or truth have told, thou art + All-safe with him, whate'er betide-- + Dwell'st with him in God's heart! + + + +XIII. + + _THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE_. + + A still dark joy! A sudden face! + Cold daylight, footsteps, cries! + The temple's naked, shining space, + Aglare with judging eyes! + + All in abandoned guilty hair, + With terror-pallid lips, + To vulgar scorn her honour bare, + To lewd remarks and quips, + + Her eyes she fixes on the ground + Her shrinking soul to hide, + Lest, at uncurtained windows found, + Its shame be clear descried. + + All idle hang her listless hands, + They tingle with her shame; + She sees not who beside her stands, + She is so bowed with blame. + + He stoops, he writes upon the ground, + Regards nor priests nor wife; + An awful silence spreads around, + And wakes an inward strife. + + Then comes a voice that speaks for thee, + Pale woman, sore aghast: + "Let him who from this sin is free + At her the first stone cast!" + + Ah then her heart grew slowly sad! + Her eyes bewildered rose; + She saw the one true friend she had, + Who loves her though he knows. + + He stoops. In every charnel breast + Dead conscience rises slow: + They, dumb before that awful guest, + Turn, one by one, and go. + + Up in her deathlike, ashy face + Rises the living red; + No greater wonder sure had place + When Lazarus left the dead! + + She is alone with him whose fear + Made silence all around; + False pride, false shame, they come not near, + She has her saviour found! + + Jesus hath spoken on her side, + Those cruel men withstood! + From him her shame she will not hide! + For him she _will_ be good! + + He rose; he saw the temple bare; + They two are left alone! + He said unto her, "Woman, where + Are thine accusers gone?" + + "Hath none condemned thee?" "Master, no," + She answers, trembling sore. + "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, + And sin not any more." + + She turned and went.--To hope and grieve? + Be what she had not been? + We are not told; but I believe + His kindness made her clean. + + Our sins to thee us captive hale-- + Ambitions, hatreds dire; + Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail, + And sink us in the mire: + + Our captive-cries with pardon meet; + Our passion cleanse with pain; + Lord, thou didst make these miry feet-- + Oh, wash them clean again! + + +XIV. + + _MARTHA_. + + With joyful pride her heart is high: + Her humble house doth hold + The man her nation's prophecy + Long ages hath foretold! + + Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born: + Her woman-soul is proud + To know and hail the coming morn + Before the eyeless crowd. + + At her poor table will he eat? + He shall be served there + With honour and devotion meet + For any king that were! + + 'Tis all she can; she does her part, + Profuse in sacrifice; + Nor dreams that in her unknown heart + A better offering lies. + + But many crosses she must bear; + Her plans are turned and bent; + Do what she can, things will not wear + The form of her intent. + + With idle hands and drooping lid, + See Mary sit at rest! + Shameful it was her sister did + No service for their guest! + + Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot + Must rule thy hands and eyes; + Thou, all thy household cares forgot, + Must sit as idly wise! + + But once more first she set her word + To bar her master's ways, + Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord, + He hath been dead four days!" + + Her housewife-soul her brother dear + Would fetter where he lies! + Ah, did her buried best then hear, + And with the dead man rise? + + + +XV. + + _MARY_. + + I. + + She sitteth at the Master's feet + In motionless employ; + Her ears, her heart, her soul complete + Drinks in the tide of joy. + + Ah! who but she the glory knows + Of life, pure, high, intense, + In whose eternal silence blows + The wind beyond the sense! + + In her still ear, God's perfect grace + Incarnate is in voice; + Her thoughts, the people of the place, + Receive it, and rejoice. + + Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright, + Are on the ground cast low; + His words of spirit, life, and light-- + _They_ set them shining so. + + But see! a face is at the door + Whose eyes are not at rest; + A voice breaks on divinest lore + With petulant request. + + "Master," it said, "dost thou not care + She lets me serve alone? + Tell her to come and take her share." + But Mary's eyes shine on. + + She lifts them with a questioning glance, + Calmly to him who heard; + The merest sign, she'll rise at once, + Nor wait the uttered word. + + His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore + A sense of coming _nay_; + He told her that her trouble sore + Was needless any day. + + And he would not have Mary chid + For want of needless care; + The needful thing was what she did, + At his feet sitting there. + + Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart + Doing the thing it would, + When he, the holy, took her part, + And called her choice the good! + + Oh needful thing, Oh Mary's choice, + Go not from us away! + Oh Jesus, with the living voice, + Talk to us every day! + + + II. + + Not now the living words are poured + Into one listening ear; + For many guests are at the board, + And many speak and hear. + + With sacred foot, refrained and slow, + With daring, trembling tread, + She comes, in worship bending low + Behind the godlike head. + + The costly chrism, in snowy stone, + A gracious odour sends; + Her little hoard, by sparing grown, + In one full act she spends. + + She breaks the box, the honoured thing! + See how its riches pour! + Her priestly hands anoint him king + Whom peasant Mary bore. + + * * * * * + + Not so does John the tale repeat: + He saw, for he was there, + Mary anoint the Master's feet, + And wipe them with her hair. + + Perhaps she did his head anoint, + And then his feet as well; + And John this one forgotten point + Loved best of all to tell. + + 'Twas Judas called the splendour waste, + 'Twas Jesus said--Not so; + Said that her love his burial graced: + "Ye have the poor; I go." + + Her hands unwares outsped his fate, + The truth-king's felon-doom; + The other women were too late, + For he had left the tomb. + + + +XVI. + + _THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER_. + + His face, his words, her heart awoke; + Awoke her slumbering truth; + She judged him well; her bonds she broke, + And fled to him for ruth. + + With tears she washed his weary feet; + She wiped them with her hair; + Her kisses--call them not unmeet, + When they were welcome _there_. + + What saint a richer crown could throw + At his love-royal feet! + Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go, + His reign begun to greet. + + His holy manhood's perfect worth + Owns her a woman still; + It is impossible henceforth + For her to stoop to ill. + + Her to herself his words restore, + The radiance to the day; + A horror to herself no more, + Not yet a cast-away! + + Her hands and kisses, ointment, tears, + Her gathered wiping hair, + Her love, her shame, her hopes, her fears, + Mingle in worship rare. + + Thou, Mary, too, thy hair didst spread + To wipe the anointed feet; + Nor didst thou only bless his head + With precious spikenard sweet. + + But none say thou thy tears didst pour + To wash his parched feet first; + Of tears thou couldst not have such store + As from this woman burst! + + If not in love she first be read, + Her queen of sorrow greet; + Mary, do thou anoint his head, + And let her crown his feet. + + Simon, her kisses will not soil; + Her tears are pure as rain; + The hair for him she did uncoil + Had been baptized in pain. + + Lo, God hath pardoned her so much, + Love all her being stirs! + His love to his poor child is such + That it hath wakened hers! + + But oh, rejoice, ye sisters pure, + Who scarce can know her case-- + There is no sin but has its cure, + Its all-consuming grace! + + He did not leave her soul in hell, + 'Mong shards the silver dove; + But raised her pure that she might tell + Her sisters how to love! + + She gave him all your best love can! + Despised, rejected, sad-- + Sure, never yet had mighty man + Such homage as he had! + + Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet, + Her love grew so intense, + Earth's sinners all come round thy feet: + Lord, make no difference! + + + + + +A BOOK OF SONNETS. + + +_THE BURNT-OFFERING_. + + Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night, + When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim, + And he hath laid him down in chamber dim, + Straightway begins to tremble and grow bright, + And loose faint flashes toward the vaulted height + Of the great peace that overshadoweth him: + Keen lambent flames of hope awake and swim + Throughout his soul, touching each point with light! + The great earth under him an altar is, + Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, + Burning in love's response up to the skies + Whose fire descended first and kindled his: + When slow the flickering flames at length expire, + Sleep's ashes only hide a glowing fire. + + + +_THE UNSEEN FACE_. + + + "I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face." + "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn! + Thou shall behold as much as may be borne." + And on a rock stood Moses, lone in space. + From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place, + God passed in cloud, an earthy garment worn + To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn, + He put him in a clift of the rock's base, + Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen-- + Passed--lifted it: his back alone appears! + Ah, Moses, had he turned, and hadst thou seen + The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears, + The eyes of the true man, by men belied, + Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died! + + + + + +_CONCERNING JESUS_. + + + I. + + If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race + Of forms divine had thenceforth filled the land! + Methinks I see thee, glorious workman, stand, + Striking a marble window through blind space-- + Thy face's reflex on the coming face, + As dawns the stone to statue 'neath thy hand-- + Body obedient to its soul's command, + Which is thy thought, informing it with grace! + So had it been. But God, who quickeneth clay, + Nor turneth it to marble--maketh eyes, + Not shadowy hollows, where no sunbeams play-- + Would mould his loftiest thought in human guise: + Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad, + God's living sculpture, all-informed of God. + + + II. + + If one should say, "Lo, there thy statue! take + Possession, sculptor; now inherit it; + Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit; + As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake + The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake + The slumber from their hearts, that, where they sit, + They leap straight up, aghast, as at a pit + Gaping beneath;" I hear him answer make: + "Alas for me, I cannot nor would dare + Inform what I revered as I did trace! + Who would be fool that he like fool might fare, + With feeble spirit mocking the enorm + Strength on his forehead!" Thou, God's thought thy form, + Didst live the large significance of thy face. + + + + III. + + Men have I seen, and seen with wonderment, + Noble in form, "lift upward and divine," + In whom I yet must search, as in a mine, + After that soul of theirs, by which they went + Alive upon the earth. And I have bent + Regard on many a woman, who gave sign + God willed her beautiful, when he drew the line + That shaped each float and fold of beauty's tent: + Her soul, alas, chambered in pigmy space, + Left the fair visage pitiful--inane-- + Poor signal only of a coming face + When from the penetrale she filled the fane!-- + Possessed of thee was every form of thine, + Thy very hair replete with the divine. + + + IV. + + If thou hadst built a temple, how my eye + Had hungering fed thereon, from low-browed crypt + Up to the soaring pinnacles that, tipt + With stars, gave signal when the sun drew nigh! + Dark caverns in and under; vivid sky + Its home and aim! Say, from the glory slipt, + And down into the shadows dropt and dipt, + Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?-- + Thou build'st the temple of thy holy ghost + From hid foundation to high-hidden fate-- + Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, + From grave and sky filled with a fighting host! + Man is thy temple; man thy work elect; + His glooms and glory thine, great architect! + + + V. + + If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, + What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace + Had shone upon us from the great world's face! + How had we read, as in eternal books, + The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks! + A lily, in merest lines thy hand did trace, + Had plainly been God's child of lower race! + And oh how strong the hills, songful the brooks! + To thee all nature's meanings lie light-bare, + Because thy heart is nature's inner side; + Clear as, to us, earth on the dawn's gold tide, + Her notion vast up in thy soul did rise; + Thine is the world, thine all its splendours rare, + Thou Man ideal, with the unsleeping eyes! + + + VI. + + But I have seen pictures the work of man, + In which at first appeared but chaos wild: + So high the art transcended, they beguiled + The eye as formless, and without a plan. + Not soon, the spirit, brooding o'er, began + To see a purpose rise, like mountain isled, + When God said, Let the Dry appear! and, piled + Above the waves, it rose in twilight wan. + So might thy pictures then have been too strange + For us to pierce beyond their outmost look; + A vapour and a darkness; a sealed book; + An atmosphere too high for wings to range; + And so we could but, gazing, pale and change, + And tremble as at a void thought cannot brook. + + + VII. + + But earth is now thy living picture, where + Thou shadowest truth, the simple and profound + By the same form in vital union bound: + Where one can see but the first step of thy stair, + Another sees it vanish far in air. + When thy king David viewed the starry round, + From heart and fingers broke the psaltery-sound: + Lord, what is man, that thou shouldst mind his prayer! + But when the child beholds the heavens on high, + He babbles childish noises--not less dear + Than what the king sang praying--to the ear + Of him who made the child and king and sky. + Earth is thy picture, painter great, whose eye + Sees with the child, sees with the kingly seer. + + + VIII. + + If thou hadst built some mighty instrument, + And set thee down to utter ordered sound, + Whose faithful billows, from thy hands unbound, + Breaking in light, against our spirits went, + And caught, and bore above this earthly tent, + The far-strayed back to their prime natal ground, + Where all roots fast in harmony are found, + And God sits thinking out a pure consent;-- + Nay, that thou couldst not; that was not for thee! + Our broken music thou must first restore-- + A harder task than think thine own out free; + And till thou hast done it, no divinest score, + Though rendered by thine own angelic choir, + Can lift one human spirit from the mire. + + + IX. + + If thou hadst been a poet! On my heart + The thought flashed sudden, burning through the weft + Of life, and with too much I sank bereft. + Up to my eyes the tears, with sudden start, + Thronged blinding: then the veil would rend and part! + The husk of vision would in twain be cleft! + Thy hidden soul in naked beauty left, + I should behold thee, Nature, as thou art! + O poet Jesus! at thy holy feet + I should have lien, sainted with listening; + My pulses answering ever, in rhythmic beat, + The stroke of each triumphant melody's wing, + Creating, as it moved, my being sweet; + My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string. + + + X. + + Thee had we followed through the twilight land + Where thought grows form, and matter is refined + Back into thought of the eternal mind, + Till, seeing them one, Lo, in the morn we stand!-- + Then started fresh and followed, hand in hand, + With sense divinely growing, till, combined, + We heard the music of the planets wind + In harmony with billows on the strand!-- + Till, one with earth and all God's utterance, + We hardly knew whether the sun outspake, + Or a glad sunshine from our spirits brake-- + Whether we think, or winds and blossoms dance! + Alas, O poet leader, for such good + Thou wast God's tragedy, writ in tears and blood! + + + XI. + + Hadst thou been one of these, in many eyes, + Too near to be a glory for thy sheen, + Thou hadst been scorned; and to the best hadst been + A setter forth of strange divinities; + But to the few construct of harmonies, + A sudden sun, uplighting the serene + High heaven of love; and, through the cloudy screen + That 'twixt our souls and truth all wretched lies, + Dawning at length, hadst been a love and fear, + Worshipped on high from Magian's mountain-crest, + And all night long symbolled by lamp-flames clear, + Thy sign, a star upon thy people's breast-- + Where that strange arbitrary token lies + Which once did scare the sun in noontide skies. + + + XII. + + But as thou camest forth to bring the poor, + Whose hearts are nearer faith and verity, + Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy-- + So taught'st the A B C of heavenly lore; + Because thou sat'st not lonely evermore, + With mighty truths informing language high, + But, walking in thy poem continually, + Didst utter deeds, of all true forms the core-- + Poet and poem one indivisible fact; + Because thou didst thine own ideal act, + And so, for parchment, on the human soul + Didst write thine aspirations--at thy goal + Thou didst arrive with curses for acclaim, + And cry to God up through a cloud of shame. + + + XIII. + + For three and thirty years, a living seed, + A lonely germ, dropt on our waste world's side, + Thy death and rising thou didst calmly bide; + Sore companied by many a clinging weed + Sprung from the fallow soil of evil and need; + Hither and thither tossed, by friends denied; + Pitied of goodness dull, and scorned of pride; + Until at length was done the awful deed, + And thou didst lie outworn in stony bower + Three days asleep--oh, slumber godlike-brief + For man of sorrows and acquaint with grief! + Life-seed thou diedst, that Death might lose his power, + And thou, with rooted stem and shadowy leaf, + Rise, of humanity the crimson flower. + + + XIV. + + Where dim the ethereal eye, no art, though clear + As golden star in morning's amber springs, + Can pierce the fogs of low imaginings: + Painting and sculpture are a mockery mere. + Where dull to deafness is the hearing ear, + Vain is the poet. Nought but earthly things + Have credence. When the soaring skylark sings + How shall the stony statue strain to hear? + Open the deaf ear, wake the sleeping eye, + And Lo, musicians, painters, poets--all + Trooping instinctive, come without a call! + As winds that where they list blow evermore; + As waves from silent deserts roll to die + In mighty voices on the peopled shore. + + + XV. + + Our ears thou openedst; mad'st our eyes to see. + All they who work in stone or colour fair, + Or build up temples of the quarried air, + Which we call music, scholars are of thee. + Henceforth in might of such, the earth shall be + Truth's temple-theatre, where she shall wear + All forms of revelation, all men bear + Tapers in acolyte humility. + O master-maker, thy exultant art + Goes forth in making makers! Pictures? No, + But painters, who in love and truth shall show + Glad secrets from thy God's rejoicing heart. + Sudden, green grass and waving corn up start + When through dead sands thy living waters go. + + + XVI. + + From the beginning good and fair are one, + But men the beauty from the truth will part, + And, though the truth is ever beauty's heart, + After the beauty will, short-breathed, run, + And the indwelling truth deny and shun. + Therefore, in cottage, synagogue, and mart, + Thy thoughts came forth in common speech, not art; + With voice and eye, in Jewish Babylon, + Thou taughtest--not with pen or carved stone, + Nor in thy hand the trembling wires didst take: + Thou of the truth not less than all wouldst make; + For Truth's sake even her forms thou didst disown: + Ere, through the love of beauty, truth shall fail, + The light behind shall burn the broidered veil! + + + XVII. + + Holy of holies, my bare feet draw nigh: + Jesus, thy body is the shining veil + By which I look on God, nor grow death-pale. + I know that in my verses poor may lie + Things low, for see, the thinker is not high! + But were my song as loud as saints' all-hail, + As pure as prophet's cry of warning wail, + As holy as thy mother's ecstasy-- + He sings a better, who, for love or ruth, + Into his heart a little child doth take. + Nor thoughts nor feelings, art nor wisdom seal + The man who at thy table bread shall break. + Thy praise was not that thou didst know, or feel, + Or show, or love, but that thou didst the truth. + + + XVIII. + + Despised! Rejected by the priest-led roar + Of the multitude! The imperial purple flung + About the form the hissing scourge had stung, + Witnessing naked to the truth it bore! + True son of father true, I thee adore. + Even the mocking purple truthful hung + On thy true shoulders, bleeding its folds among, + For thou wast king, art king for evermore! + _I know the Father: he knows me the truth_. + Truth-witness, therefore the one essential king, + With thee I die, with thee live worshipping! + O human God, O brother, eldest born, + Never but thee was there a man in sooth, + Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn! + + + + +_A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA_. + + + I. + + Upon a rock I sat--a mountain-side, + Far, far forsaken of the old sea's lip; + A rock where ancient waters' rise and dip, + Recoil and plunge, eddy, and oscillant tide, + Had worn and worn, while races lived and died, + Involved channels. Where the sea-weed's drip + Followed the ebb, now crumbling lichens sip + Sparse dews of heaven that down with sunset slide. + I sat long-gazing southward. A dry flow + Of withering wind sucked up my drooping strength, + Itself weak from the desert's burning length. + Behind me piled, away and up did go + Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, + Where snow gleams ever, panthers roam, they say. + + + II. + + This infant world has taken long to make, + Nor hast Thou done with it, but mak'st it yet, + And wilt be working on when death has set + A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. + On flow the centuries without a break; + Uprise the mountains, ages without let; + The lichens suck; the hard rock's breast they fret; + Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. + But in the dumbness of the rolling time, + No veil of silence shall encompass me-- + Thou wilt not once forget and let me be; + Rather wouldst thou some old chaotic prime + Invade, and, moved by tenderness sublime, + Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. + + + + + +_A. M. D_. + + + Methinks I see thee, lying straight and low, + Silent and darkling, in thy earthy bed, + The mighty strength in which I trusted, fled, + The long arms lying careless of kiss or blow; + On thy tall form I see the night-robe flow + Down from the pale, composed face--thy head + Crowned with its own dark curls: though thou wast dead, + They dressed thee as for sleep, and left thee so! + My heart, with cares and questionings oppressed, + Not oft since thou didst leave us turns to thee; + But wait, my brother, till I too am dead, + And thou shalt find that heart more true, more free, + More ready in thy love to take its rest, + Than when we lay together in one bed. + + + + + +_TO GARIBALDI--WITH A BOOK_. + + + When at Philippi, he who would have freed + Great Rome from tyrants, for the season brief + That lay 'twixt him and battle, sought relief + From painful thoughts, he in a book did read, + That so the death of Portia might not breed + Unmanful thoughts, and cloud his mind with grief: + Brother of Brutus, of high hearts the chief, + When thou at length receiv'st thy heavenly meed, + And I have found my hoping not in vain, + Tell me my book has wiled away one pang + That out of some lone sacred memory sprang, + Or wrought an hour's forgetfulness of pain, + And I shall rise, my heart brimful of gain, + And thank my God amid the golden clang. + + + + + +_TO S. F. S_. + + + They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: + More gently, I think, sorrows together go; + A new one joins the funeral gliding slow + With less of jar than when it breaks the dance. + Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance; + Nature is generous to her children so. + And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow, + As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance + The foot that must walk naked in life's way,-- + Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear, + Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear, + They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay; + And when the soft night closed the weary day, + Would sleep like those that far-off music hear. + + + + + +_RUSSELL GURNEY_. + + + In that high country whither thou art gone, + Right noble friend, thou walkest with thy peers, + The gathered great of many a hundred years! + Few are left like thee--few, I say, not none, + Else were thy England soon a Babylon, + A land of outcry, mockery, and tears! + Higher than law, a refuge from its fears, + Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone. + The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face + Was like the sunrise of a morn serene + Among the mountains, making sweet their awe. + Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw; + Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean, + As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place. + + + + + +_TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS_. + + + I. + + Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark, + And twilight cool thy potent day inclose! + The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows + All the night through, sleepless and young and stark. + Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark, + More daring: in the midnight of thy woes, + Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes, + Into the Light of which thou art a spark! + Be willing to be blind--that, in thy night, + The Lord may bring his Father to thy door, + And enter in, and feast thy soul with light. + Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more, + Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies, + And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes. + + + II. + + Say thou, his will be done who is the good! + His will be borne who knoweth how to bear! + Who also in the night had need of prayer, + Both when awoke divinely longing mood, + And when the power of darkness him withstood. + For what is coming take no jot of care: + Behind, before, around thee as the air, + He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood. + And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, + Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, + Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest + With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height, + Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share: + He needs no eyes who is a shining light! + + + + +_TO AUBREY DE VERE_. + + + Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, + Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, + Distilling its true essence by the flame + Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear. + I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer; + If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame, + Or furthering by failure each high aim; + If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear; + But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by-- + Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod-- + We laying down the staff, and He the rod-- + So look on me I shall not need to cry-- + "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I: + We mean the same thing--will the will of God!" + + + + + +_GENERAL GORDON_. + + + I. + + Victorious through failure! faithful Lord, + Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray + From thine own country of eternal day, + To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde, + Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!-- + Our long retarded legions, on their way, + Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway, + To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word, + Thou sawest foiled--but glorifiedst him, + Over ten cities giving him thy rule! + We will not mourn a star that grew not dim, + A soldier-child of God gone home from school! + A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff, + And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff! + + + II. + + Another to the witnesses' roll-call + Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out-- + With willingness crowned everywhere about, + Not the head only, but the body all, + In one great nimbus of obedient fall, + His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt-- + Love's last victorious stand amid the rout! + --Silence is left, and the untasted gall. + No chariot with ramping steeds of fire + The Father sent to fetch his man-child home; + His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!" + And like a dove to heaven he did aspire, + His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire. + --Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb! + + + + + +_THE CHRYSALIS_. + + + Methought I floated sightless, nor did know + That I had ears until I heard the cry + As of a mighty man in agony: + "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow? + The arrows of thy lightning through me go, + And sting and torture me--yet here I lie + A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!" + The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below + Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet. + Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead, + And looked upon the world: the silence broke! + A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat + Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke! + And from that world a mighty angel fled. + + + + + +_THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR_. + + + Methought that in a solemn church I stood. + Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, + Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. + Midway the form hung high upon the rood + Of him who gave his life to be our good; + Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet, + Among the candles shining still and sweet. + Men came and went, and worshipped as they could-- + And still their dust a woman with her broom, + Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. + Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, + Across the church a silent figure come: + "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!" + It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more. + + + + + +_DEATH_. + + + Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: + A fresher birth brings every new year in. + Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. + See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! + My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, + Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. + --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! + Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:-- + Behind me comes a shining one indeed; + Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, + And set upon his day night's starry crown! + _Death_, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!-- + A woman-angel! see--in long white gown! + The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed. + + + + + + + +ORGAN SONGS. + + + _TO A. J. SCOTT_ + + WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. + + I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. + Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, + Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed + + A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain. + Closed were the lofty doors that led within; + But by a wicket one might entrance gain. + + 'Twas awe and silence when I entered in; + The night, the weariness, the rain were lost + In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin + + Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, + As if they sought some harmony to find + Which they knew once, but none of all that host + + Could wile the far-fled music back to mind. + Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along + The pillared paths, and up the arches twined + + With sister arches, rising, throng on throng, + Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times + The voices gathered to a burst of song, + + But parted sudden, and were but single rimes + By single bells through Sabbath morning sent, + That have no thought of harmony or chimes. + + Hopeful confusion! Who could be content + Looking and hearkening from the distant door? + I entered further. Solemnly it went-- + + Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar, + Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine: + I loved and listened, listened and loved more. + + May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine + Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone? + Let my poor song be taken in to thine. + + Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own, + Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown? + + + + + +_LIGHT_. + + + First-born of the creating Voice! + Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent + Waiting upon him first, what time he went + Moving about mid the tumultuous noise + Of each unpiloted element + Upon the face of the void formless deep! + Thou who didst come unbodied and alone + Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, + Or ever the moon shone, + Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! + Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt + Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven! + Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert + When first I longed for words, to be + A radiant garment for my thought, like thee! + + We lay us down in sorrow, + Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; + In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow; + Grief lifts our eyelids up--and Lo, the light! + The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise + Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; + Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; + Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; + Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; + Of clouds that show thy glory as their own; + O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by! + Light, gladness, motion, are reality! + + Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs + Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; + And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. + The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers + Worship thee all day long, and through the skies + Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. + River of life, thou pourest on the woods, + And on thy waves float out the wakening buds; + The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain, + Keep turning still to see thee yet again; + South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee, + Bear violins that tremble humanly. + And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: + Where'er thou art, on every side, + All things are glorified; + And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw + Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark, + That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark. + + And men have worshipped thee. + The Persian, on his mountain-top, + Waits kneeling till thy sun go up, + God-like in his serenity. + All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near, + And the wide earth waits till his face appear-- + Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps + Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, + Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps. + Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds + The universal face: Lo, silently, + Up cometh he, the never-closing eye! + Symbol of Deity, men could not be + Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee! + + Thou plaything of the child, + When from the water's surface thou dost spring, + Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling, + And there, in mazy dance and motion wild, + Disport thyself--etherial, undefiled. + Capricious, like the thinkings of the child! + I am a child again, to think of thee + In thy consummate glee. + How I would play with thee, athirst to climb + On sloping ladders of thy moted beams, + When through the gray dust darting in long streams! + How marvel at the dusky glimmering red, + With which my closed fingers thou hadst made + Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed! + And how I loved thee always in the moon! + But most about the harvest-time, + When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune, + And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove! + And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love! + And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! + And more mysterious earthly stars, + That shone from windows of the hill and glen-- + Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars, + Mingling with household love and rest of weary men! + And still I am a child, thank God!--to spy + Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass + Upon the brown earth undescried, + Is a found thing to me, a gladness high, + A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within, + A thought of hope to prophecy akin, + That from my spirit fruitless will not pass. + + Thou art the joy of age: + Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls. + Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls, + And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage + To gather song from radiance, in his chair + Sits by the door; and sitteth there + His soul within him, like a child that lies + Half dreaming, with half-open eyes, + At close of a long afternoon in summer-- + High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where + The raven is almost the only comer-- + Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment + At thy celestial ascent + Through rifted loop to light upon the gold + That waves its bloom in some high airy rent: + So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, + But sleepy mid the ruins that infold. + + What soul-like changes, evanescent moods, + Upon the face of the still passive earth, + Its hills, and fields, and woods, + Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth! + Even like a lord of music bent + Over his instrument, + Giving to carol, now to tempest birth! + When, clear as holiness, the morning ray + Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet, + Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray; + When, at the hour of sovereign noon, + Infinite silent cataracts sheet + Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June; + When now a yellower glory slanting passes + 'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses; + And now the moon lifts up her shining shield, + High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; + Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, + Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, + Her still face seeming more to think than see, + Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee! + No mood, eternal or ephemeral, + But wakes obedient at thy silent call! + + Of operative single power, + And simple unity the one emblem, + Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour, + In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, + Are the melodious descant of divided thee. + Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee + In the blue air and sea! + In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, + Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit. + Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west! + Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast! + Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away, + Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray! + Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw + Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow! + The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers + Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; + The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be, + Are dead till touched by thee. + + Everywhere, + Thou art lancing through the air! + Every atom from another + Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; + Continually, + Thou art wetting the wet sea, + Bathing its sluggish woods below, + Making the salt flowers bud and blow; + Silently, + Workest thou, and ardently, + Waking from the night of nought + Into being and to thought; + + Influences + Every beam of thine dispenses, + Potent, subtle, reaching far, + Shooting different from each star. + Not an iron rod can lie + In circle of thy beamy eye, + But its look doth change it so + That it cannot choose but show + Thou, the worker, hast been there; + Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, + Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark + Even in what men call the dark. + Ever doing, ever showing, + Thou dost set our hearts a glowing-- + Universal something sent + To shadow forth the Excellent! + + When the firstborn affections-- + Those winged seekers of the world within, + That search about in all directions, + Some bright thing for themselves to win-- + Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs, + Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs, + Long, long, have followed faces fair, + Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air, + And darkness is around them and above, + Desolate of aught to love, + And through the gloom on every side, + Strange dismal forms are dim descried, + And the air is as the breath + From the lips of void-eyed Death, + And the knees are bowed in prayer + To the Stronger than despair-- + Then the ever-lifted cry, + _Give us light, or we shall die_, + Cometh to the Father's ears, + And he hearkens, and he hears:-- + + As some slow sun would glimmer forth + From sunless winter of the north, + We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes, + Discern and doubt the opening skies. + From a misty gray that lies on + Our dim future's far horizon, + It grows a fresh aurora, sent + Up the spirit's firmament, + Telling, through the vapours dun, + Of the coming, coming sun! + Tis Truth awaking in the soul! + His Righteousness to make us whole! + And what shall we, this Truth receiving, + Though with but a faint believing, + Call it but eternal Light? + 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night! + + All things most excellent + Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! + Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent, + Came like a lamp, to bring, + Across the winds and wastes of night, + The everlasting light. + Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought! + Hail, Light of God, the making-visible! + Hail, far-transcending glory brought + In human form with man to dwell-- + Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less + To show, irradiate, and bless; + The gathering of the primal rays divine + Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine! + + Dull horrid pools no motion making! + No bubble on the surface breaking! + The dead air lies, without a sound, + Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground. + + Rushing winds and snow-like drift, + Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift! + Hair-like vapours madly riven! + Waters smitten into dust! + Lightning through the turmoil driven, + Aimless, useless, yet it must! + + Gentle winds through forests calling! + Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing! + Solemn waves on sea-shores falling! + White sails on blue waters dancing! + Mountain streams glad music giving! + Children in the clear pool laving! + Yellow corn and green grass waving! + Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living! + Light, O radiant, it is thou! + Light!--we know our Father now! + + Forming ever without form; + Showing, but thyself unseen; + Pouring stillness on the storm; + Breathing life where death had been! + If thy light thou didst draw in, + Death and Chaos soon were out, + Weltering o'er the slimy sea, + Riding on the whirlwind's rout, + In wild unmaking energy! + God, be round us and within, + Fighting darkness, slaying sin. + + Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable, + On whom no changing shadow ever fell! + Thy light we know not, are content to see; + Thee we know not, and are content to be!-- + Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we! + But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, + Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast? + Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee! + The very shadows on our souls that lie, + Good witness to the light supernal bear; + The something 'twixt us and the sky + Could cast no shadow if light were not there! + If children tremble in the night, + It is because their God is light! + The shining of the common day + Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow-- + Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies: + Thy living light's eternal play, + Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?-- + Behind the life itself, its fountains rise! + In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place; + And we _have_ seen thee in the Saviour's face. + + Enlighten me, O Light!--why art thou such? + Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet? + Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch? + Why in thee do the known and unknown meet? + Why swift and tender, strong and delicate? + Simple as truth, yet manifold in might? + Why does one love thee, and another hate? + Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech + When I a goodly matter would indite? + Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach? + --In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech, + For God is light. + + + + + +_TO A. J. SCOTT_. + + + When, long ago, the daring of my youth + Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing, + Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth + + Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, + Made homely by the tenderness and grace + Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling + + A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face + From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, + Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case. + + I see thee far before me on thy way + Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still; + Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway, + + Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; + Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate, + Searching all truths its prophecy to fill; + + But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great, + High Love is queen, and sits without a mate. + + +_May_, 1857. + + + + +_I WOULD I WERE A CHILD_. + + + I would I were a child, + That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! + And follow thee with running feet, or rather + Be led through dark and wild! + + How I would hold thy hand, + My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting! + Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting, + My heart would but expand. + + If an ill thing came near, + I would but creep within thy mantle's folding, + Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, + And soon forget my fear. + + O soul, O soul, rejoice! + Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning; + A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning + With saviour eyes and voice. + + Who spake the words? Didst Thou? + They are too good, even for such a giver: + Such water drinking once, I should feel ever + As I had drunk but now. + + Yet sure the Word said so, + Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father! + Telling the tale of him who once did gather + His goods to him, and go! + + Ah, thou dost lead me, God! + But it is dark and starless, the way dreary; + Almost I sleep, I am so very weary + Upon this rough hill-road. + + _Almost_! Nay, I _do_ sleep; + There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; + Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming; + Thy hand my hand doth keep. + + With sighs my soul doth teem; + I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping; + Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping; + Wake me from this my dream. + + How long shall heavy night + Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow + Say in my heart that never any morrow + Will bring the friendly light? + + Lord, art thou in the room? + Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain! + A child's heart would say _Father_, were it certain + That it would not presume. + + But if this dreary sleep + May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper + To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper-- + For evil dreams too deep. + + _Father_! I dare at length; + My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming: + Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming + Thy tenderness, my strength. + + + + + +_A PRAYER FOR THE PAST_. + + + _All sights and sounds of day and year, + All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, + Are thine, O God, nor will I fear + To talk to thee of them_. + + Too great thy heart is to despise, + Whose day girds centuries about; + From things which we name small, thine eyes + See great things looking out. + + Therefore the prayerful song I sing + May come to thee in ordered words: + Though lowly born, it needs not cling + In terror to its chords. + + I think that nothing made is lost; + That not a moon has ever shone, + That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed + But to my soul is gone. + + That all the lost years garnered lie + In this thy casket, my dim soul; + And thou wilt, once, the key apply, + And show the shining whole. + + _But were they dead in me, they live + In thee, whose Parable is--Time, + And Worlds, and Forms--all things that give + Me thoughts, and this my rime_. + + _And after what men call my death, + When I have crossed the unknown sea, + Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath, + Shall rise this prayer to thee_. + + Oh let me be a child once more, + And dream fine glories in the gloom, + Of sun and moon and stars in store + To ceil my humble room. + + Oh call again the moons that crossed + Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept; + Show me the solemn skies I lost + Because in thee I slept. + + Once more let gathering glory swell, + And lift the world's dim eastern eye; + Once more let lengthening shadows tell + Its time is come to die. + + But show me first--oh, blessed sight! + The lowly house where I was young; + There winter sent wild winds at night, + And up the snow-heaps flung; + + Or soundless brought a chaos fair, + Full, formless, of fantastic forms, + White ghostly trees in sparkling air-- + Chamber for slumbering storms. + + There sudden dawned a dewy morn; + A man was turning up the mould; + And in our hearts the spring was born, + Crept thither through the cold. + + _And Spring, in after years of youth, + Became the form of every form + For hearts now bursting into truth, + Now sighing in the storm_. + + On with the glad year let me go, + With troops of daisies round my feet; + Flying my kite, or, in the glow + Of arching summer heat, + + Outstretched in fear upon a bank, + Lest, gazing up on awful space, + I should fall down into the blank, + From off the round world's face. + + And let my brothers come with me + To play our old games yet again, + Children on earth, more full of glee + That we in heaven are men. + + If then should come the shadowy death, + Take one of us and go, + We left would say, under our breath, + "It is a dream, you know!" + + "And in the dream our brother's gone + Upstairs: he heard our father call; + For one by one we go alone, + Till he has gathered all." + + _Father, in joy our knees we bow: + This earth is not a place of tombs: + We are but in the nursery now; + They in the upper rooms_. + + For are we not at home in thee, + And all this world a visioned show; + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know? + + _And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, + As once of old, in moonlight pale, + I at my father's sat, and heard + Him read a lofty tale_. + + On with my history let me go, + And reap again the gliding years, + Gather great noontide's joyous glow, + Eve's love-contented tears; + + One afternoon sit pondering + In that old chair, in that old room, + Where passing pigeon's sudden wing + Flashed lightning through the gloom; + + There try once more, with effort vain, + To mould in one perplexed things; + There find the solace yet again + Hope in the Father brings; + + Or mount and ride in sun and wind, + Through desert moors, hills bleak and high, + Where wandering vapours fall, and find + In me another sky! + + _For so thy Visible grew mine, + Though half its power I could not know; + And in me wrought a work divine, + Which thou hadst ordered so_; + + Giving me cups that would not spill, + But water carry and yield again; + New bottles with new wine to fill + For comfort of thy men. + + But if thou thus restore the past + One hour, for me to wander in, + I now bethink me at the last-- + O Lord, leave out the sin. + + _And with the thought comes doubt, my God: + Shall I the whole desire to see, + And walk once more, of that hill-road + By which I went to thee_? + + + + +A PRAYER FOR THE PAST. + + + _Now far from my old northern land, + I live where gentle winters pass; + Where green seas lave a wealthy strand, + And unsown is the grass_; + + Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope + Of gazing heaven to spread their show, + Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope, + With fringes flaming low; + + With one beside me in whose eyes + Once more old Nature finds a home; + There treasures up her changeful skies, + Her phosphorescent foam. + + O'er a new joy this day we bend, + Soft power from heaven our souls to lift; + A wondering wonder thou dost lend + With loan outpassing gift-- + + A little child. She sees the sun-- + Once more incarnates thy old law: + One born of two, two born in one, + Shall into one three draw. + + But is there no day creeping on + Which I should tremble to renew? + I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone-- + Thine is the future too! + + _And are we not at home in Thee, + And all this world a visioned show, + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know_? + + + + +_LONGING_. + + + My heart is full of inarticulate pain, + And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks + Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, + Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, + No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear; + 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear. + + Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth, + Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come; + Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; + Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; + Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies + Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes. + + O all wide places, far from feverous towns; + Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild; + Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs; + Vast pallid clouds; blue spaces undefiled-- + Room! give me room! give loneliness and air-- + Free things and plenteous in your regions fair! + + White dove of David, flying overhead, + Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, + Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled + To find a home afar from men of things; + Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, + God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply. + + O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces, + O God of freedom and of joyous hearts, + When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, + There will be room enough in crowded marts! + Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er, + Thy universe my closet with shut door. + + Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all + Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. + God in thee, can his children's folly gall? + Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-- + Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; + Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm! + + + + +_I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS_. + + + I know what beauty is, for thou + Hast set the world within my heart; + Of me thou madest it a part; + I never loved it more than now. + + I know the Sabbath afternoons; + The light asleep upon the graves: + Against the sky the poplar waves; + The river murmurs organ tunes. + + I know the spring with bud and bell; + The hush in summer woods at night; + Autumn, when trees let in more light; + Fantastic winter's lovely spell. + + I know the rapture music gives, + Its mystery of ordered tones: + Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans, + And, half-alive, comes in and lives. + + And verse I know, whose concord high + Of thought and music lifts the soul + Where many a glimmering starry shoal + Glides through the Godhead's living sky. + + Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know-- + The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes; + The God-imprisoned harmonies + That out in gracious motions go. + + But I leave all, O Son of man, + Put off my shoes, and come to thee! + Most lovely thou of all I see, + Most potent thou of all that can! + + As child forsakes his favourite toy, + His sisters' sport, his new-found nest, + And, climbing to his mother's breast, + Enjoys yet more his late-left joy-- + + I lose to find. On fair-browed bride + Fair pearls their fairest light afford; + So, gathered round thy glory, Lord, + All glory else is glorified. + + + + + +_SYMPATHY_. + + + Grief held me silent in my seat; + I neither moved nor smiled: + Joy held her silent at my feet, + My shining lily-child. + + She raised her face and looked in mine; + She deemed herself denied; + The door was shut, there was no shine; + Poor she was left outside! + + Once, twice, three times, with infant grace + Her lips my name did mould; + Her face was pulling at my face-- + She was but ten months old. + + I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs; + It made me think--Does God + Need help from his poor children's eyes + To ease him of his load? + + Ah, if he did, how seldom then + The Father would be glad! + If comfort lay in the eyes of men, + He little comfort had! + + We cry to him in evil case, + When comfort sore we lack; + And when we troubled seek his face, + Consoled he sends us back; + + Nor waits for prayer to rise and climb-- + He wakes the sleeping prayer; + He is our father all the time, + And servant everywhere. + + I looked not up; foreboding hid + Kept down my heart the while; + 'Twas he looked up; my Father did + Smile in my infant's smile. + + + + + +_THE THANK-OFFERING_. + + My Lily snatches not my gift; + Glad is she to be fed, + But to her mouth she will not lift + The piece of broken bread, + Till on my lips, unerring, swift, + The morsel she has laid. + + This is her grace before her food, + This her libation poured; + Even thus his offering, Aaron good + Heaved up to thank the Lord, + When for the people all he stood, + And with a cake adored. + + So, Father, every gift of thine + I offer at thy knee; + Else take I not the love divine + With which it comes to me; + Not else the offered grace is mine + Of sharing life with thee. + + Yea, all my being I would bring, + Yielding it utterly, + Not yet a full-possessed thing + Till heaved again to thee: + Away, my self! away, and cling + To him that makes thee be! + + + + + +_PRAYER_. + + We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, + And ye shall have your prayer; + We turn our thoughts as to a task, + With will constrained and rare. + + And yet we have; these scanty prayers + Yield gold without alloy: + O God, but he that trusts and dares + Must have a boundless joy! + + + + + +_REST_. + +I. + + When round the earth the Father's hands + Have gently drawn the dark; + Sent off the sun to fresher lands, + And curtained in the lark; + 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, + To fade with fading light, + And lie once more, the old weary way, + Upfolded in the night. + + If mothers o'er our slumbers bend, + And unripe kisses reap, + In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, + Till even in dreams we sleep. + And if we wake while night is dumb, + 'Tis sweet to turn and say, + It is an hour ere dawning come, + And I will sleep till day. + + +II. + + There is a dearer, warmer bed, + Where one all day may lie, + Earth's bosom pillowing the head, + And let the world go by. + There come no watching mother's eyes, + The stars instead look down; + Upon it breaks, and silent dies, + The murmur of the town. + + The great world, shouting, forward fares: + This chamber, hid from none, + Hides safe from all, for no one cares + For him whose work is done. + Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how + A certain unknown place, + Or here or there, is waiting now, + To rest thee from thy race. + + +III. + + Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, + The still composed breath! + Not there the folding of the arms, + The cool, the blessed death! + _That_ needs no curtained bed to hide + The world with all its wars, + No grassy cover to divide + From sun and moon and stars. + + It is a rest that deeper grows + In midst of pain and strife; + A mighty, conscious, willed repose, + The death of deepest life. + To have and hold the precious prize + No need of jealous bars; + But windows open to the skies, + And skill to read the stars! + + +IV. + + Who dwelleth in that secret place, + Where tumult enters not, + Is never cold with terror base, + Never with anger hot. + For if an evil host should dare + His very heart invest, + God is his deeper heart, and there + He enters in to rest. + + When mighty sea-winds madly blow, + And tear the scattered waves, + Peaceful as summer woods, below + Lie darkling ocean caves: + The wind of words may toss my heart, + But what is that to me! + Tis but a surface storm--thou art + My deep, still, resting sea. + + + + + +_O DO NOT LEAVE ME_. + + O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; + Till I forget, be near me in that chair. + The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- + Leaves her contented there. + + O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, + Till I am dead, and resting in my place. + Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends, + And leaves a raptured face. + + Leave me not, God, until--nay, until when? + Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; + Not till the Life is Light in me, and then + Leaving is left behind. + + + + + +_BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH_. + + A quiet heart, submissive, meek, + Father, do thou bestow, + Which more than granted, will not seek + To have, or give, or know. + + Each little hill then holds its gift + Forth to my joying eyes; + Each mighty mountain then doth lift + My spirit to the skies. + + Lo, then the running water sounds + With gladsome, secret things! + The silent water more abounds, + And more the hidden springs. + + Live murmurs then the trees will blend + With all the feathered song; + The waving grass low tribute lend + Earth's music to prolong. + + The sun will cast great crowns of light + On waves that anthems roar; + The dusky billows break at night + In flashes on the shore. + + Each harebell, each white lily's cup, + The hum of hidden bee, + Yea, every odour floating up, + The insect revelry-- + + Each hue, each harmony divine + The holy world about, + Its soul will send forth into mine, + My soul to widen out. + + And thus the great earth I shall hold, + A perfect gift of thine; + Richer by these, a thousandfold, + Than if broad lands were mine. + + + + + +_HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL_. + + Father, in the dark I lay, + Thirsting for the light, + Helpless, but for hope alway + In thy father-might. + + Out of darkness came the morn, + Out of death came life, + I, and faith, and hope, new-born, + Out of moaning strife! + + So, one morning yet more fair, + I shall, joyous-brave, + Sudden breathing loftier air, + Triumph o'er the grave. + + Though this feeble body lie + Underneath the ground, + Wide awake, not sleeping, I + Shall in him be found. + + But a morn yet fairer must + Quell this inner gloom-- + Resurrection from the dust + Of a deeper tomb! + + Father, wake thy little child; + Give me bread and wine + Till my spirit undefiled + Rise and live in thine. + + + + +_WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN_. + + Shepherd, on before thy sheep, + Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! + Scarce the track I stumbling keep! + Through my thin fleece blows the wind! + + Turn and see me, Son of Man! + Turn and lift thy Father's child; + Scarce I walk where once I ran: + Carry me--the wind is wild! + + Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share; + My poor weight thou wilt not feel; + Weakness made thee strong to bear, + Suffering made thee strong to heal! + + I were still a wandering sheep + But for thee, O Shepherd-man! + Following now, I faint, I weep, + Yet I follow as I can! + + Shepherd, if I fall and lie + Moaning in the frosty wind, + Yet, I know, I shall not die-- + Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find! + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862_, + + THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE. + + The skies are pale, the trees are stiff, + The earth is dull and old; + The frost is glittering as if + The very sun were cold. + And hunger fell is joined with frost, + To make men thin and wan: + Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost; + Be born, O child of man. + + The children cry, the women shake, + The strong men stare about; + They sleep when they should be awake, + They wake ere night is out. + For they have lost their heritage-- + No sweat is on their brow: + Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; + Be born, and save us now. + + Across the sea, beyond our sight, + Roars on the fierce debate; + The men go down in bloody fight, + The women weep and hate; + And in the right be which that may, + Surely the strife is long! + Come, son of man, thy righteous way, + And right will have no wrong. + + Good men speak lies against thine own-- + Tongue quick, and hearing slow; + They will not let thee walk alone, + And think to serve thee so: + If they the children's freedom saw + In thee, the children's king, + They would be still with holy awe, + Or only speak to sing. + + Some neither lie nor starve nor fight, + Nor yet the poor deny; + But in their hearts all is not right,-- + They often sit and sigh. + We need thee every day and hour, + In sunshine and in snow: + Child-king, we pray with all our power-- + Be born, and save us so. + + We are but men and women, Lord; + Thou art a gracious child! + O fill our hearts, and heap our board, + Pray thee--the winter's wild! + The sky is sad, the trees are bare, + Hunger and hate about: + Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare + Will soon be driven out. + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL_. + + Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap, + The sun shone in his hair; + And this was how she saw, mayhap, + The crown already there. + + For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king; + Bad Herod dares not come; + Before thee sleeping, holy thing, + The wild winds would be dumb." + + "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet, + My child, so long desired; + Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet; + Thy feet will never be tired." + + "For thou art the king of men, my son; + Thy crown I see it plain! + And men shall worship thee, every one, + And cry, Glory! Amen!" + + Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide-- + At Mary looked her lord. + Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed; + Babe Jesus said never a word. + + + + + +_THE SLEEPLESS JESUS_. + + 'Tis time to sleep, my little boy: + Why gaze thy bright eyes so? + At night our children, for new joy + Home to thy father go, + But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; + The moon and stars are gone; + The wind is up and raving wild, + But thou art smiling on! + + My child, thou hast immortal eyes + That see by their own light; + They see the children's blood--it lies + Red-glowing through the night! + Thou hast an ever-open ear + For sob or cry or moan: + Thou seemest not to see or hear, + Thou only smilest on! + + When first thou camest to the earth, + All sounds of strife were still; + A silence lay about thy birth, + And thou didst sleep thy fill: + Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not? + Thy earth is woe-begone; + Both babes and mothers wail their lot, + But still thou smilest on! + + I read thy face like holy book; + No hurt is pictured there; + Deep in thine eyes I see the look + Of one who answers prayer. + Beyond pale grief and wild uproars, + Thou seest God's will well done; + Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors, + Thou hear'st--and smilest on. + + Men say: "I will arise and go;" + God says: "I will go meet:" + Thou seest them gather, weeping low, + About the Father's feet; + And each for each begin to bear, + And standing lonely none: + Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer! + Smile, Son of God, smile on. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1873_. + + Christmas-Days are still in store:-- + Will they change--steal faded hither? + Or come fresh as heretofore, + Summering all our winter weather? + + Surely they will keep their bloom + All the countless pacing ages: + In the country whence they come + Children only are the sages! + + Hither, every hour and year, + Children come to cure our oldness-- + Oft, alas, to gather sear + Unbelief, and earthy boldness! + + Men they grow and women cold, + Selfish, passionate, and plaining! + Ever faster they grow old:-- + On the world, ah, eld is gaining! + + Child, whose childhood ne'er departs! + Jesus, with the perfect father! + Drive the age from parents' hearts; + To thy heart the children gather. + + Send thy birth into our souls, + With its grand and tender story. + Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!-- + News to men! to God old glory! + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1884_. + + Though in my heart no Christmas glee, + Though my song-bird be dumb, + Jesus, it is enough for me + That thou art come. + + What though the loved be scattered far, + Few at the board appear, + In thee, O Lord, they gathered are, + And thou art here. + + And if our hearts be low with lack, + They are not therefore numb; + Not always will thy day come back-- + Thyself will come! + + + + +_AN OLD STORY_. + +I. + + In the ancient house of ages, + See, they cannot rest! + With a hope, which awe assuages, + Tremble all the blest. + For the son and heir eternal, + To be son yet more, + Leaves his stately chair supernal + For the earth's low floor; + + Leaves the room so high and old, + Leaves the all-world hearth, + Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold, + Of the twilight earth-- + To be throned in newer glory + In a mother's lap, + Gather up our broken story, + And right every hap. + + +II. + + There Earth's foster-baby lies, + Sleep-dimmed all his graces, + 'Neath four stars of parents' eyes, + And two heavens of faces! + See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring, + Feel the skirts of good + Fold them in dull-blessed sharing + Of infinitude. + + Make a little room betwixt you, + Pray you, Ass and Cow! + Sure we shall, if I kneel next you, + Know each other now! + To the pit-fallen comes salvation-- + Love is never loath! + Here we are, thy whole creation, + Waiting, Lord, thy growth! + + +III. + + On the slopes of Bethlehem, + Round their resting sheep, + Shepherds sat, and went and came, + Guarding holy sleep; + But the silent, high dome-spaces, + Airy galleries, + Thronged they were with watching faces, + Thronged with open eyes. + + Far across the desert floor, + Come, slow-drawing nigher, + Sages deep in starry lore, + Priests of burning Fire. + In the sky they read his story, + And, through starlight cool, + They come riding to the Glory, + To the Wonderful. + + +IV. + + Babe and mother, coming Mage, + Shepherd, ass, and cow! + Angels watching the new age, + Time's intensest Now! + Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining, + Far ends closing in! + Sure the eternal tide is gaining + On the strand of sin! + + See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master + Signs with lifted hand; + Winds divine blow fast and faster, + Swelling bosoms grand. + Hark the torrent-joy let slip! + Hark the great throats ring! + Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship! + And a Child for king! + + + + + +_A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS_. + + Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging + Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death! + Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing! + Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith! + + Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining-- + Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!" + Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining, + Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer! + + Toll for the burying, sexton tolling! + Sing for the second birth, angel Lark! + Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling! + Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark! + + +II. + + Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow; + I will give freedom to mine in song! + Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow; + I will go watch in the dawning long! + + For I shall see them, and know their faces-- + Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more; + Clasp the old self in the new embraces; + Gaze through their eyes' wide open door. + + Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness; + I am ashamed--but you pardon wrong! + Smile the old smile, and my soul's new gladness + Straight will arise in sorrow and song! + + + + + +_TO MY AGING FRIENDS_. + + It is no winter night comes down + Upon our hearts, dear friends of old; + But a May evening, softly brown, + Whose wind is rather cold. + + We are not, like yon sad-eyed West, + Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard, + We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest, + But gazing on her lord. + + Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends, + Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair; + Ours is a love that never ends, + For God is dearest there! + + We will not talk about the past, + We will not ponder ancient pain; + Those are but deep foundations cast + For peaks of soaring gain! + + We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones + At our poor smouldering earthly fire; + And talk of wide-eyed living ones + Who have what we desire. + + O Living, ye know what is death-- + We, by and by, shall know it too! + Humble, with bated, hoping breath, + We are coming fast to you! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN_. + + Well for youth to seek the strong, + Beautiful, and brave! + We, the old, who walk along + Gently to the grave, + Only pay our court to thee, + Child of all Eternity! + + We are old who once were young, + And we grow more old; + Songs we are that have been sung, + Tales that have been told; + Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee, + Childhood of Eternity! + + If we come too sudden near, + Lo, Earth's infant cries, + For our faces wan and drear + Have such withered eyes! + Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away + From the wrinkled ones who pray! + + Smile upon us with thy mouth + And thine eyes of grace; + On our cold north breathe thy south. + Thaw the frozen face: + Childhood all from thee doth flow-- + Melt to song our age's snow. + + Gray-haired children come in crowds, + Thee, their Hope, to greet: + Is it swaddling clothes or shrouds + Hampering so our feet? + Eldest child, the shadows gloom: + Take the aged children home. + + We have had enough of play, + And the wood grows drear; + Many who at break of day + Companied us here-- + They have vanished out of sight, + Gone and met the coming light! + + Fair is this out-world of thine, + But its nights are cold; + And the sun that makes it fine + Makes us soon so old! + Long its shadows grow and dim-- + Father, take us back with him! + + +1891. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS MEDITATION_. + + He who by a mother's love + Made the wandering world his own, + Every year comes from above, + Comes the parted to atone, + Binding Earth to the Father's throne. + + Nay, thou comest every day! + No, thou never didst depart! + Never hour hast been away! + Always with us, Lord, thou art, + Binding, binding heart to heart! + + + + + +_THE OLD CASTLE_. + + The brother knew well the castle old, + Every closet, each outlook fair, + Every turret and bartizan bold, + Every chamber, garnished or bare. + The brother was out in the heavenly air; + Little ones lost the starry way, + Wandered down the dungeon stair. + The brother missed them, and on the clay + Of the dungeon-floor he found them all. + Up they jumped when they heard him call! + He led the little ones into the day-- + Out and up to the sunshine gay, + Up to the father's own door-sill-- + In at the father's own room door, + There to be merry and work and play, + There to come and go at their will, + Good boys and girls to be lost no more! + + + + + +CHRISTMAS PRAYER. + + Cold my heart, and poor, and low, + Like thy stable in the rock; + Do not let it orphan go, + It is of thy parent stock! + Come thou in, and it will grow + High and wide, a fane divine; + Like the ruby it will glow, + Like the diamond shine! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE INNOCENTS_. + + Merry, merry we well may be, + For Jesus Christ is come down to see: + Long before, at the top of the stair, + He set our angels a waiting there, + Waiting hither and thither to fly, + Tending the children of the sky, + Lest they dash little feet against big stones, + And tumble down and break little bones; + For the path is rough, and we must not roam; + We have learned to walk, and must follow him home! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY_. + + Star high, + Baby low: + 'Twixt the two + Wise men go; + Find the baby, + Grasp the star-- + Heirs of all things + Near and far! + + + + + +THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN. + + The infant lies in blessed ease + Upon his mother's breast; + No storm, no dark, the baby sees + Invade his heaven of rest. + He nothing knows of change or death-- + Her face his holy skies; + The air he breathes, his mother's breath; + His stars, his mother's eyes! + + Yet half the soft winds wandering there + Are sighs that come of fears; + The dew slow falling through that air-- + It is the dew of tears; + And ah, my child, thy heavenly home + Hath storms as well as dew; + Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome, + And quench the starry blue! + + "My smile would win no smile again, + If baby saw the things + That ache across his mother's brain + The while to him she sings! + Thy faith in me is faith in vain-- + I am not what I seem: + O dreary day, O cruel pain, + That wakes thee from thy dream!" + + Nay, pity not his dreams so fair, + Fear thou no waking grief; + Oh, safer he than though thou were + Good as his vague belief! + There is a heaven that heaven above + Whereon he gazes now; + A truer love than in thy kiss; + A better friend than thou! + + The Father's arms fold like a nest + Both thee and him about; + His face looks down, a heaven of rest, + Where comes no dark, no doubt. + Its mists are clouds of stars that move + On, on, with progress rife; + Its winds, the goings of his love; + Its dew, the dew of life. + + We for our children seek thy heart, + For them we lift our eyes: + Lord, should their faith in us depart, + Let faith in thee arise. + When childhood's visions them forsake, + To women grown and men, + Back to thy heart their hearts oh take, + And bid them dream again. + + + + + +_REJOICE_. + + "Rejoice," said the Sun; "I will make thee gay + With glory and gladness and holiday; + I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice in thyself," said he, "O Sun, + For thy daily course is a lordly one; + In thy lofty place rejoice if thou can: + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Wind; "I am free and strong, + And will wake in thy heart an ancient song; + Hear the roaring woods, my organ noise!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice, O Wind, in thy strength," said he, + "For thou fulfillest thy destiny; + Shake the forest, the faint flowers fan; + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Night, "with moon and star, + For the Sun and the Wind are gone afar; + I am here with rest and dreaming choice!" + But man would not rejoice; + + For he said--"What is rest to me, I pray, + Whose labour leads to no gladsome day? + He only can dream who has hope behind: + Alas for me and my kind!" + + Then a voice that came not from moon or star, + From the sun, or the wind that roved afar, + Said, "Man, I am with thee--hear my voice!" + And man said, "I rejoice." + + + + + +_THE GRACE OF GRACE_. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of some old man in lore complete, + My face would worship at his face, + And I sit lowly at his feet. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of childhood, loving shy, apart, + The child should find a nearer place, + And teach me resting on my heart. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of maiden living all above, + My soul would trample down the base, + That she might have a man to love. + + A grace I had no grace to win + Knocks now at my half open door: + Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in!-- + Thy grace divine is all, and more. + + + + +_ANTIPHON_. + + Daylight fades away. + Is the Lord at hand + In the shadows gray + Stealing on the land? + + Gently from the east + Come the shadows gray; + But our lowly priest + Nearer is than they. + + It is darkness quite. + Is the Lord at hand, + In the cloak of night + Stolen upon the land? + + But I see no night, + For my Lord is here + With him dark is light, + With him far is near. + + List! the cock's awake. + Is the Lord at hand? + Cometh he to make + Light in all the land? + + Long ago he made + Morning in my heart; + Long ago he bade + Shadowy things depart. + + Lo, the dawning hill! + Is the Lord at hand, + Come to scatter ill, + Ruling in the land? + + He hath scattered ill, + Ruling in my mind; + Growing to his will, + Freedom comes, I find. + + We will watch all day, + Lest the Lord should come; + All night waking stay + In the darkness dumb. + + I will work all day, + For the Lord hath come; + Down my head will lay + All night, glad and dumb. + + For we know not when + Christ may be at hand; + But we know that then + Joy is in the land. + + For I know that where + Christ hath come again, + Quietness without care + Dwelleth in his men. + + + + + +_DORCAS_. + + If I might guess, then guess I would + That, mid the gathered folk, + This gentle Dorcas one day stood, + And heard when Jesus spoke. + + She saw the woven seamless coat-- + Half envious, for his sake: + "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought + The honoured thing to make!" + + Her eyes with longing tears grow dim: + She never can come nigh + To work one service poor for him + For whom she glad would die! + + But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word! + And she has heard indeed! + "When did we see thee naked, Lord, + And clothed thee in thy need?" + + "The King shall answer, Inasmuch + As to my brethren ye + Did it--even to the least of such-- + Ye did it unto me." + + Home, home she went, and plied the loom, + And Jesus' poor arrayed. + She died--they wept about the room, + And showed the coats she made. + + + + + +_MARRIAGE SONG_. + + "They have no more wine!" she said. + But they had enough of bread; + And the vessels by the door + Held for thirst a plenteous store: + Yes, _enough_; but Love divine + Turned the water into wine! + + When should wine like water flow, + But when home two glad hearts go! + When, in sacred bondage bound, + Soul in soul hath freedom found! + Such the time when, holy sign, + Jesus turned the water wine. + + Good is all the feasting then; + Good the merry words of men; + Good the laughter and the smiles; + Good the wine that grief beguiles;-- + Crowning good, the Word divine + Turning water into wine! + + Friends, the Master with you dwell! + Daily work this miracle! + When fair things too common grow, + Bring again their heavenly show! + Ever at your table dine, + Turning water into wine! + + So at last you shall descry + All the patterns of the sky: + Earth a heaven of short abode; + Houses temples unto God; + Water-pots, to vision fine, + Brimming full of heavenly wine. + + + + + +_BLIND BARTIMEUS_. + + As Jesus went into Jericho town, + Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, + About blind Bartimeus. + He said, "My eyes are more than dim, + They are no use for seeing him: + No matter--he can see us!" + + "Cry out, cry out, blind brother--cry; + Let not salvation dear go by.-- + Have mercy, Son of David." + Though they were blind, they both could hear-- + They heard, and cried, and he drew near; + And so the blind were saved. + + O Jesus Christ, I am very blind; + Nothing comes through into my mind; + 'Tis well I am not dumb: + Although I see thee not, nor hear, + I cry because thou may'st be near: + O son of Mary, come! + + I hear it through the all things blind: + Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind-- + "Poor eyes, no more be dim"? + A hand is laid upon mine eyes; + I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;-- + 'Tis He! I follow him! + + + + + +_COME UNTO ME_. + + Come unto me, the Master says:-- + But how? I am not good; + No thankful song my heart will raise, + Nor even wish it could. + + I am not sorry for the past, + Nor able not to sin; + The weary strife would ever last + If once I should begin! + + Hast thou no burden then to bear? + No action to repent? + Is all around so very fair? + Is thy heart quite content? + + Hast thou no sickness in thy soul? + No labour to endure? + Then go in peace, for thou art whole; + Thou needest not his cure. + + Ah, mock me not! I often sigh; + I have a nameless grief, + A faint sad pain--but such that I + Can look for no relief. + + Come, come to him who made thy heart; + Come weary and oppressed; + To come to Jesus is thy part, + His part to give thee rest. + + New grief, new hope he will bestow, + Thy grief and pain to quell; + Into thy heart himself will go, + And that will make thee well. + + + + + +_MORNING HYMN_. + + O Lord of life, thy quickening voice + Awakes my morning song! + In gladsome words I would rejoice + That I to thee belong. + + I see thy light, I feel thy wind; + The world, it is thy word; + Whatever wakes my heart and mind, + Thy presence is, my Lord. + + The living soul which I call me + Doth love, and long to know; + It is a thought of living thee, + Nor forth of thee can go. + + Therefore I choose my highest part, + And turn my face to thee; + Therefore I stir my inmost heart + To worship fervently. + + Lord, let me live and will this day-- + Keep rising from the dead; + Lord, make my spirit good and gay-- + Give me my daily bread. + + Within my heart, speak, Lord, speak on, + My heart alive to keep, + Till comes the night, and, labour done, + In thee I fall asleep. + + + + + +_NOONTIDE HYMN_. + + I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, + Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, + Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-- + Thy will, I love it more. + + I love thy hidden truth to seek + All round, in sea, on shore; + The arts whereby like gods we speak-- + Thy will to me is more. + + I love thy men and women, Lord, + The children round thy door; + Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-- + Thy will than these is more. + + But when thy will my life doth hold + Thine to the very core, + The world, which that same will doth mould, + I love, then, ten times more! + + + + + +_EVENING HYMN_. + + O God, whose daylight leadeth down + Into the sunless way, + Who with restoring sleep dost crown + The labour of the day! + + What I have done, Lord, make it clean + With thy forgiveness dear; + That so to-day what might have been, + To-morrow may appear. + + And when my thought is all astray, + Yet think thou on in me; + That with the new-born innocent day + My soul rise fresh and free. + + Nor let me wander all in vain + Through dreams that mock and flee; + But even in visions of the brain, + Go wandering toward thee. + + + + + +_THE HOLY MIDNIGHT_. + + Ah, holy midnight of the soul, + When stars alone are high; + When winds are resting at their goal, + And sea-waves only sigh! + + Ambition faints from out the will; + Asleep sad longing lies; + All hope of good, all fear of ill, + All need of action dies; + + Because God is, and claims the life + He kindled in thy brain; + And thou in him, rapt far from strife, + Diest and liv'st again. + + + + + +_RONDEL_. + + I follow, tottering, in the funeral train + That bears my body to the welcoming grave. + As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave, + But smile as those that lay aside the vain; + + To me it is a thing of poor disdain, + A clod I would not give a sigh to save! + I follow, careless, in the funeral train, + My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave. + + I follow to the grave with growing pain-- + Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave! + And turn in gladness from the yawning cave-- + Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain: + They also follow, in their funeral train, + Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave! + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + When I look back upon my life nigh spent, + Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, + I more of follies than of sins repent, + Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan. + With self, O Father, leave me not alone-- + Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; + Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: + A fool I bring thee to be made a child. + + + + + +_HOME FROM THE WARS_. + + A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, + With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, + Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: + I only faced the foe, and did not flee. + + + + + +_GOD; NOT GIFT_. + + Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; + My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; + Ghastly and dry, my desert shore + Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show. + + 'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; + Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; + Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, + Yea, life itself to wait for thee! + + Lord, here I am, empty enough! + My music but a soundless moan! + Blind hope, of all my household stuff, + Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone! + + Shall hope too go, that I may trust + Purely in thee, and spite of all? + Then turn my very heart to dust-- + On thee, on thee, I yet will call. + + List! list! his wind among the pines + Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's! + O Father, these are but thy signs!-- + For thee I hunger, not for these! + + Not joy itself, though pure and high-- + No gift will do instead of thee! + Let but my spirit know thee nigh, + And all the world may sleep for me! + + + + + +_TO ANY FRIEND_. + + If I did seem to you no more + Than to myself I seem, + Not thus you would fling wide the door, + And on the beggar beam! + + You would not don your radiant best, + Or dole me more than half! + Poor palmer I, no angel guest; + A shaking reed my staff! + + At home, no rich fruit, hanging low, + Have I for Love to pull; + Only unripe things that must grow + Till Autumn's maund be full! + + But I forsake my niggard leas, + My orchard, too late hoar, + And wander over lands and seas + To find the Father's door. + + When I have reached the ancestral farm, + Have clomb the steepy hill, + And round me rests the Father's arm, + Then think me what you will. + + + + + + +VIOLIN SONGS. + + + +_HOPE DEFERRED_. + + Summer is come again. The sun is bright, + And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy + Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light + My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ + Shall be to revel in unlikely things, + In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings, + And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk + Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea; + Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk, + Has grown a paradise for you and me. + + But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth + Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there-- + That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare, + How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!-- + The sweetness is but one pined memory flown + Back from our summer, wandering alone! + See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart, + Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow, + Takes in the changing world its changing part, + Return a sigh, an echo sad and low, + To the faint, scarcely audible sound + With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground! + O love, sad winter lieth at the door-- + Behind sad winter, age--we know no more. + + Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold + Each of us compassed: we are growing old; + And if we be not as a ring enchanted, + Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay, + The young, who claim the joy that haunted + Our visions once, will push us far away + Into the desolate regions, dim and gray, + Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry, + The clouds hang low, and have no tears, + Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years, + And hopes and songs all careless pass us by. + But if all each do keep, + The rising tide of youth will sweep + Around us with its laughter-joyous waves, + As ocean fair some palmy island laves, + To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep; + And our youth hover round us like the breath + Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death. + + Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves, + The sundered doors into one palace home, + Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go, + Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low, + Willing to part, not willing to deny + The lovely past, where all the futures lie. + + Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord, + Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word, + Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth-- + Because there is no age, in sooth, + Beyond its passing shows! + A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows; + Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light + That knows not youth nor age, + That fears no darkness nor the rage + Of windy tempests--burning still more bright + Than when glad youth was all about, + And summer winds were out! + + +1845. + + + + +_DEATH_. + + When in the bosom of the eldest night + This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest; + When through its shaded windows comes no light, + And its pale hands are folded on its breast-- + + How shall I fare, who had to wander out, + And of the unknown land the frontier cross, + Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about, + Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss? + + Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist, + Over the city murmuring beneath; + Over the trees and fields, where'er I list, + Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath? + + Or will a darkness, o'er material shows + Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight; + As from the sun a blotting radiance flows + Athwart the stars all glorious through the night; + + And the still spirit hang entranced, alone, + Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- + Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown, + With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam, + + Thought only waking--thought that may not own + The lapse of ages, or the change of spot; + Its doubt all cast on what it counted known, + Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not? + + Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until, + Our life restored by long and dreamless rest, + Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill, + And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest? + + I nothing know, and nothing need to know. + God is; I shall be ever in his sight! + Give thou me strength to labour well, and so + Do my day's work ere fall my coming night. + + + + + +_HARD TIMES_. + + I am weary, and very lonely, + And can but think--think. + If there were some water only + That a spirit might drink--drink, + And arise, + With light in the eyes + And a crown of hope on the brow, + To walk abroad in the strength of gladness, + Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness-- + As now! + + But, Lord, thy child will be sad-- + As sad as it pleases thee; + Will sit, not seeking to be glad, + Till thou bid sadness flee, + And, drawing near, + With thy good cheer + Awake thy life in me. + + + + + +_IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN_. + + If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, + Pacing it wearily, wearily, + Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- + Wearily, wearily-- + How would it fare with these hearts of ours + That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers? + + To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, + Morning foul or fair!-- + Such prayer as from weary lips might fall-- + Words, but hardly prayer-- + The chapel's roof, like the law in stone, + Caging the lark that up had flown! + + Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, + The God-revealing, + Turning thy face from the boundless boon-- + Painfully kneeling; + Or, in brown-shadowy solitude, + Bending thy head o'er the legend rude! + + I, in a bare and lonely nook, + Gloomily, gloomily, + Poring over some musty book, + Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; + Or painting pictures of things of old + On parchment-margin in purple and gold! + + Perchance in slow procession to meet, + Wearily, wearily, + In antique, narrow, high-gabled street, + Wearily, wearily; + Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then + Heavily sinking to earth again! + + Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring! + Merrily, merrily!-- + Back to its cell each weary thing, + Wearily, wearily! + Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old, + Most at home in the cloister cold! + + Thou slow rising at vespers' call, + Wearily, wearily; + I looking up on the darkening wall, + Wearily, wearily; + The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, + Listless and dead to thee and me! + + At length for sleep a weary assay, + On the lone couch wearily! + Rising at midnight again to pray, + Wearily, wearily! + And if through the dark dear eyes looked in, + Sending them far as a thought of sin! + + And at last, thy tired soul passing away, + Dreamily, dreamily-- + Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay, + Sleepily, sleepily-- + Over thee held the crucified Best, + But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed! + + And then my passing from cell to clay, + Dreamily, dreamily! + My gray head lying on ashes gray, + Sleepily, sleepily! + But no woman-angel hovering above, + Ready to clasp me in deathless love! + + Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine, + Peacefully, peacefully; + My arm round thee, and my lips on thine, + Lovingly, lovingly-- + Oh! is not a better thing to us given + Than wearily going alone to heaven? + + + + + +_MY HEART_. + + I. + + Night, with her power to silence day, + Filled up my lonely room, + Quenching all sounds but one that lay + Beyond her passing doom, + Where in his shed a workman gay + Went on despite the gloom. + + I listened, and I knew the sound, + And the trade that he was plying; + For backwards, forwards, bound on bound, + A shuttle was flying, flying-- + Weaving ever--till, all unwound, + The weft go out a sighing. + + + II. + + As hidden in thy chamber lowest + As in the sky the lark, + Thou, mystic thing, on working goest + Without the poorest spark, + And yet light's garment round me throwest, + Who else, as thou, were dark. + + With body ever clothing me, + Thou mak'st me child of light; + I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea, + The sky's rejoicing height, + A woven glory, globed by thee, + Unknowing of thy might! + + And when thy darkling labours fail, + And thy shuttle moveless lies, + My world will drop, like untied veil + From before a lady's eyes; + Or, all night read, a finished tale + That in the morning dies. + + + III. + + Yet not in vain dost thou unroll + The stars, the world, the seas-- + A mighty, wonder-painted scroll + Of Patmos mysteries, + Thou mediator 'twixt my soul + And higher things than these! + + Thy holy ephod bound on me, + I pass into a seer; + For still in things thou mak'st me see, + The unseen grows more clear; + Still their indwelling Deity + Speaks plainer in mine ear. + + Divinely taught the craftsman is + Who waketh wonderings; + Whose web, the nursing chrysalis + Round Psyche's folded wings, + To them transfers the loveliness + Of its inwoven things. + + Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- + For a greater heart beats on, + Whose better texture follows fleet + On thy last thread outrun, + With a seamless-woven garment, meet + To clothe a death-born son. + + + + + +_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_. + + + Of old, with goodwill from the skies-- + God's message to them given-- + The angels came, a glad surprise, + And went again to heaven. + + But now the angels are grown rare, + Needed no more as then; + Far lowlier messengers can bear + God's goodwill unto men. + + Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn + Breaks from the earth below; + Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn, + The noontide roses glow. + + The snowdrops first--the dawning gray; + Then out the roses burn! + They speak their word, grow dim--away + To holy dust return. + + Of oracles were little dearth, + Should heaven continue dumb; + From lowliest corners of the earth + God's messages will come. + + In thy face his we see, O Lord, + And are no longer blind; + Need not so much his rarer word, + In flowers even read his mind. + + + + + +_TO MY SISTER_, + + ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. + + + I. + + Old fables are not all a lie + That tell of wondrous birth, + Of Titan children, father Sky, + And mighty mother Earth. + + Yea, now are walking on the ground + Sons of the mingled brood; + Yea, now upon the earth are found + Such daughters of the Good. + + Earth-born, my sister, thou art still + A daughter of the sky; + Oh, climb for ever up the hill + Of thy divinity! + + To thee thy mother Earth is sweet, + Her face to thee is fair; + But thou, a goddess incomplete, + Must climb the starry stair. + + + II. + + Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, + Wouldst see the Father's face? + To all his other children bend, + And take the lowest place. + + Be like a cottage on a moor, + A covert from the wind, + With burning fire and open door, + And welcome free and kind. + + Thus humbly doing on the earth + The things the earthly scorn, + Thou shalt declare the lofty birth + Of all the lowly born. + + + III. + + Be then thy sacred womanhood + A sign upon thee set, + A second baptism--understood-- + For what thou must be yet. + + For, cause and end of all thy strife, + And unrest as thou art, + Still stings thee to a higher life + The Father at thy heart. + + + + + +_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_! + + + Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies + Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; + But spring is floating up the southern skies, + And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. + + Let me persuade: in dull December's day + We scarce believe there is a month of June; + But up the stairs of April and of May + The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon. + + Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest. + O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou. + He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-- + And in his heart thy prayer is resting now. + + + + + +_WILD FLOWERS_. + + + Content Primroses, + With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care, + Peeping as from his mother's lap the child + Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!-- + Hanging Harebell, + Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes, + Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!-- + Fluttering-wild + Anemone, so well + Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free, + Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully, + With _Take me or leave me, + Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!-- + Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming + Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!-- + Fire-winged Pimpernel, + Communing with some hidden well, + And secrets with the sun-god holding, + At fixed hour folding and unfolding!-- + How is it with you, children all, + When human children on you fall, + Gather you in eager haste, + Spoil your plenty with their waste-- + Fill and fill their dropping hands? + Feel you hurtfully disgraced + By their injurious demands? + Do you know them from afar, + Shuddering at their merry hum, + Growing faint as near they come? + Blind and deaf they think you are-- + Is it only ye are dumb? + You alive at least, I think, + Trembling almost on the brink + Of our lonely consciousness: + If it be so, + Take this comfort for your woe, + For the breaking of your rest, + For the tearing in your breast, + For the blotting of the sun, + For the death too soon begun, + For all else beyond redress-- + Or what seemeth so to be-- + That the children's wonder-springs + Bubble high at sight of you, + Lovely, lowly, common things: + In you more than you they see! + Take this too--that, walking out, + Looking fearlessly about, + Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt, + And our childhood's faith renew; + So that we, with old age nigh, + Seeing you alive and well + Out of winter's crucible, + Hearing you, from graveyard crept, + Tell us that ye only slept-- + Think we die not, though we die. + + Thus ye die not, though ye die-- + Only yield your being up, + Like a nectar-holding cup: + Deaf, ye give to them that hear, + With a greatness lovely-dear; + Blind, ye give to them that see-- + Poor, but bounteous royally. + Lowly servants to the higher, + Burning upwards in the fire + Of Nature's endless sacrifice, + In great Life's ascent ye rise, + Leave the lowly earth behind, + Pass into the human mind, + Pass with it up into God, + Whence ye came though through the clod-- + Pass, and find yourselves at home + Where but life can go and come; + Where all life is in its nest, + At loving one with holy Best;-- + Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense + Of a past, age-long somnolence! + + + + + +_SPRING SONG_. + + + Days of old, + Ye are not dead, though gone from me; + Ye are not cold, + But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea. + + The sun brings back the swallows fast + O'er the sea; + When he cometh at the last, + The days of old come back to me. + + + + + +_SUMMER SONG_. + + + "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan, + Many a tune in a single tone, + For every ear with a secret true-- + The sea-shell wants to whisper to you." + + "Yes--I hear it--far and faint, + Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint; + Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain; + Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain." + + "By smiling lip and fixed eye, + You are hearing a song within the sigh: + The murmurer has many a lovely phrase-- + Tell me, darling, the words it says." + + "I hear a wind on a boatless main + Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain; + On the dreaming waters dreams the moon-- + But I hear no words in the doubtful tune." + + "If it tell thee not that I love thee well, + 'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell: + If it be not of love, why sigh or sing? + 'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!" + + "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice + Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice; + It says not a word of your love to me, + But it tells me I love you eternally." + + + + +_AUTUMN SONG_. + + + Autumn clouds are flying, flying + O'er the waste of blue; + Summer flowers are dying, dying, + Late so lovely new. + Labouring wains are slowly rolling + Home with winter grain; + Holy bells are slowly tolling + Over buried men. + + Goldener light sets noon a sleeping + Like an afternoon; + Colder airs come stealing, creeping + From the misty moon; + And the leaves, of old age dying, + Earthy hues put on; + Out on every lone wind sighing + That their day is gone. + + Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking + Down to winter low; + And our hearts are thinking, thinking + Of the sleet and snow; + For our sun is slowly sliding + Down the hill of might; + And no moon is softly gliding + Up the slope of night. + + See the bare fields' pillaged prizes + Heaped in golden glooms! + See, the earth's outworn sunrises + Dream in cloudy tombs! + Darkling flowers but wait the blowing + Of a quickening wind; + And the man, through Death's door going, + Leaves old Death behind. + + Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; + Let the gold turn gray; + Feet, though feeble, still may falter + Toward the better day! + Brother, let not weak faith linger + O'er a withered thing; + Mark how Autumn's prophet finger + Burns to hues of Spring. + + + + + +_WINTER SONG_. + + + They were parted then at last? + Was it duty, or force, or fate? + Or did a worldly blast + Blow-to the meeting-gate? + + An old, short story is this! + A glance, a trembling, a sigh, + A gaze in the eyes, a kiss-- + Why will it not go by! + + + + + +PICTURE SONGS. + + + I. + + A pale green sky is gleaming; + The steely stars are few; + The moorland pond is steaming + A mist of gray and blue. + + Along the pathway lonely + My horse is walking slow; + Three living creatures only, + He, I, and a home-bound crow! + + The moon is hardly shaping + Her circle in the fog; + A dumb stream is escaping + Its prison in the bog. + + But in my heart are ringing + Tones of a lofty song; + A voice that I know, is singing, + And my heart all night must long. + + + II. + + Over a shining land-- + Once such a land I knew-- + Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned, + The sky is all white and blue. + + The waves are kissing the shores, + Murmuring love and for ever; + A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars + Flash out of the level river. + + Oh to be there with thee + And the sun, on wet sands, my love! + With the shining river, the sparkling sea, + And the radiant sky above! + + + III. + + The autumn winds are sighing + Over land and sea; + The autumn woods are dying + Over hill and lea; + And my heart is sighing, dying, + Maiden, for thee. + + The autumn clouds are flying + Homeless over me; + The nestless birds are crying + In the naked tree; + And my heart is flying, crying, + Maiden, to thee. + + The autumn sea is crawling + Up the chilly shore; + The thin-voiced firs are calling + Ghostily evermore: + Maiden, maiden! I am falling + Dead at thy door. + + + IV. + + The waters are rising and flowing + Over the weedy stone-- + Over it, over it going: + It is never gone. + + Waves upon waves of weeping + Went over the ancient pain; + Glad waves go over it leaping-- + Still it rises again! + + + + + +_A DREAM SONG_. + + + I dreamed of a song--I heard it sung; + In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung. + What were its words I could not tell, + Only the voice I heard right well, + For its tones unearthly my spirit bound + In a calm delirium of mystic sound-- + Held me floating, alone and high, + Placeless and silent, drinking my fill + Of dews that from cloudless skies distil + On desert places that thirst and sigh. + 'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep, + Rousing old echoes that all day sleep + In cavern and solitude, each apart, + Here and there in the waiting heart;-- + A voice with a wild melodious cry + Reaching and longing afar and high. + Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife, + Gainful death, and new-born life, + Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song. + In my heart it said: O Lord, how long + Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray, + Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day! + + +1842. + + + + +_AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET_. + + + Heaven and the sea attend the dying day, + And in their sadness overflow and blend-- + Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray: + Far out amid them my pale soul I send. + + For, as they mingle, so mix life and death; + An hour draws near when my day too will die; + Already I forecast unheaving breath, + Eviction on the moorland of yon sky. + + Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone, + Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space! + At board and hearth from this time forth unknown! + Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face! + + Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea! + Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky! + Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee! + I am not dead; I live, and cannot die! + + Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before? + Did you fare thus when first ye came this way? + Somewhere there must be yet another door!-- + A door in somewhere from this dreary gray! + + Come walking over watery hill and glen, + Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext; + Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten, + And bring me patient hoping for the next. + + Maker of heaven and earth, father of me, + My words are but a weak, fantastic moan! + Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea, + Thou still wert with me; I were not alone! + + I am in thee, O father, lord of sky, + And lord of waves, and lord of human souls! + In thee all precious ones to me more nigh + Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals! + + I shall not be alone although I die, + And loved ones should delay their coming long; + Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky, + Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song. + + They are thy garments; thou art near within, + Father of fathers, friend-creating friend! + Thou art for ever, therefore I begin; + Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end! + + Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child; + I pray thee, father, give me everything; + Give me the joy that makes the children wild; + Give throat and heart an old new song to sing. + + Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ, + And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere! + With all the true I keep a hoping tryst; + Eternal love is my eternal prayer. + + +1890. + + + +_A FATHER TO A MOTHER_. + + + When God's own child came down to earth, + High heaven was very glad; + The angels sang for holy mirth; + Not God himself was sad! + + Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret? + Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow! + The little one will not forget; + It's only till to-morrow! + + + + + +_THE TEMPLE OF GOD_. + + + In the desert by the bush, + Moses to his heart said _Hush_. + + David on his bed did pray; + God all night went not away. + + From his heap of ashes foul + Job to God did lift his soul, + + God came down to see him there, + And to answer all his prayer. + + On a dark hill, in the wind, + Jesus did his father find, + + But while he on earth did fare, + Every spot was place of prayer; + + And where man is any day, + God can not be far away. + + But the place he loveth best, + Place where he himself can rest, + + Where alone he prayer doth seek, + Is the spirit of the meek. + + To the humble God doth come; + In his heart he makes his home. + + + + + +_GOING TO SLEEP_. + + + Little one, you must not fret + That I take your clothes away; + Better sleep you so will get, + And at morning wake more gay-- + Saith the children's mother. + + You I must unclothe again, + For you need a better dress; + Too much worn are body and brain; + You need everlastingness-- + Saith the heavenly father. + + I went down death's lonely stair; + Laid my garments in the tomb; + Dressed again one morning fair; + Hastened up, and hied me home-- + Saith the elder brother. + + Then I will not be afraid + Any ill can come to me; + When 'tis time to go to bed, + I will rise and go with thee-- + Saith the little brother. + + + + + +_TO-MORROW_. + + + My TO-MORROW is but a flitting + Fancy of the brain; + God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting, + Ready for joy or pain. + + My TO-MORROW has no soul, + Dead as yesterdays; + God's--a brimming silver bowl + Of life that gleams and plays. + + My TO-MORROW, I mock you away! + Shadowless nothing, thou! + God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day, + For God is in thee now. + + + + + +_FOOLISH CHILDREN_. + + + Waking in the night to pray, + Sleeping when the answer comes, + Foolish are we even at play-- + Tearfully we beat our drums! + Cast the good dry bread away, + Weep, and gather up the crumbs! + + "Evermore," while shines the day, + "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!" + Soon as evening groweth gray, + Thy fair will we fain would shun! + "Take, oh, take thy hand away! + See the horrid dark begun!" + + "Thou hast conquered Death," we say, + "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!" + Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay! + Death it is," we cry, "not sleep! + Grave, take all. Shut out the Day. + Sit we on the ground and weep!" + + Gathering potsherds all the day, + Truant children, Lord, we roam; + Fret, and longer want to play, + When at cool thy voice doth come!-- + Elder Brother, lead the way; + Make us good as we go home. + + + +_LOVE IS HOME_. + + + Love is the part, and love is the whole; + Love is the robe, and love is the pall; + Ruler of heart and brain and soul, + Love is the lord and the slave of all! + I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me; + I thank thee more that I love thee. + + Love is the rain, and love is the air, + Love is the earth that holdeth fast; + Love is the root that is buried there, + Love is the open flower at last! + I thank thee, Love all round about, + That the eyes of my love are looking out. + + Love is the sun, and love is the sea; + Love is the tide that comes and goes; + Flowing and flowing it comes to me; + Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows! + Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide! + My sea, and my shore, and all beside! + + Light, oh light that art by showing; + Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion; + Thought, oh thought that art by knowing; + Will, that art born in self-devotion! + Love is you, though not all of you know it; + Ye are not love, yet ye always show it! + + Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father, + Home of our heart-infolded brother, + Home to thee all thy glories gather-- + All are thy love, and there is no other! + O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam-- + Home unto thee, we are coming home! + + + + +_FAITH_. + + + "Earth, if aught should check thy race, + Rushing through unfended space, + Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall + Into yonder glowing ball!" + + "Beggar of the universe, + Faithless as an empty purse! + Sent abroad to cool and tame, + Think'st I fear my native flame?" + + "If thou never on thy track + Turn thee round and hie thee back, + Thou wilt wander evermore, + Outcast, cold--a comet hoar!" + + "While I sweep my ring along + In an air of joyous song, + Thou art drifting, heart awry, + From the sun of liberty!" + + + + + +_WAITING_. + + + I waited for the Master + In the darkness dumb; + Light came fast and faster-- + My light did not come! + + I waited all the daylight, + All through noon's hot flame: + In the evening's gray light, + Lo, the Master came! + + + + + +_OUR SHIP_. + + + Had I a great ship coming home, + With big plunge o'er the sea, + What bright things, hid from star and foam, + Lay in her heart for thee! + + The stormy billows heave and dip, + The wild winds veer and play; + But, regnant all, God's stately ship + Is steering home this way! + + + + + +_MY HEART THY LARK_. + + + Why dost thou want to sing + When thou hast no song, my heart? + If there be in thee a hidden spring, + Wherefore will no word start? + + On its way thou hearest no song, + Yet flutters thy unborn joy! + The years of thy life are growing long-- + Art still the heart of a boy?-- + + Father, I am thy child! + My heart is in thy hand! + Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild, + Of a song in thy high land. + + It will answer--but how, my God, + Thou knowest; I cannot say: + It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod-- + Thy lark to meet thy day! + + + + + +_TWO IN ONE_. + + + Were thou and I the white pinions + On some eager, heaven-born dove, + Swift would we mount to the old dominions, + To our rest of old, my love! + + Were thou and I trembling strands + In music's enchanted line, + We would wait and wait for magic hands + To untwist the magic twine. + + Were we two sky-tints, thou and I, + Thou the golden, I the red; + We would quiver and glow and darken and die, + And love until we were dead! + + Nearer than wings of one dove, + Than tones or colours in chord, + We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love, + Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord. + + + + + +_BEDTIME_. + + + "Come, children, put away your toys; + Roll up that kite's long line; + The day is done for girls and boys-- + Look, it is almost nine! + Come, weary foot, and sleepy head, + Get up, and come along to bed." + + The children, loath, must yet obey; + Up the long stair they creep; + Lie down, and something sing or say + Until they fall asleep, + To steal through caverns of the night + Into the morning's golden light. + + We, elder ones, sit up more late, + And tasks unfinished ply, + But, gently busy, watch and wait-- + Dear sister, you and I, + To hear the Father, with soft tread, + Coming to carry us to bed. + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + + Thou who mad'st the mighty clock + Of the great world go; + Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock, + Ceaseless to and fro; + Thou whose will doth push and draw + Every orb in heaven, + Help me move by higher law + In my spirit graven. + + Like a planet let me swing-- + With intention strong; + In my orbit rushing sing + Jubilant along; + Help me answer in my course + To my seasons due; + Lord of every stayless force, + Make my Willing true. + + + + + +_A SONG PRAYER_. + + + Lord Jesus, + Oh, ease us + Of Self that oppresses, + Annoys and distresses + Body and brain + With dull pain! + Thou never, + Since ever, + Save one moment only, + Wast left, or wast lonely: + We are alone, + And make moan. + + Far parted, + Dull-hearted, + We wander, sleep-walking, + Mere shadows, dim-stalking: + Orphans we roam, + Far from home. + + Oh new man, + Sole human, + God's son, and our brother, + Give each to the other-- + No one left out + In cold doubt! + + High Father, + Oh gather + Thy sons and thy daughters, + Through fires and through waters, + Home to the nest + Of thy breast! + + There under + The wonder + Of great wings of healing, + Of love and revealing, + Teach us anew + To sing true. + + + + + + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS. + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS_. + + + I. + + A glory on the chamber wall! + A glory in the brain! + Triumphant floods of glory fall + On heath, and wold, and plain. + + Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss; + She has, and seeks no more; + Forgets that days come after this, + Forgets the days before. + + Each ripple waves a flickering fire + Of gladness, as it runs; + They laugh and flash, and leap and spire, + And toss ten thousand suns. + + But hark! low, in the world within, + One sad aeolian tone: + "Ah! shall we ever, ever win + A summer of our own?" + + + II. + + A morn of winds and swaying trees-- + Earth's jubilance rushing out! + The birds are fighting with the breeze; + The waters heave about. + + White clouds are swept across the sky, + Their shadows o'er the graves; + Purpling the green, they float and fly + Athwart the sunny waves. + + The long grass--an earth-rooted sea-- + Mimics the watery strife. + To boat or horse? Wild motion we + Shall find harmonious life. + + But whither? Roll and sweep and bend + Suffice for Nature's part; + But motion to an endless end + Is needful for our heart. + + + III. + + The morn awakes like brooding dove, + With outspread wings of gray; + Her feathery clouds close in above, + And roof a sober day. + + No motion in the deeps of air! + No trembling in the leaves! + A still contentment everywhere, + That neither laughs nor grieves! + + A film of sheeted silver gray + Shuts in the ocean's hue; + White-winged feluccas cleave their way + In paths of gorgeous blue. + + Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day, + Thy very clouds are dreams! + Yon child is dreaming far away-- + He is not where he seems. + + IV. + + The lark is up, his faith is strong, + He mounts the morning air; + Lone voice of all the creature throng, + He sings the morning prayer. + + Slow clouds from north and south appear, + Black-based, with shining slope; + In sullen forms their might they rear, + And climb the vaulted cope. + + A lightning flash, a thunder boom!-- + Nor sun nor clouds are there; + A single, all-pervading gloom + Hangs in the heavy air. + + A weeping, wasting afternoon + Weighs down the aspiring corn; + Amber and red, the sunset soon + Leads back to golden morn. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The dreary wind of night is out, + Homeless and wandering slow; + O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt, + It breathes, but will not blow. + + It sighs from out the helpless past, + Where doleful things abide; + Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast + Across its ebbing tide. + + O'er marshy pools it faints and flows, + All deaf and dumb and blind; + O'er moor and mountain aimless goes-- + The listless woesome wind! + + Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night! + The sigh is all in me; + Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might, + Until I wake and see. + + + II. + + The west is broken into bars + Of orange, gold, and gray; + Gone is the sun, fast come the stars, + And night infolds the day. + + My boat glides with the gliding stream, + Following adown its breast + One flowing mirrored amber gleam, + The death-smile of the west. + + The river moves; the sky is still, + No ceaseless quest it knows: + Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill + At sight of its repose. + + The ripples run; all patient sit + The stars above the night. + In shade and gleam the waters flit: + The heavens are changeless bright! + + + III. + + Alone I lie, buried amid + The long luxurious grass; + The bats flit round me, born and hid + In twilight's wavering mass. + + The fir-top floats, an airy isle, + High o'er the mossy ground; + Harmonious silence breathes the while + In scent instead of sound. + + The flaming rose glooms swarthy red; + The borage gleams more blue; + Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed + Glimmers the rich dusk through. + + Hid in the summer grass I lie, + Lost in the great blue cave; + My body gazes at the sky, + And measures out its grave. + + + IV. + + What art thou, gathering dusky cool, + In slow gradation fine? + Death's lovely shadow, flickering full + Of eyes about to shine. + + When weary Day goes down below, + Thou leanest o'er his grave, + Revolving all the vanished show + The gracious splendour gave. + + Or art thou not she rather--say-- + Dark-browed, with luminous eyes, + Of whom is born the mighty Day, + That fights and saves and dies? + + For action sleeps with sleeping light; + Calm thought awakes with thee: + The soul is then a summer night, + With stars that shine and see. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_. + + + I. + + We bore him through the golden land, + One early harvest morn; + The corn stood ripe on either hand-- + He knew all about the corn. + + How shall the harvest gathered be + Without him standing by? + Without him walking on the lea, + The sky is scarce a sky. + + The year's glad work is almost done; + The land is rich in fruit; + Yellow it floats in air and sun-- + Earth holds it by the root. + + Why should earth hold it for a day + When harvest-time is come? + Death is triumphant o'er decay, + And leads the ripened home. + + + II. + + And though the sun be not so warm, + His shining is not lost; + Both corn and hope, of heart and farm, + Lie hid from coming frost. + + The sombre woods are richly sad, + Their leaves are red and gold: + Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad + Signs that we men grow old? + + Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain + From fields and days gone by; + And mournful memories again + Are born, are loved, and die. + + The mornings clear, the evenings cool + Foretell no wintry wars; + The day of dying leaves is full, + The night of glowing stars. + + + III. + + 'Tis late before the sun will rise, + And early he will go; + Gray fringes hang from the gray skies, + And wet the ground below. + + Red fruit has followed golden corn; + The leaves are few and sere; + My thoughts are old as soon as born, + And chill with coming fear. + + The winds lie sick; no softest breath + Floats through the branches bare; + A silence as of coming death + Is growing in the air. + + But what must fade can bear to fade-- + Was born to meet the ill: + Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade! + We sorrow, and are still. + + + IV. + + There is no longer any heaven + To glorify our clouds; + The rising vapours downward driven + Come home in palls and shrouds. + + The sun himself is ill bested + A heavenly sign to show; + His radiance, dimmed to glowing red, + Can hardly further go. + + An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, + Pervade the moveless air; + The year is sinking to its tomb, + And death is everywhere. + + But while sad thoughts together creep, + Like bees too cold to sting, + God's children, in their beds asleep, + Are dreaming of the spring. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + O night, send up the harvest moon + To walk about the fields, + And make of midnight magic noon + On lonely tarns and wealds. + + In golden ranks, with golden crowns, + All in the yellow land, + Old solemn kings in rustling gowns, + The shocks moon-charmed stand. + + Sky-mirror she, afloat in space, + Beholds our coming morn: + Her heavenly joy hath such a grace, + It ripens earthly corn; + + Like some lone saint with upward eyes, + Lost in the deeps of prayer: + The people still their prayers and sighs, + And gazing ripen there. + + II. + + So, like the corn moon-ripened last, + Would I, weary and gray, + On golden memories ripen fast, + And ripening pass away. + + In an old night so let me die; + A slow wind out of doors; + A waning moon low in the sky; + A vapour on the moors; + + A fire just dying in the gloom; + Earth haunted all with dreams; + A sound of waters in the room; + A mirror's moony gleams; + + And near me, in the sinking night, + More thoughts than move in me-- + Forgiving wrong, and loving right, + And waiting till I see. + + + III. + + Across the stubble glooms the wind; + High sails the lated crow; + The west with pallid green is lined; + Fog tracks the river's flow. + + My heart is cold and sad; I moan, + Yet care not for my grief; + The summer fervours all are gone; + The roses are but leaf. + + Old age is coming, frosty, hoar; + The snows of time will fall; + My jubilance, dream-like, no more + Returns for any call! + + O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain + Sends up the blood so spare, + That my poor withering autumn brain + Sees autumn everywhere! + + + IV. + + Lord of my life! if I am blind, + I reck not--thou canst see; + I well may wait my summer mind, + When I am sure of thee! + + _I_ made no brave bright suns arise, + Veiled up no sweet gray eves; + _I_ hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes, + Sent out no windy leaves! + + I said not "I will cast a charm + These gracious forms around;" + My heart with unwilled love grew warm; + I took but what I found! + + When cold winds range my winter-night, + Be thou my summer-door; + Keep for me all my young delight, + Till I am old no more. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS_. + + + I. + + The sky has turned its heart away, + The earth its sorrow found; + The daisies turn from childhood's play, + And creep into the ground. + + The earth is black and cold and hard; + Thin films of dry white ice, + Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred, + The children's feet entice. + + Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned + The winter in the land; + With idle icicles adorned, + That mill-wheel soon will stand. + + But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part, + Is to let in the cold; + We'll make a summer of the heart, + And laugh at winter old. + + + II. + + With vague dead gleam the morning white + Comes through the window-panes; + The clouds have fallen all the night, + Without the noise of rains. + + As of departing, unseen ghost, + Footprints go from the door; + The man himself must long be lost + Who left those footprints hoar! + + Yet follow thou; tread down the snow; + Leave all the road behind; + Heed not the winds that steely blow, + Heed not the sky unkind; + + For though the glittering air grow dark, + The snow will shine till morn; + And long ere then one dear home-spark + Will winter laugh to scorn. + + III. + + Oh wildly wild the roaring blast + Torments the fallen snow! + The wintry storms are up at last, + And care not how they go! + + In foam-like wreaths the water hoar, + Rapt whistling in the air, + Gleams through the dismal twilight frore; + A region in despair, + + A spectral ocean lies outside, + Torn by a tempest dark; + Its ghostly billows, dim descried, + Leap on my stranded bark. + + Death-sheeted figures, long and white, + Rave driving through the spray; + Or, bosomed in the ghastly night, + Shriek doom-cries far away. + + + IV. + + A morning clear, with frosty light + From sunbeams late and low; + They shine upon the snow so white, + And shine back from the snow. + + Down tusks of ice one drop will go, + Nor fall: at sunny noon + 'Twill hang a diamond--fade, and grow + An opal for the moon. + + And when the bright sad sun is low + Behind the mountain-dome, + A twilight wind will come and blow + Around the children's home, + + And puff and waft the powdery snow, + As feet unseen did pass; + While, waiting in its bed below, + Green lies the summer grass. + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + Back shining from the pane, the fire + Seems outside in the snow: + So love set free from love's desire + Lights grief of long ago. + + The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine, + The earth bedecked with moon; + Out on the worlds we surely shine + More radiant than in June! + + In the white garden lies a heap + As brown as deep-dug mould: + A hundred partridges that keep + Each other from the cold. + + My father gives them sheaves of corn, + For shelter both and food: + High hope in me was early born, + My father was so good. + + + II. + + The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms + Across my clouded pane; + Weaves melodies of ancient psalms + All through my passive brain. + + Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head: + My father is in the room; + The very curtains of my bed + Are from Love's sheltering loom! + + The lovely vision melts away; + I am a child no more; + Work rises from the floor of play; + Duty is at the door. + + But if I face with courage stout + The labour and the din, + Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out + My heart with thee stay in. + + + III. + + Up to my ear my soul doth run-- + Her other door is dark; + There she can see without the sun, + And there she sits to mark. + + I hear the dull unheeding wind + Mumble o'er heath and wold; + My fancy leaves my brain behind, + And floats into the cold. + + Like a forgotten face that lies + One of the speechless crowd, + The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes, + White-folded in her shroud. + + O'er leafless woods and cornless farms, + Dead rivers, fireless thorps, + I brood, the heart still throbbing warm + In Nature's wintered corpse. + + IV. + + To all the world mine eyes are blind: + Their drop serene is--night, + With stores of snow piled up the wind + An awful airy height. + + And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye: + The simple faithful stars + Beyond are shining, careless high, + Nor heed our storms and jars. + + And when o'er storm and jar I climb-- + Beyond life's atmosphere, + I shall behold the lord of time + And space--of world and year. + + Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart + Shall ever find its goal! + I turn me home--and there thou art, + My Father, in my soul! + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_. + + + I. + + A gentle wind, of western birth + On some far summer sea, + Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, + Wakes hopes in wintry me. + + The sun is low; the paths are wet, + And dance with frolic hail; + The trees--their spring-time is not yet-- + Swing sighing in the gale. + + Young gleams of sunshine peep and play; + Clouds shoulder in between; + I scarce believe one coming day + The earth will all be green. + + The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, + And flaps his snowy wing: + Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; + Thou canst not bar our spring. + + + II. + + Up comes the primrose, wondering; + The snowdrop droopeth by; + The holy spirit of the spring + Is working silently. + + Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile + The later children out; + O'er woods and farms a sunny smile + Is flickering about. + + The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; + To death almost she slept: + Over her, heaven grew beautiful, + And forth her beauty crept. + + Showers yet must fall, and waters grow + Dark-wan with furrowing blast; + But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, + Till the year flowers at last. + + + III. + + The sky is smiling over me, + Hath smiled away the frost; + White daisies star the sky-like lea, + With buds the wood's embossed. + + Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky + Up through the latticed boughs; + Till comes the green cloud by and by, + It is not time to house. + + Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on; + The winter is forgot; + Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone: + Pain that is past, is not. + + Joy that was past is yet the same: + If care the summer brings, + 'Twill only be another name + For love that broods, not sings. + + + IV. + + Blow on me, wind, from west and south; + Sweet summer-spirit, blow! + Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth, + Who knows not what I know. + + The earth's perfection dawneth soon; + Ours lingereth alway; + We have a morning, not a noon; + Spring, but no summer gay. + + Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn + Crown soon the swift year's life: + In us a higher hope is born, + And claims a longer strife. + + Will heaven be an eternal spring + With summer at the door? + Or shall we one day tell its king + That we desire no more? + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The flush of green that dyed the day + Hath vanished in the moon; + Flower-scents float stronger out, and play + An unborn, coming tune. + + One southern eve like this, the dew + Had cooled and left the ground; + The moon hung half-way from the blue, + No disc, but conglobed round; + + Light-leaved acacias, by the door, + Bathed in the balmy air, + Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore, + And breathed a perfume rare; + + Great gold-flakes from the starry sky + Fell flashing on the deep: + One scent of moist earth floating by, + Almost it made me weep. + + + II. + + Those gorgeous stars were not my own, + They made me alien go! + The mother o'er her head had thrown + A veil I did not know! + + The moon-blanched fields that seaward went, + The palm-flung, dusky shades, + Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent, + No slender, spear-like blades. + + I longed to see the starry host + Afar in fainter blue; + But plenteous grass I missed the most, + With daisies glimmering through. + + The common things were not the same! + I longed across the foam: + From dew-damp earth that odour came-- + I knew the world my home. + + + III. + + The stars are glad in gulfy space-- + Friendly the dark to them! + From day's deep mine, their hiding-place, + Night wooeth every gem. + + A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar, + When up the day is furled, + Shines in the sky a light afar, + Mayhap a home-filled world. + + Sometimes upon the inner sky + We catch a doubtful shine: + A mote or star? A flash in the eye + Or jewel of God's mine? + + A star to us, all glimmer and glance, + May teem with seraphim: + A fancy to our ignorance + May be a truth to Him. + + + IV. + + The night is damp and warm and still, + And soft with summer dreams; + The buds are bursting at their will, + And shy the half moon gleams. + + My soul is cool, as bathed within + By dews that silent weep-- + Like child that has confessed his sin, + And now will go to sleep. + + My body ages, form and hue; + But when the spring winds blow, + My spirit stirs and buds anew, + Younger than long ago. + + Lord, make me more a child, and more, + Till Time his own end bring, + And out of every winter sore + I pass into thy spring. + + + + + +A BOOK OF DREAMS. + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + I lay and dreamed. The Master came, + In seamless garment drest; + I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame, + Not ready to be blest. + + He stretched his arms, and gently sought + To clasp me to his heart; + I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought + He knew me but in part. + + I did not love him as I would! + Embraces were not meet! + I dared not ev'n stand where he stood-- + I fell and kissed his feet. + + Years, years have passed away since then; + Oft hast thou come to me; + The question scarce will rise again + Whether I care for thee. + + In thee lies hid my unknown heart, + In thee my perfect mind; + In all my joys, my Lord, thou art + The deeper joy behind. + + But when fresh light and visions bold + My heart and hope expand, + Up comes the vanity of old + That now I understand: + + Away, away from thee I drift, + Forgetting, not forgot; + Till sudden yawns a downward rift-- + I start--and see thee not. + + Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours! + All in the dark I stray, + Until my spirit fainting cowers + On the threshold of the day. + + Hence not even yet I child-like dare + Nestle unto thy breast, + Though well I know that only there + Lies hid the secret rest. + + But now I shrink not from thy will, + Nor, guilty, judge my guilt; + Thy good shall meet and slay my ill-- + Do with me as thou wilt. + + If I should dream that dream once more, + Me in my dreaming meet; + Embrace me, Master, I implore, + And let me kiss thy feet. + + + II. + + I stood before my childhood's home, + Outside its belt of trees; + All round my glances flit and roam + O'er well-known hills and leas; + + When sudden rushed across the plain + A host of hurrying waves, + Loosed by some witchery of the brain + From far, dream-hidden caves. + + And up the hill they clomb and came, + A wild, fast-flowing sea: + Careless I looked as on a game; + No terror woke in me. + + For, just the belting trees within, + I saw my father wait; + And should the waves the summit win, + There was the open gate! + + With him beside, all doubt was dumb; + There let the waters foam! + No mightiest flood would dare to come + And drown his holy home! + + Two days passed by. With restless toss, + The red flood brake its doors; + Prostrate I lay, and looked across + To the eternal shores. + + The world was fair, and hope was high; + My friends had all been true; + Life burned in me, and Death and I + Would have a hard ado. + + Sudden came back the dream so good, + My trouble to abate: + At his own door my Father stood-- + I just without the gate! + + "Thou know'st what is, and what appears," + I said; "mine eyes to thine + Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears, + But also hear'st with mine:" + + "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay, + How trembles my life's node; + Thou art the potter, I am the clay-- + 'Tis thine to bear the load." + + + III. + + A piece of gold had left my purse, + Which I had guarded ill; + I feared a lack, but feared yet worse + Regret returning still. + + I lifted up my feeble prayer + To him who maketh strong, + That thence no haunting thoughts of care + Might do my spirit wrong. + + And even before my body slept, + Such visions fair I had, + That seldom soul with chamber swept + Was more serenely glad. + + No white-robed angel floated by + On slow, reposing wings; + I only saw, with inward eye, + Some very common things. + + First rose the scarlet pimpernel + With burning purple heart; + I saw within it, and could spell + The lesson of its art. + + Then came the primrose, child-like flower, + And looked me in the face; + It bore a message full of power, + And confidence, and grace. + + And breezes rose on pastures trim + And bathed me all about; + Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim, + Or only half spoke out. + + Sudden it closed, some door of heaven, + But what came out remained: + The poorest man my loss had given + For that which I had gained! + + Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup + Where I bemoaned a sip; + How easily thou didst make up + For that my fault let slip! + + What said the flowers? what message new + Embalmed my soul with rest? + I scarce can tell--only they grew + Right out of God's own breast. + + They said, to every flower he made + God's thought was root and stem-- + Perhaps said what the lilies said + When Jesus looked at them. + + + IV. + + Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake, + Our souls with visions teem + Which to the slumbering brain would take + The form of wondrous dream. + + Once, with my thought-sight, I descried + A plain with hills around; + A lordly company on each side + Leaves bare the middle ground. + + Great terrace-steps at one end rise + To something like a throne, + And thither all the radiant eyes, + As to a centre, shone. + + A snow-white glory, dim-defined, + Those seeking eyes beseech-- + Him who was not in fire or wind, + But in the gentle speech. + + They see his eyes far-fixed wait: + Adown the widening vale + They, turning, look; their breath they bate, + With dread-filled wonder pale. + + In raiment worn and blood-bedewed, + With faltering step and numb, + Toward the shining multitude + A weary man did come. + + His face was white, and still-composed, + As of a man nigh dead; + The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed, + A faint, wan splendour shed. + + Drops on his hair disordered hung + Like rubies dull of hue; + His hands were pitifully wrung, + And stricken through and through. + + Silent they stood with tender awe: + Between their ranks he came; + Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw + What made his feet so lame. + + He reached the steps below the throne, + There sank upon his knees; + Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan, + And spake in words like these:-- + + "Father, I am come back. Thy will + Is sometimes hard to do." + From all that multitude so still + A sound of weeping grew. + + Then mournful-glad came down the One; + He kneeled and clasped his child; + Lay on his breast the outworn man, + And wept until he smiled. + + The people, who, in bitter woe + And love, had sobbed and cried, + Raised aweful eyes at length--and, Lo, + The two sat side by side! + + + V. + + Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood + High in the gloomy air; + One bore a thief, and one the Good; + The other waited bare. + + A soldier came up to the place, + And took me for the third; + My eyes they sought the Master's face, + My will the Master's word. + + He bent his head; I took the sign, + And gave the error way; + Gesture nor look nor word of mine + The secret should betray. + + The soldier from the cross's foot + Turned. I stood waiting there: + That grim, expectant tree, for fruit + My dying form must bear. + + Up rose the steaming mists of doubt + And chilled both heart and brain; + They shut the world of vision out, + And fear saw only pain. + + "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow! + The nails that rend and pierce! + The shock may stun, but, slow and slow, + The torture will grow fierce." + + "Alas, the awful fight with death! + The hours to hang and die! + The thirsting gasp for common breath! + The weakness that would cry!" + + My soul returned: "A faintness soon + Will shroud thee in its fold; + The hours will bring the fearful noon; + 'Twill pass--and thou art cold." + + "'Tis his to care that thou endure, + To curb or loose the pain; + With bleeding hands hang on thy cure-- + It shall not be in vain." + + But, ah, the will, which thus could quail, + Might yield--oh, horror drear! + Then, more than love, the fear to fail + Kept down the other fear. + + I stood, nor moved. But inward strife + The bonds of slumber broke: + Oh! had I fled, and lost the life + Of which the Master spoke? + + VI. + + Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial + The last shades darken, friends say, "_He was good_;" + I struggling fail to speak my faint denial-- + They whisper, "_His humility withstood_." + + I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; + And find the unknown world not all unknown: + The bonds that held me from my centre broken, + I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne. + + How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder; + I think I know what I will say to him; + I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder, + I fear no passing vision great and dim. + + But he knows all my weary sinful story: + How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair? + I come to him in all his conquered glory, + Won from the life that I went dreaming there! + + I come; I fall before him, faintly saying: + "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win? + Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying; + I have no honour--but may I come in?" + + I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable; + To me the earth was very lovely too: + Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able + To love it greatly!--but thou hast got through." + + + +PART II. + + + + I. + + A gloomy and a windy day! + No sunny spot is bare; + Dull vapours, in uncomely play, + Go weltering through the air: + If through the windows of my mind + I let them come and go, + My thoughts will also in the wind + Sweep restless to and fro. + + I drop my curtains for a dream.-- + What comes? A mighty swan, + With plumage like a sunny gleam, + And folded airy van! + She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent + By sea-maids to my shore, + With stately head proud-humbly bent, + And slackening swarthy oar. + + Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, + A water-hollowed cell, + Where echoes of old storms go by, + Like murmurs in a shell. + The waters half the gloomy way + Beneath its arches come; + Throbbing to outside billowy play, + The green gulfs waver dumb. + + Undawning twilights through the cave + In moony glimmers go, + Half from the swan above the wave, + Half from the swan below, + + As to my feet she gently drifts + Through dim, wet-shiny things, + And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts + The shoulders of her wings. + + Old earth is rich with many a nest + Of softness ever new, + Deep, delicate, and full of rest-- + But loveliest there are two: + I may not tell them save to minds + That are as white as they; + But none will hear, of other kinds-- + They all are turned away. + + On foamy mounds between the wings + Of a white sailing swan, + A flaky bed of shelterings, + There you will find the one. + The other--well, it will not out, + Nor need I tell it you; + I've told you one, and can you doubt, + When there are only two? + + Fill full my dream, O splendid bird! + Me o'er the waters bear: + Never was tranquil ocean stirred + By ship so shapely fair! + Nor ever whiteness found a dress + In which on earth to go, + So true, profound, and rich, unless + It was the falling snow! + + Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, + Impatient fan her crown; + I cannot choose but nestle soft + Into the depth of down. + + With oary-pulsing webs unseen, + Out the white frigate sweeps; + In middle space we hang, between + The air- and ocean-deeps. + + Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, + With stroke on stroke we rack; + As down the sinking slope we slide, + She cleaves a talking track-- + Like heather-bells on lonely steep, + Like soft rain on the glass, + Like children murmuring in their sleep, + Like winds in reedy grass. + + Her white breast heaving like a wave, + She beats the solemn time; + With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, + Hearkens the ripples rime. + All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, + I catch the gleam, vague, wide, + With which the waves, from dark to dawn, + Heave up the polished side. + + The night is blue; the stars aglow + Crowd the still, vaulted steep, + Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow + Of the self-murmurous deep-- + A thicker night, with gathered moan! + A dull dethroned sky! + The shadows of its stars alone + Left in to know it by! + + What faints across yon lifted loop + Where the west gleams its last? + With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group + Of Nereids dreaming past. + + Row on, fair swan;--who knows but I, + Ere night hath sought her cave, + May see in splendour pale float by + The Venus of the wave! + + + II. + + A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, + A glory that deepened and grew, + A song of colour and odour + That thrilled her through and through: + 'Twas a dream of too much gladness + Ever to see the light; + They are only dreams of sadness + That weary out the night. + + Slow darkness began to rifle + The nest of the sunset fair; + Dank vapour began to stifle + The scents that enriched the air; + The flowers paled fast and faster, + They crumbled, leaf and crown, + Till they looked like the stained plaster + Of a cornice fallen down. + + And the change crept nigh and nigher, + Inward and closer stole, + Till the flameless, blasting fire + Entered and withered her soul.-- + But the fiends had only flouted + Her vision of the night; + Up came the morn and routed + The darksome things with light. + + Wide awake I have often been in it-- + The dream that all is none; + It will come in the gladdest minute + And wither the very sun. + + Two moments of sad commotion, + One more of doubt's palsied rule-- + And the great wave-pulsing ocean + Is only a gathered pool; + + A flower is a spot of painting, + A lifeless, loveless hue; + Though your heart be sick to fainting + It says not a word to you; + A bird knows nothing of gladness, + Is only a song-machine; + A man is a reasoning madness, + A woman a pictured queen! + + Then fiercely we dig the fountain: + Oh! whence do the waters rise? + Then panting we climb the mountain: + Oh! are there indeed blue skies? + We dig till the soul is weary, + Nor find the water-nest out; + We climb to the stone-crest dreary, + And still the sky is a doubt! + + Let alone the roots of the fountain; + Drink of the water bright; + Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, + Walk in its torrent of light; + Although thou seest no beauty, + Though widowed thy heart yet cries, + With thy hands go and do thy duty, + And thy work will clear thine eyes. + + + III. + + A great church in an empty square, + A haunt of echoing tones! + Feet pass not oft enough to wear + The grass between the stones. + + The jarring hinges of its gates + A stifled thunder boom; + The boding heart slow-listening waits, + As for a coming doom. + + The door stands wide. With hideous grin, + Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, + A gulf of death, all dark within, + Hath swallowed half the floor. + + Its uncouth sides of earth and clay + O'erhang the void below; + Ah, some one force my feet away, + Or down I needs must go! + + See, see the horrid, crumbling slope! + It breathes up damp and fust! + What man would for his lost loves grope + Amid the charnel dust! + + Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high! + Methinks, with anguish dull, + I enter by the empty eye + Into a monstrous skull! + + Stumbling on what I dare not guess, + Blind-wading through the gloom, + Still down, still on, I sink, I press, + To meet some awful doom. + + My searching hands have caught a door + With iron clenched and barred: + Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core, + Grim Death keeps watch and ward! + + Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed, + As if a ghastly wind, + That never bore a leaf or cloud, + Were pressing hard behind. + + They shake, they groan, they outward strain: + What thing of dire dismay + Will freeze its form upon my brain, + And fright my soul away? + + They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack; + The bars, the doors divide; + A flood of glory at their back + Hath burst the portals wide! + + In flows a summer afternoon; + I know the very breeze! + It used to blow the silvery moon + About the summer trees. + + The gulf is filled with flashing tides; + Blue sky through boughs looks in; + Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides + A mazy arras spin. + + The empty church, the yawning cleft, + The earthy, dead despair + Are gone, and I alive am left + In sunshine and in air! + + + IV. + + Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly + Through the ivory wicket creep; + Then suddenly the inward eye + Sees them outside the sleep. + + Once, wandering in the border gray, + I spied one past me swim; + I caught it on its truant way + To nowhere in the dim. + + All o'er a steep of grassy ground, + Lay ruined statues old, + Such forms as never more are found + Save deep in ancient mould, + + A host of marble Anakim + Shattered in deadly fight! + Oh, what a wealth one broken limb + Had been to waking sight! + + But sudden, the weak mind to mock + That could not keep its own, + Without a shiver or a shock, + Behold, the dream was gone! + + For each dim form of marble rare + Stood broken rush or reed; + So bends on autumn field, long bare, + Some tall rain-battered weed. + + The shapeless night hung empty, drear, + O'er my scarce slumbering head; + There is no good in staying here, + My spirit moaned, and fled. + + + V. + + The simplest joys that daily pass + Grow ecstasies in sleep; + A wind on heights of waving grass + In a dream has made me weep. + + No wonder then my heart one night + Was joy-full to the brim: + I was with one whose love and might + Had drawn me close to him! + + But from a church into the street + Came pouring, crowding on, + A troubled throng with hurrying feet, + And Lo, my friend was gone! + + Alone upon a miry road + I walked a wretched plain; + Onward without a goal I strode + Through mist and drizzling rain. + + Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits, + And brick-fields scarred the globe; + Those wastes where desolation sits + Without her ancient robe. + + The dreariness, the nothingness + Grew worse almost than fear; + If ever hope was needful bliss, + Hope sure was needful here! + + Did potent wish work joyous change + Like wizard's glamour-spell? + Wishes not always fruitless range, + And sometimes it is well! + + I know not. Sudden sank the way, + Burst in the ocean-waves; + Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay, + Red rocks and sounding caves! + + Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask-- + Shall earthly dreams, forsooth, + Set the old Heavens too hard a task + To match them with the truth? + + + VI. + + Once more I build a dream, awake, + Which sleeping I would dream; + Once more an unborn fancy take + And try to make it seem! + Some strange delight shall fill my breast, + Enticed from sleep's abyss, + With sense of motion, yet of rest, + Of sleep, yet waking bliss! + + It comes!--I lie on something warm + That lifts me from below; + It rounds me like a mighty arm + Though soft as drifted snow. + A dream, indeed!--Oh, happy me + Whom Titan woman bears + Afloat upon a gentle sea + Of wandering midnight airs! + + A breeze, just cool enough to lave + With sense each conscious limb, + Glides round and under, like a wave + Of twilight growing dim! + She bears me over sleeping towns, + O'er murmuring ears of corn; + O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs, + O'er moorland wastes forlorn. + + The harebells in the mountain-pass + Flutter their blue about; + The myriad blades of meadow grass + Float scarce-heard music out. + Over the lake!--ah! nearer float, + Nearer the water's breast; + Let me look deeper--let me doat + Upon that lily-nest. + + Old homes we brush--in wood, on road; + Their windows do not shine; + Their dwellers must be all abroad + In lovely dreams like mine! + Hark--drifting syllables that break + Like foam-bells on fleet ships! + The little airs are all awake + With softly kissing lips. + + Light laughter ripples down the wind, + Sweet sighs float everywhere; + But when I look I nothing find, + For every star is there. + O lady lovely, lady strong, + Ungiven thy best gift lies! + Thou bear'st me in thine arms along, + Dost not reveal thine eyes! + + Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest, + In darts a pang of loss: + My outstretched hand, for hills of rest, + Finds only mounds of moss! + Faint and far off the stars appear; + The wind begins to weep; + 'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear, + And all but me asleep! + + + + + +ROADSIDE POEMS. + + + + +_BETTER THINGS_. + + + Better to smell the violet + Than sip the glowing wine; + Better to hearken to a brook + Than watch a diamond shine. + + Better to have a loving friend + Than ten admiring foes; + Better a daisy's earthy root + Than a gorgeous, dying rose. + + Better to love in loneliness + Than bask in love all day; + Better the fountain in the heart + Than the fountain by the way. + + Better be fed by mother's hand + Than eat alone at will; + Better to trust in God, than say, + My goods my storehouse fill. + + Better to be a little wise + Than in knowledge to abound; + Better to teach a child than toil + To fill perfection's round. + + Better to sit at some man's feet + Than thrill a listening state; + Better suspect that thou art proud + Than be sure that thou art great. + + Better to walk the realm unseen + Than watch the hour's event; + Better the _Well done, faithful slave_! + Than the air with shoutings rent. + + Better to have a quiet grief + Than many turbulent joys; + Better to miss thy manhood's aim + Than sacrifice the boy's. + + Better a death when work is done + Than earth's most favoured birth; + Better a child in God's great house + Than the king of all the earth. + + + + + +_AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT_. + + + My wife contrived a fleecy thing + Her husband to infold, + For 'tis the pride of woman still + To cover from the cold: + My daughter made it a new text + For a sermon very old. + + The child came trotting to her side, + Ready with bootless aid: + "Lily make veckit for papa," + The tiny woman said: + Her mother gave the means and ways, + And a knot upon her thread. + + "Mamma, mamma!--it won't come through!" + In meek dismay she cried. + Her mother cut away the knot, + And she was satisfied, + Pulling the long thread through and through, + In fabricating pride. + + Her mother told me this: I caught + A glimpse of something more: + Great meanings often hide behind + The little word before! + And I brooded over my new text + Till the seed a sermon bore. + + Nannie, to you I preach it now-- + A little sermon, low: + Is it not thus a thousand times, + As through the world we go? + Do we not tug, and fret, and cry-- + Instead of _Yes, Lord--No_? + + While all the rough things that we meet + Which will not move a jot, + The hindrances to heart and feet, + _The Crook in every Lot_, + Mean plainly but that children's threads + Have at the end a knot. + + This world of life God weaves for us, + Nor spares he pains or cost, + But we must turn the web to clothes + And shield our hearts from frost: + Shall we, because the thread holds fast, + Count labour vain and lost? + + If he should cut away the knot, + And yield each fancy wild, + The hidden life within our hearts-- + His life, the undefiled-- + Would fare as ill as I should fare + From the needle of my child. + + As tack and sheet unto the sail, + As to my verse the rime, + + As mountains to the low green earth-- + So hard for feet to climb, + As call of striking clock amid + The quiet flow of time, + + As sculptor's mallet to the birth + Of the slow-dawning face, + As knot upon my Lily's thread + When she would work apace, + God's _Nay_ is such, and worketh so + For his children's coming grace. + + Who, knowing God's intent with him, + His birthright would refuse? + What makes us what we have to be + Is the only thing to choose: + We understand nor end nor means, + And yet his ways accuse! + + This is my sermon. It is preached + Against all fretful strife. + Chafe not with anything that is, + Nor cut it with thy knife. + Ah! be not angry with the knot + That holdeth fast thy life. + + + + + +_LITTLE ELFIE_. + + + I have a puppet-jointed child, + She's but three half-years old; + Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild + With looks both shy and bold. + + Like little imps, her tiny hands + Dart out and push and take; + Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, + And like two leaves they shake. + + But to her mind a minute gone + Is like a year ago; + And when you lift your eyes anon, + Anon you must say _No_! + + Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, + She has her sleepless fits; + Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair + The elfish mortal sits;-- + + Where, if by chance in mood more grave, + A hermit she appears + Propped in the opening of his cave, + Mummied almost with years; + + Or like an idol set upright + With folded legs for stem, + Ready to hear prayers all the night + And never answer them. + + But where's the idol-hermit thrust? + Her knees like flail-joints go! + Alternate kiss, her mother must, + Now that, now this big toe! + + I turn away from her, and write + For minutes three or four: + A tiny spectre, tall and white, + She's standing by the door! + + Then something comes into my head + That makes me stop and think: + She's on the table, the quadruped, + And dabbling in my ink! + + O Elfie, make no haste to lose + Thy ignorance of offence! + Thou hast the best gift I could choose, + A heavenly confidence. + + 'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, + To put you in the ark! + Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, + Sleep shining through the dark. + + + + + +_RECIPROCITY_. + + + Her mother, Elfie older grown, + One evening, for adieu, + Said, "You'll not mind being left alone, + For God takes care of you!" + + In child-way her heart's eye did see + The correlation's node: + "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me, + An' I take care o' God." + + The child and woman were the same, + She changed not, only grew; + 'Twixt God and her no shadow came: + The true is always true! + + As daughter, sister, promised wife, + Her heart with love did brim: + Now, sure, it brims as full of life, + Hid fourteen years in him! + + +1892. + + + + +_THE SHADOWS_. + + + My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks, + And dreamy, large, brown eyes, + Not often, little wisehead, speaks, + But hearing, weighs and tries. + + "God is not only in the sky," + His sister said one day-- + Not older much, but she would cry + Like Wisdom in the way-- + + "He's in this room." His dreamy, clear, + Large eyes look round for God: + In vain they search, in vain they peer; + His wits are all abroad! + + "He is not here, mamma? No, no; + I do not see him at all! + He's not the shadows, is he?" So + His doubtful accents fall-- + + Fall on my heart, no babble mere! + They rouse both love and shame: + But for earth's loneliness and fear, + I might be saying the same! + + Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break + And home the shadows flee, + In my dim room even yet I take + Those shadows, Lord, for thee! + + + + + +_THE CHILD-MOTHER_. + + + Heavily slumbered noonday bright + Upon the lone field, glory-dight, + A burnished grassy sea: + The child, in gorgeous golden hours, + Through heaven-descended starry flowers, + Went walking on the lea. + + Velvety bees make busy hum; + Green flies and striped wasps go and come; + The butterflies gleam white; + Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro + The dragon-flies like arrows go, + Or hang in moveless flight:-- + + Not one she followed; like a rill + She wandered on with quiet will; + Received, but did not miss; + Her step was neither quick nor long; + Nought but a snatch of murmured song + Ever revealed her bliss. + + An almost solemn woman-child, + Not fashioned frolicsome and wild, + She had more love than glee; + And now, though nine and nothing more, + Another little child she bore, + Almost as big as she. + + No silken cloud from solar harms + Had she to spread; with shifting arms + She dodged him from the sun; + Mother and sister both in heart, + She did a gracious woman's part, + Life's task even now begun! + + They came upon a stagnant ditch, + The slippery sloping banks of which + More varied blossoms line; + Some ragged-robins baby spies, + Stretches his hands, and crows and cries, + Plain saying, "They are mine!" + + What baby wants, that baby has-- + A law unalterable as + The poor shall serve the rich: + They are beyond her reach--almost! + She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed, + Topples into the ditch. + + Adown the side she slanting rolled, + But her two arms convulsive hold + The precious baby tight; + She lets herself sublimely go, + And in the ditch's muddy flow + Stands up, in evil plight. + + 'Tis nothing that her feet are wet, + But her new shoes she can't forget-- + They cost five shillings bright! + Her petticoat, her tippet blue, + Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue! + But baby is all right! + + And baby laughs, and baby crows; + And baby being right, she knows + That nothing can be wrong; + So, with a troubled heart yet stout, + She plans how _ever_ to get out + With meditation long. + + The high bank's edge is far away, + The slope is steep, and made of clay; + And what to do with baby? + For even a monkey, up to run, + Would need his four hands, every one:-- + She is perplexed as may be. + + And all her puzzling is no good! + Blank-staring up the side she stood, + Which, settling she, grew higher. + At last, seized with a fresh dismay + Lest baby's patience should give way, + She plucked her feet from the mire, + + And up and down the ditch, not glad, + But patient, very, did promenade-- + Splash, splash, went her small feet! + And baby thought it rare good fun, + Sucking his bit of pulpy bun, + And smelling meadow-sweet. + + But, oh, the world that she had left-- + The meads from her so lately reft-- + Poor infant Proserpine! + A fabled land they lay above, + A paradise of sunny love, + In breezy space divine! + + Frequent from neighbouring village-green + Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen, + And barks of well-known dogs, + While she, the hot sun overhead, + Her lonely watery way must tread + In mud and weeds and frogs! + + Sudden, the ditch about her shakes; + Her little heart, responsive, quakes + With fear of uncouth woes; + She lifts her boding eyes perforce-- + To see the huge head of a horse + Go past upon its nose. + + Then, hark, what sounds of tearing grass + And puffing breath!--With knobs of brass + On horns of frightful size, + A cow's head through the broken hedge + Looks awful from the other edge, + Though mild her pondering eyes. + + The horse, the cow are passed and gone; + The sun keeps going on and on, + And still no help comes near.-- + At misery's last--oh joy, the sound + Of human footsteps on the ground! + She cried aloud, "_I_'m here!" + + It was a man--oh, heavenly joy! + He looked amazed at girl and boy, + And reached his hand so strong: + "Give me the child," he said; but no! + Care would not let the burden go + Which Love had borne so long. + + Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands, + And them unparted safely lands + In the upper world again. + Her low thanks feebly murmured, she + Drags her legs homeward painfully-- + Poor, wet, one-chickened hen! + + Arrived at length--Lo, scarce a speck + Was on the child from heel to neck, + Though she was sorely mired! + No tear confessed the long-drawn rack, + Till her mother took the baby back, + And the she cried, "I'm tired!" + + And, intermixed with sobbing wail, + She told her mother all the tale, + Her wet cheeks in a glow: + "But, mother, mother, though I fell, + I kept the baby pretty well-- + I did not let him go!" + + + + + +_HE HEEDED NOT_. + + + Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, + And sermons of the silent stone; + To read in brooks the print so clear + Of motion, shadowy light, and tone-- + That man hath neither eye nor ear + Who careth not for human moan. + + Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste, + From sin that passeth helpless by; + The weak antennae of whose taste + From touch of alien grossness fly-- + Shall, banished to the outer waste, + Never in Nature's bosom lie. + + But he whose heart is full of grace + To his own kindred all about, + Shall find in lowest human face, + Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt, + More than in Nature's holiest place + Where mountains dwell and streams run out. + + Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear, + In suburb-ways, one summer morn; + A wretched alley I drew near + Whence on the air the sounds were borne-- + Growls breaking into curses clear, + And shrill retorts of keener scorn. + + Slow from its narrow entrance came, + His senses drowned with revels dire, + Scarce fit to answer to his name, + A man unconscious save of ire; + Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame + Broke from the embers of his fire. + + He cast a glance of stupid hate + Behind him, every step he took, + Where followed him, like following fate, + An aged crone, with bloated look: + A something checked his listless gait; + She neared him, rating till she shook. + + Why stood he still to be disgraced? + What hindered? Lost in his employ, + His eager head high as his waist, + Half-buttressed him a tiny boy, + An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced, + Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy. + + Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled + For one poor coin to keep the peace + With hunger! or home would have led + And given him up to sleep's release: + Well he might know the good of bed + To make the drunken fever cease! + + Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird + He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher, + But no expostulating word + Did in his anxious soul aspire; + With humbler care his heart was stirred, + With humbler service to his sire. + + He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red, + Though forward leaning, held his foot + Lest on the darling he should tread: + A misty sense had taken root + Somewhere in his bewildered head + That round him kindness hovered mute. + + The words his simmering rage did spill + Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn; + Safer than bee whose dodging skill + And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn, + The boy, absorbed in loving will, + Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn. + + Over his calm, unconscious face + No motion passed, no change of mood; + Still as a pool in its own place, + Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood, + It kept its quiet shadowy grace, + As round it all things had been good. + + Was the boy deaf--the tender palm + Of him that made him folded round + The little head to keep it calm + With a _hitherto_ to every sound-- + And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm + Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound? + + Or came in force the happy law + That customed things themselves erase? + Or was he too intent for awe? + Did love take all the thinking place? + I cannot tell; I only saw + An earnest, fearless, hopeless face. + + + + + +_THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT_. + + + The thousand streets of London gray + Repel all country sights; + But bar not winds upon their way, + Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay + In depth of summer nights. + + And here and there an open spot, + Still bare to light and dark, + With grass receives the wanderer hot; + There trees are growing, houses not-- + They call the place a park. + + Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, + God's sheep from hill and plain, + Flow thitherward in fitful tides, + There weary lie on woolly sides, + Or crop the grass amain. + + And from dark alley, yard, and den, + In ragged skirts and coats, + Come thither children of poor men, + Wild things, untaught of word or pen-- + The little human goats. + + In Regent's Park, one cloudless day, + An overdriven sheep, + Come a hard, long, and dusty way, + Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay, + A panting woollen heap. + + But help is nearer than we know + For ills of every name: + Ragged enough to scare the crow, + But with a heart to pity woe, + A quick-eyed urchin came. + + Little he knew of field or fold, + Yet knew what ailed; his cap + Was ready cup for water cold; + Though creased, and stained, and very old, + 'Twas not much torn, good hap! + + Shaping the rim and crown he went, + Till crown from rim was deep; + The water gushed from pore and rent, + Before he came one half was spent-- + The other saved the sheep. + + O little goat, born, bred in ill, + Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn, + Thou to the sheep from breezy hill + Wast bishop, pastor, what you will, + In London dry and lorn! + + And let priests say the thing they please, + My faith, though poor and dim, + Thinks he will say who always sees, + In doing it to one of these + Thou didst it unto him. + + + + +_THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER_. + + + When things are holding wonted pace + In wonted paths, without a trace + Or hint of neighbouring wonder, + Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, + A scent, a vision, swift, alone, + Breaks common life asunder. + + Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door, + It makes you ponder something more-- + Unseen with seen things linking: + To neighbours met one festive night, + Was given a quaint and lovely sight, + That set some of them thinking. + + They stand, in music's fetters bound + By a clear brook of warbled sound, + A canzonet of Haydn, + When the door slowly comes ajar-- + A little further--just as far + As shows a tiny maiden. + + Softly she enters, her pink toes + Daintily peeping, as she goes, + Her long nightgown from under. + The varied mien, the questioning look + Were worth a picture; but she took + No notice of their wonder. + + They made a path, and she went through; + She had her little chair in view + Close by the chimney-corner; + She turned, sat down before them all, + Stately as princess at a ball, + And silent as a mourner. + + Then looking closer yet, they spy + What mazedness hid from every eye + As ghost-like she came creeping: + They see that though sweet little Rose + Her settled way unerring goes, + Plainly the child is sleeping. + + "Play on, sing on," the mother said; + "Oft music draws her from her bed."-- + Dumb Echo, she sat listening; + Over her face the sweet concent + Like winds o'er placid waters went, + Her cheeks like eyes were glistening. + + Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold + Like long grass drooping on the wold + Her sightless head is bending; + She sits all ears, and drinks her fill, + Then rising goes, sedate and still, + On silent white feet wending. + + Surely, while she was listening so, + Glad thoughts in her went to and fro + Preparing her 'gainst sorrow, + And ripening faith for that sure day + When earnest first looks out of play, + And thought out of to-morrow. + + She will not know from what fair skies + Troop hopes to front anxieties-- + In what far fields they gather, + Until she knows that even in sleep, + Yea, in the dark of trouble deep, + The child is with the Father. + + + + +_A DREAM OF WAKING_. + + + A child was born in sin and shame, + Wronged by his very birth, + Without a home, without a name, + One over in the earth. + + No wifely triumph he inspired, + Allayed no husband's fear; + Intruder bare, whom none desired, + He had a welcome drear. + + Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift + For knocking at earth's gate, + His mother, like an evil gift, + Shunned him with sickly hate. + + And now the mistress on her knee + The unloved baby bore, + The while the servant sullenly + Prepared to leave her door. + + Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, + Her chickens to the hen; + All young ones bring with them their love, + Of sheep, or goats, or men! + + This one lone child shall not have come + In vain for love to seek: + Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, + A sister-babe will speak! + + "Mother, keep baby--keep him _so_; + Don't let him go away." + "But, darling, if his mother go, + Poor baby cannot stay." + + "He's crying, mother: don't you see + He wants to stay with you?" + "No, child; he does not care for me." + "Do keep him, mother--_do_." + + "For his own mother he would cry; + He's hungry now, I think." + "Give him to me, and let _me_ try + If I can make him drink." + + "Susan would hurt him! Mother _will_ + Let the poor baby stay?" + Her mother's heart grew sore, but still + Baby must go away! + + The red lip trembled; the slow tears + Came darkening in her eyes; + Pressed on her heart a weight of fears + That sought not ease in cries. + + 'Twas torture--must not be endured!-- + A too outrageous grief! + Was there an ill could _not_ be cured? + She _would_ find some relief! + + All round her universe she pried: + No dawn began to break: + In prophet-agony she cried-- + "Mother! when _shall_ we wake?" + + O insight born of torture's might!-- + Such grief _can_ only seem. + Rise o'er the hills, eternal light, + And melt the earthly dream. + + + + + +_A MANCHESTER POEM_. + + + 'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. + The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold + The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, + And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks, + A black precipitate, on miry streets. + And faces gray glide through the darkened fog. + + Slave engines utter again their ugly growl, + And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone + That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver + Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells, + Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms + To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength + With labour; and among the many come + A man and woman--the woman with her gown + Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck + Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar, + And clash, and shudder of the awful force, + They enter and part--each to a different task, + But each a soul of knowledge to brute force, + Working a will through the organized whole + Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws + Wherewith small man has eked his body out, + And made himself a mighty, weary giant. + In labour close they pass the murky day, + 'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels, + And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads, + Which weave a sultry chaos all about; + Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow + Up from the caves of night to make an end, + Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms, + The monster-engines, and the flying gear. + 'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home + Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse + Her tired children--like a mother-ghost + With her neglected darlings in the dark. + So out they walk, with sense of glad release, + And home--to a dreary place! Unfinished walls, + Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools + Lie round it like a rampart against the spring, + The summer, and all sieges of the year. + + But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire! + The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs + Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light, + Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts; + Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread; + And in the twilight edges of the light, + A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil, + Their faces--hiding God's own holiest place! + Even their bed figures the would-be grave + Where One arose triumphant, slept no more! + So at their altar-table they sit down + To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart + That reads the live will in the dead command, + _He_ is the bread, yea, all of every meal. + But as, in weary rest, they silent sit, + They gradually grow aware of light + That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind, + Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms + That make a cross of darkness on the white. + The woman rises, eagerly looks out: + Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog, + And, far aloft, the white exultant moon, + From her blue window, curtained all with white, + Looks greeting them--God's creatures they and she! + Smiling she turns; he understands the smile: + To-morrow will be fair--as holy, fair! + And lying down, in sleep they die till morn, + While through their night throb low aurora-gleams + Of resurrection and the coming dawn. + They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there, + But thin and ghostly--clothed upon with light, + As if, while they were sleeping, she had died. + They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire, + And, through their lowly door, enter God's room. + The sun is up, the emblem on his shield. + One side the street, the windows all are moons + To light the other side that lies in shade. + See, down the sun-side, an old woman come + In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad! + A long-belated autumn-flower she seems, + Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life + Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun, + But in her cloak and smile they know the spring, + And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets + Widening to larger glimmers of growing green. + Oh, far away the streets repel the spring! + Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares + The life that thrills anew the outworn earth, + A right Bethesda angel--for all, not some! + + A street unfinished leads them forth at length + Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart, + Stand waiting in the air as for some good, + And the sky is broad and blue--and there is all! + No peaceful river meditates along + The weary flat to the less level sea! + No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs + Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft + A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves! + No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks + Down babbling with the news of silent things! + But love itself is commonest of all, + And loveliest of all, in all the worlds! + And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill, + Must learn to read aright what commoner books + Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes-- + Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades, + And misty minglings of the sea and sky. + If only fields--the humble man of heart + Will revel in the grass beneath his foot, + And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven, + God's palette, where his careless painter-hand + Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul; + Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks; + Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags; + Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark. + To them the sun and air are feast enough, + As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk; + But sometimes, on the far horizon dim + A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills, + Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky; + Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks + As for some thing forgot--loved long ago, + But on the hither verge of childhood dropt: + 'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring! + Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life, + Which _is_ because it _would be_, fill the world; + The very light is new-born with the grass; + The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells, + Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close + And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm + In every little corner, nest, and crack + Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed + Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun. + The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life + Oozes exuberant in brown and green, + Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined + With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change. + Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes, + Calling and rousing the dull sap within: + The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous, + From airy root thrilling to earthy branch. + And though as yet no buddy baby dots + Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs, + The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell + In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath. + The sun had left behind him the keystone + Of his low arch half-way when they turned home, + Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring: + Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house + To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought. + + But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced + Upon a spot where once had been a home, + And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss. + 'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet + Lay the old shadow of a vanished care; + The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map + Was yet discernible by thinner grass + Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry + Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds, + A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop, + The lonely remnant of a family + That in the garden dwelt about the home-- + Reviving with the spring when home was gone: + They see; its spiritual counterpart + Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls-- + A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness, + The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child, + That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head + As it had nought to say 'gainst any world; + While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself, + Inherit in their meekness all the worlds. + + I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer + Upon the verge of my humanity. + Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart + The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass-- + White-minded memory of lowly friends! + But almost more I love thee for the earth + Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy, + Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave; + Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure + Upon thy road into the light and air, + The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain + Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth + Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings, + I love the cognizance of our family. + + With careful hands uprooting it, they bore + The little plant a willing captive home-- + Fearless of dark abode, because secure + In its own tale of light. As once of old + The angel of the annunciation shone, + Bearing all heaven into a common house, + It brings in with it field and sky and air. + A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth, + Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, + Its world the priests of that small temple-room, + It takes its prophet-place with fire and book, + Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc + Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky. + At night, when the dark shadow of the cross + Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan + Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower + Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird + Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun, + And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged, + Will break into its song--Lo, God is light! + + Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go; + And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white + Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen. + + * * * * * + + Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room, + My precious books, the cherub-forms above, + And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods; + And roving odours met me on my way. + I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault + Of boughs, and clouded leaves--filmy and pale + Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet + Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay + Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring. + The place was silent, save for the broken song + Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird + That burst into a carol and was still; + It was not lonely: golden beetles crept, + Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things + Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery; + And here and yonder a flaky butterfly + Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. + But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace, + Drove a dividing wedge, and far away + It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away + By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:-- + Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope? + In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay + Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! + My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, + And summer crushed it with its weight of light! + + Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, + Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore; + Summer is too complete for growing hearts-- + Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, + Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; + Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave; + We need a broken season, where the cloud + Is ruffled into glory, and the dark + Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world + Whose shadows ever point away from it; + A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres, + And circles cut, and perfect laws the while + That marvellous imperfection ever points + To higher perfectness than heart can think; + Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring, + Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, + Is lovely as was never rosiest rose; + A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry, + Says more than lily, stately in breathing white; + A window through a vaulted roof of rain + Lets in a light that comes from farther away, + And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy + Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world: + Man seeks a better home than Paradise; + Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, + A disappointment better than a feast, + And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea + Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four. + + + + + +_WHAT THE LORD SAITH_. + + + Trust my father, saith the eldest-born; + I did trust him ere the earth began; + Not to know him is to be forlorn; + Not to love him is--not to be man. + + He that knows him loves him altogether; + With my father I am so content + That through all this dreary human weather + I am working, waiting, confident. + + He is with me; I am not alone; + Life is bliss, because I am his child; + Down in Hades will I lay the stone + Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled. + + Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story! + Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me: + Our one father is a perfect glory; + He is light, and there is none but he. + + Come then with me; I will lead the way; + All of you, sore-hearted, heavy-shod, + Come to father, yours and mine, I pray; + Little ones, I pray you, come to God! + + + + + +_HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG_? + + + How shall he sing who hath no song? + He laugh who hath no mirth? + Will cannot wake the sleeping song! + Yea, Love itself in vain may long + To sing with them that have a song, + Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth! + He who would sing but hath no song + Must speak the right, denounce the wrong, + Must humbly front the indignant throng, + Must yield his back to Satire's thong, + Nor shield his face from liar's prong, + Must say and do and be the truth, + And fearless wait for what ensueth, + Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong, + Until God's glory fill the earth; + Then shall he sing who had no song, + He laugh who had no mirth! + + Yea, if in land of stony dearth + Like barren rock thou sit, + Round which the phantom-waters flit + Of heart- and brain-mirage + That can no thirst assuage, + Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long; + A right sea comes to drown the wrong; + God's glory comes to fill the earth, + And thou, no more a scathed rock, + Shalt start alive with gladsome shock, + Shalt a hand-clapping billow be, + And shout with the eternal sea! + + To righteousness and love belong + The dance, the jubilance, the song, + When the great Right hath quelled the wrong, + And Truth hath stilled the lying tongue! + Then men must sing because of song, + And laugh because of mirth! + And this shall be their anthem strong-- + Hallow! the glad God fills the earth, + And Love sits down by every hearth! + + + + + +_THIS WORLD_. + + + Thy world is made to fit thine own, + A nursery for thy children small, + The playground-footstool of thy throne, + Thy solemn school-room, Father of all! + When day is done, in twilight's gloom, + We pass into thy presence-room. + + Because from selfishness and wrath, + Our cold and hot extremes of ill, + We grope and stagger on the path-- + Thou tell'st us from thy holy hill, + With icy storms and sunshine rude, + That we are all unripe in good. + + Because of snaky things that creep + Through our soul's sea, dim-undulant, + Thou fill'st the mystery of thy deep + With faces heartless, grim, and gaunt; + That we may know how ugly seem + The things our spirit-oceans teem. + + Because of half-way things that hold + Good names, and have a poisonous breath-- + Prudence that is but trust in gold, + And faith that is but fear of death-- + Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, + Thou sendest some that are not good. + + Thou stay'st thy hand from finishing things + To make thy child love the complete; + Full many a flower comes up thy springs + Unshamed in imperfection sweet; + That through good all, and good in part, + Thy work be perfect in the heart. + + Because, in careless confidence, + So oft we leave the narrow way, + Its borders thorny hedges fence, + Beyond them marshy deeps affray; + But farther on, the heavenly road + Lies through the gardens of our God. + + Because thy sheep so often will + Forsake the meadow cool and damp + To climb the stony, grassless hill, + Or wallow in the slimy swamp, + Thy sicknesses, where'er they roam, + Go after them to bring them home. + + One day, all fear, all ugliness, + All pain, all discord, dumb or loud, + All selfishness, and all distress, + Will melt like low-spread morning cloud, + And heart and brain be free from thrall, + Because thou, God, art all in all! + + + + + +_SAINT PETER_. + + + O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt? + Indeed the spray flew fast about, + But he was there whose walking foot + Could make the wandering hills take root; + And he had said, "Come down to me," + Else hadst thou not set foot on sea! + Christ did not call thee to thy grave! + Was it the boat that made thee brave? + + "Easy for thee who wast not there + To think thou more than I couldst dare! + It hardly fits thee though to mock + Scared as thou wast that railway shock! + Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go-- + The plague will soon be here, I know!' + Who, when thy child slept--not to death-- + Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'" + + Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! + It needs no tempest me to quell, + Not even a spent lash of its spray! + Things far too little to affray + Will wake the doubt that's worst of all-- + Is there a God to hear me call? + But if he be, I never think + That he will hear and let me sink! + + Lord of my little faith, my Lord, + Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; + Let not the cross itself appall + Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; + Let reeling brain nor fainting heart + Wipe out the soreness that thou art; + Dwell farther in than doubt can go, + And make _I hope_ become _I know_. + Then, sure, if thou should please to say, + "Come to my side," some stormy way, + My feet, atoning to thy will, + Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still; + No heart of lead shall sink me where + Prudence lies crowned with cold despair, + But I shall reach and clasp thy hand, + And on the sea forget the land! + + + + + +_ZACCHAEUS_. + + + To whom the heavy burden clings, + It yet may serve him like a staff; + One day the cross will break in wings, + The sinner laugh a holy laugh. + + The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree, + His humble stature set him high; + The Lord the little man did see + Who sought the great man passing by. + + Up to the tree he came, and stopped: + "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide." + A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped, + Ripe for the Master, at his side. + + Sure never host with gladder look + A welcome guest home with him bore! + Then rose the Satan of rebuke + And loudly spake beside the door: + + "This is no place for holy feet; + Sinners should house and eat alone! + This man sits in the stranger's seat + And grinds the faces of his own!" + + Outspoke the man, in Truth's own might: + "Lord, half my goods I give the poor; + If one I've taken more than right + With four I make atonement sure!" + + "Salvation here is entered in; + This man indeed is Abraham's son!" + Said he who came the lost to win-- + And saved the lost whom he had won. + + + + + +_AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS_. + + + I. + + Who follows Jesus shall not walk + In darksome road with danger rife; + But in his heart the Truth will talk, + And on his way will shine the Life. + + So, on the story we must pore + Of him who lives for us, and died, + That we may see him walk before, + And know the Father in the guide. + + + II. + + In words of truth Christ all excels, + Leaves all his holy ones behind; + And he in whom his spirit dwells + Their hidden manna sure shall find. + + Gather wouldst thou the perfect grains, + And Jesus fully understand? + Thou must obey him with huge pains, + And to God's will be as Christ's hand. + + + III. + + What profits it to reason high + And in hard questions court dispute, + When thou dost lack humility, + Displeasing God at very root! + + Profoundest words man ever spake + Not once of blame washed any clear; + A simple life alone could make + Nathanael to his master dear. + + + IV. + + The eye with seeing is not filled, + The ear with hearing not at rest; + Desire with having is not stilled; + With human praise no heart is blest. + + Vanity, then, of vanities + All things for which men grasp and grope! + The precious things in heavenly eyes + Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope. + + + V. + + Better the clown who God doth love + Than he that high can go + And name each little star above + But sees not God below! + + What if all things on earth I knew, + Yea, love were all my creed, + It serveth nothing with the True; + He goes by heart and deed. + + + VI. + + If thou dost think thy knowledge good, + Thy intellect not slow, + Bethink thee of the multitude + Of things thou dost not know. + + Why look on any from on high + Because thou knowest more? + Thou need'st but look abroad, to spy + Ten thousand thee before. + + Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance + And gather learning's fruit, + In love confess thy ignorance, + And thy Self-love confute. + + + VII. + + This is the highest learning, + The hardest and the best-- + From self to keep still turning, + And honour all the rest. + + If one should break the letter, + Yea, spirit of command, + Think not that thou art better, + Thou may'st not always stand! + + We all are weak--but weaker + Hold no one than thou art; + Then, as thou growest meeker, + Higher will go thy heart. + + + VIII. + + Sense and judgment oft indeed + Spy but little and mislead, + Ground us on a shelf! + + Happy he whom Truth doth teach, + Not by forms of passing speech, + But her very self! + + Why of hidden things dispute, + Mind unwise, howe'er astute, + Making that thy task + Where the Judge will, at the last, + When disputing all is past, + Not a question ask? + + Folly great it is to brood + Over neither bad nor good, + Eyes and ears unheedful! + Ears and eyes, ah, open wide + For what may be heard or spied + Of the one thing needful! + + + + + +TO AND OF FRIENDS. + + + + +_TO LADY NOEL BYRON_. + + + Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake, + The lost elixir old + Whose magic touch should instant make + The meaner metals gold. + + A nobler alchymy is thine + Which love from pain doth press: + Gold in thy hand becomes divine, + Grows truth and tenderness. + + + + + +_TO THE SAME_. + + + Dead, why defend thee, who in life + For thy worst foe hadst died; + Who, thy own name a word of strife, + Didst silent stand aside? + + Grand in forgiveness, what to thee + The big world's puny prate! + Or thy great heart hath ceased to be + Or loveth still its mate! + + + + +_TO AURELIO SAFFI_. + + + _To God and man be simply true; + Do as thou hast been wont to do; + Bring out thy treasures, old and new_-- + Mean all the same when said to you. + + I love thee: thou art calm and strong; + Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; + Thy heart, in every raging throng, + A chamber shut for prayer and song. + + Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know, + Although thy aims so lofty go + They need as long to root and grow + As infant hills to reach the snow. + + Press on and prosper, holy friend! + I, weak and ignorant, would lend + A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send + Prospering onward without end. + + + + + +_A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE_. + + + The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him + Who next it stood before us, first so long, + We see not; but between the cherubim + The light burns clearer: come--a thankful song! + + Lord, for thy prophet's calm commanding voice, + For his majestic innocence and truth, + For his unswerving purity of choice, + For all his tender wrath and plenteous ruth; + + For his obedient, wise, clear-listening care + To hear for us what word The Word would say, + For all the trembling fervency of prayer + With which he led our souls the prayerful way; + + For all the heavenly glory of his face + That caught the white Transfiguration's shine + And cast on us the reflex of thy grace-- + Of all thy men late left, the most divine; + + For all his learning, and the thought of power + That seized thy one Idea everywhere, + Brought the eternal down into the hour, + And taught the dead thy life to claim and share; + + For his humility, dove-clear of guile;-- + The sin denouncing, he, like thy great Paul, + Still claimed in it the greatest share, the while + Our eyes, love-sharpened, saw him best of all! + + For his high victories over sin and fear, + The captive hope his words of truth set free; + For his abiding memory, holy, dear; + Last, for his death and hiding now in thee, + + We praise, we magnify thee, Lord of him: + Thou hast him still; he ever was thine own; + Nor shall our tears prevail the path to dim + That leads where, lowly still, he haunts thy throne. + + When thou, O Lord, ascendedst up on high + Good gifts thou sentest down to cheer thy men: + Lo, he ascends!--we follow with the cry, + His spirit send thou back in thine again. + + + + + +_GEORGE ROLLESTON_. + + + Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid + Over whose couch the saving God did stand-- + "She is not dead but sleepeth," said, + And took her by the hand! + + Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled, + But following still where life's great father led, + He turned, and taking up his child, + Raised thee too from the dead, + + O living, thou hast passed thy second birth, + Found all things new, and some things lovely strange; + But thou wilt not forget the earth, + Or in thy loving change! + + + + + +TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM. + + + The silence of traitorous feet! + The silence of close-pent rage! + The roar, and the sudden heart-beat! + And the shot through the true heart going, + The truest heart of the age! + And the Nile serenely flowing! + + Carnage and curses and cries! + He utters never a word; + Still as a child he lies; + The wind of the desert is blowing + Across the dead man of the Lord; + And the Nile is softly flowing. + + But the song is stilled in heaven + To welcome one more king: + For the truth he hath witnessed and striven, + And let the world go crowing, + And Mammon's church-bell go ring, + And the Nile blood-red go flowing! + + Man who hated the sword + Yet wielded the sword and axe-- + Farewell, O arm of the Lord, + The Lord's own harvest mowing-- + With a wind in the smoking flax + Where our foul rivers are flowing! + + In war thou didst cherish peace, + Thou slewest for love of life: + Hail, hail thy stormy release + Go home and await thy sowing, + The patient flower of thy strife, + Thy bread on the Nile cast flowing. + + Not thy earth to our earth alone, + Thy spirit is left with us! + Thy body is victory's throne, + And our hearts around it are glowing: + Would that we others died thus + Where the Thames and the Clyde are flowing! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS_, + +JANUARY 26, 1885. + + + Gordon, the self-refusing, + Gordon, the lover of God, + Gordon, the good part choosing, + Welcome along the road! + + Thou knowest the man, O Father! + To do thy will he ran; + Men's praises he did not gather: + There is scarce such another man! + + Thy black sheep's faithful shepherd + Who knew not how to flee, + Is torn by the desert leopard, + And comes wounded home to thee! + + Home he is coming the faster + That the way he could not miss: + In thy arms, oh take him, Master, + And heal him with a kiss! + + Then give him a thousand cities + To rule till their evils cease, + And their wailing minor ditties + Die in a psalm of peace. + + + + +_FAILURE_. + + + Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! + Man who hated the sword, + Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred! + Farewell, O word of the Word! + Man who knew no failure + But the failure of the Lord! + + + + + +_TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK_. + + + A broken tale of endless things, + Take, lady: thou art not of those + Who in what vale a fountain springs + Would have its journey close. + + Countless beginnings, fair first parts, + Leap to the light, and shining flow; + All broken things, or toys or hearts, + Are mended where they go. + + Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, + Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; + 'Tis God that has begun the tale + And does not mean to end. + + + + + +_TO G. M. T_. + + + The sun is sinking in the west, + Long grow the shadows dim; + Have patience, sister, to be blest, + Wait patiently for Him. + + Thou knowest love, much love hast had, + Great things of love mayst tell, + Ought'st never to be very sad + For thou too hast lov'd well. + + His house thou know'st, who on the brink + Of death loved more than thou, + Loved more than thy great heart can think, + And just as then loves now-- + + In that great house is one who waits + For thy slow-coming foot; + Glad is he with his angel-mates + Yet often listens mute, + + For he of all men loves thee best: + He haunts the heavenly clock; + Ah, he has long been up and drest + To open to thy knock! + + Fear not, doubt not because of those + On whom earth's keen winds blow; + God's love shames all our pitying woes, + Be ready thou to go. + + Forsaken dream not hearts which here + Bask in no sunny shine; + Each shall one coming day be dear + To love as good as thine. + + + + + +_IN MEMORIUM_ + +_LADY CAROLINE CHARTERIS_. + + + The mountain-stream may humbly boast + For her the loud waves call; + The hamlet feeds the nation's host, + The home-farm feeds the hall; + + And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend + The right, of high import, + The gladsome privilege to send + New courtiers to Love's court. + + Not strange to thee, O lady dear, + Life in that palace fair, + For thou while waiting with us here + Didst just as they do there! + + Thy heart still open to receive, + Open thy hand to give, + God had thee graced with more than leave + In heavenly state to live! + + And though thou art gone up so high + Thou art not gone so far + But that thy love to us comes nigh, + As starlight from a star. + + And ours must reach where'er thou art, + In far or near abode, + For God is of all love the heart, + And we are all in God. + + + +END OF VOL. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I + +Author: George MacDonald + +Posting Date: February 16, 2013 [EBook #9543] +Release Date: December, 2005 +First Posted: October 7, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS--GEORGE MACDONALD, VOL I *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS + +OF + +GEORGE MACDONALD + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. I + +1893 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +A HIDDEN LIFE + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE + +THE DISCIPLE + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN-- + 1. The Mother Mary + 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice + 3. The Mother of Zebedee's Children + 4. The Syrophenician Woman + 5. The Widow of Nain + 6. The Woman whom Satan had bound + 7. The Woman who came behind Him in the Crowd + 8. The Widow with the Two Mites + 9. The Women who ministered unto Him + 10. Pilate's Wife + 11. The Woman of Samaria + 12. Mary Magdalene + 13. The Woman in the Temple + 14. Martha + 15. Mary + 16. The Woman that was a Sinner + +A BOOK OF SONNETS-- + The Burnt-Offering + The Unseen Face + Concerning Jesus + A Memorial of Africa + A.M.D + To Garibaldi, with a Book + To S.F.S + Russell Gurney + To One threatened with Blindness + To Aubrey de Vere + General Gordon + The Chrysalis + The Sweeper of the Floor + Death + +ORGAN SONGS-- + To A.J. Scott + Light + To A. J. Scott + I would I were a Child + A Prayer for the Past + Longing + I know what Beauty is + Sympathy + The Thank-Offering + Prayer + Rest + O do not leave Me + Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth + Hymn for a Sick Girl + Written for One in sore Pain + A Christmas Carol for 1862 + A Christmas Carol + The Sleepless Jesus + Christmas, 1873 + Christmas, 1884 + An Old Story + A Song for Christmas + To my Aging Friends + Christmas Song of the Old Children + Christmas Meditation + The Old Castle + Christmas Prayer + Song of the Innocents + Christmas Day and Every Day + The Children's Heaven + Rejoice + The Grace of Grace + Antiphon + Dorcas + Marriage Song + Blind Bartimeus + Come unto Me + Morning Hymn + Noontide Hymn + Evening Hymn + The Holy Midnight + Rondel + A Prayer + Home from the Wars + God; not Gift + To any Friend + +VIOLIN SONGS-- + Hope Deferred + Death + Hard Times + If I were a Monk, and Thou wert a Nun + My Heart + The Flower-Angels + To my Sister + Oh Thou of little Faith + Wild Flowers + Spring Song + Summer Song + Autumn Song + Winter Song + Picture Songs + A Dream Song + At my Window after Sunset + A Father to a Mother + The Temple of God + Going to Sleep + To-Morrow + Foolish Children + Love is Home + Faith + Waiting + Our Ship + My Heart thy Lark + Two in One + Bedtime + A Prayer + A Song Prayer + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS-- + Songs of the Summer Days + Songs of the Summer Nights + Songs of the Autumn Days + Songs of the Autumn Nights + Songs of the Winter Days + Songs of the Winter Nights + Songs of the Spring Days + Songs of the Spring Nights + +A BOOK OF DREAMS + +ROADSIDE POEMS-- + Better Things + An Old Sermon with a New Text + Little Elfie + Reciprocity + The Shadows + The Child-Mother + He Heeded Not + The Sheep and the Goat + The Wakeful Sleeper + A Dream of Waking + A Manchester Poem + What the Lord Saith + How shall He Sing who hath No Song + This World + Saint Peter + Zacchaeus + After Thomas Kemp + +TO AND OF FRIENDS-- + To Lady Noel Byron + To the Same + To Aurelio Saffi + A Thanksgiving for F.D. Maurice + George Rolleston + To Gordon, leaving Khartoum + Song of the Saints and Angels + Failure + To E.G., dedicating a Book + To G.M.T. + In Memoriam Lady Caroline Charteris + + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT: + + +A Dramatic Poem. + + What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather-- + With outward maker's force, or like an inward father. + + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_. + +_Written December and January_, 1850-51. + +TO L.P.M.D. + + Receive thine own; for I and it are thine. + Thou know'st its story; how for forty days-- + Weary with sickness and with social haze, + (After thy hands and lips with love divine + Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine, + Though with a watery lustre,) more delays + Of blessedness forbid--I took my ways + Into a solitude, Invention's mine; + There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee. + Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book; + My child, developed since in limb and look. + It came in shining vapours from the sea, + And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me, + When the red life-blood labour would not brook. + + + _May_, 1855. + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + + +PART I. + + Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door; + And pray to Him in secret: He will hear. + But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear + The numberless ascensions, more and more, + Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before + Thou comest to the Father's likeness near, + And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear + That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. + Be thou content if on thy weary need + There falls a sense of showers and of the spring; + A hope that makes it possible to fling + Sickness aside, and go and do the deed; + For highest aspiration will not lead + Unto the calm beyond all questioning. + +SCENE I.--_A cell in a convent_. JULIAN _alone_. + + _Julian_. + Evening again slow creeping like a death! + And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, + On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars + Of the poor window-pane that let them in, + For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven! + Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. + But what is light to me, while I am dark! + And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, + Reflected flushes from the Evening's face, + Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, + Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left + His chamber in the dim deserted east. + Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea! + The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light, + As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, + And the insphered glory bubbled forth! + Or the sun were a splendid water-bird, + That flying furrowed with its golden feet + A flashing wake over the waves, and home! + Lo there!--Alas, the dull blank wall!--High up, + The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night + Come on me like a thief!--Ah, well! the sun + Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray: + The terror of the night begins with prayer. + + (_Vesper bell_.) + Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons; + My knees would not so pain me when I kneel, + If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. + I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, + Then will I praise him from the heights of peace; + But now my soul is as a speck of life + Cast on the deserts of eternity; + A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more. + I am as a child new-born, its mother dead, + Its father far away beyond the seas. + Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him: + He goeth by me, and I see him not. + I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes, + My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul. + + (_Choir and organ-music_.) + I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting. + What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies + Have just departed in the sun's bright coach, + And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me, + Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness. + Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold! + How should my cell be filled with wavering forms! + Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher; + Trembling and hesitating to float off, + As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy + Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues, + Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die. + --Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves! + Is it for this that I have left the world?-- + Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes + Of that night when the closing door fell dumb + On music and on voices, and I went + Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance, + Under the clear cope of the moonless night, + Wandering away without the city-walls, + Between the silent meadows and the stars, + Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit, + And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God; + When straight within my soul I felt as if + An eye was opened; but I knew not whether + 'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me? + It closed again, and darkness fell; but not + To hide the memory; that, in many failings + Of spirit and of purpose, still returned; + And I came here at last to search for God. + Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content + Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free! + + _A knock at the door. Enter Brother_ ROBERT _with a light_. + + _Robert_. + Head in your hands as usual! You will fret + Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. + Come, it is supper-time. + + _Julian_. + I will not sup to-night. + + _Robert_. + Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint. + + _Julian_. + A saint! The devil has me by the heel. + + _Robert_. + So has he all saints; as a boy his kite, + Which ever struggles higher for his hold. + It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;-- + He should let go his hold, and then he has you. + If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. + Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings. + + Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk. + That's the life of the jolly monk_. + + SONG. + + They say the first monks were lonely men, + Praying each in his lonely den, + Rising up to kneel again, + Each a skinny male Magdalene, + Peeping scared from out his hole + Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole; + But years ring changes as they roll-- + + Cho. _Now always merry, &c_. + + When the moon gets up with her big round face, + Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, + Down to the village below we pace;-- + We know a supper that wants a grace: + Past the curtsying women we go, + Past the smithy, all a glow, + To the snug little houses at top of the row-- + + Cho. _For always merry, &c_. + + And there we find, among the ale, + The fragments of a floating tale: + To piece them together we never fail; + And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. + And so we have them all in hand, + The lads and lasses throughout the land, + And we are the masters,--you understand? + + Cho. _So always merry, &c_. + + Last night we had such a game of play + With the nephews and nieces over the way, + All for the gold that belonged to the clay + That lies in lead till the judgment-day! + The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch, + But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. + How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch! + + Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_. + That's the life of the jolly monk! + + _Robert_. + The song is hardly to your taste, I see! + Where shall I set the light? + + _Julian_. + I do not need it. + + _Robert_. + Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies. + I wish you were at table, were it only + To stop the talking of the men about you. + You in the dark are talked of in the light. + + _Julian_. + Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me. + + _Robert_. + No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say, + You would be thought a saint without the trouble; + You do no penance that they can discover. + You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, + Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. + You are a prince, say others, hiding here, + Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. + To-night, there are some whispers of a lady + That would refuse your love. + + _Julian_. + Ay! What of her? + + _Robert_. + I heard no more than so; and that you came + To seek the next best service you could find: + Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's. + + _Julian_. + One part at least is true: I knock at God's; + He has not yet been pleased to let me in. + As for the lady--that is--so far true, + But matters little. Had I less to think, + This talking might annoy me; as it is, + Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; + I keep in-doors. + + _Robert_. + Gloomy as usual, brother! + Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send + The light that all day long gladdened the earth, + Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire + Transformed the weathercock into a star, + That you should gloom within stone walls all day. + At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: + We will salute the breezes, as they rise + And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours + Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss-- + Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring + Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. + Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light + Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, + And thence descend triumphant, step by step, + The stairway of the hills. Free air and action + Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain. + + _Julian_. + My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, + "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" + Through every open room the child would pass, + Timidly looking for the friendly eye; + Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder + At what he saw, until he found his sire; + But gathered to his bosom, straight he is + The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. + And so with me: not having seen Him yet, + The light rests on me with a heaviness; + All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; + A voice is in the wind I do not know; + A meaning on the face of the high hills + Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. + A something is behind them: that is God. + These are his words, I doubt not, language strange; + These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; + And he is present, but I find him not. + I have not yet been held close to his heart. + Once in his inner room, and by his eyes + Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, + 'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, + And sounds that never lose love's mystery. + Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him. + + _Robert + (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess_). See, there + is God revealed in human form! + + _Julian (kneeling and crossing_). + Alas, my friend!--revealed--but as in nature: + I see the man; I cannot find the God. + I know his voice is in the wind, his presence + Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth; + And there stands Manhood: and the God is there, + Not here, not here! + + (_Pointing to his bosom_.) + [_Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone_--] + + You do not understand me. + Without my need, you cannot know my want. + You will all night be puzzling to determine + With which of the old heretics to class me. + But you are honest; will not rouse the cry + Against me. I am honest. For the proof, + Such as will satisfy a monk, look here! + Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here! + Did one week's scourging seam my side like that? + I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show + Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you, + And cannot bear but you should think me true. + Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk + Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried, + And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate, + Let out one stray beam of its living light, + Or humbled that proud _I_ that knows not God! + You are my friend:--if you should find this cell + Empty some morning, do not be afraid + That any ill has happened. + + _Robert_.] + Well, perhaps + 'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, + But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [_Goes_. + + _Julian_. + Amen.--A good man; but he has not waked, + And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. + God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; + And so he does, as possible for him. + How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! + He thinks me an enthusiast, because + I seek to know God, and to hear his voice + Talk to my heart in silence; as of old + The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, + He lay communing with his heart; and God + With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until + In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. + My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, + And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God; + And let me know the living Father cares + For me, even me; for this one of his children.-- + Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought. + God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, + And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. + See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou + Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. + I am a child, a fool before thee, God; + But thou hast made my weakness as my strength. + I am an emptiness for thee to fill; + My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie + Diffused, abandoning myself to thee.... + --I will look up, if life should fail in looking. + Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring! + Ah me! A life lost from its father-life! + + + + +SCENE II.--_The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation_. +ROBERT _enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in_. + + _Stephen_ + (_speaking across the table_). + You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic; + Or, if you like it better, stand to reason; + For in this doctrine is involved a _cause_ + Which for its very being doth depend + Upon its own _effect_. For, don't you see, + He tells me to have faith and I shall live! + Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall + Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven; + What is salvation else? If I believe, + Then he will save me! But, so, this his _will_ + Has no existence till that I believe; + And there is nothing for my faith to rest on, + No object for belief. How can I trust + In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo. + Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence; + To all intents save one, most plenary-- + And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd. + + _Monk_. + 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. + And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling + At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one + Should find it poison. I have no pique at him-- + But there's that Julian!-- + + _Stephen_. + Hush! speak lower, friend. + + _Two_ Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_. + + _1st Monk_. + Where did you find her? + + _2nd Monk_. + She was taken ill + At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, + And so they called me in. I found her dying. + But ere she would confess and make her peace, + She begged to know if I had ever seen, + About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, + Moody and silent, with a little stoop + As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, + And a strange look of mingled youth and age,-- + + _1st Monk_. + Julian, by-- + + _2nd Monk_. + 'St--no names! I had not seen him. + I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, + And urged her to proceed; and she began; + But went not far before delirium came, + With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, + Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past + Was running riot in her conquered brain; + And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group + Held carnival; went freely out and in, + Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed + As some confused tragedy went on; + Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant + Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain + Lay desolate and silent. I can gather + So much, and little more:--This Julian + Is one of some distinction; probably rich, + And titled Count. He had a love-affair, + In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.-- + Give me the woman; love is troublesome!-- + She loved him too, but falsehood came between, + And used this woman for her minister; + Who never would have peached, but for a witness + Hidden behind some curtain in her heart-- + An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, + Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude + His story to some double-ghostly father, + For she is ghostly penitent by this. + Our consciences will play us no such tricks; + They are the Church's, not our own. We must + Keep this small matter secret. If it should + Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye-- + A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns! + And so the world will have the benefit + Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. + I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else + Until our Abbot comes. + + _1st Monk_. + That is to-morrow. + + _Another group near the bottom of the table, in which + is_ ROBERT. + + _1st Monk_. + 'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him. + Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, + Which passes like a thought across his face, + When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, + A while to our discourse?--he never joins. + + _2nd Monk_. + I know quite well. I stood beside him once, + Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking: + He chanced to say the words, _Our Holy Faith_. + "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips, + Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words + Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure + He is an atheist at the least. + + _3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_). + And I + Fear he is something worse. I had a trance + In which the devil tempted me: the shape + Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. + _Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame. + I am sure of one thing--music tortures him: + I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_, + When the whole chapel trembled in the sound, + Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain, + And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, + Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees. + + _2nd Monk_. + He does not know his rubric; stands when others + Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice + With his missal upside down. + + _4th Monk (plethoric and husky_). + He blew his nose + Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, + And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat. + + _Robert_. + When he returns, we must complain; and beg + He'll take such measures as the case requires. + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, +its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at +the light_. + + + _Julian_. + And so all growth that is not toward God + Is growing to decay. All increase gained + Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. + 'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, + Towering above the light it overcomes, + But ever sinking with the dying flame. + O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life! + No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! + Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? + Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none + That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. + Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me? + I have done naught for thee, am but a want; + But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; + And this same need of thee which thou hast given, + Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, + And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. + Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled + This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead + For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. + + Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; + Or was it but my heart that spoke for him? + "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give; + My longing is thy promise, O my God! + If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, + Why doth the longing yet remain with me, + And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?" + Methought I heard for answer: "Question on. + Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds + Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, + A hungering and a fainting and a pain, + Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead + While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. + Better to live in pain than die that death." + + So I will live, and nourish this my pain; + For oft it giveth birth unto a hope + That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. + Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his, + Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. + A still small voice I cannot but believe, + Says on within: God _will_ reveal himself. + + I must go from this place. I cannot rest. + It boots not staying. A desire like thirst + Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, + To be abroad on the mysterious earth, + Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. + + 'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. + For many months I had not seen her form, + Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, + Until I laid me down an hour ago; + When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes, + The memory passed, reclothed in verity: + Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze + Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon; + The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, + "Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep, + All save the poplar: it was full of joy, + So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. + Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea, + She issued radiant from the pearly night. + It took me half with fear--the glimmer and gleam + Of her white festal garments, haloed round + With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there + I am bewildered. Something I remember + Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound, + Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; + Of agony, as when a spirit seeks + In vain to hold communion with a man; + A hand that would and would not stay in mine; + A gleaming of white garments far away; + And then I know not what. The moon was low, + When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet, + Dripping with dew-- + + _Enter_ ROBERT _cautiously_. + + Why, how now, Robert? + + [_Rising on his elbow_.] + _Robert (glancing at the chest_). + I see; that's well. Are + you nearly ready? + + _Julian_. + Why? What's the matter? + + _Robert_. + You must go this night, + If you would go at all. + + _Julian_. + Why must I go? + [_Rises_.] + _Robert (turning over the things in the chest_). + Here, put + this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. + No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat, + + [_Going to the chest again_.] + + Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub + Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow. + + _Julian_. + Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all. + + _Robert_. + No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you. + Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar + The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian! + + [_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.] + + _Julian_. + Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend. + Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again. + + _Robert_. + Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow + passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, + and closes the door behind him_.] + + + + +SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while +his horse is brought out_. + + _Abbot_. + Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, + Within the holiest of the holy place! + I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, + With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; + And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, + Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, + Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved + By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem. + And over him shall bend the Mother mild, + In silken white and coroneted gems. + Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now-- + The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; + Nor know I any nests of money-bees + That could yield half-contentment to my need. + Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet + In journeying through this vale of tears have I + Projected pomp that did not blaze anon. + + + +SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the +roadside_. + + + _Julian_. + So lies my journey--on into the dark! + Without my will I find myself alive, + And must go forward. Is it God that draws + Magnetic all the souls unto their home, + Travelling, they know not how, but unto God? + It matters little what may come to me + Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, + Social condition, yea, or love or hate; + But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence? + My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_, + Goes darkling forward into something--what? + O God, thou knowest. It is not my care. + If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, + It were a fearful thing to be and grow + We know not what. My God, take care of me; + Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, + Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. + And let thy own design in me work on, + Unfolding the ideal man in me; + Which being greater far than I have grown, + I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. + One day, completed unto thine intent, + I shall be able to discourse with thee; + For thy Idea, gifted with a self, + Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, + And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. + Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; + I ask not whither, for it must be on. + + This road will lead me to the hills, I think; + And there I am in safety and at home. + + + +SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks. + + _Abbot_. + Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name? + + _Monk_. + She did. + + _Abbot_. + What did she call the lady? What? + + _Monk_. + I could not hear. + + _Abbot_. + Nor where she lived? + _Monk_. + Nor that. + She was too wild for leading where I would. + + _Abbot_. + So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: + You have kept this matter secret? + + _Monk_. + Yes, my lord. + _Abbot_. + Well, go and send him hither. + + [Monk _goes_.] + Said I well, + That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me? + That God would hear his own elect who cried? + Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means + That it shall draw the eyes by power of light! + So tender in conceit, that it shall draw + The heart by very strength of delicateness, + And move proud thought to worship! + I must act + With caution now; must win his confidence; + Question him of the secret enemies + That fight against his soul; and lead him thus + To tell me, by degrees, his history. + So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation + For future acts, as circumstance requires. + For if the tale be true that he is rich, + And if---- + + _Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_. + + _Monk_. + He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty. + + _Abbot_ (_starting up_). + What! You are crazy! Gone? + His cell is empty? + + _Monk_. + 'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes! + + _Abbot_. + Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear! + There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied! + Some one is in his confidence!--who is it? + Go rouse the convent. + + [Monk _goes_.] + + He must be followed, found. + Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag! + But by and by your horns, and then your side! + 'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating. + I'll go and sift this business to the bran. + Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--God's + curse! it shall fare ill with any man + That has connived at this, if I detect him. + + + +SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven! + I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak + Is miles away, and high amid the clouds. + Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, + With the fantastic rock upon its side, + Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window + Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze + With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, + Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, + The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond, + A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, + Might be the depths of the unfathomed space, + This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. + Upon its very point I have watched a star + For a few moments crown it with a fire, + As of an incense-offering that blazed + Upon this mighty altar high uplift, + And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. + From the next window I could look abroad + Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted + With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, + Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, + In white and green; but still I turned to look + At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: + All here I saw--I knew not what was there. + O love of knowledge and of mystery, + Striving together in the heart of man! + "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."-- + Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: + "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!" + But I must hasten; else the sun will set + Before I reach the smoother valley-road. + I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has + Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, + Four years of wandering since I left my home, + In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, + Must have worn changes in this face of mine + Sufficient to conceal me, if I will. + + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the +floor_. ROBERT. + + + _Robert_. + One comfort is, he's far away by this. + Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. + Where shall I find a daysman in this strife + Between my heart and holy Church's words? + Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, + Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must + Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, + Be subject to the written law of words; + Impulses made, made strong, that we might have + Within the temple's court live things to bring + And slay upon his altar; that we may, + By this hard penance of the heart and soul, + Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; + I ought not to have let poor Julian go. + And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- + Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, + Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life + That he might be in peace. Still up and down + The balance goes, a good in either scale; + Two angels giving each to each the lie, + And none to part them or decide the question. + But still the _words_ come down the heaviest + Upon my conscience as that scale descends; + But that may be because they hurt me more, + Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. + Would God forbid us to do what is right, + Even for his sake? But then Julian's life + Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! + I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God + Commanded different things in different tones. + Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest + God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, + Like Mary singing to her mangered child; + The other like a self-restrained tempest; + Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, + Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_. + O for some light! Would they would kill me! then + I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, + And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; + And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. + I should not fear, for he would comfort me, + Because I am perplexed, and long to know. + But this perplexity may be my sin, + And come of pride that will not yield to him! + O for one word from God! his own, and fresh + From him to me! Alas, what shall I do! + + + + + +_PART II_. + + + Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense! + It is thy Duty waiting thee without. + Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; + A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; + Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; + Go forth into the tumult and the shout; + Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: + Of noise alone is born the inward sense + Of silence; and from action springs alone + The inward knowledge of true love and faith. + Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, + And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: + One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, + Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death. + + + +SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse. + + + _Julian_. + Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember: + A man about my height, but stronger built? + I have seen him at her father's. There was something + I did not like about him:--ah! I know: + He had a way of darting looks at you, + As if he wished to know you, but by stealth. + + _Nurse_. + The same, my lord. He is the creditor. + The common story is, he sought the daughter, + But sought in vain: the lady would not wed. + 'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, + Which caused much wonder, for the family + Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni + Contrived to be the only creditor, + And so imprisoned him. + + _Julian_. + Where is the lady? + _Nurse_. + Down in the town. + _Julian_. + But where? + _Nurse_. + If you turn left, + When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house + Upon this side the way. An honest couple, + Who once were almost pensioners of hers, + Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home + With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis + A wretched change for her. + + _Julian_. + Hm! ah! I see. + What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse? + + _Nurse_. + Here he is little known. His title comes + From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. + He looks ungracious: I have seen the children + Run to the doors when he came up the street. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay--one thing more: + Have any of my people seen me? + + _Nurse_. None + But me, my lord. + + _Julian_. + And can you keep it secret?-- + know you will for my sake. I will trust you. + Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.] + Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid + His plans for nothing further! I will watch him. + Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. + Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father, + Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame; + My love had no claim on like love from thee.--How + the old tide comes rushing to my heart! + + I know not what I can do yet but watch. + I have no hold on him. I cannot go, + Say, _I suspect_; and, _Is it so or not_? + I should but injure them by doing so. + True, I might pay her father's debts; and will, + If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well + During my absence. _I_ have not spent much. + But still she'd be in danger from this man, + If not permitted to betray himself; + And I, discovered, could no more protect. + Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt + Her footsteps like an angel, not for long + Should I remain unseen of other eyes, + That peer from under cowls--not angel-eyes-- + Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. + No; I must watch. I can do nothing better. + + + +SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_. + + _Man_. + How's the poor lady now? + + _Woman_. + She's poorly still. + I fancy every day she's growing thinner. + I am sure she's wasting steadily. + + _Man_. + Has the count + Been here again to-day? + + _Woman_. + No. And I think + He will not come again. She was so proud + The last time he was here, you would have thought + She was a queen at least. + + _Man_. + Remember, wife, + What she has been. Trouble like that throws down + The common folk like us all of a heap: + With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, + It sets the mettle up. + + _Woman_. + All very right; + But take her as she was, she might do worse + Than wed the Count Nembroni. + + _Man_. + Possible. + But are you sure there is no other man + Stands in his way? + + _Woman_. + How can I tell? So be, + He should be here to help her. What she'll do + I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. + And for her work, she does it far too well + To earn a living by it. Her times are changed-- + She should not give herself such prideful airs. + + _Man_. + Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard + On one another! You speak fair for men, + And make allowances; but when a woman + Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. + But where is this you're going then to-night? + Do they want me to go as well as you? + + _Woman_. + Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. + They cannot give the money to me, except + My husband go with me. He told me so. + + _Man_. + Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see: + I don't expect a groat to come of it. + + + +SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess. + + + _Host_. + That's a queer customer you've got upstairs! + What the deuce is he? + + _Hostess_. + What is that to us? + He always pays his way, and handsomely. + I wish there were more like him. + + _Host_. + Has he been + At home all day? + + _Hostess_. + He has not stirred a foot + Across the threshold. That's his only fault-- + He's always in the way. + + _Host_. + What does he do? + + _Hostess_. + Paces about the room, or sits at the window. + I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, + To see what he's about: he looks annoyed, + But does not speak a word. + _Host_. + He must be crazed, + Or else in hiding for some scrape or other. + + _Hostess_. + He has a wild look in his eye sometimes; + But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, + If he were mad, or anything on his conscience; + And though he does not say much, when he speaks + A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way. + + _Host_. + Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come? + + + +SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half +hidden by the curtain_. + + _Julian_. + With what profusion her white fingers spend + Delicate motions on the insensate cloth! + It was so late this morning ere she came! + I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale! + Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. + Do I not love he? more than when that beauty + Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond + The confines of her wondrous face and form, + And animated with a present power + Her garment's folds, even to the very hem! + + Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest + In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door, + As for her husband. Something will follow this. + And here he comes, all in his best like her. + They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk, + With short steps down the street. Now I must wake + The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes! + + + +SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_. + + _1st Serv_. + Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There! + That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head, + I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say; + We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten. + + _2nd Serv_. + Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare + She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already, + As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were + Under some roof or other. I fear this business + Is not of the right sort. + + _1st Serv_. + He looked as black + As if he too had lightning in his bosom. + There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo! + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face +pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_. + + _Julian_. + Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares! + I wish the wind would leave or blow it out. + Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm + Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind! + That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he + Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear + This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain + Has blotted all my view with crossing lights. + 'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over, + And take my stand in the corner by the door. + But if he comes while I go down the stairs, + And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently + Up the stair to the landing by her door. + + [_He goes quickly toward the door_.] + + _Hostess (opening the door and looking in_). + If you please, sir-- + + [_He hurries past_] + + The devil's in the man! + + + +SCENE VII.--_The landing_. + + _Voice within_. + If you scream, I must muffle you. + + _Julian (rushing up the stair_). + He _is_ there! + His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream! + + [_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs + forward on the other side_.] + + Back! + + _Nembroni_. + What the devil!--Beggar! + + [_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which + he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he + springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.] + + _Julian (taking him by the throat_). + I have faced worse + storms than you. + + [_They struggle_.] + + Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, + + [_He stabs him_.] + + Your ribs will not mail your heart! + + [NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the + dead man's coat_.] + + If men _will_ be devils, + They are better in hell than here. + + [_Lightning flashes on the blade_.] + + What a night + For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven! + + [_Approaches the lady within_.] + + Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope + It will not pass too soon. It is not far + To the half-hidden door in my own fence, + And that is well. If I step carefully, + Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints. + What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think! + Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me. + That's awkward now. + + [_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.] + + Pardon me, dear lady; + + [_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.] + + 'Tis not to save my blood I would defile + Even your handkerchief. + + [_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.] + + I am pleased to think + Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength. + + [_Looking out of the window on the landing_.] + + For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him. + + [_He goes down the stair_] + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse. + + _Julian_. + Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse. + You have put your charge to bed? + + _Nurse_. + Yes, my dear lord. + + _Julian_. + And has she spoken yet? + + _Nurse_. + After you left, + Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once: + _Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me, + And her eyes wandered over all my face, + Till half in comfort, half in weariness, + They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is + As feeble as a child. + + _Julian_. + Under your care + She'll soon be well again. Let no one know + She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her. + + _Nurse_. + Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress. + + _Julian_. + That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire. + Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you. + + _Nurse_. + Leave? + + _Julian_. + Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again + Over the earth and sea. She must not know + I have been here. You must contrive to keep + My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke + When a branch caught me, but she could not see me. + She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her; + Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse. + Let her on no pretense guess where she is, + Nor utter word that might suggest the fact. + When she is well and wishes to be gone, + Then write to this address--but under cover + + [_Writing_.] + + To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I + Will see to all the rest. But let her know + Her father is set free; assuredly, + Ere you can say it is, it will be so. + + _Nurse_. + How shall I best conceal her, my good lord? + + _Julian_. + I have thought of that. There's a deserted room + In the old west wing, at the further end + Of the oak gallery. + + _Nurse_. + Not deserted quite. + I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, + Because you loved it when a boy, my lord. + + _Julian_. + You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: + I found a sliding panel, and a door + Into a room behind. I'll show it you. + You'll find some musty traces of me yet, + When you go in. Now take her to your room, + But get the other ready. Light a fire, + And keep it burning well for several days. + Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, + Take everything to make it comfortable; + Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, + Bind her to be as secret as yourself. + Then put her there. I'll let her father know + She is in safety.--I must change attire, + And be far off or ever morning break. + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + My treasure-room! how little then I thought, + Glad in my secret, one day it would hold + A treasure unto which I dared not come. + Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!-- + But not with even a heavenly gift would I + Go begging love; that should be free as light, + Cleaving unto myself even for myself. + I have enough to brood on, joy to turn + Over and over in my secret heart:-- + She lives, and is the better that I live! + + _Re-enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; + She's in a dreadful fever. We must send + To Arli for the doctor, else her life + Will be in danger. + + _Julian_ + (_rising disturbed_). + Go and fetch your daughter. + Between you, take her to my room, yours now. + I'll see her there. I think you can together! + + _Nurse_. + O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + _Julian_. + I ought to know the way to treat a fever, + If it be one of twenty. Hers has come + Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. + I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna! + + + +SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot. + + _Abbot_. + 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. + One hope remains: that fellow has a head! + + _Enter_ STEPHEN. + + Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told + You said to-day, if I commissioned you, + You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave. + + _Stephen_. + I did, my lord. + + _Abbot_. + How would you do it, Stephen? + + _Stephen_. + Try one plan till it failed; then try another; + Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes + And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: + Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. + I have no plan; but, give me time and money, + I'll find him out. + + _Abbot_. + Stephen, you're just the man + I have been longing for. Get yourself ready. + + + +SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_. +JULIAN _watching_. + + _Julian_. + I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then + She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! + My heart is beating as if it would spend + Its life in this one night, and beat it out. + And well it may, for there is more of life + In one such moment than in many years! + Pure life is measured by intensity, + Not by the how much of the crawling clock. + Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across + The window-blind? or is it but a band + Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed + Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself, + Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this-- + + _Lilia_ + (_half-asleep, wildly_). + If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!-- + Julian! Julian! + + [_Half-rising_.] + + _Julian_ + (_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_). + I am here, my Lilia. + Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream, + A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not? + + [_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on + the pillow. He leaves her_.] + + How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me! + But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long + She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead + In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced, + And leave her to console my solitude. + Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it! + And what a grief! I will not think of that! + Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own! + O God, I did not know thou wast so rich + In making and in giving; did not know + The gathered glory of this earth of thine. + What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy? + Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take + Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born + In thee, and send it home to dwell with me? + + [_He leans on the wall_.] + + _Lilia_ + (_softly_). + Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad, + As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am. + I see the flashing of ten thousand glories; + I hear the trembling of a thousand wings, + That vibrate music on the murmuring air! + Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool + Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!-- + What is it, though, that makes me glad like this? + I knew, but cannot find it--I forget. + It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall, + The endless going of the stream of life!-- + Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty! + + [_Querulously_.] + + [JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him + again, with large wondering eyes_.] + + Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty! + + [_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He + extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.] + + _Julian_. + The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless; + With its obtrusive _I am_ written large + Upon its face! + + [_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with + clasped hands; then returns to the window_.] + + She sleeps so peacefully! + O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep. + Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep. + You must be near her when she wakes again. + I think she'll be herself. But do be careful-- + Right cautious how you tell her I am here. + Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep! + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Nurse_. + Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter, + That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks, + And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!-- + Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life + From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see + Your shutters open, for I then should know + Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back, + To peep at morning from her own bright windows. + Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her, + To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams + Have but betrayed her secrets honestly! + Will he not give thee love as dear as thine! + + + +SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look +around him_. + + _Stephen_. + Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound + would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged + good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind + thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not + hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not. + Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man + that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not + follow thee. + + [_Sings_.] + + + Oh, many a hound is stretching out + His two legs or his four, + And the saddled horses stand about + The court and the castle door, + Till out come the baron, jolly and stout, + To hunt the bristly boar! + + The emperor, he doth keep a pack + In his antechambers standing, + And up and down the stairs, good lack! + And eke upon the landing: + A straining leash, and a quivering back, + And nostrils and chest expanding! + + The devil a hunter long hath been, + Though Doctor Luther said it: + Of his canon-pack he was the dean, + And merrily he led it: + The old one kept them swift and lean + On faith--that's devil's credit! + + Each man is a hunter to his trade, + And they follow one another; + But such a hunter never was made + As the monk that hunted his brother! + And the runaway pig, ere its game be played, + Shall be eaten by its mother! + + + Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail + monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and + precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_ + the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with + his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally + heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't + keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave + his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts + I am. + + +SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN +_seated by her; an open note in his hand_. + + _Lilia_. + Tear it up, Julian. + + _Julian_. + No; I'll treasure it + As the remembrance of a by-gone grief: + I love it well, because it is _not_ yours. + + _Lilia_. + Where have you been these long, long years away? + You look much older. You have suffered, Julian! + + _Julian_. + Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much, + Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself, + I'll tell you all you want to know about me. + + _Lilia_. + Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong; + It will not hurt me. + + _Julian_. + Wait a day or two. + Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all. + + _Lilia_. + And I have much to tell you, Julian. I + Have suffered too--not all for my own sake. + + [_Recalling something_.] + + Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!-- + I don't know when it was. It must have been + Before you brought me here! I am sure it was. + + _Julian_. + Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards. + You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must. + + _Lilia_. + I will obey you, will not speak a word. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + Blessings upon her! she's near well already. + Who would have thought, three days ago, to see + You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders. + + _Julian_. + My art has helped a little, I thank God.-- + To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Lilia_. + Why does he always wear that curious cap? + + _Nurse_. + I don't know. You must sleep. + + _Lilia_. + Yes. I forgot. + + + +SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers +on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_. + + _Julian_. + Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me. + You sent that note privately to my friend? + + _Steward_. + I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money, + Putting all things in train for his release, + Without appearing in it personally, + Or giving any clue to other hands. + He sent this message by my messenger: + His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it. + He will be secret. For his daughter, she + Is safe with you as with himself; and so + God bless you both! He will expect to hear + From both of you from England. + + _Julian_. + Well, again. + What money is remaining in your hands? + + _Steward_. + Two bags, three hundred each; that's all. + I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more. + + _Julian_. + One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance + Befall us, though I do not fear it much-- + have been very secret--is that boat + I had before I left, in sailing trim? + + _Steward_. + I knew it was a favorite with my lord; + I've taken care of it. A month ago, + With my own hands I painted it all fresh, + Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail + I'll have replaced immediately; and then + 'Twill be as good as new. + + _Julian_. + That's excellent. + Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast + To the stone steps behind my garden study. + Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put + The money in the old desk in the study. + + _Steward_. + I will, my lord. It will be safe enough. + + + + +SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay +dress, coming up to him_. + + _Stephen_. + Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow? + + _Waggoner_. + Its present owner's of the Uglii; + They call him Lorenzino. + + _Stephen_. + Whose is that + Down in the valley? + + _Waggoner_. + That is Count Lamballa's. + + _Stephen_. + What is his Christian name? + + _Waggoner_. + Omfredo. No, + That was his father's; his is Julian. + + _Stephen_. + Is he at home? + + _Waggoner_. + No, not for many a day. + His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful + Whether he be alive; and yet his land + Is better farmed than any in the country. + + _Stephen_. + He is not married, then? + + _Waggoner_. + No. There's a gossip + Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!-- + That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors, + To wander here and there, like a bad ghost, + Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge! + + _Stephen_. + Most probably. I quite agree with you. + Where do you stop? + + _Waggoner_. + At the first inn we come to; + You'll see it from the bottom of the hill. + There is a better at the other end, + But here the stabling is by far the best. + + _Stephen_. + I must push on. Four legs can never go + Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend. + + _Waggoner_. + Good morning, sir. + + _Stephen (aside_) + I take the further house. + + + +SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the +window_. + + _Julian_. + But do you really love me, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Why do you make me say it so often, Julian? + You make me say _I love you_, oftener far + Than you say you love me. + + _Julian_. + To love you seems + So much a thing of mere necessity! + I can refrain from loving you no more + Than keep from waking when the sun shines full + Upon my face. + + _Lilia_. + And yet I love to say + How, how I love you, Julian! + + [_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She + raises her head and looks at him_.] + + Did I hurt you? + Would you not have me lean my head on you? + + _Julian_. + Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt + Not yet quite healed. + + _Lilia_. + Ah, my poor Julian! How-- + I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember! + I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream! + I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him? + + _Julian_ + (_calmly, but drawing himself up_). + I killed him as I would a dog that bit you. + + _Lilia_ + (_turning pale, and covering her face with her + hands_.) + Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you! + + _Julian_. + Shall I go, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, no, no, do not.-- + I shall be better presently. + + _Julian_. + You shrink + As from a murderer! + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, I love you-- + Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian; + But blood is terrible. + + _Julian_ + (_drawing her close to him_). + My own sweet Lilia, + 'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, + As it had been a tiger that I killed. + He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling; + His blood lies not on me, but on himself; + I do not feel its stain upon my conscience. + + [_A tap at the door_.] + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, the steward waits on you below. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + You have been standing till you're faint, my lady! + Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something. + + + +SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_. + + _Julian_. + Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect + To hear from you soon after my arrival. + Is the boat ready? + + _Steward_. + Yes, my lord; afloat + Where you directed. + + _Julian_. + A strange feeling haunts me, + As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast + The chain around the post. Muffle the oars. + + _Steward_. + I will, directly. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Julian_. + How shall I manage it? + I have her father's leave, but have not dared + To tell her all; and she must know it first! + She fears me half, even now: what will she think + To see my shaven head? My heart is free-- + I know that God absolves mistaken vows. + I looked for help in the high search from those + Who knew the secret place of the Most High. + If I had known, would I have bound myself + Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds + Never a lark springs to salute the day? + The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best + Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! + It cannot be God's will I should be such. + But there was more: they virtually condemned + Me in my quest; would have had me content + To kneel with them around a wayside post, + Nor heed the pointing finger at its top? + It was the dull abode of foolishness: + Not such the house where God would train his children! + My very birth into a world of men + Shows me the school where he would have me learn; + Shows me the place of penance; shows the field + Where I must fight and die victorious, + Or yield and perish. True, I know not how + This will fall out: he must direct my way! + But then for her--she cannot see all this; + Words will not make it plain; and if they would, + The time is shorter than the words would need: + This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.-- + It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat + Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear + That the fair gladness is too good to live: + The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, + The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down; + But how will she receive it? Will she think + I have been mocking her? How could I help it? + Her illness and my danger! But, indeed, + So strong was I in truth, I never thought + Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. + My love did make her so a part of me, + I never dreamed she might judge otherwise, + Until our talk of yesterday. And now + Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me: + To wed a monk will seem to her the worst + Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. + I cannot take the truth, and, bodily, + Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. + She loves me--not as I love her. But always + --There's Robert for an instance--I have loved + A life for what it might become, far more + Than for its present: there's a germ in her + Of something noble, much beyond her now: + Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not. + + This evening must decide it, come what will. + + + +SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, +Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_. + + _Stephen_. + Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; + Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband. + + _Hostess_. + I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; + My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say + I am a judge myself. + + _Host_. + I'm confident + It needs but to be tasted. + + _Stephen_ + (_tasting critically, then nodding_). + That is wine! + Let me congratulate you, my good sir, + Upon your exquisite judgment! + + _Host_. + Thank you, sir. + + _Stephen_ + (_to the_ Hostess). + And so this man, you say, was here until + The night the count was murdered: did he leave + Before or after that? + + _Hostess_. + I cannot tell; + He left, I know, before it was discovered. + In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, + He rushed into the street, half tumbling me + Headlong down stairs, and never came again. + He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; + So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one! + + _Stephen_. + What was he like, fair Hostess? + + _Hostess_. + Tall and dark, + And with a lowering look about his brows. + He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. + One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, + Indoors as well as out. I dare not say + He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange + He always sat at that same window there, + And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if + There were much traffic in the village now; + These are changed times; but I have seen the day-- + + _Stephen_. + Excuse me; you were saying that the man + Sat at the window-- + + _Hostess_. + Yes; even after dark + He would sit on, and never call for lights. + The first night, I brought candles, as of course; + He let me set them on the table, true; + But soon's my back was turned, he put them out. + + _Stephen_. + Where is the lady? + + _Hostess_. + That's the strangest thing + Of all the story: she has disappeared, + As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, + White as my apron. The whole house was empty, + Just as I told you. + + _Stephen_. + Has no search been made? + _Host_. + The closest search; a thousand pieces offered + For any information that should lead + To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother, + Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, + Seeking in vain for some intelligence. + + _Stephen_. + 'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard + For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; + I have to write some letters. + + _Hostess (rising_). + Thank you, sir, + For your kind entertainment. + + [_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.] + + _Stephen_. + We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw + him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not + be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and + corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a + wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother + Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away + with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll + be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the + old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! + Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve. + The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old + mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her + children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her + dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's + nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to + marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is + displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable + progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the + cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory + couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the + chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll + go find the new count. The Church shall have the + castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new + count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well + have the thousand pieces as not. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN. + + _Lilia_. + How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + My Lilia, will you go to England with me? + + _Lilia_. + Julian, my father! + + _Julian_. + Not without his leave. + He says, God bless us both. + + _Lilia_. + Leave him in prison? + + _Julian_. + No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe, + And far from this ere now. + + _Lilia_. + You have done this, + My noble Julian! I will go with you + To sunset, if you will. My father gone! + Julian, there's none to love me now but you. + You _will_ love me, Julian?--always? + + _Julian_. + I but fear + That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough + To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it. + + _Lilia_. + I know why you think that; and I deserve it. + But try me, Julian. I was very silly. + I could not help it. I was ill, you know; + Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian, + How your arm is to-day? + + _Julian_. + Almost well, child. + Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid. + + _Lilia_. + Never mind that, if it be well again. + + _Julian_. + I do not mind it; but when I remember + That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch + Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours. + And there are more scars on me now than I + Should like to make you own, without confession. + + _Lilia_. + My poor, poor Julian! never think of it; + + [_Putting her arms round him_.] + + I will but love you more. I thought you had + Already told me suffering enough; + But not the half, it seems, of your adventures. + You have been a soldier! + + _Julian_. + I have fought, my Lilia. + I have been down among the horses' feet; + But strange to tell, and harder to believe, + Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood + Save what I lifted from the gory ground. + + [_Sighing_.] + + My wounds are not of such. + + [LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a + kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.] + + No. Penance, Lilia; + Such penance as the saints of old inflicted + Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know; + As a lord would exalt himself, by making + His willing servants into trembling slaves! + Yet I have borne it. + + _Lilia_ + (_laying her hand on his arm_). + Ah, alas, my Julian, + You have been guilty! + + _Julian_. + Not what men call guilty, + Save it be now; now you will think I sin. + Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.-- + Lilia, I have been a monk. + + _Lilia_. + A monk? + + [_Turningpale_.] + + I thought-- + + [_Faltering_.] + + Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say...? + + [_Very pale, brokenly_.] + + I thought you said ... + + [_With an effort_.] + + I was to be your wife! + + [_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.] + + _Julian_ + (_speaking low and in pain_). + And so I did. + + _Lilia_ + (_hopefully, and looking up_). + Then you've had dispensation? + + _Julian_. + God has absolved me, though the Church will not. + He knows it was in ignorance I did it. + Rather would he have men to do his will, + Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, + Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. + The vow was made to him--to him I break it. + + _Lilia_ + (_weeping bitterly_). + I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ... + It never can ... be right to break a vow; + If so, men might be liars every day; + You'd do the same by me, if we were married. + + _Julian_ + (_in anguish_). + 'Tis ever so. Words are the living things! + There is no spirit--save what's born of words! + Words are the bonds that of two souls make one! + Words the security of heart to heart! + God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God! + + _Lilia_ + (_not heeding him_). + Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon + Gave late repentance; I should weep away + My life within a convent. + + _Julian_. + Come to England, + To England, Lilia. + + _Lilia_. + Men would point, and say: + _There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth, + Called me not by a harder name than that. + + _Julian_. + There are no monks in England. + + _Lilia_. + But will that + Make right what's wrong? + + _Julian_. + Did I say so, my Lilia? + I answered but your last objections thus; + I had a different answer for the first. + + _Lilia_. + No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it. + + _Julian_. + Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot. + --I would have told you all before, but thought, + Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;-- + I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more; + I would not hurt your body, less your soul, + For all the blessedness your love can give: + For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say. + Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard + From infancy--it may---- + + [_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.] + + _Steward_. + My lord, there's such an uproar in the town! + They call you murderer and heretic. + The officers of justice, with a monk, + And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied + By a fierce mob with torches, howling out + For justice on you, madly cursing you! + They caught a glimpse of me as I returned, + And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm; + But I escaped them, old man as I am, + And was in time to bar the castle-gates.-- + Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut + The river from the moat! + + [_Distant yells and cries_.] + + Escape, my lord! + + _Julian_ + (_calmly_). + Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph? + + _Steward_. + A little while, my lord; but those damned torches! + Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls! + + _Julian_. + Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window, + And tell us of their progress. + + [JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.] + + Farewell, Lilia! + + [_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.] + + Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me. + My presence would but bring down evil on you, + My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear, + The terrible things that you have imaged out + If you fled with me. They will not hurt you, + If you be not polluted by my presence. + + [_Light from without flares on the wall_.] + + They've fired the gate. + + [_An outburst of mingled cries_.] + + _Steward_ + (_entering_). + They've fired the gate, my lord! + + _Julian_. + Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph. + You and old Agata tell all the truth, + And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me; + I shall be safe--you know me--never fear. + + _Steward_. + God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord! + + [_Is going_.] + + _Julian_. + But add, it was in vain; the signorina + Would not consent; therefore I fled alone. + + [LILIA _stands as before_.] + + _Steward_. + Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master! + + [Goes.] + + _Julian_. + Put your arms round me once, my Lilia. + Not once?--not once at parting? + + [_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.] + + O God! farewell! + + [_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the + panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both + behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, + and flies after him, but forgets to close + the panel_.] + + _Lilia_. + Julian! Julian! + + [_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door + of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of + the mob_.] + + _1st_. + I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still! + + _2nd_. + Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his + own. Look under the bed, Gian. + + _3rd_. + Nothing there. + + _4th_. + Another door! another door! He's in a trap + now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with + difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up + the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into + the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.] + + _Voices from within_. + I have him! I have him! Curse + your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You + won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. + Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the + light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! + The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles! + + [_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with + torches and follow_.] + + * * * * * + +SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN +_handing her the bags_. + + _Julian_. + There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it + is heavy.-- + Put them right in the middle, of the boat: + Gold makes good ballast. + + [_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, + then pushes gently off_.] + + Look how the torches gleam + Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped! + + [_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with + cries of search_.] + + (_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length + In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white, + And would return the torches' glare. I fear + The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this. + + [_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.] + + Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars! + The water mutters Spanish in its sleep. + My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife! + God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults, + Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!-- + Once round the headland, I will set the sail; + The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream. + Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all, + White angel lying in my little boat! + Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm, + Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks, + Should make me rich with womanhood and life! + + [_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.] + + SONG. + + Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife, + Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled; + Unresting yet, though folded up from life; + Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind, + O cover me with kisses of her mouth; + Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind; + To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing + From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing, + Us to a new love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + + + +PART III. + + + And weep not, though the Beautiful decay + Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes; + Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies, + Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. + Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away; + Her form departs not, though her body dies. + Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies, + Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day, + Through the kind nurture of the winter cold. + Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive + The summer-time, when roses were alive; + Do thou thy work--be willing to be old: + Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold + A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive. + + + +Time: _Five years later_. + +SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single +candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN +_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks +older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_. + + _Julian_. + What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_: + +"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At +length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the +Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what +he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, +spake as follows:--" + +"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and +there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near +the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and +above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and +strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a +rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining +between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who +had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou +sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A +song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead +thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly +came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose +eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom +he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the +youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a +dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was +a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide +within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw, +far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His +guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of +the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men +leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a +far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they, +I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a +windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it +seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard +a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it +was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat +down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I +ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it +means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the +Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who +cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he +sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to +take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where +God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of +his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The +sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal; +and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could +not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove +well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall +upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their +eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it +likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that +of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled +within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my +son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary +step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave +hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and +said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what +songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath +told his tale to the Immortals.'" + + [_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and + walks up and down the room_.] + + And so five years have poured their silent streams, + Flowing from fountains in eternity, + Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf, + Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed; + And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept. + And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born; + The day that showed how like to God himself + Man had been made, since God could be revealed + By one that was a man with men, and still + Was one with God the Father; that men might + By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God, + Who had come near to them in tenderness. + O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye + That oft hath opened on me these five years; + Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit + That let me know thy thought was toward me; + Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years, + Telling what converse I should hold with God. + I thank thee for the sorrow and the care, + Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks + Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which + Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee. + Five years ago, I prayed in agony + That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then, + With that close speech I craved so hungrily. + Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart; + And thou wast all the time instructing me + To know the language of thy inmost speech. + I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour + Thou spakest every word my heart could hear, + Though oft I did not know it was thy voice. + My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul; + As if a world far-off in depths of space, + Chaotic, had implored that it might shine + Straightway in sunlight as the morning star. + My soul must be more pure ere it could hold + With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart + That shall see God. As if a well that lay + Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown + Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass + Over its surface, could give back the sun! + Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield + Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven! + And though I am not yet come near to him, + I know I am more nigh; and am content + To walk a long and weary road to find + My father's house once more. Well may it be + A long and weary--I had wandered far. + My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me. + I am content, rejoicing to go on, + Even when my home seems very far away; + For over grief, and aching emptiness, + And fading hopes, a higher joy arises. + In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright, + High overhead, through folds and folds of space; + It is the earnest-star of all my heavens; + And tremulous in the deep well of my being + Its image answers, gazing eagerly. + + Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus, + Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul + Thus far upon its journey home to God. + By poor attempts to do the things he said, + Faith has been born; free will become a fact; + And love grown strong to enter into his, + And know the spirit that inhabits there. + One day his truth will spring to life in me, + And make me free, as God says "I am free." + When I am like him, then my soul will dawn + With the full glory of the God revealed-- + Full as to me, though but one beam from him; + The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it: + In his light I shall see light. God can speak, + Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear. + Not yet like him, how can I hear his words? + + [_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.] + + My darling child! God's little daughter, drest + In human clothes, that light may thus be clad + In shining, so to reach my human eyes! + Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth, + To call me _father_, that my heart may know + What father means, and turn its eyes to God! + Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me, + How all unfit this heart of mine to have + The guardianship of a bright thing like thee, + Come to entice, allure me back to God + By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home, + And radiating of thy purity + Into my stained heart; which unto thee + Shall ever show the father, answering + The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes. + O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways, + All ignorant of wherefore thou art come, + And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward, + Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light + And pour it forth on me! God bless his own! + +[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.] + + My child woke crying from her sleep; + I bended o'er her bed, + And soothed her, till in slumber deep + She from the darkness fled. + + And as beside my child I stood, + A still voice said in me-- + "Even thus thy Father, strong and good, + Is bending over thee." + + +SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers; +gentlemen looking on_. + + 1_st Gentleman_. + Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves + As if her body were instinct with thought, + Moulded to motion by the music's waves, + As floats the swan upon the swelling lake; + Or as in dreams one sees an angel move, + Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air, + Then folding them, and turning on his track. + + 2_nd_. + You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it; + She is a glorious woman; and such eyes! + Think--to be loved by such a woman now! + + 1_st_. + You have seen her, then, before: what is her name? + + 2_nd_. + I saw her once; but could not learn her name. + + 3_rd_. + She is the wife of an Italian count, + Who for some cause, political I think, + Took refuge in this country. His estates + The Church has eaten up, as I have heard: + Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach. + + 2_nd_. + How do they live? + + 3_rd_. + Poorly, I should suppose; + For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons: + That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing! + + 2_nd_. + If she sings as she looks or as she dances, + It were as well for me I did not hear. + + 3_rd_. + If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford + To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth. + + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_. + + _Julian_. + I wish she would come home. When the child wakes, + I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest + On me, then wander searching through the room, + And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia! + 'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go + From this dull place, and for a few short hours + Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee; + For thou art very young for such hard things + As poor men's wives in cities must endure. + + I am afraid the thought is not at rest, + But rises still, that she is not my wife-- + Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child + Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead, + She thinks I have begun to think the same-- + Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin + Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia! + When every time I pray, I pray that God + Would look and see that thou and I be one! + + _Lily_ + (_starting up in her crib_). + Oh, take me! take me! + + _Julian_ + (_going up to her with a smile_). + What is the matter with my little child? + + _Lily_. + I don't know, father; I was very frightened. + + _Julian_. + 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you. + + _Lily_. + I am wake now; I know you're there; but then + I did not know it. + + [_Smiling_.] + + _Julian_. + Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again. + + _Lily_ + (_beseechingly_). + Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again; + It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up, + And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother? + I cannot see her. + + _Julian_. + She's not at home, my child; + But soon she will be back. + + _Lily_. + But if she walk + Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her. + + _Julian_. + She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet? + + _Lily_. + I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_). + Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you + A story I have read this very night. + + [_She looks in his face_.] + + There was a man who had a little boy, + And when the boy grew big, he went and asked + His father to give him a purse of money. + His father gave him such a large purse full! + And then he went away and left his home. + You see he did not love his father much. + + _Lily_. + Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone! + + _Julian_. + Away he went, far far away he went, + Until he could not even spy the top + Of the great mountain by his father's house. + And still he went away, away, as if + He tried how far his feet could go away; + Until he came to a city huge and wide, + Like London here. + + _Lily_. + Perhaps it was London. + + _Julian_. + Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent + All, all his father's money, buying things + That he had always told him were not worth, + And not to buy them; but he would and did. + + _Lily_. + How very naughty of him! + + _Julian_. + Yes, my child. + And so when he had spent his last few pence, + He grew quite hungry. But he had none left + To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce; + Nobody gave him any. He had been + Always so idle, that he could not work. + But at last some one sent him to feed swine. + + _Lily_. + _Swine_! Oh! + + _Julian_. + Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do; + And he was glad to eat some of their food. + + [_She stares at him_.] + + But at the last, hunger and waking love + Made him remember his old happy home. + "How many servants in my father's house + Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go + And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father; + I am not worthy to be called your son; + Put me among your servants, father, please.'" + Then he rose up and went; but thought the road + So much, much farther to walk back again, + When he was tired and hungry. But at last + He saw the blue top of the great big hill + That stood beside his father's house; and then + He walked much faster. But a great way off, + His father saw him coming, lame and weary + With his long walk; and very different + From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging + In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes-- + + [_She bursts into tears_.] + + _Lily_ + (_sobbing_). + Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my dear child. + + _Lily_. + And was he dirty too? + + _Julian_. + Yes, very dirty; he had been so long + Among the swine. + + _Lily_. + Is it all true though, father? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far + Than you can think. + + _Lily_. + What was his father like? + + _Julian_. + A tall, grand, stately man. + + _Lily_. + Like you, dear father? + + _Julian_. + Like me, only much grander. + + _Lily_. + I love you + The best though. + + [_Kissing him_.] + + _Julian_. + Well, all dirty as he was, + And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes, + His father knew him, the first look, far off, + And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms + Around his neck and kissed him. + + _Lily_. + Oh, how dear! + I love him too;--but not so well as you. + + [_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.] + + _Julian_. + There is your mother. + + _Lily_. + I am glad, so glad! + + _Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_. + + _Lilia_. + You naughty child, why are you not in bed? + + _Lily_ + (_pouting_). + I am not naughty. I am afraid to go, + Because you don't go with me into sleep; + And when I see things, and you are not there, + Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out, + And stretch my hands, and so I come awake. + Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come. + + _Lilia_. + What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed. + + [_Lays her down_.] + + _Julian_ + (_gazing on the child_). + As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother, + So are we lost in life without our God. + + + +SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the +street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_. + + _Lilia_. + Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time + My thoughts would wander to my dreary home. + Through every dance, my soul walked evermore + In a most dreary dance through this same room. + I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard, + As now, his measured step in the next chamber, + Go pacing up and down, and I shut out! + He is too good for me, I weak for him. + Yet if he put his arms around me once, + And held me fast as then, kissed me as then, + My soul, I think, would come again to me, + And pass from me in trembling love to him. + But he repels me now. He loves me, true,-- + Because I am his wife: he ought to love me! + Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty. + Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid, + Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven, + He used me like a slave bought in the market! + Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own; + And words of tenderness would falter in, + Relenting from the sternness of command. + But I am not enough for him: he needs + Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. + So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me + Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. + Italian lovers love not so; but he + Has German blood in those great veins of his. + He never brings me now a little flower. + He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child; + But never sings to me what the voice-bird + Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. + I would I were his child, and not his wife! + How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts + Fit to be women to his mighty men; + And he would love them, if he saw them once. + + Ah! there they come, the visions of my land! + The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs + Purple above the blue waves at their feet! + Down the full river comes a light-blue sail; + And down the near hill-side come country girls, + Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits; + Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad + For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment + At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought; + And to their side come stately, youthful forms, + Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:-- + Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day. + Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look + With pity on their poor contentedness; + For he sits at the helm, I at his feet. + He sung a song, and I replied to him. + His song was of the wind that blew us down + From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea. + Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea, + Where I should cry for comforting in vain, + Was the expanse of his wide awful soul, + To which that wind was helpless drifting me! + I would he were less great, and loved me more. + I sung to him a song, broken with sighs, + For even then I feared the time to come: + "O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now? + And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?" + Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart. + "And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend, + And suck my soul in vapours up to thee? + Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours. + Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I + In the warm valley, with the lily pale, + Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves; + Where odours are the sole invisible clouds, + Making the heart weep for deliciousness. + Will thy eternal mountain always bear + Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot? + Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow, + The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head, + Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door, + And goest from me into loneliness." + Ah me, my song! it is a song no more! + He is alone amid his windy rocks; + I wandering on a low and dreary plain! + + +[_She weeps herself asleep_.] + + + +SCENE V.--LORD SEAFORD, _alternately writing at a table and +composing at his pianoforte_. + + SONG. + + Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, + Sweetly, softly, sadly bright! + Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, + Radiant mists of ecstasy. + + Be not proud, O glorious orbs! + Not your mystery absorbs; + But the starry soul that lies + Looking through your night of eyes. + + One moment, be less perfect, sweet; + Sin once in something small; + One fault to lift me on my feet + From love's too perfect thrall! + + For now I have no soul; a sea + Fills up my caverned brain, + Heaving in silent waves to thee, + The mistress of that main. + + O angel! take my hand in thine; + Unfold thy shining silver wings; + Spread them around thy face and mine, + Close curtained in their murmurings. + + But I should faint with too much bliss + To be alone in space with thee; + Except, O dread! one angel-kiss + In sweetest death should set me free. + + O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on, + Till thou hast won my soul in sighs; + I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne, + If thou wilt keep those eyes. + + And if the meanings of untold desires + Should charm thy pain of one faint sting, + I will arise amid the scorching fires, + I will arise and sing. + + O what is God to me? He sits apart + Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold. + Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart; + O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold. + + With too much life, I fall before thee dead. + With holding thee, my sense consumes in storm. + Thou art too keen a flame, too hallowed + For any temple but thy holy form. + + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room next morning; no fire_. JULIAN _stands at +the window, looking into a London fog_. + + _Julian_. + And there are mountains on the earth, far-off; + Steep precipices laved at morn in wind + From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap, + Springing from rock to pool abandonedly; + And all the spirit of the earth breathed out, + Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame, + Aloft to God! And there is woman-love-- + Far off, ah me! + + [_Sitting down wearily_.] + + --the heart of earth's delight + Withered from mine! O for a desert sea, + The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs! + Where I might cry aloud on God, until + My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain, + And fled to him. A numbness as of death + Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live, + But my dull soul can hardly keep awake. + Yet God is here as on the mountain-top, + Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle; + And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me, + As once I thought she did. But can I blame her? + The change has been too much for her to bear. + Can poverty make one of two hearts cold, + And warm the other with the love of God? + But then I have been silent, often moody, + Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought + That I was tired of her, while more than all + I pondered how to wake her living soul. + She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber, + Except a goaded conscience were my grief; + Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun. + Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus + Of that which makes her mine for evermore, + It is no wonder if her love grow less. + Then I am older much than she; and this + Fever, I think, has made me old indeed + Before my fortieth year; although, within, + I seem as young as ever to myself. + O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame; + I'll love thee more than ever; I will be + So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead! + For carefully men ope the door, and walk + With silent footfall through the room where lies, + Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore, + The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit. + Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love's child? + + I must go forth and do my daily work. + I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes + To do my daily labour; for, of old, + When men were poor, and could not bring thee much, + A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask; + And so in poverty, and with a heart + Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do + My day's work well to thee,--my offering: + That he has taught me, who one day sat weary + At Sychar's well. Then home when I return, + I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee. + Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance-- + Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice; + Thou only wise enough to teach the soul, + Measuring out the labour and the grief, + Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own. + He neither chose his glory, nor devised + The burden he should bear; left all to God; + And of them both God gave to him enough. + And see the sun looks faintly through the mist; + It cometh as a messenger to me. + My soul is heavy, but I will go forth; + My days seem perishing, but God yet lives + And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe. + + [_He rises and is going_. LILIA _enters, looking weary_.] + + Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out! + + _Lilia_. + Shines out indeed! Yet 'tis not bad for England. + I would I were in Italy, my own! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + 'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy. + + _Lilia_. + But never more will shine upon us there! + It is too late; all wishing is in vain; + But would that we had not so ill deserved + As to be banished from fair Italy! + + _Julian_. + Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think + That God is angry when we suffer ill. + 'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger. + + _Lilia_. + Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish + I felt as you feel. + + _Julian_. + God will hear you, child, + If you will speak to him. But I must go. + Kiss me, my Lilia. + + [_She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh_.] + + _Lilia_. + It is plain to see + He tries to love me, but is weary of me. + + [_She weeps_.] + + _Enter_ LILY. + + _Lily_. + Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear! + + [_Pulling her hand from her face_.] + + + + +SCENE VII.--_Julian's room. Noon_. LILIA _at work_; LILY _playing in +a closet_. + + _Lily_ + (_running up to her mother_). + Sing me a little song; please, mother dear. + + [LILIA, _looking off her work, and thinking with + fixed eyes for a few moments, sings_.] + + SONG. + + Once I was a child, + Oime! + Full of frolic wild; + Oime! + All the stars for glancing, + All the earth for dancing; + Oime! Oime! + + When I ran about, + Oime! + All the flowers came out, + Oime! + Here and there like stray things, + Just to be my playthings. + Oime! Oime! + + Mother's eyes were deep, + Oime! + Never needing sleep. + Oime! + Morning--they're above me! + Eventide--they love me! + Oime! Oime! + + Father was so tall! + Oime! + Stronger he than all! + Oime! + On his arm he bore me, + Queen of all before me. + Oime! Oime! + + Mother is asleep; + Oime! + For her eyes so deep, + Oime! + Grew so tired and aching, + They could not keep waking. + Oime! Oime! + + Father, though so strong, + Oime! + Laid him down along-- + Oime! + By my mother sleeping; + And they left me weeping, + Oime! Oime! + + Now nor bird, nor bee, + Oime! + Ever sings to me! + Oime! + Since they left me crying, + All things have been dying. + Oime! Oime! + + [LILY _looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering + what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. + After a little she comes running with a box in her hand_.] + + _Lily_. + O mother, mother! there's the old box I had + So long ago, and all my cups and saucers, + And the farm-house and cows.--Oh! some are broken. + Father will mend them for me, I am sure. + I'll ask him when he comes to-night--I will: + He can do everything, you know, dear mother. + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A merchants counting-house_. JULIAN _preparing to go +home_. + + _Julian_. + I would not give these days of common toil, + This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks + Into the very soul, and mars its hue-- + Not for the evenings when with gliding keel + I cut a pale green track across the west-- + Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted + With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low, + So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails, + That pointed to the south, and wavered not, + Erect upon the waters.--Jesus said + His followers should have a hundred fold + Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.-- + In all the labourings of a weary spirit, + I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things. + The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul, + No more look in from far.--I never see + Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about + A gently opening eye into the blue, + But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee, + Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before, + Signed only that the hour for prayer was come, + But now it moves my inmost soul to pray. + + On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked + Upon its thousand glories; read them all; + In splendour let them pass on through his soul, + And triumph in their new beatitude, + Finding a heaven of truth to take them in; + But walked on steadily through pain to death. + + Better to have the poet's heart than brain, + Feeling than song; but better far than both, + To be a song, a music of God's making; + A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame, + In words harmonious, of triumphant verse, + That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear, + That out of darkness he hath called the light. + It may be voice to such is after given, + To tell the mighty tale to other worlds. + + Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope + That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds + Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were + Most blest of men, if I were now returning + To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God, + I can but look to thee. And then the child!-- + Why should my love to her break out in tears? + Why should she be only a consolation, + And not an added joy, to fill my soul + With gladness overflowing in many voices + Of song, and prayer--and weeping only when + Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance? + + + +SCENE IX.--LILIA _preparing to go out_. LILY. + + _Lily_. + Don't go to-night again. + + _Lilia_. + Why, child, your father + Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me. + + _Lily_. + Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad + When you're not here! + + _Lilia_ + (_aside_). + He cannot look much sadder + Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief + To find his child alone when he returns. + + _Lily_. + Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry + Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, + And tell such lovely tales: you never do-- + Nor sing me songs made all for my own self. + He does not kiss me half so many times + As you do, mother; but he loves me more. + Do you love father, too? I love him _so_! + + _Lilia_ + (_ready_). + There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool, + And look at the pictures till your father comes. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lily_ + (_putting the book down, and going to the window_). + I wish he would come home. I wish he would. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + Oh, there he is! + + [_Running up to him_.] + + Oh, now I am so happy! + + [_Laughing_.] + + I had not time to watch before you came. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her in his arms_). + I am very glad to have my little girl; + I walked quite fast to come to her again. + + _Lily_. + I do, _do_ love you. Shall I tell you something? + Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream + That I went into, somewhere in last night. + I was alone--quite;--you were not with me, + So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like + That one you took me to, long, long ago, + When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, + But some of the poor leaves were growing tired + With hanging there so long. And some of them + Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay + Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. + I saw one falling--down, down--tumbling down-- + Just at the earth--when suddenly it spread + Great wings and flew.--It was a butterfly, + So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white-- + + [_Laughing heartily_.] + + I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf. + Away it flew! I don't know where it went. + And so I thought, I have a story now + To tell dear father when he comes to Lily. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. + But I am tired--will you go find another-- + Another dream somewhere in sleep for me? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will.--Perhaps I cannot find one. + + [_He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing_.] + + _Julian_. + What shall I do to give it life again? + To make it spread its wings before it fall, + And lie among the dead things of the earth? + + _Lily_. + I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing + The song about the little thirsty lily. + + [JULIAN _sings_.] + + + SONG. + + Little white Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little white Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little white Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little white Lily + Said, "It is good: + Little white Lily's + Clothing and food! + Little white Lily + Drest like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crowned beside!" + + Little white Lily + Droopeth in pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little white Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling, + And filling it up. + + Little white Lily + Said, "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have nice rain! + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full!" + + Little white Lily + Smells very sweet: + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + "Thanks to the sunshine! + Thanks to the rain! + Little white Lily + Is happy again!" + + [_He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her_.] + + _Julian_. + She is asleep, the darling! Easily + Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. + Gone home unto thy Father for the night! + + [_He returns to his seat_.] + + I have grown common to her. It is strange-- + This commonness--that, as a blight, eats up + All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit. + + [_Looking round_.] + + This room is very common: everything + Has such a well-known look of nothing in it; + And yet when first I called it hers and mine, + There was a mystery inexhaustible + About each trifle on the chimney-shelf: + The gilding now is nearly all worn off. + Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world, + Seems less mysterious and worshipful: + No wonder I am common in her eyes. + Alas! what must I think? Is this the true? + Was that the false that was so beautiful? + Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round? + Or was love to the eyes as opium, + Making all things more beauteous than they were? + And can that opium do more than God + To waken beauty in a human brain? + Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth-- + A skeleton admitted as a guest + At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask? + No, no; my heart would die if I believed it. + A blighting fog uprises with the days, + False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about + The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever + Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out: + On past and future pours the light of heaven. + The Commonplace is of the present mind. + The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful + Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms + The great child-heart has withered, backward look + To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly, + A mere delusion to which youth is subject, + As childhood to diseases. They know better! + And proud of their denying, tell the youth, + On whom the wonder of his being shines, + That will be over with him by and by: + "I was so when a boy--look at me now!" + Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love. + So with all worship of the high and good, + And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser! + Their god, Experience, but their own decay; + Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them. + Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss, + And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it, + Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming. + But he in whom the child's heart hath not died, + But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past; + Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours + Will melt the mist; and that, although this day + Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn, + A morning light will break one morn and draw + The hidden glories of a thousand hues + Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots + And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before. + Far in the future lies his refuge. Time + Is God's, and all its miracles are his; + And in the Future he overtakes the Past, + Which was a prophecy of times to come: + _There_ lie great flashing stars, the same that shone + In childhood's laughing heaven; there lies the wonder + In which the sun went down and moon arose; + The joy with which the meadows opened out + Their daisies to the warming sun of spring; + Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear + Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul: + To reach it, he must climb the present slope + Of this day's duty--here he would not rest. + But all the time the glory is at hand, + Urging and guiding--only o'er its face + Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil: + He knows the beauty radiant underneath; + He knows that God who is the living God, + The God of living things, not of the dying, + Would never give his child, for God-born love, + A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun. + Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil + Will melt away, destroyed of inward light. + + If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou + And I might, as two children, hand in hand, + Go home unto our Father.--I believe + It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet. + + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room. Christmas Day; early morn_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world + On this one day that blesses all the year, + Just as it comes on any other day: + A feeble child he came, yet not the less + Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth, + Where nothing now is common any more. + All things had hitherto proclaimed God: + The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid + The far horizon of the fading sea; + The low persistent music evermore + Flung down upon the sands, and at the base + Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup; + All things most common; the furze, now golden, now + Opening dark pods in music to the heat + Of the high summer-sun at afternoon; + The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top, + O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke, + Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid, + Singing like children down the rocky sides;-- + Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing, + For that sang God with all its voice of song? + But men heard not, they knew not God in these; + To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange; + For with a stammering tongue and broken words, + With mingled falsehoods and denials loud, + Man witnessed God unto his fellow man: + How then himself the voice of Nature hear? + Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader, + He in the chorus sang a discord vile? + When prophet lies, how shall the people preach? + But when He came in poverty, and low, + A real man to half-unreal men, + A man whose human thoughts were all divine, + The head and upturned face of human kind-- + Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth, + And men began to read their maker there. + Now the Divine descends, pervading all. + Earth is no more a banishment from heaven; + But a lone field among the distant hills, + Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home. + Now, now we feel the holy mystery + That permeates all being: all is God's; + And my poor life is terribly sublime. + Where'er I look, I am alone in God, + As this round world is wrapt in folding space; + Behind, before, begin and end in him: + So all beginnings and all ends are hid; + And he is hid in me, and I in him. + + Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!-- + The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue + Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west, + While the dank wind is running o'er the graves; + Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow; + The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow; + And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars! + Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick, + Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades-- + Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space, + The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams-- + Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon! + All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth, + Changing with every cloud that passes o'er; + All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost + Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air, + To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps, + The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun; + All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice, + To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers--all, all + The unlike children of her single womb! + Oh, my heart labours with infinitude! + All, all the messages that these have borne + To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls; + And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts, + That since the first-born, young, attempting day, + Have gazed and worshipped!--What a unity, + To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all! + O centre of all forms! O concord's home! + O world alive in one condensed world! + O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed + The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven! + Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine! + + I sought my God; I pressed importunate; + I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart + It seemed he answered me. I said--"Oh! take + Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life! + I faint, I die; I am a child alone + 'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night." + + "Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee, + Trod the highways and deserts of the world." + + "Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight! + Thou wilt not have me--I am not worth thy care!" + + "I send thee not away; child, think not so; + From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak, + I call to guide thee in the path by which + Thou may'st come soonest home unto my heart. + I, I am leading thee. Think not of him + As he were one and I were one; in him + Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one. + Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine, + And see that God dwelleth in lowliness." + + I came to Him; I gazed upon his face; + And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!-- + Yea, let them laugh! I _will_ sit at his feet, + As a child sits upon the ground, and looks + Up in his mother's face. One smile from him, + One look from those sad eyes, is more to me + Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts. + O perfect made through the reacting pain + In which thy making force recoiled on thee! + Whom no less glory could make visible + Than the utter giving of thyself away; + Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed, + More than a child embracing from full heart! + Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief + Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God, + Or rather, bear in being unto us + Thy own pure shining self of love and truth! + When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts, + To love the truth beyond the power to know it, + To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross, + Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake, + But an unprofitable servant still,-- + My highest sacrifice my simplest duty + Imperative and unavoidable, + Less than which _All_, were nothingness and waste; + When I have lost myself in other men, + And found myself in thee--the Father then + Will come with thee, and will abide with me. + + + * * * * * + +SCENE XI.--LILIA _teaching_ LADY GERTRUDE. _Enter_ LORD SEAFORD. +LILIA _rises_. _He places her a chair, and seats himself at the +instrument; plays a low, half-melancholy, half-defiant prelude, and +sings_. + + SONG. + + Look on the magic mirror; + A glory thou wilt spy; + + Be with thine heart a sharer, + But go not thou too nigh; + Else thou wilt rue thine error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye. + + The youth looked on the mirror, + And he went not too nigh; + And yet he rued his error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye; + For he could not be a sharer + In what he there did spy. + + He went to the magician + Upon the morrow morn. + "Mighty," was his petition, + "Look not on me in scorn; + But one last gaze elision, + Lest I should die forlorn!" + + He saw her in her glory, + Floating upon the main. + Ah me! the same sad story! + The darkness and the rain! + If I live till I am hoary, + I shall never laugh again. + + She held the youth enchanted, + Till his trembling lips were pale, + And his full heart heaved and panted + To utter all its tale: + Forward he rushed, undaunted-- + And the shattered mirror fell. + + [_He rises and leaves the room. LILIA weeping_.] + + + + +PART IV. + + + And should the twilight darken into night, + And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong; + Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong + Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright. + That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light. + Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long; + Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. + But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight, + There lies no cause for beauty's slow decay; + If for completeness and diviner youth, + And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth; + If thou hast learned to give thyself away + For love's own self, not for thyself, I say: + Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth! + + + +SCENE I.--_Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of +poems_. + + + Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower; + A sleepiness filleth the earth and air; + The rain has been falling for many an hour; + A weary look the summer doth wear: + Beautiful things that cannot be so; + Loveliness clad in the garments of woe. + + Love me, beloved; I hear the birds; + The clouds are lighter; I see the blue; + The wind in the leaves is like gentle words + Quietly passing 'twixt me and you; + The evening air will bathe the buds + With the soothing coolness of summer floods. + + Love me, beloved; for, many a day, + Will the mist of the morning pass away; + Many a day will the brightness of noon + Lead to a night that hath lost her moon; + And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring, + Thy love to my soul is a needful thing. + + Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie + Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + Love me, O love me, and let me know + The love that within thee moves to and fro; + That many a form of thy love may be + Gathered around thy memory. + + Love me, beloved; for I may lie + Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain, + The stronger thy hope till we meet again; + And forth on the pathway we do not know, + With a load of love, my soul would go. + + Love me, beloved; for one must lie + Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky; + The pale stiff lips return no kiss + To the lips that never brought love amiss; + And the dark brown earth be heaped above + The head that lay on the bosom of love. + + Love me, beloved; for both must lie + Under the earth and beneath the sky; + The world be the same when we are gone; + The leaves and the waters all sound on; + The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live, + Gifts for the poor man's love to give; + The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, + Tell the same tales to others than thee; + And joys, that flush with an inward morn, + Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn; + A youthful race call our earth their own, + And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne; + Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace. + The maid beside him, his queen of the race; + When thou and I shall have passed away + Like the foam-flake thou looked'st on yesterday. + + Love me, beloved; for both must tread + On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead; + Where now but in thinkings strange we roam, + We shall live and think, and shall be at home; + The sights and the sounds of the spirit land + No stranger to us than the white sea-sand, + Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon, + Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon. + I pray thee to love me, belov'd of my heart; + If we love not truly, at death we part; + And how would it be with our souls to find + That love, like a body, was left behind! + + Love me, beloved; Hades and Death + Shall vanish away like a frosty breath; + These hands, that now are at home in thine, + Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine; + And thou shall be mine, my spirit's bride, + In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide, + If the truest love that thy heart can know + Meet the truest love that from mine can flow. + Pray God, beloved, for thee and me, + That our souls may be wedded eternally. + + [_He closes the book, and is silent for some moments_.] + + Ah me, O Poet! did _thy_ love last out + The common life together every hour? + The slumber side by side with wondrousness + Each night after a day of fog and rain? + Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse, + And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot? + Is she dead, Poet? Is thy love awake? + + Alas! and is it come to this with me? + _I_ might have written that! where am I now? + Yet let me think: I love less passionately, + But not less truly; I would die for her-- + A little thing, but all a man can do. + O my beloved, where the answering love? + Love me, beloved. Whither art thou gone? + + * * * * * + +SCENE II.--_Lilia's room_. LILIA. + + _Lilia_. + He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn. + Were it not better that I went away, + And left him with the child; for she alone + Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face? + Alas, he used to say to me, _my child_! + Some convent would receive me in my land, + Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned; + And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell, + To take me likewise in, beside him there. + + Had I not better make one trial first + To win again his love to compass me? + Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet, + And beg and pray for love as for my life? + Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven, + That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles? + What if endurance were my only meed? + He would not turn away, but speak forced words, + Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love, + And giving service where I wanted smiles; + Till by degrees all had gone back again + To where it was, a slow dull misery. + No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him-- + And that I will do--free him from my sight. + In love I gave myself away to him; + And now in love I take myself again. + He will not miss me; I am nothing now. + + * * * * * + +SCENE III.--_Lord Seaford's garden_. LILIA; LORD SEAFORD. + + _Lord S_. + How the white roses cluster on the trellis! + They look in the dim light as if they floated + Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round. + One could believe that those far distant tones + Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent, + Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers, + As the low rushing from a river-bed, + Or the continuous bubbling of a spring + In deep woods, turning over its own joy + In its own heart luxuriously, alone. + 'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days, + The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes + Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees, + With likeness undefinable retained + In higher human form to their tree-homes, + Which fainting let them forth into the air, + And lived a life in death till they returned. + The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech + Gave forth the perfect woman to the night; + From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole + The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown. + The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm, + The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams, + And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands. + The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth + Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy. + All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood + Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass + Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated + Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim. + O what a life they lived! in poet's brain-- + Not on this earth, alas!--But you are sad; + You do not speak, dear lady. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon me. + If such words make me sad, I am to blame. + + _Lord S_. + Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things: + Beauty and sadness always go together. + Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth + Upon the earth without a meet alloy. + If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness, + Poets had never needed this dream-life; + Each blessed man had but to look beside him, + And be more blest. How easily could God + Have made our life one consciousness of joy! + It is denied us. Beauty flung around + Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts + To worship her; then when the soul is full + Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe, + And colours that bring tears into the eyes-- + Steeped until saturated with her essence; + And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing + More beautiful than all, containing all, + Essential Beauty's self, that it may say: + "Thou art my Queen--I dare not think to crown thee, + For thou art crowned already, every part, + With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee, + The utterance of the beauty of the earth, + As of the trees the Hamadryades; + I worship thee, intense of loveliness! + Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean, + Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling + To give thee birth, to utter each its thought + Of beauty held in many forms diverse, + In one form, holding all, a living Love, + Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen + By virtue of thy dignities combined!"-- + And when in some great hour of wild surprise, + She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced, + At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee, + And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy, + And his soul thinks not, having lost itself + In her, pervaded with her being; strayed + Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form, + Clothing her with the only beauty yet + That could be added, ownness unto him;-- + Then falls the stern, cold _No_ with thunder-tone. + Think, lady,--the poor unresisting soul + Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss + To house in central deep the ideal form; + Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed, + From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine, + To set it on the Pisgah of desire;-- + Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain! + Stormy confusions! far gray distances! + And the dim rush of countless years behind! + + [_He sinks at her feet_.] + + Yet for this moment, let me worship thee! + + _Lilia_ + (_agitated_). + Rise, rise, my lord; this cannot be, indeed. + I pray you, cease; I will not listen to you. + Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be! + + [_Moving as to go_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_rising_). + Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself + On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, + All the bright morning, as I walked alone; + And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words. + It is a weakness with me from my boyhood, + That if I act a part in any play, + Or follow, merely intellectually, + A passion or a motive--ere I know, + My being is absorbed, my brain on fire; + I am possessed with something not myself, + And live and move and speak in foreign forms. + Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive + My rudeness with your gentleness and truth. + That you are beautiful is simple fact; + And when I once began to speak my thoughts, + The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire, + And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust. + I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame, + I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness. + + _Lilia_. + Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray. + --What is this purple flower with the black spot + In its deep heart? I never saw it before. + + + +SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing +with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_. + + _Julian_. + I see her as I saw her then. She sat + On a low chair, the child upon her knees, + Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, + Her full face beamed upon the face below, + Bent over it, as with love to ripen love; + Till its intensity, like summer heat, + Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, + Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, + The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing! + [_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a + little table, and writes_.] + + THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING. + + My child is lying on my knees; + The signs of heaven she reads: + My face is all the heaven she sees, + Is all the heaven she needs. + + And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, + If heaven is in my face-- + Behind it, all is tenderness, + And truthfulness and grace. + + I mean her well so earnestly. + Unchanged in changing mood; + My life would go without a sigh + To bring her something good. + + I also am a child, and I + Am ignorant and weak; + I gaze upon the starry sky, + And then I must not speak; + + For all behind the starry sky, + Behind the world so broad, + Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie + The Infinite of God. + + If true to her, though troubled sore, + I cannot choose but be; + Thou, who art peace for evermore, + Art very true to me. + + If I am low and sinful, bring + More love where need is rife; + _Thou_ knowest what an awful thing + It is to be a life. + + Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap + My waywardness about, + In doubting safety on the lap + Of Love that knows no doubt? + + Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, + My child upon my knee; + She looketh up unto my face, + And I look up to thee. + + + +SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY +GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the +girl's hand in both hers_. + + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you to come! And you will stay + And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well? + I am better since you came. You look so sweet, + It brings all summer back into my heart. + + _Lilia_. + I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt + No one could nurse you quite so well as I. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; + And put your white cool hands upon my head; + And let me lie and look in your great eyes: + 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing. + + _Lilia_. + I must not let you talk too much, dear child. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, + And must not speak much, will you sing to me? + Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; + 'Twill keep me quiet. + + _Lilia_. + What was it, child? + + _Lady Gertrude_. + It was + Something about a race--Death and a lady-- + + _Lilia_. + Oh! I remember. I would rather sing + Some other, though. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + No, no, I want that one. + Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, + But won't stand long enough to show itself. + You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, + Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me. + + _Lilia_. + Well, I'll sing it. + + + SONG. + + Death and a lady rode in the wind, + In a starry midnight pale; + Death on a bony horse behind, + With no footfall upon the gale. + + The lady sat a wild-eyed steed; + Eastward he tore to the morn. + But ever the sense of a noiseless speed, + And the sound of reaping corn! + + All the night through, the headlong race + Sped to the morning gray; + The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face-- + From Death or the morning? say. + + Her steed's wide knees began to shake, + As he flung the road behind; + The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, + And a cold breath came down the wind. + + When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside, + With a silver mane and tail; + A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride, + With never a coat of mail. + + He never lifted his hand to Death, + And he never couched a spear; + But the lady felt another breath, + And a voice was in her ear. + + He looked her weary eyes through and through, + With his eyes so strong in faith: + Her bridle-hand the lady drew, + And she turned and laughed at Death. + + And away through the mist of the morning gray, + The spectre and horse rode wide; + The dawn came up the old bright way, + And the lady never died. + + + _Lord Seaford_ + (_who has entered during the song_). + Delightful! Why, my little pining Gertrude, + With such charm-music you will soon be well. + Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks + I owe you for your kindness to my daughter: + She looks as different from yesterday + As sunrise from a fog. + + _Lilia_. + I am but too happy + To be of use to one I love so much. + + +SCENE VI.--_A rainy day_. LORD SEAFORD _walking up and down his room, +murmuring to himself_. + + + Oh, my love is like a wind of death, + That turns me to a stone! + Oh, my love is like a desert breath, + That burns me to the bone! + + Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow, + And a purple scent all day! + But a black spot lies at the heart below, + And smells all night of clay. + + Oh, my love is like the poison sweet + That lurks in the hooded cell! + One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, + And then the passing bell! + + Oh, my love she's like a white, white rose! + And I am the canker-worm: + Never the bud to a blossom blows; + It falls in the rainy storm. + + + +SCENE VII.--JULIAN _reading in his room_. + + "And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me." + + [_He closes the book and kneels_.] + + +SCENE VIII.--_Lord Seaford's room_. LILIA _and_ LORD SEAFORD. +_Her hand lies in his_. + + _Lilia_. + It may be true. I am bewildered, though. + I know not what to answer. + + _Lord S_. + Let me answer:-- + You would it were so--you would love me then? + + [_A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street, + melting away in a low cadence_.] + + _Lilia_ + (starting up). + Let me go, my lord! + + _Lord S_. + (_retaining her hand_). + Why, sweetest! what is this? + + _Lilia_ + (_vehemently, and disengaging her hand_). + Let me go. My husband! Oh, my white child! + + [_She hurries to the door, but falls_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_raising her_). + I thought you trusted me, yes, loved me, Lilia! + + _Lilia_. + Peace! that name is his! Speak it again--I rave. + He thought I loved him--and I did--I do. + Open the door, my lord! + + [_He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes_.] + + Once more, my lord-- + + Open the door, I say. + + [_He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it + wide, and is throwing herself out_.] + + _Lord S_. + Stop, madam! I will. + + [_He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly + out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself + on the couch, and hides his face_.] + + _Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Dear father, are you ill? I knocked + three times; You did not speak. + + _Lord S_. + I did not hear you, child. + My head aches rather; else I am quite well. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + She is gone. She had + An urgent message to go home at once. + But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not + Set out to-morrow? You can travel now; + And for your sake the sooner that we breathe + Italian air the better. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + This is sudden! + I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow. + + _Lord S_. + It will oblige me, child. Do what you can. + Just go and order everything you want. + I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love; + I have a reason for my haste. We'll have + The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear. + + +SCENE IX.--_Evening. Hampstead Heath_. LILIA _seated_. + + _Lilia_. + The first pale star! braving the rear of Day! + And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn + His long train after him! then half creation + Will follow its queen-leader from the depths. + O harbinger of hope! O star of love! + Thou hast gone down in me, gone down for ever; + And left my soul in such a starless night, + It has not love enough to weep thy loss. + O fool! to know thee once, and, after years, + To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp! + How could I for one moment hear him speak! + O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought + To bring that love itself, bound and resigned, + And offering it a sacrifice to thee, + Lead it away into the wilderness; + But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb; + Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary, + Not flattering itself to die for thee. + And yet, thank God, it was one moment only, + That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee, + Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead + Through very weariness and lack of love, + My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray + That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes, + And seemed to promise rest and hope again. + My presence shall not grieve thee any more, + My Julian, my husband. I will find + A quiet place where I will seek thy God. + And--in my heart it wakens like a voice + From him--the Saviour--there are other worlds + Where all gone wrong in this may be set right; + Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still, + And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee. + I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why. + But what to say about my late offence, + That he may understand just what it was? + For I must tell him, if I write at all. + I fear he would discover where I was; + Pitiful duty would not let him rest + Until he found me; and I fain would free + From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. + + [_Sound of a coach-horn_.] + + It calls me to rise up and go to him, + Leading me further from him and away. + The earth is round; God's thoughts return again; + And I will go in hope. Help me, my God! + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN _reading. A letter is brought in. +He reads it, turns deadly pale, and leans his arms and head on the +table, almost fainting. This lasts some time; then starting up, he +paces through the room, his shoulders slightly shrugged, his arms +rigid by his sides, and his hands clenched hard, as if a net of pain +were drawn tight around his frame. At length he breathes deep, draws +himself up, and walks erect, his chest swelling, but his teeth set_. + + + _Julian_. + Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say _my_ wife? + + [_Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address_.] + + Why, if she love him more than me, why then + Let her go with him!--Gone to Italy! + Pursue, says he? _Revenge_?--Let the corpse crush + The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!-- + What if I stabbed-- + + [_Taking his dagger, and feeling its point_.] + + Whom? Her--what then?--Or him-- + What yet? Would that give back the life to me? + There is one more--myself! Oh, peace! to feel + The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!-- + But to be driven along the windy wastes-- + To hear the tempests, raving as they turn, + Howl _Lilia, Lilia_--to be tossed about + Beneath the stars that range themselves for ever + Into the burning letters of her name-- + 'Twere better creep the earth down here than that, + For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain. + + [_He throws the dagger on the floor_.] + + Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I? + A pride of innocence darts through my veins. + I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha! + I laugh at insult. _I_? I am myself-- + + Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill; + When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:-- + But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly. + Lilia! my worship of thy purity! + Hast thou forgotten--ah! thou didst not know + How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain, + When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare, + I turned my eyes away, and turning drew + With trembling hand white darkness over thee, + Because I knew not thou didst love me then. + Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing + That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance, + Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn-- + Shaped all about thy image set within! + But that were fearful! What rage would not, love + Must then do for thee--in mercy I would kill thee, + To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse. + If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow; + Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed, + Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away. + Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep, + My hand upon thy heart!--not fit to lie, + For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave! + + +[_His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an +emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and +covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale, +his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears_.] + + + O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child! + How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine? + Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears? + God, can she never more be clean? no more, + Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well + In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can + Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down + Into the friendly earth--would it were lying + There in my arms! for there thy rains will come, + Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod, + Summer and winter; and we two should lie + Mouldering away together, gently washed + Into the heart of earth; and part would float + Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds + Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God! + Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death + Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit + In some still place together, glory-shadowed. + None would ask questions there. And I should be + Content to sorrow a little, so I might + But see her with the darling on her knees, + And know that must be pure that dwelt within + The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia! + I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot; + I would endure it endlessly, to save + One thought of thine from his polluting touch; + Saying ever to myself: this is a part + Of my own Lilia; and the world to me + Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her: + Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me, + And this is all that's left of her. My wife! + Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself! + Come back to me; I will be all to thee: + Back to my heart; and we will weep together, + And pray to God together every hour, + That he would show how strong he is to save. + The one that made is able to renew-- + I know not how.--I'll hold thy heart to mine, + So close that the defilement needs must go. + My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire, + Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.-- + But if she love him? Oh my heart--beat! beat! + Grow not so sick with misery and life, + For fainting will not save thee.--Oh no! no! + She cannot love him as she must love me. + Then if she love him not--oh horrible!--oh God! + + [_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.] + + What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_? + I care not--loving more than that can touch. + Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame, + As men call perishing, so she be saved. + Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas, + Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep, + Till her soul wept itself to purity! + Far, far away! where my love cannot reach. + No, no; she is not gone! + + [_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.] + + It is a lie-- + Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love. + I must do something.-- + + [_Enter_ LILY.] + + Ah! there's the precious thing + That shall entice her back. + + [_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.] + + My little Lily, + I have lost your mother. + + _Lily_. + Oh! + + [_Beginning to weep_.] + + She was so pretty, + Somebody has stolen her. + + _Julian_. + Will you go with me, + And help me look for her? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will. + + [_Clasping him round the neck_.] + + But my head aches so! Will you carry me? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet. + + _Lily_. + Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white! + + [_Putting her finger to his cheek_.] + + +SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round +it. To them enter another_. + + _1st Gentleman_. + Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter? + + _Bernard_. + Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done. + + _2nd G_. + A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard, + But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth + Of our impatient curiosity. + + _Bernard_. + Most unexpectedly I found myself + Spectator of a scene in a home-drama + Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw. + + _All_. + What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat. + + [_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.] + + _Bernard_. + I went to call on Seaford, and was told + He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, + Went to his cabinet to write a note; + Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. + Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice-- + "The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?" + And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse + Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest + In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, + And on his left arm sat a little child. + The porter gave short answer, with the door + For period to the same; when, like a flash, + It flew wide open, and the serving man + Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, + 'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. + In walked the visitor; but in the moment + Just measured by the closing of the door, + Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if + Heading a column, with an eye and face + As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot + Up suddenly within his wasted frame. + The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, + But with a look of triumph in her eyes. + He glanced in each room opening from the hall, + Set his face for the stair, and came right on-- + In every motion calm as glacier's flow, + Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick, + Of his right hand across to his left side: + 'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms. + + _3rd G_. + Did no one stop him? + + _Bernard_. + Stop him? I'd as soon + Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy + In passion to meet passion; but it is + A daunting thing to look on, when the blood + Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. + Besides, this man had something in his face, + With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, + A self-reliance, and a self-command, + That would go right up to its goal, in spite + Of any _no_ from any man. I would + As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. + Over the porter, lying where he fell, + He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go-- + I listened as it were a ghost that walked + With pallid spectre-child upon its arm-- + Along the corridors, from door to door, + Opening and shutting. But at last a sting + Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, + And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. + I met him at the top, quiet as at first; + The fire had faded from his eyes; the child + Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove + Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, + He turned him to the porter, who had scarce + Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying, + "The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford," + Turned him again, and strode into the street. + + _1st G_. + Have you learned anything of what it meant? + + _Bernard_. + Of course he had suspicions of his wife: + For all the gifts a woman has to give, + I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see + The gentle fairy child fall kissing him, + And, with her little arms grasping his neck, + Peep anxious round into his shaggy face, + As they went down the street!--it almost made + A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child! + + + +SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The +child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy +_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_. + + _Julian_. + Look at the monkey, Lily. + + _Lily_. + No, dear father; + I do not like monkeys. + + _Julian_. + Hear the poor boy sing. + + [_They listen. He sings_.] + + SONG. + + Wenn ich hoere dich mir nah', + Stimmen in den Blaettern da; + Wenn ich fuehl' dich weit und breit, + Vater, das ist Seligkeit. + + Nun die Sonne liebend scheint, + Mich mit dir und All vereint; + Biene zu den Blumen fliegt, + Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt. + + So mich voellig lieb du hast, + Daseyn ist nicht eine Last; + Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich, + Das genuegt mir inniglich. + + _Lily_. + It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father? + + _Julian_. + My boy, you are not German? + + _Boy_. + No; my mother + Came from those parts. She used to sing the song. + I do not understand it well myself, + For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + My mother was a German, my poor boy; + My father was Italian: I am like you. + + [_Giving him money_.] + + You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees, + Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street! + + _Boy_. + My mother sings it in her grave; and I + Will sing it everywhere, until I die. + + + +SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child; +undresses her, and puts her to bed_. + + _Lily_. + Father does all things for his little Lily. + + _Julian_. + My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet. + + [_Sitting by her_.] + + "Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich, + Das genuegt mir inniglich." + + [_Falling on his knees_.] + + I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast, + Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear, + Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free, + That thou art not enough for me, my God. + Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear + Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me. + Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear. + O give me back my wife; thou without her + Canst never make me blessed to the full. + + [_Silence_.] + + O yes; thou art enough for me, my God; + Part of thyself she is, else never mine. + My need of her is but thy thought of me; + She is the offspring of thy beauty, God; + Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee: + Thou wilt restore her to my very soul. + + [_Rising_.] + + It may be all a lie. Some needful cause + Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think + One moment that my wife could sin against me! + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + I never can forgive my jealousy! + Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house! + + + [_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her + sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in + his bosom_.] + + It will be all explained. To think I should, + Without one word from her, condemn her so! + What can I say to her when she returns? + I shall be utterly ashamed before her. + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + + [_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.] + + + +SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY +_in his arms. Three_ Students. + + _1st Student_. + Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man? + There is a character for that same novel + You talk of thunder-striking London with, + One of these days. + + _2nd St_. + I scarcely noticed him; + I was so taken with the lovely child. + She is angelic. + + _3rd St_. + You see angels always, + Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals. + She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid. + I wonder what the old fellow is about. + Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract, + That lingers at the door he cannot enter! + Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon, + And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds. + Here's mine. + + _1st St_. + And mine. + + _2nd St_. + And mine. + + [_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.] + + _Julian_ + (_very quietly_). + No, thank you, sir. + + _Lily_. + Oh! there is mother! + + [_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.] + + _Julian_. + No, no; hush, my child! + + [_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_. + Women _talking_.] + + _1st W_. + I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his. + + _2nd W_. + There's a suspicious look about him. + + _3rd W_ + True; + But the child clings to him as if she loved him. + + [JULIAN _moves on slowly_.] + + + +SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_. +LILY _playing in a corner_. + + _Julian_. + Though I am lonely, yet this little child-- + She understands me better than the Twelve + Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord. + Ten times last night I woke in agony, + I knew not why. There was no comforter. + I stretched my arm to find her, and her place + Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain + Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being; + Then would I lay my aching, weary head + Upon her bosom, promise of relief: + I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world! + + [_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.] + + You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp. + Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear. + + [_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.] + + 'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty + As it was once! + + [_Thinking aloud_.] + I picked the jewels out + To buy your mother the last dress I gave her. + There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily. + Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I, + Saving thee only for a greater ill! + If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;-- + Is she not part of thee, and all my own? + But now---- + + _Lily_ + (_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_). + Father, what is a poetry? + + _Julian_. + A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful + That God has made. + + _Lily_. + As beautiful as mother? + _Julian_. + No, my dear child; but very beautiful. + + _Lily_. + Do let me see a poetry. + + _Julian_ + (_opening a book_). + There, love! + _Lily_ + (_disappointedly_). + I don't think that's so very pretty, father. + One side is very well--smooth; but the other + + [_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.] + + Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning, + + [_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.] + + Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it. + + _Julian_ + (_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_). + You do not understand it yet, my child. + You cannot know where it is beautiful. + But though you do not see it very pretty, + Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. + + [_He reads_.] + + _Lily_ + (_looking pleased_). + Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty. + It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother. + + _Julian_. + There's something in it very beautiful, + If I could let you see it. When you're older + You'll find it for yourself, and love it well. + Do you believe me, Lily? + + _Lily_. + Yes, dear father. + + [_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.] + + I wonder where its prettiness is, though; + I cannot see it anywhere at all. + + [_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.] + + _Julian_ + (_musing_). + True, there's not much in me to love, and yet + I feel worth loving. I am very poor, + But that I could not help; and I grow old, + But there are saints in heaven older than I. + I have a world within me; there I thought + I had a store of lovely, precious things + Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass; + Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels; + And glimmering daylight in the cloven east; + There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column, + 'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees; + There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge, + Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth, + And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds: + The distant meadows and the gloomy river + Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.-- + Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture: + Of this fair world I would have made her queen;-- + Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond + Into that farther world of things unspoken, + Of which these glories are the outer stars, + The clouds that float within its atmosphere. + Under the holy might of teaching love, + I thought her eyes would open--see how, far + And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out, + And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere; + Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber, + Open the little window, and look forth + On the wide silent ocean, silent winds, + And see what she must see, I could not tell. + By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake + The sleeping music of her poet-soul: + We read together many magic words; + Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art; + Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound; + Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs; + And evermore I talked. I was too proud, + Too confident of power to waken life, + Believing in my might upon her heart, + Not trusting in the strength of living truth. + Unhappy saviour, who by force of self + Would save from selfishness and narrow needs! + I have not been a saviour. She grew weary. + I began wrong. The infinitely High, + Made manifest in lowliness, had been + The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there, + And set her down by humble Mary's side, + He would have taught her all I could not teach. + Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus + Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? + + [_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book + to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; + then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.] + + _Julian (bursting into tears_). + Father, I am thy _child_. + Forgive me this: + Thy poetry is very hard to read. + + +SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_. + + _Lily_. + Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad + Not to have any mother! Shall I ask + This gentleman if he knows where she is? + + _Julian_. + No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by. + + +BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together. + + _Bernard_. + Have you seen Seaford lately? + _Gentleman_. + No. In fact, + He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. + Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; + And if I hear aright, one more is missing-- + Just the companion for his lordship's taste. + You've not forgot that fine Italian woman + You met there once, some months ago? + + _Bern_. + Forgot her! + I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough: + Her husband is alive! + + _Lily_. + Mother was Italy, father,--was she not? + + _Julian_. + Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word. + + _Gentleman_. + Oh, yes; no doubt! + But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature! + + _Bern_. + Something quite different, I assure you, Harry. + Last week I saw him--never to forget him-- + Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast. + + _Gentleman_. + Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely. + 'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize + Worth sinning for a little more than little. + + _Lily_ + (_whispering_). + Why don't you ask them whether it was mother? + I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it. + + _Gentleman_. + Look what a lovely child! + + _Bern_. + Harry! Good heavens! + It is the Count Lamballa. Come along. + + +SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_. + + + _Julian_. + I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, + To whom I never lift my soul, in hope + To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears + Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart + That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought + Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, + And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, + Alone, unreachable, the making thought, + Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, + A living, thinking will, that cannot know + The power whereby I am--so blest the more + In being thus in thee--Father, thy child. + I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me. + My being shares thy glory: lay on me + What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me + Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I + May do it as my best, my highest joy; + For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee. + + Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know + The power in thee to purify from sin. + But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive. + Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault. + She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!-- + I will love her the more, to fill the cup; + One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled; + For if I love her not, how desolate + The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not. + + I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:-- + Give me my wife again, that I may watch + And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell + What loving-kindness I have found in thee; + And she will come to thee to make her clean. + Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, + To know a dead one lieth in the house: + Let me be near her in that agony, + To tend her in the fever of the soul, + Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, + Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh; + And when I cannot comfort, help her weep. + God, I would give her love like thine to me, + _Because_ I love her, and her need is great. + Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, + And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell: + Help me to love her with a love like thine. + + How shall I find her? It were horrible + If the dread hour should come, and I not near. + Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang, + One writhing of self-loathing and remorse, + For she must hate the evil she has done; + Only take not away hope utterly. + + _Lily (in her sleep_). + Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall. + _Julian (going to her_). + She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill. + I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless. + To-morrow I will take her to the sea. + + [_Returning_.] + + If I knew where, I would write to her, and write + So tenderly, she could not choose but come. + I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream + I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well. + + [_He sits down and writes_.] + + My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe. + I was alone upon a desolate moor; + And the wind blew by fits and died away-- + I know not if it was the wind or me. + How long I wandered there, I cannot tell; + But some one came and took me by the hand. + I gazed, but could not see the form that led me, + And went unquestioning, I cared not whither. + We came into a street I seemed to know, + Came to a house that I had seen before. + The shutters were all closed; the house was dead. + The door went open soundless. We went in, + And entered yet again an inner room. + The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if + From striking on it. The door closed behind. + And then I saw that there was something black, + Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up + In the middle of the room. And then I saw + That there were shapes of woe all round the room, + Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, + With long veils hanging low down from their heads, + All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound + Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing + Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures + Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, + The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left + The house in long procession. I was walking + Alone beside the coffin--such it was-- + Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing. + And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes: + Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up + White arms of lamentation; Desdemona + In her night-robe, crimson on the left side; + Thekla in black, with resolute white face; + And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow-- + That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen + Upon her face. And many more I knew-- + Long-suffering women, true in heart and life; + Women that make man proud for very love + Of their humility, and of his pride + Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife. + On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills + Began to rise on each side of the path + Until at last we came into a glen, + From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven, + Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies. + Upon the eastern side one mighty summit + Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air; + And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint, + A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night. + From base to top, on climbing peak and crag, + Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes, + Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth + Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired + Great men of old--up, even to the apex + Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen + From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel + Of Michelangelo laid him reclining, + And stood upon the crest. + A cry awoke + Amid the watchers at the lowest base, + And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth, + Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top; + And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died + Away in silence; for no voice said _No_. + The bearers stood and set the coffin down; + The mourners gathered round it in a group; + Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why. + So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke, + And clomb the mountain-side, and died away + In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came. + + How long we waited thus, I cannot tell-- + How oft the cry arose and died again. + + At last, from far, faint summit to the base, + Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes, + A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!" + Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side, + From all that multitude's melodious throats, + Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer! + It ceased, for hope was too intense for song. + A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out, + Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose + Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen + Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group. + + What God did for the rest, I know not; it + Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.-- + I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own! + Thy lovely face angelic now with grief; + But that I saw not first: thy head was bent, + Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between. + I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise, + Once only lifting that sweet face to mine, + Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream + Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream; + Thou art not rescued yet. + + Earth's morning came, + And my soul's morning died in tearful gray. + The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped + In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring; + The last I heard, a chant break suddenly + Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound: + I had not listened in the excess of joy. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lord S_. + Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry. + If you could go alone, I'd have you go. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel. + Believe me, father, I am happier + In your sick room, than on a glowing island + In the blue Bay of Naples. + + _Lord S_. + It was so sudden! + 'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly. + But have your walk before the sun be hot. + Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Good-bye then, father, for a little + while. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lord S_. + I never knew what illness was before. + O life! to think a man should stand so little + On his own will and choice, as to be thus + Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent + To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone + From the rich world! No sense is left me more + To touch with beauty. Even she has faded + Into the far horizon, a spent dream + Of love and loss and passionate despair! + + Is there no beauty? Is it all a show + Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, + A reflex of well-ordered organism? + Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart + No more mysterious, no more beautiful, + Than I am to myself this ghastly moment? + It must be so--it _must_, except God is, + And means the meaning that we think we see, + Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. + O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if + There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower + Before it blew on any bank of spring, + Then all is untruth, unreality, + And we are wretched things; our highest needs + Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; + And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts + Die with the voidness of the universe. + + But if thou art, O God, then all is true; + Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes + Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain + Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams. + And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her! + + O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned + Against thy beauty and thy graciousness! + That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine. + Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed + Before my eyes, a bright particular star: + Like foolish child, I reached out for the star, + Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content + That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, + Mine to revere, though not to call my own. + Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia! + + My love has taken vengeance on my love. + I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content. + Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find + That thou art not a phantom, but God's child; + That Beauty is, though it is not for me. + When I would hold it, then I disbelieved. + That I may yet believe, I will not touch it. + I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, + Denying him in grasping at his work. + + +SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_. +LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_. + + _Julian_. + O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, + Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, + O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children-- + Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, + Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom + Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, + Fearless of any morn; as a new babe + Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: + That home of blessedness is all there is; + He never feels the silent rushing tide, + Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, + Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. + But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last + Ready for him when weary: well the green + Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. + O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed + To which I bore thee with a nobler joy! + --Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream + Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain. + + How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart + Was all so tender to thee! But I fear + My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed + With questions to be solved, before my face + Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me + Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain. + Ah, now I know I did not well for thee + In making thee my wife! I should have gone + Alone into eternity. I was + Too rough for thee, for any tender woman-- + Other I had not loved--so full of fancies! + Too given to meditation. A deed of love + Is stronger than a metaphysic truth; + Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words. + Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it? + How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight-- + For life must ever need the shows of life? + How fail to love a man so like thyself, + Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood? + I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones, + But never white flowers, rubied at the heart. + O God, forgive me; it is all my fault. + Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, + Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty? + Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart, + And I have kept her like a caged seamew + Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead. + O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully: + I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride, + That kept me back from speaking all my soul. + I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst + Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never + Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, + In burning words of openness and truth? + Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, + Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not + Have been content to minister and wait; + And if she answered not to my desires, + Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say, + Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower: + I gave not five years to a woman's soul! + Had I not drunk at last old wine of love? + I shut her love back on her lovely heart; + I did not shield her in the wintry day; + And she has withered up and died and gone. + God, let me perish, so thy beautiful + Be brought with gladness and with singing home. + If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow + To be her slave, and serve her with my soul. + I in my hand will take my heart, and burn + Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain. + I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou! + + [_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up + to him, stumbling over the graves_.] + + _Lily_. + Why do they make so many hillocks, father? + The flowers would grow without them. + + _Julian_. + So they would. + + _Lily_. + What are they for, then? + + _Julian (aside_). + I wish I had not brought her; + She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all. + + (_Aloud_). + + 'Tis where they lay them when the story's done. + + _Lily_. + What! lay the boys and girls? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own child-- + To keep them warm till it begin again. + + _Lily_. + Is it dark down there? + + [_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.] + + _Julian_. + Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet! + For out of there come all the pretty flowers. + + _Lily_. + Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk + That tries to touch the little frightened clouds? + + _Julian_. + It did, my darling.--There's a door down there + That leads away to where the church is pointing. + + [_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and + then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.] + + +SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_ +LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + I have found an old friend, father. Here he is! + + _Lord S_. + Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here! + + _Bern_. + I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. + I know not which of us was more surprised. + + [LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.] + + _Bern_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + Countess! What do you mean? I do not know. + + _Bern_. + The Italian lady. + + _Lord S_. + Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me! + + _Bern_. + I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; + For since I saw the count, I would not have you + Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. + + [LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.] + + You have not then heard the news about yourself? + Such interesting echoes reach the last + A man's own ear. The public has decreed + You and the countess run away together. + 'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, + And that she has been often to your house. + The count believes it--clearly from his face: + The man is dying slowly on his feet. + + _Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_). + O God! what am I? My love burns like hate, + Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath! + + _Bern_. + What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving? + + _Enter_ Waiter. + + _Lord S_. + Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly. + + [_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.] + + +SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_. + + _Lily_. + O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. + Another story is very nearly done. + + [_He takes her on his knees_.] + + I am so tired! Think I should like to go + Down to the warm place that the flowers come from, + Where all the little boys and girls are lying + In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels. + --No, no, no--it is so dark down there! + Father will not come near me all the night. + + _Julian_. + You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you. + + _Lily_. + O will you keep me always, father dear? + And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me? + Oh, I should be so happy, never to move! + 'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms! + Don't let it take me; do not let me go: + I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so. + + _Julian_. + Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good + Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, + And try to make you sleep? + + _Lily_. + Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head! + Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father. + + [_He tries to sing_.] + + Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love! + Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. + It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, + God on his throne, and man below. + + But sun would not shine, nor waters go, + Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, + God be on high, nor man below, + But for love--for the love with its hurt alone. + + Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows; + Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain: + Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, + Help us love on in the hope of thy gain; + + Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever; + Love for love's sake, like the Father above, + But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never + Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. + + [_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child + leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in + which he talks_.] + + _Julian_. + A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault: + _Man with the heart, praying for woman's love, + Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice: + Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What + is it? Statue trembling into life + With the first rosy flush upon the skin? + Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings? + I see her--where I know not; for I see + Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain-- + God keep me!--in celestial nakedness. + She leaneth forward, looking down in space, + With large eyes full of longing, made intense + By mingled fear of something yet unknown; + Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands + Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms. + + O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone + To find my own ideal womanhood-- + Glory grown grace, divine to human grown? + + I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word: + She will array herself and come to thee. + Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes, + Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_! + --I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep, + Close by the white foot of the wonderful. + It is the same shape, line for line, as she. + Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. + Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come, + O infinite woman! my life faints for thee. + + Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first: + I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man! + Choose then between them_. Ah! ah! + + [_Silence_.] + + Her I knew + Some ages gone; the woman who did sail + Down a long river with me to the sea; + Who gave her lips up freely to my lips, + Her body willingly into my arms; + Came down from off her statue-pedestal, + And was a woman in a common house, + Not beautified by fancy every day, + And losing worship by her gifts to me. + She gave me that white child--what came of her? + I have forgot.--I opened her great heart, + And filled it half-way to the brim with love-- + With love half wine, half vinegar and gall-- + And so--and so--she--went away and died? + O God! what was it?--something terrible-- + I will not stay to choose, or look again + Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife, + The woman of the old time on the earth. + O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands, + Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain + + If thou descend to earth, and find no man + To love thee purely, strongly, in his will, + Even as he loves the truth, because he will, + And when he cannot see it beautiful-- + Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep. + Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come. + + 'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet! + In the same dress, same flowing of the hair, + As long ago, on earth: is her face changed? + Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower; + My dove descending rests upon thy head; + I bless and sanctify thee for my own: + Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee. + + Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers! + She rises--turns it up from me to God, + With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars + Might find new orbits there, and be content. + O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure + Their opening must be prophecy or song! + A high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth! + + Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk + That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;-- + O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form, + With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet, + And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal! + The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes + Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia, + My wife, with homely airs of earth about her, + And dearer to my heart as my lost wife, + Than to my soul as its new-found ideal! + Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel: + Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear. + Yea, all eternity-- + + [_He is roused by a cry from the child_.] + + _Lily_. + Oh, father! put your arms close round about me. + Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear. + Now! I am better now. + + [_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her + eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.] + + +SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_. + + _Lilia_. + Now I have told him all; no word kept back + To burn within me like an evil fire. + And where I am, I have told him; and I wait + To know his will. What though he love me not, + If I love him!--I will go back to him, + And wait on him submissive. Tis enough + For one life, to be servant to that man! + It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride, + That drove me from him. He and my sweet child + Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart. + How lonely is my Lily all the day, + Till he comes home and makes her paradise! + + I go to be his servant. Every word + That comes from him softer than a command, + I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart, + And serve him better for it.--He will receive me. + + +SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_. + + _Julian_. + The light of setting suns be on thee, child! + Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns + Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy; + Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy; + Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy. + Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love. + Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy. + + Children, they say, are born into a world + Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think, + Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth + Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief, + If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story, + And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God, + Let not my Lily turn away from me. + + Now I am free to follow and find her. + Thy truer Father took thee home to him, + That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife. + I thank him for his gift of thee; for all + That thou hast taught me, blessed little child. + I love thee, dear, with an eternal love. + And now farewell! + + [Kissing her.] + + --no, not farewell; I come. + Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. + Yes, they will also lead me on to her. + + _Enter a Jew_. + + _Jew_. + What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir. + + + _Julian_. + Walk into the next room; then look at this, + And tell me what you'll give for everything. + + [Jew goes.] + + My darling's death has made me almost happy. + Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again. + When I have laid my little one to rest + Among the flowers in that same sunny spot, + Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way; + And, calling up all old forgotten skill, + Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind, + I'll be a man once more in the loud world. + Revived experience in its winding ways, + Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love, + If all the world were sworn to secrecy, + Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death. + I'll follow my wife, follow until I die. + How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep, + Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me? + How find her in great Hades, if not here + In this poor little round O of a world? + I'll follow my wife, follow until I find. + + _Re-enter_ Jew. + + Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal. + + _Jew_. + Let me see this room, too. The things are all + Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little. + + _Julian_. + Say what you will--only make haste and go. + + _Jew_. + Say twenty pounds? + + _Julian_. + Well, fetch the money at once, + And take possession. But make haste, I pray. + + +SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S +_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_. + + _Julian_. + Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep; + Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child! + Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb + Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek + And find the wandering mother of my lamb. + I cannot weep; I know thee with me still. + Thou dost not find it very dark down there? + Would I could go to thee; I long to go; + My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too; + And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat. + O gladly would I come to thee, my child, + And lay my head upon thy little heart, + And sleep in the divine munificence + Of thy great love! But my night has not come; + She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one. + + [_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.] + + Now for the world--that's Italy, and her! + + +SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + How am I here? Alas! I do not know. + I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know! + I have come here to die. + + [_Lies down on the floor_.] + Where's Lilia? + I cannot find her. She is here, I know. + But oh these endless passages and stairs, + And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia! + Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast, + But something holds me. Let me go, devil! + My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you. + You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife. + O pardon me, my beautiful, my own! + + [_Sings_.] + + Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing + From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing-- + Us to a new, love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float-- + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + [_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.] + + JULIAN _descries him suddenly_. + What are you, man? O brother, bury me-- + There's money in my pocket-- + + [_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.] + + by my child. + + [_Staring at him_.] + + Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse-- + I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton! + _I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute! + Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child, + And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up + With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes. + Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs, + Nor is there any maid to bind them on: + + I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee. + Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go. + + _Lord Seaford (stooping over him_). + I am Seaford, Count. + + _Julian_. + + Seaford! What Seaford? + + [_Recollecting_.] + + _--Seaford_! + + [_Springing to his feet_.] + + Where is my wife? + + [_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.] + + _Lord S_. + Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He + wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.] + + _Julian_. + Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead. + I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God! + + [_He is quiet a little_.] + + So then thou didst not take the child away + That I might find my wife! Thy will be done. + Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire + I send away with grief, but willingly. + I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer: + Take thou thine own way, only lead her home. + Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might; + But thou art mighty, with a power unlike + All, all that we know by the name of power, + Transcending it as intellect transcends + 'The stone upon the ground--it may be more, + For these are both created--thou creator, + Lonely, supreme. + + Now it is almost over, + My spirit's journey through this strange sad world; + This part is done, whatever cometh next. + Morning and evening have made out their day; + My sun is going down in stormy dark, + But I will face it fearless. + The first act Is over of the drama.--Is it so? + What means this dim dawn of half-memories? + + There's something I knew once and know not now!-- + A something different from all this earth! + It matters little; I care not--only know + That God will keep the living thing he made. + How mighty must he be to have the right + Of swaying this great power I feel I am-- + Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him! + O God, I come to thee! thou art my life; + O God, thou art my home; I come to thee. + + Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up + Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see + But that which _is_, the living awful Truth-- + All forms of which are but the sparks flung out + From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun, + Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me: + Christ said to Martha--"Whosoever liveth, + And doth believe in me, shall never die"! + I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door + Of God's wide theatre be open flung + To let me in. What marvels I shall see! + The expectation fills me, like new life + Dancing through all my veins. + + Once more I thank thee + For all that thou hast made me--most of all, + That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee. + I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her; + Forget her not, my God. If thou save her, + I shall be able then to thank thee so + As will content thee--with full-flowing song, + The very bubbles on whose dancing waves + Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet. + + My heart sinks in me.--I grow faint. Oh! whence + This wind of love that fans me out of life? + One stoops to kiss me!--Ah, my lily child! + God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall. + + [_Re-enter_ LORD SEAFORD _with the doctor_. JULIAN _takes no + heed of them. The doctor shakes his head_.] + + My little child, I'll never leave thee more; + We are both children now in God's big house. + Come, lead me; you are older here than I + By three whole days, my darling angel-child! + + [_A letter is brought in_. LORD SEAFORD _holds it before_ + JULIAN'S _eyes. He looks vaguely at it_.] + + _Lord S_. + It is a letter from your wife, I think. + + _Julian (feebly_). + A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me-- + I'll read it in my chamber, by and by: + Dear words should not be read with others nigh. + Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God. + + _Lord S. (pending over him_). + Your wife is innocent. I _know_ she is. + + JULIAN _gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his + eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes. + He dies_. + + + +PART V. + + AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain + More than the Father's heart rich good invent? + Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent, + We know the primrose time will come again; + Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. + Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent + Is confidence unto the Father lent: + Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. + His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways + Other than thine, but by pure opulence + Of beauty infinite and love immense. + Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, + A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; + Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. + + + +A DREAM. + +SCENE I.--"_A world not realized_." LILY. _To her_ JULIAN. + + _Lily_. + O father, come with me! I have found her--mother! + + +SCENE II.--_A room in a cottage_. LILIA _on her knees before a +crucifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on her +face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHAPTER VIII. +Behind her stands an Angel, bending forward, as if to protect her +with his wings partly expanded. Appear_ JULIAN, _with_ LILY _in his +arms_. LILY _looks with love on the angel, and a kind of longing +fear on her mother_. + + _Julian_. + Angel, thy part is done; leave her to me. + + _Angel_. + Sorrowful man, to thee I must give place; + Thy ministry is stronger far than mine; + Yet have I done my part.--She sat with him. + He gave her rich white flowers with crimson scent, + The tuberose and datura ever burning + Their incense to the dusky face of night. + He spoke to her pure words of lofty sense, + But tinged with poison for a tranced ear. + He bade low music sound of faint farewells, + Which fixed her eyes upon a leafy picture, + Wherein she wandered through an amber twilight + Toward a still grave in a sleepy nook. + And ever and anon she sipped pale wine, + Rose-tinged, rose-odoured, from a silver cup. + He sang a song, each pause of which closed up, + Like a day-wearied daisy for the night, + With these words falling like an echo low: + "Love, let us love and weep and faint and die." + With the last pause the tears flowed at their will, + Without a sob, down from their cloudy skies. + He took her hand in his, and it lay still.-- + blast of music from a wandering band + Billowed the air with sudden storm that moment. + The visible rampart of material things + Was rent--the vast eternal void looked in + Upon her awe-struck soul. She cried and fled. + + It was the sealing of her destiny. + A wild convulsion shook her inner world; + Its lowest depths were heaved tumultuously; + Far unknown molten gulfs of being rushed + Up into mountain-peaks, rushed up and stood. + The soul that led a fairy life, athirst + For beauty only, passed into a woman's: + In pain and tears was born the child-like need + For God, for Truth, and for essential Love. + But first she woke to terror; was alone, + For God she saw not;--woke up in the night, + The great wide night alone. No mother's hand, + To soothe her pangs, no father's voice was near. + She would not come to thee; for love itself + Too keenly stung her sad, repentant heart, + Giving her bitter names to give herself; + But, calling back old words which thou hadst spoken, + In other days, by light winds borne afar, + And now returning on the storm of grief, + Hither she came to seek her Julian's God. + Farewell, strange friend! My care of her is over. + + _Julian_. + A heart that knows what thou canst never know, + Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell. + + [_The_ Angel _goes_. JULIAN _and_ LILY _take his place_. + LILIA _is praying, and they hear parts of her prayer_.] + + _Lilia_. + O Jesus, hear me! Let me speak to thee. + No fear oppresses me; for misery + Fills my heart up too full for any fear. + + Is there no help, O Holy? Am I stained + Beyond release? + + _Julian_. + Lilia, thy purity + Maketh thy heart abuse thee. I, thy husband, + Sinned more against thee, in believing ill, + Than thou, by ten times what thou didst, poor child, + Hadst wronged thy husband. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon will not do: + I need much more, O Master. That word _go_ + Surely thou didst not speak to send away + The sinful wife thou wouldst not yet condemn! + Or was that crime, though not too great for pardon, + Too great for loving-kindness afterward? + Might she not too have come behind thy feet, + And, weeping, wiped and kissed them, Mary's son, + Blessed for ever with a heavenly grief? + Ah! she nor I can claim with her who gave + Her tears, her hair, her lips, her precious oil, + To soothe feet worn with Galilean roads:-- + She sinned against herself, not against--Julian. + + My Lord, my God, find some excuse for me. + Find in thy heart something to say for me, + As for the crowd that cried against thee, then, + When heaven was dark because thy lamp burned low. + + _Julian_. + Not thou, but I am guilty, Lilia. + I made it possible to tempt thee, child. + Thou didst not fall, my love; only, one moment, + Beauty was queen, and Truth not lord of all. + + _Lilia_. + O Julian, my husband, is it strange, + That, when I think of Him, he looks like thee? + That, when he speaks to comfort me, the voice + Is like thy voice, my husband, my beloved? + Oh! if I could but lie down at thy feet, + And tell thee all--yea, every thought--I know + That thou wouldst think the best that could be thought, + And love and comfort me. O Julian, + I am more thine than ever.--Forgive me, husband, + For calling me, defiled and outcast, thine. + Yet may I not be thine as I am His? + Would I might be thy servant--yes, thy slave, + To wash thy feet, and dress thy lovely child, + And bring her at thy call--more wife than I. + But I shall never see thee, till the earth + Lies on us both--apart--oh, far apart! + How lonely shall I lie the long, long years! + + _Lily_. + O mother, there are blue skies here, and flowers, + And blowing winds, and kisses, mother dear! + And every time my father kisses me, + It is not father only, but another. + Make haste and come. My head never aches here. + + _Lilia_. + Can it be that they are dead? Is it possible? + I feel as if they were near me!--Speak again, + Beloved voices; comfort me; I need it. + + _Julian (singing_). + + Come to us: above the storm + Ever shines the blue. + Come to us: beyond its form + Ever lies the True. + + + _Lily (singing_). + + Mother, darling, do not weep-- + All I cannot tell: + By and by you'll go to sleep, + And you'll wake so well. + + _Julian (singing_). + + There is sunshine everywhere + For thy heart and mine: + God, for every sin and care, + Is the cure divine. + + _Lily (singing_). + + We're so happy all the day, + Waiting for another! + All the flowers and sunshine stay, + Watching for my mother. + + + _Julian_. + My maiden! for true wife is always maiden + To the true husband: thou art mine for ever. + + _Lilia_. + What gentle hopes keep passing to and fro! + Thou shadowest me with thine own rest, my God; + A cloud from thee stoops down and covers me. + + [_She falls asleep on her knees_] + + + +SCENE III.--JULIAN _on the summit of a mountain-peak. The stars are +brilliant around a crescent moon, hanging half-way between the +mountain and the zenith. Below lies a sea of vapour. Beyond rises a +loftier pinnacle, across which is stretched a bar of cloud_. LILY +_lies on the cloud, looking earnestly into the mist below_. + + _Julian (gazing upward_). + And thou wast with me all the time, my God, + Even as now! I was not far from thee. + Thy spirit spoke in all my wants and fears, + And hopes and longings. Thou art all in all. + I am not mine, but thine. I cannot speak + The thoughts that work within me like a sea. + When on the earth I lay, crushed down beneath + A hopeless weight of empty desolation, + Thy loving face was lighted then, O Christ, + With expectation of my joy to come, + When all the realm of possible ill should lie + Under my feet, and I should stand as now + Heart-sure of thee, true-hearted, only One. + Was ever soul filled to such overflowing + With the pure wine of blessedness, my God! + Filled as the night with stars, am I with joys; + Filled as the heavens with thee, am I with peace; + For now I wait the end of all my prayers-- + Of all that have to do with old-world things: + What new things come to wake new prayers, my God, + Thou know'st; I wait on thee in perfect peace. + + [_He turns his gaze downward.--From the fog-sea + below half-rises a woman-form, which floats toward him._] + + Lo, as the lily lifts its shining bosom + From the lone couch of waters where it slept, + When the fair morn toucheth and waketh it; + So riseth up my lily from the deep + Where human souls are vexed in awful dreams! + + [LILY _spies her mother, darts down, and is caught in + her arms. They land on_ JULIAN'S _peak, and + climb_, LILY _leading her mother_.] + + _Lily_. + Come faster, mother dear; father is waiting. + + _Lilia_. + Have patience with me, darling. By and by, + I think, I shall do better.--Oh my Julian! + + _Julian_. + I may not help her. She must climb and come. + + [_He reaches his hand, and the three are clasped in + an infinite embrace_.] + + O God, thy thoughts, thy ways, are not as ours: + They fill our longing hearts up to the brim. + + [_The moon and the stars and the blue night close + around them; and the poet awakes from his dream_.] + + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + +TO MY FATHER: + _with my second volume of verse_. + + +I. + + Take of the first fruits, father, of thy care, + Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude, + Late waked for early gifts ill understood; + Claiming in all my harvests rightful share, + Whether with song that mounts the joyful air + I praise my God, or, in yet deeper mood, + Sit dumb because I know a speechless good, + Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer. + Thou hast been faithful to my highest need; + And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore, + Shall never feel the grateful burden sore. + Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed, + But for the sense thy living self did breed + Of fatherhood still at the great world's core. + + +II. + + All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined, + As for some being of another race; + Ah, not with it, departing--growing apace + As years did bring me manhood's loftier mind, + Able to see thy human life behind-- + The same hid heart, the same revealing face-- + My own dim contest settling into grace, + Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined! + So I beheld my God, in childhood's morn, + A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart, + Moveless and dim--I scarce could say _Thou art_: + My manhood came, of joy and sadness born;-- + Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn, + Revealed man's glory, God's great human heart. + +G.M.D. jr. + +ALGIERS, _April, 1857_. + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + Proudly the youth, sudden with manhood crowned, + Went walking by his horses, the first time, + That morning, to the plough. No soldier gay + Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt + (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath, + As lightning in the cloud) with more delight, + When first he belts it on, than he that day + Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against + His horses' harnessed sides, as to the field + They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill + The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil. + + A farmer's son, a farmer's grandson he; + Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed those fields. + Tradition said they had been tilled by men + Who bore the name long centuries ago, + And married wives, and reared a stalwart race, + And died, and went where all had followed them, + Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth + Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil; + And death is far from him this sunny morn. + Why should we think of death when life is high? + The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. + The daylight's labour and the night's repose + Are very good, each better in its time. + + The boy knew little; but he read old tales + Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift + As charging knights upon their death-career. + He chanted ancient tunes, till the wild blood + Was charmed back into its fountain-well, + And tears arose instead. That poet's songs, + Whose music evermore recalls his name, + His name of waters babbling as they run, + Rose from him in the fields among the kine, + And met the skylark's, raining from the clouds. + But only as the poet-birds he sang-- + From rooted impulse of essential song; + The earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; + His heart was glad--he knew not it was glad; + He walked as in a twilight of the sense-- + Which this one day shall turn to tender morn. + + Long ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops + Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill, + His horses leaned and laboured. Each great hand + Held rein and plough-stilt in one guiding grasp-- + No ploughman there would brook a helper. Proud + With a true ploughman's pride--nobler, I think, + Than statesman's, ay, or poet's, or painter's pride, + For little praise will come that he ploughs well-- + He did plough well, proud of his work itself, + And not of what would follow. With sure eye, + He saw his horses keep the arrow-track; + He saw the swift share cut the measured sod; + He saw the furrow folding to the right, + Ready with nimble foot to aid at need:-- + Turning its secrets upward to the sun, + And hiding in the dark the sun-born grass, + And daisies dipped in carmine, lay the tilth-- + A million graves to nurse the buried seed, + And send a golden harvest up the air. + + When the steep sun had clomb to his decline, + And pausing seemed, at edge of slow descent, + Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, + They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, + And homeward went for food and courage new. + Therewith refreshed, they turned again to toil, + And lived in labour all the afternoon; + Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough + Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea, + And home with hanging neck the horses went, + Walking beside their master, force by will: + Then through the lengthening shades a vision came. + + It was a lady mounted on a horse, + A slender girl upon a mighty steed, + That bore her with the pride horses must feel + When they submit to women. Home she went, + Alone, or else her groom lagged far behind. + Scarce had she bent simple acknowledgment + Of the hand in silent salutation lifted + To the bowed head, when something faithless yielded: + The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl + Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins. + + Three paces bore him bounding to her side; + Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there; + But with main force, as one that grapples fear, + He threw the fascination off, and saw + The work before him. Soon his hand and knife + Had set the saddle firmer than before + Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned + To mount the maiden. But bewilderment + A moment lasted; for he knew not how, + With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne, + Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: + A moment only; for while yet she thanked, + Nor yet had time to teach her further will, + About her waist he put his brawny hands, + That all but zoned her round; and like a child + Lifting her high, he set her on the horse; + Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, + Nor turned aside, although a radiant blush + Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes. + And he was never sure if from her heart + Or from the rosy sunset came the flush. + Again she thanked him, while again he stood + Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word + Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones + Round which dissolving lambent music played, + Like dropping water in a silver cup; + Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, + Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, + And called himself hard names, and turned and went + After his horses, bending like them his head. + + Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door, + Although she came not in, the house is bare: + Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house! + Why seems it always that she should be ours? + A secret lies behind which thou dost know, + And I can partly guess. + + But think not then, + The holder of the plough sighed many sighs + Upon his bed that night; or other dreams + Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep; + Nor think the airy castles of his brain + Had less foundation than the air admits. + But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name, + And answer, if he had not from the fair + Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, + An angel vision from a higher world. + + Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life, + Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge, + Ran down the southern side, away from his. + It was not over-blessed; for, I know, + Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve, + From her who told, and him who, in the pines + Walking, received it from her loving lips; + But now she was as God had made her, ere + The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, + And half succeeded, failing utterly. + Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child + That looks in every eye; fearless of ill, + Because she knew it not; and brave withal, + Because she led a simple country life, + And loved the animals. Her father's house-- + A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- + Was distant but two miles among the hills; + Yet oft as she had passed his father's farm, + The youth had never seen her face before, + And should not twice. Yet was it not enough? + The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon + That goeth on her way, and knoweth not + The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills + With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men, + Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue + Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him, + Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes + Return uncalled, with wonder that they come. + Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills, + And rounded with dead glitter, not the shine + Of leaves and waters dancing in the sun; + While he abode in ever breaking dawns, + Breathed ever new-born winds into his soul; + And saw the aurora of the heavenly day + Still climb the hill-sides of the heapy world. + + Again I say, no fond romance of love, + No argument of possibilities, + If he were some one, and she sought his help, + Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams. + As soon he had sat down and twisted cords + To snare, and carry home for household help, + Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen + On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields. + But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, + (The exultation of his new-found rank + Already settling into dignity,) + Behold, the earth was beautiful! The sky + Shone with the expectation of the sun. + Only the daisies grieved him, for they fell + Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads + Just out, imploring. A gray hedgehog ran, + With tangled mesh of rough-laid spikes, and face + Helplessly innocent, across the field: + He let it run, and blessed it as it ran. + Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet + Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood. + For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam + Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot, + Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far, + Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, + Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws, + In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, + His eye was cheated with a spectral smoke + That rose as from a fire. He had not known + How beautiful the sunlight was, not even + Upon the windy fields of morning grass, + Nor on the river, nor the ripening corn! + As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept + On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, + And gazing down into the glory-gulf, + Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire-- + Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out. + + God, and not woman, is the heart of all. + But she, as priestess of the visible earth, + Holding the key, herself most beautiful, + Had come to him, and flung the portals wide. + He entered: every beauty was a glass + That gleamed the woman back upon his view. + Shall I not rather say: each beauty gave + Its own soul up to him who worshipped her, + For that his eyes were opened now to see? + + Already in these hours his quickened soul + Put forth the white tip of a floral bud, + Ere long to be a crown-like, aureole flower. + His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient tales, + Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed + That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him, + Yet not the less mellowing all his spring: + Like summer sunshine came the maiden's face, + And in the youth's glad heart the seed awoke. + It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers, + Its every flower a living open eye, + Until his soul was full of eyes within. + Each morning now was a fresh boon to him; + Each wind a spiritual power upon his life; + Each individual animal did share + A common being with him; every kind + Of flower from every other was distinct, + Uttering that for which alone it was-- + Its something human, wrapt in other veil. + + And when the winter came, when thick the snow + Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost, + When the low sun but skirted his far realms, + And sank in early night, he drew his chair + Beside the fire; and by the feeble lamp + Read book on book; and wandered other climes, + And lived in other lives and other needs, + And grew a larger self by other selves. + Ere long, the love of knowledge had become + A hungry passion and a conscious power, + And craved for more than reading could supply. + Then, through the night (all dark, except the moon + Shone frosty o'er the heath, or the white snow + Gave back such motes of light as else had sunk + In the dark earth) he bent his plodding way + Over the moors to where the little town + Lay gathered in the hollow. There the student + Who taught from lingering dawn to early dark, + Had older scholars in the long fore-night; + For youths who in the shop, or in the barn, + Or at the loom, had done their needful work, + Came gathering there through starlight, fog, or snow, + And found the fire ablaze, the candles lit, + And him who knew waiting for who would know. + Here mathematics wiled him to their heights; + And strange consent of lines to form and law + Made Euclid a profound romance of truth. + The master saw with wonder how he seized, + How eagerly devoured the offered food, + And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge + Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls + That see a truth, and, turning, see at once + Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight, + Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered + To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways + To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert, + Caught at the offer; and for years of nights, + The house asleep, he groped his twilight way + With lexicon and rule, through ancient story, + Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old; + Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue, + Through reading many books, much aided him-- + For best is like in all the hearts and tongues. + + At length his progress, through the master's pride + In such a pupil, reached the father's ears. + Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed, + If caring, sparing might accomplish it, + He should to college, and there have his fill + Of that same learning. + + To the plough no more, + All day to school he went; and ere a year, + He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves. + + Awkward at first, but with a dignity + Soon finding fit embodiment in speech + And gesture and address, he made his way, + Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect + Of students and professors; for whose praise + More than his worth, society, so called, + To its rooms in that great city of the North, + Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first + By brilliance of the shining show, the lights, + The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes, + He stole into a corner, and was quiet + Until the vision too had quieter grown. + Bewildered next by many a sparkling word, + Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds, + Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets, + Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth + As if they were home-born and issuing new, + He held his peace, and silent soon began + To see how little fire it needs to shimmer. + Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander + Back to the calm divine of homely toil; + While round him still and ever hung an air + Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe-- + A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls + Saw but the clumsiness--another sort + Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke, + Saw the grace only; and began at last, + For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd, + And find him unexpected, maiden-wise. + But oftener far they sought him than they found, + For seldom was he drawn away from toil; + Seldomer stinted time held due to toil; + For if one night his panes were dark, the next + They gleamed far into morning. And he won + Honours among the first, each session's close. + + Nor think that new familiarity + With open forms of ill, not to be shunned + Where many youths are met, endangered much + A mind that had begun to will the pure. + Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest + With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop + Of pestilential vapours following-- + Arose within his sudden silent mind + The maiden face that once blushed down on him-- + That lady face, insphered beyond his earth, + Yet visible as bright, particular star. + A flush of tenderness then glowed across + His bosom--shone it clean from passing harm: + Should that sweet face be banished by rude words? + It could not stay what maidens might not hear! + He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest, + Should meet in _his_ house. To his love he made + Love's only worthy offering--purity. + + And if the homage that he sometimes met, + New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles, + Assents, and silent listenings when he spoke, + Threatened yet more his life's simplicity; + An antidote of nature ever came, + Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months, + His former haunts and boyhood's circumstance + Received him to the bosom of their grace. + And he, too noble to despise the past, + Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil, + Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide + Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain, + Or that a workman was no gentleman + Because a workman, clothed himself again + In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade, + The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain, + Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged. + With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields, + Returning still with larger powers of sight: + Each time he knew them better than before, + And yet their sweetest aspect was the old. + His labour kept him true to life and fact, + Casting out worldly judgments, false desires, + And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil, + New thoughts would rise, which, when God's night awoke, + He still would seek, like stars, with instruments-- + By science, or by truth's philosophy, + Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old. + Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once, + Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons + Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white. + + His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, + Because his learning did not make him proud: + He was too wise to build upon his lore. + The neighbours asked what he would make his son: + "I'll make a man of him," the old man said; + "And for the rest, just what he likes himself. + He is my only son--I think he'll keep + The old farm on; and I shall go content, + Leaving a man behind me, as I say." + + So four years long his life swung to and fro, + Alternating the red gown and blue coat, + The garret study and the wide-floored barn, + The wintry city and the sunny fields: + In every change his mind was well content, + For in himself he was the growing same. + + In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts; + To no profession did he ardent turn: + He knew his father's wish--it was his own. + "Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows, + Leave therefore the old patriarchal life, + And seek distinction in the noise of men?" + He turned his asking face on every side; + Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw + The inner form of man laid skilful bare; + Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand + Made Nature do in little, before his eyes, + And momently, what, huge, for centuries, + And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, + She labours at; bent his inquiring eye + On every source whence knowledge flows for men: + At some he only sipped, at others drank. + + At length, when he had gained the master's right-- + By custom sacred from of old--to sit + With covered head before the awful rank + Of black-gowned senators; and each of those, + Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word + To speed him onward to what goal he would, + He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown, + And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, + Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray + In all the blandishments of youthful spring, + Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm. + + With simple gladness met him on the road + His gray-haired father--elder brother now. + Few words were spoken, little welcome said, + But, as they walked, the more was understood. + If with a less delight he brought him home + Than he who met the prodigal returned, + It was with more reliance, with more peace; + For with the leaning pride that old men feel + In young strong arms that draw their might from them, + He led him to the house. His sister there, + Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes + Were full of watchfulness and hovering love, + Set him beside the fire in the old place, + And heaped the table with best country-fare. + + When the swift night grew deep, the father rose, + And led him, wondering why and where they went, + Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path + Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above + The stable, where the same old horses slept + Which he had guided that eventful morn. + Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand + Had been at work. The father, leading on + Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain + Opened a door. An unexpected light + Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp, + That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale: + Behold! a little room, a curtained bed, + An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk; + An old print of a deep Virgilian wood, + And one of choosing Hercules! The youth + Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love + Had sought and found an incarnation new! + For, honouring in his son the simple needs + Which his own bounty had begot in him, + He gave him thus a lonely thinking space, + A silent refuge. With a quiet good night, + He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath, + The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain. + + Three sliding years, with slowly blended change, + Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring, + Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart. + He laboured as before; though when he would, + And Nature urged not, he, with privilege, + Would spare from hours of toil--read in his room, + Or wander through the moorland to the hills; + There on the apex of the world would stand, + As on an altar, burning, soul and heart-- + Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer; + Gaze in the face of the inviting blue + That domed him round; ask why it should be blue; + Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart + Go down to lower things with lofty cares. + + When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son + Walked to the church across their own loved fields. + It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign + Of what makes English churches venerable. + Likest a crowing cock upon a heap + It stood--but let us say--St. Peter's cock, + Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm + For one with whose known self it was coeval, + Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen! + And its low mounds of monumental grass + Were far more solemn than great marble tombs; + For flesh is grass, its goodliness the flower. + Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard + On sunny afternoons! The light itself + Nestles amid the grass; and the sweet wind + Says, _I am here_,--no more. With sun and wind + And crowing cocks, who can believe in death? + He, on such days, when from the church they Came, + And through God's ridges took their thoughtful way, + The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, + Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; + But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: + What mattered it to him? + + And as they walked + Homeward, right well the father loved to hear + The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well. + For the old man clung not to the old alone, + Nor leaned the young man only to the new; + They would the best, they sought, and followed it. + "The Pastor fills his office well," he said, + In homely jest; "--the Past alone he heeds! + Honours those Jewish times as he were a Jew, + And Christ were neither Jew nor northern man! + He has no ear for this poor Present Hour, + Which wanders up and down the centuries, + Like beggar-boy roaming the wintry streets, + With witless hand held out to passers-by; + And yet God made the voice of its many cries. + Mine be the work that comes first to my hand! + The lever set, I grasp and heave withal. + I love where I live, and let my labour flow + Into the hollows of the neighbour-needs. + Perhaps I like it best: I would not choose + Another than the ordered circumstance. + This farm is God's as much as yonder town; + These men and maidens, kine and horses, his; + For them his laws must be incarnated + In act and fact, and so their world redeemed." + + Though thus he spoke at times, he spake not oft; + Ruled chief by action: what he said, he did. + No grief was suffered there of man or beast + More than was need; no creature fled in fear; + All slaying was with generous suddenness, + Like God's benignant lightning. "For," he said, + "God makes the beasts, and loves them dearly well-- + Better than any parent loves his child, + It may be," would he say; for still the _may be_ + Was sacred with him no less than the _is_-- + "In such humility he lived and wrought-- + Hence are they sacred. Sprung from God as we, + They are our brethren in a lower kind, + And in their face we see the human look." + If any said: "Men look like animals; + Each has his type set in the lower kind;" + His answer was: "The animals are like men; + Each has his true type set in the higher kind, + Though even there only rough-hewn as yet. + The hell of cruelty will be the ghosts + Of the sad beasts: their crowding heads will come, + And with encircling, slow, pain-patient eyes, + Stare the ill man to madness." + + When he spoke, + His word behind it had the force of deeds + Unborn within him, ready to be born; + But, like his race, he promised very slow. + His goodness ever went before his word, + Embodying itself unconsciously + In understanding of the need that prayed, + And cheerful help that would outrun the prayer. + + When from great cities came the old sad news + Of crime and wretchedness, and children sore + With hunger, and neglect, and cruel blows, + He would walk sadly all the afternoon, + With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow; + Arriving ever at the same result-- + Concluding ever: "The best that I can do + For the great world, is the same best I can + For this my world. What truth may be therein + Will pass beyond my narrow circumstance, + In truth's own right." When a philanthropist + Said pompously: "It is not for your gifts + To spend themselves on common labours thus: + You owe the world far nobler things than such;" + He answered him: "The world is in God's hands, + This part of it in mine. My sacred past, + With all its loves inherited, has led + Hither, here left me: shall I judge, arrogant, + Primaeval godlike work in earth and air, + Seed-time and harvest--offered fellowship + With God in nature--unworthy of my hands? + I know your argument--I know with grief!-- + The crowds of men, in whom a starving soul + Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes + For bare humanity, nay, room to grow!-- + Would I could help them! But all crowds are made + Of individuals; and their grief and pain, + Their thirst and hunger--all are of the one, + Not of the many: the true, the saving power + Enters the individual door, and thence + Issues again in thousand influences + Besieging other doors. I cannot throw + A mass of good into the general midst, + Whereof each man may seize his private share; + And if one could, it were of lowest kind, + Not reaching to that hunger of the soul. + Now here I labour whole in the same spot + Where they have known me from my childhood up + And I know them, each individual: + If there is power in me to help my own, + Even of itself it flows beyond my will, + Takes shape in commonest of common acts, + Meets every humble day's necessity: + --I would not always consciously do good, + Not always work from full intent of help, + Lest I forget the measure heaped and pressed + And running over which they pour for me, + And never reap the too-much of return + In smiling trust and beams from kindly eyes. + But in the city, with a few lame words, + And a few wretched coins, sore-coveted, + To mediate 'twixt my _cannot_ and my _would_, + My best attempts would never strike a root; + My scattered corn would turn to wind-blown chaff; + I should grow weak, might weary of my kind, + Misunderstood the most where almost known, + Baffled and beaten by their unbelief: + Years could not place me where I stand this day + High on the vantage-ground of confidence: + I might for years toil on, and reach no man. + Besides, to leave the thing that nearest lies, + And choose the thing far off, more difficult-- + The act, having no touch of God in it, + Who seeks the needy for the pure need's sake, + Must straightway die, choked in its selfishness." + Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good + Held his poor peace, and went his trackless way. + + What of the vision now? the vision fair + Sent forth to meet him, when at eve he went + Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft he dreamed + She passed him smiling on her stately horse; + But never band or buckle yielded more; + Never again his hands enthroned the maid; + He only worshipped with his eyes, and woke. + Nor woke he then with foolish vain regret; + But, saying, "I have seen the beautiful," + Smiled with his eyes upon a flower or bird, + Or living form, whate'er, of gentleness, + That met him first; and all that morn, his face + Would oftener dawn into a blossomy smile. + + And ever when he read a lofty tale, + Or when the storied leaf, or ballad old, + Or spake or sang of woman very fair, + Or wondrous good, he saw her face alone; + The tale was told, the song was sung of her. + He did not turn aside from other maids, + But loved their faces pure and faithful eyes. + He may have thought, "One day I wed a maid, + And make her mine;" but never came the maid, + Or never came the hour: he walked alone. + Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed + One of the common crowd: there must be ore + For the gold grains to lie in: virgin gold + Lies in the rock, enriching not the stone. + She was not one who of herself could _be_; + And she had found no heart which, tuned with hers, + Would beat in rhythm, growing into rime. + She read phantasmagoric tales, sans salt, + Sans hope, sans growth; or listlessly conversed + With phantom-visitors--ladies, not friends, + Mere spectral forms from fashion's concave glass. + She haunted gay assemblies, ill-content-- + Witched woods to hide in from her better self, + And danced, and sang, and ached. What had she felt, + If, called up by the ordered sounds and motions, + A vision had arisen--as once, of old, + The minstrel's art laid bare the seer's eye, + And showed him plenteous waters in the waste;-- + If the gay dance had vanished from her sight, + And she beheld her ploughman-lover go + With his great stride across a lonely field, + Under the dark blue vault ablaze with stars, + Lifting his full eyes to the radiant roof, + Live with our future; or had she beheld + Him studious, with space-compelling mind + Bent on his slate, pursue some planet's course; + Or reading justify the poet's wrath, + Or sage's slow conclusion?--If a voice + Had whispered then: This man in many a dream, + And many a waking moment of keen joy, + Blesses you for the look that woke his heart, + That smiled him into life, and, still undimmed, + Lies lamping in the cabinet of his soul;-- + Would her sad eyes have beamed with sudden light? + Would not her soul, half-dead with nothingness, + Have risen from the couch of its unrest, + And looked to heaven again, again believed + In God and life, courage, and duty, and love? + Would not her soul have sung to its lone self: + "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise. + He knows what God, and goodness, and fair faith + Mean in the words and books of mighty men. + He nothing heeds the show of worldly things, + But worships the unconquerable truth. + This man is humble and loves me: I will + Be proud and very humble. If he knew me, + Would he go on and love me till we meet!"? + + In the third year, a heavy harvest fell, + Full filled, before the reaping-hook and scythe. + The heat was scorching, but the men and maids + Lightened their toil with merry jest and song; + Rested at mid-day, and from brimming bowl, + Drank the brown ale, and white abundant milk. + The last ear fell, and spiky stubble stood + Where waved the forests of dry-murmuring corn; + And sheaves rose piled in shocks, like ranged tents + Of an encamping army, tent by tent, + To stand there while the moon should have her will. + + The grain was ripe. The harvest carts went out + Broad-platformed, bearing back the towering load, + With frequent passage 'twixt homeyard and field. + And half the oats already hid their tops, + Their ringing, rustling, wind-responsive sprays, + In the still darkness of the towering stack; + When in the north low billowy clouds appeared, + Blue-based, white-crested, in the afternoon; + And westward, darker masses, plashed with blue, + And outlined vague in misty steep and dell, + Clomb o'er the hill-tops: thunder was at hand. + The air was sultry. But the upper sky + Was clear and radiant. + + Downward went the sun, + Below the sullen clouds that walled the west, + Below the hills, below the shadowed world. + The moon looked over the clear eastern wall, + And slanting rose, and looked, rose, looked again, + And searched for silence in her yellow fields, + But found it not. For there the staggering carts, + Like overladen beasts, crawled homeward still, + Sped fieldward light and low. The laugh broke yet, + That lightning of the soul's unclouded skies-- + Though not so frequent, now that toil forgot + Its natural hour. Still on the labour went, + Straining to beat the welkin-climbing heave + Of the huge rain-clouds, heavy with their floods. + Sleep, old enchantress, sided with the clouds, + The hoisting clouds, and cast benumbing spells + On man and horse. One youth who walked beside + A ponderous load of sheaves, higher than wont, + Which dared the lurking levin overhead, + Woke with a start, falling against the wheel, + That circled slow after the slumbering horse. + Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep, + And quit the last few shocks; for the wild storm + Would catch thereby the skirts of Harvest-home, + And hold her lingering half-way in the rain. + + The scholar laboured with his men all night. + He did not favour such prone headlong race + With Nature. To himself he said: "The night + Is sent for sleep; we ought to sleep in the night, + And leave the clouds to God. Not every storm + That climbeth heavenward overwhelms the earth; + And when God wills, 'tis better he should will; + What he takes from us never can be lost." + But the father so had ordered, and the son + Went manful to his work, and held his peace. + + When the dawn blotted pale the clouded east, + The first drops, overgrown and helpless, fell + On the last home-bound cart, oppressed with sheaves; + And by its side, the last in the retreat, + The scholar walked, slow bringing up the rear. + Half the still lengthening journey he had gone, + When, on opposing strength of upper winds + Tumultuous borne, at last the labouring racks + Met in the zenith, and the silence ceased: + The lightning brake, and flooded all the world, + Its roar of airy billows following it. + The darkness drank the lightning, and again + Lay more unslaked. But ere the darkness came, + In the full revelation of the flash, + Met by some stranger flash from cloudy brain, + He saw the lady, borne upon her horse, + Careless of thunder, as when, years agone, + He saw her once, to see for evermore. + "Ah, ha!" he said, "my dreams are come for me! + Now shall they have me!" For, all through the night, + There had been growing trouble in his frame, + An overshadowing of something dire. + Arrived at home, the weary man and horse + Forsook their load; the one went to his stall, + The other sought the haven of his bed-- + There slept and moaned, cried out, and woke, and slept: + Through all the netted labyrinth of his brain + The fever shot its pent malignant fire. + 'Twas evening when to passing consciousness + He woke and saw his father by his side: + His guardian form in every vision drear + That followed, watching shone; and the healing face + Of his true sister gleamed through all his pain, + Soothing and strengthening with cloudy hope; + Till, at the weary last of many days, + He woke to sweet quiescent consciousness, + Enfeebled much, but with a new-born life-- + His soul a summer evening after rain. + + Slow, with the passing weeks, he gathered strength, + And ere the winter came, seemed half restored; + And hope was busy. But a fire too keen + Burned in his larger eyes; and in his cheek + Too ready came the blood at faintest call, + Glowing a fair, quick-fading, sunset hue. + + Before its hour, a biting frost set in. + It gnawed with icy fangs his shrinking life; + And that disease bemoaned throughout the land, + The smiling, hoping, wasting, radiant death, + Was born of outer cold and inner heat. + + One morn his sister, entering while he slept, + Spied in his listless hand a handkerchief + Spotted with red. Cold with dismay, she stood, + Scared, motionless. But catching in the glass + The sudden glimpse of a white ghostly face, + She started at herself, and he awoke. + He understood, and said with smile unsure, + "Bright red was evermore my master-hue; + And see, I have it in me: that is why." + She shuddered; and he saw, nor jested more, + But smiled again, and looked Death in the face. + + When first he saw the red blood outward leap, + As if it sought again the fountain-heart + Whence it had flowed to fill the golden bowl, + No terror seized--an exaltation swelled + His spirit: now the pondered mystery + Would fling its portals wide, and take him in, + One of the awful dead! Them, fools conceive + As ghosts that fleet and pine, bereft of weight, + And half their valued lives: he otherwise;-- + Hoped now, and now expected; and, again, + Said only, "I await the thing to come." + + So waits a child the lingering curtain's rise, + While yet the panting lamps restrained burn + At half-height, and the theatre is full. + + But as the days went by, they brought sad hours, + When he would sit, his hands upon his knees, + Drooping, and longing for the wine of life. + For when the ninefold crystal spheres, through which + The outer light sinks in, are cracked and broken, + Yet able to keep in the 'piring life, + Distressing shadows cross the chequered soul: + Poor Psyche trims her irresponsive lamp, + And anxious visits oft her store of oil, + And still the shadows fall: she must go pray! + And God, who speaks to man at door and lattice, + Glorious in stars, and winds, and flowers, and waves, + Not seldom shuts the door and dims the pane, + That, isled in calm, his still small voice may sound + The clearer, by the hearth, in the inner room-- + Sound on until the soul, fulfilled of hope, + Look undismayed on that which cannot kill; + And saying in the dark, _I will the light_, + Glow in the gloom the present will of God: + Then melt the shadows of her shaken house. + + He, when his lamp shot up a spiring flame, + Would thus break forth and climb the heaven of prayer: + "Do with us what thou wilt, all-glorious heart! + Thou God of them that are not yet, but grow! + We trust thee for the thing we shall be yet; + We too are ill content with what we are." + And when the flame sank, and the darkness fell, + He lived by faith which is the soul of sight. + + Yet in the frequent pauses of the light, + When all was dreary as a drizzling thaw, + When sleep came not although he prayed for sleep, + And wakeful-weary on his bed he lay, + Like frozen lake that has no heaven within; + Then, then the sleeping horror woke and stirred, + And with the tooth of unsure thought began + To gnaw the roots of life:--What if there were + No truth in beauty! What if loveliness + Were but the invention of a happier mood! + "For, if my mind can dim or slay the Fair, + Why should it not enhance or make the Fair?" + "Nay," Psyche answered; "for a tired man + May drop his eyelids on the visible world, + To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free, + Will bring the sunny excellence of day. + 'Tis easy to destroy; God only makes. + Could my invention sweep the lucid waves + With purple shadows--next create the joy + With which my life beholds them? Wherefore should + One meet the other without thought of mine, + If God did not mean beauty in them and me, + But dropped them, helpless shadows, from his sun? + There were no God, his image not being mine, + And I should seek in vain for any bliss! + Oh, lack and doubt and fear can only come + Because of plenty, confidence, and love! + Those are the shadow-forms about the feet + Of these--because they are not crystal-clear + To the all-searching sun in which they live: + Dread of its loss is Beauty's certain seal!" + Thus reasoned mourning Psyche. Suddenly + The sun would rise, and vanish Psyche's lamp, + Absorbed in light, not swallowed in the dark. + + It was a wintry time with sunny days, + With visitings of April airs and scents, + That came with sudden presence, unforetold, + As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring + In the great world where all is old and new. + Strange longings he had never known till now, + Awoke within him, flowers of rooted hope. + For a whole silent hour he would sit and gaze + Upon the distant hills, whose dazzling snow + Starred the dim blue, or down their dark ravines + Crept vaporous; until the fancy rose + That on the other side those rampart walls, + A mighty woman sat, with waiting face, + Calm as that life whose rapt intensity + Borders on death, silent, waiting for him, + To make him grand for ever with a kiss, + And send him silent through the toning worlds. + + The father saw him waning. The proud sire + Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold, + Like snowdrop on its grave; and sighed deep thanks + That he was old. But evermore the son + Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news + Across the waste, of tree-buds and primroses. + Then all at once the other mood would come, + And, like a troubled child, he would seek his father + For father-comfort, which fathers all can give: + Sure there is one great Father in the world, + Since every word of good from fathers' lips + Falleth with such authority, although + They are but men as we! This trembling son, + Who saw the unknown death draw hourly nigher, + Sought solace in his father's tenderness, + And made him strong to die. + + One shining day, + Shining with sun and snow, he came and said, + "What think you, father--is death very sore?" + "My boy," the father answered, "we will try + To make it easy with the present God. + But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, + It seems much harder to the lookers on + Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath + We call a gasp, may be in him the cry + Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob + With which the unclothed spirit, step by step. + Wades forth into the cool eternal sea. + I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- + One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth + Is every day half sunny and half dark. + We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; + They on the other, looking down in light, + Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours." + "Be near me, father, when I die," he said. + "I will, my boy, until a better Father + Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, + When my time comes--you in the light beyond, + And knowing well the country--I in the dark." + + The days went by, until the tender green + Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope + Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; + For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, + With promises, and he went forth to meet her. + + But he who once had strode a king on the fields, + Walked softly now; lay on the daisied grass; + And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon + The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, + Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing. + + But though I lingering listen to the old, + Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old + And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- + Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart + To look the blank unknown full in the void; + For he had hope in God--the growth of years, + Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, + Of prayers and readings and repentances; + For something in him had ever sought the peace + Of other something deeper in him still-- + A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony + With other fainter sounds, that softly drew + Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths + Where the Individual goeth out in God: + The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, + And sought the way by which the music came, + Hoping at last to find the face of him + To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, + And on his bosom fearless leaned the while. + + As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, + The new creation inside of the old, + Pressed up in buds toward the invisible. + And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay. + Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; + He looked away from earth, and loved the sky. + One earthly notion only clung to him:-- + He thanked God that he died not in the cold; + "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad + When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.--It + may be that we know not aught of place, + Or any sense, and only live in thought; + But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light. + I _may_ pass forth into the sea of air + That swings its massy waves around the earth, + And I would rather go when it is full + Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog + Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick. + Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- + Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, + And going with the light. And when they say, + 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;' + I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'" + + The weary nights did much to humble him; + They made the good he knew seem all ill known: + He would go by and by to school again! + "Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou _art_!" + Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, + Who, longing for his mother, has forgot + The arms about him, holding him to her heart: + _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up + That he may see her face, and sleep indeed. + + Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; + We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; + But through them all thy strong arms carry us, + Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief. + Because thou lovest goodness more than joy + In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: + We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, + But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, + And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain + Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: + We never grasp the zenith of the time! + We have no spring except in winter-prayers! + But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That + one day we shall thank thee perfectly + For every disappointment, pang, and shame, + That drove us to the bosom of thy love. + + One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. + His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, + Through which bright pictures passed of the outer world: + The regnant Will gazed passive on the show; + The magic tube through which the shadows came, + Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, + Glided across the field the things that were, + Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: + Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, + And old brown letters are more sad than graves. + + At length, as ever in such vision-hours, + Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse. + Will started all awake, passive no more, + And, necromantic sage, the apparition + That came unbid, commanded to abide. + + Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: + How had she fared, spinning her history + Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings + Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer? + Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or + Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained? + "I know," he said, "some women fail of life! + The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?" + + The fount of possibilities began + To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: + Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- + For purest souls sometimes have direst fears + In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth + Is cast on half her children, and the sun + Is busy giving daylight to the rest. + + "Oh, God!" he cried, "if she be such as those!-- + Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still + Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, + But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, + Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- + It cannot, cannot be! She is of God!-- + And yet things lovely perish! higher life + Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- + Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!" + Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul + But found at last a spot wherein to rest, + Building a resolution for the day. + + The next day, and the next, he was too worn + To clothe intent in body of a deed. + A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, + Making him feel as he had come to the earth + Before God's spirit moved on the water's face, + To make it ready for him. + + But the third + Morning rose radiant. A genial wind + Rippled the blue air 'neath the golden sun, + And brought glad summer-tidings from the south. + + He lay now in his father's room; for there + The southern sun poured all the warmth he had. + His rays fell on the fire, alive with flames, + And turned it ghostly pale, and would have slain-- + Even as the sunshine of the higher life, + Quenching the glow of this, leaves but a coal. + He rose and sat him down 'twixt sun and fire; + Two lives fought in him for the mastery; + And half from each forth flowed the written stream + "Lady, I owe thee much. Stay not to look + Upon my name: I write it, but I date + From the churchyard, where it shall lie in peace, + Thou reading it. Thou know'st me not at all; + Nor dared I write, but death is crowning me + Thy equal. If my boldness yet offend, + Lo, pure in my intent, I am with the ghosts; + Where when thou comest, thou hast already known + God equal makes at first, and Death at last." + + "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, + My thoughts moved toward thee with a gentle flow + That bore a depth of waters: when I took + My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, + Precipitate and foamy. Can it be + That Death who humbles all hath made me proud?" + + "Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, + As if I were thy heritage bequeathed + From many sires; yet only from afar + I have worshipped thee--content to know the vision + Had lifted me above myself who saw, + And ta'en my angel nigh thee in thy heaven. + Thy beauty, lady, hath overflowed, and made + Another being beautiful, beside, + With virtue to aspire and be itself. + Afar as angels or the sainted dead, + Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, + Thy form hath put on each revealing dress + Of circumstance and history, high or low, + In which, from any tale of selfless life, + Essential womanhood hath shone on me." + + "Ten years have passed away since the first time, + Which was the last, I saw thee. What have these + Made or unmade in thee?--I ask myself. + O lovely in my memory! art thou + As lovely in thyself? Thy glory then + Was what God made thee: art thou such indeed? + Forgive my boldness, lady--I am dead: + The dead may cry, their voices are so small." + + "I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead. + Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful + As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; + Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure + That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God, + Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself + I pray. For if I die and find that she, + My woman-glory, lives in common air, + Is not so very radiant after all, + My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, + Unused to see such rooted sorrow there. + With palm to palm my kneeling ghost implores + Thee, living lady--justify my faith + In womanhood's white-handed nobleness, + And thee, its revelation unto me." + + "But I bethink me:--If thou turn thy thoughts + Upon thyself, even for that great sake + Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, + Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half + Is to forget the former, yea, thyself, + Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day, + Turning thy being full unto thy God. + Be thou in him a pure, twice holy child, + Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness-- + Having God in thee, thy completing soul." + + "Lady, I die; the Father holds me up. + It is not much to thee that I should die; + It may be much to know he holds me up." + + "I thank thee, lady, for the gentle look + Which crowned me from thine eyes ten years ago, + Ere, clothed in nimbus of the setting sun, + Thee from my dazzled eyes thy horse did bear, + Proud of his burden. My dull tongue was mute-- + I was a fool before thee; but my silence + Was the sole homage possible to me then: + That now I speak, and fear not, is thy gift. + The same sweet look be possible to thee + For evermore! I bless thee with thine own, + And say farewell, and go into my grave-- + No, to the sapphire heaven of all my hopes." + + Followed his name in full, and then the name + Of the green churchyard where his form should lie. + + Back to his couch he crept, weary, and said: + "O God, I am but an attempt at life! + Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. + Light goeth from me in the morning hour. + I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill + Of pure emotion, save in dreams, ah--dreams! + The high Truth has but flickered in my soul-- + Even at such times, in wide blue midnight hours, + When, dawning sudden on my inner world, + New stars came forth, revealing unknown depths, + New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, + And for a moment I saw formless fact, + And knew myself a living lonely thought, + Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway! + I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my God; + Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, + Harebells, red poppies, daisies, eyebrights blue-- + Gathered them by the way, for comforting! + Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, + Striving for something visible in my thought, + And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? + Make me content to be a primrose-flower + Among thy nations, so the fair truth, hid + In the sweet primrose, come awake in me, + And I rejoice, an individual soul, + Reflecting thee--as truly then divine + As if I towered the angel of the sun. + Once, in a southern eve, a glowing worm + Gave me a keener joy than the heaven of stars: + Thou camest in the worm nearer me then! + Nor do I think, were I that green delight, + I would change to be the shadowy evening star. + Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, + So be thou will it! I am safe with thee. + I laugh exulting. Make me something, God-- + Clear, sunny, veritable purity + Of mere existence, in thyself content. + And seeking no compare. Sure I _have_ reaped + Earth's harvest if I find this holy death!-- + Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt." + + He laid the letter in his desk, with seal + And superscription. When his sister came, + He told her where to find it--afterwards. + + As the slow eve, through paler, darker shades, + Insensibly declines, until at last + The lordly day is but a memory, + So died he. In the hush of noon he died. + The sun shone on--why should he not shine on? + Glad summer noises rose from all the land; + The love of God lay warm on hill and plain: + 'Tis well to die in summer. + + When the breath, + After a hopeless pause, returned no more, + The father fell upon his knees, and said: + "O God, I thank thee; it is over now! + Through the sore time thy hand has led him well. + Lord, let me follow soon, and be at rest." + Therewith he rose, and comforted the maid, + Who in her brother had lost the pride of life, + And wept as all her heaven were only rain. + + Of the loved lady, little more I know. + I know not if, when she had read his words, + She rose in haste, and to her chamber went, + And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth, + A dawn of holier purpose gleamed across + The sadness of her brow. But this I know, + That, on a warm autumnal afternoon, + When headstone-shadows crossed three neighbour graves, + And, like an ended prayer, the empty church + Stood in the sunshine, or a cenotaph, + A little boy, who watched a cow near by + Gather her milk where alms of clover-fields + Lay scattered on the sides of silent roads, + All sudden saw, nor knew whence she had come, + A lady, veiled, alone, and very still, + Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat + And moved not, weeping sore, the watcher said-- + Though how he knew she wept, were hard to tell. + At length, slow-leaning on her elbow down, + She hid her face a while in the short grass, + And pulled a something small from off the mound-- + A blade of grass it must have been, he thought, + For nothing else was there, not even a daisy-- + And put it in a letter. Then she rose, + And glided silent forth, over the wall, + Where the two steps on this side and on that + Shorten the path from westward to the church.-- + The clang of hoofs and sound of light, swift wheels + Arose and died upon the listener's ear. + + + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + + +TO THEM THAT MOURN. + + Let your tears flow; let your sad sighs have scope; + Only take heed they fan, they water Hope. + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + +INTRODUCTION. + + I sought the long clear twilights of my home, + Far in the pale-blue skies and slaty seas, + What time the sunset dies not utterly, + But withered to a ghost-like stealthy gleam, + Round the horizon creeps the short-lived night, + And changes into sunrise in a swoon. + I found my home in homeliness unchanged: + The love that made it home, unchangeable, + Received me as a child, and all was well. + My ancient summer-heaven, borne on the hills, + Once more embraced me; and once more the vale, + So often sighed for in the far-off nights, + Rose on my bodily vision, and, behold, + In nothing had the fancy mocked the fact! + The hasting streams went garrulous as of old; + The resting flowers in silence uttered more; + The blue hills rose and dwelt alone in heaven; + Householding Nature from her treasures brought + Things old and new, the same yet not the same, + For all was holier, lovelier than before; + And best of all, once more I paced the fields + With him whose love had made me long for God + So good a father that, needs-must, I sought + A better still, Father of him and me. + + Once on a day, my cousin Frank and I + Sat swiftly borne behind the dear white mare + That oft had carried me in bygone days + Along the lonely paths of moorland hills; + But now we sought the coast, where deep waves foam + 'Gainst rocks that lift their dark fronts to the north. + And with us went a girl, on whose kind face + I had not looked for many a youthful year, + But the old friendship straightway blossomed new. + The heavens were sunny, and the earth was green; + The large harebells in families stood along + The grassy borders, of a tender blue + Transparent as the sky, haunted with wings + Of many butterflies, as blue as they. + And as we talked and talked without restraint, + Brought near by memories of days that were, + And therefore are for ever; by the joy + Of motion through a warm and shining air; + By the glad sense of freedom and like thoughts; + And by the bond of friendship with the dead, + She told the tale which here I tell again. + + I had returned to childish olden time, + And asked her if she knew a castle worn, + Whose masonry, razed utterly above, + Yet faced the sea-cliff up, and met the waves:-- + 'Twas one of my child-marvels; for, each year, + We turned our backs upon the ripening corn, + And sought some village on the Moray shore; + And nigh this ruin, was that I loved the best. + + For oh the riches of that little port!-- + Down almost to the beach, where a high wall + Inclosed them, came the gardens of a lord, + Free to the visitor with foot restrained-- + His shady walks, his ancient trees of state; + His river--that would not be shut within, + But came abroad, went dreaming o'er the sands, + And lost itself in finding out the sea; + Inside, it bore grave swans, white splendours--crept + Under the fairy leap of a wire bridge, + Vanished in leaves, and came again where lawns + Lay verdurous, and the peacock's plumy heaven + Bore azure suns with green and golden rays. + It was my childish Eden; for the skies + Were loftier in that garden, and the clouds + More summer-gracious, edged with broader white; + And when they rained, it was a golden rain + That sparkled as it fell--an odorous rain. + And then its wonder-heart!--a little room, + Half-hollowed in the side of a steep hill, + Which rose, with columned, windy temple crowned, + A landmark to far seas. The enchanted cell + Was clouded over in the gentle night + Of a luxuriant foliage, and its door, + Half-filled with rainbow hues of coloured glass, + Opened into the bosom of the hill. + Never to sesame of mine that door + Gave up its sanctuary; but through the glass, + Gazing with reverent curiosity, + I saw a little chamber, round and high, + Which but to see was to escape the heat, + And bathe in coolness of the eye and brain; + For all was dusky greenness; on one side, + A window, half-blind with ivy manifold, + Whose leaves, like heads of gazers, climbed to the top, + Gave a joy-saddened light, for all that came + Through the thick veil was green, oh, kindest hue! + But the heart has a heart--this heart had one: + Still in the midst, the _ever more_ of all, + On a low column stood, white, cold, dim-clear, + A marble woman. Who she was I know not-- + A Psyche, or a Silence, or an Echo: + Pale, undefined, a silvery shadow, still, + In one lone chamber of my memory, + She is a power upon me as of old. + + But, ah, to dream there through hot summer days, + In coolness shrouded and sea-murmurings, + Forgot by all till twilight shades grew dark! + To find half-hidden in the hollowed wall, + A nest of tales, old volumes such as dreams + Hoard up in bookshops dim in tortuous streets! + That wondrous marble woman evermore + Filling the gloom with calm delirium + Of radiated whiteness, as I read!-- + The fancied joy, too plenteous for its cup, + O'erflowed, and turned to sadness as it fell. + + But the gray ruin on the shattered shore, + Not the green refuge in the bowering hill, + Drew forth our talk that day. For, as I said, + I asked her if she knew it. She replied, + "I know it well. A woman used to live + In one of its low vaults, my mother says." + "I found a hole," I said, "and spiral stair, + Leading from level of the ground above + To a low-vaulted room within the rock, + Whence through a small square window I looked forth + Wide o'er the waters; the dim-sounding waves + Were many feet below, and shrunk in size + To a great ripple." "'Twas not there," she said, + "--Not in that room half up the cliff, but one + Low down, within the margin of spring tides: + When both the tide and northern wind are high, + 'Tis more an ocean-cave than castle-vault." + And then she told me all she knew of her. + + It was a simple tale, a monotone: + She climbed one sunny hill, gazed once abroad, + Then wandered down, to pace a dreary plain; + Alas! how many such are told by night, + In fisher-cottages along the shore! + + Farewell, old summer-day! I turn aside + To tell her story, interwoven with thoughts + Born of its sorrow; for I dare not think + A woman at the mercy of a sea. + + + + THE STORY. + + Aye as it listeth blows the listless wind, + Swelling great sails, and bending lordly masts, + Or hurrying shadow-waves o'er fields of corn, + And hunting lazy clouds across the sky: + Now, like a white cloud o'er another sky, + It blows a tall brig from the harbour's mouth, + Away to high-tossed heads of wallowing waves, + 'Mid hoverings of long-pinioned arrowy birds. + With clouds and birds and sails and broken crests, + All space is full of spots of fluttering white, + And yet the sailor knows that handkerchief + Waved wet with tears, and heavy in the wind. + Blow, wind! draw out the cord that binds the twain; + Draw, for thou canst not break the lengthening cord. + Blow, wind! yet gently; gently blow, fair wind! + And let love's vision slowly, gently die; + Let the bright sails all solemn-slowly pass, + And linger ghost-like o'er the vanished hull, + With a white farewell to her straining eyes; + For never more in morning's level beams, + Will those sea-shadowing sails, dark-stained and worn, + From the gray-billowed north come dancing in; + Oh, never, gliding home 'neath starry skies, + Over the dusk of the dim-glancing sea, + Will the great ship send forth a herald cry + Of home-come sailors, into sleeping streets! + Blow gently, wind! blow slowly, gentle wind! + + Weep not yet, maiden; 'tis not yet thy hour. + Why shouldst thou weep before thy time is come? + Go to thy work; break into song sometimes-- + Song dying slow-forgotten, in the lapse + Of dreamy thought, ere natural pause ensue, + Or sudden dropt what time the eager heart + Hurries the ready eye to north and east. + Sing, maiden, while thou canst, ere yet the truth, + Slow darkening, choke the heart-caged singing bird! + + The weeks went by. Oft leaving household work, + With bare arms and uncovered head she clomb + The landward slope of the prophetic hill; + From whose green head, as from the verge of time, + Far out on the eternity of blue, + Shading her hope-rapt eyes, seer-like she gazed, + If from the Hades of the nether world, + Slow climbing up the round side of the earth, + Haply her prayers were drawing his tardy sails + Over the threshold of the far sky-sea-- + Drawing her sailor home to celebrate, + With holy rites of family and church, + The apotheosis of maidenhood. + + Months passed; he came not; and a shadowy fear, + Long haunting the horizon of her soul, + In deeper gloom and sharper form drew nigh; + And growing in bulk, possessed her atmosphere, + And lost all shape, because it filled all space, + And reached beyond the bounds of consciousness-- + In sudden incarnations darting swift + From out its infinite a gulfy stare + Of terror blank, of hideous emptiness, + Of widowhood ere ever wedding-day. + + On granite ridge, and chalky cliff, and pier, + Far built into the waves along our shores, + Maidens have stood since ever ships went forth; + The same pain at the heart; the same slow mist + Clouding the eye; the same fixed longing look, + As if the soul had gone, and left the door + Wide open--gone to lean, hearken, and peer + Over the awful edge where voidness sinks + Sheer to oblivion--that horizon-line + Over whose edge he vanished--came no more. + O God, why are our souls, waste, helpless seas, + Tortured with such immitigable storm? + What is this love, that now on angel wing + Sweeps us amid the stars in passionate calm; + And now with demon arms fast cincturing, + Drops us, through all gyrations of keen pain, + Down the black vortex, till the giddy whirl + Gives fainting respite to the ghastly brain? + O happy they for whom the Possible + Opens its gates of madness, and becomes + The Real around them!--such to whom henceforth + There is but one to-morrow, the next morn, + Their wedding-day, ever one step removed, + The husband's foot ever upon the verge + Of the day's threshold, in a lasting dream! + Such madness may be but a formless faith-- + A chaos which the breath of God will blow + Into an ordered world of seed and fruit. + Shall not the Possible become the Real? + God sleeps not when he makes his daughters dream. + Shall not the morrow dawn at last which leads + The maiden-ghost, confused and half awake, + Into the land whose shadows are our dreams?-- + Thus questioning we stand upon the shore, + And gaze across into the Unrevealed. + + Upon its visible symbol gazed the girl, + Till earth behind her ceased, and sea was all, + Possessing eyes and brain and shrinking soul-- + A universal mouth to swallow up, + And close eternally in one blue smile! + A still monotony of pauseless greed, + Its only voice an endless, dreary song + Of wailing, and of craving from the world! + + A low dull dirge that ever rose and died, + Recurring without pause or change or close, + Like one verse chaunted ever in sleepless brain, + Still drew her to the shore. It drew her down, + Like witch's spell, that fearful endless moan; + Somewhere, she thought, in the green abyss below, + His body, at the centre of the moan, + Obeyed the motions whence the moaning grew; + Now, now, in circle slow revolved, and now + Swayed like a wind-swung bell, now swept along + Hither and thither, idly to and fro, + Heedlessly wandering through the heedless sea. + Its fascination drew her onward still-- + On to the ridgy rocks that seaward ran, + And out along their furrows and jagged backs, + To the last lonely point where the green mass + Arose and sank, heaved slow and forceful. There + She shuddered and recoiled. Thus, for a time, + Sport-slave of power occult, she came and went, + Betwixt the shore and sea alternating, + Drawn ever to the greedy lapping lip, + Then, terror-stung, driven backward: there it lay, + The heartless, cruel, miserable deep, + Ambushed in horror, with its glittering eye + Still drawing her to its green gulfing maw! + + But every ocean hath its isles, each woe + Its scattered comfortings; and this was one + That often came to her--that she, wave-caught, + Must, in the wash of ever-shifting waters, + In some good hour sure-fixed of pitiful fate, + _All-conscious still of love, despite the sea_, + Float over some stray bone, some particle, + Which far-diffused sense would know as his: + Heart-glad she would sit down, and watch the tide + Slow-growing--till it reached at length her feet, + When, at its first cold touch, up she would spring, + And, ghastful, flee, with white-rimmed sightless eye. + + But still, where'er she fled, the sea-voice followed; + Whisperings innumerable of water-drops + Would grow together to a giant cry; + Now hoarse, half-stifled, pleading, warning tones, + Now thunderous peals of billowy, wrathful shouts, + Called after her to come, and make no pause. + From the loose clouds that mingled with the spray, + And from the tossings of the lifted seas, + Where plunged and rose the raving wilderness, + Outreaching arms, pursuing, beckoning hands, + Came shoreward, lengthening, feeling after her. + Then would she fling her own wild arms on high, + Over her head, in tossings like the waves, + Or fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense, + Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. + Sometimes she sudden from her shoulders tore + Her garments, one by one, and cast them out + Into the roarings of the heedless surge, + In vain oblation to the hungry waves. + As vain was Pity's will to cover her; + Best gifts but bribed the sea, and left her bare. + In her poor heart and brain burned such a fire + That all-unheeded cold winds lapped her round, + And sleet-like spray flashed on her tawny skin. + Her food she seldom ate; her naked arms + Flung it far out to feed the sea; her hair + Streamed after it, like rooted ocean-weed + In headlong current. But, alas, the sea + Took it, and came again--it would have _her_! + And as the wave importunate, so despair, + Back surging, on her heart rushed ever afresh: + Sickening she moaned--half muttered and half moaned-- + "She winna be content; she'll hae mysel!" + + But when the night grew thick upon the sea, + Quenching it almost, save its quenchless voice, + Then, half-released until the light, she rose, + And step by step withdrew--as dreaming man, + With an eternity of slowness, drags + His earth-bound, lead-like, irresponsive feet + Back from a sleeping horror, she withdrew. + But when, upon the narrow beach at last, + She turned her back upon her hidden foe, + It blended with her phantom-breeding brain, + And, scared at very fear, she cried and fled-- + Fled to the battered base of the old tower, + And round the rock, and through the arched gap + Into the yawning blackness of the vault-- + There sank upon the sand, and gasped, and raved. + Close cowering in a nook, she sat all night, + Her face turned to the entrance of the vault, + Through which a pale light shimmered--from the eye + Of the great sleepless ocean--Argus more dread + Than he with hundred lidless watching orbs, + And slept, and dreamed, and dreaming saw the sea. + But in the stormy nights, when all was dark, + And the wild tempest swept with slanting wing + Against her refuge, and the heavy spray + Shot through the doorway serpentine cold arms + To seize the fore-doomed morsel of the sea, + She slept not, evermore stung to new life + By new sea-terrors. Now it was the gull: + His clanging pinions darted through the arch, + And flapped about her head; now 'twas a wave + Grown arrogant: it rushed into her house, + Clasped her waist-high, then out again and away + To swell the devilish laughter in the fog, + And leave her clinging to the rocky wall, + With white face watching. When it came no more, + And the tide ebbed, not yet she slept--sat down, + And sat unmoving, till the low gray dawn + Grew on the misty dance of spouting waves, + That made a picture in the rugged arch; + Then the old fascination woke and drew; + And, rising slowly, forth she went afresh, + To haunt the border of the dawning sea. + + Yet all the time there lay within her soul + An inner chamber, quietest place; but she + Turned from its door, and staid out in the storm. + She, entering there, had found a refuge calm + As summer evening, as a mother's arms. + There had she found her lost love, only lost + In that he slept, and she was still awake. + There she had found, waiting for her to come, + The Love that waits and watches evermore. + + Thou too hast such a chamber, quietest place, + Where that Love waits for thee. What is it, say, + That will not let thee enter? Is it care + For the provision of the unborn day, + As if thou wert a God that must foresee? + Is it poor hunger for the praise of men? + Is it ambition to outstrip thy fellow + In this world's race? Or is it love of self-- + That greed which still to have must still destroy?-- + Go mad for some lost love; some voice of old, + Which first thou madest sing, and after sob; + Some heart thou foundest rich, and leftest bare, + Choking its well of faith with thy false deeds-- + Unlike thy God, who keeps the better wine + Until the last, and, if he giveth grief, + Giveth it first, and ends the tale with joy: + Such madness clings about the feet of God, + Nor lets them go. Better a thousandfold + Be she than thou! for though thy brain be strong + And clear and workful, hers a withered flower + That never came to seed, her heart is full + Of that in whose live might God made the world; + She is a well, and thou an empty cup. + It was the invisible unbroken cord + Between the twain, her and her sailor-lad, + That drew her ever to the ocean marge. + Better to die for love, to rave for love, + Than not to love at all! but to have loved, + And, loved again, then to have turned away-- + Better than that, never to have been born! + + But if thy heart be noble, say if thou + Canst ever all forget an hour of pain, + When, maddened with the thought that could not be, + Thou might'st have yielded to the demon wind + That swept in tempest through thy scorching brain, + And rushed into the night, and howled aloud, + And clamoured to the waves, and beat the rocks; + And never found thy way back to the seat + Of conscious self, and power to rule thy pain, + Had not God made thee strong to bear and live! + The tale is now in thee, not thou in it; + But the sad woman, in her wildest mood, + Thou knowest her thy sister! She is fair + No more; her eyes like fierce suns blaze and burn; + Her cheeks are parched and brown; her haggard form + Is wasted by wild storms of soul and sea; + Yet in her very self is that which still + Reminds thee of a story, old, not dead, + Which God has in his keeping--of thyself. + + Ah, not forgot are children when they sleep! + The darkness lasts all night, and clears the eyes; + Then comes the morning with the joy of light. + Oh, surely madness hideth not from Him! + Nor doth a soul cease to be beautiful + In his sight, that its beauty is withdrawn, + And hid by pale eclipse from human eyes. + As the chill snow is friendly to the earth, + And pain and loss are friendly to the soul, + Shielding it from the black heart-killing frost; + So madness is but one of God's pale winters; + And when the winter over is and gone, + Then smile the skies, then blooms the earth again, + And the fair time of singing birds is come: + Into the cold wind and the howling night, + God sent for her, and she was carried in + Where there was no more sea. + + What messenger + Ran from the door of heaven to bring her home? + The sea, her terror. + + In the rocks that stand + Below the cliff, there lies a rounded hollow, + Scooped like a basin, with jagged and pinnacled sides: + Low buried when the wind heaps up the surge, + It lifts in the respiration of the tide + Its broken edges, and, then, deep within + Lies resting water, radiantly clear: + There, on a morn of sunshine, while the wind + Yet blew, and heaved yet the billowy sea + With memories of a night of stormy dreams, + At rest they found her: in the sleep which is + And is not death, she, lying very still, + Absorbed the bliss that follows after pain. + O life of love, conquered at last by fate! + O life raised from the dead by saviour Death! + O love unconquered and invincible! + The enemy sea had cooled her burning brain; + Had laid to rest the heart that could not rest; + Had hid the horror of its own dread face! + 'Twas but one desolate cry, and then her fear + Became a blessed fact, and straight she knew + What God knew all the time--that it was well. + + O thou whose feet tread ever the wet sands + And howling rocks along the wearing shore, + Roaming the borders of the sea of death! + Strain not thine eyes, bedimmed with longing tears, + No sail comes climbing back across that line. + Turn thee, and to thy work; let God alone, + And wait for him: faint o'er the waves will come + Far-floating whispers from the other shore + To thine averted ears. Do thou thy work, + And thou shalt follow--follow, and find thine own. + + And thou who fearest something that may come; + Around whose house the storm of terror breaks + All night; to whose love-sharpened ear, all day, + The Invisible is calling at the door, + To render up a life thou canst not keep, + Or love that will not stay,--open thy door, + And carry out thy dying to the marge + Of the great sea; yea, walk into the flood, + And lay thy dead upon the moaning waves. + Give them to God to bury; float them again, + With sighs and prayers to waft them through the gloom, + Back to the spring of life. Say--"If they die, + Thou, the one life of life, art still alive, + And thou canst make thy dead alive again!" + + Ah God, the earth is full of cries and moans, + And dull despair, that neither moans nor cries; + Thousands of hearts are waiting helplessly; + The whole creation groaneth, travaileth + For what it knows not--with a formless hope + Of resurrection or of dreamless death! + Raise thou the dead; restore the Aprils withered + In hearts of maidens; give their manhood back + To old men feebly mournful o'er a life + That scarce hath memory but the mournfulness! + There is no past with thee: bring back once more + The summer eves of lovers, over which + The wintry wind that raveth through the world + Heaps wretched leaves in gusts of ghastly snow; + Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, + The brother's and the sister's faithfulness;-- + Bring in the kingdom of the Son of Man. + + They troop around me, children wildly crying; + Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears; + Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone; + Yea, some consuming in cold fires of shame! + O God, thou hast a work for all thy strength + In saving these thy hearts with full content-- + Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink, + And that, my God, were all unworthy thee! + + Dome up, O heaven, yet higher o'er my head! + Back, back, horizon; widen out my world! + Rush in, O fathomless sea of the Unknown! + For, though he slay me, I will trust in God. + + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + + + +DEDICATION. + + To all who fain + Would keep the grain, + And cast the husk away-- + That it may feed + The living seed, + And serve it with decay-- + I offer this dim story + Whose clouds crack into glory. + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + +I. + + The times are changed, and gone the day + When the high heavenly land, + Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, + And men could understand. + + The dead yet find it, who, when here, + Did love it more than this; + They enter in, are filled with cheer, + And pain expires in bliss. + + All glorious gleams the blessed land!-- + O God, forgive, I pray: + The heart thou holdest in thy hand + Loves more this sunny day! + + I see the hundred thousand wait + Around the radiant throne: + Ah, what a dreary, gilded state! + What crowds of beings lone! + + I do not care for singing psalms; + I tire of good men's talk; + To me there is no joy in palms, + Or white-robed, solemn walk. + + I love to hear the wild winds meet, + The wild old winds at night; + To watch the cold stars flash and beat, + The feathery snow alight. + + I love all tales of valiant men, + Of women good and fair: + If I were rich and strong, ah, then + I would do something rare! + + But for thy temple in the sky, + Its pillars strong and white-- + I cannot love it, though I try, + And long with all my might. + + Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, + And I am speechless then; + Almost a martyr I could be, + To join the holy men. + + + Straightway my heart is like a clod, + My spirit wrapt in doubt:-- + _A pillar in the house of God, + And never more go out_! + + No more the sunny, breezy morn; + All gone the glowing noon; + No more the silent heath forlorn, + The wan-faced waning moon! + + My God, this heart will never burn, + Must never taste thy joy! + Even Jesus' face is calm and stern: + I am a hapless boy! + + * * * * * + + +II. + + I read good books. My heart despairs. + In vain I try to dress + My soul in feelings like to theirs-- + These men of holiness. + + My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling + Into a country fair: + Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing, + They to my ark repair. + + Or comes a sympathetic thrill + With long-departed saint, + A feeble dawn, without my will, + Of feelings old and quaint, + + As of a church's holy night, + With low-browed chapels round, + Where common sunshine dares not light + On the too sacred ground,-- + + One glance at sunny fields of grain, + One shout of child at play-- + A merry melody drives amain + The one-toned chant away! + + My spirit will not enter here + To haunt the holy gloom; + I gaze into a mirror mere, + A mirror, not a room. + + And as a bird against the pane + Will strike, deceived sore, + I think to enter, but remain + Outside the closed door. + + Oh, it will call for many a sigh + If it be what it claims-- + This book, so unlike earth and sky, + Unlike man's hopes and aims!-- + + To me a desert parched and bare-- + In which a spirit broods + Whose wisdom I would gladly share + At cost of many goods! + + * * * * * + +III. + + O hear me, God! O give me joy + Such as thy chosen feel; + Have pity on a wretched boy; + My heart is hard as steel. + + I have no care for what is good; + Thyself I do not love; + I relish not this Bible-food; + My heaven is not above. + + Thou wilt not hear: I come no more; + Thou heedest not my woe. + With sighs and tears my heart is sore. + Thou comest not: I go. + + * * * * * + + +IV. + + Once more I kneel. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + If light there be, 'tis but a spark + Amid a world's despair-- + + One hopeless hope there yet may be + A God somewhere to hear; + The God to whom I bend my knee-- + A God with open ear. + + I know that men laugh still to scorn + The grief that is my lot; + Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne, + But easily forgot. + + What matter that my sorrows rest + On ills which men despise! + More hopeless heaves my aching breast + Than when a prophet sighs. + + AEons of griefs have come and gone-- + My grief is yet my mark. + The sun sets every night, yet none + Sees therefore in the dark. + + There's love enough upon the earth, + And beauty too, they say: + There may be plenty, may be dearth, + I care not any way. + + The world hath melted from my sight; + No grace in life is left; + I cry to thee with all my might, + Because I am bereft. + + In vain I cry. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + Of light there trembles now no spark + In my lost soul's despair. + + * * * * * + +V. + + I sit and gaze from window high + Down on the noisy street: + No part in this great coil have I, + No fate to go and meet. + + My books unopened long have lain; + In class I am all astray: + The questions growing in my brain, + Demand and have their way. + + Knowledge is power, the people cry; + Grave men the lure repeat: + After some rarer thing I sigh, + That makes the pulses beat. + + Old truths, new facts, they preach aloud-- + Their tones like wisdom fall: + One sunbeam glancing on a cloud + Hints things beyond them all. + + * * * * * + + +VI. + + But something is not right within; + High hopes are far gone by. + Was it a bootless aim--to win + Sight of a loftier sky? + + They preach men should not faint, but pray, + And seek until they find; + But God is very far away, + Nor is his countenance kind. + + Yet every night my father prayed, + Withdrawing from the throng! + Some answer must have come that made + His heart so high and strong! + + Once more I'll seek the God of men, + Redeeming childhood's vow.-- + --I failed with bitter weeping then, + And fail cold-hearted now! + + +VII. + + Why search for God? A man I tread + This old life-bearing earth; + High thoughts awake and lift my head-- + In me they have their birth. + + The preacher says a Christian must + Do all the good he can:-- + I must be noble, true, and just, + Because I am a man! + + They say a man must watch, and keep + Lamp burning, garments white, + Else he shall sit without and weep + When Christ comes home at night:-- + + A man must hold his honour free, + His conscience must not stain, + Or soil, I say, the dignity + Of heart and blood and brain! + + Yes, I say well--said words are cheap! + For action man was born! + What praise will my one talent reap? + What grapes are on my thorn? + + Have high words kept me pure enough? + In evil have I no part? + Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff + That weighs upon the heart"? + + I am not that which I do praise; + I do not that I say; + I sit a talker in the ways, + A dreamer in the day! + + +VIII. + + The preacher's words are true, I know-- + That man may lose his life; + That every man must downward go + Without the upward strife. + + 'Twere well my soul should cease to roam, + Should seek and have and hold! + It may be there is yet a home + In that religion old. + + Again I kneel, again I pray: + _Wilt thou be God to me? + Wilt thou give ear to what I say, + And lift me up to thee_? + + Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high! + The clouds of heaven dispart; + An opening depth of loving sky + Looks down into my heart! + + There _is_ a home wherein to dwell-- + The very heart of light! + Thyself my sun immutable, + My moon and stars all night! + + I thank thee, Lord. It must be so, + Its beauty is so good. + Up in my heart thou mad'st it go, + And I have understood. + + The clouds return. The common day + Falls on me like a _No_; + But I have seen what might be--may, + And with a hope I go. + + +IX. + + I am a stranger in the land; + It gives no welcome dear; + Its lilies bloom not for my hand, + Its roses for my cheer. + + The sunshine used to make me glad, + But now it knows me not; + This weight of brightness makes me sad-- + It isolates a blot. + + I am forgotten by the hills, + And by the river's play; + No look of recognition thrills + The features of the day. + + Then only am I moved to song, + When down the darkening street, + While vanishes the scattered throng, + The driving rain I meet. + + The rain pours down. My thoughts awake, + Like flowers that languished long; + From bare cold hills the night-winds break, + From me the unwonted song. + + +X. + + I read the Bible with my eyes, + But hardly with my brain; + Should this the meaning recognize, + My heart yet reads in vain. + + These words of promise and of woe + Seem but a tinkling sound; + As through an ancient tomb I go, + With dust-filled urns around. + + Or, as a sadly searching child, + Afar from love and home, + Sits in an ancient chamber, piled + With scroll and musty tome, + + So I, in these epistles old + From men of heavenly care, + Find all the thoughts of other mould + Than I can love or share. + + No sympathy with mine they show, + Their world is not the same; + They move me not with joy or woe, + They touch me not with blame. + + I hear no word that calls my life, + Or owns my struggling powers; + Those ancient ages had their strife, + But not a strife like ours. + + Oh, not like men they move and speak, + Those pictures in old panes! + They alter not their aspect meek + For all the winds and rains! + + Their thoughts are full of figures strange, + Of Jewish forms and rites: + A world of air and sea I range, + Of mornings and of nights! + + + +XI. + + I turn me to the gospel-tale:-- + My hope is faint with fear + That hungriest search will not avail + To find a refuge here. + + A misty wind blows bare and rude + From dead seas of the past; + And through the clouds that halt and brood, + Dim dawns a shape at last: + + A sad worn man who bows his face, + And treads a frightful path, + To save an abject hopeless race + From an eternal wrath. + + Kind words he speaks--but all the time + As from a formless height + To which no human foot can climb-- + Half-swathed in ancient night. + + Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart, + Unkind words from him go! + Surely it is no saviour's part + To speak to women so! + + Much rather would I refuge take + With Mary, dear to me, + To whom that rough hard speech he spake-- + _What have I to do with thee_? + + Surely I know men tenderer, + Women of larger soul, + Who need no prayer their hearts to stir, + Who always would make whole! + + Oftenest he looks a weary saint, + Embalmed in pallid gleam; + Listless and sad, without complaint, + Like dead man in a dream. + + And, at the best, he is uplift + A spectacle, a show:-- + The worth of such an outworn gift + I know too much to know! + + How find the love to pay my debt?-- + He leads me from the sun!-- + Yet it is hard men should forget + A good deed ever done!-- + + Forget that he, to foil a curse, + Did, on that altar-hill, + Sun of a sunless universe, + Hang dying, patient, still! + + But what is He, whose pardon slow + At so much blood is priced?-- + If such thou art, O Jove, I go + To the Promethean Christ! + + +XII. + + A word within says I am to blame, + And therefore must confess; + Must call my doing by its name, + And so make evil less. + + "I could not his false triumph bear, + For he was first in wrong." + "Thy own ill-doings are thy care, + His to himself belong." + + "To do it right, my heart should own + Some sorrow for the ill." + "Plain, honest words will half atone, + And they are in thy will." + + The struggle comes. Evil or I + Must gain the victory now. + I am unmoved and yet would try: + O God, to thee I bow. + + The skies are brass; there falls no aid; + No wind of help will blow. + But I bethink me:--I am made + A man: I rise and go. + + +XIII. + + To Christ I needs must come, they say; + Who went to death for me: + I turn aside; I come, I pray, + My unknown God, to thee. + + He is afar; the story old + Is blotted, worn, and dim; + With thee, O God, I can be bold-- + I cannot pray to him. + + _Pray_! At the word a cloudy grief + Around me folds its pall: + Nothing I have to call belief! + How can I pray at all? + + I know not if a God be there + To heed my crying sore; + If in the great world anywhere + An ear keeps open door! + + An unborn faith I will not nurse, + Pursue an endless task; + Loud out into its universe + My soul shall call and ask! + + Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea + Are but a chaos wild! + Is there a God--I know that he + Must hear his calling child! + + +XIV. + + I kneel. But all my soul is dumb + With hopeless misery: + Is he a friend who will not come, + Whose face I must not see? + + I do not think of broken laws, + Of judge's damning word; + My heart is all one ache, because + I call and am not heard. + + A cry where there is none to hear, + Doubles the lonely pain; + Returns in silence on the ear, + In torture on the brain. + + No look of love a smile can bring, + No kiss wile back the breath + To cold lips: I no answer wring + From this great face of death. + + +XV. + + Yet sometimes when the agony + Dies of its own excess, + A dew-like calm descends on me, + A shadow of tenderness; + + A sense of bounty and of grace, + A cool air in my breast, + As if my soul were yet a place + Where peace might one day rest. + + God! God! I say, and cry no more, + But rise, and think to stand + Unwearied at the closed door + Till comes the opening hand. + + +XVI. + + But is it God?--Once more the fear + Of _No God_ loads my breath: + Amid a sunless atmosphere + I fight again with death. + + Such rest may be like that which lulls + The man who fainting lies: + His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, + Draws darkness o'er his eyes. + + But even such sleep, my heart responds, + May be the ancient rest + Rising released from bodily bonds, + And flowing unreprest. + + The o'ertasked will falls down aghast + In individual death; + God puts aside the severed past, + Breathes-in a primal breath. + + For how should torture breed a calm? + Can death to life give birth? + No labour can create the balm + That soothes the sleeping earth! + + I yet will hope the very One + Whose love is life in me, + Did, when my strength was overdone, + Inspire serenity. + +XVII. + + When the hot sun's too urgent might + Hath shrunk the tender leaf, + Water comes sliding down the night, + And makes its sorrow brief. + + When poet's heart is in eclipse, + A glance from childhood's eye, + A smile from passing maiden's lips, + Will clear a glowing sky. + + Might not from God such influence come + A dying hope to lift? + Might he not send to poor heart some + Unmediated gift? + + My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, + Abandoned, sore dismayed; + Her fancy's world with horror teems, + Her soul is much afraid: + + I lay my hand upon her breast, + Her moaning dies away; + She does not wake, but, lost in rest, + Sleeps on into the day. + + And when my heart with soft release + Grows calm as summer-sea, + Shall I not hope the God of peace + Hath laid his hand on me? + + +XVIII. + + But why from thought should fresh doubt start-- + An ever-lengthening cord? + Might he not make my troubled heart + Right sure it was the Lord? + + God will not let a smaller boon + Hinder the coming best; + A granted sign might all too soon + Rejoice thee into rest. + + Yet could not any sign, though grand + As hosts of fire about, + Though lovely as a sunset-land, + Secure thy soul from doubt. + + A smile from one thou lovedst well + Gladdened thee all the day; + The doubt which all day far did dwell + Came home with twilight gray. + + For doubt will come, will ever come, + Though signs be perfect good, + Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb, + And both are understood. + + +XIX. + + I shall behold him, one day, nigh. + Assailed with glory keen, + My eyes will open wide, and I + Shall see as I am seen. + + Of nothing can my heart be sure + Except the highest, best + When God I see with vision pure, + That sight will be my rest. + + Forward I look with longing eye, + And still my hope renew; + Backward, and think that from the sky + _Did_ come that falling dew. + + +XX. + + But if a vision should unfold + That I might banish fear; + That I, the chosen, might be bold, + And walk with upright cheer; + + My heart would cry: But shares my race + In this great love of thine? + I pray, put me not in good case + Where others lack and pine. + + Nor claim I thus a loving heart + That for itself is mute: + In such love I desire no part + As reaches not my root. + + But if my brothers thou dost call + As children to thy knee, + Thou givest me my being's all, + Thou sayest child to me. + + If thou to me alone shouldst give, + My heart were all beguiled: + It would not be because I live, + And am my Father's child! + + +XXI. + + As little comfort would it bring, + Amid a throng to pass; + To stand with thousands worshipping + Upon the sea of glass; + + To know that, of a sinful world, + I one was saved as well; + My roll of ill with theirs upfurled, + And cast in deepest hell; + + That God looked bounteously on one, + Because on many men; + As shone Judea's earthly sun + On all the healed ten. + + No; thou must be a God to me + As if but me were none; + I such a perfect child to thee + As if thou hadst but one. + + +XXII. + + Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not + A blessing just for me? + Shall I be, barely, not forgot?-- + Never come home to thee? + + Hast thou no care for this one child, + This thinking, living need? + Or is thy countenance only mild, + Thy heart not love indeed? + + For some eternal joy I pray, + To make me strong and free; + Yea, such a friend I need alway + As thou alone canst be. + + Is not creative infinitude + Able, in every man, + To turn itself to every mood + Since God man's life began? + + Art thou not each man's God--his own, + With secret words between, + As thou and he lived all alone, + Insphered in silence keen? + + Ah, God, my heart is not the same + As any heart beside; + My pain is different, and my blame, + My pity and my pride! + + My history thou know'st, my thoughts + Different from other men's; + Thou knowest all the sheep and goats + That mingle in my pens. + + Thou knowest I a love might bring + By none beside me due; + One praiseful song at least might sing + Which could not but be new. + + +XXIII. + + Nor seek I thus to stand apart, + In aught my kind above; + My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart + Must rest ere thee it love! + + If God love not, I have no care, + No power to love, no hope. + What is life here or anywhere? + Or why with darkness cope? + + I scorn my own love's every sign, + So feeble, selfish, low, + If his love give no pledge that mine + Shall one day perfect grow. + + But if I knew Thy love even such, + As tender and intense + As, tested by its human touch, + Would satisfy my sense + + Of what a father never was + But should be to his son, + My heart would leap for joy, because + My rescue was begun. + + Oh then my love, by thine set free, + Would overflow thy men; + In every face my heart would see + God shining out again! + + There are who hold high festival + And at the board crown Death: + I am too weak to live at all + Except I breathe thy breath. + + Show me a love that nothing bates, + Absolute, self-severe-- + Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates + I should not "taint with fear." + + +XXIV. + + I cannot brook that men should say-- + Nor this for gospel take-- + That thou wilt hear me if I pray + Asking for Jesus' sake. + + For love to him is not to me, + And cannot lift my fate; + The love is not that is not free, + Perfect, immediate. + + Love is salvation: life without + No moment can endure. + Those sheep alone go in and out + Who know thy love is pure. + + +XXV. + + But what if God requires indeed, + For cause yet unrevealed, + Assent to one fixed form of creed, + Such as I cannot yield? + + Has God made _for Christ's sake_ a test-- + To take or leave the crust, + That only he may have the best + Who licks the serpent-dust? + + No, no; the words I will not say + With the responding folk; + I at his feet a heart would lay, + Not shoulders for a yoke. + + He were no lord of righteousness + Who subjects such would gain + As yield their birthright for a mess + Of liberty from pain! + + "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?" + The priest makes answer high. + 'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim: + My hope is in the sky. + + +XXVI. + + But is my will alive, awake? + The one God will not heed + If in my lips or hands I take + A half-word or half-deed. + + Hour after hour I sit and dream, + Amazed in outwardness; + The powers of things that only seem + The things that are oppress; + + Till in my soul some discord sounds, + Till sinks some yawning lack; + Then turn I from life's rippling rounds, + And unto thee come back. + + Thou seest how poor a thing am I, + Yet hear, whate'er I be; + Despairing of my will, I cry, + Be God enough to me. + + My spirit, low, irresolute, + I cast before thy feet; + And wait, while even prayer is mute, + For what thou judgest meet. + + +XXVII. + + My safety lies not, any hour, + In what I generate, + But in the living, healing power + Of that which doth create. + + If he is God to the incomplete, + Fulfilling lack and need, + Then I may cast before his feet + A half-word or half-deed. + + I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair, + To thee, love-glorious, + My very lack of will and prayer, + And cry--Thou seest me thus! + + From some old well of life they flow! + The words my being fill!-- + "Of me that man the truth shall know + Who wills the Father's will." + + +XXVIII. + + What is his will?--that I may go + And do it, in the hope + That light will rise and spread and grow, + As deed enlarges scope. + + I need not search the sacred book + To find my duty clear; + Scarce in my bosom need I look, + It lies so very near. + + Henceforward I must watch the door + Of word and action too; + There's one thing I must do no more, + Another I must do. + + Alas, these are such little things! + No glory in their birth! + Doubt from their common aspect springs-- + If God will count them worth. + + But here I am not left to choose, + My duty is my lot; + And weighty things will glory lose + If small ones are forgot. + + I am not worthy high things yet; + I'll humbly do my own; + Good care of sheep may so beget + A fitness for the throne. + + Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus? + Ambition's very fool! + Through high and low, each glorious, + Shines God's all-perfect rule. + + 'Tis God I need, not rank in good: + 'Tis Life, not honour's meed; + With him to fill my every mood, + I am content indeed. + + +XXIX. + + _Will do: shall know_: I feel the force, + The fullness of the word; + His holy boldness held its course, + Claiming divine accord. + + What if, as yet, I have never seen + The true face of the Man! + The named notion may have been + A likeness vague and wan; + + A thing of such unblended hues + As, on his chamber wall, + The humble peasant gladly views, + And _Jesus Christ_ doth call. + + The story I did never scan + With vision calm and strong; + Have never tried to see the Man, + The many words among. + + Pictures there are that do not please + With any sweet surprise, + But gain the heart by slow degrees + Until they feast the eyes; + + And if I ponder what they call + The gospel of God's grace, + Through mists that slowly melt and fall + May dawn a human face. + + What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought, + That face may dawn on me + Which Moses on the mountain sought, + God would not let him see! + + +XXX. + + All faint at first, as wrapt in veil + Of Sinai's cloudy dark, + But dawning as I read the tale, + I slow discern and mark + + A gracious, simple, truthful man, + Who walks the earth erect, + Nor stoops his noble head to one + From fear or false respect; + + Who seeks to climb no high estate, + No low consent secure, + With high and low serenely great, + Because his love is pure. + + Oh not alone, high o'er our reach, + Our joys and griefs beyond! + To him 'tis joy divine to teach + Where human hearts respond; + + And grief divine it was to him + To see the souls that slept: + "How often, O Jerusalem!" + He said, and gazed, and wept. + + Love was his very being's root, + And healing was its flower; + Love, human love, its stem and fruit, + Its gladness and its power. + + Life of high God, till then unseen! + Undreamt-of glorious show! + Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!-- + How poor am I! how low! + + +XXXI. + + As in a living well I gaze, + Kneeling upon its brink: + What are the very words he says? + What did the one man think? + + I find his heart was all above; + Obedience his one thought; + Reposing in his father's love, + His father's will he sought. + + * * * * * + +XXXII. + + Years have passed o'er my broken plan + To picture out a strife, + Where ancient Death, in horror wan, + Faced young and fearing Life. + + More of the tale I tell not so-- + But for myself would say: + My heart is quiet with what I know, + With what I hope, is gay. + + And where I cannot set my faith, + Unknowing or unwise, + I say "If this be what _he_ saith, + Here hidden treasure lies." + + Through years gone by since thus I strove, + Thus shadowed out my strife, + While at my history I wove, + Thou wovest in the life. + + Through poverty that had no lack + For friends divinely good; + Through pain that not too long did rack, + Through love that understood; + + Through light that taught me what to hold + And what to cast away; + Through thy forgiveness manifold, + And things I cannot say, + + Here thou hast brought me--able now + To kiss thy garment's hem, + Entirely to thy will to bow, + And trust thee even for them + + Who in the darkness and the mire + Walk with rebellious feet, + Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire + For heavenly floor unmeet! + + Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how-- + With this blue air, blue sea, + This yellow sand, that grassy brow, + All isolating me-- + + Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, + My thoughts to thine draw near; + But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart, + Who gav'st me words must hear. + + Thou mad'st the hand with which I write, + The eye that watches slow + Through rosy gates that rosy light + Across thy threshold go; + + Those waves that bend in golden spray, + As if thy foot they bore: + I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, + Shall know thee evermore. + + I know thy father thine and mine: + Thou the great fact hast bared: + Master, the mighty words are thine-- + Such I had never dared! + + Lord, thou hast much to make me yet-- + Thy father's infant still: + Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, + That I may grow thy will. + + My soul with truth clothe all about, + And I shall question free: + The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, + In that fear doubteth thee. + + + + + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN. + + + + +I. + + _THE MOTHER MARY_. + +I. + + Mary, to thee the heart was given + For infant hand to hold, + And clasp thus, an eternal heaven, + The great earth in its fold. + + He seized the world with tender might + By making thee his own; + Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height + Was to thyself unknown. + + He came, all helpless, to thy power, + For warmth, and love, and birth; + In thy embraces, every hour, + He grew into the earth. + + Thine was the grief, O mother high, + Which all thy sisters share + Who keep the gate betwixt the sky + And this our lower air; + + But unshared sorrows, gathering slow, + Will rise within thy heart, + Strange thoughts which like a sword will go + Thorough thy inward part. + + For, if a woman bore a son + That was of angel brood, + Who lifted wings ere day was done, + And soared from where she stood, + + Wild grief would rave on love's high throne; + She, sitting in the door, + All day would cry: "He was my own, + And now is mine no more!" + + So thou, O Mary, years on years, + From child-birth to the cross, + Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, + Keen sense of love and loss. + + His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; + His godlike tenderness + Would sometimes seem, in human speech, + To thee than human less. + + Strange pangs await thee, mother mild, + A sorer travail-pain; + Then will the spirit of thy child + Be born in thee again. + + Till then thou wilt forebode and dread; + Loss will be still thy fear-- + Till he be gone, and, in his stead, + His very self appear. + + For, when thy son hath reached his goal, + And vanished from the earth, + Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul, + A second, holier birth. + + +II. + + Ah, there he stands! With wondering face + Old men surround the boy; + The solemn looks, the awful place + Bestill the mother's joy. + + In sweet reproach her gladness hid, + Her trembling voice says--low, + Less like the chiding than the chid-- + "How couldst thou leave us so?" + + But will her dear heart understand + The answer that he gives-- + Childlike, eternal, simple, grand, + The law by which he lives? + + "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear, + The gulf already opes + That will in thee keep live the fear, + And part thee from thy hopes! + + "My father's business--that ye know + I cannot choose but do." + Mother, if he that work forego, + Not long he cares for you. + + Creation's harder, better part + Now occupies his hand: + I marvel not the mother's heart + Not yet could understand. + + +III. + + The Lord of life among them rests; + They quaff the merry wine; + They do not know, those wedding guests, + The present power divine. + + Believe, on such a group he smiled, + Though he might sigh the while; + Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child + Was born without a smile. + + He saw the pitchers, high upturned, + Their last red drops outpour; + His mother's cheek with triumph burned, + And expectation wore. + + He knew the prayer her bosom housed, + He read it in her eyes; + Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused + Ere yet her words arise. + + "They have no wine!" she, halting, said, + Her prayer but half begun; + Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, + Show what thou art, my son!" + + A vision rose before his eyes, + The cross, the waiting tomb, + The people's rage, the darkened skies, + His unavoided doom: + + Ah woman dear, thou must not fret + Thy heart's desire to see! + His hour of honour is not yet-- + 'Twill come too soon for thee! + + His word was dark; his tone was kind; + His heart the mother knew; + His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined; + They gave her heart the cue. + + Another, on the word intent, + Had read refusal there; + She heard in it a full consent, + A sweetly answered prayer. + + "Whate'er he saith unto you, do." + Out flowed his grapes divine; + Though then, as now, not many knew + Who makes the water wine. + + +IV. + + "He is beside himself!" Dismayed, + His mother, brothers talked: + He from the well-known path had strayed + In which their fathers walked! + + With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud + Some one the message bore:-- + He stands within, amid a crowd, + They at the open door:-- + + "Thy mother and thy brothers would + Speak with thee. Lo, they stand + Without and wait thee!" Like a flood + Of sunrise on the land, + + A new-born light his face o'erspread; + Out from his eyes it poured; + He lifted up that gracious head, + Looked round him, took the word: + + "My mother--brothers--who are they?" + Hearest thou, Mary mild? + This is a sword that well may slay-- + Disowned by thy child! + + Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear-- + They are our humble lord's! + O mother, did they wound _thy_ ear?-- + _We_ thank him for the words. + + "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say, + Stretching his hand abroad, + "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they + That do the will of God!" + + _My brother_! Lord of life and me, + If life might grow to this!-- + Would it not, brother, sister, be + Enough for all amiss? + + Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice: + Thou art his mother still, + But may'st be more--of thy own choice + Doing his Father's will. + + Ambition for thy son restrain, + Thy will to God's will bow: + Thy son he shall be yet again. + And twice his mother thou. + + O humble man, O faithful son! + That woman most forlorn + Who yet thy father's will hath done, + Thee, son of man, hath born! + + +V. + + Life's best things gather round its close + To light it from the door; + When woman's aid no further goes, + She weeps and loves the more. + + She doubted oft, feared for his life, + Yea, feared his mission's loss; + But now she shares the losing strife, + And weeps beside the cross. + + The dreaded hour is come at last, + The sword hath reached her soul; + The hour of tortured hope is past, + And gained the awful goal. + + There hangs the son her body bore, + The limbs her arms had prest! + The hands, the feet the driven nails tore + Had lain upon her breast! + + He speaks; the words how faintly brief, + And how divinely dear! + The mother's heart yearns through its grief + Her dying son to hear. + + "Woman, behold thy son.--Behold + Thy mother." Blessed hest + That friend to her torn heart to fold + Who understood him best! + + Another son--ah, not instead!-- + He gave, lest grief should kill, + While he was down among the dead, + Doing his father's will. + + No, not _instead_! the coming joy + Will make him hers anew; + More hers than when, a little boy, + His life from hers he drew. + + +II. + + _THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE_. + + Filled with his words of truth and right, + Her heart will break or cry: + A woman's cry bursts forth in might + Of loving agony. + + "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare! + The bosom that thee fed!" + A moment's silence filled the air, + All heard the words she said. + + He turns his face: he knows the cry, + The fountain whence it springs-- + A woman's heart that glad would die + For woman's best of things. + + Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, + He never quenched or chode: + "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear + And keep the word of God!" + + He would uplift her, not rebuke. + The crowd began to stir. + We miss how she the answer took; + We hear no more of her. + + +III. + + _THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN_. + + She knelt, she bore a bold request, + Though shy to speak it out: + Ambition, even in mother's breast, + Before him stood in doubt. + + "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, + My sons on thy right hand + And on thy left shall sit when thou + Art king, Lord, in the land." + + "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay + A baptism and a cup + She understood not, in the way + By which he must go up. + + Her mother-love would lift them high + Above their fellow-men; + Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, + Share in their grandeur then! + + Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, + Counted her prayer well heard, + Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, + Hung dying, first and third? + + She knoweth neither way nor end: + In dark despair, full soon, + She will not mock the gracious friend + With prayer for any boon. + + Higher than love could dream or dare + To ask, he them will set; + They shall his cup and baptism share, + And share his kingdom yet! + + They, entering at his palace-door, + Will shun the lofty seat; + Will gird themselves, and water pour, + And wash each other's feet; + + Then down beside their lowly Lord + On the Father's throne shall sit: + For them who godlike help afford + God hath prepared it. + + +IV. + + _THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN_. + + "Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; + She crieth after us." + Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; + Serve not a woman thus. + + Their pride, by condescension fed, + He shapes with teaching tongue: + "It is not meet the children's bread + To little dogs be flung." + + The words, for tender heart so sore, + His voice did seem to rue; + The gentle wrath his countenance wore, + With her had not to do. + + He makes her share the hurt of good, + Takes what she would have lent, + That those proud men their evil mood + May see, and so repent; + + And that the hidden faith in her + May burst in soaring flame: + With childhood deeper, holier, + Is birthright not the same? + + Ill names, of proud religion born-- + She'll wear the worst that comes; + Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, + To share the healing crumbs! + + "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small + Under the table eat + The crumbs the little ones let fall-- + That is not thought unmeet." + + The prayer rebuff could not amate + Was not like water spilt: + "O woman, but thy faith is great! + Be it even as thou wilt." + + Thrice happy she who yet will dare, + Who, baffled, prayeth still! + He, if he may, will grant her prayer + In fulness of _her_ will! + + + +V. + + _THE WIDOW OF NAIN_. + + Forth from the city, with the load + That makes the trampling low, + They walk along the dreary road + That dust and ashes go. + + The other way, toward the gate + Their trampling strong and loud, + With hope of liberty elate, + Comes on another crowd. + + Nearer and nearer draw the twain-- + One with a wailing cry! + How could the Life let such a train + Of death and tears go by! + + "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: + They stand, the dead who bear; + The mother knows nor hope nor fear-- + He waits not for her prayer. + + "Young man, I say to thee, arise." + Who hears, he must obey: + Up starts the body; wide the eyes + Flash wonder and dismay. + + The lips would speak, as if they caught + Some converse sudden broke + When the great word the dead man sought, + And Hades' silence woke. + + The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare + Gives place to ordered sight; + The murmur dies upon the air; + The soul is dumb with light. + + He brings no news; he has forgot, + Or saw with vision weak: + Thou sees! all our unseen lot, + And yet thou dost not speak. + + Hold'st thou the news, as parent might + A too good gift, away, + Lest we should neither sleep at night, + Nor do our work by day? + + The mother leaves us not a spark + Of her triumph over grief; + Her tears alone have left their mark + Upon the holy leaf: + + Oft gratitude will thanks benumb, + Joy will our laughter quell: + May not Eternity be dumb + With things too good to tell? + + Her straining arms her lost one hold; + Question she asketh none; + She trusts for all he leaves untold; + Enough, to clasp her son! + + The ebb is checked, the flow begun, + Sent rushing to the gate: + Death turns him backward to the sun, + And life is yet our fate! + + + +VI. + + _THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND_. + + For years eighteen she, patient soul, + Her eyes had graveward sent; + Her earthly life was lapt in dole, + She was so bowed and bent. + + What words! To her? Who can be near? + What tenderness of hands! + Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? + New hope, or breaking bands? + + The pent life rushes swift along + Channels it used to know; + Up, up, amid the wondering throng, + She rises firm and slow-- + + To bend again in grateful awe-- + For will is power at length-- + In homage to the living Law + Who gives her back her strength. + + Uplifter of the down-bent head! + Unbinder of the bound! + Who seest all the burdened + Who only see the ground! + + Although they see thee not, nor cry, + Thou watchest for the hour + To lift the forward-beaming eye, + To wake the slumbering power! + + Thy hand will wipe the stains of time + From off the withered face; + Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime + Of youthful manhood's grace! + + Like summer days from winter's tomb, + Shall rise thy women fair; + Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, + Lo, is not anywhere! + + All ills of life shall melt away + As melts a cureless woe, + When, by the dawning of the day + Surprised, the dream must go. + + I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, + Whate'er the needful cure; + The great best only thou wilt do, + And hoping I endure. + + + +VII. + + _THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD_. + + Near him she stole, rank after rank; + She feared approach too loud; + She touched his garment's hem, and shrank + Back in the sheltering crowd. + + A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame: + Her twelve years' fainting prayer + Is heard at last! she is the same + As other women there! + + She hears his voice. He looks about. + Ah! is it kind or good + To drag her secret sorrow out + Before that multitude? + + The eyes of men she dares not meet-- + On her they straight must fall!-- + Forward she sped, and at his feet + Fell down, and told him all. + + To the one refuge she hath flown, + The Godhead's burning flame! + Of all earth's women she alone + Hears there the tenderest name: + + "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; + Thy faith hath made thee whole:" + With plenteous love, not healing mere, + He comforteth her soul. + + + +VIII. + + _THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES_. + + Here _much_ and _little_ shift and change, + With scale of need and time; + There _more_ and _less_ have meanings strange, + Which the world cannot rime. + + Sickness may be more hale than health, + And service kingdom high; + Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, + To give like God thereby. + + Bring forth your riches; let them go, + Nor mourn the lost control; + For if ye hoard them, surely so + Their rust will reach your soul. + + Cast in your coins, for God delights + When from wide hands they fall; + But here is one who brings two mites, + And thus gives more than all. + + I think she did not hear the praise-- + Went home content with need; + Walked in her old poor generous ways, + Nor knew her heavenly meed. + + + +IX. + + _THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM_. + + Enough he labours for his hire; + Yea, nought can pay his pain; + But powers that wear and waste and tire, + Need help to toil again. + + They give him freely all they can, + They give him clothes and food; + In this rejoicing, that the man + Is not ashamed they should. + + High love takes form in lowly thing; + He knows the offering such; + To them 'tis little that they bring, + To him 'tis very much. + + + +X. + + _PILATE'S WIFE_. + + Why came in dreams the low-born man + Between thee and thy rest? + In vain thy whispered message ran, + Though justice was its quest! + + Did some young ignorant angel dare-- + Not knowing what must be, + Or blind with agony of care-- + To fly for help to thee? + + I know not. Rather I believe, + Thou, nobler than thy spouse, + His rumoured grandeur didst receive, + And sit with pondering brows, + + Until thy maidens' gathered tale + With possible marvel teems: + Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale + Returneth in thy dreams. + + Well mightst thou suffer things not few + For his sake all the night! + In pale eclipse he suffers, who + Is of the world the light. + + Precious it were to know thy dream + Of such a one as he! + Perhaps of him we, waking, deem + As poor a verity. + + + +XI. + + _THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA_. + + In the hot sun, for water cool + She walked in listless mood: + When back she ran, her pitcher full + Forgot behind her stood. + + Like one who followed straying sheep, + A weary man she saw, + Who sat upon the well so deep, + And nothing had to draw. + + "Give me to drink," he said. Her hand + Was ready with reply; + From out the old well of the land + She drew him plenteously. + + He spake as never man before; + She stands with open ears; + He spake of holy days in store, + Laid bare the vanished years. + + She cannot still her throbbing heart, + She hurries to the town, + And cries aloud in street and mart, + "The Lord is here: come down." + + Her life before was strange and sad, + A very dreary sound: + Ah, let it go--or good or bad: + She has the Master found! + + + +XII. + + _MARY MAGDALENE_. + + With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, + She hither, thither, goes; + Her speech, her motions, all reveal + A mind without repose. + + She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, + By madness tortured, driven; + One hour's forgetfulness would be + A gift from very heaven! + + She slumbers into new distress; + The night is worse than day: + Exulting in her helplessness, + Hell's dogs yet louder bay. + + The demons blast her to and fro; + She has no quiet place, + Enough a woman still, to know + A haunting dim disgrace. + + A human touch! a pang of death! + And in a low delight + Thou liest, waiting for new breath. + For morning out of night. + + Thou risest up: the earth is fair, + The wind is cool; thou art free! + Is it a dream of hell's despair + Dissolves in ecstasy? + + That man did touch thee! Eyes divine + Make sunrise in thy soul; + Thou seest love in order shine:-- + His health hath made thee whole! + + Thou, sharing in the awful doom, + Didst help thy Lord to die; + Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, + Didst hear him _Mary_ cry. + + He stands in haste; he cannot stop; + Home to his God he fares: + "Go tell my brothers I go up + To my Father, mine and theirs." + + Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; + Cry, cry, and heed not how; + Make all the new-risen world rejoice-- + Its first apostle thou! + + What if old tales of thee have lied, + Or truth have told, thou art + All-safe with him, whate'er betide-- + Dwell'st with him in God's heart! + + + +XIII. + + _THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE_. + + A still dark joy! A sudden face! + Cold daylight, footsteps, cries! + The temple's naked, shining space, + Aglare with judging eyes! + + All in abandoned guilty hair, + With terror-pallid lips, + To vulgar scorn her honour bare, + To lewd remarks and quips, + + Her eyes she fixes on the ground + Her shrinking soul to hide, + Lest, at uncurtained windows found, + Its shame be clear descried. + + All idle hang her listless hands, + They tingle with her shame; + She sees not who beside her stands, + She is so bowed with blame. + + He stoops, he writes upon the ground, + Regards nor priests nor wife; + An awful silence spreads around, + And wakes an inward strife. + + Then comes a voice that speaks for thee, + Pale woman, sore aghast: + "Let him who from this sin is free + At her the first stone cast!" + + Ah then her heart grew slowly sad! + Her eyes bewildered rose; + She saw the one true friend she had, + Who loves her though he knows. + + He stoops. In every charnel breast + Dead conscience rises slow: + They, dumb before that awful guest, + Turn, one by one, and go. + + Up in her deathlike, ashy face + Rises the living red; + No greater wonder sure had place + When Lazarus left the dead! + + She is alone with him whose fear + Made silence all around; + False pride, false shame, they come not near, + She has her saviour found! + + Jesus hath spoken on her side, + Those cruel men withstood! + From him her shame she will not hide! + For him she _will_ be good! + + He rose; he saw the temple bare; + They two are left alone! + He said unto her, "Woman, where + Are thine accusers gone?" + + "Hath none condemned thee?" "Master, no," + She answers, trembling sore. + "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, + And sin not any more." + + She turned and went.--To hope and grieve? + Be what she had not been? + We are not told; but I believe + His kindness made her clean. + + Our sins to thee us captive hale-- + Ambitions, hatreds dire; + Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail, + And sink us in the mire: + + Our captive-cries with pardon meet; + Our passion cleanse with pain; + Lord, thou didst make these miry feet-- + Oh, wash them clean again! + + +XIV. + + _MARTHA_. + + With joyful pride her heart is high: + Her humble house doth hold + The man her nation's prophecy + Long ages hath foretold! + + Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born: + Her woman-soul is proud + To know and hail the coming morn + Before the eyeless crowd. + + At her poor table will he eat? + He shall be served there + With honour and devotion meet + For any king that were! + + 'Tis all she can; she does her part, + Profuse in sacrifice; + Nor dreams that in her unknown heart + A better offering lies. + + But many crosses she must bear; + Her plans are turned and bent; + Do what she can, things will not wear + The form of her intent. + + With idle hands and drooping lid, + See Mary sit at rest! + Shameful it was her sister did + No service for their guest! + + Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot + Must rule thy hands and eyes; + Thou, all thy household cares forgot, + Must sit as idly wise! + + But once more first she set her word + To bar her master's ways, + Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord, + He hath been dead four days!" + + Her housewife-soul her brother dear + Would fetter where he lies! + Ah, did her buried best then hear, + And with the dead man rise? + + + +XV. + + _MARY_. + + I. + + She sitteth at the Master's feet + In motionless employ; + Her ears, her heart, her soul complete + Drinks in the tide of joy. + + Ah! who but she the glory knows + Of life, pure, high, intense, + In whose eternal silence blows + The wind beyond the sense! + + In her still ear, God's perfect grace + Incarnate is in voice; + Her thoughts, the people of the place, + Receive it, and rejoice. + + Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright, + Are on the ground cast low; + His words of spirit, life, and light-- + _They_ set them shining so. + + But see! a face is at the door + Whose eyes are not at rest; + A voice breaks on divinest lore + With petulant request. + + "Master," it said, "dost thou not care + She lets me serve alone? + Tell her to come and take her share." + But Mary's eyes shine on. + + She lifts them with a questioning glance, + Calmly to him who heard; + The merest sign, she'll rise at once, + Nor wait the uttered word. + + His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore + A sense of coming _nay_; + He told her that her trouble sore + Was needless any day. + + And he would not have Mary chid + For want of needless care; + The needful thing was what she did, + At his feet sitting there. + + Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart + Doing the thing it would, + When he, the holy, took her part, + And called her choice the good! + + Oh needful thing, Oh Mary's choice, + Go not from us away! + Oh Jesus, with the living voice, + Talk to us every day! + + + II. + + Not now the living words are poured + Into one listening ear; + For many guests are at the board, + And many speak and hear. + + With sacred foot, refrained and slow, + With daring, trembling tread, + She comes, in worship bending low + Behind the godlike head. + + The costly chrism, in snowy stone, + A gracious odour sends; + Her little hoard, by sparing grown, + In one full act she spends. + + She breaks the box, the honoured thing! + See how its riches pour! + Her priestly hands anoint him king + Whom peasant Mary bore. + + * * * * * + + Not so does John the tale repeat: + He saw, for he was there, + Mary anoint the Master's feet, + And wipe them with her hair. + + Perhaps she did his head anoint, + And then his feet as well; + And John this one forgotten point + Loved best of all to tell. + + 'Twas Judas called the splendour waste, + 'Twas Jesus said--Not so; + Said that her love his burial graced: + "Ye have the poor; I go." + + Her hands unwares outsped his fate, + The truth-king's felon-doom; + The other women were too late, + For he had left the tomb. + + + +XVI. + + _THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER_. + + His face, his words, her heart awoke; + Awoke her slumbering truth; + She judged him well; her bonds she broke, + And fled to him for ruth. + + With tears she washed his weary feet; + She wiped them with her hair; + Her kisses--call them not unmeet, + When they were welcome _there_. + + What saint a richer crown could throw + At his love-royal feet! + Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go, + His reign begun to greet. + + His holy manhood's perfect worth + Owns her a woman still; + It is impossible henceforth + For her to stoop to ill. + + Her to herself his words restore, + The radiance to the day; + A horror to herself no more, + Not yet a cast-away! + + Her hands and kisses, ointment, tears, + Her gathered wiping hair, + Her love, her shame, her hopes, her fears, + Mingle in worship rare. + + Thou, Mary, too, thy hair didst spread + To wipe the anointed feet; + Nor didst thou only bless his head + With precious spikenard sweet. + + But none say thou thy tears didst pour + To wash his parched feet first; + Of tears thou couldst not have such store + As from this woman burst! + + If not in love she first be read, + Her queen of sorrow greet; + Mary, do thou anoint his head, + And let her crown his feet. + + Simon, her kisses will not soil; + Her tears are pure as rain; + The hair for him she did uncoil + Had been baptized in pain. + + Lo, God hath pardoned her so much, + Love all her being stirs! + His love to his poor child is such + That it hath wakened hers! + + But oh, rejoice, ye sisters pure, + Who scarce can know her case-- + There is no sin but has its cure, + Its all-consuming grace! + + He did not leave her soul in hell, + 'Mong shards the silver dove; + But raised her pure that she might tell + Her sisters how to love! + + She gave him all your best love can! + Despised, rejected, sad-- + Sure, never yet had mighty man + Such homage as he had! + + Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet, + Her love grew so intense, + Earth's sinners all come round thy feet: + Lord, make no difference! + + + + + +A BOOK OF SONNETS. + + +_THE BURNT-OFFERING_. + + Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night, + When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim, + And he hath laid him down in chamber dim, + Straightway begins to tremble and grow bright, + And loose faint flashes toward the vaulted height + Of the great peace that overshadoweth him: + Keen lambent flames of hope awake and swim + Throughout his soul, touching each point with light! + The great earth under him an altar is, + Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, + Burning in love's response up to the skies + Whose fire descended first and kindled his: + When slow the flickering flames at length expire, + Sleep's ashes only hide a glowing fire. + + + +_THE UNSEEN FACE_. + + + "I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face." + "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn! + Thou shall behold as much as may be borne." + And on a rock stood Moses, lone in space. + From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place, + God passed in cloud, an earthy garment worn + To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn, + He put him in a clift of the rock's base, + Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen-- + Passed--lifted it: his back alone appears! + Ah, Moses, had he turned, and hadst thou seen + The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears, + The eyes of the true man, by men belied, + Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died! + + + + + +_CONCERNING JESUS_. + + + I. + + If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race + Of forms divine had thenceforth filled the land! + Methinks I see thee, glorious workman, stand, + Striking a marble window through blind space-- + Thy face's reflex on the coming face, + As dawns the stone to statue 'neath thy hand-- + Body obedient to its soul's command, + Which is thy thought, informing it with grace! + So had it been. But God, who quickeneth clay, + Nor turneth it to marble--maketh eyes, + Not shadowy hollows, where no sunbeams play-- + Would mould his loftiest thought in human guise: + Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad, + God's living sculpture, all-informed of God. + + + II. + + If one should say, "Lo, there thy statue! take + Possession, sculptor; now inherit it; + Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit; + As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake + The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake + The slumber from their hearts, that, where they sit, + They leap straight up, aghast, as at a pit + Gaping beneath;" I hear him answer make: + "Alas for me, I cannot nor would dare + Inform what I revered as I did trace! + Who would be fool that he like fool might fare, + With feeble spirit mocking the enorm + Strength on his forehead!" Thou, God's thought thy form, + Didst live the large significance of thy face. + + + + III. + + Men have I seen, and seen with wonderment, + Noble in form, "lift upward and divine," + In whom I yet must search, as in a mine, + After that soul of theirs, by which they went + Alive upon the earth. And I have bent + Regard on many a woman, who gave sign + God willed her beautiful, when he drew the line + That shaped each float and fold of beauty's tent: + Her soul, alas, chambered in pigmy space, + Left the fair visage pitiful--inane-- + Poor signal only of a coming face + When from the penetrale she filled the fane!-- + Possessed of thee was every form of thine, + Thy very hair replete with the divine. + + + IV. + + If thou hadst built a temple, how my eye + Had hungering fed thereon, from low-browed crypt + Up to the soaring pinnacles that, tipt + With stars, gave signal when the sun drew nigh! + Dark caverns in and under; vivid sky + Its home and aim! Say, from the glory slipt, + And down into the shadows dropt and dipt, + Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?-- + Thou build'st the temple of thy holy ghost + From hid foundation to high-hidden fate-- + Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, + From grave and sky filled with a fighting host! + Man is thy temple; man thy work elect; + His glooms and glory thine, great architect! + + + V. + + If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, + What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace + Had shone upon us from the great world's face! + How had we read, as in eternal books, + The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks! + A lily, in merest lines thy hand did trace, + Had plainly been God's child of lower race! + And oh how strong the hills, songful the brooks! + To thee all nature's meanings lie light-bare, + Because thy heart is nature's inner side; + Clear as, to us, earth on the dawn's gold tide, + Her notion vast up in thy soul did rise; + Thine is the world, thine all its splendours rare, + Thou Man ideal, with the unsleeping eyes! + + + VI. + + But I have seen pictures the work of man, + In which at first appeared but chaos wild: + So high the art transcended, they beguiled + The eye as formless, and without a plan. + Not soon, the spirit, brooding o'er, began + To see a purpose rise, like mountain isled, + When God said, Let the Dry appear! and, piled + Above the waves, it rose in twilight wan. + So might thy pictures then have been too strange + For us to pierce beyond their outmost look; + A vapour and a darkness; a sealed book; + An atmosphere too high for wings to range; + And so we could but, gazing, pale and change, + And tremble as at a void thought cannot brook. + + + VII. + + But earth is now thy living picture, where + Thou shadowest truth, the simple and profound + By the same form in vital union bound: + Where one can see but the first step of thy stair, + Another sees it vanish far in air. + When thy king David viewed the starry round, + From heart and fingers broke the psaltery-sound: + Lord, what is man, that thou shouldst mind his prayer! + But when the child beholds the heavens on high, + He babbles childish noises--not less dear + Than what the king sang praying--to the ear + Of him who made the child and king and sky. + Earth is thy picture, painter great, whose eye + Sees with the child, sees with the kingly seer. + + + VIII. + + If thou hadst built some mighty instrument, + And set thee down to utter ordered sound, + Whose faithful billows, from thy hands unbound, + Breaking in light, against our spirits went, + And caught, and bore above this earthly tent, + The far-strayed back to their prime natal ground, + Where all roots fast in harmony are found, + And God sits thinking out a pure consent;-- + Nay, that thou couldst not; that was not for thee! + Our broken music thou must first restore-- + A harder task than think thine own out free; + And till thou hast done it, no divinest score, + Though rendered by thine own angelic choir, + Can lift one human spirit from the mire. + + + IX. + + If thou hadst been a poet! On my heart + The thought flashed sudden, burning through the weft + Of life, and with too much I sank bereft. + Up to my eyes the tears, with sudden start, + Thronged blinding: then the veil would rend and part! + The husk of vision would in twain be cleft! + Thy hidden soul in naked beauty left, + I should behold thee, Nature, as thou art! + O poet Jesus! at thy holy feet + I should have lien, sainted with listening; + My pulses answering ever, in rhythmic beat, + The stroke of each triumphant melody's wing, + Creating, as it moved, my being sweet; + My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string. + + + X. + + Thee had we followed through the twilight land + Where thought grows form, and matter is refined + Back into thought of the eternal mind, + Till, seeing them one, Lo, in the morn we stand!-- + Then started fresh and followed, hand in hand, + With sense divinely growing, till, combined, + We heard the music of the planets wind + In harmony with billows on the strand!-- + Till, one with earth and all God's utterance, + We hardly knew whether the sun outspake, + Or a glad sunshine from our spirits brake-- + Whether we think, or winds and blossoms dance! + Alas, O poet leader, for such good + Thou wast God's tragedy, writ in tears and blood! + + + XI. + + Hadst thou been one of these, in many eyes, + Too near to be a glory for thy sheen, + Thou hadst been scorned; and to the best hadst been + A setter forth of strange divinities; + But to the few construct of harmonies, + A sudden sun, uplighting the serene + High heaven of love; and, through the cloudy screen + That 'twixt our souls and truth all wretched lies, + Dawning at length, hadst been a love and fear, + Worshipped on high from Magian's mountain-crest, + And all night long symbolled by lamp-flames clear, + Thy sign, a star upon thy people's breast-- + Where that strange arbitrary token lies + Which once did scare the sun in noontide skies. + + + XII. + + But as thou camest forth to bring the poor, + Whose hearts are nearer faith and verity, + Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy-- + So taught'st the A B C of heavenly lore; + Because thou sat'st not lonely evermore, + With mighty truths informing language high, + But, walking in thy poem continually, + Didst utter deeds, of all true forms the core-- + Poet and poem one indivisible fact; + Because thou didst thine own ideal act, + And so, for parchment, on the human soul + Didst write thine aspirations--at thy goal + Thou didst arrive with curses for acclaim, + And cry to God up through a cloud of shame. + + + XIII. + + For three and thirty years, a living seed, + A lonely germ, dropt on our waste world's side, + Thy death and rising thou didst calmly bide; + Sore companied by many a clinging weed + Sprung from the fallow soil of evil and need; + Hither and thither tossed, by friends denied; + Pitied of goodness dull, and scorned of pride; + Until at length was done the awful deed, + And thou didst lie outworn in stony bower + Three days asleep--oh, slumber godlike-brief + For man of sorrows and acquaint with grief! + Life-seed thou diedst, that Death might lose his power, + And thou, with rooted stem and shadowy leaf, + Rise, of humanity the crimson flower. + + + XIV. + + Where dim the ethereal eye, no art, though clear + As golden star in morning's amber springs, + Can pierce the fogs of low imaginings: + Painting and sculpture are a mockery mere. + Where dull to deafness is the hearing ear, + Vain is the poet. Nought but earthly things + Have credence. When the soaring skylark sings + How shall the stony statue strain to hear? + Open the deaf ear, wake the sleeping eye, + And Lo, musicians, painters, poets--all + Trooping instinctive, come without a call! + As winds that where they list blow evermore; + As waves from silent deserts roll to die + In mighty voices on the peopled shore. + + + XV. + + Our ears thou openedst; mad'st our eyes to see. + All they who work in stone or colour fair, + Or build up temples of the quarried air, + Which we call music, scholars are of thee. + Henceforth in might of such, the earth shall be + Truth's temple-theatre, where she shall wear + All forms of revelation, all men bear + Tapers in acolyte humility. + O master-maker, thy exultant art + Goes forth in making makers! Pictures? No, + But painters, who in love and truth shall show + Glad secrets from thy God's rejoicing heart. + Sudden, green grass and waving corn up start + When through dead sands thy living waters go. + + + XVI. + + From the beginning good and fair are one, + But men the beauty from the truth will part, + And, though the truth is ever beauty's heart, + After the beauty will, short-breathed, run, + And the indwelling truth deny and shun. + Therefore, in cottage, synagogue, and mart, + Thy thoughts came forth in common speech, not art; + With voice and eye, in Jewish Babylon, + Thou taughtest--not with pen or carved stone, + Nor in thy hand the trembling wires didst take: + Thou of the truth not less than all wouldst make; + For Truth's sake even her forms thou didst disown: + Ere, through the love of beauty, truth shall fail, + The light behind shall burn the broidered veil! + + + XVII. + + Holy of holies, my bare feet draw nigh: + Jesus, thy body is the shining veil + By which I look on God, nor grow death-pale. + I know that in my verses poor may lie + Things low, for see, the thinker is not high! + But were my song as loud as saints' all-hail, + As pure as prophet's cry of warning wail, + As holy as thy mother's ecstasy-- + He sings a better, who, for love or ruth, + Into his heart a little child doth take. + Nor thoughts nor feelings, art nor wisdom seal + The man who at thy table bread shall break. + Thy praise was not that thou didst know, or feel, + Or show, or love, but that thou didst the truth. + + + XVIII. + + Despised! Rejected by the priest-led roar + Of the multitude! The imperial purple flung + About the form the hissing scourge had stung, + Witnessing naked to the truth it bore! + True son of father true, I thee adore. + Even the mocking purple truthful hung + On thy true shoulders, bleeding its folds among, + For thou wast king, art king for evermore! + _I know the Father: he knows me the truth_. + Truth-witness, therefore the one essential king, + With thee I die, with thee live worshipping! + O human God, O brother, eldest born, + Never but thee was there a man in sooth, + Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn! + + + + +_A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA_. + + + I. + + Upon a rock I sat--a mountain-side, + Far, far forsaken of the old sea's lip; + A rock where ancient waters' rise and dip, + Recoil and plunge, eddy, and oscillant tide, + Had worn and worn, while races lived and died, + Involved channels. Where the sea-weed's drip + Followed the ebb, now crumbling lichens sip + Sparse dews of heaven that down with sunset slide. + I sat long-gazing southward. A dry flow + Of withering wind sucked up my drooping strength, + Itself weak from the desert's burning length. + Behind me piled, away and up did go + Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, + Where snow gleams ever, panthers roam, they say. + + + II. + + This infant world has taken long to make, + Nor hast Thou done with it, but mak'st it yet, + And wilt be working on when death has set + A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. + On flow the centuries without a break; + Uprise the mountains, ages without let; + The lichens suck; the hard rock's breast they fret; + Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. + But in the dumbness of the rolling time, + No veil of silence shall encompass me-- + Thou wilt not once forget and let me be; + Rather wouldst thou some old chaotic prime + Invade, and, moved by tenderness sublime, + Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. + + + + + +_A. M. D_. + + + Methinks I see thee, lying straight and low, + Silent and darkling, in thy earthy bed, + The mighty strength in which I trusted, fled, + The long arms lying careless of kiss or blow; + On thy tall form I see the night-robe flow + Down from the pale, composed face--thy head + Crowned with its own dark curls: though thou wast dead, + They dressed thee as for sleep, and left thee so! + My heart, with cares and questionings oppressed, + Not oft since thou didst leave us turns to thee; + But wait, my brother, till I too am dead, + And thou shalt find that heart more true, more free, + More ready in thy love to take its rest, + Than when we lay together in one bed. + + + + + +_TO GARIBALDI--WITH A BOOK_. + + + When at Philippi, he who would have freed + Great Rome from tyrants, for the season brief + That lay 'twixt him and battle, sought relief + From painful thoughts, he in a book did read, + That so the death of Portia might not breed + Unmanful thoughts, and cloud his mind with grief: + Brother of Brutus, of high hearts the chief, + When thou at length receiv'st thy heavenly meed, + And I have found my hoping not in vain, + Tell me my book has wiled away one pang + That out of some lone sacred memory sprang, + Or wrought an hour's forgetfulness of pain, + And I shall rise, my heart brimful of gain, + And thank my God amid the golden clang. + + + + + +_TO S. F. S_. + + + They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: + More gently, I think, sorrows together go; + A new one joins the funeral gliding slow + With less of jar than when it breaks the dance. + Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance; + Nature is generous to her children so. + And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow, + As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance + The foot that must walk naked in life's way,-- + Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear, + Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear, + They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay; + And when the soft night closed the weary day, + Would sleep like those that far-off music hear. + + + + + +_RUSSELL GURNEY_. + + + In that high country whither thou art gone, + Right noble friend, thou walkest with thy peers, + The gathered great of many a hundred years! + Few are left like thee--few, I say, not none, + Else were thy England soon a Babylon, + A land of outcry, mockery, and tears! + Higher than law, a refuge from its fears, + Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone. + The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face + Was like the sunrise of a morn serene + Among the mountains, making sweet their awe. + Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw; + Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean, + As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place. + + + + + +_TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS_. + + + I. + + Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark, + And twilight cool thy potent day inclose! + The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows + All the night through, sleepless and young and stark. + Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark, + More daring: in the midnight of thy woes, + Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes, + Into the Light of which thou art a spark! + Be willing to be blind--that, in thy night, + The Lord may bring his Father to thy door, + And enter in, and feast thy soul with light. + Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more, + Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies, + And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes. + + + II. + + Say thou, his will be done who is the good! + His will be borne who knoweth how to bear! + Who also in the night had need of prayer, + Both when awoke divinely longing mood, + And when the power of darkness him withstood. + For what is coming take no jot of care: + Behind, before, around thee as the air, + He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood. + And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, + Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, + Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest + With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height, + Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share: + He needs no eyes who is a shining light! + + + + +_TO AUBREY DE VERE_. + + + Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, + Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, + Distilling its true essence by the flame + Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear. + I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer; + If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame, + Or furthering by failure each high aim; + If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear; + But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by-- + Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod-- + We laying down the staff, and He the rod-- + So look on me I shall not need to cry-- + "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I: + We mean the same thing--will the will of God!" + + + + + +_GENERAL GORDON_. + + + I. + + Victorious through failure! faithful Lord, + Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray + From thine own country of eternal day, + To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde, + Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!-- + Our long retarded legions, on their way, + Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway, + To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word, + Thou sawest foiled--but glorifiedst him, + Over ten cities giving him thy rule! + We will not mourn a star that grew not dim, + A soldier-child of God gone home from school! + A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff, + And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff! + + + II. + + Another to the witnesses' roll-call + Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out-- + With willingness crowned everywhere about, + Not the head only, but the body all, + In one great nimbus of obedient fall, + His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt-- + Love's last victorious stand amid the rout! + --Silence is left, and the untasted gall. + No chariot with ramping steeds of fire + The Father sent to fetch his man-child home; + His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!" + And like a dove to heaven he did aspire, + His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire. + --Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb! + + + + + +_THE CHRYSALIS_. + + + Methought I floated sightless, nor did know + That I had ears until I heard the cry + As of a mighty man in agony: + "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow? + The arrows of thy lightning through me go, + And sting and torture me--yet here I lie + A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!" + The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below + Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet. + Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead, + And looked upon the world: the silence broke! + A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat + Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke! + And from that world a mighty angel fled. + + + + + +_THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR_. + + + Methought that in a solemn church I stood. + Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, + Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. + Midway the form hung high upon the rood + Of him who gave his life to be our good; + Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet, + Among the candles shining still and sweet. + Men came and went, and worshipped as they could-- + And still their dust a woman with her broom, + Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. + Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, + Across the church a silent figure come: + "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!" + It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more. + + + + + +_DEATH_. + + + Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: + A fresher birth brings every new year in. + Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. + See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! + My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, + Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. + --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! + Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:-- + Behind me comes a shining one indeed; + Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, + And set upon his day night's starry crown! + _Death_, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!-- + A woman-angel! see--in long white gown! + The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed. + + + + + + + +ORGAN SONGS. + + + _TO A. J. SCOTT_ + + WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. + + I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. + Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, + Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed + + A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain. + Closed were the lofty doors that led within; + But by a wicket one might entrance gain. + + 'Twas awe and silence when I entered in; + The night, the weariness, the rain were lost + In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin + + Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, + As if they sought some harmony to find + Which they knew once, but none of all that host + + Could wile the far-fled music back to mind. + Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along + The pillared paths, and up the arches twined + + With sister arches, rising, throng on throng, + Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times + The voices gathered to a burst of song, + + But parted sudden, and were but single rimes + By single bells through Sabbath morning sent, + That have no thought of harmony or chimes. + + Hopeful confusion! Who could be content + Looking and hearkening from the distant door? + I entered further. Solemnly it went-- + + Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar, + Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine: + I loved and listened, listened and loved more. + + May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine + Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone? + Let my poor song be taken in to thine. + + Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own, + Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown? + + + + + +_LIGHT_. + + + First-born of the creating Voice! + Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent + Waiting upon him first, what time he went + Moving about mid the tumultuous noise + Of each unpiloted element + Upon the face of the void formless deep! + Thou who didst come unbodied and alone + Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, + Or ever the moon shone, + Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! + Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt + Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven! + Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert + When first I longed for words, to be + A radiant garment for my thought, like thee! + + We lay us down in sorrow, + Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; + In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow; + Grief lifts our eyelids up--and Lo, the light! + The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise + Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; + Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; + Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; + Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; + Of clouds that show thy glory as their own; + O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by! + Light, gladness, motion, are reality! + + Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs + Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; + And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. + The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers + Worship thee all day long, and through the skies + Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. + River of life, thou pourest on the woods, + And on thy waves float out the wakening buds; + The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain, + Keep turning still to see thee yet again; + South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee, + Bear violins that tremble humanly. + And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: + Where'er thou art, on every side, + All things are glorified; + And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw + Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark, + That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark. + + And men have worshipped thee. + The Persian, on his mountain-top, + Waits kneeling till thy sun go up, + God-like in his serenity. + All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near, + And the wide earth waits till his face appear-- + Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps + Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, + Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps. + Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds + The universal face: Lo, silently, + Up cometh he, the never-closing eye! + Symbol of Deity, men could not be + Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee! + + Thou plaything of the child, + When from the water's surface thou dost spring, + Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling, + And there, in mazy dance and motion wild, + Disport thyself--etherial, undefiled. + Capricious, like the thinkings of the child! + I am a child again, to think of thee + In thy consummate glee. + How I would play with thee, athirst to climb + On sloping ladders of thy moted beams, + When through the gray dust darting in long streams! + How marvel at the dusky glimmering red, + With which my closed fingers thou hadst made + Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed! + And how I loved thee always in the moon! + But most about the harvest-time, + When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune, + And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove! + And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love! + And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! + And more mysterious earthly stars, + That shone from windows of the hill and glen-- + Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars, + Mingling with household love and rest of weary men! + And still I am a child, thank God!--to spy + Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass + Upon the brown earth undescried, + Is a found thing to me, a gladness high, + A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within, + A thought of hope to prophecy akin, + That from my spirit fruitless will not pass. + + Thou art the joy of age: + Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls. + Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls, + And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage + To gather song from radiance, in his chair + Sits by the door; and sitteth there + His soul within him, like a child that lies + Half dreaming, with half-open eyes, + At close of a long afternoon in summer-- + High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where + The raven is almost the only comer-- + Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment + At thy celestial ascent + Through rifted loop to light upon the gold + That waves its bloom in some high airy rent: + So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, + But sleepy mid the ruins that infold. + + What soul-like changes, evanescent moods, + Upon the face of the still passive earth, + Its hills, and fields, and woods, + Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth! + Even like a lord of music bent + Over his instrument, + Giving to carol, now to tempest birth! + When, clear as holiness, the morning ray + Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet, + Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray; + When, at the hour of sovereign noon, + Infinite silent cataracts sheet + Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June; + When now a yellower glory slanting passes + 'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses; + And now the moon lifts up her shining shield, + High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; + Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, + Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, + Her still face seeming more to think than see, + Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee! + No mood, eternal or ephemeral, + But wakes obedient at thy silent call! + + Of operative single power, + And simple unity the one emblem, + Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour, + In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, + Are the melodious descant of divided thee. + Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee + In the blue air and sea! + In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, + Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit. + Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west! + Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast! + Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away, + Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray! + Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw + Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow! + The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers + Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; + The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be, + Are dead till touched by thee. + + Everywhere, + Thou art lancing through the air! + Every atom from another + Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; + Continually, + Thou art wetting the wet sea, + Bathing its sluggish woods below, + Making the salt flowers bud and blow; + Silently, + Workest thou, and ardently, + Waking from the night of nought + Into being and to thought; + + Influences + Every beam of thine dispenses, + Potent, subtle, reaching far, + Shooting different from each star. + Not an iron rod can lie + In circle of thy beamy eye, + But its look doth change it so + That it cannot choose but show + Thou, the worker, hast been there; + Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, + Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark + Even in what men call the dark. + Ever doing, ever showing, + Thou dost set our hearts a glowing-- + Universal something sent + To shadow forth the Excellent! + + When the firstborn affections-- + Those winged seekers of the world within, + That search about in all directions, + Some bright thing for themselves to win-- + Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs, + Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs, + Long, long, have followed faces fair, + Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air, + And darkness is around them and above, + Desolate of aught to love, + And through the gloom on every side, + Strange dismal forms are dim descried, + And the air is as the breath + From the lips of void-eyed Death, + And the knees are bowed in prayer + To the Stronger than despair-- + Then the ever-lifted cry, + _Give us light, or we shall die_, + Cometh to the Father's ears, + And he hearkens, and he hears:-- + + As some slow sun would glimmer forth + From sunless winter of the north, + We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes, + Discern and doubt the opening skies. + From a misty gray that lies on + Our dim future's far horizon, + It grows a fresh aurora, sent + Up the spirit's firmament, + Telling, through the vapours dun, + Of the coming, coming sun! + Tis Truth awaking in the soul! + His Righteousness to make us whole! + And what shall we, this Truth receiving, + Though with but a faint believing, + Call it but eternal Light? + 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night! + + All things most excellent + Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! + Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent, + Came like a lamp, to bring, + Across the winds and wastes of night, + The everlasting light. + Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought! + Hail, Light of God, the making-visible! + Hail, far-transcending glory brought + In human form with man to dwell-- + Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less + To show, irradiate, and bless; + The gathering of the primal rays divine + Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine! + + Dull horrid pools no motion making! + No bubble on the surface breaking! + The dead air lies, without a sound, + Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground. + + Rushing winds and snow-like drift, + Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift! + Hair-like vapours madly riven! + Waters smitten into dust! + Lightning through the turmoil driven, + Aimless, useless, yet it must! + + Gentle winds through forests calling! + Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing! + Solemn waves on sea-shores falling! + White sails on blue waters dancing! + Mountain streams glad music giving! + Children in the clear pool laving! + Yellow corn and green grass waving! + Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living! + Light, O radiant, it is thou! + Light!--we know our Father now! + + Forming ever without form; + Showing, but thyself unseen; + Pouring stillness on the storm; + Breathing life where death had been! + If thy light thou didst draw in, + Death and Chaos soon were out, + Weltering o'er the slimy sea, + Riding on the whirlwind's rout, + In wild unmaking energy! + God, be round us and within, + Fighting darkness, slaying sin. + + Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable, + On whom no changing shadow ever fell! + Thy light we know not, are content to see; + Thee we know not, and are content to be!-- + Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we! + But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, + Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast? + Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee! + The very shadows on our souls that lie, + Good witness to the light supernal bear; + The something 'twixt us and the sky + Could cast no shadow if light were not there! + If children tremble in the night, + It is because their God is light! + The shining of the common day + Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow-- + Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies: + Thy living light's eternal play, + Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?-- + Behind the life itself, its fountains rise! + In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place; + And we _have_ seen thee in the Saviour's face. + + Enlighten me, O Light!--why art thou such? + Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet? + Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch? + Why in thee do the known and unknown meet? + Why swift and tender, strong and delicate? + Simple as truth, yet manifold in might? + Why does one love thee, and another hate? + Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech + When I a goodly matter would indite? + Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach? + --In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech, + For God is light. + + + + + +_TO A. J. SCOTT_. + + + When, long ago, the daring of my youth + Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing, + Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth + + Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, + Made homely by the tenderness and grace + Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling + + A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face + From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, + Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case. + + I see thee far before me on thy way + Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still; + Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway, + + Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; + Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate, + Searching all truths its prophecy to fill; + + But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great, + High Love is queen, and sits without a mate. + + +_May_, 1857. + + + + +_I WOULD I WERE A CHILD_. + + + I would I were a child, + That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! + And follow thee with running feet, or rather + Be led through dark and wild! + + How I would hold thy hand, + My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting! + Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting, + My heart would but expand. + + If an ill thing came near, + I would but creep within thy mantle's folding, + Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, + And soon forget my fear. + + O soul, O soul, rejoice! + Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning; + A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning + With saviour eyes and voice. + + Who spake the words? Didst Thou? + They are too good, even for such a giver: + Such water drinking once, I should feel ever + As I had drunk but now. + + Yet sure the Word said so, + Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father! + Telling the tale of him who once did gather + His goods to him, and go! + + Ah, thou dost lead me, God! + But it is dark and starless, the way dreary; + Almost I sleep, I am so very weary + Upon this rough hill-road. + + _Almost_! Nay, I _do_ sleep; + There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; + Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming; + Thy hand my hand doth keep. + + With sighs my soul doth teem; + I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping; + Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping; + Wake me from this my dream. + + How long shall heavy night + Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow + Say in my heart that never any morrow + Will bring the friendly light? + + Lord, art thou in the room? + Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain! + A child's heart would say _Father_, were it certain + That it would not presume. + + But if this dreary sleep + May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper + To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper-- + For evil dreams too deep. + + _Father_! I dare at length; + My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming: + Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming + Thy tenderness, my strength. + + + + + +_A PRAYER FOR THE PAST_. + + + _All sights and sounds of day and year, + All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, + Are thine, O God, nor will I fear + To talk to thee of them_. + + Too great thy heart is to despise, + Whose day girds centuries about; + From things which we name small, thine eyes + See great things looking out. + + Therefore the prayerful song I sing + May come to thee in ordered words: + Though lowly born, it needs not cling + In terror to its chords. + + I think that nothing made is lost; + That not a moon has ever shone, + That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed + But to my soul is gone. + + That all the lost years garnered lie + In this thy casket, my dim soul; + And thou wilt, once, the key apply, + And show the shining whole. + + _But were they dead in me, they live + In thee, whose Parable is--Time, + And Worlds, and Forms--all things that give + Me thoughts, and this my rime_. + + _And after what men call my death, + When I have crossed the unknown sea, + Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath, + Shall rise this prayer to thee_. + + Oh let me be a child once more, + And dream fine glories in the gloom, + Of sun and moon and stars in store + To ceil my humble room. + + Oh call again the moons that crossed + Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept; + Show me the solemn skies I lost + Because in thee I slept. + + Once more let gathering glory swell, + And lift the world's dim eastern eye; + Once more let lengthening shadows tell + Its time is come to die. + + But show me first--oh, blessed sight! + The lowly house where I was young; + There winter sent wild winds at night, + And up the snow-heaps flung; + + Or soundless brought a chaos fair, + Full, formless, of fantastic forms, + White ghostly trees in sparkling air-- + Chamber for slumbering storms. + + There sudden dawned a dewy morn; + A man was turning up the mould; + And in our hearts the spring was born, + Crept thither through the cold. + + _And Spring, in after years of youth, + Became the form of every form + For hearts now bursting into truth, + Now sighing in the storm_. + + On with the glad year let me go, + With troops of daisies round my feet; + Flying my kite, or, in the glow + Of arching summer heat, + + Outstretched in fear upon a bank, + Lest, gazing up on awful space, + I should fall down into the blank, + From off the round world's face. + + And let my brothers come with me + To play our old games yet again, + Children on earth, more full of glee + That we in heaven are men. + + If then should come the shadowy death, + Take one of us and go, + We left would say, under our breath, + "It is a dream, you know!" + + "And in the dream our brother's gone + Upstairs: he heard our father call; + For one by one we go alone, + Till he has gathered all." + + _Father, in joy our knees we bow: + This earth is not a place of tombs: + We are but in the nursery now; + They in the upper rooms_. + + For are we not at home in thee, + And all this world a visioned show; + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know? + + _And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, + As once of old, in moonlight pale, + I at my father's sat, and heard + Him read a lofty tale_. + + On with my history let me go, + And reap again the gliding years, + Gather great noontide's joyous glow, + Eve's love-contented tears; + + One afternoon sit pondering + In that old chair, in that old room, + Where passing pigeon's sudden wing + Flashed lightning through the gloom; + + There try once more, with effort vain, + To mould in one perplexed things; + There find the solace yet again + Hope in the Father brings; + + Or mount and ride in sun and wind, + Through desert moors, hills bleak and high, + Where wandering vapours fall, and find + In me another sky! + + _For so thy Visible grew mine, + Though half its power I could not know; + And in me wrought a work divine, + Which thou hadst ordered so_; + + Giving me cups that would not spill, + But water carry and yield again; + New bottles with new wine to fill + For comfort of thy men. + + But if thou thus restore the past + One hour, for me to wander in, + I now bethink me at the last-- + O Lord, leave out the sin. + + _And with the thought comes doubt, my God: + Shall I the whole desire to see, + And walk once more, of that hill-road + By which I went to thee_? + + + + +A PRAYER FOR THE PAST. + + + _Now far from my old northern land, + I live where gentle winters pass; + Where green seas lave a wealthy strand, + And unsown is the grass_; + + Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope + Of gazing heaven to spread their show, + Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope, + With fringes flaming low; + + With one beside me in whose eyes + Once more old Nature finds a home; + There treasures up her changeful skies, + Her phosphorescent foam. + + O'er a new joy this day we bend, + Soft power from heaven our souls to lift; + A wondering wonder thou dost lend + With loan outpassing gift-- + + A little child. She sees the sun-- + Once more incarnates thy old law: + One born of two, two born in one, + Shall into one three draw. + + But is there no day creeping on + Which I should tremble to renew? + I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone-- + Thine is the future too! + + _And are we not at home in Thee, + And all this world a visioned show, + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know_? + + + + +_LONGING_. + + + My heart is full of inarticulate pain, + And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks + Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, + Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, + No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear; + 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear. + + Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth, + Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come; + Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; + Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; + Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies + Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes. + + O all wide places, far from feverous towns; + Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild; + Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs; + Vast pallid clouds; blue spaces undefiled-- + Room! give me room! give loneliness and air-- + Free things and plenteous in your regions fair! + + White dove of David, flying overhead, + Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, + Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled + To find a home afar from men of things; + Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, + God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply. + + O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces, + O God of freedom and of joyous hearts, + When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, + There will be room enough in crowded marts! + Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er, + Thy universe my closet with shut door. + + Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all + Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. + God in thee, can his children's folly gall? + Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-- + Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; + Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm! + + + + +_I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS_. + + + I know what beauty is, for thou + Hast set the world within my heart; + Of me thou madest it a part; + I never loved it more than now. + + I know the Sabbath afternoons; + The light asleep upon the graves: + Against the sky the poplar waves; + The river murmurs organ tunes. + + I know the spring with bud and bell; + The hush in summer woods at night; + Autumn, when trees let in more light; + Fantastic winter's lovely spell. + + I know the rapture music gives, + Its mystery of ordered tones: + Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans, + And, half-alive, comes in and lives. + + And verse I know, whose concord high + Of thought and music lifts the soul + Where many a glimmering starry shoal + Glides through the Godhead's living sky. + + Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know-- + The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes; + The God-imprisoned harmonies + That out in gracious motions go. + + But I leave all, O Son of man, + Put off my shoes, and come to thee! + Most lovely thou of all I see, + Most potent thou of all that can! + + As child forsakes his favourite toy, + His sisters' sport, his new-found nest, + And, climbing to his mother's breast, + Enjoys yet more his late-left joy-- + + I lose to find. On fair-browed bride + Fair pearls their fairest light afford; + So, gathered round thy glory, Lord, + All glory else is glorified. + + + + + +_SYMPATHY_. + + + Grief held me silent in my seat; + I neither moved nor smiled: + Joy held her silent at my feet, + My shining lily-child. + + She raised her face and looked in mine; + She deemed herself denied; + The door was shut, there was no shine; + Poor she was left outside! + + Once, twice, three times, with infant grace + Her lips my name did mould; + Her face was pulling at my face-- + She was but ten months old. + + I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs; + It made me think--Does God + Need help from his poor children's eyes + To ease him of his load? + + Ah, if he did, how seldom then + The Father would be glad! + If comfort lay in the eyes of men, + He little comfort had! + + We cry to him in evil case, + When comfort sore we lack; + And when we troubled seek his face, + Consoled he sends us back; + + Nor waits for prayer to rise and climb-- + He wakes the sleeping prayer; + He is our father all the time, + And servant everywhere. + + I looked not up; foreboding hid + Kept down my heart the while; + 'Twas he looked up; my Father did + Smile in my infant's smile. + + + + + +_THE THANK-OFFERING_. + + My Lily snatches not my gift; + Glad is she to be fed, + But to her mouth she will not lift + The piece of broken bread, + Till on my lips, unerring, swift, + The morsel she has laid. + + This is her grace before her food, + This her libation poured; + Even thus his offering, Aaron good + Heaved up to thank the Lord, + When for the people all he stood, + And with a cake adored. + + So, Father, every gift of thine + I offer at thy knee; + Else take I not the love divine + With which it comes to me; + Not else the offered grace is mine + Of sharing life with thee. + + Yea, all my being I would bring, + Yielding it utterly, + Not yet a full-possessed thing + Till heaved again to thee: + Away, my self! away, and cling + To him that makes thee be! + + + + + +_PRAYER_. + + We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, + And ye shall have your prayer; + We turn our thoughts as to a task, + With will constrained and rare. + + And yet we have; these scanty prayers + Yield gold without alloy: + O God, but he that trusts and dares + Must have a boundless joy! + + + + + +_REST_. + +I. + + When round the earth the Father's hands + Have gently drawn the dark; + Sent off the sun to fresher lands, + And curtained in the lark; + 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, + To fade with fading light, + And lie once more, the old weary way, + Upfolded in the night. + + If mothers o'er our slumbers bend, + And unripe kisses reap, + In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, + Till even in dreams we sleep. + And if we wake while night is dumb, + 'Tis sweet to turn and say, + It is an hour ere dawning come, + And I will sleep till day. + + +II. + + There is a dearer, warmer bed, + Where one all day may lie, + Earth's bosom pillowing the head, + And let the world go by. + There come no watching mother's eyes, + The stars instead look down; + Upon it breaks, and silent dies, + The murmur of the town. + + The great world, shouting, forward fares: + This chamber, hid from none, + Hides safe from all, for no one cares + For him whose work is done. + Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how + A certain unknown place, + Or here or there, is waiting now, + To rest thee from thy race. + + +III. + + Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, + The still composed breath! + Not there the folding of the arms, + The cool, the blessed death! + _That_ needs no curtained bed to hide + The world with all its wars, + No grassy cover to divide + From sun and moon and stars. + + It is a rest that deeper grows + In midst of pain and strife; + A mighty, conscious, willed repose, + The death of deepest life. + To have and hold the precious prize + No need of jealous bars; + But windows open to the skies, + And skill to read the stars! + + +IV. + + Who dwelleth in that secret place, + Where tumult enters not, + Is never cold with terror base, + Never with anger hot. + For if an evil host should dare + His very heart invest, + God is his deeper heart, and there + He enters in to rest. + + When mighty sea-winds madly blow, + And tear the scattered waves, + Peaceful as summer woods, below + Lie darkling ocean caves: + The wind of words may toss my heart, + But what is that to me! + Tis but a surface storm--thou art + My deep, still, resting sea. + + + + + +_O DO NOT LEAVE ME_. + + O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; + Till I forget, be near me in that chair. + The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- + Leaves her contented there. + + O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, + Till I am dead, and resting in my place. + Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends, + And leaves a raptured face. + + Leave me not, God, until--nay, until when? + Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; + Not till the Life is Light in me, and then + Leaving is left behind. + + + + + +_BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH_. + + A quiet heart, submissive, meek, + Father, do thou bestow, + Which more than granted, will not seek + To have, or give, or know. + + Each little hill then holds its gift + Forth to my joying eyes; + Each mighty mountain then doth lift + My spirit to the skies. + + Lo, then the running water sounds + With gladsome, secret things! + The silent water more abounds, + And more the hidden springs. + + Live murmurs then the trees will blend + With all the feathered song; + The waving grass low tribute lend + Earth's music to prolong. + + The sun will cast great crowns of light + On waves that anthems roar; + The dusky billows break at night + In flashes on the shore. + + Each harebell, each white lily's cup, + The hum of hidden bee, + Yea, every odour floating up, + The insect revelry-- + + Each hue, each harmony divine + The holy world about, + Its soul will send forth into mine, + My soul to widen out. + + And thus the great earth I shall hold, + A perfect gift of thine; + Richer by these, a thousandfold, + Than if broad lands were mine. + + + + + +_HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL_. + + Father, in the dark I lay, + Thirsting for the light, + Helpless, but for hope alway + In thy father-might. + + Out of darkness came the morn, + Out of death came life, + I, and faith, and hope, new-born, + Out of moaning strife! + + So, one morning yet more fair, + I shall, joyous-brave, + Sudden breathing loftier air, + Triumph o'er the grave. + + Though this feeble body lie + Underneath the ground, + Wide awake, not sleeping, I + Shall in him be found. + + But a morn yet fairer must + Quell this inner gloom-- + Resurrection from the dust + Of a deeper tomb! + + Father, wake thy little child; + Give me bread and wine + Till my spirit undefiled + Rise and live in thine. + + + + +_WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN_. + + Shepherd, on before thy sheep, + Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! + Scarce the track I stumbling keep! + Through my thin fleece blows the wind! + + Turn and see me, Son of Man! + Turn and lift thy Father's child; + Scarce I walk where once I ran: + Carry me--the wind is wild! + + Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share; + My poor weight thou wilt not feel; + Weakness made thee strong to bear, + Suffering made thee strong to heal! + + I were still a wandering sheep + But for thee, O Shepherd-man! + Following now, I faint, I weep, + Yet I follow as I can! + + Shepherd, if I fall and lie + Moaning in the frosty wind, + Yet, I know, I shall not die-- + Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find! + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862_, + + THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE. + + The skies are pale, the trees are stiff, + The earth is dull and old; + The frost is glittering as if + The very sun were cold. + And hunger fell is joined with frost, + To make men thin and wan: + Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost; + Be born, O child of man. + + The children cry, the women shake, + The strong men stare about; + They sleep when they should be awake, + They wake ere night is out. + For they have lost their heritage-- + No sweat is on their brow: + Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; + Be born, and save us now. + + Across the sea, beyond our sight, + Roars on the fierce debate; + The men go down in bloody fight, + The women weep and hate; + And in the right be which that may, + Surely the strife is long! + Come, son of man, thy righteous way, + And right will have no wrong. + + Good men speak lies against thine own-- + Tongue quick, and hearing slow; + They will not let thee walk alone, + And think to serve thee so: + If they the children's freedom saw + In thee, the children's king, + They would be still with holy awe, + Or only speak to sing. + + Some neither lie nor starve nor fight, + Nor yet the poor deny; + But in their hearts all is not right,-- + They often sit and sigh. + We need thee every day and hour, + In sunshine and in snow: + Child-king, we pray with all our power-- + Be born, and save us so. + + We are but men and women, Lord; + Thou art a gracious child! + O fill our hearts, and heap our board, + Pray thee--the winter's wild! + The sky is sad, the trees are bare, + Hunger and hate about: + Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare + Will soon be driven out. + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL_. + + Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap, + The sun shone in his hair; + And this was how she saw, mayhap, + The crown already there. + + For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king; + Bad Herod dares not come; + Before thee sleeping, holy thing, + The wild winds would be dumb." + + "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet, + My child, so long desired; + Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet; + Thy feet will never be tired." + + "For thou art the king of men, my son; + Thy crown I see it plain! + And men shall worship thee, every one, + And cry, Glory! Amen!" + + Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide-- + At Mary looked her lord. + Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed; + Babe Jesus said never a word. + + + + + +_THE SLEEPLESS JESUS_. + + 'Tis time to sleep, my little boy: + Why gaze thy bright eyes so? + At night our children, for new joy + Home to thy father go, + But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; + The moon and stars are gone; + The wind is up and raving wild, + But thou art smiling on! + + My child, thou hast immortal eyes + That see by their own light; + They see the children's blood--it lies + Red-glowing through the night! + Thou hast an ever-open ear + For sob or cry or moan: + Thou seemest not to see or hear, + Thou only smilest on! + + When first thou camest to the earth, + All sounds of strife were still; + A silence lay about thy birth, + And thou didst sleep thy fill: + Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not? + Thy earth is woe-begone; + Both babes and mothers wail their lot, + But still thou smilest on! + + I read thy face like holy book; + No hurt is pictured there; + Deep in thine eyes I see the look + Of one who answers prayer. + Beyond pale grief and wild uproars, + Thou seest God's will well done; + Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors, + Thou hear'st--and smilest on. + + Men say: "I will arise and go;" + God says: "I will go meet:" + Thou seest them gather, weeping low, + About the Father's feet; + And each for each begin to bear, + And standing lonely none: + Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer! + Smile, Son of God, smile on. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1873_. + + Christmas-Days are still in store:-- + Will they change--steal faded hither? + Or come fresh as heretofore, + Summering all our winter weather? + + Surely they will keep their bloom + All the countless pacing ages: + In the country whence they come + Children only are the sages! + + Hither, every hour and year, + Children come to cure our oldness-- + Oft, alas, to gather sear + Unbelief, and earthy boldness! + + Men they grow and women cold, + Selfish, passionate, and plaining! + Ever faster they grow old:-- + On the world, ah, eld is gaining! + + Child, whose childhood ne'er departs! + Jesus, with the perfect father! + Drive the age from parents' hearts; + To thy heart the children gather. + + Send thy birth into our souls, + With its grand and tender story. + Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!-- + News to men! to God old glory! + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1884_. + + Though in my heart no Christmas glee, + Though my song-bird be dumb, + Jesus, it is enough for me + That thou art come. + + What though the loved be scattered far, + Few at the board appear, + In thee, O Lord, they gathered are, + And thou art here. + + And if our hearts be low with lack, + They are not therefore numb; + Not always will thy day come back-- + Thyself will come! + + + + +_AN OLD STORY_. + +I. + + In the ancient house of ages, + See, they cannot rest! + With a hope, which awe assuages, + Tremble all the blest. + For the son and heir eternal, + To be son yet more, + Leaves his stately chair supernal + For the earth's low floor; + + Leaves the room so high and old, + Leaves the all-world hearth, + Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold, + Of the twilight earth-- + To be throned in newer glory + In a mother's lap, + Gather up our broken story, + And right every hap. + + +II. + + There Earth's foster-baby lies, + Sleep-dimmed all his graces, + 'Neath four stars of parents' eyes, + And two heavens of faces! + See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring, + Feel the skirts of good + Fold them in dull-blessed sharing + Of infinitude. + + Make a little room betwixt you, + Pray you, Ass and Cow! + Sure we shall, if I kneel next you, + Know each other now! + To the pit-fallen comes salvation-- + Love is never loath! + Here we are, thy whole creation, + Waiting, Lord, thy growth! + + +III. + + On the slopes of Bethlehem, + Round their resting sheep, + Shepherds sat, and went and came, + Guarding holy sleep; + But the silent, high dome-spaces, + Airy galleries, + Thronged they were with watching faces, + Thronged with open eyes. + + Far across the desert floor, + Come, slow-drawing nigher, + Sages deep in starry lore, + Priests of burning Fire. + In the sky they read his story, + And, through starlight cool, + They come riding to the Glory, + To the Wonderful. + + +IV. + + Babe and mother, coming Mage, + Shepherd, ass, and cow! + Angels watching the new age, + Time's intensest Now! + Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining, + Far ends closing in! + Sure the eternal tide is gaining + On the strand of sin! + + See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master + Signs with lifted hand; + Winds divine blow fast and faster, + Swelling bosoms grand. + Hark the torrent-joy let slip! + Hark the great throats ring! + Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship! + And a Child for king! + + + + + +_A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS_. + + Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging + Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death! + Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing! + Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith! + + Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining-- + Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!" + Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining, + Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer! + + Toll for the burying, sexton tolling! + Sing for the second birth, angel Lark! + Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling! + Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark! + + +II. + + Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow; + I will give freedom to mine in song! + Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow; + I will go watch in the dawning long! + + For I shall see them, and know their faces-- + Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more; + Clasp the old self in the new embraces; + Gaze through their eyes' wide open door. + + Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness; + I am ashamed--but you pardon wrong! + Smile the old smile, and my soul's new gladness + Straight will arise in sorrow and song! + + + + + +_TO MY AGING FRIENDS_. + + It is no winter night comes down + Upon our hearts, dear friends of old; + But a May evening, softly brown, + Whose wind is rather cold. + + We are not, like yon sad-eyed West, + Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard, + We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest, + But gazing on her lord. + + Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends, + Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair; + Ours is a love that never ends, + For God is dearest there! + + We will not talk about the past, + We will not ponder ancient pain; + Those are but deep foundations cast + For peaks of soaring gain! + + We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones + At our poor smouldering earthly fire; + And talk of wide-eyed living ones + Who have what we desire. + + O Living, ye know what is death-- + We, by and by, shall know it too! + Humble, with bated, hoping breath, + We are coming fast to you! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN_. + + Well for youth to seek the strong, + Beautiful, and brave! + We, the old, who walk along + Gently to the grave, + Only pay our court to thee, + Child of all Eternity! + + We are old who once were young, + And we grow more old; + Songs we are that have been sung, + Tales that have been told; + Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee, + Childhood of Eternity! + + If we come too sudden near, + Lo, Earth's infant cries, + For our faces wan and drear + Have such withered eyes! + Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away + From the wrinkled ones who pray! + + Smile upon us with thy mouth + And thine eyes of grace; + On our cold north breathe thy south. + Thaw the frozen face: + Childhood all from thee doth flow-- + Melt to song our age's snow. + + Gray-haired children come in crowds, + Thee, their Hope, to greet: + Is it swaddling clothes or shrouds + Hampering so our feet? + Eldest child, the shadows gloom: + Take the aged children home. + + We have had enough of play, + And the wood grows drear; + Many who at break of day + Companied us here-- + They have vanished out of sight, + Gone and met the coming light! + + Fair is this out-world of thine, + But its nights are cold; + And the sun that makes it fine + Makes us soon so old! + Long its shadows grow and dim-- + Father, take us back with him! + + +1891. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS MEDITATION_. + + He who by a mother's love + Made the wandering world his own, + Every year comes from above, + Comes the parted to atone, + Binding Earth to the Father's throne. + + Nay, thou comest every day! + No, thou never didst depart! + Never hour hast been away! + Always with us, Lord, thou art, + Binding, binding heart to heart! + + + + + +_THE OLD CASTLE_. + + The brother knew well the castle old, + Every closet, each outlook fair, + Every turret and bartizan bold, + Every chamber, garnished or bare. + The brother was out in the heavenly air; + Little ones lost the starry way, + Wandered down the dungeon stair. + The brother missed them, and on the clay + Of the dungeon-floor he found them all. + Up they jumped when they heard him call! + He led the little ones into the day-- + Out and up to the sunshine gay, + Up to the father's own door-sill-- + In at the father's own room door, + There to be merry and work and play, + There to come and go at their will, + Good boys and girls to be lost no more! + + + + + +CHRISTMAS PRAYER. + + Cold my heart, and poor, and low, + Like thy stable in the rock; + Do not let it orphan go, + It is of thy parent stock! + Come thou in, and it will grow + High and wide, a fane divine; + Like the ruby it will glow, + Like the diamond shine! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE INNOCENTS_. + + Merry, merry we well may be, + For Jesus Christ is come down to see: + Long before, at the top of the stair, + He set our angels a waiting there, + Waiting hither and thither to fly, + Tending the children of the sky, + Lest they dash little feet against big stones, + And tumble down and break little bones; + For the path is rough, and we must not roam; + We have learned to walk, and must follow him home! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY_. + + Star high, + Baby low: + 'Twixt the two + Wise men go; + Find the baby, + Grasp the star-- + Heirs of all things + Near and far! + + + + + +THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN. + + The infant lies in blessed ease + Upon his mother's breast; + No storm, no dark, the baby sees + Invade his heaven of rest. + He nothing knows of change or death-- + Her face his holy skies; + The air he breathes, his mother's breath; + His stars, his mother's eyes! + + Yet half the soft winds wandering there + Are sighs that come of fears; + The dew slow falling through that air-- + It is the dew of tears; + And ah, my child, thy heavenly home + Hath storms as well as dew; + Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome, + And quench the starry blue! + + "My smile would win no smile again, + If baby saw the things + That ache across his mother's brain + The while to him she sings! + Thy faith in me is faith in vain-- + I am not what I seem: + O dreary day, O cruel pain, + That wakes thee from thy dream!" + + Nay, pity not his dreams so fair, + Fear thou no waking grief; + Oh, safer he than though thou were + Good as his vague belief! + There is a heaven that heaven above + Whereon he gazes now; + A truer love than in thy kiss; + A better friend than thou! + + The Father's arms fold like a nest + Both thee and him about; + His face looks down, a heaven of rest, + Where comes no dark, no doubt. + Its mists are clouds of stars that move + On, on, with progress rife; + Its winds, the goings of his love; + Its dew, the dew of life. + + We for our children seek thy heart, + For them we lift our eyes: + Lord, should their faith in us depart, + Let faith in thee arise. + When childhood's visions them forsake, + To women grown and men, + Back to thy heart their hearts oh take, + And bid them dream again. + + + + + +_REJOICE_. + + "Rejoice," said the Sun; "I will make thee gay + With glory and gladness and holiday; + I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice in thyself," said he, "O Sun, + For thy daily course is a lordly one; + In thy lofty place rejoice if thou can: + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Wind; "I am free and strong, + And will wake in thy heart an ancient song; + Hear the roaring woods, my organ noise!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice, O Wind, in thy strength," said he, + "For thou fulfillest thy destiny; + Shake the forest, the faint flowers fan; + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Night, "with moon and star, + For the Sun and the Wind are gone afar; + I am here with rest and dreaming choice!" + But man would not rejoice; + + For he said--"What is rest to me, I pray, + Whose labour leads to no gladsome day? + He only can dream who has hope behind: + Alas for me and my kind!" + + Then a voice that came not from moon or star, + From the sun, or the wind that roved afar, + Said, "Man, I am with thee--hear my voice!" + And man said, "I rejoice." + + + + + +_THE GRACE OF GRACE_. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of some old man in lore complete, + My face would worship at his face, + And I sit lowly at his feet. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of childhood, loving shy, apart, + The child should find a nearer place, + And teach me resting on my heart. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of maiden living all above, + My soul would trample down the base, + That she might have a man to love. + + A grace I had no grace to win + Knocks now at my half open door: + Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in!-- + Thy grace divine is all, and more. + + + + +_ANTIPHON_. + + Daylight fades away. + Is the Lord at hand + In the shadows gray + Stealing on the land? + + Gently from the east + Come the shadows gray; + But our lowly priest + Nearer is than they. + + It is darkness quite. + Is the Lord at hand, + In the cloak of night + Stolen upon the land? + + But I see no night, + For my Lord is here + With him dark is light, + With him far is near. + + List! the cock's awake. + Is the Lord at hand? + Cometh he to make + Light in all the land? + + Long ago he made + Morning in my heart; + Long ago he bade + Shadowy things depart. + + Lo, the dawning hill! + Is the Lord at hand, + Come to scatter ill, + Ruling in the land? + + He hath scattered ill, + Ruling in my mind; + Growing to his will, + Freedom comes, I find. + + We will watch all day, + Lest the Lord should come; + All night waking stay + In the darkness dumb. + + I will work all day, + For the Lord hath come; + Down my head will lay + All night, glad and dumb. + + For we know not when + Christ may be at hand; + But we know that then + Joy is in the land. + + For I know that where + Christ hath come again, + Quietness without care + Dwelleth in his men. + + + + + +_DORCAS_. + + If I might guess, then guess I would + That, mid the gathered folk, + This gentle Dorcas one day stood, + And heard when Jesus spoke. + + She saw the woven seamless coat-- + Half envious, for his sake: + "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought + The honoured thing to make!" + + Her eyes with longing tears grow dim: + She never can come nigh + To work one service poor for him + For whom she glad would die! + + But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word! + And she has heard indeed! + "When did we see thee naked, Lord, + And clothed thee in thy need?" + + "The King shall answer, Inasmuch + As to my brethren ye + Did it--even to the least of such-- + Ye did it unto me." + + Home, home she went, and plied the loom, + And Jesus' poor arrayed. + She died--they wept about the room, + And showed the coats she made. + + + + + +_MARRIAGE SONG_. + + "They have no more wine!" she said. + But they had enough of bread; + And the vessels by the door + Held for thirst a plenteous store: + Yes, _enough_; but Love divine + Turned the water into wine! + + When should wine like water flow, + But when home two glad hearts go! + When, in sacred bondage bound, + Soul in soul hath freedom found! + Such the time when, holy sign, + Jesus turned the water wine. + + Good is all the feasting then; + Good the merry words of men; + Good the laughter and the smiles; + Good the wine that grief beguiles;-- + Crowning good, the Word divine + Turning water into wine! + + Friends, the Master with you dwell! + Daily work this miracle! + When fair things too common grow, + Bring again their heavenly show! + Ever at your table dine, + Turning water into wine! + + So at last you shall descry + All the patterns of the sky: + Earth a heaven of short abode; + Houses temples unto God; + Water-pots, to vision fine, + Brimming full of heavenly wine. + + + + + +_BLIND BARTIMEUS_. + + As Jesus went into Jericho town, + Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, + About blind Bartimeus. + He said, "My eyes are more than dim, + They are no use for seeing him: + No matter--he can see us!" + + "Cry out, cry out, blind brother--cry; + Let not salvation dear go by.-- + Have mercy, Son of David." + Though they were blind, they both could hear-- + They heard, and cried, and he drew near; + And so the blind were saved. + + O Jesus Christ, I am very blind; + Nothing comes through into my mind; + 'Tis well I am not dumb: + Although I see thee not, nor hear, + I cry because thou may'st be near: + O son of Mary, come! + + I hear it through the all things blind: + Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind-- + "Poor eyes, no more be dim"? + A hand is laid upon mine eyes; + I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;-- + 'Tis He! I follow him! + + + + + +_COME UNTO ME_. + + Come unto me, the Master says:-- + But how? I am not good; + No thankful song my heart will raise, + Nor even wish it could. + + I am not sorry for the past, + Nor able not to sin; + The weary strife would ever last + If once I should begin! + + Hast thou no burden then to bear? + No action to repent? + Is all around so very fair? + Is thy heart quite content? + + Hast thou no sickness in thy soul? + No labour to endure? + Then go in peace, for thou art whole; + Thou needest not his cure. + + Ah, mock me not! I often sigh; + I have a nameless grief, + A faint sad pain--but such that I + Can look for no relief. + + Come, come to him who made thy heart; + Come weary and oppressed; + To come to Jesus is thy part, + His part to give thee rest. + + New grief, new hope he will bestow, + Thy grief and pain to quell; + Into thy heart himself will go, + And that will make thee well. + + + + + +_MORNING HYMN_. + + O Lord of life, thy quickening voice + Awakes my morning song! + In gladsome words I would rejoice + That I to thee belong. + + I see thy light, I feel thy wind; + The world, it is thy word; + Whatever wakes my heart and mind, + Thy presence is, my Lord. + + The living soul which I call me + Doth love, and long to know; + It is a thought of living thee, + Nor forth of thee can go. + + Therefore I choose my highest part, + And turn my face to thee; + Therefore I stir my inmost heart + To worship fervently. + + Lord, let me live and will this day-- + Keep rising from the dead; + Lord, make my spirit good and gay-- + Give me my daily bread. + + Within my heart, speak, Lord, speak on, + My heart alive to keep, + Till comes the night, and, labour done, + In thee I fall asleep. + + + + + +_NOONTIDE HYMN_. + + I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, + Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, + Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-- + Thy will, I love it more. + + I love thy hidden truth to seek + All round, in sea, on shore; + The arts whereby like gods we speak-- + Thy will to me is more. + + I love thy men and women, Lord, + The children round thy door; + Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-- + Thy will than these is more. + + But when thy will my life doth hold + Thine to the very core, + The world, which that same will doth mould, + I love, then, ten times more! + + + + + +_EVENING HYMN_. + + O God, whose daylight leadeth down + Into the sunless way, + Who with restoring sleep dost crown + The labour of the day! + + What I have done, Lord, make it clean + With thy forgiveness dear; + That so to-day what might have been, + To-morrow may appear. + + And when my thought is all astray, + Yet think thou on in me; + That with the new-born innocent day + My soul rise fresh and free. + + Nor let me wander all in vain + Through dreams that mock and flee; + But even in visions of the brain, + Go wandering toward thee. + + + + + +_THE HOLY MIDNIGHT_. + + Ah, holy midnight of the soul, + When stars alone are high; + When winds are resting at their goal, + And sea-waves only sigh! + + Ambition faints from out the will; + Asleep sad longing lies; + All hope of good, all fear of ill, + All need of action dies; + + Because God is, and claims the life + He kindled in thy brain; + And thou in him, rapt far from strife, + Diest and liv'st again. + + + + + +_RONDEL_. + + I follow, tottering, in the funeral train + That bears my body to the welcoming grave. + As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave, + But smile as those that lay aside the vain; + + To me it is a thing of poor disdain, + A clod I would not give a sigh to save! + I follow, careless, in the funeral train, + My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave. + + I follow to the grave with growing pain-- + Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave! + And turn in gladness from the yawning cave-- + Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain: + They also follow, in their funeral train, + Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave! + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + When I look back upon my life nigh spent, + Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, + I more of follies than of sins repent, + Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan. + With self, O Father, leave me not alone-- + Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; + Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: + A fool I bring thee to be made a child. + + + + + +_HOME FROM THE WARS_. + + A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, + With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, + Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: + I only faced the foe, and did not flee. + + + + + +_GOD; NOT GIFT_. + + Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; + My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; + Ghastly and dry, my desert shore + Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show. + + 'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; + Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; + Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, + Yea, life itself to wait for thee! + + Lord, here I am, empty enough! + My music but a soundless moan! + Blind hope, of all my household stuff, + Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone! + + Shall hope too go, that I may trust + Purely in thee, and spite of all? + Then turn my very heart to dust-- + On thee, on thee, I yet will call. + + List! list! his wind among the pines + Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's! + O Father, these are but thy signs!-- + For thee I hunger, not for these! + + Not joy itself, though pure and high-- + No gift will do instead of thee! + Let but my spirit know thee nigh, + And all the world may sleep for me! + + + + + +_TO ANY FRIEND_. + + If I did seem to you no more + Than to myself I seem, + Not thus you would fling wide the door, + And on the beggar beam! + + You would not don your radiant best, + Or dole me more than half! + Poor palmer I, no angel guest; + A shaking reed my staff! + + At home, no rich fruit, hanging low, + Have I for Love to pull; + Only unripe things that must grow + Till Autumn's maund be full! + + But I forsake my niggard leas, + My orchard, too late hoar, + And wander over lands and seas + To find the Father's door. + + When I have reached the ancestral farm, + Have clomb the steepy hill, + And round me rests the Father's arm, + Then think me what you will. + + + + + + +VIOLIN SONGS. + + + +_HOPE DEFERRED_. + + Summer is come again. The sun is bright, + And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy + Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light + My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ + Shall be to revel in unlikely things, + In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings, + And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk + Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea; + Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk, + Has grown a paradise for you and me. + + But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth + Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there-- + That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare, + How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!-- + The sweetness is but one pined memory flown + Back from our summer, wandering alone! + See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart, + Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow, + Takes in the changing world its changing part, + Return a sigh, an echo sad and low, + To the faint, scarcely audible sound + With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground! + O love, sad winter lieth at the door-- + Behind sad winter, age--we know no more. + + Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold + Each of us compassed: we are growing old; + And if we be not as a ring enchanted, + Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay, + The young, who claim the joy that haunted + Our visions once, will push us far away + Into the desolate regions, dim and gray, + Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry, + The clouds hang low, and have no tears, + Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years, + And hopes and songs all careless pass us by. + But if all each do keep, + The rising tide of youth will sweep + Around us with its laughter-joyous waves, + As ocean fair some palmy island laves, + To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep; + And our youth hover round us like the breath + Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death. + + Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves, + The sundered doors into one palace home, + Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go, + Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low, + Willing to part, not willing to deny + The lovely past, where all the futures lie. + + Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord, + Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word, + Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth-- + Because there is no age, in sooth, + Beyond its passing shows! + A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows; + Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light + That knows not youth nor age, + That fears no darkness nor the rage + Of windy tempests--burning still more bright + Than when glad youth was all about, + And summer winds were out! + + +1845. + + + + +_DEATH_. + + When in the bosom of the eldest night + This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest; + When through its shaded windows comes no light, + And its pale hands are folded on its breast-- + + How shall I fare, who had to wander out, + And of the unknown land the frontier cross, + Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about, + Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss? + + Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist, + Over the city murmuring beneath; + Over the trees and fields, where'er I list, + Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath? + + Or will a darkness, o'er material shows + Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight; + As from the sun a blotting radiance flows + Athwart the stars all glorious through the night; + + And the still spirit hang entranced, alone, + Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- + Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown, + With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam, + + Thought only waking--thought that may not own + The lapse of ages, or the change of spot; + Its doubt all cast on what it counted known, + Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not? + + Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until, + Our life restored by long and dreamless rest, + Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill, + And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest? + + I nothing know, and nothing need to know. + God is; I shall be ever in his sight! + Give thou me strength to labour well, and so + Do my day's work ere fall my coming night. + + + + + +_HARD TIMES_. + + I am weary, and very lonely, + And can but think--think. + If there were some water only + That a spirit might drink--drink, + And arise, + With light in the eyes + And a crown of hope on the brow, + To walk abroad in the strength of gladness, + Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness-- + As now! + + But, Lord, thy child will be sad-- + As sad as it pleases thee; + Will sit, not seeking to be glad, + Till thou bid sadness flee, + And, drawing near, + With thy good cheer + Awake thy life in me. + + + + + +_IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN_. + + If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, + Pacing it wearily, wearily, + Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- + Wearily, wearily-- + How would it fare with these hearts of ours + That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers? + + To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, + Morning foul or fair!-- + Such prayer as from weary lips might fall-- + Words, but hardly prayer-- + The chapel's roof, like the law in stone, + Caging the lark that up had flown! + + Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, + The God-revealing, + Turning thy face from the boundless boon-- + Painfully kneeling; + Or, in brown-shadowy solitude, + Bending thy head o'er the legend rude! + + I, in a bare and lonely nook, + Gloomily, gloomily, + Poring over some musty book, + Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; + Or painting pictures of things of old + On parchment-margin in purple and gold! + + Perchance in slow procession to meet, + Wearily, wearily, + In antique, narrow, high-gabled street, + Wearily, wearily; + Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then + Heavily sinking to earth again! + + Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring! + Merrily, merrily!-- + Back to its cell each weary thing, + Wearily, wearily! + Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old, + Most at home in the cloister cold! + + Thou slow rising at vespers' call, + Wearily, wearily; + I looking up on the darkening wall, + Wearily, wearily; + The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, + Listless and dead to thee and me! + + At length for sleep a weary assay, + On the lone couch wearily! + Rising at midnight again to pray, + Wearily, wearily! + And if through the dark dear eyes looked in, + Sending them far as a thought of sin! + + And at last, thy tired soul passing away, + Dreamily, dreamily-- + Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay, + Sleepily, sleepily-- + Over thee held the crucified Best, + But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed! + + And then my passing from cell to clay, + Dreamily, dreamily! + My gray head lying on ashes gray, + Sleepily, sleepily! + But no woman-angel hovering above, + Ready to clasp me in deathless love! + + Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine, + Peacefully, peacefully; + My arm round thee, and my lips on thine, + Lovingly, lovingly-- + Oh! is not a better thing to us given + Than wearily going alone to heaven? + + + + + +_MY HEART_. + + I. + + Night, with her power to silence day, + Filled up my lonely room, + Quenching all sounds but one that lay + Beyond her passing doom, + Where in his shed a workman gay + Went on despite the gloom. + + I listened, and I knew the sound, + And the trade that he was plying; + For backwards, forwards, bound on bound, + A shuttle was flying, flying-- + Weaving ever--till, all unwound, + The weft go out a sighing. + + + II. + + As hidden in thy chamber lowest + As in the sky the lark, + Thou, mystic thing, on working goest + Without the poorest spark, + And yet light's garment round me throwest, + Who else, as thou, were dark. + + With body ever clothing me, + Thou mak'st me child of light; + I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea, + The sky's rejoicing height, + A woven glory, globed by thee, + Unknowing of thy might! + + And when thy darkling labours fail, + And thy shuttle moveless lies, + My world will drop, like untied veil + From before a lady's eyes; + Or, all night read, a finished tale + That in the morning dies. + + + III. + + Yet not in vain dost thou unroll + The stars, the world, the seas-- + A mighty, wonder-painted scroll + Of Patmos mysteries, + Thou mediator 'twixt my soul + And higher things than these! + + Thy holy ephod bound on me, + I pass into a seer; + For still in things thou mak'st me see, + The unseen grows more clear; + Still their indwelling Deity + Speaks plainer in mine ear. + + Divinely taught the craftsman is + Who waketh wonderings; + Whose web, the nursing chrysalis + Round Psyche's folded wings, + To them transfers the loveliness + Of its inwoven things. + + Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- + For a greater heart beats on, + Whose better texture follows fleet + On thy last thread outrun, + With a seamless-woven garment, meet + To clothe a death-born son. + + + + + +_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_. + + + Of old, with goodwill from the skies-- + God's message to them given-- + The angels came, a glad surprise, + And went again to heaven. + + But now the angels are grown rare, + Needed no more as then; + Far lowlier messengers can bear + God's goodwill unto men. + + Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn + Breaks from the earth below; + Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn, + The noontide roses glow. + + The snowdrops first--the dawning gray; + Then out the roses burn! + They speak their word, grow dim--away + To holy dust return. + + Of oracles were little dearth, + Should heaven continue dumb; + From lowliest corners of the earth + God's messages will come. + + In thy face his we see, O Lord, + And are no longer blind; + Need not so much his rarer word, + In flowers even read his mind. + + + + + +_TO MY SISTER_, + + ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. + + + I. + + Old fables are not all a lie + That tell of wondrous birth, + Of Titan children, father Sky, + And mighty mother Earth. + + Yea, now are walking on the ground + Sons of the mingled brood; + Yea, now upon the earth are found + Such daughters of the Good. + + Earth-born, my sister, thou art still + A daughter of the sky; + Oh, climb for ever up the hill + Of thy divinity! + + To thee thy mother Earth is sweet, + Her face to thee is fair; + But thou, a goddess incomplete, + Must climb the starry stair. + + + II. + + Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, + Wouldst see the Father's face? + To all his other children bend, + And take the lowest place. + + Be like a cottage on a moor, + A covert from the wind, + With burning fire and open door, + And welcome free and kind. + + Thus humbly doing on the earth + The things the earthly scorn, + Thou shalt declare the lofty birth + Of all the lowly born. + + + III. + + Be then thy sacred womanhood + A sign upon thee set, + A second baptism--understood-- + For what thou must be yet. + + For, cause and end of all thy strife, + And unrest as thou art, + Still stings thee to a higher life + The Father at thy heart. + + + + + +_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_! + + + Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies + Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; + But spring is floating up the southern skies, + And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. + + Let me persuade: in dull December's day + We scarce believe there is a month of June; + But up the stairs of April and of May + The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon. + + Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest. + O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou. + He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-- + And in his heart thy prayer is resting now. + + + + + +_WILD FLOWERS_. + + + Content Primroses, + With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care, + Peeping as from his mother's lap the child + Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!-- + Hanging Harebell, + Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes, + Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!-- + Fluttering-wild + Anemone, so well + Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free, + Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully, + With _Take me or leave me, + Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!-- + Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming + Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!-- + Fire-winged Pimpernel, + Communing with some hidden well, + And secrets with the sun-god holding, + At fixed hour folding and unfolding!-- + How is it with you, children all, + When human children on you fall, + Gather you in eager haste, + Spoil your plenty with their waste-- + Fill and fill their dropping hands? + Feel you hurtfully disgraced + By their injurious demands? + Do you know them from afar, + Shuddering at their merry hum, + Growing faint as near they come? + Blind and deaf they think you are-- + Is it only ye are dumb? + You alive at least, I think, + Trembling almost on the brink + Of our lonely consciousness: + If it be so, + Take this comfort for your woe, + For the breaking of your rest, + For the tearing in your breast, + For the blotting of the sun, + For the death too soon begun, + For all else beyond redress-- + Or what seemeth so to be-- + That the children's wonder-springs + Bubble high at sight of you, + Lovely, lowly, common things: + In you more than you they see! + Take this too--that, walking out, + Looking fearlessly about, + Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt, + And our childhood's faith renew; + So that we, with old age nigh, + Seeing you alive and well + Out of winter's crucible, + Hearing you, from graveyard crept, + Tell us that ye only slept-- + Think we die not, though we die. + + Thus ye die not, though ye die-- + Only yield your being up, + Like a nectar-holding cup: + Deaf, ye give to them that hear, + With a greatness lovely-dear; + Blind, ye give to them that see-- + Poor, but bounteous royally. + Lowly servants to the higher, + Burning upwards in the fire + Of Nature's endless sacrifice, + In great Life's ascent ye rise, + Leave the lowly earth behind, + Pass into the human mind, + Pass with it up into God, + Whence ye came though through the clod-- + Pass, and find yourselves at home + Where but life can go and come; + Where all life is in its nest, + At loving one with holy Best;-- + Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense + Of a past, age-long somnolence! + + + + + +_SPRING SONG_. + + + Days of old, + Ye are not dead, though gone from me; + Ye are not cold, + But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea. + + The sun brings back the swallows fast + O'er the sea; + When he cometh at the last, + The days of old come back to me. + + + + + +_SUMMER SONG_. + + + "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan, + Many a tune in a single tone, + For every ear with a secret true-- + The sea-shell wants to whisper to you." + + "Yes--I hear it--far and faint, + Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint; + Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain; + Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain." + + "By smiling lip and fixed eye, + You are hearing a song within the sigh: + The murmurer has many a lovely phrase-- + Tell me, darling, the words it says." + + "I hear a wind on a boatless main + Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain; + On the dreaming waters dreams the moon-- + But I hear no words in the doubtful tune." + + "If it tell thee not that I love thee well, + 'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell: + If it be not of love, why sigh or sing? + 'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!" + + "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice + Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice; + It says not a word of your love to me, + But it tells me I love you eternally." + + + + +_AUTUMN SONG_. + + + Autumn clouds are flying, flying + O'er the waste of blue; + Summer flowers are dying, dying, + Late so lovely new. + Labouring wains are slowly rolling + Home with winter grain; + Holy bells are slowly tolling + Over buried men. + + Goldener light sets noon a sleeping + Like an afternoon; + Colder airs come stealing, creeping + From the misty moon; + And the leaves, of old age dying, + Earthy hues put on; + Out on every lone wind sighing + That their day is gone. + + Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking + Down to winter low; + And our hearts are thinking, thinking + Of the sleet and snow; + For our sun is slowly sliding + Down the hill of might; + And no moon is softly gliding + Up the slope of night. + + See the bare fields' pillaged prizes + Heaped in golden glooms! + See, the earth's outworn sunrises + Dream in cloudy tombs! + Darkling flowers but wait the blowing + Of a quickening wind; + And the man, through Death's door going, + Leaves old Death behind. + + Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; + Let the gold turn gray; + Feet, though feeble, still may falter + Toward the better day! + Brother, let not weak faith linger + O'er a withered thing; + Mark how Autumn's prophet finger + Burns to hues of Spring. + + + + + +_WINTER SONG_. + + + They were parted then at last? + Was it duty, or force, or fate? + Or did a worldly blast + Blow-to the meeting-gate? + + An old, short story is this! + A glance, a trembling, a sigh, + A gaze in the eyes, a kiss-- + Why will it not go by! + + + + + +PICTURE SONGS. + + + I. + + A pale green sky is gleaming; + The steely stars are few; + The moorland pond is steaming + A mist of gray and blue. + + Along the pathway lonely + My horse is walking slow; + Three living creatures only, + He, I, and a home-bound crow! + + The moon is hardly shaping + Her circle in the fog; + A dumb stream is escaping + Its prison in the bog. + + But in my heart are ringing + Tones of a lofty song; + A voice that I know, is singing, + And my heart all night must long. + + + II. + + Over a shining land-- + Once such a land I knew-- + Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned, + The sky is all white and blue. + + The waves are kissing the shores, + Murmuring love and for ever; + A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars + Flash out of the level river. + + Oh to be there with thee + And the sun, on wet sands, my love! + With the shining river, the sparkling sea, + And the radiant sky above! + + + III. + + The autumn winds are sighing + Over land and sea; + The autumn woods are dying + Over hill and lea; + And my heart is sighing, dying, + Maiden, for thee. + + The autumn clouds are flying + Homeless over me; + The nestless birds are crying + In the naked tree; + And my heart is flying, crying, + Maiden, to thee. + + The autumn sea is crawling + Up the chilly shore; + The thin-voiced firs are calling + Ghostily evermore: + Maiden, maiden! I am falling + Dead at thy door. + + + IV. + + The waters are rising and flowing + Over the weedy stone-- + Over it, over it going: + It is never gone. + + Waves upon waves of weeping + Went over the ancient pain; + Glad waves go over it leaping-- + Still it rises again! + + + + + +_A DREAM SONG_. + + + I dreamed of a song--I heard it sung; + In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung. + What were its words I could not tell, + Only the voice I heard right well, + For its tones unearthly my spirit bound + In a calm delirium of mystic sound-- + Held me floating, alone and high, + Placeless and silent, drinking my fill + Of dews that from cloudless skies distil + On desert places that thirst and sigh. + 'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep, + Rousing old echoes that all day sleep + In cavern and solitude, each apart, + Here and there in the waiting heart;-- + A voice with a wild melodious cry + Reaching and longing afar and high. + Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife, + Gainful death, and new-born life, + Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song. + In my heart it said: O Lord, how long + Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray, + Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day! + + +1842. + + + + +_AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET_. + + + Heaven and the sea attend the dying day, + And in their sadness overflow and blend-- + Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray: + Far out amid them my pale soul I send. + + For, as they mingle, so mix life and death; + An hour draws near when my day too will die; + Already I forecast unheaving breath, + Eviction on the moorland of yon sky. + + Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone, + Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space! + At board and hearth from this time forth unknown! + Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face! + + Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea! + Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky! + Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee! + I am not dead; I live, and cannot die! + + Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before? + Did you fare thus when first ye came this way? + Somewhere there must be yet another door!-- + A door in somewhere from this dreary gray! + + Come walking over watery hill and glen, + Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext; + Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten, + And bring me patient hoping for the next. + + Maker of heaven and earth, father of me, + My words are but a weak, fantastic moan! + Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea, + Thou still wert with me; I were not alone! + + I am in thee, O father, lord of sky, + And lord of waves, and lord of human souls! + In thee all precious ones to me more nigh + Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals! + + I shall not be alone although I die, + And loved ones should delay their coming long; + Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky, + Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song. + + They are thy garments; thou art near within, + Father of fathers, friend-creating friend! + Thou art for ever, therefore I begin; + Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end! + + Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child; + I pray thee, father, give me everything; + Give me the joy that makes the children wild; + Give throat and heart an old new song to sing. + + Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ, + And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere! + With all the true I keep a hoping tryst; + Eternal love is my eternal prayer. + + +1890. + + + +_A FATHER TO A MOTHER_. + + + When God's own child came down to earth, + High heaven was very glad; + The angels sang for holy mirth; + Not God himself was sad! + + Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret? + Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow! + The little one will not forget; + It's only till to-morrow! + + + + + +_THE TEMPLE OF GOD_. + + + In the desert by the bush, + Moses to his heart said _Hush_. + + David on his bed did pray; + God all night went not away. + + From his heap of ashes foul + Job to God did lift his soul, + + God came down to see him there, + And to answer all his prayer. + + On a dark hill, in the wind, + Jesus did his father find, + + But while he on earth did fare, + Every spot was place of prayer; + + And where man is any day, + God can not be far away. + + But the place he loveth best, + Place where he himself can rest, + + Where alone he prayer doth seek, + Is the spirit of the meek. + + To the humble God doth come; + In his heart he makes his home. + + + + + +_GOING TO SLEEP_. + + + Little one, you must not fret + That I take your clothes away; + Better sleep you so will get, + And at morning wake more gay-- + Saith the children's mother. + + You I must unclothe again, + For you need a better dress; + Too much worn are body and brain; + You need everlastingness-- + Saith the heavenly father. + + I went down death's lonely stair; + Laid my garments in the tomb; + Dressed again one morning fair; + Hastened up, and hied me home-- + Saith the elder brother. + + Then I will not be afraid + Any ill can come to me; + When 'tis time to go to bed, + I will rise and go with thee-- + Saith the little brother. + + + + + +_TO-MORROW_. + + + My TO-MORROW is but a flitting + Fancy of the brain; + God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting, + Ready for joy or pain. + + My TO-MORROW has no soul, + Dead as yesterdays; + God's--a brimming silver bowl + Of life that gleams and plays. + + My TO-MORROW, I mock you away! + Shadowless nothing, thou! + God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day, + For God is in thee now. + + + + + +_FOOLISH CHILDREN_. + + + Waking in the night to pray, + Sleeping when the answer comes, + Foolish are we even at play-- + Tearfully we beat our drums! + Cast the good dry bread away, + Weep, and gather up the crumbs! + + "Evermore," while shines the day, + "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!" + Soon as evening groweth gray, + Thy fair will we fain would shun! + "Take, oh, take thy hand away! + See the horrid dark begun!" + + "Thou hast conquered Death," we say, + "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!" + Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay! + Death it is," we cry, "not sleep! + Grave, take all. Shut out the Day. + Sit we on the ground and weep!" + + Gathering potsherds all the day, + Truant children, Lord, we roam; + Fret, and longer want to play, + When at cool thy voice doth come!-- + Elder Brother, lead the way; + Make us good as we go home. + + + +_LOVE IS HOME_. + + + Love is the part, and love is the whole; + Love is the robe, and love is the pall; + Ruler of heart and brain and soul, + Love is the lord and the slave of all! + I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me; + I thank thee more that I love thee. + + Love is the rain, and love is the air, + Love is the earth that holdeth fast; + Love is the root that is buried there, + Love is the open flower at last! + I thank thee, Love all round about, + That the eyes of my love are looking out. + + Love is the sun, and love is the sea; + Love is the tide that comes and goes; + Flowing and flowing it comes to me; + Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows! + Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide! + My sea, and my shore, and all beside! + + Light, oh light that art by showing; + Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion; + Thought, oh thought that art by knowing; + Will, that art born in self-devotion! + Love is you, though not all of you know it; + Ye are not love, yet ye always show it! + + Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father, + Home of our heart-infolded brother, + Home to thee all thy glories gather-- + All are thy love, and there is no other! + O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam-- + Home unto thee, we are coming home! + + + + +_FAITH_. + + + "Earth, if aught should check thy race, + Rushing through unfended space, + Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall + Into yonder glowing ball!" + + "Beggar of the universe, + Faithless as an empty purse! + Sent abroad to cool and tame, + Think'st I fear my native flame?" + + "If thou never on thy track + Turn thee round and hie thee back, + Thou wilt wander evermore, + Outcast, cold--a comet hoar!" + + "While I sweep my ring along + In an air of joyous song, + Thou art drifting, heart awry, + From the sun of liberty!" + + + + + +_WAITING_. + + + I waited for the Master + In the darkness dumb; + Light came fast and faster-- + My light did not come! + + I waited all the daylight, + All through noon's hot flame: + In the evening's gray light, + Lo, the Master came! + + + + + +_OUR SHIP_. + + + Had I a great ship coming home, + With big plunge o'er the sea, + What bright things, hid from star and foam, + Lay in her heart for thee! + + The stormy billows heave and dip, + The wild winds veer and play; + But, regnant all, God's stately ship + Is steering home this way! + + + + + +_MY HEART THY LARK_. + + + Why dost thou want to sing + When thou hast no song, my heart? + If there be in thee a hidden spring, + Wherefore will no word start? + + On its way thou hearest no song, + Yet flutters thy unborn joy! + The years of thy life are growing long-- + Art still the heart of a boy?-- + + Father, I am thy child! + My heart is in thy hand! + Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild, + Of a song in thy high land. + + It will answer--but how, my God, + Thou knowest; I cannot say: + It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod-- + Thy lark to meet thy day! + + + + + +_TWO IN ONE_. + + + Were thou and I the white pinions + On some eager, heaven-born dove, + Swift would we mount to the old dominions, + To our rest of old, my love! + + Were thou and I trembling strands + In music's enchanted line, + We would wait and wait for magic hands + To untwist the magic twine. + + Were we two sky-tints, thou and I, + Thou the golden, I the red; + We would quiver and glow and darken and die, + And love until we were dead! + + Nearer than wings of one dove, + Than tones or colours in chord, + We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love, + Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord. + + + + + +_BEDTIME_. + + + "Come, children, put away your toys; + Roll up that kite's long line; + The day is done for girls and boys-- + Look, it is almost nine! + Come, weary foot, and sleepy head, + Get up, and come along to bed." + + The children, loath, must yet obey; + Up the long stair they creep; + Lie down, and something sing or say + Until they fall asleep, + To steal through caverns of the night + Into the morning's golden light. + + We, elder ones, sit up more late, + And tasks unfinished ply, + But, gently busy, watch and wait-- + Dear sister, you and I, + To hear the Father, with soft tread, + Coming to carry us to bed. + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + + Thou who mad'st the mighty clock + Of the great world go; + Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock, + Ceaseless to and fro; + Thou whose will doth push and draw + Every orb in heaven, + Help me move by higher law + In my spirit graven. + + Like a planet let me swing-- + With intention strong; + In my orbit rushing sing + Jubilant along; + Help me answer in my course + To my seasons due; + Lord of every stayless force, + Make my Willing true. + + + + + +_A SONG PRAYER_. + + + Lord Jesus, + Oh, ease us + Of Self that oppresses, + Annoys and distresses + Body and brain + With dull pain! + Thou never, + Since ever, + Save one moment only, + Wast left, or wast lonely: + We are alone, + And make moan. + + Far parted, + Dull-hearted, + We wander, sleep-walking, + Mere shadows, dim-stalking: + Orphans we roam, + Far from home. + + Oh new man, + Sole human, + God's son, and our brother, + Give each to the other-- + No one left out + In cold doubt! + + High Father, + Oh gather + Thy sons and thy daughters, + Through fires and through waters, + Home to the nest + Of thy breast! + + There under + The wonder + Of great wings of healing, + Of love and revealing, + Teach us anew + To sing true. + + + + + + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS. + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS_. + + + I. + + A glory on the chamber wall! + A glory in the brain! + Triumphant floods of glory fall + On heath, and wold, and plain. + + Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss; + She has, and seeks no more; + Forgets that days come after this, + Forgets the days before. + + Each ripple waves a flickering fire + Of gladness, as it runs; + They laugh and flash, and leap and spire, + And toss ten thousand suns. + + But hark! low, in the world within, + One sad aeolian tone: + "Ah! shall we ever, ever win + A summer of our own?" + + + II. + + A morn of winds and swaying trees-- + Earth's jubilance rushing out! + The birds are fighting with the breeze; + The waters heave about. + + White clouds are swept across the sky, + Their shadows o'er the graves; + Purpling the green, they float and fly + Athwart the sunny waves. + + The long grass--an earth-rooted sea-- + Mimics the watery strife. + To boat or horse? Wild motion we + Shall find harmonious life. + + But whither? Roll and sweep and bend + Suffice for Nature's part; + But motion to an endless end + Is needful for our heart. + + + III. + + The morn awakes like brooding dove, + With outspread wings of gray; + Her feathery clouds close in above, + And roof a sober day. + + No motion in the deeps of air! + No trembling in the leaves! + A still contentment everywhere, + That neither laughs nor grieves! + + A film of sheeted silver gray + Shuts in the ocean's hue; + White-winged feluccas cleave their way + In paths of gorgeous blue. + + Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day, + Thy very clouds are dreams! + Yon child is dreaming far away-- + He is not where he seems. + + IV. + + The lark is up, his faith is strong, + He mounts the morning air; + Lone voice of all the creature throng, + He sings the morning prayer. + + Slow clouds from north and south appear, + Black-based, with shining slope; + In sullen forms their might they rear, + And climb the vaulted cope. + + A lightning flash, a thunder boom!-- + Nor sun nor clouds are there; + A single, all-pervading gloom + Hangs in the heavy air. + + A weeping, wasting afternoon + Weighs down the aspiring corn; + Amber and red, the sunset soon + Leads back to golden morn. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The dreary wind of night is out, + Homeless and wandering slow; + O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt, + It breathes, but will not blow. + + It sighs from out the helpless past, + Where doleful things abide; + Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast + Across its ebbing tide. + + O'er marshy pools it faints and flows, + All deaf and dumb and blind; + O'er moor and mountain aimless goes-- + The listless woesome wind! + + Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night! + The sigh is all in me; + Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might, + Until I wake and see. + + + II. + + The west is broken into bars + Of orange, gold, and gray; + Gone is the sun, fast come the stars, + And night infolds the day. + + My boat glides with the gliding stream, + Following adown its breast + One flowing mirrored amber gleam, + The death-smile of the west. + + The river moves; the sky is still, + No ceaseless quest it knows: + Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill + At sight of its repose. + + The ripples run; all patient sit + The stars above the night. + In shade and gleam the waters flit: + The heavens are changeless bright! + + + III. + + Alone I lie, buried amid + The long luxurious grass; + The bats flit round me, born and hid + In twilight's wavering mass. + + The fir-top floats, an airy isle, + High o'er the mossy ground; + Harmonious silence breathes the while + In scent instead of sound. + + The flaming rose glooms swarthy red; + The borage gleams more blue; + Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed + Glimmers the rich dusk through. + + Hid in the summer grass I lie, + Lost in the great blue cave; + My body gazes at the sky, + And measures out its grave. + + + IV. + + What art thou, gathering dusky cool, + In slow gradation fine? + Death's lovely shadow, flickering full + Of eyes about to shine. + + When weary Day goes down below, + Thou leanest o'er his grave, + Revolving all the vanished show + The gracious splendour gave. + + Or art thou not she rather--say-- + Dark-browed, with luminous eyes, + Of whom is born the mighty Day, + That fights and saves and dies? + + For action sleeps with sleeping light; + Calm thought awakes with thee: + The soul is then a summer night, + With stars that shine and see. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_. + + + I. + + We bore him through the golden land, + One early harvest morn; + The corn stood ripe on either hand-- + He knew all about the corn. + + How shall the harvest gathered be + Without him standing by? + Without him walking on the lea, + The sky is scarce a sky. + + The year's glad work is almost done; + The land is rich in fruit; + Yellow it floats in air and sun-- + Earth holds it by the root. + + Why should earth hold it for a day + When harvest-time is come? + Death is triumphant o'er decay, + And leads the ripened home. + + + II. + + And though the sun be not so warm, + His shining is not lost; + Both corn and hope, of heart and farm, + Lie hid from coming frost. + + The sombre woods are richly sad, + Their leaves are red and gold: + Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad + Signs that we men grow old? + + Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain + From fields and days gone by; + And mournful memories again + Are born, are loved, and die. + + The mornings clear, the evenings cool + Foretell no wintry wars; + The day of dying leaves is full, + The night of glowing stars. + + + III. + + 'Tis late before the sun will rise, + And early he will go; + Gray fringes hang from the gray skies, + And wet the ground below. + + Red fruit has followed golden corn; + The leaves are few and sere; + My thoughts are old as soon as born, + And chill with coming fear. + + The winds lie sick; no softest breath + Floats through the branches bare; + A silence as of coming death + Is growing in the air. + + But what must fade can bear to fade-- + Was born to meet the ill: + Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade! + We sorrow, and are still. + + + IV. + + There is no longer any heaven + To glorify our clouds; + The rising vapours downward driven + Come home in palls and shrouds. + + The sun himself is ill bested + A heavenly sign to show; + His radiance, dimmed to glowing red, + Can hardly further go. + + An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, + Pervade the moveless air; + The year is sinking to its tomb, + And death is everywhere. + + But while sad thoughts together creep, + Like bees too cold to sting, + God's children, in their beds asleep, + Are dreaming of the spring. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + O night, send up the harvest moon + To walk about the fields, + And make of midnight magic noon + On lonely tarns and wealds. + + In golden ranks, with golden crowns, + All in the yellow land, + Old solemn kings in rustling gowns, + The shocks moon-charmed stand. + + Sky-mirror she, afloat in space, + Beholds our coming morn: + Her heavenly joy hath such a grace, + It ripens earthly corn; + + Like some lone saint with upward eyes, + Lost in the deeps of prayer: + The people still their prayers and sighs, + And gazing ripen there. + + II. + + So, like the corn moon-ripened last, + Would I, weary and gray, + On golden memories ripen fast, + And ripening pass away. + + In an old night so let me die; + A slow wind out of doors; + A waning moon low in the sky; + A vapour on the moors; + + A fire just dying in the gloom; + Earth haunted all with dreams; + A sound of waters in the room; + A mirror's moony gleams; + + And near me, in the sinking night, + More thoughts than move in me-- + Forgiving wrong, and loving right, + And waiting till I see. + + + III. + + Across the stubble glooms the wind; + High sails the lated crow; + The west with pallid green is lined; + Fog tracks the river's flow. + + My heart is cold and sad; I moan, + Yet care not for my grief; + The summer fervours all are gone; + The roses are but leaf. + + Old age is coming, frosty, hoar; + The snows of time will fall; + My jubilance, dream-like, no more + Returns for any call! + + O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain + Sends up the blood so spare, + That my poor withering autumn brain + Sees autumn everywhere! + + + IV. + + Lord of my life! if I am blind, + I reck not--thou canst see; + I well may wait my summer mind, + When I am sure of thee! + + _I_ made no brave bright suns arise, + Veiled up no sweet gray eves; + _I_ hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes, + Sent out no windy leaves! + + I said not "I will cast a charm + These gracious forms around;" + My heart with unwilled love grew warm; + I took but what I found! + + When cold winds range my winter-night, + Be thou my summer-door; + Keep for me all my young delight, + Till I am old no more. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS_. + + + I. + + The sky has turned its heart away, + The earth its sorrow found; + The daisies turn from childhood's play, + And creep into the ground. + + The earth is black and cold and hard; + Thin films of dry white ice, + Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred, + The children's feet entice. + + Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned + The winter in the land; + With idle icicles adorned, + That mill-wheel soon will stand. + + But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part, + Is to let in the cold; + We'll make a summer of the heart, + And laugh at winter old. + + + II. + + With vague dead gleam the morning white + Comes through the window-panes; + The clouds have fallen all the night, + Without the noise of rains. + + As of departing, unseen ghost, + Footprints go from the door; + The man himself must long be lost + Who left those footprints hoar! + + Yet follow thou; tread down the snow; + Leave all the road behind; + Heed not the winds that steely blow, + Heed not the sky unkind; + + For though the glittering air grow dark, + The snow will shine till morn; + And long ere then one dear home-spark + Will winter laugh to scorn. + + III. + + Oh wildly wild the roaring blast + Torments the fallen snow! + The wintry storms are up at last, + And care not how they go! + + In foam-like wreaths the water hoar, + Rapt whistling in the air, + Gleams through the dismal twilight frore; + A region in despair, + + A spectral ocean lies outside, + Torn by a tempest dark; + Its ghostly billows, dim descried, + Leap on my stranded bark. + + Death-sheeted figures, long and white, + Rave driving through the spray; + Or, bosomed in the ghastly night, + Shriek doom-cries far away. + + + IV. + + A morning clear, with frosty light + From sunbeams late and low; + They shine upon the snow so white, + And shine back from the snow. + + Down tusks of ice one drop will go, + Nor fall: at sunny noon + 'Twill hang a diamond--fade, and grow + An opal for the moon. + + And when the bright sad sun is low + Behind the mountain-dome, + A twilight wind will come and blow + Around the children's home, + + And puff and waft the powdery snow, + As feet unseen did pass; + While, waiting in its bed below, + Green lies the summer grass. + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + Back shining from the pane, the fire + Seems outside in the snow: + So love set free from love's desire + Lights grief of long ago. + + The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine, + The earth bedecked with moon; + Out on the worlds we surely shine + More radiant than in June! + + In the white garden lies a heap + As brown as deep-dug mould: + A hundred partridges that keep + Each other from the cold. + + My father gives them sheaves of corn, + For shelter both and food: + High hope in me was early born, + My father was so good. + + + II. + + The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms + Across my clouded pane; + Weaves melodies of ancient psalms + All through my passive brain. + + Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head: + My father is in the room; + The very curtains of my bed + Are from Love's sheltering loom! + + The lovely vision melts away; + I am a child no more; + Work rises from the floor of play; + Duty is at the door. + + But if I face with courage stout + The labour and the din, + Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out + My heart with thee stay in. + + + III. + + Up to my ear my soul doth run-- + Her other door is dark; + There she can see without the sun, + And there she sits to mark. + + I hear the dull unheeding wind + Mumble o'er heath and wold; + My fancy leaves my brain behind, + And floats into the cold. + + Like a forgotten face that lies + One of the speechless crowd, + The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes, + White-folded in her shroud. + + O'er leafless woods and cornless farms, + Dead rivers, fireless thorps, + I brood, the heart still throbbing warm + In Nature's wintered corpse. + + IV. + + To all the world mine eyes are blind: + Their drop serene is--night, + With stores of snow piled up the wind + An awful airy height. + + And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye: + The simple faithful stars + Beyond are shining, careless high, + Nor heed our storms and jars. + + And when o'er storm and jar I climb-- + Beyond life's atmosphere, + I shall behold the lord of time + And space--of world and year. + + Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart + Shall ever find its goal! + I turn me home--and there thou art, + My Father, in my soul! + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_. + + + I. + + A gentle wind, of western birth + On some far summer sea, + Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, + Wakes hopes in wintry me. + + The sun is low; the paths are wet, + And dance with frolic hail; + The trees--their spring-time is not yet-- + Swing sighing in the gale. + + Young gleams of sunshine peep and play; + Clouds shoulder in between; + I scarce believe one coming day + The earth will all be green. + + The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, + And flaps his snowy wing: + Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; + Thou canst not bar our spring. + + + II. + + Up comes the primrose, wondering; + The snowdrop droopeth by; + The holy spirit of the spring + Is working silently. + + Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile + The later children out; + O'er woods and farms a sunny smile + Is flickering about. + + The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; + To death almost she slept: + Over her, heaven grew beautiful, + And forth her beauty crept. + + Showers yet must fall, and waters grow + Dark-wan with furrowing blast; + But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, + Till the year flowers at last. + + + III. + + The sky is smiling over me, + Hath smiled away the frost; + White daisies star the sky-like lea, + With buds the wood's embossed. + + Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky + Up through the latticed boughs; + Till comes the green cloud by and by, + It is not time to house. + + Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on; + The winter is forgot; + Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone: + Pain that is past, is not. + + Joy that was past is yet the same: + If care the summer brings, + 'Twill only be another name + For love that broods, not sings. + + + IV. + + Blow on me, wind, from west and south; + Sweet summer-spirit, blow! + Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth, + Who knows not what I know. + + The earth's perfection dawneth soon; + Ours lingereth alway; + We have a morning, not a noon; + Spring, but no summer gay. + + Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn + Crown soon the swift year's life: + In us a higher hope is born, + And claims a longer strife. + + Will heaven be an eternal spring + With summer at the door? + Or shall we one day tell its king + That we desire no more? + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The flush of green that dyed the day + Hath vanished in the moon; + Flower-scents float stronger out, and play + An unborn, coming tune. + + One southern eve like this, the dew + Had cooled and left the ground; + The moon hung half-way from the blue, + No disc, but conglobed round; + + Light-leaved acacias, by the door, + Bathed in the balmy air, + Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore, + And breathed a perfume rare; + + Great gold-flakes from the starry sky + Fell flashing on the deep: + One scent of moist earth floating by, + Almost it made me weep. + + + II. + + Those gorgeous stars were not my own, + They made me alien go! + The mother o'er her head had thrown + A veil I did not know! + + The moon-blanched fields that seaward went, + The palm-flung, dusky shades, + Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent, + No slender, spear-like blades. + + I longed to see the starry host + Afar in fainter blue; + But plenteous grass I missed the most, + With daisies glimmering through. + + The common things were not the same! + I longed across the foam: + From dew-damp earth that odour came-- + I knew the world my home. + + + III. + + The stars are glad in gulfy space-- + Friendly the dark to them! + From day's deep mine, their hiding-place, + Night wooeth every gem. + + A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar, + When up the day is furled, + Shines in the sky a light afar, + Mayhap a home-filled world. + + Sometimes upon the inner sky + We catch a doubtful shine: + A mote or star? A flash in the eye + Or jewel of God's mine? + + A star to us, all glimmer and glance, + May teem with seraphim: + A fancy to our ignorance + May be a truth to Him. + + + IV. + + The night is damp and warm and still, + And soft with summer dreams; + The buds are bursting at their will, + And shy the half moon gleams. + + My soul is cool, as bathed within + By dews that silent weep-- + Like child that has confessed his sin, + And now will go to sleep. + + My body ages, form and hue; + But when the spring winds blow, + My spirit stirs and buds anew, + Younger than long ago. + + Lord, make me more a child, and more, + Till Time his own end bring, + And out of every winter sore + I pass into thy spring. + + + + + +A BOOK OF DREAMS. + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + I lay and dreamed. The Master came, + In seamless garment drest; + I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame, + Not ready to be blest. + + He stretched his arms, and gently sought + To clasp me to his heart; + I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought + He knew me but in part. + + I did not love him as I would! + Embraces were not meet! + I dared not ev'n stand where he stood-- + I fell and kissed his feet. + + Years, years have passed away since then; + Oft hast thou come to me; + The question scarce will rise again + Whether I care for thee. + + In thee lies hid my unknown heart, + In thee my perfect mind; + In all my joys, my Lord, thou art + The deeper joy behind. + + But when fresh light and visions bold + My heart and hope expand, + Up comes the vanity of old + That now I understand: + + Away, away from thee I drift, + Forgetting, not forgot; + Till sudden yawns a downward rift-- + I start--and see thee not. + + Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours! + All in the dark I stray, + Until my spirit fainting cowers + On the threshold of the day. + + Hence not even yet I child-like dare + Nestle unto thy breast, + Though well I know that only there + Lies hid the secret rest. + + But now I shrink not from thy will, + Nor, guilty, judge my guilt; + Thy good shall meet and slay my ill-- + Do with me as thou wilt. + + If I should dream that dream once more, + Me in my dreaming meet; + Embrace me, Master, I implore, + And let me kiss thy feet. + + + II. + + I stood before my childhood's home, + Outside its belt of trees; + All round my glances flit and roam + O'er well-known hills and leas; + + When sudden rushed across the plain + A host of hurrying waves, + Loosed by some witchery of the brain + From far, dream-hidden caves. + + And up the hill they clomb and came, + A wild, fast-flowing sea: + Careless I looked as on a game; + No terror woke in me. + + For, just the belting trees within, + I saw my father wait; + And should the waves the summit win, + There was the open gate! + + With him beside, all doubt was dumb; + There let the waters foam! + No mightiest flood would dare to come + And drown his holy home! + + Two days passed by. With restless toss, + The red flood brake its doors; + Prostrate I lay, and looked across + To the eternal shores. + + The world was fair, and hope was high; + My friends had all been true; + Life burned in me, and Death and I + Would have a hard ado. + + Sudden came back the dream so good, + My trouble to abate: + At his own door my Father stood-- + I just without the gate! + + "Thou know'st what is, and what appears," + I said; "mine eyes to thine + Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears, + But also hear'st with mine:" + + "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay, + How trembles my life's node; + Thou art the potter, I am the clay-- + 'Tis thine to bear the load." + + + III. + + A piece of gold had left my purse, + Which I had guarded ill; + I feared a lack, but feared yet worse + Regret returning still. + + I lifted up my feeble prayer + To him who maketh strong, + That thence no haunting thoughts of care + Might do my spirit wrong. + + And even before my body slept, + Such visions fair I had, + That seldom soul with chamber swept + Was more serenely glad. + + No white-robed angel floated by + On slow, reposing wings; + I only saw, with inward eye, + Some very common things. + + First rose the scarlet pimpernel + With burning purple heart; + I saw within it, and could spell + The lesson of its art. + + Then came the primrose, child-like flower, + And looked me in the face; + It bore a message full of power, + And confidence, and grace. + + And breezes rose on pastures trim + And bathed me all about; + Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim, + Or only half spoke out. + + Sudden it closed, some door of heaven, + But what came out remained: + The poorest man my loss had given + For that which I had gained! + + Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup + Where I bemoaned a sip; + How easily thou didst make up + For that my fault let slip! + + What said the flowers? what message new + Embalmed my soul with rest? + I scarce can tell--only they grew + Right out of God's own breast. + + They said, to every flower he made + God's thought was root and stem-- + Perhaps said what the lilies said + When Jesus looked at them. + + + IV. + + Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake, + Our souls with visions teem + Which to the slumbering brain would take + The form of wondrous dream. + + Once, with my thought-sight, I descried + A plain with hills around; + A lordly company on each side + Leaves bare the middle ground. + + Great terrace-steps at one end rise + To something like a throne, + And thither all the radiant eyes, + As to a centre, shone. + + A snow-white glory, dim-defined, + Those seeking eyes beseech-- + Him who was not in fire or wind, + But in the gentle speech. + + They see his eyes far-fixed wait: + Adown the widening vale + They, turning, look; their breath they bate, + With dread-filled wonder pale. + + In raiment worn and blood-bedewed, + With faltering step and numb, + Toward the shining multitude + A weary man did come. + + His face was white, and still-composed, + As of a man nigh dead; + The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed, + A faint, wan splendour shed. + + Drops on his hair disordered hung + Like rubies dull of hue; + His hands were pitifully wrung, + And stricken through and through. + + Silent they stood with tender awe: + Between their ranks he came; + Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw + What made his feet so lame. + + He reached the steps below the throne, + There sank upon his knees; + Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan, + And spake in words like these:-- + + "Father, I am come back. Thy will + Is sometimes hard to do." + From all that multitude so still + A sound of weeping grew. + + Then mournful-glad came down the One; + He kneeled and clasped his child; + Lay on his breast the outworn man, + And wept until he smiled. + + The people, who, in bitter woe + And love, had sobbed and cried, + Raised aweful eyes at length--and, Lo, + The two sat side by side! + + + V. + + Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood + High in the gloomy air; + One bore a thief, and one the Good; + The other waited bare. + + A soldier came up to the place, + And took me for the third; + My eyes they sought the Master's face, + My will the Master's word. + + He bent his head; I took the sign, + And gave the error way; + Gesture nor look nor word of mine + The secret should betray. + + The soldier from the cross's foot + Turned. I stood waiting there: + That grim, expectant tree, for fruit + My dying form must bear. + + Up rose the steaming mists of doubt + And chilled both heart and brain; + They shut the world of vision out, + And fear saw only pain. + + "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow! + The nails that rend and pierce! + The shock may stun, but, slow and slow, + The torture will grow fierce." + + "Alas, the awful fight with death! + The hours to hang and die! + The thirsting gasp for common breath! + The weakness that would cry!" + + My soul returned: "A faintness soon + Will shroud thee in its fold; + The hours will bring the fearful noon; + 'Twill pass--and thou art cold." + + "'Tis his to care that thou endure, + To curb or loose the pain; + With bleeding hands hang on thy cure-- + It shall not be in vain." + + But, ah, the will, which thus could quail, + Might yield--oh, horror drear! + Then, more than love, the fear to fail + Kept down the other fear. + + I stood, nor moved. But inward strife + The bonds of slumber broke: + Oh! had I fled, and lost the life + Of which the Master spoke? + + VI. + + Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial + The last shades darken, friends say, "_He was good_;" + I struggling fail to speak my faint denial-- + They whisper, "_His humility withstood_." + + I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; + And find the unknown world not all unknown: + The bonds that held me from my centre broken, + I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne. + + How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder; + I think I know what I will say to him; + I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder, + I fear no passing vision great and dim. + + But he knows all my weary sinful story: + How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair? + I come to him in all his conquered glory, + Won from the life that I went dreaming there! + + I come; I fall before him, faintly saying: + "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win? + Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying; + I have no honour--but may I come in?" + + I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable; + To me the earth was very lovely too: + Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able + To love it greatly!--but thou hast got through." + + + +PART II. + + + + I. + + A gloomy and a windy day! + No sunny spot is bare; + Dull vapours, in uncomely play, + Go weltering through the air: + If through the windows of my mind + I let them come and go, + My thoughts will also in the wind + Sweep restless to and fro. + + I drop my curtains for a dream.-- + What comes? A mighty swan, + With plumage like a sunny gleam, + And folded airy van! + She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent + By sea-maids to my shore, + With stately head proud-humbly bent, + And slackening swarthy oar. + + Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, + A water-hollowed cell, + Where echoes of old storms go by, + Like murmurs in a shell. + The waters half the gloomy way + Beneath its arches come; + Throbbing to outside billowy play, + The green gulfs waver dumb. + + Undawning twilights through the cave + In moony glimmers go, + Half from the swan above the wave, + Half from the swan below, + + As to my feet she gently drifts + Through dim, wet-shiny things, + And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts + The shoulders of her wings. + + Old earth is rich with many a nest + Of softness ever new, + Deep, delicate, and full of rest-- + But loveliest there are two: + I may not tell them save to minds + That are as white as they; + But none will hear, of other kinds-- + They all are turned away. + + On foamy mounds between the wings + Of a white sailing swan, + A flaky bed of shelterings, + There you will find the one. + The other--well, it will not out, + Nor need I tell it you; + I've told you one, and can you doubt, + When there are only two? + + Fill full my dream, O splendid bird! + Me o'er the waters bear: + Never was tranquil ocean stirred + By ship so shapely fair! + Nor ever whiteness found a dress + In which on earth to go, + So true, profound, and rich, unless + It was the falling snow! + + Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, + Impatient fan her crown; + I cannot choose but nestle soft + Into the depth of down. + + With oary-pulsing webs unseen, + Out the white frigate sweeps; + In middle space we hang, between + The air- and ocean-deeps. + + Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, + With stroke on stroke we rack; + As down the sinking slope we slide, + She cleaves a talking track-- + Like heather-bells on lonely steep, + Like soft rain on the glass, + Like children murmuring in their sleep, + Like winds in reedy grass. + + Her white breast heaving like a wave, + She beats the solemn time; + With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, + Hearkens the ripples rime. + All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, + I catch the gleam, vague, wide, + With which the waves, from dark to dawn, + Heave up the polished side. + + The night is blue; the stars aglow + Crowd the still, vaulted steep, + Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow + Of the self-murmurous deep-- + A thicker night, with gathered moan! + A dull dethroned sky! + The shadows of its stars alone + Left in to know it by! + + What faints across yon lifted loop + Where the west gleams its last? + With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group + Of Nereids dreaming past. + + Row on, fair swan;--who knows but I, + Ere night hath sought her cave, + May see in splendour pale float by + The Venus of the wave! + + + II. + + A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, + A glory that deepened and grew, + A song of colour and odour + That thrilled her through and through: + 'Twas a dream of too much gladness + Ever to see the light; + They are only dreams of sadness + That weary out the night. + + Slow darkness began to rifle + The nest of the sunset fair; + Dank vapour began to stifle + The scents that enriched the air; + The flowers paled fast and faster, + They crumbled, leaf and crown, + Till they looked like the stained plaster + Of a cornice fallen down. + + And the change crept nigh and nigher, + Inward and closer stole, + Till the flameless, blasting fire + Entered and withered her soul.-- + But the fiends had only flouted + Her vision of the night; + Up came the morn and routed + The darksome things with light. + + Wide awake I have often been in it-- + The dream that all is none; + It will come in the gladdest minute + And wither the very sun. + + Two moments of sad commotion, + One more of doubt's palsied rule-- + And the great wave-pulsing ocean + Is only a gathered pool; + + A flower is a spot of painting, + A lifeless, loveless hue; + Though your heart be sick to fainting + It says not a word to you; + A bird knows nothing of gladness, + Is only a song-machine; + A man is a reasoning madness, + A woman a pictured queen! + + Then fiercely we dig the fountain: + Oh! whence do the waters rise? + Then panting we climb the mountain: + Oh! are there indeed blue skies? + We dig till the soul is weary, + Nor find the water-nest out; + We climb to the stone-crest dreary, + And still the sky is a doubt! + + Let alone the roots of the fountain; + Drink of the water bright; + Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, + Walk in its torrent of light; + Although thou seest no beauty, + Though widowed thy heart yet cries, + With thy hands go and do thy duty, + And thy work will clear thine eyes. + + + III. + + A great church in an empty square, + A haunt of echoing tones! + Feet pass not oft enough to wear + The grass between the stones. + + The jarring hinges of its gates + A stifled thunder boom; + The boding heart slow-listening waits, + As for a coming doom. + + The door stands wide. With hideous grin, + Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, + A gulf of death, all dark within, + Hath swallowed half the floor. + + Its uncouth sides of earth and clay + O'erhang the void below; + Ah, some one force my feet away, + Or down I needs must go! + + See, see the horrid, crumbling slope! + It breathes up damp and fust! + What man would for his lost loves grope + Amid the charnel dust! + + Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high! + Methinks, with anguish dull, + I enter by the empty eye + Into a monstrous skull! + + Stumbling on what I dare not guess, + Blind-wading through the gloom, + Still down, still on, I sink, I press, + To meet some awful doom. + + My searching hands have caught a door + With iron clenched and barred: + Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core, + Grim Death keeps watch and ward! + + Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed, + As if a ghastly wind, + That never bore a leaf or cloud, + Were pressing hard behind. + + They shake, they groan, they outward strain: + What thing of dire dismay + Will freeze its form upon my brain, + And fright my soul away? + + They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack; + The bars, the doors divide; + A flood of glory at their back + Hath burst the portals wide! + + In flows a summer afternoon; + I know the very breeze! + It used to blow the silvery moon + About the summer trees. + + The gulf is filled with flashing tides; + Blue sky through boughs looks in; + Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides + A mazy arras spin. + + The empty church, the yawning cleft, + The earthy, dead despair + Are gone, and I alive am left + In sunshine and in air! + + + IV. + + Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly + Through the ivory wicket creep; + Then suddenly the inward eye + Sees them outside the sleep. + + Once, wandering in the border gray, + I spied one past me swim; + I caught it on its truant way + To nowhere in the dim. + + All o'er a steep of grassy ground, + Lay ruined statues old, + Such forms as never more are found + Save deep in ancient mould, + + A host of marble Anakim + Shattered in deadly fight! + Oh, what a wealth one broken limb + Had been to waking sight! + + But sudden, the weak mind to mock + That could not keep its own, + Without a shiver or a shock, + Behold, the dream was gone! + + For each dim form of marble rare + Stood broken rush or reed; + So bends on autumn field, long bare, + Some tall rain-battered weed. + + The shapeless night hung empty, drear, + O'er my scarce slumbering head; + There is no good in staying here, + My spirit moaned, and fled. + + + V. + + The simplest joys that daily pass + Grow ecstasies in sleep; + A wind on heights of waving grass + In a dream has made me weep. + + No wonder then my heart one night + Was joy-full to the brim: + I was with one whose love and might + Had drawn me close to him! + + But from a church into the street + Came pouring, crowding on, + A troubled throng with hurrying feet, + And Lo, my friend was gone! + + Alone upon a miry road + I walked a wretched plain; + Onward without a goal I strode + Through mist and drizzling rain. + + Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits, + And brick-fields scarred the globe; + Those wastes where desolation sits + Without her ancient robe. + + The dreariness, the nothingness + Grew worse almost than fear; + If ever hope was needful bliss, + Hope sure was needful here! + + Did potent wish work joyous change + Like wizard's glamour-spell? + Wishes not always fruitless range, + And sometimes it is well! + + I know not. Sudden sank the way, + Burst in the ocean-waves; + Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay, + Red rocks and sounding caves! + + Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask-- + Shall earthly dreams, forsooth, + Set the old Heavens too hard a task + To match them with the truth? + + + VI. + + Once more I build a dream, awake, + Which sleeping I would dream; + Once more an unborn fancy take + And try to make it seem! + Some strange delight shall fill my breast, + Enticed from sleep's abyss, + With sense of motion, yet of rest, + Of sleep, yet waking bliss! + + It comes!--I lie on something warm + That lifts me from below; + It rounds me like a mighty arm + Though soft as drifted snow. + A dream, indeed!--Oh, happy me + Whom Titan woman bears + Afloat upon a gentle sea + Of wandering midnight airs! + + A breeze, just cool enough to lave + With sense each conscious limb, + Glides round and under, like a wave + Of twilight growing dim! + She bears me over sleeping towns, + O'er murmuring ears of corn; + O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs, + O'er moorland wastes forlorn. + + The harebells in the mountain-pass + Flutter their blue about; + The myriad blades of meadow grass + Float scarce-heard music out. + Over the lake!--ah! nearer float, + Nearer the water's breast; + Let me look deeper--let me doat + Upon that lily-nest. + + Old homes we brush--in wood, on road; + Their windows do not shine; + Their dwellers must be all abroad + In lovely dreams like mine! + Hark--drifting syllables that break + Like foam-bells on fleet ships! + The little airs are all awake + With softly kissing lips. + + Light laughter ripples down the wind, + Sweet sighs float everywhere; + But when I look I nothing find, + For every star is there. + O lady lovely, lady strong, + Ungiven thy best gift lies! + Thou bear'st me in thine arms along, + Dost not reveal thine eyes! + + Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest, + In darts a pang of loss: + My outstretched hand, for hills of rest, + Finds only mounds of moss! + Faint and far off the stars appear; + The wind begins to weep; + 'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear, + And all but me asleep! + + + + + +ROADSIDE POEMS. + + + + +_BETTER THINGS_. + + + Better to smell the violet + Than sip the glowing wine; + Better to hearken to a brook + Than watch a diamond shine. + + Better to have a loving friend + Than ten admiring foes; + Better a daisy's earthy root + Than a gorgeous, dying rose. + + Better to love in loneliness + Than bask in love all day; + Better the fountain in the heart + Than the fountain by the way. + + Better be fed by mother's hand + Than eat alone at will; + Better to trust in God, than say, + My goods my storehouse fill. + + Better to be a little wise + Than in knowledge to abound; + Better to teach a child than toil + To fill perfection's round. + + Better to sit at some man's feet + Than thrill a listening state; + Better suspect that thou art proud + Than be sure that thou art great. + + Better to walk the realm unseen + Than watch the hour's event; + Better the _Well done, faithful slave_! + Than the air with shoutings rent. + + Better to have a quiet grief + Than many turbulent joys; + Better to miss thy manhood's aim + Than sacrifice the boy's. + + Better a death when work is done + Than earth's most favoured birth; + Better a child in God's great house + Than the king of all the earth. + + + + + +_AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT_. + + + My wife contrived a fleecy thing + Her husband to infold, + For 'tis the pride of woman still + To cover from the cold: + My daughter made it a new text + For a sermon very old. + + The child came trotting to her side, + Ready with bootless aid: + "Lily make veckit for papa," + The tiny woman said: + Her mother gave the means and ways, + And a knot upon her thread. + + "Mamma, mamma!--it won't come through!" + In meek dismay she cried. + Her mother cut away the knot, + And she was satisfied, + Pulling the long thread through and through, + In fabricating pride. + + Her mother told me this: I caught + A glimpse of something more: + Great meanings often hide behind + The little word before! + And I brooded over my new text + Till the seed a sermon bore. + + Nannie, to you I preach it now-- + A little sermon, low: + Is it not thus a thousand times, + As through the world we go? + Do we not tug, and fret, and cry-- + Instead of _Yes, Lord--No_? + + While all the rough things that we meet + Which will not move a jot, + The hindrances to heart and feet, + _The Crook in every Lot_, + Mean plainly but that children's threads + Have at the end a knot. + + This world of life God weaves for us, + Nor spares he pains or cost, + But we must turn the web to clothes + And shield our hearts from frost: + Shall we, because the thread holds fast, + Count labour vain and lost? + + If he should cut away the knot, + And yield each fancy wild, + The hidden life within our hearts-- + His life, the undefiled-- + Would fare as ill as I should fare + From the needle of my child. + + As tack and sheet unto the sail, + As to my verse the rime, + + As mountains to the low green earth-- + So hard for feet to climb, + As call of striking clock amid + The quiet flow of time, + + As sculptor's mallet to the birth + Of the slow-dawning face, + As knot upon my Lily's thread + When she would work apace, + God's _Nay_ is such, and worketh so + For his children's coming grace. + + Who, knowing God's intent with him, + His birthright would refuse? + What makes us what we have to be + Is the only thing to choose: + We understand nor end nor means, + And yet his ways accuse! + + This is my sermon. It is preached + Against all fretful strife. + Chafe not with anything that is, + Nor cut it with thy knife. + Ah! be not angry with the knot + That holdeth fast thy life. + + + + + +_LITTLE ELFIE_. + + + I have a puppet-jointed child, + She's but three half-years old; + Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild + With looks both shy and bold. + + Like little imps, her tiny hands + Dart out and push and take; + Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, + And like two leaves they shake. + + But to her mind a minute gone + Is like a year ago; + And when you lift your eyes anon, + Anon you must say _No_! + + Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, + She has her sleepless fits; + Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair + The elfish mortal sits;-- + + Where, if by chance in mood more grave, + A hermit she appears + Propped in the opening of his cave, + Mummied almost with years; + + Or like an idol set upright + With folded legs for stem, + Ready to hear prayers all the night + And never answer them. + + But where's the idol-hermit thrust? + Her knees like flail-joints go! + Alternate kiss, her mother must, + Now that, now this big toe! + + I turn away from her, and write + For minutes three or four: + A tiny spectre, tall and white, + She's standing by the door! + + Then something comes into my head + That makes me stop and think: + She's on the table, the quadruped, + And dabbling in my ink! + + O Elfie, make no haste to lose + Thy ignorance of offence! + Thou hast the best gift I could choose, + A heavenly confidence. + + 'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, + To put you in the ark! + Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, + Sleep shining through the dark. + + + + + +_RECIPROCITY_. + + + Her mother, Elfie older grown, + One evening, for adieu, + Said, "You'll not mind being left alone, + For God takes care of you!" + + In child-way her heart's eye did see + The correlation's node: + "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me, + An' I take care o' God." + + The child and woman were the same, + She changed not, only grew; + 'Twixt God and her no shadow came: + The true is always true! + + As daughter, sister, promised wife, + Her heart with love did brim: + Now, sure, it brims as full of life, + Hid fourteen years in him! + + +1892. + + + + +_THE SHADOWS_. + + + My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks, + And dreamy, large, brown eyes, + Not often, little wisehead, speaks, + But hearing, weighs and tries. + + "God is not only in the sky," + His sister said one day-- + Not older much, but she would cry + Like Wisdom in the way-- + + "He's in this room." His dreamy, clear, + Large eyes look round for God: + In vain they search, in vain they peer; + His wits are all abroad! + + "He is not here, mamma? No, no; + I do not see him at all! + He's not the shadows, is he?" So + His doubtful accents fall-- + + Fall on my heart, no babble mere! + They rouse both love and shame: + But for earth's loneliness and fear, + I might be saying the same! + + Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break + And home the shadows flee, + In my dim room even yet I take + Those shadows, Lord, for thee! + + + + + +_THE CHILD-MOTHER_. + + + Heavily slumbered noonday bright + Upon the lone field, glory-dight, + A burnished grassy sea: + The child, in gorgeous golden hours, + Through heaven-descended starry flowers, + Went walking on the lea. + + Velvety bees make busy hum; + Green flies and striped wasps go and come; + The butterflies gleam white; + Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro + The dragon-flies like arrows go, + Or hang in moveless flight:-- + + Not one she followed; like a rill + She wandered on with quiet will; + Received, but did not miss; + Her step was neither quick nor long; + Nought but a snatch of murmured song + Ever revealed her bliss. + + An almost solemn woman-child, + Not fashioned frolicsome and wild, + She had more love than glee; + And now, though nine and nothing more, + Another little child she bore, + Almost as big as she. + + No silken cloud from solar harms + Had she to spread; with shifting arms + She dodged him from the sun; + Mother and sister both in heart, + She did a gracious woman's part, + Life's task even now begun! + + They came upon a stagnant ditch, + The slippery sloping banks of which + More varied blossoms line; + Some ragged-robins baby spies, + Stretches his hands, and crows and cries, + Plain saying, "They are mine!" + + What baby wants, that baby has-- + A law unalterable as + The poor shall serve the rich: + They are beyond her reach--almost! + She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed, + Topples into the ditch. + + Adown the side she slanting rolled, + But her two arms convulsive hold + The precious baby tight; + She lets herself sublimely go, + And in the ditch's muddy flow + Stands up, in evil plight. + + 'Tis nothing that her feet are wet, + But her new shoes she can't forget-- + They cost five shillings bright! + Her petticoat, her tippet blue, + Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue! + But baby is all right! + + And baby laughs, and baby crows; + And baby being right, she knows + That nothing can be wrong; + So, with a troubled heart yet stout, + She plans how _ever_ to get out + With meditation long. + + The high bank's edge is far away, + The slope is steep, and made of clay; + And what to do with baby? + For even a monkey, up to run, + Would need his four hands, every one:-- + She is perplexed as may be. + + And all her puzzling is no good! + Blank-staring up the side she stood, + Which, settling she, grew higher. + At last, seized with a fresh dismay + Lest baby's patience should give way, + She plucked her feet from the mire, + + And up and down the ditch, not glad, + But patient, very, did promenade-- + Splash, splash, went her small feet! + And baby thought it rare good fun, + Sucking his bit of pulpy bun, + And smelling meadow-sweet. + + But, oh, the world that she had left-- + The meads from her so lately reft-- + Poor infant Proserpine! + A fabled land they lay above, + A paradise of sunny love, + In breezy space divine! + + Frequent from neighbouring village-green + Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen, + And barks of well-known dogs, + While she, the hot sun overhead, + Her lonely watery way must tread + In mud and weeds and frogs! + + Sudden, the ditch about her shakes; + Her little heart, responsive, quakes + With fear of uncouth woes; + She lifts her boding eyes perforce-- + To see the huge head of a horse + Go past upon its nose. + + Then, hark, what sounds of tearing grass + And puffing breath!--With knobs of brass + On horns of frightful size, + A cow's head through the broken hedge + Looks awful from the other edge, + Though mild her pondering eyes. + + The horse, the cow are passed and gone; + The sun keeps going on and on, + And still no help comes near.-- + At misery's last--oh joy, the sound + Of human footsteps on the ground! + She cried aloud, "_I_'m here!" + + It was a man--oh, heavenly joy! + He looked amazed at girl and boy, + And reached his hand so strong: + "Give me the child," he said; but no! + Care would not let the burden go + Which Love had borne so long. + + Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands, + And them unparted safely lands + In the upper world again. + Her low thanks feebly murmured, she + Drags her legs homeward painfully-- + Poor, wet, one-chickened hen! + + Arrived at length--Lo, scarce a speck + Was on the child from heel to neck, + Though she was sorely mired! + No tear confessed the long-drawn rack, + Till her mother took the baby back, + And the she cried, "I'm tired!" + + And, intermixed with sobbing wail, + She told her mother all the tale, + Her wet cheeks in a glow: + "But, mother, mother, though I fell, + I kept the baby pretty well-- + I did not let him go!" + + + + + +_HE HEEDED NOT_. + + + Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, + And sermons of the silent stone; + To read in brooks the print so clear + Of motion, shadowy light, and tone-- + That man hath neither eye nor ear + Who careth not for human moan. + + Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste, + From sin that passeth helpless by; + The weak antennae of whose taste + From touch of alien grossness fly-- + Shall, banished to the outer waste, + Never in Nature's bosom lie. + + But he whose heart is full of grace + To his own kindred all about, + Shall find in lowest human face, + Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt, + More than in Nature's holiest place + Where mountains dwell and streams run out. + + Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear, + In suburb-ways, one summer morn; + A wretched alley I drew near + Whence on the air the sounds were borne-- + Growls breaking into curses clear, + And shrill retorts of keener scorn. + + Slow from its narrow entrance came, + His senses drowned with revels dire, + Scarce fit to answer to his name, + A man unconscious save of ire; + Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame + Broke from the embers of his fire. + + He cast a glance of stupid hate + Behind him, every step he took, + Where followed him, like following fate, + An aged crone, with bloated look: + A something checked his listless gait; + She neared him, rating till she shook. + + Why stood he still to be disgraced? + What hindered? Lost in his employ, + His eager head high as his waist, + Half-buttressed him a tiny boy, + An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced, + Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy. + + Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled + For one poor coin to keep the peace + With hunger! or home would have led + And given him up to sleep's release: + Well he might know the good of bed + To make the drunken fever cease! + + Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird + He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher, + But no expostulating word + Did in his anxious soul aspire; + With humbler care his heart was stirred, + With humbler service to his sire. + + He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red, + Though forward leaning, held his foot + Lest on the darling he should tread: + A misty sense had taken root + Somewhere in his bewildered head + That round him kindness hovered mute. + + The words his simmering rage did spill + Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn; + Safer than bee whose dodging skill + And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn, + The boy, absorbed in loving will, + Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn. + + Over his calm, unconscious face + No motion passed, no change of mood; + Still as a pool in its own place, + Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood, + It kept its quiet shadowy grace, + As round it all things had been good. + + Was the boy deaf--the tender palm + Of him that made him folded round + The little head to keep it calm + With a _hitherto_ to every sound-- + And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm + Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound? + + Or came in force the happy law + That customed things themselves erase? + Or was he too intent for awe? + Did love take all the thinking place? + I cannot tell; I only saw + An earnest, fearless, hopeless face. + + + + + +_THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT_. + + + The thousand streets of London gray + Repel all country sights; + But bar not winds upon their way, + Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay + In depth of summer nights. + + And here and there an open spot, + Still bare to light and dark, + With grass receives the wanderer hot; + There trees are growing, houses not-- + They call the place a park. + + Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, + God's sheep from hill and plain, + Flow thitherward in fitful tides, + There weary lie on woolly sides, + Or crop the grass amain. + + And from dark alley, yard, and den, + In ragged skirts and coats, + Come thither children of poor men, + Wild things, untaught of word or pen-- + The little human goats. + + In Regent's Park, one cloudless day, + An overdriven sheep, + Come a hard, long, and dusty way, + Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay, + A panting woollen heap. + + But help is nearer than we know + For ills of every name: + Ragged enough to scare the crow, + But with a heart to pity woe, + A quick-eyed urchin came. + + Little he knew of field or fold, + Yet knew what ailed; his cap + Was ready cup for water cold; + Though creased, and stained, and very old, + 'Twas not much torn, good hap! + + Shaping the rim and crown he went, + Till crown from rim was deep; + The water gushed from pore and rent, + Before he came one half was spent-- + The other saved the sheep. + + O little goat, born, bred in ill, + Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn, + Thou to the sheep from breezy hill + Wast bishop, pastor, what you will, + In London dry and lorn! + + And let priests say the thing they please, + My faith, though poor and dim, + Thinks he will say who always sees, + In doing it to one of these + Thou didst it unto him. + + + + +_THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER_. + + + When things are holding wonted pace + In wonted paths, without a trace + Or hint of neighbouring wonder, + Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, + A scent, a vision, swift, alone, + Breaks common life asunder. + + Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door, + It makes you ponder something more-- + Unseen with seen things linking: + To neighbours met one festive night, + Was given a quaint and lovely sight, + That set some of them thinking. + + They stand, in music's fetters bound + By a clear brook of warbled sound, + A canzonet of Haydn, + When the door slowly comes ajar-- + A little further--just as far + As shows a tiny maiden. + + Softly she enters, her pink toes + Daintily peeping, as she goes, + Her long nightgown from under. + The varied mien, the questioning look + Were worth a picture; but she took + No notice of their wonder. + + They made a path, and she went through; + She had her little chair in view + Close by the chimney-corner; + She turned, sat down before them all, + Stately as princess at a ball, + And silent as a mourner. + + Then looking closer yet, they spy + What mazedness hid from every eye + As ghost-like she came creeping: + They see that though sweet little Rose + Her settled way unerring goes, + Plainly the child is sleeping. + + "Play on, sing on," the mother said; + "Oft music draws her from her bed."-- + Dumb Echo, she sat listening; + Over her face the sweet concent + Like winds o'er placid waters went, + Her cheeks like eyes were glistening. + + Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold + Like long grass drooping on the wold + Her sightless head is bending; + She sits all ears, and drinks her fill, + Then rising goes, sedate and still, + On silent white feet wending. + + Surely, while she was listening so, + Glad thoughts in her went to and fro + Preparing her 'gainst sorrow, + And ripening faith for that sure day + When earnest first looks out of play, + And thought out of to-morrow. + + She will not know from what fair skies + Troop hopes to front anxieties-- + In what far fields they gather, + Until she knows that even in sleep, + Yea, in the dark of trouble deep, + The child is with the Father. + + + + +_A DREAM OF WAKING_. + + + A child was born in sin and shame, + Wronged by his very birth, + Without a home, without a name, + One over in the earth. + + No wifely triumph he inspired, + Allayed no husband's fear; + Intruder bare, whom none desired, + He had a welcome drear. + + Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift + For knocking at earth's gate, + His mother, like an evil gift, + Shunned him with sickly hate. + + And now the mistress on her knee + The unloved baby bore, + The while the servant sullenly + Prepared to leave her door. + + Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, + Her chickens to the hen; + All young ones bring with them their love, + Of sheep, or goats, or men! + + This one lone child shall not have come + In vain for love to seek: + Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, + A sister-babe will speak! + + "Mother, keep baby--keep him _so_; + Don't let him go away." + "But, darling, if his mother go, + Poor baby cannot stay." + + "He's crying, mother: don't you see + He wants to stay with you?" + "No, child; he does not care for me." + "Do keep him, mother--_do_." + + "For his own mother he would cry; + He's hungry now, I think." + "Give him to me, and let _me_ try + If I can make him drink." + + "Susan would hurt him! Mother _will_ + Let the poor baby stay?" + Her mother's heart grew sore, but still + Baby must go away! + + The red lip trembled; the slow tears + Came darkening in her eyes; + Pressed on her heart a weight of fears + That sought not ease in cries. + + 'Twas torture--must not be endured!-- + A too outrageous grief! + Was there an ill could _not_ be cured? + She _would_ find some relief! + + All round her universe she pried: + No dawn began to break: + In prophet-agony she cried-- + "Mother! when _shall_ we wake?" + + O insight born of torture's might!-- + Such grief _can_ only seem. + Rise o'er the hills, eternal light, + And melt the earthly dream. + + + + + +_A MANCHESTER POEM_. + + + 'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. + The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold + The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, + And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks, + A black precipitate, on miry streets. + And faces gray glide through the darkened fog. + + Slave engines utter again their ugly growl, + And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone + That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver + Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells, + Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms + To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength + With labour; and among the many come + A man and woman--the woman with her gown + Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck + Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar, + And clash, and shudder of the awful force, + They enter and part--each to a different task, + But each a soul of knowledge to brute force, + Working a will through the organized whole + Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws + Wherewith small man has eked his body out, + And made himself a mighty, weary giant. + In labour close they pass the murky day, + 'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels, + And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads, + Which weave a sultry chaos all about; + Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow + Up from the caves of night to make an end, + Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms, + The monster-engines, and the flying gear. + 'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home + Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse + Her tired children--like a mother-ghost + With her neglected darlings in the dark. + So out they walk, with sense of glad release, + And home--to a dreary place! Unfinished walls, + Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools + Lie round it like a rampart against the spring, + The summer, and all sieges of the year. + + But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire! + The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs + Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light, + Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts; + Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread; + And in the twilight edges of the light, + A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil, + Their faces--hiding God's own holiest place! + Even their bed figures the would-be grave + Where One arose triumphant, slept no more! + So at their altar-table they sit down + To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart + That reads the live will in the dead command, + _He_ is the bread, yea, all of every meal. + But as, in weary rest, they silent sit, + They gradually grow aware of light + That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind, + Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms + That make a cross of darkness on the white. + The woman rises, eagerly looks out: + Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog, + And, far aloft, the white exultant moon, + From her blue window, curtained all with white, + Looks greeting them--God's creatures they and she! + Smiling she turns; he understands the smile: + To-morrow will be fair--as holy, fair! + And lying down, in sleep they die till morn, + While through their night throb low aurora-gleams + Of resurrection and the coming dawn. + They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there, + But thin and ghostly--clothed upon with light, + As if, while they were sleeping, she had died. + They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire, + And, through their lowly door, enter God's room. + The sun is up, the emblem on his shield. + One side the street, the windows all are moons + To light the other side that lies in shade. + See, down the sun-side, an old woman come + In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad! + A long-belated autumn-flower she seems, + Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life + Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun, + But in her cloak and smile they know the spring, + And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets + Widening to larger glimmers of growing green. + Oh, far away the streets repel the spring! + Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares + The life that thrills anew the outworn earth, + A right Bethesda angel--for all, not some! + + A street unfinished leads them forth at length + Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart, + Stand waiting in the air as for some good, + And the sky is broad and blue--and there is all! + No peaceful river meditates along + The weary flat to the less level sea! + No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs + Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft + A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves! + No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks + Down babbling with the news of silent things! + But love itself is commonest of all, + And loveliest of all, in all the worlds! + And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill, + Must learn to read aright what commoner books + Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes-- + Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades, + And misty minglings of the sea and sky. + If only fields--the humble man of heart + Will revel in the grass beneath his foot, + And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven, + God's palette, where his careless painter-hand + Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul; + Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks; + Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags; + Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark. + To them the sun and air are feast enough, + As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk; + But sometimes, on the far horizon dim + A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills, + Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky; + Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks + As for some thing forgot--loved long ago, + But on the hither verge of childhood dropt: + 'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring! + Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life, + Which _is_ because it _would be_, fill the world; + The very light is new-born with the grass; + The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells, + Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close + And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm + In every little corner, nest, and crack + Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed + Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun. + The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life + Oozes exuberant in brown and green, + Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined + With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change. + Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes, + Calling and rousing the dull sap within: + The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous, + From airy root thrilling to earthy branch. + And though as yet no buddy baby dots + Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs, + The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell + In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath. + The sun had left behind him the keystone + Of his low arch half-way when they turned home, + Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring: + Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house + To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought. + + But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced + Upon a spot where once had been a home, + And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss. + 'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet + Lay the old shadow of a vanished care; + The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map + Was yet discernible by thinner grass + Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry + Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds, + A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop, + The lonely remnant of a family + That in the garden dwelt about the home-- + Reviving with the spring when home was gone: + They see; its spiritual counterpart + Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls-- + A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness, + The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child, + That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head + As it had nought to say 'gainst any world; + While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself, + Inherit in their meekness all the worlds. + + I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer + Upon the verge of my humanity. + Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart + The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass-- + White-minded memory of lowly friends! + But almost more I love thee for the earth + Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy, + Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave; + Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure + Upon thy road into the light and air, + The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain + Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth + Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings, + I love the cognizance of our family. + + With careful hands uprooting it, they bore + The little plant a willing captive home-- + Fearless of dark abode, because secure + In its own tale of light. As once of old + The angel of the annunciation shone, + Bearing all heaven into a common house, + It brings in with it field and sky and air. + A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth, + Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, + Its world the priests of that small temple-room, + It takes its prophet-place with fire and book, + Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc + Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky. + At night, when the dark shadow of the cross + Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan + Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower + Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird + Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun, + And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged, + Will break into its song--Lo, God is light! + + Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go; + And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white + Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen. + + * * * * * + + Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room, + My precious books, the cherub-forms above, + And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods; + And roving odours met me on my way. + I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault + Of boughs, and clouded leaves--filmy and pale + Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet + Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay + Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring. + The place was silent, save for the broken song + Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird + That burst into a carol and was still; + It was not lonely: golden beetles crept, + Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things + Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery; + And here and yonder a flaky butterfly + Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. + But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace, + Drove a dividing wedge, and far away + It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away + By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:-- + Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope? + In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay + Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! + My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, + And summer crushed it with its weight of light! + + Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, + Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore; + Summer is too complete for growing hearts-- + Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, + Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; + Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave; + We need a broken season, where the cloud + Is ruffled into glory, and the dark + Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world + Whose shadows ever point away from it; + A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres, + And circles cut, and perfect laws the while + That marvellous imperfection ever points + To higher perfectness than heart can think; + Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring, + Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, + Is lovely as was never rosiest rose; + A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry, + Says more than lily, stately in breathing white; + A window through a vaulted roof of rain + Lets in a light that comes from farther away, + And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy + Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world: + Man seeks a better home than Paradise; + Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, + A disappointment better than a feast, + And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea + Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four. + + + + + +_WHAT THE LORD SAITH_. + + + Trust my father, saith the eldest-born; + I did trust him ere the earth began; + Not to know him is to be forlorn; + Not to love him is--not to be man. + + He that knows him loves him altogether; + With my father I am so content + That through all this dreary human weather + I am working, waiting, confident. + + He is with me; I am not alone; + Life is bliss, because I am his child; + Down in Hades will I lay the stone + Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled. + + Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story! + Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me: + Our one father is a perfect glory; + He is light, and there is none but he. + + Come then with me; I will lead the way; + All of you, sore-hearted, heavy-shod, + Come to father, yours and mine, I pray; + Little ones, I pray you, come to God! + + + + + +_HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG_? + + + How shall he sing who hath no song? + He laugh who hath no mirth? + Will cannot wake the sleeping song! + Yea, Love itself in vain may long + To sing with them that have a song, + Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth! + He who would sing but hath no song + Must speak the right, denounce the wrong, + Must humbly front the indignant throng, + Must yield his back to Satire's thong, + Nor shield his face from liar's prong, + Must say and do and be the truth, + And fearless wait for what ensueth, + Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong, + Until God's glory fill the earth; + Then shall he sing who had no song, + He laugh who had no mirth! + + Yea, if in land of stony dearth + Like barren rock thou sit, + Round which the phantom-waters flit + Of heart- and brain-mirage + That can no thirst assuage, + Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long; + A right sea comes to drown the wrong; + God's glory comes to fill the earth, + And thou, no more a scathed rock, + Shalt start alive with gladsome shock, + Shalt a hand-clapping billow be, + And shout with the eternal sea! + + To righteousness and love belong + The dance, the jubilance, the song, + When the great Right hath quelled the wrong, + And Truth hath stilled the lying tongue! + Then men must sing because of song, + And laugh because of mirth! + And this shall be their anthem strong-- + Hallow! the glad God fills the earth, + And Love sits down by every hearth! + + + + + +_THIS WORLD_. + + + Thy world is made to fit thine own, + A nursery for thy children small, + The playground-footstool of thy throne, + Thy solemn school-room, Father of all! + When day is done, in twilight's gloom, + We pass into thy presence-room. + + Because from selfishness and wrath, + Our cold and hot extremes of ill, + We grope and stagger on the path-- + Thou tell'st us from thy holy hill, + With icy storms and sunshine rude, + That we are all unripe in good. + + Because of snaky things that creep + Through our soul's sea, dim-undulant, + Thou fill'st the mystery of thy deep + With faces heartless, grim, and gaunt; + That we may know how ugly seem + The things our spirit-oceans teem. + + Because of half-way things that hold + Good names, and have a poisonous breath-- + Prudence that is but trust in gold, + And faith that is but fear of death-- + Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, + Thou sendest some that are not good. + + Thou stay'st thy hand from finishing things + To make thy child love the complete; + Full many a flower comes up thy springs + Unshamed in imperfection sweet; + That through good all, and good in part, + Thy work be perfect in the heart. + + Because, in careless confidence, + So oft we leave the narrow way, + Its borders thorny hedges fence, + Beyond them marshy deeps affray; + But farther on, the heavenly road + Lies through the gardens of our God. + + Because thy sheep so often will + Forsake the meadow cool and damp + To climb the stony, grassless hill, + Or wallow in the slimy swamp, + Thy sicknesses, where'er they roam, + Go after them to bring them home. + + One day, all fear, all ugliness, + All pain, all discord, dumb or loud, + All selfishness, and all distress, + Will melt like low-spread morning cloud, + And heart and brain be free from thrall, + Because thou, God, art all in all! + + + + + +_SAINT PETER_. + + + O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt? + Indeed the spray flew fast about, + But he was there whose walking foot + Could make the wandering hills take root; + And he had said, "Come down to me," + Else hadst thou not set foot on sea! + Christ did not call thee to thy grave! + Was it the boat that made thee brave? + + "Easy for thee who wast not there + To think thou more than I couldst dare! + It hardly fits thee though to mock + Scared as thou wast that railway shock! + Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go-- + The plague will soon be here, I know!' + Who, when thy child slept--not to death-- + Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'" + + Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! + It needs no tempest me to quell, + Not even a spent lash of its spray! + Things far too little to affray + Will wake the doubt that's worst of all-- + Is there a God to hear me call? + But if he be, I never think + That he will hear and let me sink! + + Lord of my little faith, my Lord, + Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; + Let not the cross itself appall + Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; + Let reeling brain nor fainting heart + Wipe out the soreness that thou art; + Dwell farther in than doubt can go, + And make _I hope_ become _I know_. + Then, sure, if thou should please to say, + "Come to my side," some stormy way, + My feet, atoning to thy will, + Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still; + No heart of lead shall sink me where + Prudence lies crowned with cold despair, + But I shall reach and clasp thy hand, + And on the sea forget the land! + + + + + +_ZACCHAEUS_. + + + To whom the heavy burden clings, + It yet may serve him like a staff; + One day the cross will break in wings, + The sinner laugh a holy laugh. + + The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree, + His humble stature set him high; + The Lord the little man did see + Who sought the great man passing by. + + Up to the tree he came, and stopped: + "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide." + A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped, + Ripe for the Master, at his side. + + Sure never host with gladder look + A welcome guest home with him bore! + Then rose the Satan of rebuke + And loudly spake beside the door: + + "This is no place for holy feet; + Sinners should house and eat alone! + This man sits in the stranger's seat + And grinds the faces of his own!" + + Outspoke the man, in Truth's own might: + "Lord, half my goods I give the poor; + If one I've taken more than right + With four I make atonement sure!" + + "Salvation here is entered in; + This man indeed is Abraham's son!" + Said he who came the lost to win-- + And saved the lost whom he had won. + + + + + +_AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS_. + + + I. + + Who follows Jesus shall not walk + In darksome road with danger rife; + But in his heart the Truth will talk, + And on his way will shine the Life. + + So, on the story we must pore + Of him who lives for us, and died, + That we may see him walk before, + And know the Father in the guide. + + + II. + + In words of truth Christ all excels, + Leaves all his holy ones behind; + And he in whom his spirit dwells + Their hidden manna sure shall find. + + Gather wouldst thou the perfect grains, + And Jesus fully understand? + Thou must obey him with huge pains, + And to God's will be as Christ's hand. + + + III. + + What profits it to reason high + And in hard questions court dispute, + When thou dost lack humility, + Displeasing God at very root! + + Profoundest words man ever spake + Not once of blame washed any clear; + A simple life alone could make + Nathanael to his master dear. + + + IV. + + The eye with seeing is not filled, + The ear with hearing not at rest; + Desire with having is not stilled; + With human praise no heart is blest. + + Vanity, then, of vanities + All things for which men grasp and grope! + The precious things in heavenly eyes + Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope. + + + V. + + Better the clown who God doth love + Than he that high can go + And name each little star above + But sees not God below! + + What if all things on earth I knew, + Yea, love were all my creed, + It serveth nothing with the True; + He goes by heart and deed. + + + VI. + + If thou dost think thy knowledge good, + Thy intellect not slow, + Bethink thee of the multitude + Of things thou dost not know. + + Why look on any from on high + Because thou knowest more? + Thou need'st but look abroad, to spy + Ten thousand thee before. + + Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance + And gather learning's fruit, + In love confess thy ignorance, + And thy Self-love confute. + + + VII. + + This is the highest learning, + The hardest and the best-- + From self to keep still turning, + And honour all the rest. + + If one should break the letter, + Yea, spirit of command, + Think not that thou art better, + Thou may'st not always stand! + + We all are weak--but weaker + Hold no one than thou art; + Then, as thou growest meeker, + Higher will go thy heart. + + + VIII. + + Sense and judgment oft indeed + Spy but little and mislead, + Ground us on a shelf! + + Happy he whom Truth doth teach, + Not by forms of passing speech, + But her very self! + + Why of hidden things dispute, + Mind unwise, howe'er astute, + Making that thy task + Where the Judge will, at the last, + When disputing all is past, + Not a question ask? + + Folly great it is to brood + Over neither bad nor good, + Eyes and ears unheedful! + Ears and eyes, ah, open wide + For what may be heard or spied + Of the one thing needful! + + + + + +TO AND OF FRIENDS. + + + + +_TO LADY NOEL BYRON_. + + + Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake, + The lost elixir old + Whose magic touch should instant make + The meaner metals gold. + + A nobler alchymy is thine + Which love from pain doth press: + Gold in thy hand becomes divine, + Grows truth and tenderness. + + + + + +_TO THE SAME_. + + + Dead, why defend thee, who in life + For thy worst foe hadst died; + Who, thy own name a word of strife, + Didst silent stand aside? + + Grand in forgiveness, what to thee + The big world's puny prate! + Or thy great heart hath ceased to be + Or loveth still its mate! + + + + +_TO AURELIO SAFFI_. + + + _To God and man be simply true; + Do as thou hast been wont to do; + Bring out thy treasures, old and new_-- + Mean all the same when said to you. + + I love thee: thou art calm and strong; + Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; + Thy heart, in every raging throng, + A chamber shut for prayer and song. + + Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know, + Although thy aims so lofty go + They need as long to root and grow + As infant hills to reach the snow. + + Press on and prosper, holy friend! + I, weak and ignorant, would lend + A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send + Prospering onward without end. + + + + + +_A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE_. + + + The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him + Who next it stood before us, first so long, + We see not; but between the cherubim + The light burns clearer: come--a thankful song! + + Lord, for thy prophet's calm commanding voice, + For his majestic innocence and truth, + For his unswerving purity of choice, + For all his tender wrath and plenteous ruth; + + For his obedient, wise, clear-listening care + To hear for us what word The Word would say, + For all the trembling fervency of prayer + With which he led our souls the prayerful way; + + For all the heavenly glory of his face + That caught the white Transfiguration's shine + And cast on us the reflex of thy grace-- + Of all thy men late left, the most divine; + + For all his learning, and the thought of power + That seized thy one Idea everywhere, + Brought the eternal down into the hour, + And taught the dead thy life to claim and share; + + For his humility, dove-clear of guile;-- + The sin denouncing, he, like thy great Paul, + Still claimed in it the greatest share, the while + Our eyes, love-sharpened, saw him best of all! + + For his high victories over sin and fear, + The captive hope his words of truth set free; + For his abiding memory, holy, dear; + Last, for his death and hiding now in thee, + + We praise, we magnify thee, Lord of him: + Thou hast him still; he ever was thine own; + Nor shall our tears prevail the path to dim + That leads where, lowly still, he haunts thy throne. + + When thou, O Lord, ascendedst up on high + Good gifts thou sentest down to cheer thy men: + Lo, he ascends!--we follow with the cry, + His spirit send thou back in thine again. + + + + + +_GEORGE ROLLESTON_. + + + Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid + Over whose couch the saving God did stand-- + "She is not dead but sleepeth," said, + And took her by the hand! + + Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled, + But following still where life's great father led, + He turned, and taking up his child, + Raised thee too from the dead, + + O living, thou hast passed thy second birth, + Found all things new, and some things lovely strange; + But thou wilt not forget the earth, + Or in thy loving change! + + + + + +TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM. + + + The silence of traitorous feet! + The silence of close-pent rage! + The roar, and the sudden heart-beat! + And the shot through the true heart going, + The truest heart of the age! + And the Nile serenely flowing! + + Carnage and curses and cries! + He utters never a word; + Still as a child he lies; + The wind of the desert is blowing + Across the dead man of the Lord; + And the Nile is softly flowing. + + But the song is stilled in heaven + To welcome one more king: + For the truth he hath witnessed and striven, + And let the world go crowing, + And Mammon's church-bell go ring, + And the Nile blood-red go flowing! + + Man who hated the sword + Yet wielded the sword and axe-- + Farewell, O arm of the Lord, + The Lord's own harvest mowing-- + With a wind in the smoking flax + Where our foul rivers are flowing! + + In war thou didst cherish peace, + Thou slewest for love of life: + Hail, hail thy stormy release + Go home and await thy sowing, + The patient flower of thy strife, + Thy bread on the Nile cast flowing. + + Not thy earth to our earth alone, + Thy spirit is left with us! + Thy body is victory's throne, + And our hearts around it are glowing: + Would that we others died thus + Where the Thames and the Clyde are flowing! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS_, + +JANUARY 26, 1885. + + + Gordon, the self-refusing, + Gordon, the lover of God, + Gordon, the good part choosing, + Welcome along the road! + + Thou knowest the man, O Father! + To do thy will he ran; + Men's praises he did not gather: + There is scarce such another man! + + Thy black sheep's faithful shepherd + Who knew not how to flee, + Is torn by the desert leopard, + And comes wounded home to thee! + + Home he is coming the faster + That the way he could not miss: + In thy arms, oh take him, Master, + And heal him with a kiss! + + Then give him a thousand cities + To rule till their evils cease, + And their wailing minor ditties + Die in a psalm of peace. + + + + +_FAILURE_. + + + Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! + Man who hated the sword, + Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred! + Farewell, O word of the Word! + Man who knew no failure + But the failure of the Lord! + + + + + +_TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK_. + + + A broken tale of endless things, + Take, lady: thou art not of those + Who in what vale a fountain springs + Would have its journey close. + + Countless beginnings, fair first parts, + Leap to the light, and shining flow; + All broken things, or toys or hearts, + Are mended where they go. + + Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, + Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; + 'Tis God that has begun the tale + And does not mean to end. + + + + + +_TO G. M. T_. + + + The sun is sinking in the west, + Long grow the shadows dim; + Have patience, sister, to be blest, + Wait patiently for Him. + + Thou knowest love, much love hast had, + Great things of love mayst tell, + Ought'st never to be very sad + For thou too hast lov'd well. + + His house thou know'st, who on the brink + Of death loved more than thou, + Loved more than thy great heart can think, + And just as then loves now-- + + In that great house is one who waits + For thy slow-coming foot; + Glad is he with his angel-mates + Yet often listens mute, + + For he of all men loves thee best: + He haunts the heavenly clock; + Ah, he has long been up and drest + To open to thy knock! + + Fear not, doubt not because of those + On whom earth's keen winds blow; + God's love shames all our pitying woes, + Be ready thou to go. + + Forsaken dream not hearts which here + Bask in no sunny shine; + Each shall one coming day be dear + To love as good as thine. + + + + + +_IN MEMORIUM_ + +_LADY CAROLINE CHARTERIS_. + + + The mountain-stream may humbly boast + For her the loud waves call; + The hamlet feeds the nation's host, + The home-farm feeds the hall; + + And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend + The right, of high import, + The gladsome privilege to send + New courtiers to Love's court. + + Not strange to thee, O lady dear, + Life in that palace fair, + For thou while waiting with us here + Didst just as they do there! + + Thy heart still open to receive, + Open thy hand to give, + God had thee graced with more than leave + In heavenly state to live! + + And though thou art gone up so high + Thou art not gone so far + But that thy love to us comes nigh, + As starlight from a star. + + And ours must reach where'er thou art, + In far or near abode, + For God is of all love the heart, + And we are all in God. + + + +END OF VOL. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9543] +[This file was first posted on October 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD IN TWO VOLUMES, VOLUME I *** + + + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince, and Project Gutenberg +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS + +OF + +GEORGE MACDONALD + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. I + +1893 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +A HIDDEN LIFE + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE + +THE DISCIPLE + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN-- + 1. The Mother Mary + 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice + 3. The Mother of Zebedee's Children + 4. The Syrophenician Woman + 5. The Widow of Nain + 6. The Woman whom Satan had bound + 7. The Woman who came behind Him in the Crowd + 8. The Widow with the Two Mites + 9. The Women who ministered unto Him + 10. Pilate's Wife + 11. The Woman of Samaria + 12. Mary Magdalene + 13. The Woman in the Temple + 14. Martha + 15. Mary + 16. The Woman that was a Sinner + +A BOOK OF SONNETS-- + The Burnt-Offering + The Unseen Face + Concerning Jesus + A Memorial of Africa + A.M.D + To Garibaldi, with a Book + To S.F.S + Russell Gurney + To One threatened with Blindness + To Aubrey de Vere + General Gordon + The Chrysalis + The Sweeper of the Floor + Death + +ORGAN SONGS-- + To A.J. Scott + Light + To A. J. Scott + I would I were a Child + A Prayer for the Past + Longing + I know what Beauty is + Sympathy + The Thank-Offering + Prayer + Rest + O do not leave Me + Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth + Hymn for a Sick Girl + Written for One in sore Pain + A Christmas Carol for 1862 + A Christmas Carol + The Sleepless Jesus + Christmas, 1873 + Christmas, 1884 + An Old Story + A Song for Christmas + To my Aging Friends + Christmas Song of the Old Children + Christmas Meditation + The Old Castle + Christmas Prayer + Song of the Innocents + Christmas Day and Every Day + The Children's Heaven + Rejoice + The Grace of Grace + Antiphon + Dorcas + Marriage Song + Blind Bartimeus + Come unto Me + Morning Hymn + Noontide Hymn + Evening Hymn + The Holy Midnight + Rondel + A Prayer + Home from the Wars + God; not Gift + To any Friend + +VIOLIN SONGS-- + Hope Deferred + Death + Hard Times + If I were a Monk, and Thou wert a Nun + My Heart + The Flower-Angels + To my Sister + Oh Thou of little Faith + Wild Flowers + Spring Song + Summer Song + Autumn Song + Winter Song + Picture Songs + A Dream Song + At my Window after Sunset + A Father to a Mother + The Temple of God + Going to Sleep + To-Morrow + Foolish Children + Love is Home + Faith + Waiting + Our Ship + My Heart thy Lark + Two in One + Bedtime + A Prayer + A Song Prayer + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS-- + Songs of the Summer Days + Songs of the Summer Nights + Songs of the Autumn Days + Songs of the Autumn Nights + Songs of the Winter Days + Songs of the Winter Nights + Songs of the Spring Days + Songs of the Spring Nights + +A BOOK OF DREAMS + +ROADSIDE POEMS-- + Better Things + An Old Sermon with a New Text + Little Elfie + Reciprocity + The Shadows + The Child-Mother + He Heeded Not + The Sheep and the Goat + The Wakeful Sleeper + A Dream of Waking + A Manchester Poem + What the Lord Saith + How shall He Sing who hath No Song + This World + Saint Peter + Zacchaeus + After Thomas Kemp + +TO AND OF FRIENDS-- + To Lady Noel Byron + To the Same + To Aurelio Saffi + A Thanksgiving for F.D. Maurice + George Rolleston + To Gordon, leaving Khartoum + Song of the Saints and Angels + Failure + To E.G., dedicating a Book + To G.M.T. + In Memoriam Lady Caroline Charteris + + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT: + + +A Dramatic Poem. + + What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather-- + With outward maker's force, or like an inward father. + + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_. + +_Written December and January_, 1850-51. + +TO L.P.M.D. + + Receive thine own; for I and it are thine. + Thou know'st its story; how for forty days-- + Weary with sickness and with social haze, + (After thy hands and lips with love divine + Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine, + Though with a watery lustre,) more delays + Of blessedness forbid--I took my ways + Into a solitude, Invention's mine; + There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee. + Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book; + My child, developed since in limb and look. + It came in shining vapours from the sea, + And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me, + When the red life-blood labour would not brook. + + + _May_, 1855. + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + + +PART I. + + Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door; + And pray to Him in secret: He will hear. + But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear + The numberless ascensions, more and more, + Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before + Thou comest to the Father's likeness near, + And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear + That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. + Be thou content if on thy weary need + There falls a sense of showers and of the spring; + A hope that makes it possible to fling + Sickness aside, and go and do the deed; + For highest aspiration will not lead + Unto the calm beyond all questioning. + +SCENE I.--_A cell in a convent_. JULIAN _alone_. + + _Julian_. + Evening again slow creeping like a death! + And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, + On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars + Of the poor window-pane that let them in, + For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven! + Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. + But what is light to me, while I am dark! + And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, + Reflected flushes from the Evening's face, + Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, + Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left + His chamber in the dim deserted east. + Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea! + The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light, + As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, + And the insphered glory bubbled forth! + Or the sun were a splendid water-bird, + That flying furrowed with its golden feet + A flashing wake over the waves, and home! + Lo there!--Alas, the dull blank wall!--High up, + The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night + Come on me like a thief!--Ah, well! the sun + Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray: + The terror of the night begins with prayer. + + (_Vesper bell_.) + Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons; + My knees would not so pain me when I kneel, + If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. + I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, + Then will I praise him from the heights of peace; + But now my soul is as a speck of life + Cast on the deserts of eternity; + A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more. + I am as a child new-born, its mother dead, + Its father far away beyond the seas. + Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him: + He goeth by me, and I see him not. + I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes, + My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul. + + (_Choir and organ-music_.) + I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting. + What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies + Have just departed in the sun's bright coach, + And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me, + Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness. + Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold! + How should my cell be filled with wavering forms! + Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher; + Trembling and hesitating to float off, + As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy + Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues, + Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die. + --Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves! + Is it for this that I have left the world?-- + Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes + Of that night when the closing door fell dumb + On music and on voices, and I went + Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance, + Under the clear cope of the moonless night, + Wandering away without the city-walls, + Between the silent meadows and the stars, + Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit, + And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God; + When straight within my soul I felt as if + An eye was opened; but I knew not whether + 'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me? + It closed again, and darkness fell; but not + To hide the memory; that, in many failings + Of spirit and of purpose, still returned; + And I came here at last to search for God. + Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content + Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free! + + _A knock at the door. Enter Brother_ ROBERT _with a light_. + + _Robert_. + Head in your hands as usual! You will fret + Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. + Come, it is supper-time. + + _Julian_. + I will not sup to-night. + + _Robert_. + Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint. + + _Julian_. + A saint! The devil has me by the heel. + + _Robert_. + So has he all saints; as a boy his kite, + Which ever struggles higher for his hold. + It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;-- + He should let go his hold, and then he has you. + If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. + Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings. + + Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk. + That's the life of the jolly monk_. + + SONG. + + They say the first monks were lonely men, + Praying each in his lonely den, + Rising up to kneel again, + Each a skinny male Magdalene, + Peeping scared from out his hole + Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole; + But years ring changes as they roll-- + + Cho. _Now always merry, &c_. + + When the moon gets up with her big round face, + Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, + Down to the village below we pace;-- + We know a supper that wants a grace: + Past the curtsying women we go, + Past the smithy, all a glow, + To the snug little houses at top of the row-- + + Cho. _For always merry, &c_. + + And there we find, among the ale, + The fragments of a floating tale: + To piece them together we never fail; + And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. + And so we have them all in hand, + The lads and lasses throughout the land, + And we are the masters,--you understand? + + Cho. _So always merry, &c_. + + Last night we had such a game of play + With the nephews and nieces over the way, + All for the gold that belonged to the clay + That lies in lead till the judgment-day! + The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch, + But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. + How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch! + + Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_. + That's the life of the jolly monk! + + _Robert_. + The song is hardly to your taste, I see! + Where shall I set the light? + + _Julian_. + I do not need it. + + _Robert_. + Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies. + I wish you were at table, were it only + To stop the talking of the men about you. + You in the dark are talked of in the light. + + _Julian_. + Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me. + + _Robert_. + No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say, + You would be thought a saint without the trouble; + You do no penance that they can discover. + You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, + Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. + You are a prince, say others, hiding here, + Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. + To-night, there are some whispers of a lady + That would refuse your love. + + _Julian_. + Ay! What of her? + + _Robert_. + I heard no more than so; and that you came + To seek the next best service you could find: + Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's. + + _Julian_. + One part at least is true: I knock at God's; + He has not yet been pleased to let me in. + As for the lady--that is--so far true, + But matters little. Had I less to think, + This talking might annoy me; as it is, + Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; + I keep in-doors. + + _Robert_. + Gloomy as usual, brother! + Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send + The light that all day long gladdened the earth, + Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire + Transformed the weathercock into a star, + That you should gloom within stone walls all day. + At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: + We will salute the breezes, as they rise + And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours + Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss-- + Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring + Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. + Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light + Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, + And thence descend triumphant, step by step, + The stairway of the hills. Free air and action + Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain. + + _Julian_. + My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, + "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" + Through every open room the child would pass, + Timidly looking for the friendly eye; + Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder + At what he saw, until he found his sire; + But gathered to his bosom, straight he is + The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. + And so with me: not having seen Him yet, + The light rests on me with a heaviness; + All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; + A voice is in the wind I do not know; + A meaning on the face of the high hills + Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. + A something is behind them: that is God. + These are his words, I doubt not, language strange; + These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; + And he is present, but I find him not. + I have not yet been held close to his heart. + Once in his inner room, and by his eyes + Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, + 'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, + And sounds that never lose love's mystery. + Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him. + + _Robert + (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess_). See, there + is God revealed in human form! + + _Julian (kneeling and crossing_). + Alas, my friend!--revealed--but as in nature: + I see the man; I cannot find the God. + I know his voice is in the wind, his presence + Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth; + And there stands Manhood: and the God is there, + Not here, not here! + + (_Pointing to his bosom_.) + [_Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone_--] + + You do not understand me. + Without my need, you cannot know my want. + You will all night be puzzling to determine + With which of the old heretics to class me. + But you are honest; will not rouse the cry + Against me. I am honest. For the proof, + Such as will satisfy a monk, look here! + Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here! + Did one week's scourging seam my side like that? + I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show + Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you, + And cannot bear but you should think me true. + Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk + Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried, + And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate, + Let out one stray beam of its living light, + Or humbled that proud _I_ that knows not God! + You are my friend:--if you should find this cell + Empty some morning, do not be afraid + That any ill has happened. + + _Robert_.] + Well, perhaps + 'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, + But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [_Goes_. + + _Julian_. + Amen.--A good man; but he has not waked, + And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. + God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; + And so he does, as possible for him. + How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! + He thinks me an enthusiast, because + I seek to know God, and to hear his voice + Talk to my heart in silence; as of old + The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, + He lay communing with his heart; and God + With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until + In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. + My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, + And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God; + And let me know the living Father cares + For me, even me; for this one of his children.-- + Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought. + God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, + And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. + See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou + Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. + I am a child, a fool before thee, God; + But thou hast made my weakness as my strength. + I am an emptiness for thee to fill; + My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie + Diffused, abandoning myself to thee.... + --I will look up, if life should fail in looking. + Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring! + Ah me! A life lost from its father-life! + + + + +SCENE II.--_The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation_. +ROBERT _enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in_. + + _Stephen_ + (_speaking across the table_). + You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic; + Or, if you like it better, stand to reason; + For in this doctrine is involved a _cause_ + Which for its very being doth depend + Upon its own _effect_. For, don't you see, + He tells me to have faith and I shall live! + Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall + Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven; + What is salvation else? If I believe, + Then he will save me! But, so, this his _will_ + Has no existence till that I believe; + And there is nothing for my faith to rest on, + No object for belief. How can I trust + In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo. + Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence; + To all intents save one, most plenary-- + And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd. + + _Monk_. + 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. + And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling + At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one + Should find it poison. I have no pique at him-- + But there's that Julian!-- + + _Stephen_. + Hush! speak lower, friend. + + _Two_ Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_. + + _1st Monk_. + Where did you find her? + + _2nd Monk_. + She was taken ill + At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, + And so they called me in. I found her dying. + But ere she would confess and make her peace, + She begged to know if I had ever seen, + About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, + Moody and silent, with a little stoop + As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, + And a strange look of mingled youth and age,-- + + _1st Monk_. + Julian, by-- + + _2nd Monk_. + 'St--no names! I had not seen him. + I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, + And urged her to proceed; and she began; + But went not far before delirium came, + With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, + Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past + Was running riot in her conquered brain; + And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group + Held carnival; went freely out and in, + Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed + As some confused tragedy went on; + Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant + Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain + Lay desolate and silent. I can gather + So much, and little more:--This Julian + Is one of some distinction; probably rich, + And titled Count. He had a love-affair, + In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.-- + Give me the woman; love is troublesome!-- + She loved him too, but falsehood came between, + And used this woman for her minister; + Who never would have peached, but for a witness + Hidden behind some curtain in her heart-- + An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, + Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude + His story to some double-ghostly father, + For she is ghostly penitent by this. + Our consciences will play us no such tricks; + They are the Church's, not our own. We must + Keep this small matter secret. If it should + Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye-- + A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns! + And so the world will have the benefit + Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. + I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else + Until our Abbot comes. + + _1st Monk_. + That is to-morrow. + + _Another group near the bottom of the table, in which + is_ ROBERT. + + _1st Monk_. + 'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him. + Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, + Which passes like a thought across his face, + When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, + A while to our discourse?--he never joins. + + _2nd Monk_. + I know quite well. I stood beside him once, + Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking: + He chanced to say the words, _Our Holy Faith_. + "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips, + Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words + Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure + He is an atheist at the least. + + _3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_). + And I + Fear he is something worse. I had a trance + In which the devil tempted me: the shape + Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. + _Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame. + I am sure of one thing--music tortures him: + I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_, + When the whole chapel trembled in the sound, + Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain, + And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, + Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees. + + _2nd Monk_. + He does not know his rubric; stands when others + Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice + With his missal upside down. + + _4th Monk (plethoric and husky_). + He blew his nose + Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, + And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat. + + _Robert_. + When he returns, we must complain; and beg + He'll take such measures as the case requires. + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, +its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at +the light_. + + + _Julian_. + And so all growth that is not toward God + Is growing to decay. All increase gained + Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. + 'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, + Towering above the light it overcomes, + But ever sinking with the dying flame. + O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life! + No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! + Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? + Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none + That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. + Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me? + I have done naught for thee, am but a want; + But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; + And this same need of thee which thou hast given, + Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, + And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. + Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled + This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead + For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. + + Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; + Or was it but my heart that spoke for him? + "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give; + My longing is thy promise, O my God! + If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, + Why doth the longing yet remain with me, + And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?" + Methought I heard for answer: "Question on. + Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds + Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, + A hungering and a fainting and a pain, + Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead + While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. + Better to live in pain than die that death." + + So I will live, and nourish this my pain; + For oft it giveth birth unto a hope + That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. + Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his, + Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. + A still small voice I cannot but believe, + Says on within: God _will_ reveal himself. + + I must go from this place. I cannot rest. + It boots not staying. A desire like thirst + Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, + To be abroad on the mysterious earth, + Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. + + 'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. + For many months I had not seen her form, + Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, + Until I laid me down an hour ago; + When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes, + The memory passed, reclothed in verity: + Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze + Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon; + The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, + "Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep, + All save the poplar: it was full of joy, + So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. + Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea, + She issued radiant from the pearly night. + It took me half with fear--the glimmer and gleam + Of her white festal garments, haloed round + With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there + I am bewildered. Something I remember + Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound, + Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; + Of agony, as when a spirit seeks + In vain to hold communion with a man; + A hand that would and would not stay in mine; + A gleaming of white garments far away; + And then I know not what. The moon was low, + When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet, + Dripping with dew-- + + _Enter_ ROBERT _cautiously_. + + Why, how now, Robert? + + [_Rising on his elbow_.] + _Robert (glancing at the chest_). + I see; that's well. Are + you nearly ready? + + _Julian_. + Why? What's the matter? + + _Robert_. + You must go this night, + If you would go at all. + + _Julian_. + Why must I go? + [_Rises_.] + _Robert (turning over the things in the chest_). + Here, put + this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. + No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat, + + [_Going to the chest again_.] + + Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub + Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow. + + _Julian_. + Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all. + + _Robert_. + No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you. + Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar + The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian! + + [_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.] + + _Julian_. + Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend. + Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again. + + _Robert_. + Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow + passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, + and closes the door behind him_.] + + + + +SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while +his horse is brought out_. + + _Abbot_. + Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, + Within the holiest of the holy place! + I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, + With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; + And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, + Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, + Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved + By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem. + And over him shall bend the Mother mild, + In silken white and coroneted gems. + Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now-- + The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; + Nor know I any nests of money-bees + That could yield half-contentment to my need. + Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet + In journeying through this vale of tears have I + Projected pomp that did not blaze anon. + + + +SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the +roadside_. + + + _Julian_. + So lies my journey--on into the dark! + Without my will I find myself alive, + And must go forward. Is it God that draws + Magnetic all the souls unto their home, + Travelling, they know not how, but unto God? + It matters little what may come to me + Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, + Social condition, yea, or love or hate; + But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence? + My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_, + Goes darkling forward into something--what? + O God, thou knowest. It is not my care. + If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, + It were a fearful thing to be and grow + We know not what. My God, take care of me; + Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, + Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. + And let thy own design in me work on, + Unfolding the ideal man in me; + Which being greater far than I have grown, + I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. + One day, completed unto thine intent, + I shall be able to discourse with thee; + For thy Idea, gifted with a self, + Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, + And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. + Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; + I ask not whither, for it must be on. + + This road will lead me to the hills, I think; + And there I am in safety and at home. + + + +SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks. + + _Abbot_. + Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name? + + _Monk_. + She did. + + _Abbot_. + What did she call the lady? What? + + _Monk_. + I could not hear. + + _Abbot_. + Nor where she lived? + _Monk_. + Nor that. + She was too wild for leading where I would. + + _Abbot_. + So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: + You have kept this matter secret? + + _Monk_. + Yes, my lord. + _Abbot_. + Well, go and send him hither. + + [Monk _goes_.] + Said I well, + That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me? + That God would hear his own elect who cried? + Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means + That it shall draw the eyes by power of light! + So tender in conceit, that it shall draw + The heart by very strength of delicateness, + And move proud thought to worship! + I must act + With caution now; must win his confidence; + Question him of the secret enemies + That fight against his soul; and lead him thus + To tell me, by degrees, his history. + So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation + For future acts, as circumstance requires. + For if the tale be true that he is rich, + And if---- + + _Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_. + + _Monk_. + He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty. + + _Abbot_ (_starting up_). + What! You are crazy! Gone? + His cell is empty? + + _Monk_. + 'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes! + + _Abbot_. + Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear! + There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied! + Some one is in his confidence!--who is it? + Go rouse the convent. + + [Monk _goes_.] + + He must be followed, found. + Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag! + But by and by your horns, and then your side! + 'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating. + I'll go and sift this business to the bran. + Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--God's + curse! it shall fare ill with any man + That has connived at this, if I detect him. + + + +SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven! + I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak + Is miles away, and high amid the clouds. + Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, + With the fantastic rock upon its side, + Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window + Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze + With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, + Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, + The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond, + A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, + Might be the depths of the unfathomed space, + This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. + Upon its very point I have watched a star + For a few moments crown it with a fire, + As of an incense-offering that blazed + Upon this mighty altar high uplift, + And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. + From the next window I could look abroad + Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted + With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, + Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, + In white and green; but still I turned to look + At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: + All here I saw--I knew not what was there. + O love of knowledge and of mystery, + Striving together in the heart of man! + "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."-- + Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: + "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!" + But I must hasten; else the sun will set + Before I reach the smoother valley-road. + I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has + Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, + Four years of wandering since I left my home, + In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, + Must have worn changes in this face of mine + Sufficient to conceal me, if I will. + + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the +floor_. ROBERT. + + + _Robert_. + One comfort is, he's far away by this. + Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. + Where shall I find a daysman in this strife + Between my heart and holy Church's words? + Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, + Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must + Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, + Be subject to the written law of words; + Impulses made, made strong, that we might have + Within the temple's court live things to bring + And slay upon his altar; that we may, + By this hard penance of the heart and soul, + Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; + I ought not to have let poor Julian go. + And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- + Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, + Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life + That he might be in peace. Still up and down + The balance goes, a good in either scale; + Two angels giving each to each the lie, + And none to part them or decide the question. + But still the _words_ come down the heaviest + Upon my conscience as that scale descends; + But that may be because they hurt me more, + Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. + Would God forbid us to do what is right, + Even for his sake? But then Julian's life + Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! + I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God + Commanded different things in different tones. + Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest + God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, + Like Mary singing to her mangered child; + The other like a self-restrained tempest; + Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, + Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_. + O for some light! Would they would kill me! then + I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, + And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; + And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. + I should not fear, for he would comfort me, + Because I am perplexed, and long to know. + But this perplexity may be my sin, + And come of pride that will not yield to him! + O for one word from God! his own, and fresh + From him to me! Alas, what shall I do! + + + + + +_PART II_. + + + Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense! + It is thy Duty waiting thee without. + Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; + A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; + Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; + Go forth into the tumult and the shout; + Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: + Of noise alone is born the inward sense + Of silence; and from action springs alone + The inward knowledge of true love and faith. + Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, + And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: + One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, + Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death. + + + +SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse. + + + _Julian_. + Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember: + A man about my height, but stronger built? + I have seen him at her father's. There was something + I did not like about him:--ah! I know: + He had a way of darting looks at you, + As if he wished to know you, but by stealth. + + _Nurse_. + The same, my lord. He is the creditor. + The common story is, he sought the daughter, + But sought in vain: the lady would not wed. + 'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, + Which caused much wonder, for the family + Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni + Contrived to be the only creditor, + And so imprisoned him. + + _Julian_. + Where is the lady? + _Nurse_. + Down in the town. + _Julian_. + But where? + _Nurse_. + If you turn left, + When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house + Upon this side the way. An honest couple, + Who once were almost pensioners of hers, + Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home + With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis + A wretched change for her. + + _Julian_. + Hm! ah! I see. + What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse? + + _Nurse_. + Here he is little known. His title comes + From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. + He looks ungracious: I have seen the children + Run to the doors when he came up the street. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay--one thing more: + Have any of my people seen me? + + _Nurse_. None + But me, my lord. + + _Julian_. + And can you keep it secret?-- + know you will for my sake. I will trust you. + Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.] + Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid + His plans for nothing further! I will watch him. + Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. + Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father, + Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame; + My love had no claim on like love from thee.--How + the old tide comes rushing to my heart! + + I know not what I can do yet but watch. + I have no hold on him. I cannot go, + Say, _I suspect_; and, _Is it so or not_? + I should but injure them by doing so. + True, I might pay her father's debts; and will, + If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well + During my absence. _I_ have not spent much. + But still she'd be in danger from this man, + If not permitted to betray himself; + And I, discovered, could no more protect. + Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt + Her footsteps like an angel, not for long + Should I remain unseen of other eyes, + That peer from under cowls--not angel-eyes-- + Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. + No; I must watch. I can do nothing better. + + + +SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_. + + _Man_. + How's the poor lady now? + + _Woman_. + She's poorly still. + I fancy every day she's growing thinner. + I am sure she's wasting steadily. + + _Man_. + Has the count + Been here again to-day? + + _Woman_. + No. And I think + He will not come again. She was so proud + The last time he was here, you would have thought + She was a queen at least. + + _Man_. + Remember, wife, + What she has been. Trouble like that throws down + The common folk like us all of a heap: + With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, + It sets the mettle up. + + _Woman_. + All very right; + But take her as she was, she might do worse + Than wed the Count Nembroni. + + _Man_. + Possible. + But are you sure there is no other man + Stands in his way? + + _Woman_. + How can I tell? So be, + He should be here to help her. What she'll do + I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. + And for her work, she does it far too well + To earn a living by it. Her times are changed-- + She should not give herself such prideful airs. + + _Man_. + Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard + On one another! You speak fair for men, + And make allowances; but when a woman + Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. + But where is this you're going then to-night? + Do they want me to go as well as you? + + _Woman_. + Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. + They cannot give the money to me, except + My husband go with me. He told me so. + + _Man_. + Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see: + I don't expect a groat to come of it. + + + +SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess. + + + _Host_. + That's a queer customer you've got upstairs! + What the deuce is he? + + _Hostess_. + What is that to us? + He always pays his way, and handsomely. + I wish there were more like him. + + _Host_. + Has he been + At home all day? + + _Hostess_. + He has not stirred a foot + Across the threshold. That's his only fault-- + He's always in the way. + + _Host_. + What does he do? + + _Hostess_. + Paces about the room, or sits at the window. + I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, + To see what he's about: he looks annoyed, + But does not speak a word. + _Host_. + He must be crazed, + Or else in hiding for some scrape or other. + + _Hostess_. + He has a wild look in his eye sometimes; + But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, + If he were mad, or anything on his conscience; + And though he does not say much, when he speaks + A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way. + + _Host_. + Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come? + + + +SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half +hidden by the curtain_. + + _Julian_. + With what profusion her white fingers spend + Delicate motions on the insensate cloth! + It was so late this morning ere she came! + I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale! + Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. + Do I not love he? more than when that beauty + Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond + The confines of her wondrous face and form, + And animated with a present power + Her garment's folds, even to the very hem! + + Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest + In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door, + As for her husband. Something will follow this. + And here he comes, all in his best like her. + They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk, + With short steps down the street. Now I must wake + The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes! + + + +SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_. + + _1st Serv_. + Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There! + That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head, + I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say; + We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten. + + _2nd Serv_. + Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare + She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already, + As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were + Under some roof or other. I fear this business + Is not of the right sort. + + _1st Serv_. + He looked as black + As if he too had lightning in his bosom. + There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo! + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face +pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_. + + _Julian_. + Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares! + I wish the wind would leave or blow it out. + Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm + Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind! + That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he + Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear + This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain + Has blotted all my view with crossing lights. + 'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over, + And take my stand in the corner by the door. + But if he comes while I go down the stairs, + And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently + Up the stair to the landing by her door. + + [_He goes quickly toward the door_.] + + _Hostess (opening the door and looking in_). + If you please, sir-- + + [_He hurries past_] + + The devil's in the man! + + + +SCENE VII.--_The landing_. + + _Voice within_. + If you scream, I must muffle you. + + _Julian (rushing up the stair_). + He _is_ there! + His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream! + + [_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs + forward on the other side_.] + + Back! + + _Nembroni_. + What the devil!--Beggar! + + [_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which + he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he + springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.] + + _Julian (taking him by the throat_). + I have faced worse + storms than you. + + [_They struggle_.] + + Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, + + [_He stabs him_.] + + Your ribs will not mail your heart! + + [NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the + dead man's coat_.] + + If men _will_ be devils, + They are better in hell than here. + + [_Lightning flashes on the blade_.] + + What a night + For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven! + + [_Approaches the lady within_.] + + Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope + It will not pass too soon. It is not far + To the half-hidden door in my own fence, + And that is well. If I step carefully, + Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints. + What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think! + Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me. + That's awkward now. + + [_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.] + + Pardon me, dear lady; + + [_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.] + + 'Tis not to save my blood I would defile + Even your handkerchief. + + [_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.] + + I am pleased to think + Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength. + + [_Looking out of the window on the landing_.] + + For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him. + + [_He goes down the stair_] + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse. + + _Julian_. + Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse. + You have put your charge to bed? + + _Nurse_. + Yes, my dear lord. + + _Julian_. + And has she spoken yet? + + _Nurse_. + After you left, + Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once: + _Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me, + And her eyes wandered over all my face, + Till half in comfort, half in weariness, + They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is + As feeble as a child. + + _Julian_. + Under your care + She'll soon be well again. Let no one know + She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her. + + _Nurse_. + Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress. + + _Julian_. + That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire. + Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you. + + _Nurse_. + Leave? + + _Julian_. + Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again + Over the earth and sea. She must not know + I have been here. You must contrive to keep + My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke + When a branch caught me, but she could not see me. + She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her; + Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse. + Let her on no pretense guess where she is, + Nor utter word that might suggest the fact. + When she is well and wishes to be gone, + Then write to this address--but under cover + + [_Writing_.] + + To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I + Will see to all the rest. But let her know + Her father is set free; assuredly, + Ere you can say it is, it will be so. + + _Nurse_. + How shall I best conceal her, my good lord? + + _Julian_. + I have thought of that. There's a deserted room + In the old west wing, at the further end + Of the oak gallery. + + _Nurse_. + Not deserted quite. + I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, + Because you loved it when a boy, my lord. + + _Julian_. + You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: + I found a sliding panel, and a door + Into a room behind. I'll show it you. + You'll find some musty traces of me yet, + When you go in. Now take her to your room, + But get the other ready. Light a fire, + And keep it burning well for several days. + Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, + Take everything to make it comfortable; + Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, + Bind her to be as secret as yourself. + Then put her there. I'll let her father know + She is in safety.--I must change attire, + And be far off or ever morning break. + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + My treasure-room! how little then I thought, + Glad in my secret, one day it would hold + A treasure unto which I dared not come. + Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!-- + But not with even a heavenly gift would I + Go begging love; that should be free as light, + Cleaving unto myself even for myself. + I have enough to brood on, joy to turn + Over and over in my secret heart:-- + She lives, and is the better that I live! + + _Re-enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; + She's in a dreadful fever. We must send + To Arli for the doctor, else her life + Will be in danger. + + _Julian_ + (_rising disturbed_). + Go and fetch your daughter. + Between you, take her to my room, yours now. + I'll see her there. I think you can together! + + _Nurse_. + O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + _Julian_. + I ought to know the way to treat a fever, + If it be one of twenty. Hers has come + Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. + I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna! + + + +SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot. + + _Abbot_. + 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. + One hope remains: that fellow has a head! + + _Enter_ STEPHEN. + + Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told + You said to-day, if I commissioned you, + You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave. + + _Stephen_. + I did, my lord. + + _Abbot_. + How would you do it, Stephen? + + _Stephen_. + Try one plan till it failed; then try another; + Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes + And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: + Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. + I have no plan; but, give me time and money, + I'll find him out. + + _Abbot_. + Stephen, you're just the man + I have been longing for. Get yourself ready. + + + +SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_. +JULIAN _watching_. + + _Julian_. + I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then + She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! + My heart is beating as if it would spend + Its life in this one night, and beat it out. + And well it may, for there is more of life + In one such moment than in many years! + Pure life is measured by intensity, + Not by the how much of the crawling clock. + Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across + The window-blind? or is it but a band + Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed + Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself, + Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this-- + + _Lilia_ + (_half-asleep, wildly_). + If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!-- + Julian! Julian! + + [_Half-rising_.] + + _Julian_ + (_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_). + I am here, my Lilia. + Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream, + A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not? + + [_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on + the pillow. He leaves her_.] + + How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me! + But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long + She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead + In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced, + And leave her to console my solitude. + Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it! + And what a grief! I will not think of that! + Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own! + O God, I did not know thou wast so rich + In making and in giving; did not know + The gathered glory of this earth of thine. + What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy? + Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take + Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born + In thee, and send it home to dwell with me? + + [_He leans on the wall_.] + + _Lilia_ + (_softly_). + Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad, + As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am. + I see the flashing of ten thousand glories; + I hear the trembling of a thousand wings, + That vibrate music on the murmuring air! + Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool + Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!-- + What is it, though, that makes me glad like this? + I knew, but cannot find it--I forget. + It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall, + The endless going of the stream of life!-- + Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty! + + [_Querulously_.] + + [JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him + again, with large wondering eyes_.] + + Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty! + + [_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He + extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.] + + _Julian_. + The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless; + With its obtrusive _I am_ written large + Upon its face! + + [_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with + clasped hands; then returns to the window_.] + + She sleeps so peacefully! + O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep. + Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep. + You must be near her when she wakes again. + I think she'll be herself. But do be careful-- + Right cautious how you tell her I am here. + Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep! + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Nurse_. + Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter, + That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks, + And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!-- + Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life + From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see + Your shutters open, for I then should know + Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back, + To peep at morning from her own bright windows. + Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her, + To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams + Have but betrayed her secrets honestly! + Will he not give thee love as dear as thine! + + + +SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look +around him_. + + _Stephen_. + Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound + would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged + good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind + thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not + hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not. + Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man + that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not + follow thee. + + [_Sings_.] + + + Oh, many a hound is stretching out + His two legs or his four, + And the saddled horses stand about + The court and the castle door, + Till out come the baron, jolly and stout, + To hunt the bristly boar! + + The emperor, he doth keep a pack + In his antechambers standing, + And up and down the stairs, good lack! + And eke upon the landing: + A straining leash, and a quivering back, + And nostrils and chest expanding! + + The devil a hunter long hath been, + Though Doctor Luther said it: + Of his canon-pack he was the dean, + And merrily he led it: + The old one kept them swift and lean + On faith--that's devil's credit! + + Each man is a hunter to his trade, + And they follow one another; + But such a hunter never was made + As the monk that hunted his brother! + And the runaway pig, ere its game be played, + Shall be eaten by its mother! + + + Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail + monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and + precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_ + the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with + his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally + heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't + keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave + his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts + I am. + + +SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN +_seated by her; an open note in his hand_. + + _Lilia_. + Tear it up, Julian. + + _Julian_. + No; I'll treasure it + As the remembrance of a by-gone grief: + I love it well, because it is _not_ yours. + + _Lilia_. + Where have you been these long, long years away? + You look much older. You have suffered, Julian! + + _Julian_. + Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much, + Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself, + I'll tell you all you want to know about me. + + _Lilia_. + Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong; + It will not hurt me. + + _Julian_. + Wait a day or two. + Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all. + + _Lilia_. + And I have much to tell you, Julian. I + Have suffered too--not all for my own sake. + + [_Recalling something_.] + + Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!-- + I don't know when it was. It must have been + Before you brought me here! I am sure it was. + + _Julian_. + Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards. + You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must. + + _Lilia_. + I will obey you, will not speak a word. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + Blessings upon her! she's near well already. + Who would have thought, three days ago, to see + You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders. + + _Julian_. + My art has helped a little, I thank God.-- + To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Lilia_. + Why does he always wear that curious cap? + + _Nurse_. + I don't know. You must sleep. + + _Lilia_. + Yes. I forgot. + + + +SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers +on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_. + + _Julian_. + Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me. + You sent that note privately to my friend? + + _Steward_. + I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money, + Putting all things in train for his release, + Without appearing in it personally, + Or giving any clue to other hands. + He sent this message by my messenger: + His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it. + He will be secret. For his daughter, she + Is safe with you as with himself; and so + God bless you both! He will expect to hear + From both of you from England. + + _Julian_. + Well, again. + What money is remaining in your hands? + + _Steward_. + Two bags, three hundred each; that's all. + I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more. + + _Julian_. + One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance + Befall us, though I do not fear it much-- + have been very secret--is that boat + I had before I left, in sailing trim? + + _Steward_. + I knew it was a favorite with my lord; + I've taken care of it. A month ago, + With my own hands I painted it all fresh, + Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail + I'll have replaced immediately; and then + 'Twill be as good as new. + + _Julian_. + That's excellent. + Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast + To the stone steps behind my garden study. + Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put + The money in the old desk in the study. + + _Steward_. + I will, my lord. It will be safe enough. + + + + +SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay +dress, coming up to him_. + + _Stephen_. + Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow? + + _Waggoner_. + Its present owner's of the Uglii; + They call him Lorenzino. + + _Stephen_. + Whose is that + Down in the valley? + + _Waggoner_. + That is Count Lamballa's. + + _Stephen_. + What is his Christian name? + + _Waggoner_. + Omfredo. No, + That was his father's; his is Julian. + + _Stephen_. + Is he at home? + + _Waggoner_. + No, not for many a day. + His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful + Whether he be alive; and yet his land + Is better farmed than any in the country. + + _Stephen_. + He is not married, then? + + _Waggoner_. + No. There's a gossip + Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!-- + That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors, + To wander here and there, like a bad ghost, + Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge! + + _Stephen_. + Most probably. I quite agree with you. + Where do you stop? + + _Waggoner_. + At the first inn we come to; + You'll see it from the bottom of the hill. + There is a better at the other end, + But here the stabling is by far the best. + + _Stephen_. + I must push on. Four legs can never go + Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend. + + _Waggoner_. + Good morning, sir. + + _Stephen (aside_) + I take the further house. + + + +SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the +window_. + + _Julian_. + But do you really love me, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Why do you make me say it so often, Julian? + You make me say _I love you_, oftener far + Than you say you love me. + + _Julian_. + To love you seems + So much a thing of mere necessity! + I can refrain from loving you no more + Than keep from waking when the sun shines full + Upon my face. + + _Lilia_. + And yet I love to say + How, how I love you, Julian! + + [_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She + raises her head and looks at him_.] + + Did I hurt you? + Would you not have me lean my head on you? + + _Julian_. + Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt + Not yet quite healed. + + _Lilia_. + Ah, my poor Julian! How-- + I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember! + I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream! + I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him? + + _Julian_ + (_calmly, but drawing himself up_). + I killed him as I would a dog that bit you. + + _Lilia_ + (_turning pale, and covering her face with her + hands_.) + Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you! + + _Julian_. + Shall I go, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, no, no, do not.-- + I shall be better presently. + + _Julian_. + You shrink + As from a murderer! + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, I love you-- + Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian; + But blood is terrible. + + _Julian_ + (_drawing her close to him_). + My own sweet Lilia, + 'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, + As it had been a tiger that I killed. + He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling; + His blood lies not on me, but on himself; + I do not feel its stain upon my conscience. + + [_A tap at the door_.] + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, the steward waits on you below. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + You have been standing till you're faint, my lady! + Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something. + + + +SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_. + + _Julian_. + Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect + To hear from you soon after my arrival. + Is the boat ready? + + _Steward_. + Yes, my lord; afloat + Where you directed. + + _Julian_. + A strange feeling haunts me, + As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast + The chain around the post. Muffle the oars. + + _Steward_. + I will, directly. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Julian_. + How shall I manage it? + I have her father's leave, but have not dared + To tell her all; and she must know it first! + She fears me half, even now: what will she think + To see my shaven head? My heart is free-- + I know that God absolves mistaken vows. + I looked for help in the high search from those + Who knew the secret place of the Most High. + If I had known, would I have bound myself + Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds + Never a lark springs to salute the day? + The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best + Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! + It cannot be God's will I should be such. + But there was more: they virtually condemned + Me in my quest; would have had me content + To kneel with them around a wayside post, + Nor heed the pointing finger at its top? + It was the dull abode of foolishness: + Not such the house where God would train his children! + My very birth into a world of men + Shows me the school where he would have me learn; + Shows me the place of penance; shows the field + Where I must fight and die victorious, + Or yield and perish. True, I know not how + This will fall out: he must direct my way! + But then for her--she cannot see all this; + Words will not make it plain; and if they would, + The time is shorter than the words would need: + This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.-- + It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat + Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear + That the fair gladness is too good to live: + The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, + The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down; + But how will she receive it? Will she think + I have been mocking her? How could I help it? + Her illness and my danger! But, indeed, + So strong was I in truth, I never thought + Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. + My love did make her so a part of me, + I never dreamed she might judge otherwise, + Until our talk of yesterday. And now + Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me: + To wed a monk will seem to her the worst + Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. + I cannot take the truth, and, bodily, + Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. + She loves me--not as I love her. But always + --There's Robert for an instance--I have loved + A life for what it might become, far more + Than for its present: there's a germ in her + Of something noble, much beyond her now: + Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not. + + This evening must decide it, come what will. + + + +SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, +Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_. + + _Stephen_. + Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; + Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband. + + _Hostess_. + I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; + My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say + I am a judge myself. + + _Host_. + I'm confident + It needs but to be tasted. + + _Stephen_ + (_tasting critically, then nodding_). + That is wine! + Let me congratulate you, my good sir, + Upon your exquisite judgment! + + _Host_. + Thank you, sir. + + _Stephen_ + (_to the_ Hostess). + And so this man, you say, was here until + The night the count was murdered: did he leave + Before or after that? + + _Hostess_. + I cannot tell; + He left, I know, before it was discovered. + In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, + He rushed into the street, half tumbling me + Headlong down stairs, and never came again. + He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; + So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one! + + _Stephen_. + What was he like, fair Hostess? + + _Hostess_. + Tall and dark, + And with a lowering look about his brows. + He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. + One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, + Indoors as well as out. I dare not say + He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange + He always sat at that same window there, + And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if + There were much traffic in the village now; + These are changed times; but I have seen the day-- + + _Stephen_. + Excuse me; you were saying that the man + Sat at the window-- + + _Hostess_. + Yes; even after dark + He would sit on, and never call for lights. + The first night, I brought candles, as of course; + He let me set them on the table, true; + But soon's my back was turned, he put them out. + + _Stephen_. + Where is the lady? + + _Hostess_. + That's the strangest thing + Of all the story: she has disappeared, + As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, + White as my apron. The whole house was empty, + Just as I told you. + + _Stephen_. + Has no search been made? + _Host_. + The closest search; a thousand pieces offered + For any information that should lead + To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother, + Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, + Seeking in vain for some intelligence. + + _Stephen_. + 'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard + For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; + I have to write some letters. + + _Hostess (rising_). + Thank you, sir, + For your kind entertainment. + + [_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.] + + _Stephen_. + We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw + him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not + be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and + corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a + wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother + Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away + with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll + be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the + old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! + Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve. + The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old + mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her + children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her + dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's + nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to + marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is + displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable + progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the + cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory + couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the + chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll + go find the new count. The Church shall have the + castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new + count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well + have the thousand pieces as not. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN. + + _Lilia_. + How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + My Lilia, will you go to England with me? + + _Lilia_. + Julian, my father! + + _Julian_. + Not without his leave. + He says, God bless us both. + + _Lilia_. + Leave him in prison? + + _Julian_. + No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe, + And far from this ere now. + + _Lilia_. + You have done this, + My noble Julian! I will go with you + To sunset, if you will. My father gone! + Julian, there's none to love me now but you. + You _will_ love me, Julian?--always? + + _Julian_. + I but fear + That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough + To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it. + + _Lilia_. + I know why you think that; and I deserve it. + But try me, Julian. I was very silly. + I could not help it. I was ill, you know; + Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian, + How your arm is to-day? + + _Julian_. + Almost well, child. + Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid. + + _Lilia_. + Never mind that, if it be well again. + + _Julian_. + I do not mind it; but when I remember + That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch + Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours. + And there are more scars on me now than I + Should like to make you own, without confession. + + _Lilia_. + My poor, poor Julian! never think of it; + + [_Putting her arms round him_.] + + I will but love you more. I thought you had + Already told me suffering enough; + But not the half, it seems, of your adventures. + You have been a soldier! + + _Julian_. + I have fought, my Lilia. + I have been down among the horses' feet; + But strange to tell, and harder to believe, + Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood + Save what I lifted from the gory ground. + + [_Sighing_.] + + My wounds are not of such. + + [LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a + kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.] + + No. Penance, Lilia; + Such penance as the saints of old inflicted + Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know; + As a lord would exalt himself, by making + His willing servants into trembling slaves! + Yet I have borne it. + + _Lilia_ + (_laying her hand on his arm_). + Ah, alas, my Julian, + You have been guilty! + + _Julian_. + Not what men call guilty, + Save it be now; now you will think I sin. + Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.-- + Lilia, I have been a monk. + + _Lilia_. + A monk? + + [_Turningpale_.] + + I thought-- + + [_Faltering_.] + + Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say ... ? + + [_Very pale, brokenly_.] + + I thought you said ... + + [_With an effort_.] + + I was to be your wife! + + [_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.] + + _Julian_ + (_speaking low and in pain_). + And so I did. + + _Lilia_ + (_hopefully, and looking up_). + Then you've had dispensation? + + _Julian_. + God has absolved me, though the Church will not. + He knows it was in ignorance I did it. + Rather would he have men to do his will, + Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, + Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. + The vow was made to him--to him I break it. + + _Lilia_ + (_weeping bitterly_). + I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ... + It never can ... be right to break a vow; + If so, men might be liars every day; + You'd do the same by me, if we were married. + + _Julian_ + (_in anguish_). + 'Tis ever so. Words are the living things! + There is no spirit--save what's born of words! + Words are the bonds that of two souls make one! + Words the security of heart to heart! + God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God! + + _Lilia_ + (_not heeding him_). + Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon + Gave late repentance; I should weep away + My life within a convent. + + _Julian_. + Come to England, + To England, Lilia. + + _Lilia_. + Men would point, and say: + _There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth, + Called me not by a harder name than that. + + _Julian_. + There are no monks in England. + + _Lilia_. + But will that + Make right what's wrong? + + _Julian_. + Did I say so, my Lilia? + I answered but your last objections thus; + I had a different answer for the first. + + _Lilia_. + No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it. + + _Julian_. + Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot. + --I would have told you all before, but thought, + Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;-- + I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more; + I would not hurt your body, less your soul, + For all the blessedness your love can give: + For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say. + Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard + From infancy--it may---- + + [_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.] + + _Steward_. + My lord, there's such an uproar in the town! + They call you murderer and heretic. + The officers of justice, with a monk, + And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied + By a fierce mob with torches, howling out + For justice on you, madly cursing you! + They caught a glimpse of me as I returned, + And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm; + But I escaped them, old man as I am, + And was in time to bar the castle-gates.-- + Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut + The river from the moat! + + [_Distant yells and cries_.] + + Escape, my lord! + + _Julian_ + (_calmly_). + Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph? + + _Steward_. + A little while, my lord; but those damned torches! + Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls! + + _Julian_. + Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window, + And tell us of their progress. + + [JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.] + + Farewell, Lilia! + + [_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.] + + Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me. + My presence would but bring down evil on you, + My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear, + The terrible things that you have imaged out + If you fled with me. They will not hurt you, + If you be not polluted by my presence. + + [_Light from without flares on the wall_.] + + They've fired the gate. + + [_An outburst of mingled cries_.] + + _Steward_ + (_entering_). + They've fired the gate, my lord! + + _Julian_. + Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph. + You and old Agata tell all the truth, + And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me; + I shall be safe--you know me--never fear. + + _Steward_. + God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord! + + [_Is going_.] + + _Julian_. + But add, it was in vain; the signorina + Would not consent; therefore I fled alone. + + [LILIA _stands as before_.] + + _Steward_. + Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master! + + [Goes.] + + _Julian_. + Put your arms round me once, my Lilia. + Not once?--not once at parting? + + [_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.] + + O God! farewell! + + [_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the + panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both + behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, + and flies after him, but forgets to close + the panel_.] + + _Lilia_. + Julian! Julian! + + [_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door + of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of + the mob_.] + + _1st_. + I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still! + + _2nd_. + Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his + own. Look under the bed, Gian. + + _3rd_. + Nothing there. + + _4th_. + Another door! another door! He's in a trap + now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with + difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up + the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into + the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.] + + _Voices from within_. + I have him! I have him! Curse + your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You + won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. + Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the + light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! + The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles! + + [_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with + torches and follow_.] + + * * * * * + +SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN +_handing her the bags_. + + _Julian_. + There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it + is heavy.-- + Put them right in the middle, of the boat: + Gold makes good ballast. + + [_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, + then pushes gently off_.] + + Look how the torches gleam + Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped! + + [_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with + cries of search_.] + + (_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length + In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white, + And would return the torches' glare. I fear + The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this. + + [_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.] + + Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars! + The water mutters Spanish in its sleep. + My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife! + God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults, + Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!-- + Once round the headland, I will set the sail; + The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream. + Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all, + White angel lying in my little boat! + Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm, + Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks, + Should make me rich with womanhood and life! + + [_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.] + + SONG. + + Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife, + Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled; + Unresting yet, though folded up from life; + Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind, + O cover me with kisses of her mouth; + Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind; + To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing + From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing, + Us to a new love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + + + +PART III. + + + And weep not, though the Beautiful decay + Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes; + Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies, + Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. + Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away; + Her form departs not, though her body dies. + Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies, + Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day, + Through the kind nurture of the winter cold. + Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive + The summer-time, when roses were alive; + Do thou thy work--be willing to be old: + Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold + A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive. + + + +Time: _Five years later_. + +SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single +candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN +_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks +older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_. + + _Julian_. + What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_: + +"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At +length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the +Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what +he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, +spake as follows:--" + +"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and +there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near +the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and +above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and +strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a +rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining +between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who +had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou +sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A +song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead +thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly +came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose +eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom +he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the +youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a +dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was +a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide +within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw, +far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His +guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of +the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men +leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a +far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they, +I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a +windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it +seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard +a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it +was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat +down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I +ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it +means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the +Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who +cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he +sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to +take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where +God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of +his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The +sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal; +and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could +not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove +well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall +upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their +eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it +likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that +of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled +within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my +son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary +step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave +hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and +said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what +songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath +told his tale to the Immortals.'" + + [_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and + walks up and down the room_.] + + And so five years have poured their silent streams, + Flowing from fountains in eternity, + Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf, + Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed; + And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept. + And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born; + The day that showed how like to God himself + Man had been made, since God could be revealed + By one that was a man with men, and still + Was one with God the Father; that men might + By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God, + Who had come near to them in tenderness. + O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye + That oft hath opened on me these five years; + Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit + That let me know thy thought was toward me; + Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years, + Telling what converse I should hold with God. + I thank thee for the sorrow and the care, + Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks + Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which + Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee. + Five years ago, I prayed in agony + That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then, + With that close speech I craved so hungrily. + Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart; + And thou wast all the time instructing me + To know the language of thy inmost speech. + I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour + Thou spakest every word my heart could hear, + Though oft I did not know it was thy voice. + My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul; + As if a world far-off in depths of space, + Chaotic, had implored that it might shine + Straightway in sunlight as the morning star. + My soul must be more pure ere it could hold + With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart + That shall see God. As if a well that lay + Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown + Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass + Over its surface, could give back the sun! + Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield + Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven! + And though I am not yet come near to him, + I know I am more nigh; and am content + To walk a long and weary road to find + My father's house once more. Well may it be + A long and weary--I had wandered far. + My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me. + I am content, rejoicing to go on, + Even when my home seems very far away; + For over grief, and aching emptiness, + And fading hopes, a higher joy arises. + In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright, + High overhead, through folds and folds of space; + It is the earnest-star of all my heavens; + And tremulous in the deep well of my being + Its image answers, gazing eagerly. + + Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus, + Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul + Thus far upon its journey home to God. + By poor attempts to do the things he said, + Faith has been born; free will become a fact; + And love grown strong to enter into his, + And know the spirit that inhabits there. + One day his truth will spring to life in me, + And make me free, as God says "I am free." + When I am like him, then my soul will dawn + With the full glory of the God revealed-- + Full as to me, though but one beam from him; + The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it: + In his light I shall see light. God can speak, + Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear. + Not yet like him, how can I hear his words? + + [_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.] + + My darling child! God's little daughter, drest + In human clothes, that light may thus be clad + In shining, so to reach my human eyes! + Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth, + To call me _father_, that my heart may know + What father means, and turn its eyes to God! + Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me, + How all unfit this heart of mine to have + The guardianship of a bright thing like thee, + Come to entice, allure me back to God + By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home, + And radiating of thy purity + Into my stained heart; which unto thee + Shall ever show the father, answering + The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes. + O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways, + All ignorant of wherefore thou art come, + And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward, + Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light + And pour it forth on me! God bless his own! + +[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.] + + My child woke crying from her sleep; + I bended o'er her bed, + And soothed her, till in slumber deep + She from the darkness fled. + + And as beside my child I stood, + A still voice said in me-- + "Even thus thy Father, strong and good, + Is bending over thee." + + +SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers; +gentlemen looking on_. + + 1_st Gentleman_. + Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves + As if her body were instinct with thought, + Moulded to motion by the music's waves, + As floats the swan upon the swelling lake; + Or as in dreams one sees an angel move, + Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air, + Then folding them, and turning on his track. + + 2_nd_. + You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it; + She is a glorious woman; and such eyes! + Think--to be loved by such a woman now! + + 1_st_. + You have seen her, then, before: what is her name? + + 2_nd_. + I saw her once; but could not learn her name. + + 3_rd_. + She is the wife of an Italian count, + Who for some cause, political I think, + Took refuge in this country. His estates + The Church has eaten up, as I have heard: + Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach. + + 2_nd_. + How do they live? + + 3_rd_. + Poorly, I should suppose; + For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons: + That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing! + + 2_nd_. + If she sings as she looks or as she dances, + It were as well for me I did not hear. + + 3_rd_. + If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford + To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth. + + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_. + + _Julian_. + I wish she would come home. When the child wakes, + I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest + On me, then wander searching through the room, + And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia! + 'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go + From this dull place, and for a few short hours + Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee; + For thou art very young for such hard things + As poor men's wives in cities must endure. + + I am afraid the thought is not at rest, + But rises still, that she is not my wife-- + Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child + Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead, + She thinks I have begun to think the same-- + Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin + Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia! + When every time I pray, I pray that God + Would look and see that thou and I be one! + + _Lily_ + (_starting up in her crib_). + Oh, take me! take me! + + _Julian_ + (_going up to her with a smile_). + What is the matter with my little child? + + _Lily_. + I don't know, father; I was very frightened. + + _Julian_. + 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you. + + _Lily_. + I am wake now; I know you're there; but then + I did not know it. + + [_Smiling_.] + + _Julian_. + Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again. + + _Lily_ + (_beseechingly_). + Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again; + It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up, + And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother? + I cannot see her. + + _Julian_. + She's not at home, my child; + But soon she will be back. + + _Lily_. + But if she walk + Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her. + + _Julian_. + She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet? + + _Lily_. + I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_). + Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you + A story I have read this very night. + + [_She looks in his face_.] + + There was a man who had a little boy, + And when the boy grew big, he went and asked + His father to give him a purse of money. + His father gave him such a large purse full! + And then he went away and left his home. + You see he did not love his father much. + + _Lily_. + Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone! + + _Julian_. + Away he went, far far away he went, + Until he could not even spy the top + Of the great mountain by his father's house. + And still he went away, away, as if + He tried how far his feet could go away; + Until he came to a city huge and wide, + Like London here. + + _Lily_. + Perhaps it was London. + + _Julian_. + Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent + All, all his father's money, buying things + That he had always told him were not worth, + And not to buy them; but he would and did. + + _Lily_. + How very naughty of him! + + _Julian_. + Yes, my child. + And so when he had spent his last few pence, + He grew quite hungry. But he had none left + To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce; + Nobody gave him any. He had been + Always so idle, that he could not work. + But at last some one sent him to feed swine. + + _Lily_. + _Swine_! Oh! + + _Julian_. + Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do; + And he was glad to eat some of their food. + + [_She stares at him_.] + + But at the last, hunger and waking love + Made him remember his old happy home. + "How many servants in my father's house + Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go + And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father; + I am not worthy to be called your son; + Put me among your servants, father, please.'" + Then he rose up and went; but thought the road + So much, much farther to walk back again, + When he was tired and hungry. But at last + He saw the blue top of the great big hill + That stood beside his father's house; and then + He walked much faster. But a great way off, + His father saw him coming, lame and weary + With his long walk; and very different + From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging + In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes-- + + [_She bursts into tears_.] + + _Lily_ + (_sobbing_). + Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my dear child. + + _Lily_. + And was he dirty too? + + _Julian_. + Yes, very dirty; he had been so long + Among the swine. + + _Lily_. + Is it all true though, father? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far + Than you can think. + + _Lily_. + What was his father like? + + _Julian_. + A tall, grand, stately man. + + _Lily_. + Like you, dear father? + + _Julian_. + Like me, only much grander. + + _Lily_. + I love you + The best though. + + [_Kissing him_.] + + _Julian_. + Well, all dirty as he was, + And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes, + His father knew him, the first look, far off, + And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms + Around his neck and kissed him. + + _Lily_. + Oh, how dear! + I love him too;--but not so well as you. + + [_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.] + + _Julian_. + There is your mother. + + _Lily_. + I am glad, so glad! + + _Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_. + + _Lilia_. + You naughty child, why are you not in bed? + + _Lily_ + (_pouting_). + I am not naughty. I am afraid to go, + Because you don't go with me into sleep; + And when I see things, and you are not there, + Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out, + And stretch my hands, and so I come awake. + Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come. + + _Lilia_. + What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed. + + [_Lays her down_.] + + _Julian_ + (_gazing on the child_). + As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother, + So are we lost in life without our God. + + + +SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the +street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_. + + _Lilia_. + Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time + My thoughts would wander to my dreary home. + Through every dance, my soul walked evermore + In a most dreary dance through this same room. + I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard, + As now, his measured step in the next chamber, + Go pacing up and down, and I shut out! + He is too good for me, I weak for him. + Yet if he put his arms around me once, + And held me fast as then, kissed me as then, + My soul, I think, would come again to me, + And pass from me in trembling love to him. + But he repels me now. He loves me, true,-- + Because I am his wife: he ought to love me! + Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty. + Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid, + Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven, + He used me like a slave bought in the market! + Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own; + And words of tenderness would falter in, + Relenting from the sternness of command. + But I am not enough for him: he needs + Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. + So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me + Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. + Italian lovers love not so; but he + Has German blood in those great veins of his. + He never brings me now a little flower. + He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child; + But never sings to me what the voice-bird + Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. + I would I were his child, and not his wife! + How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts + Fit to be women to his mighty men; + And he would love them, if he saw them once. + + Ah! there they come, the visions of my land! + The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs + Purple above the blue waves at their feet! + Down the full river comes a light-blue sail; + And down the near hill-side come country girls, + Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits; + Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad + For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment + At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought; + And to their side come stately, youthful forms, + Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:-- + Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day. + Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look + With pity on their poor contentedness; + For he sits at the helm, I at his feet. + He sung a song, and I replied to him. + His song was of the wind that blew us down + From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea. + Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea, + Where I should cry for comforting in vain, + Was the expanse of his wide awful soul, + To which that wind was helpless drifting me! + I would he were less great, and loved me more. + I sung to him a song, broken with sighs, + For even then I feared the time to come: + "O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now? + And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?" + Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart. + "And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend, + And suck my soul in vapours up to thee? + Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours. + Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I + In the warm valley, with the lily pale, + Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves; + Where odours are the sole invisible clouds, + Making the heart weep for deliciousness. + Will thy eternal mountain always bear + Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot? + Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow, + The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head, + Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door, + And goest from me into loneliness." + Ah me, my song! it is a song no more! + He is alone amid his windy rocks; + I wandering on a low and dreary plain! + + +[_She weeps herself asleep_.] + + + +SCENE V.--LORD SEAFORD, _alternately writing at a table and +composing at his pianoforte_. + + SONG. + + Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, + Sweetly, softly, sadly bright! + Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, + Radiant mists of ecstasy. + + Be not proud, O glorious orbs! + Not your mystery absorbs; + But the starry soul that lies + Looking through your night of eyes. + + One moment, be less perfect, sweet; + Sin once in something small; + One fault to lift me on my feet + From love's too perfect thrall! + + For now I have no soul; a sea + Fills up my caverned brain, + Heaving in silent waves to thee, + The mistress of that main. + + O angel! take my hand in thine; + Unfold thy shining silver wings; + Spread them around thy face and mine, + Close curtained in their murmurings. + + But I should faint with too much bliss + To be alone in space with thee; + Except, O dread! one angel-kiss + In sweetest death should set me free. + + O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on, + Till thou hast won my soul in sighs; + I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne, + If thou wilt keep those eyes. + + And if the meanings of untold desires + Should charm thy pain of one faint sting, + I will arise amid the scorching fires, + I will arise and sing. + + O what is God to me? He sits apart + Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold. + Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart; + O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold. + + With too much life, I fall before thee dead. + With holding thee, my sense consumes in storm. + Thou art too keen a flame, too hallowed + For any temple but thy holy form. + + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room next morning; no fire_. JULIAN _stands at +the window, looking into a London fog_. + + _Julian_. + And there are mountains on the earth, far-off; + Steep precipices laved at morn in wind + From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap, + Springing from rock to pool abandonedly; + And all the spirit of the earth breathed out, + Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame, + Aloft to God! And there is woman-love-- + Far off, ah me! + + [_Sitting down wearily_.] + + --the heart of earth's delight + Withered from mine! O for a desert sea, + The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs! + Where I might cry aloud on God, until + My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain, + And fled to him. A numbness as of death + Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live, + But my dull soul can hardly keep awake. + Yet God is here as on the mountain-top, + Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle; + And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me, + As once I thought she did. But can I blame her? + The change has been too much for her to bear. + Can poverty make one of two hearts cold, + And warm the other with the love of God? + But then I have been silent, often moody, + Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought + That I was tired of her, while more than all + I pondered how to wake her living soul. + She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber, + Except a goaded conscience were my grief; + Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun. + Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus + Of that which makes her mine for evermore, + It is no wonder if her love grow less. + Then I am older much than she; and this + Fever, I think, has made me old indeed + Before my fortieth year; although, within, + I seem as young as ever to myself. + O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame; + I'll love thee more than ever; I will be + So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead! + For carefully men ope the door, and walk + With silent footfall through the room where lies, + Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore, + The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit. + Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love's child? + + I must go forth and do my daily work. + I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes + To do my daily labour; for, of old, + When men were poor, and could not bring thee much, + A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask; + And so in poverty, and with a heart + Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do + My day's work well to thee,--my offering: + That he has taught me, who one day sat weary + At Sychar's well. Then home when I return, + I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee. + Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance-- + Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice; + Thou only wise enough to teach the soul, + Measuring out the labour and the grief, + Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own. + He neither chose his glory, nor devised + The burden he should bear; left all to God; + And of them both God gave to him enough. + And see the sun looks faintly through the mist; + It cometh as a messenger to me. + My soul is heavy, but I will go forth; + My days seem perishing, but God yet lives + And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe. + + [_He rises and is going_. LILIA _enters, looking weary_.] + + Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out! + + _Lilia_. + Shines out indeed! Yet 'tis not bad for England. + I would I were in Italy, my own! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + 'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy. + + _Lilia_. + But never more will shine upon us there! + It is too late; all wishing is in vain; + But would that we had not so ill deserved + As to be banished from fair Italy! + + _Julian_. + Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think + That God is angry when we suffer ill. + 'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger. + + _Lilia_. + Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish + I felt as you feel. + + _Julian_. + God will hear you, child, + If you will speak to him. But I must go. + Kiss me, my Lilia. + + [_She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh_.] + + _Lilia_. + It is plain to see + He tries to love me, but is weary of me. + + [_She weeps_.] + + _Enter_ LILY. + + _Lily_. + Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear! + + [_Pulling her hand from her face_.] + + + + +SCENE VII.--_Julian's room. Noon_. LILIA _at work_; LILY _playing in +a closet_. + + _Lily_ + (_running up to her mother_). + Sing me a little song; please, mother dear. + + [LILIA, _looking off her work, and thinking with + fixed eyes for a few moments, sings_.] + + SONG. + + Once I was a child, + Oime! + Full of frolic wild; + Oime! + All the stars for glancing, + All the earth for dancing; + Oime! Oime! + + When I ran about, + Oime! + All the flowers came out, + Oime! + Here and there like stray things, + Just to be my playthings. + Oime! Oime! + + Mother's eyes were deep, + Oime! + Never needing sleep. + Oime! + Morning--they're above me! + Eventide--they love me! + Oime! Oime! + + Father was so tall! + Oime! + Stronger he than all! + Oime! + On his arm he bore me, + Queen of all before me. + Oime! Oime! + + Mother is asleep; + Oime! + For her eyes so deep, + Oime! + Grew so tired and aching, + They could not keep waking. + Oime! Oime! + + Father, though so strong, + Oime! + Laid him down along-- + Oime! + By my mother sleeping; + And they left me weeping, + Oime! Oime! + + Now nor bird, nor bee, + Oime! + Ever sings to me! + Oime! + Since they left me crying, + All things have been dying. + Oime! Oime! + + [LILY _looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering + what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. + After a little she comes running with a box in her hand_.] + + _Lily_. + O mother, mother! there's the old box I had + So long ago, and all my cups and saucers, + And the farm-house and cows.--Oh! some are broken. + Father will mend them for me, I am sure. + I'll ask him when he comes to-night--I will: + He can do everything, you know, dear mother. + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A merchants counting-house_. JULIAN _preparing to go +home_. + + _Julian_. + I would not give these days of common toil, + This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks + Into the very soul, and mars its hue-- + Not for the evenings when with gliding keel + I cut a pale green track across the west-- + Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted + With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low, + So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails, + That pointed to the south, and wavered not, + Erect upon the waters.--Jesus said + His followers should have a hundred fold + Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.-- + In all the labourings of a weary spirit, + I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things. + The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul, + No more look in from far.--I never see + Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about + A gently opening eye into the blue, + But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee, + Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before, + Signed only that the hour for prayer was come, + But now it moves my inmost soul to pray. + + On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked + Upon its thousand glories; read them all; + In splendour let them pass on through his soul, + And triumph in their new beatitude, + Finding a heaven of truth to take them in; + But walked on steadily through pain to death. + + Better to have the poet's heart than brain, + Feeling than song; but better far than both, + To be a song, a music of God's making; + A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame, + In words harmonious, of triumphant verse, + That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear, + That out of darkness he hath called the light. + It may be voice to such is after given, + To tell the mighty tale to other worlds. + + Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope + That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds + Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were + Most blest of men, if I were now returning + To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God, + I can but look to thee. And then the child!-- + Why should my love to her break out in tears? + Why should she be only a consolation, + And not an added joy, to fill my soul + With gladness overflowing in many voices + Of song, and prayer--and weeping only when + Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance? + + + +SCENE IX.--LILIA _preparing to go out_. LILY. + + _Lily_. + Don't go to-night again. + + _Lilia_. + Why, child, your father + Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me. + + _Lily_. + Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad + When you're not here! + + _Lilia_ + (_aside_). + He cannot look much sadder + Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief + To find his child alone when he returns. + + _Lily_. + Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry + Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, + And tell such lovely tales: you never do-- + Nor sing me songs made all for my own self. + He does not kiss me half so many times + As you do, mother; but he loves me more. + Do you love father, too? I love him _so_! + + _Lilia_ + (_ready_). + There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool, + And look at the pictures till your father comes. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lily_ + (_putting the book down, and going to the window_). + I wish he would come home. I wish he would. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + Oh, there he is! + + [_Running up to him_.] + + Oh, now I am so happy! + + [_Laughing_.] + + I had not time to watch before you came. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her in his arms_). + I am very glad to have my little girl; + I walked quite fast to come to her again. + + _Lily_. + I do, _do_ love you. Shall I tell you something? + Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream + That I went into, somewhere in last night. + I was alone--quite;--you were not with me, + So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like + That one you took me to, long, long ago, + When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, + But some of the poor leaves were growing tired + With hanging there so long. And some of them + Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay + Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. + I saw one falling--down, down--tumbling down-- + Just at the earth--when suddenly it spread + Great wings and flew.--It was a butterfly, + So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white-- + + [_Laughing heartily_.] + + I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf. + Away it flew! I don't know where it went. + And so I thought, I have a story now + To tell dear father when he comes to Lily. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. + But I am tired--will you go find another-- + Another dream somewhere in sleep for me? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will.--Perhaps I cannot find one. + + [_He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing_.] + + _Julian_. + What shall I do to give it life again? + To make it spread its wings before it fall, + And lie among the dead things of the earth? + + _Lily_. + I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing + The song about the little thirsty lily. + + [JULIAN _sings_.] + + + SONG. + + Little white Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little white Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little white Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little white Lily + Said, "It is good: + Little white Lily's + Clothing and food! + Little white Lily + Drest like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crowned beside!" + + Little white Lily + Droopeth in pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little white Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling, + And filling it up. + + Little white Lily + Said, "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have nice rain! + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full!" + + Little white Lily + Smells very sweet: + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + "Thanks to the sunshine! + Thanks to the rain! + Little white Lily + Is happy again!" + + [_He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her_.] + + _Julian_. + She is asleep, the darling! Easily + Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. + Gone home unto thy Father for the night! + + [_He returns to his seat_.] + + I have grown common to her. It is strange-- + This commonness--that, as a blight, eats up + All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit. + + [_Looking round_.] + + This room is very common: everything + Has such a well-known look of nothing in it; + And yet when first I called it hers and mine, + There was a mystery inexhaustible + About each trifle on the chimney-shelf: + The gilding now is nearly all worn off. + Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world, + Seems less mysterious and worshipful: + No wonder I am common in her eyes. + Alas! what must I think? Is this the true? + Was that the false that was so beautiful? + Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round? + Or was love to the eyes as opium, + Making all things more beauteous than they were? + And can that opium do more than God + To waken beauty in a human brain? + Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth-- + A skeleton admitted as a guest + At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask? + No, no; my heart would die if I believed it. + A blighting fog uprises with the days, + False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about + The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever + Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out: + On past and future pours the light of heaven. + The Commonplace is of the present mind. + The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful + Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms + The great child-heart has withered, backward look + To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly, + A mere delusion to which youth is subject, + As childhood to diseases. They know better! + And proud of their denying, tell the youth, + On whom the wonder of his being shines, + That will be over with him by and by: + "I was so when a boy--look at me now!" + Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love. + So with all worship of the high and good, + And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser! + Their god, Experience, but their own decay; + Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them. + Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss, + And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it, + Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming. + But he in whom the child's heart hath not died, + But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past; + Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours + Will melt the mist; and that, although this day + Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn, + A morning light will break one morn and draw + The hidden glories of a thousand hues + Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots + And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before. + Far in the future lies his refuge. Time + Is God's, and all its miracles are his; + And in the Future he overtakes the Past, + Which was a prophecy of times to come: + _There_ lie great flashing stars, the same that shone + In childhood's laughing heaven; there lies the wonder + In which the sun went down and moon arose; + The joy with which the meadows opened out + Their daisies to the warming sun of spring; + Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear + Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul: + To reach it, he must climb the present slope + Of this day's duty--here he would not rest. + But all the time the glory is at hand, + Urging and guiding--only o'er its face + Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil: + He knows the beauty radiant underneath; + He knows that God who is the living God, + The God of living things, not of the dying, + Would never give his child, for God-born love, + A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun. + Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil + Will melt away, destroyed of inward light. + + If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou + And I might, as two children, hand in hand, + Go home unto our Father.--I believe + It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet. + + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room. Christmas Day; early morn_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world + On this one day that blesses all the year, + Just as it comes on any other day: + A feeble child he came, yet not the less + Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth, + Where nothing now is common any more. + All things had hitherto proclaimed God: + The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid + The far horizon of the fading sea; + The low persistent music evermore + Flung down upon the sands, and at the base + Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup; + All things most common; the furze, now golden, now + Opening dark pods in music to the heat + Of the high summer-sun at afternoon; + The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top, + O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke, + Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid, + Singing like children down the rocky sides;-- + Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing, + For that sang God with all its voice of song? + But men heard not, they knew not God in these; + To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange; + For with a stammering tongue and broken words, + With mingled falsehoods and denials loud, + Man witnessed God unto his fellow man: + How then himself the voice of Nature hear? + Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader, + He in the chorus sang a discord vile? + When prophet lies, how shall the people preach? + But when He came in poverty, and low, + A real man to half-unreal men, + A man whose human thoughts were all divine, + The head and upturned face of human kind-- + Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth, + And men began to read their maker there. + Now the Divine descends, pervading all. + Earth is no more a banishment from heaven; + But a lone field among the distant hills, + Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home. + Now, now we feel the holy mystery + That permeates all being: all is God's; + And my poor life is terribly sublime. + Where'er I look, I am alone in God, + As this round world is wrapt in folding space; + Behind, before, begin and end in him: + So all beginnings and all ends are hid; + And he is hid in me, and I in him. + + Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!-- + The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue + Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west, + While the dank wind is running o'er the graves; + Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow; + The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow; + And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars! + Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick, + Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades-- + Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space, + The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams-- + Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon! + All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth, + Changing with every cloud that passes o'er; + All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost + Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air, + To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps, + The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun; + All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice, + To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers--all, all + The unlike children of her single womb! + Oh, my heart labours with infinitude! + All, all the messages that these have borne + To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls; + And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts, + That since the first-born, young, attempting day, + Have gazed and worshipped!--What a unity, + To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all! + O centre of all forms! O concord's home! + O world alive in one condensed world! + O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed + The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven! + Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine! + + I sought my God; I pressed importunate; + I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart + It seemed he answered me. I said--"Oh! take + Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life! + I faint, I die; I am a child alone + 'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night." + + "Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee, + Trod the highways and deserts of the world." + + "Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight! + Thou wilt not have me--I am not worth thy care!" + + "I send thee not away; child, think not so; + From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak, + I call to guide thee in the path by which + Thou may'st come soonest home unto my heart. + I, I am leading thee. Think not of him + As he were one and I were one; in him + Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one. + Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine, + And see that God dwelleth in lowliness." + + I came to Him; I gazed upon his face; + And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!-- + Yea, let them laugh! I _will_ sit at his feet, + As a child sits upon the ground, and looks + Up in his mother's face. One smile from him, + One look from those sad eyes, is more to me + Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts. + O perfect made through the reacting pain + In which thy making force recoiled on thee! + Whom no less glory could make visible + Than the utter giving of thyself away; + Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed, + More than a child embracing from full heart! + Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief + Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God, + Or rather, bear in being unto us + Thy own pure shining self of love and truth! + When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts, + To love the truth beyond the power to know it, + To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross, + Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake, + But an unprofitable servant still,-- + My highest sacrifice my simplest duty + Imperative and unavoidable, + Less than which _All_, were nothingness and waste; + When I have lost myself in other men, + And found myself in thee--the Father then + Will come with thee, and will abide with me. + + + * * * * * + +SCENE XI.--LILIA _teaching_ LADY GERTRUDE. _Enter_ LORD SEAFORD. +LILIA _rises_. _He places her a chair, and seats himself at the +instrument; plays a low, half-melancholy, half-defiant prelude, and +sings_. + + SONG. + + Look on the magic mirror; + A glory thou wilt spy; + + Be with thine heart a sharer, + But go not thou too nigh; + Else thou wilt rue thine error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye. + + The youth looked on the mirror, + And he went not too nigh; + And yet he rued his error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye; + For he could not be a sharer + In what he there did spy. + + He went to the magician + Upon the morrow morn. + "Mighty," was his petition, + "Look not on me in scorn; + But one last gaze elision, + Lest I should die forlorn!" + + He saw her in her glory, + Floating upon the main. + Ah me! the same sad story! + The darkness and the rain! + If I live till I am hoary, + I shall never laugh again. + + She held the youth enchanted, + Till his trembling lips were pale, + And his full heart heaved and panted + To utter all its tale: + Forward he rushed, undaunted-- + And the shattered mirror fell. + + [_He rises and leaves the room. LILIA weeping_.] + + + + +PART IV. + + + And should the twilight darken into night, + And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong; + Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong + Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright. + That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light. + Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long; + Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. + But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight, + There lies no cause for beauty's slow decay; + If for completeness and diviner youth, + And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth; + If thou hast learned to give thyself away + For love's own self, not for thyself, I say: + Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth! + + + +SCENE I.--_Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of +poems_. + + + Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower; + A sleepiness filleth the earth and air; + The rain has been falling for many an hour; + A weary look the summer doth wear: + Beautiful things that cannot be so; + Loveliness clad in the garments of woe. + + Love me, beloved; I hear the birds; + The clouds are lighter; I see the blue; + The wind in the leaves is like gentle words + Quietly passing 'twixt me and you; + The evening air will bathe the buds + With the soothing coolness of summer floods. + + Love me, beloved; for, many a day, + Will the mist of the morning pass away; + Many a day will the brightness of noon + Lead to a night that hath lost her moon; + And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring, + Thy love to my soul is a needful thing. + + Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie + Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + Love me, O love me, and let me know + The love that within thee moves to and fro; + That many a form of thy love may be + Gathered around thy memory. + + Love me, beloved; for I may lie + Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain, + The stronger thy hope till we meet again; + And forth on the pathway we do not know, + With a load of love, my soul would go. + + Love me, beloved; for one must lie + Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky; + The pale stiff lips return no kiss + To the lips that never brought love amiss; + And the dark brown earth be heaped above + The head that lay on the bosom of love. + + Love me, beloved; for both must lie + Under the earth and beneath the sky; + The world be the same when we are gone; + The leaves and the waters all sound on; + The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live, + Gifts for the poor man's love to give; + The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, + Tell the same tales to others than thee; + And joys, that flush with an inward morn, + Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn; + A youthful race call our earth their own, + And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne; + Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace. + The maid beside him, his queen of the race; + When thou and I shall have passed away + Like the foam-flake thou looked'st on yesterday. + + Love me, beloved; for both must tread + On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead; + Where now but in thinkings strange we roam, + We shall live and think, and shall be at home; + The sights and the sounds of the spirit land + No stranger to us than the white sea-sand, + Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon, + Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon. + I pray thee to love me, belov'd of my heart; + If we love not truly, at death we part; + And how would it be with our souls to find + That love, like a body, was left behind! + + Love me, beloved; Hades and Death + Shall vanish away like a frosty breath; + These hands, that now are at home in thine, + Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine; + And thou shall be mine, my spirit's bride, + In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide, + If the truest love that thy heart can know + Meet the truest love that from mine can flow. + Pray God, beloved, for thee and me, + That our souls may be wedded eternally. + + [_He closes the book, and is silent for some moments_.] + + Ah me, O Poet! did _thy_ love last out + The common life together every hour? + The slumber side by side with wondrousness + Each night after a day of fog and rain? + Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse, + And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot? + Is she dead, Poet? Is thy love awake? + + Alas! and is it come to this with me? + _I_ might have written that! where am I now? + Yet let me think: I love less passionately, + But not less truly; I would die for her-- + A little thing, but all a man can do. + O my beloved, where the answering love? + Love me, beloved. Whither art thou gone? + + * * * * * + +SCENE II.--_Lilia's room_. LILIA. + + _Lilia_. + He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn. + Were it not better that I went away, + And left him with the child; for she alone + Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face? + Alas, he used to say to me, _my child_! + Some convent would receive me in my land, + Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned; + And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell, + To take me likewise in, beside him there. + + Had I not better make one trial first + To win again his love to compass me? + Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet, + And beg and pray for love as for my life? + Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven, + That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles? + What if endurance were my only meed? + He would not turn away, but speak forced words, + Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love, + And giving service where I wanted smiles; + Till by degrees all had gone back again + To where it was, a slow dull misery. + No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him-- + And that I will do--free him from my sight. + In love I gave myself away to him; + And now in love I take myself again. + He will not miss me; I am nothing now. + + * * * * * + +SCENE III.--_Lord Seaford's garden_. LILIA; LORD SEAFORD. + + _Lord S_. + How the white roses cluster on the trellis! + They look in the dim light as if they floated + Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round. + One could believe that those far distant tones + Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent, + Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers, + As the low rushing from a river-bed, + Or the continuous bubbling of a spring + In deep woods, turning over its own joy + In its own heart luxuriously, alone. + 'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days, + The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes + Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees, + With likeness undefinable retained + In higher human form to their tree-homes, + Which fainting let them forth into the air, + And lived a life in death till they returned. + The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech + Gave forth the perfect woman to the night; + From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole + The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown. + The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm, + The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams, + And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands. + The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth + Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy. + All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood + Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass + Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated + Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim. + O what a life they lived! in poet's brain-- + Not on this earth, alas!--But you are sad; + You do not speak, dear lady. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon me. + If such words make me sad, I am to blame. + + _Lord S_. + Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things: + Beauty and sadness always go together. + Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth + Upon the earth without a meet alloy. + If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness, + Poets had never needed this dream-life; + Each blessed man had but to look beside him, + And be more blest. How easily could God + Have made our life one consciousness of joy! + It is denied us. Beauty flung around + Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts + To worship her; then when the soul is full + Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe, + And colours that bring tears into the eyes-- + Steeped until saturated with her essence; + And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing + More beautiful than all, containing all, + Essential Beauty's self, that it may say: + "Thou art my Queen--I dare not think to crown thee, + For thou art crowned already, every part, + With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee, + The utterance of the beauty of the earth, + As of the trees the Hamadryades; + I worship thee, intense of loveliness! + Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean, + Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling + To give thee birth, to utter each its thought + Of beauty held in many forms diverse, + In one form, holding all, a living Love, + Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen + By virtue of thy dignities combined!"-- + And when in some great hour of wild surprise, + She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced, + At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee, + And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy, + And his soul thinks not, having lost itself + In her, pervaded with her being; strayed + Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form, + Clothing her with the only beauty yet + That could be added, ownness unto him;-- + Then falls the stern, cold _No_ with thunder-tone. + Think, lady,--the poor unresisting soul + Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss + To house in central deep the ideal form; + Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed, + From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine, + To set it on the Pisgah of desire;-- + Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain! + Stormy confusions! far gray distances! + And the dim rush of countless years behind! + + [_He sinks at her feet_.] + + Yet for this moment, let me worship thee! + + _Lilia_ + (_agitated_). + Rise, rise, my lord; this cannot be, indeed. + I pray you, cease; I will not listen to you. + Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be! + + [_Moving as to go_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_rising_). + Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself + On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, + All the bright morning, as I walked alone; + And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words. + It is a weakness with me from my boyhood, + That if I act a part in any play, + Or follow, merely intellectually, + A passion or a motive--ere I know, + My being is absorbed, my brain on fire; + I am possessed with something not myself, + And live and move and speak in foreign forms. + Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive + My rudeness with your gentleness and truth. + That you are beautiful is simple fact; + And when I once began to speak my thoughts, + The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire, + And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust. + I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame, + I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness. + + _Lilia_. + Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray. + --What is this purple flower with the black spot + In its deep heart? I never saw it before. + + + +SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing +with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_. + + _Julian_. + I see her as I saw her then. She sat + On a low chair, the child upon her knees, + Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, + Her full face beamed upon the face below, + Bent over it, as with love to ripen love; + Till its intensity, like summer heat, + Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, + Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, + The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing! + [_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a + little table, and writes_.] + + THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING. + + My child is lying on my knees; + The signs of heaven she reads: + My face is all the heaven she sees, + Is all the heaven she needs. + + And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, + If heaven is in my face-- + Behind it, all is tenderness, + And truthfulness and grace. + + I mean her well so earnestly. + Unchanged in changing mood; + My life would go without a sigh + To bring her something good. + + I also am a child, and I + Am ignorant and weak; + I gaze upon the starry sky, + And then I must not speak; + + For all behind the starry sky, + Behind the world so broad, + Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie + The Infinite of God. + + If true to her, though troubled sore, + I cannot choose but be; + Thou, who art peace for evermore, + Art very true to me. + + If I am low and sinful, bring + More love where need is rife; + _Thou_ knowest what an awful thing + It is to be a life. + + Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap + My waywardness about, + In doubting safety on the lap + Of Love that knows no doubt? + + Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, + My child upon my knee; + She looketh up unto my face, + And I look up to thee. + + + +SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY +GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the +girl's hand in both hers_. + + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you to come! And you will stay + And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well? + I am better since you came. You look so sweet, + It brings all summer back into my heart. + + _Lilia_. + I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt + No one could nurse you quite so well as I. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; + And put your white cool hands upon my head; + And let me lie and look in your great eyes: + 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing. + + _Lilia_. + I must not let you talk too much, dear child. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, + And must not speak much, will you sing to me? + Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; + 'Twill keep me quiet. + + _Lilia_. + What was it, child? + + _Lady Gertrude_. + It was + Something about a race--Death and a lady-- + + _Lilia_. + Oh! I remember. I would rather sing + Some other, though. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + No, no, I want that one. + Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, + But won't stand long enough to show itself. + You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, + Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me. + + _Lilia_. + Well, I'll sing it. + + + SONG. + + Death and a lady rode in the wind, + In a starry midnight pale; + Death on a bony horse behind, + With no footfall upon the gale. + + The lady sat a wild-eyed steed; + Eastward he tore to the morn. + But ever the sense of a noiseless speed, + And the sound of reaping corn! + + All the night through, the headlong race + Sped to the morning gray; + The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face-- + From Death or the morning? say. + + Her steed's wide knees began to shake, + As he flung the road behind; + The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, + And a cold breath came down the wind. + + When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside, + With a silver mane and tail; + A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride, + With never a coat of mail. + + He never lifted his hand to Death, + And he never couched a spear; + But the lady felt another breath, + And a voice was in her ear. + + He looked her weary eyes through and through, + With his eyes so strong in faith: + Her bridle-hand the lady drew, + And she turned and laughed at Death. + + And away through the mist of the morning gray, + The spectre and horse rode wide; + The dawn came up the old bright way, + And the lady never died. + + + _Lord Seaford_ + (_who has entered during the song_). + Delightful! Why, my little pining Gertrude, + With such charm-music you will soon be well. + Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks + I owe you for your kindness to my daughter: + She looks as different from yesterday + As sunrise from a fog. + + _Lilia_. + I am but too happy + To be of use to one I love so much. + + +SCENE VI.--_A rainy day_. LORD SEAFORD _walking up and down his room, +murmuring to himself_. + + + Oh, my love is like a wind of death, + That turns me to a stone! + Oh, my love is like a desert breath, + That burns me to the bone! + + Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow, + And a purple scent all day! + But a black spot lies at the heart below, + And smells all night of clay. + + Oh, my love is like the poison sweet + That lurks in the hooded cell! + One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, + And then the passing bell! + + Oh, my love she's like a white, white rose! + And I am the canker-worm: + Never the bud to a blossom blows; + It falls in the rainy storm. + + + +SCENE VII.--JULIAN _reading in his room_. + + "And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me." + + [_He closes the book and kneels_.] + + +SCENE VIII.--_Lord Seaford's room_. LILIA _and_ LORD SEAFORD. +_Her hand lies in his_. + + _Lilia_. + It may be true. I am bewildered, though. + I know not what to answer. + + _Lord S_. + Let me answer:-- + You would it were so--you would love me then? + + [_A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street, + melting away in a low cadence_.] + + _Lilia_ + (starting up). + Let me go, my lord! + + _Lord S_. + (_retaining her hand_). + Why, sweetest! what is this? + + _Lilia_ + (_vehemently, and disengaging her hand_). + Let me go. My husband! Oh, my white child! + + [_She hurries to the door, but falls_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_raising her_). + I thought you trusted me, yes, loved me, Lilia! + + _Lilia_. + Peace! that name is his! Speak it again--I rave. + He thought I loved him--and I did--I do. + Open the door, my lord! + + [_He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes_.] + + Once more, my lord-- + + Open the door, I say. + + [_He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it + wide, and is throwing herself out_.] + + _Lord S_. + Stop, madam! I will. + + [_He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly + out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself + on the couch, and hides his face_.] + + _Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Dear father, are you ill? I knocked + three times; You did not speak. + + _Lord S_. + I did not hear you, child. + My head aches rather; else I am quite well. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + She is gone. She had + An urgent message to go home at once. + But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not + Set out to-morrow? You can travel now; + And for your sake the sooner that we breathe + Italian air the better. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + This is sudden! + I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow. + + _Lord S_. + It will oblige me, child. Do what you can. + Just go and order everything you want. + I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love; + I have a reason for my haste. We'll have + The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear. + + +SCENE IX.--_Evening. Hampstead Heath_. LILIA _seated_. + + _Lilia_. + The first pale star! braving the rear of Day! + And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn + His long train after him! then half creation + Will follow its queen-leader from the depths. + O harbinger of hope! O star of love! + Thou hast gone down in me, gone down for ever; + And left my soul in such a starless night, + It has not love enough to weep thy loss. + O fool! to know thee once, and, after years, + To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp! + How could I for one moment hear him speak! + O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought + To bring that love itself, bound and resigned, + And offering it a sacrifice to thee, + Lead it away into the wilderness; + But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb; + Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary, + Not flattering itself to die for thee. + And yet, thank God, it was one moment only, + That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee, + Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead + Through very weariness and lack of love, + My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray + That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes, + And seemed to promise rest and hope again. + My presence shall not grieve thee any more, + My Julian, my husband. I will find + A quiet place where I will seek thy God. + And--in my heart it wakens like a voice + From him--the Saviour--there are other worlds + Where all gone wrong in this may be set right; + Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still, + And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee. + I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why. + But what to say about my late offence, + That he may understand just what it was? + For I must tell him, if I write at all. + I fear he would discover where I was; + Pitiful duty would not let him rest + Until he found me; and I fain would free + From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. + + [_Sound of a coach-horn_.] + + It calls me to rise up and go to him, + Leading me further from him and away. + The earth is round; God's thoughts return again; + And I will go in hope. Help me, my God! + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN _reading. A letter is brought in. +He reads it, turns deadly pale, and leans his arms and head on the +table, almost fainting. This lasts some time; then starting up, he +paces through the room, his shoulders slightly shrugged, his arms +rigid by his sides, and his hands clenched hard, as if a net of pain +were drawn tight around his frame. At length he breathes deep, draws +himself up, and walks erect, his chest swelling, but his teeth set_. + + + _Julian_. + Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say _my_ wife? + + [_Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address_.] + + Why, if she love him more than me, why then + Let her go with him!--Gone to Italy! + Pursue, says he? _Revenge_?--Let the corpse crush + The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!-- + What if I stabbed-- + + [_Taking his dagger, and feeling its point_.] + + Whom? Her--what then?--Or him-- + What yet? Would that give back the life to me? + There is one more--myself! Oh, peace! to feel + The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!-- + But to be driven along the windy wastes-- + To hear the tempests, raving as they turn, + Howl _Lilia, Lilia_--to be tossed about + Beneath the stars that range themselves for ever + Into the burning letters of her name-- + 'Twere better creep the earth down here than that, + For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain. + + [_He throws the dagger on the floor_.] + + Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I? + A pride of innocence darts through my veins. + I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha! + I laugh at insult. _I_? I am myself-- + + Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill; + When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:-- + But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly. + Lilia! my worship of thy purity! + Hast thou forgotten--ah! thou didst not know + How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain, + When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare, + I turned my eyes away, and turning drew + With trembling hand white darkness over thee, + Because I knew not thou didst love me then. + Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing + That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance, + Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn-- + Shaped all about thy image set within! + But that were fearful! What rage would not, love + Must then do for thee--in mercy I would kill thee, + To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse. + If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow; + Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed, + Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away. + Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep, + My hand upon thy heart!--not fit to lie, + For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave! + + +[_His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an +emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and +covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale, +his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears_.] + + + O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child! + How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine? + Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears? + God, can she never more be clean? no more, + Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well + In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can + Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down + Into the friendly earth--would it were lying + There in my arms! for there thy rains will come, + Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod, + Summer and winter; and we two should lie + Mouldering away together, gently washed + Into the heart of earth; and part would float + Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds + Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God! + Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death + Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit + In some still place together, glory-shadowed. + None would ask questions there. And I should be + Content to sorrow a little, so I might + But see her with the darling on her knees, + And know that must be pure that dwelt within + The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia! + I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot; + I would endure it endlessly, to save + One thought of thine from his polluting touch; + Saying ever to myself: this is a part + Of my own Lilia; and the world to me + Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her: + Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me, + And this is all that's left of her. My wife! + Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself! + Come back to me; I will be all to thee: + Back to my heart; and we will weep together, + And pray to God together every hour, + That he would show how strong he is to save. + The one that made is able to renew-- + I know not how.--I'll hold thy heart to mine, + So close that the defilement needs must go. + My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire, + Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.-- + But if she love him? Oh my heart--beat! beat! + Grow not so sick with misery and life, + For fainting will not save thee.--Oh no! no! + She cannot love him as she must love me. + Then if she love him not--oh horrible!--oh God! + + [_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.] + + What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_? + I care not--loving more than that can touch. + Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame, + As men call perishing, so she be saved. + Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas, + Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep, + Till her soul wept itself to purity! + Far, far away! where my love cannot reach. + No, no; she is not gone! + + [_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.] + + It is a lie-- + Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love. + I must do something.-- + + [_Enter_ LILY.] + + Ah! there's the precious thing + That shall entice her back. + + [_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.] + + My little Lily, + I have lost your mother. + + _Lily_. + Oh! + + [_Beginning to weep_.] + + She was so pretty, + Somebody has stolen her. + + _Julian_. + Will you go with me, + And help me look for her? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will. + + [_Clasping him round the neck_.] + + But my head aches so! Will you carry me? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet. + + _Lily_. + Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white! + + [_Putting her finger to his cheek_.] + + +SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round +it. To them enter another_. + + _1st Gentleman_. + Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter? + + _Bernard_. + Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done. + + _2nd G_. + A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard, + But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth + Of our impatient curiosity. + + _Bernard_. + Most unexpectedly I found myself + Spectator of a scene in a home-drama + Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw. + + _All_. + What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat. + + [_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.] + + _Bernard_. + I went to call on Seaford, and was told + He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, + Went to his cabinet to write a note; + Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. + Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice-- + "The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?" + And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse + Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest + In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, + And on his left arm sat a little child. + The porter gave short answer, with the door + For period to the same; when, like a flash, + It flew wide open, and the serving man + Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, + 'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. + In walked the visitor; but in the moment + Just measured by the closing of the door, + Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if + Heading a column, with an eye and face + As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot + Up suddenly within his wasted frame. + The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, + But with a look of triumph in her eyes. + He glanced in each room opening from the hall, + Set his face for the stair, and came right on-- + In every motion calm as glacier's flow, + Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick, + Of his right hand across to his left side: + 'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms. + + _3rd G_. + Did no one stop him? + + _Bernard_. + Stop him? I'd as soon + Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy + In passion to meet passion; but it is + A daunting thing to look on, when the blood + Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. + Besides, this man had something in his face, + With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, + A self-reliance, and a self-command, + That would go right up to its goal, in spite + Of any _no_ from any man. I would + As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. + Over the porter, lying where he fell, + He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go-- + I listened as it were a ghost that walked + With pallid spectre-child upon its arm-- + Along the corridors, from door to door, + Opening and shutting. But at last a sting + Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, + And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. + I met him at the top, quiet as at first; + The fire had faded from his eyes; the child + Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove + Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, + He turned him to the porter, who had scarce + Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying, + "The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford," + Turned him again, and strode into the street. + + _1st G_. + Have you learned anything of what it meant? + + _Bernard_. + Of course he had suspicions of his wife: + For all the gifts a woman has to give, + I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see + The gentle fairy child fall kissing him, + And, with her little arms grasping his neck, + Peep anxious round into his shaggy face, + As they went down the street!--it almost made + A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child! + + + +SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The +child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy +_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_. + + _Julian_. + Look at the monkey, Lily. + + _Lily_. + No, dear father; + I do not like monkeys. + + _Julian_. + Hear the poor boy sing. + + [_They listen. He sings_.] + + SONG. + + Wenn ich hoere dich mir nah', + Stimmen in den Blaettern da; + Wenn ich fuehl' dich weit und breit, + Vater, das ist Seligkeit. + + Nun die Sonne liebend scheint, + Mich mit dir und All vereint; + Biene zu den Blumen fliegt, + Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt. + + So mich voellig lieb du hast, + Daseyn ist nicht eine Last; + Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich, + Das genuegt mir inniglich. + + _Lily_. + It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father? + + _Julian_. + My boy, you are not German? + + _Boy_. + No; my mother + Came from those parts. She used to sing the song. + I do not understand it well myself, + For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + My mother was a German, my poor boy; + My father was Italian: I am like you. + + [_Giving him money_.] + + You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees, + Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street! + + _Boy_. + My mother sings it in her grave; and I + Will sing it everywhere, until I die. + + + +SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child; +undresses her, and puts her to bed_. + + _Lily_. + Father does all things for his little Lily. + + _Julian_. + My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet. + + [_Sitting by her_.] + + "Wenn ich seh' und hoere dich, + Das genuegt mir inniglich." + + [_Falling on his knees_.] + + I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast, + Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear, + Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free, + That thou art not enough for me, my God. + Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear + Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me. + Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear. + O give me back my wife; thou without her + Canst never make me blessed to the full. + + [_Silence_.] + + O yes; thou art enough for me, my God; + Part of thyself she is, else never mine. + My need of her is but thy thought of me; + She is the offspring of thy beauty, God; + Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee: + Thou wilt restore her to my very soul. + + [_Rising_.] + + It may be all a lie. Some needful cause + Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think + One moment that my wife could sin against me! + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + I never can forgive my jealousy! + Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house! + + + [_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her + sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in + his bosom_.] + + It will be all explained. To think I should, + Without one word from her, condemn her so! + What can I say to her when she returns? + I shall be utterly ashamed before her. + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + + [_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.] + + + +SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY +_in his arms. Three_ Students. + + _1st Student_. + Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man? + There is a character for that same novel + You talk of thunder-striking London with, + One of these days. + + _2nd St_. + I scarcely noticed him; + I was so taken with the lovely child. + She is angelic. + + _3rd St_. + You see angels always, + Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals. + She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid. + I wonder what the old fellow is about. + Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract, + That lingers at the door he cannot enter! + Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon, + And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds. + Here's mine. + + _1st St_. + And mine. + + _2nd St_. + And mine. + + [_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.] + + _Julian_ + (_very quietly_). + No, thank you, sir. + + _Lily_. + Oh! there is mother! + + [_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.] + + _Julian_. + No, no; hush, my child! + + [_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_. + Women _talking_.] + + _1st W_. + I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his. + + _2nd W_. + There's a suspicious look about him. + + _3rd W_ + True; + But the child clings to him as if she loved him. + + [JULIAN _moves on slowly_.] + + + +SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_. +LILY _playing in a corner_. + + _Julian_. + Though I am lonely, yet this little child-- + She understands me better than the Twelve + Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord. + Ten times last night I woke in agony, + I knew not why. There was no comforter. + I stretched my arm to find her, and her place + Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain + Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being; + Then would I lay my aching, weary head + Upon her bosom, promise of relief: + I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world! + + [_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.] + + You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp. + Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear. + + [_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.] + + 'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty + As it was once! + + [_Thinking aloud_.] + I picked the jewels out + To buy your mother the last dress I gave her. + There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily. + Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I, + Saving thee only for a greater ill! + If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;-- + Is she not part of thee, and all my own? + But now---- + + _Lily_ + (_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_). + Father, what is a poetry? + + _Julian_. + A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful + That God has made. + + _Lily_. + As beautiful as mother? + _Julian_. + No, my dear child; but very beautiful. + + _Lily_. + Do let me see a poetry. + + _Julian_ + (_opening a book_). + There, love! + _Lily_ + (_disappointedly_). + I don't think that's so very pretty, father. + One side is very well--smooth; but the other + + [_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.] + + Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning, + + [_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.] + + Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it. + + _Julian_ + (_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_). + You do not understand it yet, my child. + You cannot know where it is beautiful. + But though you do not see it very pretty, + Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. + + [_He reads_.] + + _Lily_ + (_looking pleased_). + Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty. + It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother. + + _Julian_. + There's something in it very beautiful, + If I could let you see it. When you're older + You'll find it for yourself, and love it well. + Do you believe me, Lily? + + _Lily_. + Yes, dear father. + + [_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.] + + I wonder where its prettiness is, though; + I cannot see it anywhere at all. + + [_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.] + + _Julian_ + (_musing_). + True, there's not much in me to love, and yet + I feel worth loving. I am very poor, + But that I could not help; and I grow old, + But there are saints in heaven older than I. + I have a world within me; there I thought + I had a store of lovely, precious things + Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass; + Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels; + And glimmering daylight in the cloven east; + There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column, + 'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees; + There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge, + Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth, + And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds: + The distant meadows and the gloomy river + Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.-- + Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture: + Of this fair world I would have made her queen;-- + Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond + Into that farther world of things unspoken, + Of which these glories are the outer stars, + The clouds that float within its atmosphere. + Under the holy might of teaching love, + I thought her eyes would open--see how, far + And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out, + And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere; + Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber, + Open the little window, and look forth + On the wide silent ocean, silent winds, + And see what she must see, I could not tell. + By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake + The sleeping music of her poet-soul: + We read together many magic words; + Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art; + Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound; + Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs; + And evermore I talked. I was too proud, + Too confident of power to waken life, + Believing in my might upon her heart, + Not trusting in the strength of living truth. + Unhappy saviour, who by force of self + Would save from selfishness and narrow needs! + I have not been a saviour. She grew weary. + I began wrong. The infinitely High, + Made manifest in lowliness, had been + The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there, + And set her down by humble Mary's side, + He would have taught her all I could not teach. + Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus + Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? + + [_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book + to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; + then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.] + + _Julian (bursting into tears_). + Father, I am thy _child_. + Forgive me this: + Thy poetry is very hard to read. + + +SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_. + + _Lily_. + Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad + Not to have any mother! Shall I ask + This gentleman if he knows where she is? + + _Julian_. + No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by. + + +BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together. + + _Bernard_. + Have you seen Seaford lately? + _Gentleman_. + No. In fact, + He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. + Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; + And if I hear aright, one more is missing-- + Just the companion for his lordship's taste. + You've not forgot that fine Italian woman + You met there once, some months ago? + + _Bern_. + Forgot her! + I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough: + Her husband is alive! + + _Lily_. + Mother was Italy, father,--was she not? + + _Julian_. + Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word. + + _Gentleman_. + Oh, yes; no doubt! + But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature! + + _Bern_. + Something quite different, I assure you, Harry. + Last week I saw him--never to forget him-- + Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast. + + _Gentleman_. + Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely. + 'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize + Worth sinning for a little more than little. + + _Lily_ + (_whispering_). + Why don't you ask them whether it was mother? + I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it. + + _Gentleman_. + Look what a lovely child! + + _Bern_. + Harry! Good heavens! + It is the Count Lamballa. Come along. + + +SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_. + + + _Julian_. + I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, + To whom I never lift my soul, in hope + To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears + Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart + That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought + Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, + And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, + Alone, unreachable, the making thought, + Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, + A living, thinking will, that cannot know + The power whereby I am--so blest the more + In being thus in thee--Father, thy child. + I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me. + My being shares thy glory: lay on me + What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me + Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I + May do it as my best, my highest joy; + For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee. + + Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know + The power in thee to purify from sin. + But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive. + Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault. + She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!-- + I will love her the more, to fill the cup; + One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled; + For if I love her not, how desolate + The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not. + + I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:-- + Give me my wife again, that I may watch + And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell + What loving-kindness I have found in thee; + And she will come to thee to make her clean. + Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, + To know a dead one lieth in the house: + Let me be near her in that agony, + To tend her in the fever of the soul, + Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, + Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh; + And when I cannot comfort, help her weep. + God, I would give her love like thine to me, + _Because_ I love her, and her need is great. + Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, + And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell: + Help me to love her with a love like thine. + + How shall I find her? It were horrible + If the dread hour should come, and I not near. + Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang, + One writhing of self-loathing and remorse, + For she must hate the evil she has done; + Only take not away hope utterly. + + _Lily (in her sleep_). + Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall. + _Julian (going to her_). + She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill. + I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless. + To-morrow I will take her to the sea. + + [_Returning_.] + + If I knew where, I would write to her, and write + So tenderly, she could not choose but come. + I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream + I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well. + + [_He sits down and writes_.] + + My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe. + I was alone upon a desolate moor; + And the wind blew by fits and died away-- + I know not if it was the wind or me. + How long I wandered there, I cannot tell; + But some one came and took me by the hand. + I gazed, but could not see the form that led me, + And went unquestioning, I cared not whither. + We came into a street I seemed to know, + Came to a house that I had seen before. + The shutters were all closed; the house was dead. + The door went open soundless. We went in, + And entered yet again an inner room. + The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if + From striking on it. The door closed behind. + And then I saw that there was something black, + Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up + In the middle of the room. And then I saw + That there were shapes of woe all round the room, + Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, + With long veils hanging low down from their heads, + All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound + Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing + Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures + Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, + The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left + The house in long procession. I was walking + Alone beside the coffin--such it was-- + Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing. + And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes: + Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up + White arms of lamentation; Desdemona + In her night-robe, crimson on the left side; + Thekla in black, with resolute white face; + And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow-- + That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen + Upon her face. And many more I knew-- + Long-suffering women, true in heart and life; + Women that make man proud for very love + Of their humility, and of his pride + Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife. + On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills + Began to rise on each side of the path + Until at last we came into a glen, + From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven, + Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies. + Upon the eastern side one mighty summit + Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air; + And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint, + A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night. + From base to top, on climbing peak and crag, + Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes, + Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth + Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired + Great men of old--up, even to the apex + Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen + From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel + Of Michelangelo laid him reclining, + And stood upon the crest. + A cry awoke + Amid the watchers at the lowest base, + And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth, + Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top; + And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died + Away in silence; for no voice said _No_. + The bearers stood and set the coffin down; + The mourners gathered round it in a group; + Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why. + So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke, + And clomb the mountain-side, and died away + In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came. + + How long we waited thus, I cannot tell-- + How oft the cry arose and died again. + + At last, from far, faint summit to the base, + Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes, + A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!" + Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side, + From all that multitude's melodious throats, + Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer! + It ceased, for hope was too intense for song. + A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out, + Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose + Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen + Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group. + + What God did for the rest, I know not; it + Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.-- + I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own! + Thy lovely face angelic now with grief; + But that I saw not first: thy head was bent, + Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between. + I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise, + Once only lifting that sweet face to mine, + Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream + Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream; + Thou art not rescued yet. + + Earth's morning came, + And my soul's morning died in tearful gray. + The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped + In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring; + The last I heard, a chant break suddenly + Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound: + I had not listened in the excess of joy. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lord S_. + Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry. + If you could go alone, I'd have you go. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel. + Believe me, father, I am happier + In your sick room, than on a glowing island + In the blue Bay of Naples. + + _Lord S_. + It was so sudden! + 'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly. + But have your walk before the sun be hot. + Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Good-bye then, father, for a little + while. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lord S_. + I never knew what illness was before. + O life! to think a man should stand so little + On his own will and choice, as to be thus + Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent + To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone + From the rich world! No sense is left me more + To touch with beauty. Even she has faded + Into the far horizon, a spent dream + Of love and loss and passionate despair! + + Is there no beauty? Is it all a show + Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, + A reflex of well-ordered organism? + Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart + No more mysterious, no more beautiful, + Than I am to myself this ghastly moment? + It must be so--it _must_, except God is, + And means the meaning that we think we see, + Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. + O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if + There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower + Before it blew on any bank of spring, + Then all is untruth, unreality, + And we are wretched things; our highest needs + Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; + And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts + Die with the voidness of the universe. + + But if thou art, O God, then all is true; + Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes + Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain + Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams. + And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her! + + O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned + Against thy beauty and thy graciousness! + That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine. + Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed + Before my eyes, a bright particular star: + Like foolish child, I reached out for the star, + Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content + That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, + Mine to revere, though not to call my own. + Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia! + + My love has taken vengeance on my love. + I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content. + Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find + That thou art not a phantom, but God's child; + That Beauty is, though it is not for me. + When I would hold it, then I disbelieved. + That I may yet believe, I will not touch it. + I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, + Denying him in grasping at his work. + + +SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_. +LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_. + + _Julian_. + O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, + Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, + O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children-- + Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, + Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom + Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, + Fearless of any morn; as a new babe + Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: + That home of blessedness is all there is; + He never feels the silent rushing tide, + Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, + Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. + But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last + Ready for him when weary: well the green + Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. + O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed + To which I bore thee with a nobler joy! + --Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream + Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain. + + How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart + Was all so tender to thee! But I fear + My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed + With questions to be solved, before my face + Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me + Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain. + Ah, now I know I did not well for thee + In making thee my wife! I should have gone + Alone into eternity. I was + Too rough for thee, for any tender woman-- + Other I had not loved--so full of fancies! + Too given to meditation. A deed of love + Is stronger than a metaphysic truth; + Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words. + Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it? + How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight-- + For life must ever need the shows of life? + How fail to love a man so like thyself, + Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood? + I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones, + But never white flowers, rubied at the heart. + O God, forgive me; it is all my fault. + Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, + Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty? + Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart, + And I have kept her like a caged seamew + Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead. + O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully: + I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride, + That kept me back from speaking all my soul. + I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst + Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never + Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, + In burning words of openness and truth? + Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, + Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not + Have been content to minister and wait; + And if she answered not to my desires, + Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say, + Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower: + I gave not five years to a woman's soul! + Had I not drunk at last old wine of love? + I shut her love back on her lovely heart; + I did not shield her in the wintry day; + And she has withered up and died and gone. + God, let me perish, so thy beautiful + Be brought with gladness and with singing home. + If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow + To be her slave, and serve her with my soul. + I in my hand will take my heart, and burn + Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain. + I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou! + + [_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up + to him, stumbling over the graves_.] + + _Lily_. + Why do they make so many hillocks, father? + The flowers would grow without them. + + _Julian_. + So they would. + + _Lily_. + What are they for, then? + + _Julian (aside_). + I wish I had not brought her; + She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all. + + (_Aloud_). + + 'Tis where they lay them when the story's done. + + _Lily_. + What! lay the boys and girls? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own child-- + To keep them warm till it begin again. + + _Lily_. + Is it dark down there? + + [_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.] + + _Julian_. + Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet! + For out of there come all the pretty flowers. + + _Lily_. + Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk + That tries to touch the little frightened clouds? + + _Julian_. + It did, my darling.--There's a door down there + That leads away to where the church is pointing. + + [_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and + then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.] + + +SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_ +LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + I have found an old friend, father. Here he is! + + _Lord S_. + Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here! + + _Bern_. + I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. + I know not which of us was more surprised. + + [LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.] + + _Bern_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + Countess! What do you mean? I do not know. + + _Bern_. + The Italian lady. + + _Lord S_. + Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me! + + _Bern_. + I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; + For since I saw the count, I would not have you + Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. + + [LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.] + + You have not then heard the news about yourself? + Such interesting echoes reach the last + A man's own ear. The public has decreed + You and the countess run away together. + 'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, + And that she has been often to your house. + The count believes it--clearly from his face: + The man is dying slowly on his feet. + + _Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_). + O God! what am I? My love burns like hate, + Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath! + + _Bern_. + What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving? + + _Enter_ Waiter. + + _Lord S_. + Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly. + + [_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.] + + +SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_. + + _Lily_. + O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. + Another story is very nearly done. + + [_He takes her on his knees_.] + + I am so tired! Think I should like to go + Down to the warm place that the flowers come from, + Where all the little boys and girls are lying + In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels. + --No, no, no--it is so dark down there! + Father will not come near me all the night. + + _Julian_. + You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you. + + _Lily_. + O will you keep me always, father dear? + And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me? + Oh, I should be so happy, never to move! + 'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms! + Don't let it take me; do not let me go: + I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so. + + _Julian_. + Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good + Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, + And try to make you sleep? + + _Lily_. + Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head! + Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father. + + [_He tries to sing_.] + + Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love! + Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. + It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, + God on his throne, and man below. + + But sun would not shine, nor waters go, + Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, + God be on high, nor man below, + But for love--for the love with its hurt alone. + + Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows; + Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain: + Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, + Help us love on in the hope of thy gain; + + Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever; + Love for love's sake, like the Father above, + But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never + Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. + + [_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child + leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in + which he talks_.] + + _Julian_. + A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault: + _Man with the heart, praying for woman's love, + Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice: + Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What + is it? Statue trembling into life + With the first rosy flush upon the skin? + Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings? + I see her--where I know not; for I see + Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain-- + God keep me!--in celestial nakedness. + She leaneth forward, looking down in space, + With large eyes full of longing, made intense + By mingled fear of something yet unknown; + Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands + Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms. + + O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone + To find my own ideal womanhood-- + Glory grown grace, divine to human grown? + + I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word: + She will array herself and come to thee. + Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes, + Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_! + --I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep, + Close by the white foot of the wonderful. + It is the same shape, line for line, as she. + Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. + Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come, + O infinite woman! my life faints for thee. + + Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first: + I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man! + Choose then between them_. Ah! ah! + + [_Silence_.] + + Her I knew + Some ages gone; the woman who did sail + Down a long river with me to the sea; + Who gave her lips up freely to my lips, + Her body willingly into my arms; + Came down from off her statue-pedestal, + And was a woman in a common house, + Not beautified by fancy every day, + And losing worship by her gifts to me. + She gave me that white child--what came of her? + I have forgot.--I opened her great heart, + And filled it half-way to the brim with love-- + With love half wine, half vinegar and gall-- + And so--and so--she--went away and died? + O God! what was it?--something terrible-- + I will not stay to choose, or look again + Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife, + The woman of the old time on the earth. + O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands, + Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain + + If thou descend to earth, and find no man + To love thee purely, strongly, in his will, + Even as he loves the truth, because he will, + And when he cannot see it beautiful-- + Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep. + Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come. + + 'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet! + In the same dress, same flowing of the hair, + As long ago, on earth: is her face changed? + Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower; + My dove descending rests upon thy head; + I bless and sanctify thee for my own: + Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee. + + Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers! + She rises--turns it up from me to God, + With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars + Might find new orbits there, and be content. + O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure + Their opening must be prophecy or song! + A high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth! + + Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk + That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;-- + O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form, + With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet, + And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal! + The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes + Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia, + My wife, with homely airs of earth about her, + And dearer to my heart as my lost wife, + Than to my soul as its new-found ideal! + Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel: + Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear. + Yea, all eternity-- + + [_He is roused by a cry from the child_.] + + _Lily_. + Oh, father! put your arms close round about me. + Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear. + Now! I am better now. + + [_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her + eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.] + + +SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_. + + _Lilia_. + Now I have told him all; no word kept back + To burn within me like an evil fire. + And where I am, I have told him; and I wait + To know his will. What though he love me not, + If I love him!--I will go back to him, + And wait on him submissive. Tis enough + For one life, to be servant to that man! + It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride, + That drove me from him. He and my sweet child + Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart. + How lonely is my Lily all the day, + Till he comes home and makes her paradise! + + I go to be his servant. Every word + That comes from him softer than a command, + I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart, + And serve him better for it.--He will receive me. + + +SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_. + + _Julian_. + The light of setting suns be on thee, child! + Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns + Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy; + Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy; + Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy. + Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love. + Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy. + + Children, they say, are born into a world + Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think, + Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth + Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief, + If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story, + And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God, + Let not my Lily turn away from me. + + Now I am free to follow and find her. + Thy truer Father took thee home to him, + That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife. + I thank him for his gift of thee; for all + That thou hast taught me, blessed little child. + I love thee, dear, with an eternal love. + And now farewell! + + [Kissing her.] + + --no, not farewell; I come. + Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. + Yes, they will also lead me on to her. + + _Enter a Jew_. + + _Jew_. + What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir. + + + _Julian_. + Walk into the next room; then look at this, + And tell me what you'll give for everything. + + [Jew goes.] + + My darling's death has made me almost happy. + Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again. + When I have laid my little one to rest + Among the flowers in that same sunny spot, + Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way; + And, calling up all old forgotten skill, + Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind, + I'll be a man once more in the loud world. + Revived experience in its winding ways, + Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love, + If all the world were sworn to secrecy, + Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death. + I'll follow my wife, follow until I die. + How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep, + Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me? + How find her in great Hades, if not here + In this poor little round O of a world? + I'll follow my wife, follow until I find. + + _Re-enter_ Jew. + + Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal. + + _Jew_. + Let me see this room, too. The things are all + Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little. + + _Julian_. + Say what you will--only make haste and go. + + _Jew_. + Say twenty pounds? + + _Julian_. + Well, fetch the money at once, + And take possession. But make haste, I pray. + + +SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S +_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_. + + _Julian_. + Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep; + Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child! + Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb + Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek + And find the wandering mother of my lamb. + I cannot weep; I know thee with me still. + Thou dost not find it very dark down there? + Would I could go to thee; I long to go; + My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too; + And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat. + O gladly would I come to thee, my child, + And lay my head upon thy little heart, + And sleep in the divine munificence + Of thy great love! But my night has not come; + She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one. + + [_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.] + + Now for the world--that's Italy, and her! + + +SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + How am I here? Alas! I do not know. + I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know! + I have come here to die. + + [_Lies down on the floor_.] + Where's Lilia? + I cannot find her. She is here, I know. + But oh these endless passages and stairs, + And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia! + Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast, + But something holds me. Let me go, devil! + My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you. + You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife. + O pardon me, my beautiful, my own! + + [_Sings_.] + + Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing + From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing-- + Us to a new, love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float-- + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + [_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.] + + JULIAN _descries him suddenly_. + What are you, man? O brother, bury me-- + There's money in my pocket-- + + [_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.] + + by my child. + + [_Staring at him_.] + + Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse-- + I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton! + _I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute! + Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child, + And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up + With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes. + Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs, + Nor is there any maid to bind them on: + + I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee. + Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go. + + _Lord Seaford (stooping over him_). + I am Seaford, Count. + + _Julian_. + + Seaford! What Seaford? + + [_Recollecting_.] + + _--Seaford_! + + [_Springing to his feet_.] + + Where is my wife? + + [_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.] + + _Lord S_. + Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He + wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.] + + _Julian_. + Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead. + I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God! + + [_He is quiet a little_.] + + So then thou didst not take the child away + That I might find my wife! Thy will be done. + Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire + I send away with grief, but willingly. + I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer: + Take thou thine own way, only lead her home. + Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might; + But thou art mighty, with a power unlike + All, all that we know by the name of power, + Transcending it as intellect transcends + 'The stone upon the ground--it may be more, + For these are both created--thou creator, + Lonely, supreme. + + Now it is almost over, + My spirit's journey through this strange sad world; + This part is done, whatever cometh next. + Morning and evening have made out their day; + My sun is going down in stormy dark, + But I will face it fearless. + The first act Is over of the drama.--Is it so? + What means this dim dawn of half-memories? + + There's something I knew once and know not now!-- + A something different from all this earth! + It matters little; I care not--only know + That God will keep the living thing he made. + How mighty must he be to have the right + Of swaying this great power I feel I am-- + Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him! + O God, I come to thee! thou art my life; + O God, thou art my home; I come to thee. + + Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up + Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see + But that which _is_, the living awful Truth-- + All forms of which are but the sparks flung out + From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun, + Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me: + Christ said to Martha--"Whosoever liveth, + And doth believe in me, shall never die"! + I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door + Of God's wide theatre be open flung + To let me in. What marvels I shall see! + The expectation fills me, like new life + Dancing through all my veins. + + Once more I thank thee + For all that thou hast made me--most of all, + That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee. + I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her; + Forget her not, my God. If thou save her, + I shall be able then to thank thee so + As will content thee--with full-flowing song, + The very bubbles on whose dancing waves + Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet. + + My heart sinks in me.--I grow faint. Oh! whence + This wind of love that fans me out of life? + One stoops to kiss me!--Ah, my lily child! + God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall. + + [_Re-enter_ LORD SEAFORD _with the doctor_. JULIAN _takes no + heed of them. The doctor shakes his head_.] + + My little child, I'll never leave thee more; + We are both children now in God's big house. + Come, lead me; you are older here than I + By three whole days, my darling angel-child! + + [_A letter is brought in_. LORD SEAFORD _holds it before_ + JULIAN'S _eyes. He looks vaguely at it_.] + + _Lord S_. + It is a letter from your wife, I think. + + _Julian (feebly_). + A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me-- + I'll read it in my chamber, by and by: + Dear words should not be read with others nigh. + Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God. + + _Lord S. (pending over him_). + Your wife is innocent. I _know_ she is. + + JULIAN _gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his + eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes. + He dies_. + + + +PART V. + + AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain + More than the Father's heart rich good invent? + Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent, + We know the primrose time will come again; + Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. + Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent + Is confidence unto the Father lent: + Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. + His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways + Other than thine, but by pure opulence + Of beauty infinite and love immense. + Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, + A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; + Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. + + + +A DREAM. + +SCENE I.--"_A world not realized_." LILY. _To her_ JULIAN. + + _Lily_. + O father, come with me! I have found her--mother! + + +SCENE II.--_A room in a cottage_. LILIA _on her knees before a +crucifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on her +face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHAPTER VIII. +Behind her stands an Angel, bending forward, as if to protect her +with his wings partly expanded. Appear_ JULIAN, _with_ LILY _in his +arms_. LILY _looks with love on the angel, and a kind of longing +fear on her mother_. + + _Julian_. + Angel, thy part is done; leave her to me. + + _Angel_. + Sorrowful man, to thee I must give place; + Thy ministry is stronger far than mine; + Yet have I done my part.--She sat with him. + He gave her rich white flowers with crimson scent, + The tuberose and datura ever burning + Their incense to the dusky face of night. + He spoke to her pure words of lofty sense, + But tinged with poison for a tranced ear. + He bade low music sound of faint farewells, + Which fixed her eyes upon a leafy picture, + Wherein she wandered through an amber twilight + Toward a still grave in a sleepy nook. + And ever and anon she sipped pale wine, + Rose-tinged, rose-odoured, from a silver cup. + He sang a song, each pause of which closed up, + Like a day-wearied daisy for the night, + With these words falling like an echo low: + "Love, let us love and weep and faint and die." + With the last pause the tears flowed at their will, + Without a sob, down from their cloudy skies. + He took her hand in his, and it lay still.-- + blast of music from a wandering band + Billowed the air with sudden storm that moment. + The visible rampart of material things + Was rent--the vast eternal void looked in + Upon her awe-struck soul. She cried and fled. + + It was the sealing of her destiny. + A wild convulsion shook her inner world; + Its lowest depths were heaved tumultuously; + Far unknown molten gulfs of being rushed + Up into mountain-peaks, rushed up and stood. + The soul that led a fairy life, athirst + For beauty only, passed into a woman's: + In pain and tears was born the child-like need + For God, for Truth, and for essential Love. + But first she woke to terror; was alone, + For God she saw not;--woke up in the night, + The great wide night alone. No mother's hand, + To soothe her pangs, no father's voice was near. + She would not come to thee; for love itself + Too keenly stung her sad, repentant heart, + Giving her bitter names to give herself; + But, calling back old words which thou hadst spoken, + In other days, by light winds borne afar, + And now returning on the storm of grief, + Hither she came to seek her Julian's God. + Farewell, strange friend! My care of her is over. + + _Julian_. + A heart that knows what thou canst never know, + Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell. + + [_The_ Angel _goes_. JULIAN _and_ LILY _take his place_. + LILIA _is praying, and they hear parts of her prayer_.] + + _Lilia_. + O Jesus, hear me! Let me speak to thee. + No fear oppresses me; for misery + Fills my heart up too full for any fear. + + Is there no help, O Holy? Am I stained + Beyond release? + + _Julian_. + Lilia, thy purity + Maketh thy heart abuse thee. I, thy husband, + Sinned more against thee, in believing ill, + Than thou, by ten times what thou didst, poor child, + Hadst wronged thy husband. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon will not do: + I need much more, O Master. That word _go_ + Surely thou didst not speak to send away + The sinful wife thou wouldst not yet condemn! + Or was that crime, though not too great for pardon, + Too great for loving-kindness afterward? + Might she not too have come behind thy feet, + And, weeping, wiped and kissed them, Mary's son, + Blessed for ever with a heavenly grief? + Ah! she nor I can claim with her who gave + Her tears, her hair, her lips, her precious oil, + To soothe feet worn with Galilean roads:-- + She sinned against herself, not against--Julian. + + My Lord, my God, find some excuse for me. + Find in thy heart something to say for me, + As for the crowd that cried against thee, then, + When heaven was dark because thy lamp burned low. + + _Julian_. + Not thou, but I am guilty, Lilia. + I made it possible to tempt thee, child. + Thou didst not fall, my love; only, one moment, + Beauty was queen, and Truth not lord of all. + + _Lilia_. + O Julian, my husband, is it strange, + That, when I think of Him, he looks like thee? + That, when he speaks to comfort me, the voice + Is like thy voice, my husband, my beloved? + Oh! if I could but lie down at thy feet, + And tell thee all--yea, every thought--I know + That thou wouldst think the best that could be thought, + And love and comfort me. O Julian, + I am more thine than ever.--Forgive me, husband, + For calling me, defiled and outcast, thine. + Yet may I not be thine as I am His? + Would I might be thy servant--yes, thy slave, + To wash thy feet, and dress thy lovely child, + And bring her at thy call--more wife than I. + But I shall never see thee, till the earth + Lies on us both--apart--oh, far apart! + How lonely shall I lie the long, long years! + + _Lily_. + O mother, there are blue skies here, and flowers, + And blowing winds, and kisses, mother dear! + And every time my father kisses me, + It is not father only, but another. + Make haste and come. My head never aches here. + + _Lilia_. + Can it be that they are dead? Is it possible? + I feel as if they were near me!--Speak again, + Beloved voices; comfort me; I need it. + + _Julian (singing_). + + Come to us: above the storm + Ever shines the blue. + Come to us: beyond its form + Ever lies the True. + + + _Lily (singing_). + + Mother, darling, do not weep-- + All I cannot tell: + By and by you'll go to sleep, + And you'll wake so well. + + _Julian (singing_). + + There is sunshine everywhere + For thy heart and mine: + God, for every sin and care, + Is the cure divine. + + _Lily (singing_). + + We're so happy all the day, + Waiting for another! + All the flowers and sunshine stay, + Watching for my mother. + + + _Julian_. + My maiden! for true wife is always maiden + To the true husband: thou art mine for ever. + + _Lilia_. + What gentle hopes keep passing to and fro! + Thou shadowest me with thine own rest, my God; + A cloud from thee stoops down and covers me. + + [_She falls asleep on her knees_] + + + +SCENE III.--JULIAN _on the summit of a mountain-peak. The stars are +brilliant around a crescent moon, hanging half-way between the +mountain and the zenith. Below lies a sea of vapour. Beyond rises a +loftier pinnacle, across which is stretched a bar of cloud_. LILY +_lies on the cloud, looking earnestly into the mist below_. + + _Julian (gazing upward_). + And thou wast with me all the time, my God, + Even as now! I was not far from thee. + Thy spirit spoke in all my wants and fears, + And hopes and longings. Thou art all in all. + I am not mine, but thine. I cannot speak + The thoughts that work within me like a sea. + When on the earth I lay, crushed down beneath + A hopeless weight of empty desolation, + Thy loving face was lighted then, O Christ, + With expectation of my joy to come, + When all the realm of possible ill should lie + Under my feet, and I should stand as now + Heart-sure of thee, true-hearted, only One. + Was ever soul filled to such overflowing + With the pure wine of blessedness, my God! + Filled as the night with stars, am I with joys; + Filled as the heavens with thee, am I with peace; + For now I wait the end of all my prayers-- + Of all that have to do with old-world things: + What new things come to wake new prayers, my God, + Thou know'st; I wait on thee in perfect peace. + + [_He turns his gaze downward.--From the fog-sea + below half-rises a woman-form, which floats toward him._] + + Lo, as the lily lifts its shining bosom + From the lone couch of waters where it slept, + When the fair morn toucheth and waketh it; + So riseth up my lily from the deep + Where human souls are vexed in awful dreams! + + [LILY _spies her mother, darts down, and is caught in + her arms. They land on_ JULIAN'S _peak, and + climb_, LILY _leading her mother_.] + + _Lily_. + Come faster, mother dear; father is waiting. + + _Lilia_. + Have patience with me, darling. By and by, + I think, I shall do better.--Oh my Julian! + + _Julian_. + I may not help her. She must climb and come. + + [_He reaches his hand, and the three are clasped in + an infinite embrace_.] + + O God, thy thoughts, thy ways, are not as ours: + They fill our longing hearts up to the brim. + + [_The moon and the stars and the blue night close + around them; and the poet awakes from his dream_.] + + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + +TO MY FATHER: + _with my second volume of verse_. + + +I. + + Take of the first fruits, father, of thy care, + Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude, + Late waked for early gifts ill understood; + Claiming in all my harvests rightful share, + Whether with song that mounts the joyful air + I praise my God, or, in yet deeper mood, + Sit dumb because I know a speechless good, + Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer. + Thou hast been faithful to my highest need; + And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore, + Shall never feel the grateful burden sore. + Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed, + But for the sense thy living self did breed + Of fatherhood still at the great world's core. + + +II. + + All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined, + As for some being of another race; + Ah, not with it, departing--growing apace + As years did bring me manhood's loftier mind, + Able to see thy human life behind-- + The same hid heart, the same revealing face-- + My own dim contest settling into grace, + Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined! + So I beheld my God, in childhood's morn, + A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart, + Moveless and dim--I scarce could say _Thou art_: + My manhood came, of joy and sadness born;-- + Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn, + Revealed man's glory, God's great human heart. + +G.M.D. jr. + +ALGIERS, _April, 1857_. + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + Proudly the youth, sudden with manhood crowned, + Went walking by his horses, the first time, + That morning, to the plough. No soldier gay + Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt + (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath, + As lightning in the cloud) with more delight, + When first he belts it on, than he that day + Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against + His horses' harnessed sides, as to the field + They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill + The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil. + + A farmer's son, a farmer's grandson he; + Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed those fields. + Tradition said they had been tilled by men + Who bore the name long centuries ago, + And married wives, and reared a stalwart race, + And died, and went where all had followed them, + Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth + Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil; + And death is far from him this sunny morn. + Why should we think of death when life is high? + The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. + The daylight's labour and the night's repose + Are very good, each better in its time. + + The boy knew little; but he read old tales + Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift + As charging knights upon their death-career. + He chanted ancient tunes, till the wild blood + Was charmed back into its fountain-well, + And tears arose instead. That poet's songs, + Whose music evermore recalls his name, + His name of waters babbling as they run, + Rose from him in the fields among the kine, + And met the skylark's, raining from the clouds. + But only as the poet-birds he sang-- + From rooted impulse of essential song; + The earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; + His heart was glad--he knew not it was glad; + He walked as in a twilight of the sense-- + Which this one day shall turn to tender morn. + + Long ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops + Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill, + His horses leaned and laboured. Each great hand + Held rein and plough-stilt in one guiding grasp-- + No ploughman there would brook a helper. Proud + With a true ploughman's pride--nobler, I think, + Than statesman's, ay, or poet's, or painter's pride, + For little praise will come that he ploughs well-- + He did plough well, proud of his work itself, + And not of what would follow. With sure eye, + He saw his horses keep the arrow-track; + He saw the swift share cut the measured sod; + He saw the furrow folding to the right, + Ready with nimble foot to aid at need:-- + Turning its secrets upward to the sun, + And hiding in the dark the sun-born grass, + And daisies dipped in carmine, lay the tilth-- + A million graves to nurse the buried seed, + And send a golden harvest up the air. + + When the steep sun had clomb to his decline, + And pausing seemed, at edge of slow descent, + Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, + They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, + And homeward went for food and courage new. + Therewith refreshed, they turned again to toil, + And lived in labour all the afternoon; + Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough + Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea, + And home with hanging neck the horses went, + Walking beside their master, force by will: + Then through the lengthening shades a vision came. + + It was a lady mounted on a horse, + A slender girl upon a mighty steed, + That bore her with the pride horses must feel + When they submit to women. Home she went, + Alone, or else her groom lagged far behind. + Scarce had she bent simple acknowledgment + Of the hand in silent salutation lifted + To the bowed head, when something faithless yielded: + The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl + Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins. + + Three paces bore him bounding to her side; + Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there; + But with main force, as one that grapples fear, + He threw the fascination off, and saw + The work before him. Soon his hand and knife + Had set the saddle firmer than before + Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned + To mount the maiden. But bewilderment + A moment lasted; for he knew not how, + With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne, + Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: + A moment only; for while yet she thanked, + Nor yet had time to teach her further will, + About her waist he put his brawny hands, + That all but zoned her round; and like a child + Lifting her high, he set her on the horse; + Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, + Nor turned aside, although a radiant blush + Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes. + And he was never sure if from her heart + Or from the rosy sunset came the flush. + Again she thanked him, while again he stood + Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word + Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones + Round which dissolving lambent music played, + Like dropping water in a silver cup; + Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, + Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, + And called himself hard names, and turned and went + After his horses, bending like them his head. + + Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door, + Although she came not in, the house is bare: + Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house! + Why seems it always that she should be ours? + A secret lies behind which thou dost know, + And I can partly guess. + + But think not then, + The holder of the plough sighed many sighs + Upon his bed that night; or other dreams + Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep; + Nor think the airy castles of his brain + Had less foundation than the air admits. + But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name, + And answer, if he had not from the fair + Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, + An angel vision from a higher world. + + Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life, + Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge, + Ran down the southern side, away from his. + It was not over-blessed; for, I know, + Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve, + From her who told, and him who, in the pines + Walking, received it from her loving lips; + But now she was as God had made her, ere + The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, + And half succeeded, failing utterly. + Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child + That looks in every eye; fearless of ill, + Because she knew it not; and brave withal, + Because she led a simple country life, + And loved the animals. Her father's house-- + A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- + Was distant but two miles among the hills; + Yet oft as she had passed his father's farm, + The youth had never seen her face before, + And should not twice. Yet was it not enough? + The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon + That goeth on her way, and knoweth not + The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills + With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men, + Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue + Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him, + Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes + Return uncalled, with wonder that they come. + Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills, + And rounded with dead glitter, not the shine + Of leaves and waters dancing in the sun; + While he abode in ever breaking dawns, + Breathed ever new-born winds into his soul; + And saw the aurora of the heavenly day + Still climb the hill-sides of the heapy world. + + Again I say, no fond romance of love, + No argument of possibilities, + If he were some one, and she sought his help, + Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams. + As soon he had sat down and twisted cords + To snare, and carry home for household help, + Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen + On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields. + But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, + (The exultation of his new-found rank + Already settling into dignity,) + Behold, the earth was beautiful! The sky + Shone with the expectation of the sun. + Only the daisies grieved him, for they fell + Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads + Just out, imploring. A gray hedgehog ran, + With tangled mesh of rough-laid spikes, and face + Helplessly innocent, across the field: + He let it run, and blessed it as it ran. + Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet + Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood. + For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam + Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot, + Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far, + Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, + Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws, + In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, + His eye was cheated with a spectral smoke + That rose as from a fire. He had not known + How beautiful the sunlight was, not even + Upon the windy fields of morning grass, + Nor on the river, nor the ripening corn! + As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept + On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, + And gazing down into the glory-gulf, + Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire-- + Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out. + + God, and not woman, is the heart of all. + But she, as priestess of the visible earth, + Holding the key, herself most beautiful, + Had come to him, and flung the portals wide. + He entered: every beauty was a glass + That gleamed the woman back upon his view. + Shall I not rather say: each beauty gave + Its own soul up to him who worshipped her, + For that his eyes were opened now to see? + + Already in these hours his quickened soul + Put forth the white tip of a floral bud, + Ere long to be a crown-like, aureole flower. + His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient tales, + Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed + That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him, + Yet not the less mellowing all his spring: + Like summer sunshine came the maiden's face, + And in the youth's glad heart the seed awoke. + It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers, + Its every flower a living open eye, + Until his soul was full of eyes within. + Each morning now was a fresh boon to him; + Each wind a spiritual power upon his life; + Each individual animal did share + A common being with him; every kind + Of flower from every other was distinct, + Uttering that for which alone it was-- + Its something human, wrapt in other veil. + + And when the winter came, when thick the snow + Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost, + When the low sun but skirted his far realms, + And sank in early night, he drew his chair + Beside the fire; and by the feeble lamp + Read book on book; and wandered other climes, + And lived in other lives and other needs, + And grew a larger self by other selves. + Ere long, the love of knowledge had become + A hungry passion and a conscious power, + And craved for more than reading could supply. + Then, through the night (all dark, except the moon + Shone frosty o'er the heath, or the white snow + Gave back such motes of light as else had sunk + In the dark earth) he bent his plodding way + Over the moors to where the little town + Lay gathered in the hollow. There the student + Who taught from lingering dawn to early dark, + Had older scholars in the long fore-night; + For youths who in the shop, or in the barn, + Or at the loom, had done their needful work, + Came gathering there through starlight, fog, or snow, + And found the fire ablaze, the candles lit, + And him who knew waiting for who would know. + Here mathematics wiled him to their heights; + And strange consent of lines to form and law + Made Euclid a profound romance of truth. + The master saw with wonder how he seized, + How eagerly devoured the offered food, + And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge + Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls + That see a truth, and, turning, see at once + Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight, + Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered + To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways + To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert, + Caught at the offer; and for years of nights, + The house asleep, he groped his twilight way + With lexicon and rule, through ancient story, + Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old; + Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue, + Through reading many books, much aided him-- + For best is like in all the hearts and tongues. + + At length his progress, through the master's pride + In such a pupil, reached the father's ears. + Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed, + If caring, sparing might accomplish it, + He should to college, and there have his fill + Of that same learning. + + To the plough no more, + All day to school he went; and ere a year, + He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves. + + Awkward at first, but with a dignity + Soon finding fit embodiment in speech + And gesture and address, he made his way, + Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect + Of students and professors; for whose praise + More than his worth, society, so called, + To its rooms in that great city of the North, + Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first + By brilliance of the shining show, the lights, + The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes, + He stole into a corner, and was quiet + Until the vision too had quieter grown. + Bewildered next by many a sparkling word, + Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds, + Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets, + Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth + As if they were home-born and issuing new, + He held his peace, and silent soon began + To see how little fire it needs to shimmer. + Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander + Back to the calm divine of homely toil; + While round him still and ever hung an air + Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe-- + A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls + Saw but the clumsiness--another sort + Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke, + Saw the grace only; and began at last, + For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd, + And find him unexpected, maiden-wise. + But oftener far they sought him than they found, + For seldom was he drawn away from toil; + Seldomer stinted time held due to toil; + For if one night his panes were dark, the next + They gleamed far into morning. And he won + Honours among the first, each session's close. + + Nor think that new familiarity + With open forms of ill, not to be shunned + Where many youths are met, endangered much + A mind that had begun to will the pure. + Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest + With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop + Of pestilential vapours following-- + Arose within his sudden silent mind + The maiden face that once blushed down on him-- + That lady face, insphered beyond his earth, + Yet visible as bright, particular star. + A flush of tenderness then glowed across + His bosom--shone it clean from passing harm: + Should that sweet face be banished by rude words? + It could not stay what maidens might not hear! + He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest, + Should meet in _his_ house. To his love he made + Love's only worthy offering--purity. + + And if the homage that he sometimes met, + New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles, + Assents, and silent listenings when he spoke, + Threatened yet more his life's simplicity; + An antidote of nature ever came, + Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months, + His former haunts and boyhood's circumstance + Received him to the bosom of their grace. + And he, too noble to despise the past, + Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil, + Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide + Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain, + Or that a workman was no gentleman + Because a workman, clothed himself again + In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade, + The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain, + Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged. + With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields, + Returning still with larger powers of sight: + Each time he knew them better than before, + And yet their sweetest aspect was the old. + His labour kept him true to life and fact, + Casting out worldly judgments, false desires, + And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil, + New thoughts would rise, which, when God's night awoke, + He still would seek, like stars, with instruments-- + By science, or by truth's philosophy, + Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old. + Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once, + Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons + Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white. + + His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, + Because his learning did not make him proud: + He was too wise to build upon his lore. + The neighbours asked what he would make his son: + "I'll make a man of him," the old man said; + "And for the rest, just what he likes himself. + He is my only son--I think he'll keep + The old farm on; and I shall go content, + Leaving a man behind me, as I say." + + So four years long his life swung to and fro, + Alternating the red gown and blue coat, + The garret study and the wide-floored barn, + The wintry city and the sunny fields: + In every change his mind was well content, + For in himself he was the growing same. + + In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts; + To no profession did he ardent turn: + He knew his father's wish--it was his own. + "Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows, + Leave therefore the old patriarchal life, + And seek distinction in the noise of men?" + He turned his asking face on every side; + Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw + The inner form of man laid skilful bare; + Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand + Made Nature do in little, before his eyes, + And momently, what, huge, for centuries, + And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, + She labours at; bent his inquiring eye + On every source whence knowledge flows for men: + At some he only sipped, at others drank. + + At length, when he had gained the master's right-- + By custom sacred from of old--to sit + With covered head before the awful rank + Of black-gowned senators; and each of those, + Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word + To speed him onward to what goal he would, + He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown, + And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, + Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray + In all the blandishments of youthful spring, + Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm. + + With simple gladness met him on the road + His gray-haired father--elder brother now. + Few words were spoken, little welcome said, + But, as they walked, the more was understood. + If with a less delight he brought him home + Than he who met the prodigal returned, + It was with more reliance, with more peace; + For with the leaning pride that old men feel + In young strong arms that draw their might from them, + He led him to the house. His sister there, + Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes + Were full of watchfulness and hovering love, + Set him beside the fire in the old place, + And heaped the table with best country-fare. + + When the swift night grew deep, the father rose, + And led him, wondering why and where they went, + Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path + Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above + The stable, where the same old horses slept + Which he had guided that eventful morn. + Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand + Had been at work. The father, leading on + Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain + Opened a door. An unexpected light + Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp, + That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale: + Behold! a little room, a curtained bed, + An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk; + An old print of a deep Virgilian wood, + And one of choosing Hercules! The youth + Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love + Had sought and found an incarnation new! + For, honouring in his son the simple needs + Which his own bounty had begot in him, + He gave him thus a lonely thinking space, + A silent refuge. With a quiet good night, + He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath, + The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain. + + Three sliding years, with slowly blended change, + Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring, + Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart. + He laboured as before; though when he would, + And Nature urged not, he, with privilege, + Would spare from hours of toil--read in his room, + Or wander through the moorland to the hills; + There on the apex of the world would stand, + As on an altar, burning, soul and heart-- + Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer; + Gaze in the face of the inviting blue + That domed him round; ask why it should be blue; + Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart + Go down to lower things with lofty cares. + + When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son + Walked to the church across their own loved fields. + It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign + Of what makes English churches venerable. + Likest a crowing cock upon a heap + It stood--but let us say--St. Peter's cock, + Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm + For one with whose known self it was coeval, + Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen! + And its low mounds of monumental grass + Were far more solemn than great marble tombs; + For flesh is grass, its goodliness the flower. + Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard + On sunny afternoons! The light itself + Nestles amid the grass; and the sweet wind + Says, _I am here_,--no more. With sun and wind + And crowing cocks, who can believe in death? + He, on such days, when from the church they Came, + And through God's ridges took their thoughtful way, + The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, + Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; + But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: + What mattered it to him? + + And as they walked + Homeward, right well the father loved to hear + The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well. + For the old man clung not to the old alone, + Nor leaned the young man only to the new; + They would the best, they sought, and followed it. + "The Pastor fills his office well," he said, + In homely jest; "--the Past alone he heeds! + Honours those Jewish times as he were a Jew, + And Christ were neither Jew nor northern man! + He has no ear for this poor Present Hour, + Which wanders up and down the centuries, + Like beggar-boy roaming the wintry streets, + With witless hand held out to passers-by; + And yet God made the voice of its many cries. + Mine be the work that comes first to my hand! + The lever set, I grasp and heave withal. + I love where I live, and let my labour flow + Into the hollows of the neighbour-needs. + Perhaps I like it best: I would not choose + Another than the ordered circumstance. + This farm is God's as much as yonder town; + These men and maidens, kine and horses, his; + For them his laws must be incarnated + In act and fact, and so their world redeemed." + + Though thus he spoke at times, he spake not oft; + Ruled chief by action: what he said, he did. + No grief was suffered there of man or beast + More than was need; no creature fled in fear; + All slaying was with generous suddenness, + Like God's benignant lightning. "For," he said, + "God makes the beasts, and loves them dearly well-- + Better than any parent loves his child, + It may be," would he say; for still the _may be_ + Was sacred with him no less than the _is_-- + "In such humility he lived and wrought-- + Hence are they sacred. Sprung from God as we, + They are our brethren in a lower kind, + And in their face we see the human look." + If any said: "Men look like animals; + Each has his type set in the lower kind;" + His answer was: "The animals are like men; + Each has his true type set in the higher kind, + Though even there only rough-hewn as yet. + The hell of cruelty will be the ghosts + Of the sad beasts: their crowding heads will come, + And with encircling, slow, pain-patient eyes, + Stare the ill man to madness." + + When he spoke, + His word behind it had the force of deeds + Unborn within him, ready to be born; + But, like his race, he promised very slow. + His goodness ever went before his word, + Embodying itself unconsciously + In understanding of the need that prayed, + And cheerful help that would outrun the prayer. + + When from great cities came the old sad news + Of crime and wretchedness, and children sore + With hunger, and neglect, and cruel blows, + He would walk sadly all the afternoon, + With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow; + Arriving ever at the same result-- + Concluding ever: "The best that I can do + For the great world, is the same best I can + For this my world. What truth may be therein + Will pass beyond my narrow circumstance, + In truth's own right." When a philanthropist + Said pompously: "It is not for your gifts + To spend themselves on common labours thus: + You owe the world far nobler things than such;" + He answered him: "The world is in God's hands, + This part of it in mine. My sacred past, + With all its loves inherited, has led + Hither, here left me: shall I judge, arrogant, + Primaeval godlike work in earth and air, + Seed-time and harvest--offered fellowship + With God in nature--unworthy of my hands? + I know your argument--I know with grief!-- + The crowds of men, in whom a starving soul + Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes + For bare humanity, nay, room to grow!-- + Would I could help them! But all crowds are made + Of individuals; and their grief and pain, + Their thirst and hunger--all are of the one, + Not of the many: the true, the saving power + Enters the individual door, and thence + Issues again in thousand influences + Besieging other doors. I cannot throw + A mass of good into the general midst, + Whereof each man may seize his private share; + And if one could, it were of lowest kind, + Not reaching to that hunger of the soul. + Now here I labour whole in the same spot + Where they have known me from my childhood up + And I know them, each individual: + If there is power in me to help my own, + Even of itself it flows beyond my will, + Takes shape in commonest of common acts, + Meets every humble day's necessity: + --I would not always consciously do good, + Not always work from full intent of help, + Lest I forget the measure heaped and pressed + And running over which they pour for me, + And never reap the too-much of return + In smiling trust and beams from kindly eyes. + But in the city, with a few lame words, + And a few wretched coins, sore-coveted, + To mediate 'twixt my _cannot_ and my _would_, + My best attempts would never strike a root; + My scattered corn would turn to wind-blown chaff; + I should grow weak, might weary of my kind, + Misunderstood the most where almost known, + Baffled and beaten by their unbelief: + Years could not place me where I stand this day + High on the vantage-ground of confidence: + I might for years toil on, and reach no man. + Besides, to leave the thing that nearest lies, + And choose the thing far off, more difficult-- + The act, having no touch of God in it, + Who seeks the needy for the pure need's sake, + Must straightway die, choked in its selfishness." + Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good + Held his poor peace, and went his trackless way. + + What of the vision now? the vision fair + Sent forth to meet him, when at eve he went + Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft he dreamed + She passed him smiling on her stately horse; + But never band or buckle yielded more; + Never again his hands enthroned the maid; + He only worshipped with his eyes, and woke. + Nor woke he then with foolish vain regret; + But, saying, "I have seen the beautiful," + Smiled with his eyes upon a flower or bird, + Or living form, whate'er, of gentleness, + That met him first; and all that morn, his face + Would oftener dawn into a blossomy smile. + + And ever when he read a lofty tale, + Or when the storied leaf, or ballad old, + Or spake or sang of woman very fair, + Or wondrous good, he saw her face alone; + The tale was told, the song was sung of her. + He did not turn aside from other maids, + But loved their faces pure and faithful eyes. + He may have thought, "One day I wed a maid, + And make her mine;" but never came the maid, + Or never came the hour: he walked alone. + Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed + One of the common crowd: there must be ore + For the gold grains to lie in: virgin gold + Lies in the rock, enriching not the stone. + She was not one who of herself could _be_; + And she had found no heart which, tuned with hers, + Would beat in rhythm, growing into rime. + She read phantasmagoric tales, sans salt, + Sans hope, sans growth; or listlessly conversed + With phantom-visitors--ladies, not friends, + Mere spectral forms from fashion's concave glass. + She haunted gay assemblies, ill-content-- + Witched woods to hide in from her better self, + And danced, and sang, and ached. What had she felt, + If, called up by the ordered sounds and motions, + A vision had arisen--as once, of old, + The minstrel's art laid bare the seer's eye, + And showed him plenteous waters in the waste;-- + If the gay dance had vanished from her sight, + And she beheld her ploughman-lover go + With his great stride across a lonely field, + Under the dark blue vault ablaze with stars, + Lifting his full eyes to the radiant roof, + Live with our future; or had she beheld + Him studious, with space-compelling mind + Bent on his slate, pursue some planet's course; + Or reading justify the poet's wrath, + Or sage's slow conclusion?--If a voice + Had whispered then: This man in many a dream, + And many a waking moment of keen joy, + Blesses you for the look that woke his heart, + That smiled him into life, and, still undimmed, + Lies lamping in the cabinet of his soul;-- + Would her sad eyes have beamed with sudden light? + Would not her soul, half-dead with nothingness, + Have risen from the couch of its unrest, + And looked to heaven again, again believed + In God and life, courage, and duty, and love? + Would not her soul have sung to its lone self: + "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise. + He knows what God, and goodness, and fair faith + Mean in the words and books of mighty men. + He nothing heeds the show of worldly things, + But worships the unconquerable truth. + This man is humble and loves me: I will + Be proud and very humble. If he knew me, + Would he go on and love me till we meet!"? + + In the third year, a heavy harvest fell, + Full filled, before the reaping-hook and scythe. + The heat was scorching, but the men and maids + Lightened their toil with merry jest and song; + Rested at mid-day, and from brimming bowl, + Drank the brown ale, and white abundant milk. + The last ear fell, and spiky stubble stood + Where waved the forests of dry-murmuring corn; + And sheaves rose piled in shocks, like ranged tents + Of an encamping army, tent by tent, + To stand there while the moon should have her will. + + The grain was ripe. The harvest carts went out + Broad-platformed, bearing back the towering load, + With frequent passage 'twixt homeyard and field. + And half the oats already hid their tops, + Their ringing, rustling, wind-responsive sprays, + In the still darkness of the towering stack; + When in the north low billowy clouds appeared, + Blue-based, white-crested, in the afternoon; + And westward, darker masses, plashed with blue, + And outlined vague in misty steep and dell, + Clomb o'er the hill-tops: thunder was at hand. + The air was sultry. But the upper sky + Was clear and radiant. + + Downward went the sun, + Below the sullen clouds that walled the west, + Below the hills, below the shadowed world. + The moon looked over the clear eastern wall, + And slanting rose, and looked, rose, looked again, + And searched for silence in her yellow fields, + But found it not. For there the staggering carts, + Like overladen beasts, crawled homeward still, + Sped fieldward light and low. The laugh broke yet, + That lightning of the soul's unclouded skies-- + Though not so frequent, now that toil forgot + Its natural hour. Still on the labour went, + Straining to beat the welkin-climbing heave + Of the huge rain-clouds, heavy with their floods. + Sleep, old enchantress, sided with the clouds, + The hoisting clouds, and cast benumbing spells + On man and horse. One youth who walked beside + A ponderous load of sheaves, higher than wont, + Which dared the lurking levin overhead, + Woke with a start, falling against the wheel, + That circled slow after the slumbering horse. + Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep, + And quit the last few shocks; for the wild storm + Would catch thereby the skirts of Harvest-home, + And hold her lingering half-way in the rain. + + The scholar laboured with his men all night. + He did not favour such prone headlong race + With Nature. To himself he said: "The night + Is sent for sleep; we ought to sleep in the night, + And leave the clouds to God. Not every storm + That climbeth heavenward overwhelms the earth; + And when God wills, 'tis better he should will; + What he takes from us never can be lost." + But the father so had ordered, and the son + Went manful to his work, and held his peace. + + When the dawn blotted pale the clouded east, + The first drops, overgrown and helpless, fell + On the last home-bound cart, oppressed with sheaves; + And by its side, the last in the retreat, + The scholar walked, slow bringing up the rear. + Half the still lengthening journey he had gone, + When, on opposing strength of upper winds + Tumultuous borne, at last the labouring racks + Met in the zenith, and the silence ceased: + The lightning brake, and flooded all the world, + Its roar of airy billows following it. + The darkness drank the lightning, and again + Lay more unslaked. But ere the darkness came, + In the full revelation of the flash, + Met by some stranger flash from cloudy brain, + He saw the lady, borne upon her horse, + Careless of thunder, as when, years agone, + He saw her once, to see for evermore. + "Ah, ha!" he said, "my dreams are come for me! + Now shall they have me!" For, all through the night, + There had been growing trouble in his frame, + An overshadowing of something dire. + Arrived at home, the weary man and horse + Forsook their load; the one went to his stall, + The other sought the haven of his bed-- + There slept and moaned, cried out, and woke, and slept: + Through all the netted labyrinth of his brain + The fever shot its pent malignant fire. + 'Twas evening when to passing consciousness + He woke and saw his father by his side: + His guardian form in every vision drear + That followed, watching shone; and the healing face + Of his true sister gleamed through all his pain, + Soothing and strengthening with cloudy hope; + Till, at the weary last of many days, + He woke to sweet quiescent consciousness, + Enfeebled much, but with a new-born life-- + His soul a summer evening after rain. + + Slow, with the passing weeks, he gathered strength, + And ere the winter came, seemed half restored; + And hope was busy. But a fire too keen + Burned in his larger eyes; and in his cheek + Too ready came the blood at faintest call, + Glowing a fair, quick-fading, sunset hue. + + Before its hour, a biting frost set in. + It gnawed with icy fangs his shrinking life; + And that disease bemoaned throughout the land, + The smiling, hoping, wasting, radiant death, + Was born of outer cold and inner heat. + + One morn his sister, entering while he slept, + Spied in his listless hand a handkerchief + Spotted with red. Cold with dismay, she stood, + Scared, motionless. But catching in the glass + The sudden glimpse of a white ghostly face, + She started at herself, and he awoke. + He understood, and said with smile unsure, + "Bright red was evermore my master-hue; + And see, I have it in me: that is why." + She shuddered; and he saw, nor jested more, + But smiled again, and looked Death in the face. + + When first he saw the red blood outward leap, + As if it sought again the fountain-heart + Whence it had flowed to fill the golden bowl, + No terror seized--an exaltation swelled + His spirit: now the pondered mystery + Would fling its portals wide, and take him in, + One of the awful dead! Them, fools conceive + As ghosts that fleet and pine, bereft of weight, + And half their valued lives: he otherwise;-- + Hoped now, and now expected; and, again, + Said only, "I await the thing to come." + + So waits a child the lingering curtain's rise, + While yet the panting lamps restrained burn + At half-height, and the theatre is full. + + But as the days went by, they brought sad hours, + When he would sit, his hands upon his knees, + Drooping, and longing for the wine of life. + For when the ninefold crystal spheres, through which + The outer light sinks in, are cracked and broken, + Yet able to keep in the 'piring life, + Distressing shadows cross the chequered soul: + Poor Psyche trims her irresponsive lamp, + And anxious visits oft her store of oil, + And still the shadows fall: she must go pray! + And God, who speaks to man at door and lattice, + Glorious in stars, and winds, and flowers, and waves, + Not seldom shuts the door and dims the pane, + That, isled in calm, his still small voice may sound + The clearer, by the hearth, in the inner room-- + Sound on until the soul, fulfilled of hope, + Look undismayed on that which cannot kill; + And saying in the dark, _I will the light_, + Glow in the gloom the present will of God: + Then melt the shadows of her shaken house. + + He, when his lamp shot up a spiring flame, + Would thus break forth and climb the heaven of prayer: + "Do with us what thou wilt, all-glorious heart! + Thou God of them that are not yet, but grow! + We trust thee for the thing we shall be yet; + We too are ill content with what we are." + And when the flame sank, and the darkness fell, + He lived by faith which is the soul of sight. + + Yet in the frequent pauses of the light, + When all was dreary as a drizzling thaw, + When sleep came not although he prayed for sleep, + And wakeful-weary on his bed he lay, + Like frozen lake that has no heaven within; + Then, then the sleeping horror woke and stirred, + And with the tooth of unsure thought began + To gnaw the roots of life:--What if there were + No truth in beauty! What if loveliness + Were but the invention of a happier mood! + "For, if my mind can dim or slay the Fair, + Why should it not enhance or make the Fair?" + "Nay," Psyche answered; "for a tired man + May drop his eyelids on the visible world, + To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free, + Will bring the sunny excellence of day. + 'Tis easy to destroy; God only makes. + Could my invention sweep the lucid waves + With purple shadows--next create the joy + With which my life beholds them? Wherefore should + One meet the other without thought of mine, + If God did not mean beauty in them and me, + But dropped them, helpless shadows, from his sun? + There were no God, his image not being mine, + And I should seek in vain for any bliss! + Oh, lack and doubt and fear can only come + Because of plenty, confidence, and love! + Those are the shadow-forms about the feet + Of these--because they are not crystal-clear + To the all-searching sun in which they live: + Dread of its loss is Beauty's certain seal!" + Thus reasoned mourning Psyche. Suddenly + The sun would rise, and vanish Psyche's lamp, + Absorbed in light, not swallowed in the dark. + + It was a wintry time with sunny days, + With visitings of April airs and scents, + That came with sudden presence, unforetold, + As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring + In the great world where all is old and new. + Strange longings he had never known till now, + Awoke within him, flowers of rooted hope. + For a whole silent hour he would sit and gaze + Upon the distant hills, whose dazzling snow + Starred the dim blue, or down their dark ravines + Crept vaporous; until the fancy rose + That on the other side those rampart walls, + A mighty woman sat, with waiting face, + Calm as that life whose rapt intensity + Borders on death, silent, waiting for him, + To make him grand for ever with a kiss, + And send him silent through the toning worlds. + + The father saw him waning. The proud sire + Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold, + Like snowdrop on its grave; and sighed deep thanks + That he was old. But evermore the son + Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news + Across the waste, of tree-buds and primroses. + Then all at once the other mood would come, + And, like a troubled child, he would seek his father + For father-comfort, which fathers all can give: + Sure there is one great Father in the world, + Since every word of good from fathers' lips + Falleth with such authority, although + They are but men as we! This trembling son, + Who saw the unknown death draw hourly nigher, + Sought solace in his father's tenderness, + And made him strong to die. + + One shining day, + Shining with sun and snow, he came and said, + "What think you, father--is death very sore?" + "My boy," the father answered, "we will try + To make it easy with the present God. + But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, + It seems much harder to the lookers on + Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath + We call a gasp, may be in him the cry + Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob + With which the unclothed spirit, step by step. + Wades forth into the cool eternal sea. + I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- + One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth + Is every day half sunny and half dark. + We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; + They on the other, looking down in light, + Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours." + "Be near me, father, when I die," he said. + "I will, my boy, until a better Father + Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, + When my time comes--you in the light beyond, + And knowing well the country--I in the dark." + + The days went by, until the tender green + Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope + Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; + For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, + With promises, and he went forth to meet her. + + But he who once had strode a king on the fields, + Walked softly now; lay on the daisied grass; + And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon + The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, + Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing. + + But though I lingering listen to the old, + Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old + And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- + Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart + To look the blank unknown full in the void; + For he had hope in God--the growth of years, + Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, + Of prayers and readings and repentances; + For something in him had ever sought the peace + Of other something deeper in him still-- + A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony + With other fainter sounds, that softly drew + Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths + Where the Individual goeth out in God: + The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, + And sought the way by which the music came, + Hoping at last to find the face of him + To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, + And on his bosom fearless leaned the while. + + As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, + The new creation inside of the old, + Pressed up in buds toward the invisible. + And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay. + Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; + He looked away from earth, and loved the sky. + One earthly notion only clung to him:-- + He thanked God that he died not in the cold; + "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad + When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.--It + may be that we know not aught of place, + Or any sense, and only live in thought; + But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light. + I _may_ pass forth into the sea of air + That swings its massy waves around the earth, + And I would rather go when it is full + Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog + Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick. + Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- + Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, + And going with the light. And when they say, + 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;' + I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'" + + The weary nights did much to humble him; + They made the good he knew seem all ill known: + He would go by and by to school again! + "Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou _art_!" + Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, + Who, longing for his mother, has forgot + The arms about him, holding him to her heart: + _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up + That he may see her face, and sleep indeed. + + Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; + We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; + But through them all thy strong arms carry us, + Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief. + Because thou lovest goodness more than joy + In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: + We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, + But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, + And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain + Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: + We never grasp the zenith of the time! + We have no spring except in winter-prayers! + But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That + one day we shall thank thee perfectly + For every disappointment, pang, and shame, + That drove us to the bosom of thy love. + + One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. + His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, + Through which bright pictures passed of the outer world: + The regnant Will gazed passive on the show; + The magic tube through which the shadows came, + Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, + Glided across the field the things that were, + Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: + Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, + And old brown letters are more sad than graves. + + At length, as ever in such vision-hours, + Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse. + Will started all awake, passive no more, + And, necromantic sage, the apparition + That came unbid, commanded to abide. + + Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: + How had she fared, spinning her history + Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings + Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer? + Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or + Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained? + "I know," he said, "some women fail of life! + The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?" + + The fount of possibilities began + To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: + Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- + For purest souls sometimes have direst fears + In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth + Is cast on half her children, and the sun + Is busy giving daylight to the rest. + + "Oh, God!" he cried, "if she be such as those!-- + Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still + Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, + But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, + Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- + It cannot, cannot be! She is of God!-- + And yet things lovely perish! higher life + Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- + Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!" + Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul + But found at last a spot wherein to rest, + Building a resolution for the day. + + The next day, and the next, he was too worn + To clothe intent in body of a deed. + A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, + Making him feel as he had come to the earth + Before God's spirit moved on the water's face, + To make it ready for him. + + But the third + Morning rose radiant. A genial wind + Rippled the blue air 'neath the golden sun, + And brought glad summer-tidings from the south. + + He lay now in his father's room; for there + The southern sun poured all the warmth he had. + His rays fell on the fire, alive with flames, + And turned it ghostly pale, and would have slain-- + Even as the sunshine of the higher life, + Quenching the glow of this, leaves but a coal. + He rose and sat him down 'twixt sun and fire; + Two lives fought in him for the mastery; + And half from each forth flowed the written stream + "Lady, I owe thee much. Stay not to look + Upon my name: I write it, but I date + From the churchyard, where it shall lie in peace, + Thou reading it. Thou know'st me not at all; + Nor dared I write, but death is crowning me + Thy equal. If my boldness yet offend, + Lo, pure in my intent, I am with the ghosts; + Where when thou comest, thou hast already known + God equal makes at first, and Death at last." + + "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, + My thoughts moved toward thee with a gentle flow + That bore a depth of waters: when I took + My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, + Precipitate and foamy. Can it be + That Death who humbles all hath made me proud?" + + "Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, + As if I were thy heritage bequeathed + From many sires; yet only from afar + I have worshipped thee--content to know the vision + Had lifted me above myself who saw, + And ta'en my angel nigh thee in thy heaven. + Thy beauty, lady, hath overflowed, and made + Another being beautiful, beside, + With virtue to aspire and be itself. + Afar as angels or the sainted dead, + Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, + Thy form hath put on each revealing dress + Of circumstance and history, high or low, + In which, from any tale of selfless life, + Essential womanhood hath shone on me." + + "Ten years have passed away since the first time, + Which was the last, I saw thee. What have these + Made or unmade in thee?--I ask myself. + O lovely in my memory! art thou + As lovely in thyself? Thy glory then + Was what God made thee: art thou such indeed? + Forgive my boldness, lady--I am dead: + The dead may cry, their voices are so small." + + "I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead. + Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful + As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; + Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure + That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God, + Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself + I pray. For if I die and find that she, + My woman-glory, lives in common air, + Is not so very radiant after all, + My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, + Unused to see such rooted sorrow there. + With palm to palm my kneeling ghost implores + Thee, living lady--justify my faith + In womanhood's white-handed nobleness, + And thee, its revelation unto me." + + "But I bethink me:--If thou turn thy thoughts + Upon thyself, even for that great sake + Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, + Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half + Is to forget the former, yea, thyself, + Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day, + Turning thy being full unto thy God. + Be thou in him a pure, twice holy child, + Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness-- + Having God in thee, thy completing soul." + + "Lady, I die; the Father holds me up. + It is not much to thee that I should die; + It may be much to know he holds me up." + + "I thank thee, lady, for the gentle look + Which crowned me from thine eyes ten years ago, + Ere, clothed in nimbus of the setting sun, + Thee from my dazzled eyes thy horse did bear, + Proud of his burden. My dull tongue was mute-- + I was a fool before thee; but my silence + Was the sole homage possible to me then: + That now I speak, and fear not, is thy gift. + The same sweet look be possible to thee + For evermore! I bless thee with thine own, + And say farewell, and go into my grave-- + No, to the sapphire heaven of all my hopes." + + Followed his name in full, and then the name + Of the green churchyard where his form should lie. + + Back to his couch he crept, weary, and said: + "O God, I am but an attempt at life! + Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. + Light goeth from me in the morning hour. + I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill + Of pure emotion, save in dreams, ah--dreams! + The high Truth has but flickered in my soul-- + Even at such times, in wide blue midnight hours, + When, dawning sudden on my inner world, + New stars came forth, revealing unknown depths, + New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, + And for a moment I saw formless fact, + And knew myself a living lonely thought, + Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway! + I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my God; + Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, + Harebells, red poppies, daisies, eyebrights blue-- + Gathered them by the way, for comforting! + Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, + Striving for something visible in my thought, + And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? + Make me content to be a primrose-flower + Among thy nations, so the fair truth, hid + In the sweet primrose, come awake in me, + And I rejoice, an individual soul, + Reflecting thee--as truly then divine + As if I towered the angel of the sun. + Once, in a southern eve, a glowing worm + Gave me a keener joy than the heaven of stars: + Thou camest in the worm nearer me then! + Nor do I think, were I that green delight, + I would change to be the shadowy evening star. + Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, + So be thou will it! I am safe with thee. + I laugh exulting. Make me something, God-- + Clear, sunny, veritable purity + Of mere existence, in thyself content. + And seeking no compare. Sure I _have_ reaped + Earth's harvest if I find this holy death!-- + Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt." + + He laid the letter in his desk, with seal + And superscription. When his sister came, + He told her where to find it--afterwards. + + As the slow eve, through paler, darker shades, + Insensibly declines, until at last + The lordly day is but a memory, + So died he. In the hush of noon he died. + The sun shone on--why should he not shine on? + Glad summer noises rose from all the land; + The love of God lay warm on hill and plain: + 'Tis well to die in summer. + + When the breath, + After a hopeless pause, returned no more, + The father fell upon his knees, and said: + "O God, I thank thee; it is over now! + Through the sore time thy hand has led him well. + Lord, let me follow soon, and be at rest." + Therewith he rose, and comforted the maid, + Who in her brother had lost the pride of life, + And wept as all her heaven were only rain. + + Of the loved lady, little more I know. + I know not if, when she had read his words, + She rose in haste, and to her chamber went, + And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth, + A dawn of holier purpose gleamed across + The sadness of her brow. But this I know, + That, on a warm autumnal afternoon, + When headstone-shadows crossed three neighbour graves, + And, like an ended prayer, the empty church + Stood in the sunshine, or a cenotaph, + A little boy, who watched a cow near by + Gather her milk where alms of clover-fields + Lay scattered on the sides of silent roads, + All sudden saw, nor knew whence she had come, + A lady, veiled, alone, and very still, + Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat + And moved not, weeping sore, the watcher said-- + Though how he knew she wept, were hard to tell. + At length, slow-leaning on her elbow down, + She hid her face a while in the short grass, + And pulled a something small from off the mound-- + A blade of grass it must have been, he thought, + For nothing else was there, not even a daisy-- + And put it in a letter. Then she rose, + And glided silent forth, over the wall, + Where the two steps on this side and on that + Shorten the path from westward to the church.-- + The clang of hoofs and sound of light, swift wheels + Arose and died upon the listener's ear. + + + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + + +TO THEM THAT MOURN. + + Let your tears flow; let your sad sighs have scope; + Only take heed they fan, they water Hope. + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + +INTRODUCTION. + + I sought the long clear twilights of my home, + Far in the pale-blue skies and slaty seas, + What time the sunset dies not utterly, + But withered to a ghost-like stealthy gleam, + Round the horizon creeps the short-lived night, + And changes into sunrise in a swoon. + I found my home in homeliness unchanged: + The love that made it home, unchangeable, + Received me as a child, and all was well. + My ancient summer-heaven, borne on the hills, + Once more embraced me; and once more the vale, + So often sighed for in the far-off nights, + Rose on my bodily vision, and, behold, + In nothing had the fancy mocked the fact! + The hasting streams went garrulous as of old; + The resting flowers in silence uttered more; + The blue hills rose and dwelt alone in heaven; + Householding Nature from her treasures brought + Things old and new, the same yet not the same, + For all was holier, lovelier than before; + And best of all, once more I paced the fields + With him whose love had made me long for God + So good a father that, needs-must, I sought + A better still, Father of him and me. + + Once on a day, my cousin Frank and I + Sat swiftly borne behind the dear white mare + That oft had carried me in bygone days + Along the lonely paths of moorland hills; + But now we sought the coast, where deep waves foam + 'Gainst rocks that lift their dark fronts to the north. + And with us went a girl, on whose kind face + I had not looked for many a youthful year, + But the old friendship straightway blossomed new. + The heavens were sunny, and the earth was green; + The large harebells in families stood along + The grassy borders, of a tender blue + Transparent as the sky, haunted with wings + Of many butterflies, as blue as they. + And as we talked and talked without restraint, + Brought near by memories of days that were, + And therefore are for ever; by the joy + Of motion through a warm and shining air; + By the glad sense of freedom and like thoughts; + And by the bond of friendship with the dead, + She told the tale which here I tell again. + + I had returned to childish olden time, + And asked her if she knew a castle worn, + Whose masonry, razed utterly above, + Yet faced the sea-cliff up, and met the waves:-- + 'Twas one of my child-marvels; for, each year, + We turned our backs upon the ripening corn, + And sought some village on the Moray shore; + And nigh this ruin, was that I loved the best. + + For oh the riches of that little port!-- + Down almost to the beach, where a high wall + Inclosed them, came the gardens of a lord, + Free to the visitor with foot restrained-- + His shady walks, his ancient trees of state; + His river--that would not be shut within, + But came abroad, went dreaming o'er the sands, + And lost itself in finding out the sea; + Inside, it bore grave swans, white splendours--crept + Under the fairy leap of a wire bridge, + Vanished in leaves, and came again where lawns + Lay verdurous, and the peacock's plumy heaven + Bore azure suns with green and golden rays. + It was my childish Eden; for the skies + Were loftier in that garden, and the clouds + More summer-gracious, edged with broader white; + And when they rained, it was a golden rain + That sparkled as it fell--an odorous rain. + And then its wonder-heart!--a little room, + Half-hollowed in the side of a steep hill, + Which rose, with columned, windy temple crowned, + A landmark to far seas. The enchanted cell + Was clouded over in the gentle night + Of a luxuriant foliage, and its door, + Half-filled with rainbow hues of coloured glass, + Opened into the bosom of the hill. + Never to sesame of mine that door + Gave up its sanctuary; but through the glass, + Gazing with reverent curiosity, + I saw a little chamber, round and high, + Which but to see was to escape the heat, + And bathe in coolness of the eye and brain; + For all was dusky greenness; on one side, + A window, half-blind with ivy manifold, + Whose leaves, like heads of gazers, climbed to the top, + Gave a joy-saddened light, for all that came + Through the thick veil was green, oh, kindest hue! + But the heart has a heart--this heart had one: + Still in the midst, the _ever more_ of all, + On a low column stood, white, cold, dim-clear, + A marble woman. Who she was I know not-- + A Psyche, or a Silence, or an Echo: + Pale, undefined, a silvery shadow, still, + In one lone chamber of my memory, + She is a power upon me as of old. + + But, ah, to dream there through hot summer days, + In coolness shrouded and sea-murmurings, + Forgot by all till twilight shades grew dark! + To find half-hidden in the hollowed wall, + A nest of tales, old volumes such as dreams + Hoard up in bookshops dim in tortuous streets! + That wondrous marble woman evermore + Filling the gloom with calm delirium + Of radiated whiteness, as I read!-- + The fancied joy, too plenteous for its cup, + O'erflowed, and turned to sadness as it fell. + + But the gray ruin on the shattered shore, + Not the green refuge in the bowering hill, + Drew forth our talk that day. For, as I said, + I asked her if she knew it. She replied, + "I know it well. A woman used to live + In one of its low vaults, my mother says." + "I found a hole," I said, "and spiral stair, + Leading from level of the ground above + To a low-vaulted room within the rock, + Whence through a small square window I looked forth + Wide o'er the waters; the dim-sounding waves + Were many feet below, and shrunk in size + To a great ripple." "'Twas not there," she said, + "--Not in that room half up the cliff, but one + Low down, within the margin of spring tides: + When both the tide and northern wind are high, + 'Tis more an ocean-cave than castle-vault." + And then she told me all she knew of her. + + It was a simple tale, a monotone: + She climbed one sunny hill, gazed once abroad, + Then wandered down, to pace a dreary plain; + Alas! how many such are told by night, + In fisher-cottages along the shore! + + Farewell, old summer-day! I turn aside + To tell her story, interwoven with thoughts + Born of its sorrow; for I dare not think + A woman at the mercy of a sea. + + + + THE STORY. + + Aye as it listeth blows the listless wind, + Swelling great sails, and bending lordly masts, + Or hurrying shadow-waves o'er fields of corn, + And hunting lazy clouds across the sky: + Now, like a white cloud o'er another sky, + It blows a tall brig from the harbour's mouth, + Away to high-tossed heads of wallowing waves, + 'Mid hoverings of long-pinioned arrowy birds. + With clouds and birds and sails and broken crests, + All space is full of spots of fluttering white, + And yet the sailor knows that handkerchief + Waved wet with tears, and heavy in the wind. + Blow, wind! draw out the cord that binds the twain; + Draw, for thou canst not break the lengthening cord. + Blow, wind! yet gently; gently blow, fair wind! + And let love's vision slowly, gently die; + Let the bright sails all solemn-slowly pass, + And linger ghost-like o'er the vanished hull, + With a white farewell to her straining eyes; + For never more in morning's level beams, + Will those sea-shadowing sails, dark-stained and worn, + From the gray-billowed north come dancing in; + Oh, never, gliding home 'neath starry skies, + Over the dusk of the dim-glancing sea, + Will the great ship send forth a herald cry + Of home-come sailors, into sleeping streets! + Blow gently, wind! blow slowly, gentle wind! + + Weep not yet, maiden; 'tis not yet thy hour. + Why shouldst thou weep before thy time is come? + Go to thy work; break into song sometimes-- + Song dying slow-forgotten, in the lapse + Of dreamy thought, ere natural pause ensue, + Or sudden dropt what time the eager heart + Hurries the ready eye to north and east. + Sing, maiden, while thou canst, ere yet the truth, + Slow darkening, choke the heart-caged singing bird! + + The weeks went by. Oft leaving household work, + With bare arms and uncovered head she clomb + The landward slope of the prophetic hill; + From whose green head, as from the verge of time, + Far out on the eternity of blue, + Shading her hope-rapt eyes, seer-like she gazed, + If from the Hades of the nether world, + Slow climbing up the round side of the earth, + Haply her prayers were drawing his tardy sails + Over the threshold of the far sky-sea-- + Drawing her sailor home to celebrate, + With holy rites of family and church, + The apotheosis of maidenhood. + + Months passed; he came not; and a shadowy fear, + Long haunting the horizon of her soul, + In deeper gloom and sharper form drew nigh; + And growing in bulk, possessed her atmosphere, + And lost all shape, because it filled all space, + And reached beyond the bounds of consciousness-- + In sudden incarnations darting swift + From out its infinite a gulfy stare + Of terror blank, of hideous emptiness, + Of widowhood ere ever wedding-day. + + On granite ridge, and chalky cliff, and pier, + Far built into the waves along our shores, + Maidens have stood since ever ships went forth; + The same pain at the heart; the same slow mist + Clouding the eye; the same fixed longing look, + As if the soul had gone, and left the door + Wide open--gone to lean, hearken, and peer + Over the awful edge where voidness sinks + Sheer to oblivion--that horizon-line + Over whose edge he vanished--came no more. + O God, why are our souls, waste, helpless seas, + Tortured with such immitigable storm? + What is this love, that now on angel wing + Sweeps us amid the stars in passionate calm; + And now with demon arms fast cincturing, + Drops us, through all gyrations of keen pain, + Down the black vortex, till the giddy whirl + Gives fainting respite to the ghastly brain? + O happy they for whom the Possible + Opens its gates of madness, and becomes + The Real around them!--such to whom henceforth + There is but one to-morrow, the next morn, + Their wedding-day, ever one step removed, + The husband's foot ever upon the verge + Of the day's threshold, in a lasting dream! + Such madness may be but a formless faith-- + A chaos which the breath of God will blow + Into an ordered world of seed and fruit. + Shall not the Possible become the Real? + God sleeps not when he makes his daughters dream. + Shall not the morrow dawn at last which leads + The maiden-ghost, confused and half awake, + Into the land whose shadows are our dreams?-- + Thus questioning we stand upon the shore, + And gaze across into the Unrevealed. + + Upon its visible symbol gazed the girl, + Till earth behind her ceased, and sea was all, + Possessing eyes and brain and shrinking soul-- + A universal mouth to swallow up, + And close eternally in one blue smile! + A still monotony of pauseless greed, + Its only voice an endless, dreary song + Of wailing, and of craving from the world! + + A low dull dirge that ever rose and died, + Recurring without pause or change or close, + Like one verse chaunted ever in sleepless brain, + Still drew her to the shore. It drew her down, + Like witch's spell, that fearful endless moan; + Somewhere, she thought, in the green abyss below, + His body, at the centre of the moan, + Obeyed the motions whence the moaning grew; + Now, now, in circle slow revolved, and now + Swayed like a wind-swung bell, now swept along + Hither and thither, idly to and fro, + Heedlessly wandering through the heedless sea. + Its fascination drew her onward still-- + On to the ridgy rocks that seaward ran, + And out along their furrows and jagged backs, + To the last lonely point where the green mass + Arose and sank, heaved slow and forceful. There + She shuddered and recoiled. Thus, for a time, + Sport-slave of power occult, she came and went, + Betwixt the shore and sea alternating, + Drawn ever to the greedy lapping lip, + Then, terror-stung, driven backward: there it lay, + The heartless, cruel, miserable deep, + Ambushed in horror, with its glittering eye + Still drawing her to its green gulfing maw! + + But every ocean hath its isles, each woe + Its scattered comfortings; and this was one + That often came to her--that she, wave-caught, + Must, in the wash of ever-shifting waters, + In some good hour sure-fixed of pitiful fate, + _All-conscious still of love, despite the sea_, + Float over some stray bone, some particle, + Which far-diffused sense would know as his: + Heart-glad she would sit down, and watch the tide + Slow-growing--till it reached at length her feet, + When, at its first cold touch, up she would spring, + And, ghastful, flee, with white-rimmed sightless eye. + + But still, where'er she fled, the sea-voice followed; + Whisperings innumerable of water-drops + Would grow together to a giant cry; + Now hoarse, half-stifled, pleading, warning tones, + Now thunderous peals of billowy, wrathful shouts, + Called after her to come, and make no pause. + From the loose clouds that mingled with the spray, + And from the tossings of the lifted seas, + Where plunged and rose the raving wilderness, + Outreaching arms, pursuing, beckoning hands, + Came shoreward, lengthening, feeling after her. + Then would she fling her own wild arms on high, + Over her head, in tossings like the waves, + Or fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense, + Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. + Sometimes she sudden from her shoulders tore + Her garments, one by one, and cast them out + Into the roarings of the heedless surge, + In vain oblation to the hungry waves. + As vain was Pity's will to cover her; + Best gifts but bribed the sea, and left her bare. + In her poor heart and brain burned such a fire + That all-unheeded cold winds lapped her round, + And sleet-like spray flashed on her tawny skin. + Her food she seldom ate; her naked arms + Flung it far out to feed the sea; her hair + Streamed after it, like rooted ocean-weed + In headlong current. But, alas, the sea + Took it, and came again--it would have _her_! + And as the wave importunate, so despair, + Back surging, on her heart rushed ever afresh: + Sickening she moaned--half muttered and half moaned-- + "She winna be content; she'll hae mysel!" + + But when the night grew thick upon the sea, + Quenching it almost, save its quenchless voice, + Then, half-released until the light, she rose, + And step by step withdrew--as dreaming man, + With an eternity of slowness, drags + His earth-bound, lead-like, irresponsive feet + Back from a sleeping horror, she withdrew. + But when, upon the narrow beach at last, + She turned her back upon her hidden foe, + It blended with her phantom-breeding brain, + And, scared at very fear, she cried and fled-- + Fled to the battered base of the old tower, + And round the rock, and through the arched gap + Into the yawning blackness of the vault-- + There sank upon the sand, and gasped, and raved. + Close cowering in a nook, she sat all night, + Her face turned to the entrance of the vault, + Through which a pale light shimmered--from the eye + Of the great sleepless ocean--Argus more dread + Than he with hundred lidless watching orbs, + And slept, and dreamed, and dreaming saw the sea. + But in the stormy nights, when all was dark, + And the wild tempest swept with slanting wing + Against her refuge, and the heavy spray + Shot through the doorway serpentine cold arms + To seize the fore-doomed morsel of the sea, + She slept not, evermore stung to new life + By new sea-terrors. Now it was the gull: + His clanging pinions darted through the arch, + And flapped about her head; now 'twas a wave + Grown arrogant: it rushed into her house, + Clasped her waist-high, then out again and away + To swell the devilish laughter in the fog, + And leave her clinging to the rocky wall, + With white face watching. When it came no more, + And the tide ebbed, not yet she slept--sat down, + And sat unmoving, till the low gray dawn + Grew on the misty dance of spouting waves, + That made a picture in the rugged arch; + Then the old fascination woke and drew; + And, rising slowly, forth she went afresh, + To haunt the border of the dawning sea. + + Yet all the time there lay within her soul + An inner chamber, quietest place; but she + Turned from its door, and staid out in the storm. + She, entering there, had found a refuge calm + As summer evening, as a mother's arms. + There had she found her lost love, only lost + In that he slept, and she was still awake. + There she had found, waiting for her to come, + The Love that waits and watches evermore. + + Thou too hast such a chamber, quietest place, + Where that Love waits for thee. What is it, say, + That will not let thee enter? Is it care + For the provision of the unborn day, + As if thou wert a God that must foresee? + Is it poor hunger for the praise of men? + Is it ambition to outstrip thy fellow + In this world's race? Or is it love of self-- + That greed which still to have must still destroy?-- + Go mad for some lost love; some voice of old, + Which first thou madest sing, and after sob; + Some heart thou foundest rich, and leftest bare, + Choking its well of faith with thy false deeds-- + Unlike thy God, who keeps the better wine + Until the last, and, if he giveth grief, + Giveth it first, and ends the tale with joy: + Such madness clings about the feet of God, + Nor lets them go. Better a thousandfold + Be she than thou! for though thy brain be strong + And clear and workful, hers a withered flower + That never came to seed, her heart is full + Of that in whose live might God made the world; + She is a well, and thou an empty cup. + It was the invisible unbroken cord + Between the twain, her and her sailor-lad, + That drew her ever to the ocean marge. + Better to die for love, to rave for love, + Than not to love at all! but to have loved, + And, loved again, then to have turned away-- + Better than that, never to have been born! + + But if thy heart be noble, say if thou + Canst ever all forget an hour of pain, + When, maddened with the thought that could not be, + Thou might'st have yielded to the demon wind + That swept in tempest through thy scorching brain, + And rushed into the night, and howled aloud, + And clamoured to the waves, and beat the rocks; + And never found thy way back to the seat + Of conscious self, and power to rule thy pain, + Had not God made thee strong to bear and live! + The tale is now in thee, not thou in it; + But the sad woman, in her wildest mood, + Thou knowest her thy sister! She is fair + No more; her eyes like fierce suns blaze and burn; + Her cheeks are parched and brown; her haggard form + Is wasted by wild storms of soul and sea; + Yet in her very self is that which still + Reminds thee of a story, old, not dead, + Which God has in his keeping--of thyself. + + Ah, not forgot are children when they sleep! + The darkness lasts all night, and clears the eyes; + Then comes the morning with the joy of light. + Oh, surely madness hideth not from Him! + Nor doth a soul cease to be beautiful + In his sight, that its beauty is withdrawn, + And hid by pale eclipse from human eyes. + As the chill snow is friendly to the earth, + And pain and loss are friendly to the soul, + Shielding it from the black heart-killing frost; + So madness is but one of God's pale winters; + And when the winter over is and gone, + Then smile the skies, then blooms the earth again, + And the fair time of singing birds is come: + Into the cold wind and the howling night, + God sent for her, and she was carried in + Where there was no more sea. + + What messenger + Ran from the door of heaven to bring her home? + The sea, her terror. + + In the rocks that stand + Below the cliff, there lies a rounded hollow, + Scooped like a basin, with jagged and pinnacled sides: + Low buried when the wind heaps up the surge, + It lifts in the respiration of the tide + Its broken edges, and, then, deep within + Lies resting water, radiantly clear: + There, on a morn of sunshine, while the wind + Yet blew, and heaved yet the billowy sea + With memories of a night of stormy dreams, + At rest they found her: in the sleep which is + And is not death, she, lying very still, + Absorbed the bliss that follows after pain. + O life of love, conquered at last by fate! + O life raised from the dead by saviour Death! + O love unconquered and invincible! + The enemy sea had cooled her burning brain; + Had laid to rest the heart that could not rest; + Had hid the horror of its own dread face! + 'Twas but one desolate cry, and then her fear + Became a blessed fact, and straight she knew + What God knew all the time--that it was well. + + O thou whose feet tread ever the wet sands + And howling rocks along the wearing shore, + Roaming the borders of the sea of death! + Strain not thine eyes, bedimmed with longing tears, + No sail comes climbing back across that line. + Turn thee, and to thy work; let God alone, + And wait for him: faint o'er the waves will come + Far-floating whispers from the other shore + To thine averted ears. Do thou thy work, + And thou shalt follow--follow, and find thine own. + + And thou who fearest something that may come; + Around whose house the storm of terror breaks + All night; to whose love-sharpened ear, all day, + The Invisible is calling at the door, + To render up a life thou canst not keep, + Or love that will not stay,--open thy door, + And carry out thy dying to the marge + Of the great sea; yea, walk into the flood, + And lay thy dead upon the moaning waves. + Give them to God to bury; float them again, + With sighs and prayers to waft them through the gloom, + Back to the spring of life. Say--"If they die, + Thou, the one life of life, art still alive, + And thou canst make thy dead alive again!" + + Ah God, the earth is full of cries and moans, + And dull despair, that neither moans nor cries; + Thousands of hearts are waiting helplessly; + The whole creation groaneth, travaileth + For what it knows not--with a formless hope + Of resurrection or of dreamless death! + Raise thou the dead; restore the Aprils withered + In hearts of maidens; give their manhood back + To old men feebly mournful o'er a life + That scarce hath memory but the mournfulness! + There is no past with thee: bring back once more + The summer eves of lovers, over which + The wintry wind that raveth through the world + Heaps wretched leaves in gusts of ghastly snow; + Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, + The brother's and the sister's faithfulness;-- + Bring in the kingdom of the Son of Man. + + They troop around me, children wildly crying; + Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears; + Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone; + Yea, some consuming in cold fires of shame! + O God, thou hast a work for all thy strength + In saving these thy hearts with full content-- + Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink, + And that, my God, were all unworthy thee! + + Dome up, O heaven, yet higher o'er my head! + Back, back, horizon; widen out my world! + Rush in, O fathomless sea of the Unknown! + For, though he slay me, I will trust in God. + + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + + + +DEDICATION. + + To all who fain + Would keep the grain, + And cast the husk away-- + That it may feed + The living seed, + And serve it with decay-- + I offer this dim story + Whose clouds crack into glory. + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + +I. + + The times are changed, and gone the day + When the high heavenly land, + Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, + And men could understand. + + The dead yet find it, who, when here, + Did love it more than this; + They enter in, are filled with cheer, + And pain expires in bliss. + + All glorious gleams the blessed land!-- + O God, forgive, I pray: + The heart thou holdest in thy hand + Loves more this sunny day! + + I see the hundred thousand wait + Around the radiant throne: + Ah, what a dreary, gilded state! + What crowds of beings lone! + + I do not care for singing psalms; + I tire of good men's talk; + To me there is no joy in palms, + Or white-robed, solemn walk. + + I love to hear the wild winds meet, + The wild old winds at night; + To watch the cold stars flash and beat, + The feathery snow alight. + + I love all tales of valiant men, + Of women good and fair: + If I were rich and strong, ah, then + I would do something rare! + + But for thy temple in the sky, + Its pillars strong and white-- + I cannot love it, though I try, + And long with all my might. + + Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, + And I am speechless then; + Almost a martyr I could be, + To join the holy men. + + + Straightway my heart is like a clod, + My spirit wrapt in doubt:-- + _A pillar in the house of God, + And never more go out_! + + No more the sunny, breezy morn; + All gone the glowing noon; + No more the silent heath forlorn, + The wan-faced waning moon! + + My God, this heart will never burn, + Must never taste thy joy! + Even Jesus' face is calm and stern: + I am a hapless boy! + + * * * * * + + +II. + + I read good books. My heart despairs. + In vain I try to dress + My soul in feelings like to theirs-- + These men of holiness. + + My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling + Into a country fair: + Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing, + They to my ark repair. + + Or comes a sympathetic thrill + With long-departed saint, + A feeble dawn, without my will, + Of feelings old and quaint, + + As of a church's holy night, + With low-browed chapels round, + Where common sunshine dares not light + On the too sacred ground,-- + + One glance at sunny fields of grain, + One shout of child at play-- + A merry melody drives amain + The one-toned chant away! + + My spirit will not enter here + To haunt the holy gloom; + I gaze into a mirror mere, + A mirror, not a room. + + And as a bird against the pane + Will strike, deceived sore, + I think to enter, but remain + Outside the closed door. + + Oh, it will call for many a sigh + If it be what it claims-- + This book, so unlike earth and sky, + Unlike man's hopes and aims!-- + + To me a desert parched and bare-- + In which a spirit broods + Whose wisdom I would gladly share + At cost of many goods! + + * * * * * + +III. + + O hear me, God! O give me joy + Such as thy chosen feel; + Have pity on a wretched boy; + My heart is hard as steel. + + I have no care for what is good; + Thyself I do not love; + I relish not this Bible-food; + My heaven is not above. + + Thou wilt not hear: I come no more; + Thou heedest not my woe. + With sighs and tears my heart is sore. + Thou comest not: I go. + + * * * * * + + +IV. + + Once more I kneel. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + If light there be, 'tis but a spark + Amid a world's despair-- + + One hopeless hope there yet may be + A God somewhere to hear; + The God to whom I bend my knee-- + A God with open ear. + + I know that men laugh still to scorn + The grief that is my lot; + Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne, + But easily forgot. + + What matter that my sorrows rest + On ills which men despise! + More hopeless heaves my aching breast + Than when a prophet sighs. + + AEons of griefs have come and gone-- + My grief is yet my mark. + The sun sets every night, yet none + Sees therefore in the dark. + + There's love enough upon the earth, + And beauty too, they say: + There may be plenty, may be dearth, + I care not any way. + + The world hath melted from my sight; + No grace in life is left; + I cry to thee with all my might, + Because I am bereft. + + In vain I cry. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + Of light there trembles now no spark + In my lost soul's despair. + + * * * * * + +V. + + I sit and gaze from window high + Down on the noisy street: + No part in this great coil have I, + No fate to go and meet. + + My books unopened long have lain; + In class I am all astray: + The questions growing in my brain, + Demand and have their way. + + Knowledge is power, the people cry; + Grave men the lure repeat: + After some rarer thing I sigh, + That makes the pulses beat. + + Old truths, new facts, they preach aloud-- + Their tones like wisdom fall: + One sunbeam glancing on a cloud + Hints things beyond them all. + + * * * * * + + +VI. + + But something is not right within; + High hopes are far gone by. + Was it a bootless aim--to win + Sight of a loftier sky? + + They preach men should not faint, but pray, + And seek until they find; + But God is very far away, + Nor is his countenance kind. + + Yet every night my father prayed, + Withdrawing from the throng! + Some answer must have come that made + His heart so high and strong! + + Once more I'll seek the God of men, + Redeeming childhood's vow.-- + --I failed with bitter weeping then, + And fail cold-hearted now! + + +VII. + + Why search for God? A man I tread + This old life-bearing earth; + High thoughts awake and lift my head-- + In me they have their birth. + + The preacher says a Christian must + Do all the good he can:-- + I must be noble, true, and just, + Because I am a man! + + They say a man must watch, and keep + Lamp burning, garments white, + Else he shall sit without and weep + When Christ comes home at night:-- + + A man must hold his honour free, + His conscience must not stain, + Or soil, I say, the dignity + Of heart and blood and brain! + + Yes, I say well--said words are cheap! + For action man was born! + What praise will my one talent reap? + What grapes are on my thorn? + + Have high words kept me pure enough? + In evil have I no part? + Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff + That weighs upon the heart"? + + I am not that which I do praise; + I do not that I say; + I sit a talker in the ways, + A dreamer in the day! + + +VIII. + + The preacher's words are true, I know-- + That man may lose his life; + That every man must downward go + Without the upward strife. + + 'Twere well my soul should cease to roam, + Should seek and have and hold! + It may be there is yet a home + In that religion old. + + Again I kneel, again I pray: + _Wilt thou be God to me? + Wilt thou give ear to what I say, + And lift me up to thee_? + + Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high! + The clouds of heaven dispart; + An opening depth of loving sky + Looks down into my heart! + + There _is_ a home wherein to dwell-- + The very heart of light! + Thyself my sun immutable, + My moon and stars all night! + + I thank thee, Lord. It must be so, + Its beauty is so good. + Up in my heart thou mad'st it go, + And I have understood. + + The clouds return. The common day + Falls on me like a _No_; + But I have seen what might be--may, + And with a hope I go. + + +IX. + + I am a stranger in the land; + It gives no welcome dear; + Its lilies bloom not for my hand, + Its roses for my cheer. + + The sunshine used to make me glad, + But now it knows me not; + This weight of brightness makes me sad-- + It isolates a blot. + + I am forgotten by the hills, + And by the river's play; + No look of recognition thrills + The features of the day. + + Then only am I moved to song, + When down the darkening street, + While vanishes the scattered throng, + The driving rain I meet. + + The rain pours down. My thoughts awake, + Like flowers that languished long; + From bare cold hills the night-winds break, + From me the unwonted song. + + +X. + + I read the Bible with my eyes, + But hardly with my brain; + Should this the meaning recognize, + My heart yet reads in vain. + + These words of promise and of woe + Seem but a tinkling sound; + As through an ancient tomb I go, + With dust-filled urns around. + + Or, as a sadly searching child, + Afar from love and home, + Sits in an ancient chamber, piled + With scroll and musty tome, + + So I, in these epistles old + From men of heavenly care, + Find all the thoughts of other mould + Than I can love or share. + + No sympathy with mine they show, + Their world is not the same; + They move me not with joy or woe, + They touch me not with blame. + + I hear no word that calls my life, + Or owns my struggling powers; + Those ancient ages had their strife, + But not a strife like ours. + + Oh, not like men they move and speak, + Those pictures in old panes! + They alter not their aspect meek + For all the winds and rains! + + Their thoughts are full of figures strange, + Of Jewish forms and rites: + A world of air and sea I range, + Of mornings and of nights! + + + +XI. + + I turn me to the gospel-tale:-- + My hope is faint with fear + That hungriest search will not avail + To find a refuge here. + + A misty wind blows bare and rude + From dead seas of the past; + And through the clouds that halt and brood, + Dim dawns a shape at last: + + A sad worn man who bows his face, + And treads a frightful path, + To save an abject hopeless race + From an eternal wrath. + + Kind words he speaks--but all the time + As from a formless height + To which no human foot can climb-- + Half-swathed in ancient night. + + Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart, + Unkind words from him go! + Surely it is no saviour's part + To speak to women so! + + Much rather would I refuge take + With Mary, dear to me, + To whom that rough hard speech he spake-- + _What have I to do with thee_? + + Surely I know men tenderer, + Women of larger soul, + Who need no prayer their hearts to stir, + Who always would make whole! + + Oftenest he looks a weary saint, + Embalmed in pallid gleam; + Listless and sad, without complaint, + Like dead man in a dream. + + And, at the best, he is uplift + A spectacle, a show:-- + The worth of such an outworn gift + I know too much to know! + + How find the love to pay my debt?-- + He leads me from the sun!-- + Yet it is hard men should forget + A good deed ever done!-- + + Forget that he, to foil a curse, + Did, on that altar-hill, + Sun of a sunless universe, + Hang dying, patient, still! + + But what is He, whose pardon slow + At so much blood is priced?-- + If such thou art, O Jove, I go + To the Promethean Christ! + + +XII. + + A word within says I am to blame, + And therefore must confess; + Must call my doing by its name, + And so make evil less. + + "I could not his false triumph bear, + For he was first in wrong." + "Thy own ill-doings are thy care, + His to himself belong." + + "To do it right, my heart should own + Some sorrow for the ill." + "Plain, honest words will half atone, + And they are in thy will." + + The struggle comes. Evil or I + Must gain the victory now. + I am unmoved and yet would try: + O God, to thee I bow. + + The skies are brass; there falls no aid; + No wind of help will blow. + But I bethink me:--I am made + A man: I rise and go. + + +XIII. + + To Christ I needs must come, they say; + Who went to death for me: + I turn aside; I come, I pray, + My unknown God, to thee. + + He is afar; the story old + Is blotted, worn, and dim; + With thee, O God, I can be bold-- + I cannot pray to him. + + _Pray_! At the word a cloudy grief + Around me folds its pall: + Nothing I have to call belief! + How can I pray at all? + + I know not if a God be there + To heed my crying sore; + If in the great world anywhere + An ear keeps open door! + + An unborn faith I will not nurse, + Pursue an endless task; + Loud out into its universe + My soul shall call and ask! + + Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea + Are but a chaos wild! + Is there a God--I know that he + Must hear his calling child! + + +XIV. + + I kneel. But all my soul is dumb + With hopeless misery: + Is he a friend who will not come, + Whose face I must not see? + + I do not think of broken laws, + Of judge's damning word; + My heart is all one ache, because + I call and am not heard. + + A cry where there is none to hear, + Doubles the lonely pain; + Returns in silence on the ear, + In torture on the brain. + + No look of love a smile can bring, + No kiss wile back the breath + To cold lips: I no answer wring + From this great face of death. + + +XV. + + Yet sometimes when the agony + Dies of its own excess, + A dew-like calm descends on me, + A shadow of tenderness; + + A sense of bounty and of grace, + A cool air in my breast, + As if my soul were yet a place + Where peace might one day rest. + + God! God! I say, and cry no more, + But rise, and think to stand + Unwearied at the closed door + Till comes the opening hand. + + +XVI. + + But is it God?--Once more the fear + Of _No God_ loads my breath: + Amid a sunless atmosphere + I fight again with death. + + Such rest may be like that which lulls + The man who fainting lies: + His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, + Draws darkness o'er his eyes. + + But even such sleep, my heart responds, + May be the ancient rest + Rising released from bodily bonds, + And flowing unreprest. + + The o'ertasked will falls down aghast + In individual death; + God puts aside the severed past, + Breathes-in a primal breath. + + For how should torture breed a calm? + Can death to life give birth? + No labour can create the balm + That soothes the sleeping earth! + + I yet will hope the very One + Whose love is life in me, + Did, when my strength was overdone, + Inspire serenity. + +XVII. + + When the hot sun's too urgent might + Hath shrunk the tender leaf, + Water comes sliding down the night, + And makes its sorrow brief. + + When poet's heart is in eclipse, + A glance from childhood's eye, + A smile from passing maiden's lips, + Will clear a glowing sky. + + Might not from God such influence come + A dying hope to lift? + Might he not send to poor heart some + Unmediated gift? + + My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, + Abandoned, sore dismayed; + Her fancy's world with horror teems, + Her soul is much afraid: + + I lay my hand upon her breast, + Her moaning dies away; + She does not wake, but, lost in rest, + Sleeps on into the day. + + And when my heart with soft release + Grows calm as summer-sea, + Shall I not hope the God of peace + Hath laid his hand on me? + + +XVIII. + + But why from thought should fresh doubt start-- + An ever-lengthening cord? + Might he not make my troubled heart + Right sure it was the Lord? + + God will not let a smaller boon + Hinder the coming best; + A granted sign might all too soon + Rejoice thee into rest. + + Yet could not any sign, though grand + As hosts of fire about, + Though lovely as a sunset-land, + Secure thy soul from doubt. + + A smile from one thou lovedst well + Gladdened thee all the day; + The doubt which all day far did dwell + Came home with twilight gray. + + For doubt will come, will ever come, + Though signs be perfect good, + Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb, + And both are understood. + + +XIX. + + I shall behold him, one day, nigh. + Assailed with glory keen, + My eyes will open wide, and I + Shall see as I am seen. + + Of nothing can my heart be sure + Except the highest, best + When God I see with vision pure, + That sight will be my rest. + + Forward I look with longing eye, + And still my hope renew; + Backward, and think that from the sky + _Did_ come that falling dew. + + +XX. + + But if a vision should unfold + That I might banish fear; + That I, the chosen, might be bold, + And walk with upright cheer; + + My heart would cry: But shares my race + In this great love of thine? + I pray, put me not in good case + Where others lack and pine. + + Nor claim I thus a loving heart + That for itself is mute: + In such love I desire no part + As reaches not my root. + + But if my brothers thou dost call + As children to thy knee, + Thou givest me my being's all, + Thou sayest child to me. + + If thou to me alone shouldst give, + My heart were all beguiled: + It would not be because I live, + And am my Father's child! + + +XXI. + + As little comfort would it bring, + Amid a throng to pass; + To stand with thousands worshipping + Upon the sea of glass; + + To know that, of a sinful world, + I one was saved as well; + My roll of ill with theirs upfurled, + And cast in deepest hell; + + That God looked bounteously on one, + Because on many men; + As shone Judea's earthly sun + On all the healed ten. + + No; thou must be a God to me + As if but me were none; + I such a perfect child to thee + As if thou hadst but one. + + +XXII. + + Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not + A blessing just for me? + Shall I be, barely, not forgot?-- + Never come home to thee? + + Hast thou no care for this one child, + This thinking, living need? + Or is thy countenance only mild, + Thy heart not love indeed? + + For some eternal joy I pray, + To make me strong and free; + Yea, such a friend I need alway + As thou alone canst be. + + Is not creative infinitude + Able, in every man, + To turn itself to every mood + Since God man's life began? + + Art thou not each man's God--his own, + With secret words between, + As thou and he lived all alone, + Insphered in silence keen? + + Ah, God, my heart is not the same + As any heart beside; + My pain is different, and my blame, + My pity and my pride! + + My history thou know'st, my thoughts + Different from other men's; + Thou knowest all the sheep and goats + That mingle in my pens. + + Thou knowest I a love might bring + By none beside me due; + One praiseful song at least might sing + Which could not but be new. + + +XXIII. + + Nor seek I thus to stand apart, + In aught my kind above; + My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart + Must rest ere thee it love! + + If God love not, I have no care, + No power to love, no hope. + What is life here or anywhere? + Or why with darkness cope? + + I scorn my own love's every sign, + So feeble, selfish, low, + If his love give no pledge that mine + Shall one day perfect grow. + + But if I knew Thy love even such, + As tender and intense + As, tested by its human touch, + Would satisfy my sense + + Of what a father never was + But should be to his son, + My heart would leap for joy, because + My rescue was begun. + + Oh then my love, by thine set free, + Would overflow thy men; + In every face my heart would see + God shining out again! + + There are who hold high festival + And at the board crown Death: + I am too weak to live at all + Except I breathe thy breath. + + Show me a love that nothing bates, + Absolute, self-severe-- + Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates + I should not "taint with fear." + + +XXIV. + + I cannot brook that men should say-- + Nor this for gospel take-- + That thou wilt hear me if I pray + Asking for Jesus' sake. + + For love to him is not to me, + And cannot lift my fate; + The love is not that is not free, + Perfect, immediate. + + Love is salvation: life without + No moment can endure. + Those sheep alone go in and out + Who know thy love is pure. + + +XXV. + + But what if God requires indeed, + For cause yet unrevealed, + Assent to one fixed form of creed, + Such as I cannot yield? + + Has God made _for Christ's sake_ a test-- + To take or leave the crust, + That only he may have the best + Who licks the serpent-dust? + + No, no; the words I will not say + With the responding folk; + I at his feet a heart would lay, + Not shoulders for a yoke. + + He were no lord of righteousness + Who subjects such would gain + As yield their birthright for a mess + Of liberty from pain! + + "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?" + The priest makes answer high. + 'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim: + My hope is in the sky. + + +XXVI. + + But is my will alive, awake? + The one God will not heed + If in my lips or hands I take + A half-word or half-deed. + + Hour after hour I sit and dream, + Amazed in outwardness; + The powers of things that only seem + The things that are oppress; + + Till in my soul some discord sounds, + Till sinks some yawning lack; + Then turn I from life's rippling rounds, + And unto thee come back. + + Thou seest how poor a thing am I, + Yet hear, whate'er I be; + Despairing of my will, I cry, + Be God enough to me. + + My spirit, low, irresolute, + I cast before thy feet; + And wait, while even prayer is mute, + For what thou judgest meet. + + +XXVII. + + My safety lies not, any hour, + In what I generate, + But in the living, healing power + Of that which doth create. + + If he is God to the incomplete, + Fulfilling lack and need, + Then I may cast before his feet + A half-word or half-deed. + + I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair, + To thee, love-glorious, + My very lack of will and prayer, + And cry--Thou seest me thus! + + From some old well of life they flow! + The words my being fill!-- + "Of me that man the truth shall know + Who wills the Father's will." + + +XXVIII. + + What is his will?--that I may go + And do it, in the hope + That light will rise and spread and grow, + As deed enlarges scope. + + I need not search the sacred book + To find my duty clear; + Scarce in my bosom need I look, + It lies so very near. + + Henceforward I must watch the door + Of word and action too; + There's one thing I must do no more, + Another I must do. + + Alas, these are such little things! + No glory in their birth! + Doubt from their common aspect springs-- + If God will count them worth. + + But here I am not left to choose, + My duty is my lot; + And weighty things will glory lose + If small ones are forgot. + + I am not worthy high things yet; + I'll humbly do my own; + Good care of sheep may so beget + A fitness for the throne. + + Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus? + Ambition's very fool! + Through high and low, each glorious, + Shines God's all-perfect rule. + + 'Tis God I need, not rank in good: + 'Tis Life, not honour's meed; + With him to fill my every mood, + I am content indeed. + + +XXIX. + + _Will do: shall know_: I feel the force, + The fullness of the word; + His holy boldness held its course, + Claiming divine accord. + + What if, as yet, I have never seen + The true face of the Man! + The named notion may have been + A likeness vague and wan; + + A thing of such unblended hues + As, on his chamber wall, + The humble peasant gladly views, + And _Jesus Christ_ doth call. + + The story I did never scan + With vision calm and strong; + Have never tried to see the Man, + The many words among. + + Pictures there are that do not please + With any sweet surprise, + But gain the heart by slow degrees + Until they feast the eyes; + + And if I ponder what they call + The gospel of God's grace, + Through mists that slowly melt and fall + May dawn a human face. + + What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought, + That face may dawn on me + Which Moses on the mountain sought, + God would not let him see! + + +XXX. + + All faint at first, as wrapt in veil + Of Sinai's cloudy dark, + But dawning as I read the tale, + I slow discern and mark + + A gracious, simple, truthful man, + Who walks the earth erect, + Nor stoops his noble head to one + From fear or false respect; + + Who seeks to climb no high estate, + No low consent secure, + With high and low serenely great, + Because his love is pure. + + Oh not alone, high o'er our reach, + Our joys and griefs beyond! + To him 'tis joy divine to teach + Where human hearts respond; + + And grief divine it was to him + To see the souls that slept: + "How often, O Jerusalem!" + He said, and gazed, and wept. + + Love was his very being's root, + And healing was its flower; + Love, human love, its stem and fruit, + Its gladness and its power. + + Life of high God, till then unseen! + Undreamt-of glorious show! + Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!-- + How poor am I! how low! + + +XXXI. + + As in a living well I gaze, + Kneeling upon its brink: + What are the very words he says? + What did the one man think? + + I find his heart was all above; + Obedience his one thought; + Reposing in his father's love, + His father's will he sought. + + * * * * * + +XXXII. + + Years have passed o'er my broken plan + To picture out a strife, + Where ancient Death, in horror wan, + Faced young and fearing Life. + + More of the tale I tell not so-- + But for myself would say: + My heart is quiet with what I know, + With what I hope, is gay. + + And where I cannot set my faith, + Unknowing or unwise, + I say "If this be what _he_ saith, + Here hidden treasure lies." + + Through years gone by since thus I strove, + Thus shadowed out my strife, + While at my history I wove, + Thou wovest in the life. + + Through poverty that had no lack + For friends divinely good; + Through pain that not too long did rack, + Through love that understood; + + Through light that taught me what to hold + And what to cast away; + Through thy forgiveness manifold, + And things I cannot say, + + Here thou hast brought me--able now + To kiss thy garment's hem, + Entirely to thy will to bow, + And trust thee even for them + + Who in the darkness and the mire + Walk with rebellious feet, + Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire + For heavenly floor unmeet! + + Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how-- + With this blue air, blue sea, + This yellow sand, that grassy brow, + All isolating me-- + + Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, + My thoughts to thine draw near; + But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart, + Who gav'st me words must hear. + + Thou mad'st the hand with which I write, + The eye that watches slow + Through rosy gates that rosy light + Across thy threshold go; + + Those waves that bend in golden spray, + As if thy foot they bore: + I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, + Shall know thee evermore. + + I know thy father thine and mine: + Thou the great fact hast bared: + Master, the mighty words are thine-- + Such I had never dared! + + Lord, thou hast much to make me yet-- + Thy father's infant still: + Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, + That I may grow thy will. + + My soul with truth clothe all about, + And I shall question free: + The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, + In that fear doubteth thee. + + + + + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN. + + + + +I. + + _THE MOTHER MARY_. + +I. + + Mary, to thee the heart was given + For infant hand to hold, + And clasp thus, an eternal heaven, + The great earth in its fold. + + He seized the world with tender might + By making thee his own; + Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height + Was to thyself unknown. + + He came, all helpless, to thy power, + For warmth, and love, and birth; + In thy embraces, every hour, + He grew into the earth. + + Thine was the grief, O mother high, + Which all thy sisters share + Who keep the gate betwixt the sky + And this our lower air; + + But unshared sorrows, gathering slow, + Will rise within thy heart, + Strange thoughts which like a sword will go + Thorough thy inward part. + + For, if a woman bore a son + That was of angel brood, + Who lifted wings ere day was done, + And soared from where she stood, + + Wild grief would rave on love's high throne; + She, sitting in the door, + All day would cry: "He was my own, + And now is mine no more!" + + So thou, O Mary, years on years, + From child-birth to the cross, + Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, + Keen sense of love and loss. + + His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; + His godlike tenderness + Would sometimes seem, in human speech, + To thee than human less. + + Strange pangs await thee, mother mild, + A sorer travail-pain; + Then will the spirit of thy child + Be born in thee again. + + Till then thou wilt forebode and dread; + Loss will be still thy fear-- + Till he be gone, and, in his stead, + His very self appear. + + For, when thy son hath reached his goal, + And vanished from the earth, + Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul, + A second, holier birth. + + +II. + + Ah, there he stands! With wondering face + Old men surround the boy; + The solemn looks, the awful place + Bestill the mother's joy. + + In sweet reproach her gladness hid, + Her trembling voice says--low, + Less like the chiding than the chid-- + "How couldst thou leave us so?" + + But will her dear heart understand + The answer that he gives-- + Childlike, eternal, simple, grand, + The law by which he lives? + + "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear, + The gulf already opes + That will in thee keep live the fear, + And part thee from thy hopes! + + "My father's business--that ye know + I cannot choose but do." + Mother, if he that work forego, + Not long he cares for you. + + Creation's harder, better part + Now occupies his hand: + I marvel not the mother's heart + Not yet could understand. + + +III. + + The Lord of life among them rests; + They quaff the merry wine; + They do not know, those wedding guests, + The present power divine. + + Believe, on such a group he smiled, + Though he might sigh the while; + Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child + Was born without a smile. + + He saw the pitchers, high upturned, + Their last red drops outpour; + His mother's cheek with triumph burned, + And expectation wore. + + He knew the prayer her bosom housed, + He read it in her eyes; + Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused + Ere yet her words arise. + + "They have no wine!" she, halting, said, + Her prayer but half begun; + Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, + Show what thou art, my son!" + + A vision rose before his eyes, + The cross, the waiting tomb, + The people's rage, the darkened skies, + His unavoided doom: + + Ah woman dear, thou must not fret + Thy heart's desire to see! + His hour of honour is not yet-- + 'Twill come too soon for thee! + + His word was dark; his tone was kind; + His heart the mother knew; + His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined; + They gave her heart the cue. + + Another, on the word intent, + Had read refusal there; + She heard in it a full consent, + A sweetly answered prayer. + + "Whate'er he saith unto you, do." + Out flowed his grapes divine; + Though then, as now, not many knew + Who makes the water wine. + + +IV. + + "He is beside himself!" Dismayed, + His mother, brothers talked: + He from the well-known path had strayed + In which their fathers walked! + + With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud + Some one the message bore:-- + He stands within, amid a crowd, + They at the open door:-- + + "Thy mother and thy brothers would + Speak with thee. Lo, they stand + Without and wait thee!" Like a flood + Of sunrise on the land, + + A new-born light his face o'erspread; + Out from his eyes it poured; + He lifted up that gracious head, + Looked round him, took the word: + + "My mother--brothers--who are they?" + Hearest thou, Mary mild? + This is a sword that well may slay-- + Disowned by thy child! + + Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear-- + They are our humble lord's! + O mother, did they wound _thy_ ear?-- + _We_ thank him for the words. + + "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say, + Stretching his hand abroad, + "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they + That do the will of God!" + + _My brother_! Lord of life and me, + If life might grow to this!-- + Would it not, brother, sister, be + Enough for all amiss? + + Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice: + Thou art his mother still, + But may'st be more--of thy own choice + Doing his Father's will. + + Ambition for thy son restrain, + Thy will to God's will bow: + Thy son he shall be yet again. + And twice his mother thou. + + O humble man, O faithful son! + That woman most forlorn + Who yet thy father's will hath done, + Thee, son of man, hath born! + + +V. + + Life's best things gather round its close + To light it from the door; + When woman's aid no further goes, + She weeps and loves the more. + + She doubted oft, feared for his life, + Yea, feared his mission's loss; + But now she shares the losing strife, + And weeps beside the cross. + + The dreaded hour is come at last, + The sword hath reached her soul; + The hour of tortured hope is past, + And gained the awful goal. + + There hangs the son her body bore, + The limbs her arms had prest! + The hands, the feet the driven nails tore + Had lain upon her breast! + + He speaks; the words how faintly brief, + And how divinely dear! + The mother's heart yearns through its grief + Her dying son to hear. + + "Woman, behold thy son.--Behold + Thy mother." Blessed hest + That friend to her torn heart to fold + Who understood him best! + + Another son--ah, not instead!-- + He gave, lest grief should kill, + While he was down among the dead, + Doing his father's will. + + No, not _instead_! the coming joy + Will make him hers anew; + More hers than when, a little boy, + His life from hers he drew. + + +II. + + _THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE_. + + Filled with his words of truth and right, + Her heart will break or cry: + A woman's cry bursts forth in might + Of loving agony. + + "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare! + The bosom that thee fed!" + A moment's silence filled the air, + All heard the words she said. + + He turns his face: he knows the cry, + The fountain whence it springs-- + A woman's heart that glad would die + For woman's best of things. + + Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, + He never quenched or chode: + "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear + And keep the word of God!" + + He would uplift her, not rebuke. + The crowd began to stir. + We miss how she the answer took; + We hear no more of her. + + +III. + + _THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN_. + + She knelt, she bore a bold request, + Though shy to speak it out: + Ambition, even in mother's breast, + Before him stood in doubt. + + "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, + My sons on thy right hand + And on thy left shall sit when thou + Art king, Lord, in the land." + + "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay + A baptism and a cup + She understood not, in the way + By which he must go up. + + Her mother-love would lift them high + Above their fellow-men; + Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, + Share in their grandeur then! + + Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, + Counted her prayer well heard, + Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, + Hung dying, first and third? + + She knoweth neither way nor end: + In dark despair, full soon, + She will not mock the gracious friend + With prayer for any boon. + + Higher than love could dream or dare + To ask, he them will set; + They shall his cup and baptism share, + And share his kingdom yet! + + They, entering at his palace-door, + Will shun the lofty seat; + Will gird themselves, and water pour, + And wash each other's feet; + + Then down beside their lowly Lord + On the Father's throne shall sit: + For them who godlike help afford + God hath prepared it. + + +IV. + + _THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN_. + + "Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; + She crieth after us." + Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; + Serve not a woman thus. + + Their pride, by condescension fed, + He shapes with teaching tongue: + "It is not meet the children's bread + To little dogs be flung." + + The words, for tender heart so sore, + His voice did seem to rue; + The gentle wrath his countenance wore, + With her had not to do. + + He makes her share the hurt of good, + Takes what she would have lent, + That those proud men their evil mood + May see, and so repent; + + And that the hidden faith in her + May burst in soaring flame: + With childhood deeper, holier, + Is birthright not the same? + + Ill names, of proud religion born-- + She'll wear the worst that comes; + Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, + To share the healing crumbs! + + "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small + Under the table eat + The crumbs the little ones let fall-- + That is not thought unmeet." + + The prayer rebuff could not amate + Was not like water spilt: + "O woman, but thy faith is great! + Be it even as thou wilt." + + Thrice happy she who yet will dare, + Who, baffled, prayeth still! + He, if he may, will grant her prayer + In fulness of _her_ will! + + + +V. + + _THE WIDOW OF NAIN_. + + Forth from the city, with the load + That makes the trampling low, + They walk along the dreary road + That dust and ashes go. + + The other way, toward the gate + Their trampling strong and loud, + With hope of liberty elate, + Comes on another crowd. + + Nearer and nearer draw the twain-- + One with a wailing cry! + How could the Life let such a train + Of death and tears go by! + + "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: + They stand, the dead who bear; + The mother knows nor hope nor fear-- + He waits not for her prayer. + + "Young man, I say to thee, arise." + Who hears, he must obey: + Up starts the body; wide the eyes + Flash wonder and dismay. + + The lips would speak, as if they caught + Some converse sudden broke + When the great word the dead man sought, + And Hades' silence woke. + + The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare + Gives place to ordered sight; + The murmur dies upon the air; + The soul is dumb with light. + + He brings no news; he has forgot, + Or saw with vision weak: + Thou sees! all our unseen lot, + And yet thou dost not speak. + + Hold'st thou the news, as parent might + A too good gift, away, + Lest we should neither sleep at night, + Nor do our work by day? + + The mother leaves us not a spark + Of her triumph over grief; + Her tears alone have left their mark + Upon the holy leaf: + + Oft gratitude will thanks benumb, + Joy will our laughter quell: + May not Eternity be dumb + With things too good to tell? + + Her straining arms her lost one hold; + Question she asketh none; + She trusts for all he leaves untold; + Enough, to clasp her son! + + The ebb is checked, the flow begun, + Sent rushing to the gate: + Death turns him backward to the sun, + And life is yet our fate! + + + +VI. + + _THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND_. + + For years eighteen she, patient soul, + Her eyes had graveward sent; + Her earthly life was lapt in dole, + She was so bowed and bent. + + What words! To her? Who can be near? + What tenderness of hands! + Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? + New hope, or breaking bands? + + The pent life rushes swift along + Channels it used to know; + Up, up, amid the wondering throng, + She rises firm and slow-- + + To bend again in grateful awe-- + For will is power at length-- + In homage to the living Law + Who gives her back her strength. + + Uplifter of the down-bent head! + Unbinder of the bound! + Who seest all the burdened + Who only see the ground! + + Although they see thee not, nor cry, + Thou watchest for the hour + To lift the forward-beaming eye, + To wake the slumbering power! + + Thy hand will wipe the stains of time + From off the withered face; + Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime + Of youthful manhood's grace! + + Like summer days from winter's tomb, + Shall rise thy women fair; + Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, + Lo, is not anywhere! + + All ills of life shall melt away + As melts a cureless woe, + When, by the dawning of the day + Surprised, the dream must go. + + I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, + Whate'er the needful cure; + The great best only thou wilt do, + And hoping I endure. + + + +VII. + + _THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD_. + + Near him she stole, rank after rank; + She feared approach too loud; + She touched his garment's hem, and shrank + Back in the sheltering crowd. + + A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame: + Her twelve years' fainting prayer + Is heard at last! she is the same + As other women there! + + She hears his voice. He looks about. + Ah! is it kind or good + To drag her secret sorrow out + Before that multitude? + + The eyes of men she dares not meet-- + On her they straight must fall!-- + Forward she sped, and at his feet + Fell down, and told him all. + + To the one refuge she hath flown, + The Godhead's burning flame! + Of all earth's women she alone + Hears there the tenderest name: + + "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; + Thy faith hath made thee whole:" + With plenteous love, not healing mere, + He comforteth her soul. + + + +VIII. + + _THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES_. + + Here _much_ and _little_ shift and change, + With scale of need and time; + There _more_ and _less_ have meanings strange, + Which the world cannot rime. + + Sickness may be more hale than health, + And service kingdom high; + Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, + To give like God thereby. + + Bring forth your riches; let them go, + Nor mourn the lost control; + For if ye hoard them, surely so + Their rust will reach your soul. + + Cast in your coins, for God delights + When from wide hands they fall; + But here is one who brings two mites, + And thus gives more than all. + + I think she did not hear the praise-- + Went home content with need; + Walked in her old poor generous ways, + Nor knew her heavenly meed. + + + +IX. + + _THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM_. + + Enough he labours for his hire; + Yea, nought can pay his pain; + But powers that wear and waste and tire, + Need help to toil again. + + They give him freely all they can, + They give him clothes and food; + In this rejoicing, that the man + Is not ashamed they should. + + High love takes form in lowly thing; + He knows the offering such; + To them 'tis little that they bring, + To him 'tis very much. + + + +X. + + _PILATE'S WIFE_. + + Why came in dreams the low-born man + Between thee and thy rest? + In vain thy whispered message ran, + Though justice was its quest! + + Did some young ignorant angel dare-- + Not knowing what must be, + Or blind with agony of care-- + To fly for help to thee? + + I know not. Rather I believe, + Thou, nobler than thy spouse, + His rumoured grandeur didst receive, + And sit with pondering brows, + + Until thy maidens' gathered tale + With possible marvel teems: + Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale + Returneth in thy dreams. + + Well mightst thou suffer things not few + For his sake all the night! + In pale eclipse he suffers, who + Is of the world the light. + + Precious it were to know thy dream + Of such a one as he! + Perhaps of him we, waking, deem + As poor a verity. + + + +XI. + + _THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA_. + + In the hot sun, for water cool + She walked in listless mood: + When back she ran, her pitcher full + Forgot behind her stood. + + Like one who followed straying sheep, + A weary man she saw, + Who sat upon the well so deep, + And nothing had to draw. + + "Give me to drink," he said. Her hand + Was ready with reply; + From out the old well of the land + She drew him plenteously. + + He spake as never man before; + She stands with open ears; + He spake of holy days in store, + Laid bare the vanished years. + + She cannot still her throbbing heart, + She hurries to the town, + And cries aloud in street and mart, + "The Lord is here: come down." + + Her life before was strange and sad, + A very dreary sound: + Ah, let it go--or good or bad: + She has the Master found! + + + +XII. + + _MARY MAGDALENE_. + + With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, + She hither, thither, goes; + Her speech, her motions, all reveal + A mind without repose. + + She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, + By madness tortured, driven; + One hour's forgetfulness would be + A gift from very heaven! + + She slumbers into new distress; + The night is worse than day: + Exulting in her helplessness, + Hell's dogs yet louder bay. + + The demons blast her to and fro; + She has no quiet place, + Enough a woman still, to know + A haunting dim disgrace. + + A human touch! a pang of death! + And in a low delight + Thou liest, waiting for new breath. + For morning out of night. + + Thou risest up: the earth is fair, + The wind is cool; thou art free! + Is it a dream of hell's despair + Dissolves in ecstasy? + + That man did touch thee! Eyes divine + Make sunrise in thy soul; + Thou seest love in order shine:-- + His health hath made thee whole! + + Thou, sharing in the awful doom, + Didst help thy Lord to die; + Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, + Didst hear him _Mary_ cry. + + He stands in haste; he cannot stop; + Home to his God he fares: + "Go tell my brothers I go up + To my Father, mine and theirs." + + Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; + Cry, cry, and heed not how; + Make all the new-risen world rejoice-- + Its first apostle thou! + + What if old tales of thee have lied, + Or truth have told, thou art + All-safe with him, whate'er betide-- + Dwell'st with him in God's heart! + + + +XIII. + + _THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE_. + + A still dark joy! A sudden face! + Cold daylight, footsteps, cries! + The temple's naked, shining space, + Aglare with judging eyes! + + All in abandoned guilty hair, + With terror-pallid lips, + To vulgar scorn her honour bare, + To lewd remarks and quips, + + Her eyes she fixes on the ground + Her shrinking soul to hide, + Lest, at uncurtained windows found, + Its shame be clear descried. + + All idle hang her listless hands, + They tingle with her shame; + She sees not who beside her stands, + She is so bowed with blame. + + He stoops, he writes upon the ground, + Regards nor priests nor wife; + An awful silence spreads around, + And wakes an inward strife. + + Then comes a voice that speaks for thee, + Pale woman, sore aghast: + "Let him who from this sin is free + At her the first stone cast!" + + Ah then her heart grew slowly sad! + Her eyes bewildered rose; + She saw the one true friend she had, + Who loves her though he knows. + + He stoops. In every charnel breast + Dead conscience rises slow: + They, dumb before that awful guest, + Turn, one by one, and go. + + Up in her deathlike, ashy face + Rises the living red; + No greater wonder sure had place + When Lazarus left the dead! + + She is alone with him whose fear + Made silence all around; + False pride, false shame, they come not near, + She has her saviour found! + + Jesus hath spoken on her side, + Those cruel men withstood! + From him her shame she will not hide! + For him she _will_ be good! + + He rose; he saw the temple bare; + They two are left alone! + He said unto her, "Woman, where + Are thine accusers gone?" + + "Hath none condemned thee?" "Master, no," + She answers, trembling sore. + "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, + And sin not any more." + + She turned and went.--To hope and grieve? + Be what she had not been? + We are not told; but I believe + His kindness made her clean. + + Our sins to thee us captive hale-- + Ambitions, hatreds dire; + Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail, + And sink us in the mire: + + Our captive-cries with pardon meet; + Our passion cleanse with pain; + Lord, thou didst make these miry feet-- + Oh, wash them clean again! + + +XIV. + + _MARTHA_. + + With joyful pride her heart is high: + Her humble house doth hold + The man her nation's prophecy + Long ages hath foretold! + + Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born: + Her woman-soul is proud + To know and hail the coming morn + Before the eyeless crowd. + + At her poor table will he eat? + He shall be served there + With honour and devotion meet + For any king that were! + + 'Tis all she can; she does her part, + Profuse in sacrifice; + Nor dreams that in her unknown heart + A better offering lies. + + But many crosses she must bear; + Her plans are turned and bent; + Do what she can, things will not wear + The form of her intent. + + With idle hands and drooping lid, + See Mary sit at rest! + Shameful it was her sister did + No service for their guest! + + Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot + Must rule thy hands and eyes; + Thou, all thy household cares forgot, + Must sit as idly wise! + + But once more first she set her word + To bar her master's ways, + Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord, + He hath been dead four days!" + + Her housewife-soul her brother dear + Would fetter where he lies! + Ah, did her buried best then hear, + And with the dead man rise? + + + +XV. + + _MARY_. + + I. + + She sitteth at the Master's feet + In motionless employ; + Her ears, her heart, her soul complete + Drinks in the tide of joy. + + Ah! who but she the glory knows + Of life, pure, high, intense, + In whose eternal silence blows + The wind beyond the sense! + + In her still ear, God's perfect grace + Incarnate is in voice; + Her thoughts, the people of the place, + Receive it, and rejoice. + + Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright, + Are on the ground cast low; + His words of spirit, life, and light-- + _They_ set them shining so. + + But see! a face is at the door + Whose eyes are not at rest; + A voice breaks on divinest lore + With petulant request. + + "Master," it said, "dost thou not care + She lets me serve alone? + Tell her to come and take her share." + But Mary's eyes shine on. + + She lifts them with a questioning glance, + Calmly to him who heard; + The merest sign, she'll rise at once, + Nor wait the uttered word. + + His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore + A sense of coming _nay_; + He told her that her trouble sore + Was needless any day. + + And he would not have Mary chid + For want of needless care; + The needful thing was what she did, + At his feet sitting there. + + Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart + Doing the thing it would, + When he, the holy, took her part, + And called her choice the good! + + Oh needful thing, Oh Mary's choice, + Go not from us away! + Oh Jesus, with the living voice, + Talk to us every day! + + + II. + + Not now the living words are poured + Into one listening ear; + For many guests are at the board, + And many speak and hear. + + With sacred foot, refrained and slow, + With daring, trembling tread, + She comes, in worship bending low + Behind the godlike head. + + The costly chrism, in snowy stone, + A gracious odour sends; + Her little hoard, by sparing grown, + In one full act she spends. + + She breaks the box, the honoured thing! + See how its riches pour! + Her priestly hands anoint him king + Whom peasant Mary bore. + + * * * * * + + Not so does John the tale repeat: + He saw, for he was there, + Mary anoint the Master's feet, + And wipe them with her hair. + + Perhaps she did his head anoint, + And then his feet as well; + And John this one forgotten point + Loved best of all to tell. + + 'Twas Judas called the splendour waste, + 'Twas Jesus said--Not so; + Said that her love his burial graced: + "Ye have the poor; I go." + + Her hands unwares outsped his fate, + The truth-king's felon-doom; + The other women were too late, + For he had left the tomb. + + + +XVI. + + _THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER_. + + His face, his words, her heart awoke; + Awoke her slumbering truth; + She judged him well; her bonds she broke, + And fled to him for ruth. + + With tears she washed his weary feet; + She wiped them with her hair; + Her kisses--call them not unmeet, + When they were welcome _there_. + + What saint a richer crown could throw + At his love-royal feet! + Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go, + His reign begun to greet. + + His holy manhood's perfect worth + Owns her a woman still; + It is impossible henceforth + For her to stoop to ill. + + Her to herself his words restore, + The radiance to the day; + A horror to herself no more, + Not yet a cast-away! + + Her hands and kisses, ointment, tears, + Her gathered wiping hair, + Her love, her shame, her hopes, her fears, + Mingle in worship rare. + + Thou, Mary, too, thy hair didst spread + To wipe the anointed feet; + Nor didst thou only bless his head + With precious spikenard sweet. + + But none say thou thy tears didst pour + To wash his parched feet first; + Of tears thou couldst not have such store + As from this woman burst! + + If not in love she first be read, + Her queen of sorrow greet; + Mary, do thou anoint his head, + And let her crown his feet. + + Simon, her kisses will not soil; + Her tears are pure as rain; + The hair for him she did uncoil + Had been baptized in pain. + + Lo, God hath pardoned her so much, + Love all her being stirs! + His love to his poor child is such + That it hath wakened hers! + + But oh, rejoice, ye sisters pure, + Who scarce can know her case-- + There is no sin but has its cure, + Its all-consuming grace! + + He did not leave her soul in hell, + 'Mong shards the silver dove; + But raised her pure that she might tell + Her sisters how to love! + + She gave him all your best love can! + Despised, rejected, sad-- + Sure, never yet had mighty man + Such homage as he had! + + Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet, + Her love grew so intense, + Earth's sinners all come round thy feet: + Lord, make no difference! + + + + + +A BOOK OF SONNETS. + + +_THE BURNT-OFFERING_. + + Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night, + When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim, + And he hath laid him down in chamber dim, + Straightway begins to tremble and grow bright, + And loose faint flashes toward the vaulted height + Of the great peace that overshadoweth him: + Keen lambent flames of hope awake and swim + Throughout his soul, touching each point with light! + The great earth under him an altar is, + Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, + Burning in love's response up to the skies + Whose fire descended first and kindled his: + When slow the flickering flames at length expire, + Sleep's ashes only hide a glowing fire. + + + +_THE UNSEEN FACE_. + + + "I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face." + "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn! + Thou shall behold as much as may be borne." + And on a rock stood Moses, lone in space. + From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place, + God passed in cloud, an earthy garment worn + To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn, + He put him in a clift of the rock's base, + Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen-- + Passed--lifted it: his back alone appears! + Ah, Moses, had he turned, and hadst thou seen + The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears, + The eyes of the true man, by men belied, + Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died! + + + + + +_CONCERNING JESUS_. + + + I. + + If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race + Of forms divine had thenceforth filled the land! + Methinks I see thee, glorious workman, stand, + Striking a marble window through blind space-- + Thy face's reflex on the coming face, + As dawns the stone to statue 'neath thy hand-- + Body obedient to its soul's command, + Which is thy thought, informing it with grace! + So had it been. But God, who quickeneth clay, + Nor turneth it to marble--maketh eyes, + Not shadowy hollows, where no sunbeams play-- + Would mould his loftiest thought in human guise: + Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad, + God's living sculpture, all-informed of God. + + + II. + + If one should say, "Lo, there thy statue! take + Possession, sculptor; now inherit it; + Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit; + As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake + The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake + The slumber from their hearts, that, where they sit, + They leap straight up, aghast, as at a pit + Gaping beneath;" I hear him answer make: + "Alas for me, I cannot nor would dare + Inform what I revered as I did trace! + Who would be fool that he like fool might fare, + With feeble spirit mocking the enorm + Strength on his forehead!" Thou, God's thought thy form, + Didst live the large significance of thy face. + + + + III. + + Men have I seen, and seen with wonderment, + Noble in form, "lift upward and divine," + In whom I yet must search, as in a mine, + After that soul of theirs, by which they went + Alive upon the earth. And I have bent + Regard on many a woman, who gave sign + God willed her beautiful, when he drew the line + That shaped each float and fold of beauty's tent: + Her soul, alas, chambered in pigmy space, + Left the fair visage pitiful--inane-- + Poor signal only of a coming face + When from the penetrale she filled the fane!-- + Possessed of thee was every form of thine, + Thy very hair replete with the divine. + + + IV. + + If thou hadst built a temple, how my eye + Had hungering fed thereon, from low-browed crypt + Up to the soaring pinnacles that, tipt + With stars, gave signal when the sun drew nigh! + Dark caverns in and under; vivid sky + Its home and aim! Say, from the glory slipt, + And down into the shadows dropt and dipt, + Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?-- + Thou build'st the temple of thy holy ghost + From hid foundation to high-hidden fate-- + Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, + From grave and sky filled with a fighting host! + Man is thy temple; man thy work elect; + His glooms and glory thine, great architect! + + + V. + + If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, + What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace + Had shone upon us from the great world's face! + How had we read, as in eternal books, + The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks! + A lily, in merest lines thy hand did trace, + Had plainly been God's child of lower race! + And oh how strong the hills, songful the brooks! + To thee all nature's meanings lie light-bare, + Because thy heart is nature's inner side; + Clear as, to us, earth on the dawn's gold tide, + Her notion vast up in thy soul did rise; + Thine is the world, thine all its splendours rare, + Thou Man ideal, with the unsleeping eyes! + + + VI. + + But I have seen pictures the work of man, + In which at first appeared but chaos wild: + So high the art transcended, they beguiled + The eye as formless, and without a plan. + Not soon, the spirit, brooding o'er, began + To see a purpose rise, like mountain isled, + When God said, Let the Dry appear! and, piled + Above the waves, it rose in twilight wan. + So might thy pictures then have been too strange + For us to pierce beyond their outmost look; + A vapour and a darkness; a sealed book; + An atmosphere too high for wings to range; + And so we could but, gazing, pale and change, + And tremble as at a void thought cannot brook. + + + VII. + + But earth is now thy living picture, where + Thou shadowest truth, the simple and profound + By the same form in vital union bound: + Where one can see but the first step of thy stair, + Another sees it vanish far in air. + When thy king David viewed the starry round, + From heart and fingers broke the psaltery-sound: + Lord, what is man, that thou shouldst mind his prayer! + But when the child beholds the heavens on high, + He babbles childish noises--not less dear + Than what the king sang praying--to the ear + Of him who made the child and king and sky. + Earth is thy picture, painter great, whose eye + Sees with the child, sees with the kingly seer. + + + VIII. + + If thou hadst built some mighty instrument, + And set thee down to utter ordered sound, + Whose faithful billows, from thy hands unbound, + Breaking in light, against our spirits went, + And caught, and bore above this earthly tent, + The far-strayed back to their prime natal ground, + Where all roots fast in harmony are found, + And God sits thinking out a pure consent;-- + Nay, that thou couldst not; that was not for thee! + Our broken music thou must first restore-- + A harder task than think thine own out free; + And till thou hast done it, no divinest score, + Though rendered by thine own angelic choir, + Can lift one human spirit from the mire. + + + IX. + + If thou hadst been a poet! On my heart + The thought flashed sudden, burning through the weft + Of life, and with too much I sank bereft. + Up to my eyes the tears, with sudden start, + Thronged blinding: then the veil would rend and part! + The husk of vision would in twain be cleft! + Thy hidden soul in naked beauty left, + I should behold thee, Nature, as thou art! + O poet Jesus! at thy holy feet + I should have lien, sainted with listening; + My pulses answering ever, in rhythmic beat, + The stroke of each triumphant melody's wing, + Creating, as it moved, my being sweet; + My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string. + + + X. + + Thee had we followed through the twilight land + Where thought grows form, and matter is refined + Back into thought of the eternal mind, + Till, seeing them one, Lo, in the morn we stand!-- + Then started fresh and followed, hand in hand, + With sense divinely growing, till, combined, + We heard the music of the planets wind + In harmony with billows on the strand!-- + Till, one with earth and all God's utterance, + We hardly knew whether the sun outspake, + Or a glad sunshine from our spirits brake-- + Whether we think, or winds and blossoms dance! + Alas, O poet leader, for such good + Thou wast God's tragedy, writ in tears and blood! + + + XI. + + Hadst thou been one of these, in many eyes, + Too near to be a glory for thy sheen, + Thou hadst been scorned; and to the best hadst been + A setter forth of strange divinities; + But to the few construct of harmonies, + A sudden sun, uplighting the serene + High heaven of love; and, through the cloudy screen + That 'twixt our souls and truth all wretched lies, + Dawning at length, hadst been a love and fear, + Worshipped on high from Magian's mountain-crest, + And all night long symbolled by lamp-flames clear, + Thy sign, a star upon thy people's breast-- + Where that strange arbitrary token lies + Which once did scare the sun in noontide skies. + + + XII. + + But as thou camest forth to bring the poor, + Whose hearts are nearer faith and verity, + Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy-- + So taught'st the A B C of heavenly lore; + Because thou sat'st not lonely evermore, + With mighty truths informing language high, + But, walking in thy poem continually, + Didst utter deeds, of all true forms the core-- + Poet and poem one indivisible fact; + Because thou didst thine own ideal act, + And so, for parchment, on the human soul + Didst write thine aspirations--at thy goal + Thou didst arrive with curses for acclaim, + And cry to God up through a cloud of shame. + + + XIII. + + For three and thirty years, a living seed, + A lonely germ, dropt on our waste world's side, + Thy death and rising thou didst calmly bide; + Sore companied by many a clinging weed + Sprung from the fallow soil of evil and need; + Hither and thither tossed, by friends denied; + Pitied of goodness dull, and scorned of pride; + Until at length was done the awful deed, + And thou didst lie outworn in stony bower + Three days asleep--oh, slumber godlike-brief + For man of sorrows and acquaint with grief! + Life-seed thou diedst, that Death might lose his power, + And thou, with rooted stem and shadowy leaf, + Rise, of humanity the crimson flower. + + + XIV. + + Where dim the ethereal eye, no art, though clear + As golden star in morning's amber springs, + Can pierce the fogs of low imaginings: + Painting and sculpture are a mockery mere. + Where dull to deafness is the hearing ear, + Vain is the poet. Nought but earthly things + Have credence. When the soaring skylark sings + How shall the stony statue strain to hear? + Open the deaf ear, wake the sleeping eye, + And Lo, musicians, painters, poets--all + Trooping instinctive, come without a call! + As winds that where they list blow evermore; + As waves from silent deserts roll to die + In mighty voices on the peopled shore. + + + XV. + + Our ears thou openedst; mad'st our eyes to see. + All they who work in stone or colour fair, + Or build up temples of the quarried air, + Which we call music, scholars are of thee. + Henceforth in might of such, the earth shall be + Truth's temple-theatre, where she shall wear + All forms of revelation, all men bear + Tapers in acolyte humility. + O master-maker, thy exultant art + Goes forth in making makers! Pictures? No, + But painters, who in love and truth shall show + Glad secrets from thy God's rejoicing heart. + Sudden, green grass and waving corn up start + When through dead sands thy living waters go. + + + XVI. + + From the beginning good and fair are one, + But men the beauty from the truth will part, + And, though the truth is ever beauty's heart, + After the beauty will, short-breathed, run, + And the indwelling truth deny and shun. + Therefore, in cottage, synagogue, and mart, + Thy thoughts came forth in common speech, not art; + With voice and eye, in Jewish Babylon, + Thou taughtest--not with pen or carved stone, + Nor in thy hand the trembling wires didst take: + Thou of the truth not less than all wouldst make; + For Truth's sake even her forms thou didst disown: + Ere, through the love of beauty, truth shall fail, + The light behind shall burn the broidered veil! + + + XVII. + + Holy of holies, my bare feet draw nigh: + Jesus, thy body is the shining veil + By which I look on God, nor grow death-pale. + I know that in my verses poor may lie + Things low, for see, the thinker is not high! + But were my song as loud as saints' all-hail, + As pure as prophet's cry of warning wail, + As holy as thy mother's ecstasy-- + He sings a better, who, for love or ruth, + Into his heart a little child doth take. + Nor thoughts nor feelings, art nor wisdom seal + The man who at thy table bread shall break. + Thy praise was not that thou didst know, or feel, + Or show, or love, but that thou didst the truth. + + + XVIII. + + Despised! Rejected by the priest-led roar + Of the multitude! The imperial purple flung + About the form the hissing scourge had stung, + Witnessing naked to the truth it bore! + True son of father true, I thee adore. + Even the mocking purple truthful hung + On thy true shoulders, bleeding its folds among, + For thou wast king, art king for evermore! + _I know the Father: he knows me the truth_. + Truth-witness, therefore the one essential king, + With thee I die, with thee live worshipping! + O human God, O brother, eldest born, + Never but thee was there a man in sooth, + Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn! + + + + +_A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA_. + + + I. + + Upon a rock I sat--a mountain-side, + Far, far forsaken of the old sea's lip; + A rock where ancient waters' rise and dip, + Recoil and plunge, eddy, and oscillant tide, + Had worn and worn, while races lived and died, + Involved channels. Where the sea-weed's drip + Followed the ebb, now crumbling lichens sip + Sparse dews of heaven that down with sunset slide. + I sat long-gazing southward. A dry flow + Of withering wind sucked up my drooping strength, + Itself weak from the desert's burning length. + Behind me piled, away and up did go + Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, + Where snow gleams ever, panthers roam, they say. + + + II. + + This infant world has taken long to make, + Nor hast Thou done with it, but mak'st it yet, + And wilt be working on when death has set + A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. + On flow the centuries without a break; + Uprise the mountains, ages without let; + The lichens suck; the hard rock's breast they fret; + Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. + But in the dumbness of the rolling time, + No veil of silence shall encompass me-- + Thou wilt not once forget and let me be; + Rather wouldst thou some old chaotic prime + Invade, and, moved by tenderness sublime, + Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. + + + + + +_A. M. D_. + + + Methinks I see thee, lying straight and low, + Silent and darkling, in thy earthy bed, + The mighty strength in which I trusted, fled, + The long arms lying careless of kiss or blow; + On thy tall form I see the night-robe flow + Down from the pale, composed face--thy head + Crowned with its own dark curls: though thou wast dead, + They dressed thee as for sleep, and left thee so! + My heart, with cares and questionings oppressed, + Not oft since thou didst leave us turns to thee; + But wait, my brother, till I too am dead, + And thou shalt find that heart more true, more free, + More ready in thy love to take its rest, + Than when we lay together in one bed. + + + + + +_TO GARIBALDI--WITH A BOOK_. + + + When at Philippi, he who would have freed + Great Rome from tyrants, for the season brief + That lay 'twixt him and battle, sought relief + From painful thoughts, he in a book did read, + That so the death of Portia might not breed + Unmanful thoughts, and cloud his mind with grief: + Brother of Brutus, of high hearts the chief, + When thou at length receiv'st thy heavenly meed, + And I have found my hoping not in vain, + Tell me my book has wiled away one pang + That out of some lone sacred memory sprang, + Or wrought an hour's forgetfulness of pain, + And I shall rise, my heart brimful of gain, + And thank my God amid the golden clang. + + + + + +_TO S. F. S_. + + + They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: + More gently, I think, sorrows together go; + A new one joins the funeral gliding slow + With less of jar than when it breaks the dance. + Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance; + Nature is generous to her children so. + And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow, + As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance + The foot that must walk naked in life's way,-- + Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear, + Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear, + They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay; + And when the soft night closed the weary day, + Would sleep like those that far-off music hear. + + + + + +_RUSSELL GURNEY_. + + + In that high country whither thou art gone, + Right noble friend, thou walkest with thy peers, + The gathered great of many a hundred years! + Few are left like thee--few, I say, not none, + Else were thy England soon a Babylon, + A land of outcry, mockery, and tears! + Higher than law, a refuge from its fears, + Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone. + The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face + Was like the sunrise of a morn serene + Among the mountains, making sweet their awe. + Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw; + Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean, + As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place. + + + + + +_TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS_. + + + I. + + Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark, + And twilight cool thy potent day inclose! + The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows + All the night through, sleepless and young and stark. + Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark, + More daring: in the midnight of thy woes, + Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes, + Into the Light of which thou art a spark! + Be willing to be blind--that, in thy night, + The Lord may bring his Father to thy door, + And enter in, and feast thy soul with light. + Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more, + Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies, + And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes. + + + II. + + Say thou, his will be done who is the good! + His will be borne who knoweth how to bear! + Who also in the night had need of prayer, + Both when awoke divinely longing mood, + And when the power of darkness him withstood. + For what is coming take no jot of care: + Behind, before, around thee as the air, + He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood. + And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, + Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, + Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest + With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height, + Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share: + He needs no eyes who is a shining light! + + + + +_TO AUBREY DE VERE_. + + + Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, + Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, + Distilling its true essence by the flame + Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear. + I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer; + If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame, + Or furthering by failure each high aim; + If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear; + But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by-- + Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod-- + We laying down the staff, and He the rod-- + So look on me I shall not need to cry-- + "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I: + We mean the same thing--will the will of God!" + + + + + +_GENERAL GORDON_. + + + I. + + Victorious through failure! faithful Lord, + Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray + From thine own country of eternal day, + To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde, + Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!-- + Our long retarded legions, on their way, + Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway, + To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word, + Thou sawest foiled--but glorifiedst him, + Over ten cities giving him thy rule! + We will not mourn a star that grew not dim, + A soldier-child of God gone home from school! + A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff, + And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff! + + + II. + + Another to the witnesses' roll-call + Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out-- + With willingness crowned everywhere about, + Not the head only, but the body all, + In one great nimbus of obedient fall, + His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt-- + Love's last victorious stand amid the rout! + --Silence is left, and the untasted gall. + No chariot with ramping steeds of fire + The Father sent to fetch his man-child home; + His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!" + And like a dove to heaven he did aspire, + His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire. + --Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb! + + + + + +_THE CHRYSALIS_. + + + Methought I floated sightless, nor did know + That I had ears until I heard the cry + As of a mighty man in agony: + "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow? + The arrows of thy lightning through me go, + And sting and torture me--yet here I lie + A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!" + The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below + Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet. + Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead, + And looked upon the world: the silence broke! + A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat + Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke! + And from that world a mighty angel fled. + + + + + +_THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR_. + + + Methought that in a solemn church I stood. + Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, + Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. + Midway the form hung high upon the rood + Of him who gave his life to be our good; + Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet, + Among the candles shining still and sweet. + Men came and went, and worshipped as they could-- + And still their dust a woman with her broom, + Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. + Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, + Across the church a silent figure come: + "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!" + It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more. + + + + + +_DEATH_. + + + Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: + A fresher birth brings every new year in. + Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. + See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! + My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, + Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. + --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! + Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:-- + Behind me comes a shining one indeed; + Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, + And set upon his day night's starry crown! + _Death_, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!-- + A woman-angel! see--in long white gown! + The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed. + + + + + + + +ORGAN SONGS. + + + _TO A. J. SCOTT_ + + WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. + + I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. + Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, + Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed + + A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain. + Closed were the lofty doors that led within; + But by a wicket one might entrance gain. + + 'Twas awe and silence when I entered in; + The night, the weariness, the rain were lost + In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin + + Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, + As if they sought some harmony to find + Which they knew once, but none of all that host + + Could wile the far-fled music back to mind. + Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along + The pillared paths, and up the arches twined + + With sister arches, rising, throng on throng, + Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times + The voices gathered to a burst of song, + + But parted sudden, and were but single rimes + By single bells through Sabbath morning sent, + That have no thought of harmony or chimes. + + Hopeful confusion! Who could be content + Looking and hearkening from the distant door? + I entered further. Solemnly it went-- + + Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar, + Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine: + I loved and listened, listened and loved more. + + May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine + Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone? + Let my poor song be taken in to thine. + + Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own, + Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown? + + + + + +_LIGHT_. + + + First-born of the creating Voice! + Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent + Waiting upon him first, what time he went + Moving about mid the tumultuous noise + Of each unpiloted element + Upon the face of the void formless deep! + Thou who didst come unbodied and alone + Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, + Or ever the moon shone, + Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! + Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt + Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven! + Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert + When first I longed for words, to be + A radiant garment for my thought, like thee! + + We lay us down in sorrow, + Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; + In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow; + Grief lifts our eyelids up--and Lo, the light! + The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise + Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; + Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; + Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; + Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; + Of clouds that show thy glory as their own; + O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by! + Light, gladness, motion, are reality! + + Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs + Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; + And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. + The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers + Worship thee all day long, and through the skies + Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. + River of life, thou pourest on the woods, + And on thy waves float out the wakening buds; + The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain, + Keep turning still to see thee yet again; + South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee, + Bear violins that tremble humanly. + And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: + Where'er thou art, on every side, + All things are glorified; + And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw + Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark, + That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark. + + And men have worshipped thee. + The Persian, on his mountain-top, + Waits kneeling till thy sun go up, + God-like in his serenity. + All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near, + And the wide earth waits till his face appear-- + Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps + Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, + Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps. + Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds + The universal face: Lo, silently, + Up cometh he, the never-closing eye! + Symbol of Deity, men could not be + Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee! + + Thou plaything of the child, + When from the water's surface thou dost spring, + Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling, + And there, in mazy dance and motion wild, + Disport thyself--etherial, undefiled. + Capricious, like the thinkings of the child! + I am a child again, to think of thee + In thy consummate glee. + How I would play with thee, athirst to climb + On sloping ladders of thy moted beams, + When through the gray dust darting in long streams! + How marvel at the dusky glimmering red, + With which my closed fingers thou hadst made + Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed! + And how I loved thee always in the moon! + But most about the harvest-time, + When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune, + And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove! + And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love! + And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! + And more mysterious earthly stars, + That shone from windows of the hill and glen-- + Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars, + Mingling with household love and rest of weary men! + And still I am a child, thank God!--to spy + Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass + Upon the brown earth undescried, + Is a found thing to me, a gladness high, + A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within, + A thought of hope to prophecy akin, + That from my spirit fruitless will not pass. + + Thou art the joy of age: + Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls. + Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls, + And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage + To gather song from radiance, in his chair + Sits by the door; and sitteth there + His soul within him, like a child that lies + Half dreaming, with half-open eyes, + At close of a long afternoon in summer-- + High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where + The raven is almost the only comer-- + Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment + At thy celestial ascent + Through rifted loop to light upon the gold + That waves its bloom in some high airy rent: + So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, + But sleepy mid the ruins that infold. + + What soul-like changes, evanescent moods, + Upon the face of the still passive earth, + Its hills, and fields, and woods, + Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth! + Even like a lord of music bent + Over his instrument, + Giving to carol, now to tempest birth! + When, clear as holiness, the morning ray + Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet, + Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray; + When, at the hour of sovereign noon, + Infinite silent cataracts sheet + Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June; + When now a yellower glory slanting passes + 'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses; + And now the moon lifts up her shining shield, + High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; + Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, + Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, + Her still face seeming more to think than see, + Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee! + No mood, eternal or ephemeral, + But wakes obedient at thy silent call! + + Of operative single power, + And simple unity the one emblem, + Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour, + In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, + Are the melodious descant of divided thee. + Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee + In the blue air and sea! + In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, + Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit. + Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west! + Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast! + Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away, + Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray! + Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw + Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow! + The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers + Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; + The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be, + Are dead till touched by thee. + + Everywhere, + Thou art lancing through the air! + Every atom from another + Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; + Continually, + Thou art wetting the wet sea, + Bathing its sluggish woods below, + Making the salt flowers bud and blow; + Silently, + Workest thou, and ardently, + Waking from the night of nought + Into being and to thought; + + Influences + Every beam of thine dispenses, + Potent, subtle, reaching far, + Shooting different from each star. + Not an iron rod can lie + In circle of thy beamy eye, + But its look doth change it so + That it cannot choose but show + Thou, the worker, hast been there; + Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, + Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark + Even in what men call the dark. + Ever doing, ever showing, + Thou dost set our hearts a glowing-- + Universal something sent + To shadow forth the Excellent! + + When the firstborn affections-- + Those winged seekers of the world within, + That search about in all directions, + Some bright thing for themselves to win-- + Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs, + Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs, + Long, long, have followed faces fair, + Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air, + And darkness is around them and above, + Desolate of aught to love, + And through the gloom on every side, + Strange dismal forms are dim descried, + And the air is as the breath + From the lips of void-eyed Death, + And the knees are bowed in prayer + To the Stronger than despair-- + Then the ever-lifted cry, + _Give us light, or we shall die_, + Cometh to the Father's ears, + And he hearkens, and he hears:-- + + As some slow sun would glimmer forth + From sunless winter of the north, + We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes, + Discern and doubt the opening skies. + From a misty gray that lies on + Our dim future's far horizon, + It grows a fresh aurora, sent + Up the spirit's firmament, + Telling, through the vapours dun, + Of the coming, coming sun! + Tis Truth awaking in the soul! + His Righteousness to make us whole! + And what shall we, this Truth receiving, + Though with but a faint believing, + Call it but eternal Light? + 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night! + + All things most excellent + Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! + Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent, + Came like a lamp, to bring, + Across the winds and wastes of night, + The everlasting light. + Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought! + Hail, Light of God, the making-visible! + Hail, far-transcending glory brought + In human form with man to dwell-- + Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less + To show, irradiate, and bless; + The gathering of the primal rays divine + Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine! + + Dull horrid pools no motion making! + No bubble on the surface breaking! + The dead air lies, without a sound, + Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground. + + Rushing winds and snow-like drift, + Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift! + Hair-like vapours madly riven! + Waters smitten into dust! + Lightning through the turmoil driven, + Aimless, useless, yet it must! + + Gentle winds through forests calling! + Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing! + Solemn waves on sea-shores falling! + White sails on blue waters dancing! + Mountain streams glad music giving! + Children in the clear pool laving! + Yellow corn and green grass waving! + Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living! + Light, O radiant, it is thou! + Light!--we know our Father now! + + Forming ever without form; + Showing, but thyself unseen; + Pouring stillness on the storm; + Breathing life where death had been! + If thy light thou didst draw in, + Death and Chaos soon were out, + Weltering o'er the slimy sea, + Riding on the whirlwind's rout, + In wild unmaking energy! + God, be round us and within, + Fighting darkness, slaying sin. + + Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable, + On whom no changing shadow ever fell! + Thy light we know not, are content to see; + Thee we know not, and are content to be!-- + Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we! + But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, + Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast? + Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee! + The very shadows on our souls that lie, + Good witness to the light supernal bear; + The something 'twixt us and the sky + Could cast no shadow if light were not there! + If children tremble in the night, + It is because their God is light! + The shining of the common day + Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow-- + Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies: + Thy living light's eternal play, + Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?-- + Behind the life itself, its fountains rise! + In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place; + And we _have_ seen thee in the Saviour's face. + + Enlighten me, O Light!--why art thou such? + Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet? + Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch? + Why in thee do the known and unknown meet? + Why swift and tender, strong and delicate? + Simple as truth, yet manifold in might? + Why does one love thee, and another hate? + Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech + When I a goodly matter would indite? + Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach? + --In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech, + For God is light. + + + + + +_TO A. J. SCOTT_. + + + When, long ago, the daring of my youth + Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing, + Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth + + Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, + Made homely by the tenderness and grace + Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling + + A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face + From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, + Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case. + + I see thee far before me on thy way + Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still; + Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway, + + Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; + Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate, + Searching all truths its prophecy to fill; + + But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great, + High Love is queen, and sits without a mate. + + +_May_, 1857. + + + + +_I WOULD I WERE A CHILD_. + + + I would I were a child, + That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! + And follow thee with running feet, or rather + Be led through dark and wild! + + How I would hold thy hand, + My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting! + Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting, + My heart would but expand. + + If an ill thing came near, + I would but creep within thy mantle's folding, + Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, + And soon forget my fear. + + O soul, O soul, rejoice! + Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning; + A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning + With saviour eyes and voice. + + Who spake the words? Didst Thou? + They are too good, even for such a giver: + Such water drinking once, I should feel ever + As I had drunk but now. + + Yet sure the Word said so, + Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father! + Telling the tale of him who once did gather + His goods to him, and go! + + Ah, thou dost lead me, God! + But it is dark and starless, the way dreary; + Almost I sleep, I am so very weary + Upon this rough hill-road. + + _Almost_! Nay, I _do_ sleep; + There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; + Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming; + Thy hand my hand doth keep. + + With sighs my soul doth teem; + I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping; + Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping; + Wake me from this my dream. + + How long shall heavy night + Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow + Say in my heart that never any morrow + Will bring the friendly light? + + Lord, art thou in the room? + Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain! + A child's heart would say _Father_, were it certain + That it would not presume. + + But if this dreary sleep + May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper + To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper-- + For evil dreams too deep. + + _Father_! I dare at length; + My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming: + Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming + Thy tenderness, my strength. + + + + + +_A PRAYER FOR THE PAST_. + + + _All sights and sounds of day and year, + All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, + Are thine, O God, nor will I fear + To talk to thee of them_. + + Too great thy heart is to despise, + Whose day girds centuries about; + From things which we name small, thine eyes + See great things looking out. + + Therefore the prayerful song I sing + May come to thee in ordered words: + Though lowly born, it needs not cling + In terror to its chords. + + I think that nothing made is lost; + That not a moon has ever shone, + That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed + But to my soul is gone. + + That all the lost years garnered lie + In this thy casket, my dim soul; + And thou wilt, once, the key apply, + And show the shining whole. + + _But were they dead in me, they live + In thee, whose Parable is--Time, + And Worlds, and Forms--all things that give + Me thoughts, and this my rime_. + + _And after what men call my death, + When I have crossed the unknown sea, + Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath, + Shall rise this prayer to thee_. + + Oh let me be a child once more, + And dream fine glories in the gloom, + Of sun and moon and stars in store + To ceil my humble room. + + Oh call again the moons that crossed + Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept; + Show me the solemn skies I lost + Because in thee I slept. + + Once more let gathering glory swell, + And lift the world's dim eastern eye; + Once more let lengthening shadows tell + Its time is come to die. + + But show me first--oh, blessed sight! + The lowly house where I was young; + There winter sent wild winds at night, + And up the snow-heaps flung; + + Or soundless brought a chaos fair, + Full, formless, of fantastic forms, + White ghostly trees in sparkling air-- + Chamber for slumbering storms. + + There sudden dawned a dewy morn; + A man was turning up the mould; + And in our hearts the spring was born, + Crept thither through the cold. + + _And Spring, in after years of youth, + Became the form of every form + For hearts now bursting into truth, + Now sighing in the storm_. + + On with the glad year let me go, + With troops of daisies round my feet; + Flying my kite, or, in the glow + Of arching summer heat, + + Outstretched in fear upon a bank, + Lest, gazing up on awful space, + I should fall down into the blank, + From off the round world's face. + + And let my brothers come with me + To play our old games yet again, + Children on earth, more full of glee + That we in heaven are men. + + If then should come the shadowy death, + Take one of us and go, + We left would say, under our breath, + "It is a dream, you know!" + + "And in the dream our brother's gone + Upstairs: he heard our father call; + For one by one we go alone, + Till he has gathered all." + + _Father, in joy our knees we bow: + This earth is not a place of tombs: + We are but in the nursery now; + They in the upper rooms_. + + For are we not at home in thee, + And all this world a visioned show; + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know? + + _And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, + As once of old, in moonlight pale, + I at my father's sat, and heard + Him read a lofty tale_. + + On with my history let me go, + And reap again the gliding years, + Gather great noontide's joyous glow, + Eve's love-contented tears; + + One afternoon sit pondering + In that old chair, in that old room, + Where passing pigeon's sudden wing + Flashed lightning through the gloom; + + There try once more, with effort vain, + To mould in one perplexed things; + There find the solace yet again + Hope in the Father brings; + + Or mount and ride in sun and wind, + Through desert moors, hills bleak and high, + Where wandering vapours fall, and find + In me another sky! + + _For so thy Visible grew mine, + Though half its power I could not know; + And in me wrought a work divine, + Which thou hadst ordered so_; + + Giving me cups that would not spill, + But water carry and yield again; + New bottles with new wine to fill + For comfort of thy men. + + But if thou thus restore the past + One hour, for me to wander in, + I now bethink me at the last-- + O Lord, leave out the sin. + + _And with the thought comes doubt, my God: + Shall I the whole desire to see, + And walk once more, of that hill-road + By which I went to thee_? + + + + +A PRAYER FOR THE PAST. + + + _Now far from my old northern land, + I live where gentle winters pass; + Where green seas lave a wealthy strand, + And unsown is the grass_; + + Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope + Of gazing heaven to spread their show, + Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope, + With fringes flaming low; + + With one beside me in whose eyes + Once more old Nature finds a home; + There treasures up her changeful skies, + Her phosphorescent foam. + + O'er a new joy this day we bend, + Soft power from heaven our souls to lift; + A wondering wonder thou dost lend + With loan outpassing gift-- + + A little child. She sees the sun-- + Once more incarnates thy old law: + One born of two, two born in one, + Shall into one three draw. + + But is there no day creeping on + Which I should tremble to renew? + I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone-- + Thine is the future too! + + _And are we not at home in Thee, + And all this world a visioned show, + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know_? + + + + +_LONGING_. + + + My heart is full of inarticulate pain, + And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks + Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, + Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, + No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear; + 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear. + + Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth, + Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come; + Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; + Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; + Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies + Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes. + + O all wide places, far from feverous towns; + Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild; + Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs; + Vast pallid clouds; blue spaces undefiled-- + Room! give me room! give loneliness and air-- + Free things and plenteous in your regions fair! + + White dove of David, flying overhead, + Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, + Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled + To find a home afar from men of things; + Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, + God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply. + + O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces, + O God of freedom and of joyous hearts, + When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, + There will be room enough in crowded marts! + Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er, + Thy universe my closet with shut door. + + Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all + Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. + God in thee, can his children's folly gall? + Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-- + Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; + Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm! + + + + +_I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS_. + + + I know what beauty is, for thou + Hast set the world within my heart; + Of me thou madest it a part; + I never loved it more than now. + + I know the Sabbath afternoons; + The light asleep upon the graves: + Against the sky the poplar waves; + The river murmurs organ tunes. + + I know the spring with bud and bell; + The hush in summer woods at night; + Autumn, when trees let in more light; + Fantastic winter's lovely spell. + + I know the rapture music gives, + Its mystery of ordered tones: + Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans, + And, half-alive, comes in and lives. + + And verse I know, whose concord high + Of thought and music lifts the soul + Where many a glimmering starry shoal + Glides through the Godhead's living sky. + + Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know-- + The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes; + The God-imprisoned harmonies + That out in gracious motions go. + + But I leave all, O Son of man, + Put off my shoes, and come to thee! + Most lovely thou of all I see, + Most potent thou of all that can! + + As child forsakes his favourite toy, + His sisters' sport, his new-found nest, + And, climbing to his mother's breast, + Enjoys yet more his late-left joy-- + + I lose to find. On fair-browed bride + Fair pearls their fairest light afford; + So, gathered round thy glory, Lord, + All glory else is glorified. + + + + + +_SYMPATHY_. + + + Grief held me silent in my seat; + I neither moved nor smiled: + Joy held her silent at my feet, + My shining lily-child. + + She raised her face and looked in mine; + She deemed herself denied; + The door was shut, there was no shine; + Poor she was left outside! + + Once, twice, three times, with infant grace + Her lips my name did mould; + Her face was pulling at my face-- + She was but ten months old. + + I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs; + It made me think--Does God + Need help from his poor children's eyes + To ease him of his load? + + Ah, if he did, how seldom then + The Father would be glad! + If comfort lay in the eyes of men, + He little comfort had! + + We cry to him in evil case, + When comfort sore we lack; + And when we troubled seek his face, + Consoled he sends us back; + + Nor waits for prayer to rise and climb-- + He wakes the sleeping prayer; + He is our father all the time, + And servant everywhere. + + I looked not up; foreboding hid + Kept down my heart the while; + 'Twas he looked up; my Father did + Smile in my infant's smile. + + + + + +_THE THANK-OFFERING_. + + My Lily snatches not my gift; + Glad is she to be fed, + But to her mouth she will not lift + The piece of broken bread, + Till on my lips, unerring, swift, + The morsel she has laid. + + This is her grace before her food, + This her libation poured; + Even thus his offering, Aaron good + Heaved up to thank the Lord, + When for the people all he stood, + And with a cake adored. + + So, Father, every gift of thine + I offer at thy knee; + Else take I not the love divine + With which it comes to me; + Not else the offered grace is mine + Of sharing life with thee. + + Yea, all my being I would bring, + Yielding it utterly, + Not yet a full-possessed thing + Till heaved again to thee: + Away, my self! away, and cling + To him that makes thee be! + + + + + +_PRAYER_. + + We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, + And ye shall have your prayer; + We turn our thoughts as to a task, + With will constrained and rare. + + And yet we have; these scanty prayers + Yield gold without alloy: + O God, but he that trusts and dares + Must have a boundless joy! + + + + + +_REST_. + +I. + + When round the earth the Father's hands + Have gently drawn the dark; + Sent off the sun to fresher lands, + And curtained in the lark; + 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, + To fade with fading light, + And lie once more, the old weary way, + Upfolded in the night. + + If mothers o'er our slumbers bend, + And unripe kisses reap, + In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, + Till even in dreams we sleep. + And if we wake while night is dumb, + 'Tis sweet to turn and say, + It is an hour ere dawning come, + And I will sleep till day. + + +II. + + There is a dearer, warmer bed, + Where one all day may lie, + Earth's bosom pillowing the head, + And let the world go by. + There come no watching mother's eyes, + The stars instead look down; + Upon it breaks, and silent dies, + The murmur of the town. + + The great world, shouting, forward fares: + This chamber, hid from none, + Hides safe from all, for no one cares + For him whose work is done. + Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how + A certain unknown place, + Or here or there, is waiting now, + To rest thee from thy race. + + +III. + + Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, + The still composed breath! + Not there the folding of the arms, + The cool, the blessed death! + _That_ needs no curtained bed to hide + The world with all its wars, + No grassy cover to divide + From sun and moon and stars. + + It is a rest that deeper grows + In midst of pain and strife; + A mighty, conscious, willed repose, + The death of deepest life. + To have and hold the precious prize + No need of jealous bars; + But windows open to the skies, + And skill to read the stars! + + +IV. + + Who dwelleth in that secret place, + Where tumult enters not, + Is never cold with terror base, + Never with anger hot. + For if an evil host should dare + His very heart invest, + God is his deeper heart, and there + He enters in to rest. + + When mighty sea-winds madly blow, + And tear the scattered waves, + Peaceful as summer woods, below + Lie darkling ocean caves: + The wind of words may toss my heart, + But what is that to me! + Tis but a surface storm--thou art + My deep, still, resting sea. + + + + + +_O DO NOT LEAVE ME_. + + O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; + Till I forget, be near me in that chair. + The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- + Leaves her contented there. + + O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, + Till I am dead, and resting in my place. + Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends, + And leaves a raptured face. + + Leave me not, God, until--nay, until when? + Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; + Not till the Life is Light in me, and then + Leaving is left behind. + + + + + +_BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH_. + + A quiet heart, submissive, meek, + Father, do thou bestow, + Which more than granted, will not seek + To have, or give, or know. + + Each little hill then holds its gift + Forth to my joying eyes; + Each mighty mountain then doth lift + My spirit to the skies. + + Lo, then the running water sounds + With gladsome, secret things! + The silent water more abounds, + And more the hidden springs. + + Live murmurs then the trees will blend + With all the feathered song; + The waving grass low tribute lend + Earth's music to prolong. + + The sun will cast great crowns of light + On waves that anthems roar; + The dusky billows break at night + In flashes on the shore. + + Each harebell, each white lily's cup, + The hum of hidden bee, + Yea, every odour floating up, + The insect revelry-- + + Each hue, each harmony divine + The holy world about, + Its soul will send forth into mine, + My soul to widen out. + + And thus the great earth I shall hold, + A perfect gift of thine; + Richer by these, a thousandfold, + Than if broad lands were mine. + + + + + +_HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL_. + + Father, in the dark I lay, + Thirsting for the light, + Helpless, but for hope alway + In thy father-might. + + Out of darkness came the morn, + Out of death came life, + I, and faith, and hope, new-born, + Out of moaning strife! + + So, one morning yet more fair, + I shall, joyous-brave, + Sudden breathing loftier air, + Triumph o'er the grave. + + Though this feeble body lie + Underneath the ground, + Wide awake, not sleeping, I + Shall in him be found. + + But a morn yet fairer must + Quell this inner gloom-- + Resurrection from the dust + Of a deeper tomb! + + Father, wake thy little child; + Give me bread and wine + Till my spirit undefiled + Rise and live in thine. + + + + +_WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN_. + + Shepherd, on before thy sheep, + Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! + Scarce the track I stumbling keep! + Through my thin fleece blows the wind! + + Turn and see me, Son of Man! + Turn and lift thy Father's child; + Scarce I walk where once I ran: + Carry me--the wind is wild! + + Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share; + My poor weight thou wilt not feel; + Weakness made thee strong to bear, + Suffering made thee strong to heal! + + I were still a wandering sheep + But for thee, O Shepherd-man! + Following now, I faint, I weep, + Yet I follow as I can! + + Shepherd, if I fall and lie + Moaning in the frosty wind, + Yet, I know, I shall not die-- + Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find! + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862_, + + THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE. + + The skies are pale, the trees are stiff, + The earth is dull and old; + The frost is glittering as if + The very sun were cold. + And hunger fell is joined with frost, + To make men thin and wan: + Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost; + Be born, O child of man. + + The children cry, the women shake, + The strong men stare about; + They sleep when they should be awake, + They wake ere night is out. + For they have lost their heritage-- + No sweat is on their brow: + Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; + Be born, and save us now. + + Across the sea, beyond our sight, + Roars on the fierce debate; + The men go down in bloody fight, + The women weep and hate; + And in the right be which that may, + Surely the strife is long! + Come, son of man, thy righteous way, + And right will have no wrong. + + Good men speak lies against thine own-- + Tongue quick, and hearing slow; + They will not let thee walk alone, + And think to serve thee so: + If they the children's freedom saw + In thee, the children's king, + They would be still with holy awe, + Or only speak to sing. + + Some neither lie nor starve nor fight, + Nor yet the poor deny; + But in their hearts all is not right,-- + They often sit and sigh. + We need thee every day and hour, + In sunshine and in snow: + Child-king, we pray with all our power-- + Be born, and save us so. + + We are but men and women, Lord; + Thou art a gracious child! + O fill our hearts, and heap our board, + Pray thee--the winter's wild! + The sky is sad, the trees are bare, + Hunger and hate about: + Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare + Will soon be driven out. + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL_. + + Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap, + The sun shone in his hair; + And this was how she saw, mayhap, + The crown already there. + + For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king; + Bad Herod dares not come; + Before thee sleeping, holy thing, + The wild winds would be dumb." + + "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet, + My child, so long desired; + Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet; + Thy feet will never be tired." + + "For thou art the king of men, my son; + Thy crown I see it plain! + And men shall worship thee, every one, + And cry, Glory! Amen!" + + Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide-- + At Mary looked her lord. + Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed; + Babe Jesus said never a word. + + + + + +_THE SLEEPLESS JESUS_. + + 'Tis time to sleep, my little boy: + Why gaze thy bright eyes so? + At night our children, for new joy + Home to thy father go, + But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; + The moon and stars are gone; + The wind is up and raving wild, + But thou art smiling on! + + My child, thou hast immortal eyes + That see by their own light; + They see the children's blood--it lies + Red-glowing through the night! + Thou hast an ever-open ear + For sob or cry or moan: + Thou seemest not to see or hear, + Thou only smilest on! + + When first thou camest to the earth, + All sounds of strife were still; + A silence lay about thy birth, + And thou didst sleep thy fill: + Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not? + Thy earth is woe-begone; + Both babes and mothers wail their lot, + But still thou smilest on! + + I read thy face like holy book; + No hurt is pictured there; + Deep in thine eyes I see the look + Of one who answers prayer. + Beyond pale grief and wild uproars, + Thou seest God's will well done; + Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors, + Thou hear'st--and smilest on. + + Men say: "I will arise and go;" + God says: "I will go meet:" + Thou seest them gather, weeping low, + About the Father's feet; + And each for each begin to bear, + And standing lonely none: + Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer! + Smile, Son of God, smile on. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1873_. + + Christmas-Days are still in store:-- + Will they change--steal faded hither? + Or come fresh as heretofore, + Summering all our winter weather? + + Surely they will keep their bloom + All the countless pacing ages: + In the country whence they come + Children only are the sages! + + Hither, every hour and year, + Children come to cure our oldness-- + Oft, alas, to gather sear + Unbelief, and earthy boldness! + + Men they grow and women cold, + Selfish, passionate, and plaining! + Ever faster they grow old:-- + On the world, ah, eld is gaining! + + Child, whose childhood ne'er departs! + Jesus, with the perfect father! + Drive the age from parents' hearts; + To thy heart the children gather. + + Send thy birth into our souls, + With its grand and tender story. + Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!-- + News to men! to God old glory! + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1884_. + + Though in my heart no Christmas glee, + Though my song-bird be dumb, + Jesus, it is enough for me + That thou art come. + + What though the loved be scattered far, + Few at the board appear, + In thee, O Lord, they gathered are, + And thou art here. + + And if our hearts be low with lack, + They are not therefore numb; + Not always will thy day come back-- + Thyself will come! + + + + +_AN OLD STORY_. + +I. + + In the ancient house of ages, + See, they cannot rest! + With a hope, which awe assuages, + Tremble all the blest. + For the son and heir eternal, + To be son yet more, + Leaves his stately chair supernal + For the earth's low floor; + + Leaves the room so high and old, + Leaves the all-world hearth, + Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold, + Of the twilight earth-- + To be throned in newer glory + In a mother's lap, + Gather up our broken story, + And right every hap. + + +II. + + There Earth's foster-baby lies, + Sleep-dimmed all his graces, + 'Neath four stars of parents' eyes, + And two heavens of faces! + See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring, + Feel the skirts of good + Fold them in dull-blessed sharing + Of infinitude. + + Make a little room betwixt you, + Pray you, Ass and Cow! + Sure we shall, if I kneel next you, + Know each other now! + To the pit-fallen comes salvation-- + Love is never loath! + Here we are, thy whole creation, + Waiting, Lord, thy growth! + + +III. + + On the slopes of Bethlehem, + Round their resting sheep, + Shepherds sat, and went and came, + Guarding holy sleep; + But the silent, high dome-spaces, + Airy galleries, + Thronged they were with watching faces, + Thronged with open eyes. + + Far across the desert floor, + Come, slow-drawing nigher, + Sages deep in starry lore, + Priests of burning Fire. + In the sky they read his story, + And, through starlight cool, + They come riding to the Glory, + To the Wonderful. + + +IV. + + Babe and mother, coming Mage, + Shepherd, ass, and cow! + Angels watching the new age, + Time's intensest Now! + Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining, + Far ends closing in! + Sure the eternal tide is gaining + On the strand of sin! + + See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master + Signs with lifted hand; + Winds divine blow fast and faster, + Swelling bosoms grand. + Hark the torrent-joy let slip! + Hark the great throats ring! + Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship! + And a Child for king! + + + + + +_A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS_. + + Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging + Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death! + Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing! + Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith! + + Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining-- + Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!" + Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining, + Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer! + + Toll for the burying, sexton tolling! + Sing for the second birth, angel Lark! + Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling! + Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark! + + +II. + + Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow; + I will give freedom to mine in song! + Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow; + I will go watch in the dawning long! + + For I shall see them, and know their faces-- + Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more; + Clasp the old self in the new embraces; + Gaze through their eyes' wide open door. + + Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness; + I am ashamed--but you pardon wrong! + Smile the old smile, and my soul's new gladness + Straight will arise in sorrow and song! + + + + + +_TO MY AGING FRIENDS_. + + It is no winter night comes down + Upon our hearts, dear friends of old; + But a May evening, softly brown, + Whose wind is rather cold. + + We are not, like yon sad-eyed West, + Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard, + We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest, + But gazing on her lord. + + Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends, + Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair; + Ours is a love that never ends, + For God is dearest there! + + We will not talk about the past, + We will not ponder ancient pain; + Those are but deep foundations cast + For peaks of soaring gain! + + We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones + At our poor smouldering earthly fire; + And talk of wide-eyed living ones + Who have what we desire. + + O Living, ye know what is death-- + We, by and by, shall know it too! + Humble, with bated, hoping breath, + We are coming fast to you! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN_. + + Well for youth to seek the strong, + Beautiful, and brave! + We, the old, who walk along + Gently to the grave, + Only pay our court to thee, + Child of all Eternity! + + We are old who once were young, + And we grow more old; + Songs we are that have been sung, + Tales that have been told; + Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee, + Childhood of Eternity! + + If we come too sudden near, + Lo, Earth's infant cries, + For our faces wan and drear + Have such withered eyes! + Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away + From the wrinkled ones who pray! + + Smile upon us with thy mouth + And thine eyes of grace; + On our cold north breathe thy south. + Thaw the frozen face: + Childhood all from thee doth flow-- + Melt to song our age's snow. + + Gray-haired children come in crowds, + Thee, their Hope, to greet: + Is it swaddling clothes or shrouds + Hampering so our feet? + Eldest child, the shadows gloom: + Take the aged children home. + + We have had enough of play, + And the wood grows drear; + Many who at break of day + Companied us here-- + They have vanished out of sight, + Gone and met the coming light! + + Fair is this out-world of thine, + But its nights are cold; + And the sun that makes it fine + Makes us soon so old! + Long its shadows grow and dim-- + Father, take us back with him! + + +1891. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS MEDITATION_. + + He who by a mother's love + Made the wandering world his own, + Every year comes from above, + Comes the parted to atone, + Binding Earth to the Father's throne. + + Nay, thou comest every day! + No, thou never didst depart! + Never hour hast been away! + Always with us, Lord, thou art, + Binding, binding heart to heart! + + + + + +_THE OLD CASTLE_. + + The brother knew well the castle old, + Every closet, each outlook fair, + Every turret and bartizan bold, + Every chamber, garnished or bare. + The brother was out in the heavenly air; + Little ones lost the starry way, + Wandered down the dungeon stair. + The brother missed them, and on the clay + Of the dungeon-floor he found them all. + Up they jumped when they heard him call! + He led the little ones into the day-- + Out and up to the sunshine gay, + Up to the father's own door-sill-- + In at the father's own room door, + There to be merry and work and play, + There to come and go at their will, + Good boys and girls to be lost no more! + + + + + +CHRISTMAS PRAYER. + + Cold my heart, and poor, and low, + Like thy stable in the rock; + Do not let it orphan go, + It is of thy parent stock! + Come thou in, and it will grow + High and wide, a fane divine; + Like the ruby it will glow, + Like the diamond shine! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE INNOCENTS_. + + Merry, merry we well may be, + For Jesus Christ is come down to see: + Long before, at the top of the stair, + He set our angels a waiting there, + Waiting hither and thither to fly, + Tending the children of the sky, + Lest they dash little feet against big stones, + And tumble down and break little bones; + For the path is rough, and we must not roam; + We have learned to walk, and must follow him home! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY_. + + Star high, + Baby low: + 'Twixt the two + Wise men go; + Find the baby, + Grasp the star-- + Heirs of all things + Near and far! + + + + + +THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN. + + The infant lies in blessed ease + Upon his mother's breast; + No storm, no dark, the baby sees + Invade his heaven of rest. + He nothing knows of change or death-- + Her face his holy skies; + The air he breathes, his mother's breath; + His stars, his mother's eyes! + + Yet half the soft winds wandering there + Are sighs that come of fears; + The dew slow falling through that air-- + It is the dew of tears; + And ah, my child, thy heavenly home + Hath storms as well as dew; + Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome, + And quench the starry blue! + + "My smile would win no smile again, + If baby saw the things + That ache across his mother's brain + The while to him she sings! + Thy faith in me is faith in vain-- + I am not what I seem: + O dreary day, O cruel pain, + That wakes thee from thy dream!" + + Nay, pity not his dreams so fair, + Fear thou no waking grief; + Oh, safer he than though thou were + Good as his vague belief! + There is a heaven that heaven above + Whereon he gazes now; + A truer love than in thy kiss; + A better friend than thou! + + The Father's arms fold like a nest + Both thee and him about; + His face looks down, a heaven of rest, + Where comes no dark, no doubt. + Its mists are clouds of stars that move + On, on, with progress rife; + Its winds, the goings of his love; + Its dew, the dew of life. + + We for our children seek thy heart, + For them we lift our eyes: + Lord, should their faith in us depart, + Let faith in thee arise. + When childhood's visions them forsake, + To women grown and men, + Back to thy heart their hearts oh take, + And bid them dream again. + + + + + +_REJOICE_. + + "Rejoice," said the Sun; "I will make thee gay + With glory and gladness and holiday; + I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice in thyself," said he, "O Sun, + For thy daily course is a lordly one; + In thy lofty place rejoice if thou can: + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Wind; "I am free and strong, + And will wake in thy heart an ancient song; + Hear the roaring woods, my organ noise!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice, O Wind, in thy strength," said he, + "For thou fulfillest thy destiny; + Shake the forest, the faint flowers fan; + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Night, "with moon and star, + For the Sun and the Wind are gone afar; + I am here with rest and dreaming choice!" + But man would not rejoice; + + For he said--"What is rest to me, I pray, + Whose labour leads to no gladsome day? + He only can dream who has hope behind: + Alas for me and my kind!" + + Then a voice that came not from moon or star, + From the sun, or the wind that roved afar, + Said, "Man, I am with thee--hear my voice!" + And man said, "I rejoice." + + + + + +_THE GRACE OF GRACE_. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of some old man in lore complete, + My face would worship at his face, + And I sit lowly at his feet. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of childhood, loving shy, apart, + The child should find a nearer place, + And teach me resting on my heart. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of maiden living all above, + My soul would trample down the base, + That she might have a man to love. + + A grace I had no grace to win + Knocks now at my half open door: + Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in!-- + Thy grace divine is all, and more. + + + + +_ANTIPHON_. + + Daylight fades away. + Is the Lord at hand + In the shadows gray + Stealing on the land? + + Gently from the east + Come the shadows gray; + But our lowly priest + Nearer is than they. + + It is darkness quite. + Is the Lord at hand, + In the cloak of night + Stolen upon the land? + + But I see no night, + For my Lord is here + With him dark is light, + With him far is near. + + List! the cock's awake. + Is the Lord at hand? + Cometh he to make + Light in all the land? + + Long ago he made + Morning in my heart; + Long ago he bade + Shadowy things depart. + + Lo, the dawning hill! + Is the Lord at hand, + Come to scatter ill, + Ruling in the land? + + He hath scattered ill, + Ruling in my mind; + Growing to his will, + Freedom comes, I find. + + We will watch all day, + Lest the Lord should come; + All night waking stay + In the darkness dumb. + + I will work all day, + For the Lord hath come; + Down my head will lay + All night, glad and dumb. + + For we know not when + Christ may be at hand; + But we know that then + Joy is in the land. + + For I know that where + Christ hath come again, + Quietness without care + Dwelleth in his men. + + + + + +_DORCAS_. + + If I might guess, then guess I would + That, mid the gathered folk, + This gentle Dorcas one day stood, + And heard when Jesus spoke. + + She saw the woven seamless coat-- + Half envious, for his sake: + "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought + The honoured thing to make!" + + Her eyes with longing tears grow dim: + She never can come nigh + To work one service poor for him + For whom she glad would die! + + But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word! + And she has heard indeed! + "When did we see thee naked, Lord, + And clothed thee in thy need?" + + "The King shall answer, Inasmuch + As to my brethren ye + Did it--even to the least of such-- + Ye did it unto me." + + Home, home she went, and plied the loom, + And Jesus' poor arrayed. + She died--they wept about the room, + And showed the coats she made. + + + + + +_MARRIAGE SONG_. + + "They have no more wine!" she said. + But they had enough of bread; + And the vessels by the door + Held for thirst a plenteous store: + Yes, _enough_; but Love divine + Turned the water into wine! + + When should wine like water flow, + But when home two glad hearts go! + When, in sacred bondage bound, + Soul in soul hath freedom found! + Such the time when, holy sign, + Jesus turned the water wine. + + Good is all the feasting then; + Good the merry words of men; + Good the laughter and the smiles; + Good the wine that grief beguiles;-- + Crowning good, the Word divine + Turning water into wine! + + Friends, the Master with you dwell! + Daily work this miracle! + When fair things too common grow, + Bring again their heavenly show! + Ever at your table dine, + Turning water into wine! + + So at last you shall descry + All the patterns of the sky: + Earth a heaven of short abode; + Houses temples unto God; + Water-pots, to vision fine, + Brimming full of heavenly wine. + + + + + +_BLIND BARTIMEUS_. + + As Jesus went into Jericho town, + Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, + About blind Bartimeus. + He said, "My eyes are more than dim, + They are no use for seeing him: + No matter--he can see us!" + + "Cry out, cry out, blind brother--cry; + Let not salvation dear go by.-- + Have mercy, Son of David." + Though they were blind, they both could hear-- + They heard, and cried, and he drew near; + And so the blind were saved. + + O Jesus Christ, I am very blind; + Nothing comes through into my mind; + 'Tis well I am not dumb: + Although I see thee not, nor hear, + I cry because thou may'st be near: + O son of Mary, come! + + I hear it through the all things blind: + Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind-- + "Poor eyes, no more be dim"? + A hand is laid upon mine eyes; + I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;-- + 'Tis He! I follow him! + + + + + +_COME UNTO ME_. + + Come unto me, the Master says:-- + But how? I am not good; + No thankful song my heart will raise, + Nor even wish it could. + + I am not sorry for the past, + Nor able not to sin; + The weary strife would ever last + If once I should begin! + + Hast thou no burden then to bear? + No action to repent? + Is all around so very fair? + Is thy heart quite content? + + Hast thou no sickness in thy soul? + No labour to endure? + Then go in peace, for thou art whole; + Thou needest not his cure. + + Ah, mock me not! I often sigh; + I have a nameless grief, + A faint sad pain--but such that I + Can look for no relief. + + Come, come to him who made thy heart; + Come weary and oppressed; + To come to Jesus is thy part, + His part to give thee rest. + + New grief, new hope he will bestow, + Thy grief and pain to quell; + Into thy heart himself will go, + And that will make thee well. + + + + + +_MORNING HYMN_. + + O Lord of life, thy quickening voice + Awakes my morning song! + In gladsome words I would rejoice + That I to thee belong. + + I see thy light, I feel thy wind; + The world, it is thy word; + Whatever wakes my heart and mind, + Thy presence is, my Lord. + + The living soul which I call me + Doth love, and long to know; + It is a thought of living thee, + Nor forth of thee can go. + + Therefore I choose my highest part, + And turn my face to thee; + Therefore I stir my inmost heart + To worship fervently. + + Lord, let me live and will this day-- + Keep rising from the dead; + Lord, make my spirit good and gay-- + Give me my daily bread. + + Within my heart, speak, Lord, speak on, + My heart alive to keep, + Till comes the night, and, labour done, + In thee I fall asleep. + + + + + +_NOONTIDE HYMN_. + + I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, + Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, + Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-- + Thy will, I love it more. + + I love thy hidden truth to seek + All round, in sea, on shore; + The arts whereby like gods we speak-- + Thy will to me is more. + + I love thy men and women, Lord, + The children round thy door; + Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-- + Thy will than these is more. + + But when thy will my life doth hold + Thine to the very core, + The world, which that same will doth mould, + I love, then, ten times more! + + + + + +_EVENING HYMN_. + + O God, whose daylight leadeth down + Into the sunless way, + Who with restoring sleep dost crown + The labour of the day! + + What I have done, Lord, make it clean + With thy forgiveness dear; + That so to-day what might have been, + To-morrow may appear. + + And when my thought is all astray, + Yet think thou on in me; + That with the new-born innocent day + My soul rise fresh and free. + + Nor let me wander all in vain + Through dreams that mock and flee; + But even in visions of the brain, + Go wandering toward thee. + + + + + +_THE HOLY MIDNIGHT_. + + Ah, holy midnight of the soul, + When stars alone are high; + When winds are resting at their goal, + And sea-waves only sigh! + + Ambition faints from out the will; + Asleep sad longing lies; + All hope of good, all fear of ill, + All need of action dies; + + Because God is, and claims the life + He kindled in thy brain; + And thou in him, rapt far from strife, + Diest and liv'st again. + + + + + +_RONDEL_. + + I follow, tottering, in the funeral train + That bears my body to the welcoming grave. + As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave, + But smile as those that lay aside the vain; + + To me it is a thing of poor disdain, + A clod I would not give a sigh to save! + I follow, careless, in the funeral train, + My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave. + + I follow to the grave with growing pain-- + Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave! + And turn in gladness from the yawning cave-- + Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain: + They also follow, in their funeral train, + Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave! + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + When I look back upon my life nigh spent, + Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, + I more of follies than of sins repent, + Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan. + With self, O Father, leave me not alone-- + Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; + Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: + A fool I bring thee to be made a child. + + + + + +_HOME FROM THE WARS_. + + A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, + With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, + Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: + I only faced the foe, and did not flee. + + + + + +_GOD; NOT GIFT_. + + Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; + My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; + Ghastly and dry, my desert shore + Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show. + + 'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; + Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; + Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, + Yea, life itself to wait for thee! + + Lord, here I am, empty enough! + My music but a soundless moan! + Blind hope, of all my household stuff, + Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone! + + Shall hope too go, that I may trust + Purely in thee, and spite of all? + Then turn my very heart to dust-- + On thee, on thee, I yet will call. + + List! list! his wind among the pines + Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's! + O Father, these are but thy signs!-- + For thee I hunger, not for these! + + Not joy itself, though pure and high-- + No gift will do instead of thee! + Let but my spirit know thee nigh, + And all the world may sleep for me! + + + + + +_TO ANY FRIEND_. + + If I did seem to you no more + Than to myself I seem, + Not thus you would fling wide the door, + And on the beggar beam! + + You would not don your radiant best, + Or dole me more than half! + Poor palmer I, no angel guest; + A shaking reed my staff! + + At home, no rich fruit, hanging low, + Have I for Love to pull; + Only unripe things that must grow + Till Autumn's maund be full! + + But I forsake my niggard leas, + My orchard, too late hoar, + And wander over lands and seas + To find the Father's door. + + When I have reached the ancestral farm, + Have clomb the steepy hill, + And round me rests the Father's arm, + Then think me what you will. + + + + + + +VIOLIN SONGS. + + + +_HOPE DEFERRED_. + + Summer is come again. The sun is bright, + And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy + Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light + My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ + Shall be to revel in unlikely things, + In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings, + And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk + Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea; + Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk, + Has grown a paradise for you and me. + + But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth + Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there-- + That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare, + How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!-- + The sweetness is but one pined memory flown + Back from our summer, wandering alone! + See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart, + Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow, + Takes in the changing world its changing part, + Return a sigh, an echo sad and low, + To the faint, scarcely audible sound + With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground! + O love, sad winter lieth at the door-- + Behind sad winter, age--we know no more. + + Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold + Each of us compassed: we are growing old; + And if we be not as a ring enchanted, + Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay, + The young, who claim the joy that haunted + Our visions once, will push us far away + Into the desolate regions, dim and gray, + Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry, + The clouds hang low, and have no tears, + Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years, + And hopes and songs all careless pass us by. + But if all each do keep, + The rising tide of youth will sweep + Around us with its laughter-joyous waves, + As ocean fair some palmy island laves, + To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep; + And our youth hover round us like the breath + Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death. + + Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves, + The sundered doors into one palace home, + Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go, + Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low, + Willing to part, not willing to deny + The lovely past, where all the futures lie. + + Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord, + Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word, + Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth-- + Because there is no age, in sooth, + Beyond its passing shows! + A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows; + Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light + That knows not youth nor age, + That fears no darkness nor the rage + Of windy tempests--burning still more bright + Than when glad youth was all about, + And summer winds were out! + + +1845. + + + + +_DEATH_. + + When in the bosom of the eldest night + This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest; + When through its shaded windows comes no light, + And its pale hands are folded on its breast-- + + How shall I fare, who had to wander out, + And of the unknown land the frontier cross, + Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about, + Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss? + + Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist, + Over the city murmuring beneath; + Over the trees and fields, where'er I list, + Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath? + + Or will a darkness, o'er material shows + Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight; + As from the sun a blotting radiance flows + Athwart the stars all glorious through the night; + + And the still spirit hang entranced, alone, + Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- + Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown, + With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam, + + Thought only waking--thought that may not own + The lapse of ages, or the change of spot; + Its doubt all cast on what it counted known, + Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not? + + Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until, + Our life restored by long and dreamless rest, + Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill, + And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest? + + I nothing know, and nothing need to know. + God is; I shall be ever in his sight! + Give thou me strength to labour well, and so + Do my day's work ere fall my coming night. + + + + + +_HARD TIMES_. + + I am weary, and very lonely, + And can but think--think. + If there were some water only + That a spirit might drink--drink, + And arise, + With light in the eyes + And a crown of hope on the brow, + To walk abroad in the strength of gladness, + Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness-- + As now! + + But, Lord, thy child will be sad-- + As sad as it pleases thee; + Will sit, not seeking to be glad, + Till thou bid sadness flee, + And, drawing near, + With thy good cheer + Awake thy life in me. + + + + + +_IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN_. + + If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, + Pacing it wearily, wearily, + Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- + Wearily, wearily-- + How would it fare with these hearts of ours + That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers? + + To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, + Morning foul or fair!-- + Such prayer as from weary lips might fall-- + Words, but hardly prayer-- + The chapel's roof, like the law in stone, + Caging the lark that up had flown! + + Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, + The God-revealing, + Turning thy face from the boundless boon-- + Painfully kneeling; + Or, in brown-shadowy solitude, + Bending thy head o'er the legend rude! + + I, in a bare and lonely nook, + Gloomily, gloomily, + Poring over some musty book, + Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; + Or painting pictures of things of old + On parchment-margin in purple and gold! + + Perchance in slow procession to meet, + Wearily, wearily, + In antique, narrow, high-gabled street, + Wearily, wearily; + Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then + Heavily sinking to earth again! + + Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring! + Merrily, merrily!-- + Back to its cell each weary thing, + Wearily, wearily! + Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old, + Most at home in the cloister cold! + + Thou slow rising at vespers' call, + Wearily, wearily; + I looking up on the darkening wall, + Wearily, wearily; + The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, + Listless and dead to thee and me! + + At length for sleep a weary assay, + On the lone couch wearily! + Rising at midnight again to pray, + Wearily, wearily! + And if through the dark dear eyes looked in, + Sending them far as a thought of sin! + + And at last, thy tired soul passing away, + Dreamily, dreamily-- + Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay, + Sleepily, sleepily-- + Over thee held the crucified Best, + But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed! + + And then my passing from cell to clay, + Dreamily, dreamily! + My gray head lying on ashes gray, + Sleepily, sleepily! + But no woman-angel hovering above, + Ready to clasp me in deathless love! + + Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine, + Peacefully, peacefully; + My arm round thee, and my lips on thine, + Lovingly, lovingly-- + Oh! is not a better thing to us given + Than wearily going alone to heaven? + + + + + +_MY HEART_. + + I. + + Night, with her power to silence day, + Filled up my lonely room, + Quenching all sounds but one that lay + Beyond her passing doom, + Where in his shed a workman gay + Went on despite the gloom. + + I listened, and I knew the sound, + And the trade that he was plying; + For backwards, forwards, bound on bound, + A shuttle was flying, flying-- + Weaving ever--till, all unwound, + The weft go out a sighing. + + + II. + + As hidden in thy chamber lowest + As in the sky the lark, + Thou, mystic thing, on working goest + Without the poorest spark, + And yet light's garment round me throwest, + Who else, as thou, were dark. + + With body ever clothing me, + Thou mak'st me child of light; + I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea, + The sky's rejoicing height, + A woven glory, globed by thee, + Unknowing of thy might! + + And when thy darkling labours fail, + And thy shuttle moveless lies, + My world will drop, like untied veil + From before a lady's eyes; + Or, all night read, a finished tale + That in the morning dies. + + + III. + + Yet not in vain dost thou unroll + The stars, the world, the seas-- + A mighty, wonder-painted scroll + Of Patmos mysteries, + Thou mediator 'twixt my soul + And higher things than these! + + Thy holy ephod bound on me, + I pass into a seer; + For still in things thou mak'st me see, + The unseen grows more clear; + Still their indwelling Deity + Speaks plainer in mine ear. + + Divinely taught the craftsman is + Who waketh wonderings; + Whose web, the nursing chrysalis + Round Psyche's folded wings, + To them transfers the loveliness + Of its inwoven things. + + Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- + For a greater heart beats on, + Whose better texture follows fleet + On thy last thread outrun, + With a seamless-woven garment, meet + To clothe a death-born son. + + + + + +_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_. + + + Of old, with goodwill from the skies-- + God's message to them given-- + The angels came, a glad surprise, + And went again to heaven. + + But now the angels are grown rare, + Needed no more as then; + Far lowlier messengers can bear + God's goodwill unto men. + + Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn + Breaks from the earth below; + Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn, + The noontide roses glow. + + The snowdrops first--the dawning gray; + Then out the roses burn! + They speak their word, grow dim--away + To holy dust return. + + Of oracles were little dearth, + Should heaven continue dumb; + From lowliest corners of the earth + God's messages will come. + + In thy face his we see, O Lord, + And are no longer blind; + Need not so much his rarer word, + In flowers even read his mind. + + + + + +_TO MY SISTER_, + + ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. + + + I. + + Old fables are not all a lie + That tell of wondrous birth, + Of Titan children, father Sky, + And mighty mother Earth. + + Yea, now are walking on the ground + Sons of the mingled brood; + Yea, now upon the earth are found + Such daughters of the Good. + + Earth-born, my sister, thou art still + A daughter of the sky; + Oh, climb for ever up the hill + Of thy divinity! + + To thee thy mother Earth is sweet, + Her face to thee is fair; + But thou, a goddess incomplete, + Must climb the starry stair. + + + II. + + Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, + Wouldst see the Father's face? + To all his other children bend, + And take the lowest place. + + Be like a cottage on a moor, + A covert from the wind, + With burning fire and open door, + And welcome free and kind. + + Thus humbly doing on the earth + The things the earthly scorn, + Thou shalt declare the lofty birth + Of all the lowly born. + + + III. + + Be then thy sacred womanhood + A sign upon thee set, + A second baptism--understood-- + For what thou must be yet. + + For, cause and end of all thy strife, + And unrest as thou art, + Still stings thee to a higher life + The Father at thy heart. + + + + + +_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_! + + + Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies + Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; + But spring is floating up the southern skies, + And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. + + Let me persuade: in dull December's day + We scarce believe there is a month of June; + But up the stairs of April and of May + The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon. + + Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest. + O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou. + He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-- + And in his heart thy prayer is resting now. + + + + + +_WILD FLOWERS_. + + + Content Primroses, + With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care, + Peeping as from his mother's lap the child + Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!-- + Hanging Harebell, + Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes, + Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!-- + Fluttering-wild + Anemone, so well + Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free, + Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully, + With _Take me or leave me, + Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!-- + Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming + Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!-- + Fire-winged Pimpernel, + Communing with some hidden well, + And secrets with the sun-god holding, + At fixed hour folding and unfolding!-- + How is it with you, children all, + When human children on you fall, + Gather you in eager haste, + Spoil your plenty with their waste-- + Fill and fill their dropping hands? + Feel you hurtfully disgraced + By their injurious demands? + Do you know them from afar, + Shuddering at their merry hum, + Growing faint as near they come? + Blind and deaf they think you are-- + Is it only ye are dumb? + You alive at least, I think, + Trembling almost on the brink + Of our lonely consciousness: + If it be so, + Take this comfort for your woe, + For the breaking of your rest, + For the tearing in your breast, + For the blotting of the sun, + For the death too soon begun, + For all else beyond redress-- + Or what seemeth so to be-- + That the children's wonder-springs + Bubble high at sight of you, + Lovely, lowly, common things: + In you more than you they see! + Take this too--that, walking out, + Looking fearlessly about, + Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt, + And our childhood's faith renew; + So that we, with old age nigh, + Seeing you alive and well + Out of winter's crucible, + Hearing you, from graveyard crept, + Tell us that ye only slept-- + Think we die not, though we die. + + Thus ye die not, though ye die-- + Only yield your being up, + Like a nectar-holding cup: + Deaf, ye give to them that hear, + With a greatness lovely-dear; + Blind, ye give to them that see-- + Poor, but bounteous royally. + Lowly servants to the higher, + Burning upwards in the fire + Of Nature's endless sacrifice, + In great Life's ascent ye rise, + Leave the lowly earth behind, + Pass into the human mind, + Pass with it up into God, + Whence ye came though through the clod-- + Pass, and find yourselves at home + Where but life can go and come; + Where all life is in its nest, + At loving one with holy Best;-- + Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense + Of a past, age-long somnolence! + + + + + +_SPRING SONG_. + + + Days of old, + Ye are not dead, though gone from me; + Ye are not cold, + But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea. + + The sun brings back the swallows fast + O'er the sea; + When he cometh at the last, + The days of old come back to me. + + + + + +_SUMMER SONG_. + + + "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan, + Many a tune in a single tone, + For every ear with a secret true-- + The sea-shell wants to whisper to you." + + "Yes--I hear it--far and faint, + Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint; + Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain; + Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain." + + "By smiling lip and fixed eye, + You are hearing a song within the sigh: + The murmurer has many a lovely phrase-- + Tell me, darling, the words it says." + + "I hear a wind on a boatless main + Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain; + On the dreaming waters dreams the moon-- + But I hear no words in the doubtful tune." + + "If it tell thee not that I love thee well, + 'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell: + If it be not of love, why sigh or sing? + 'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!" + + "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice + Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice; + It says not a word of your love to me, + But it tells me I love you eternally." + + + + +_AUTUMN SONG_. + + + Autumn clouds are flying, flying + O'er the waste of blue; + Summer flowers are dying, dying, + Late so lovely new. + Labouring wains are slowly rolling + Home with winter grain; + Holy bells are slowly tolling + Over buried men. + + Goldener light sets noon a sleeping + Like an afternoon; + Colder airs come stealing, creeping + From the misty moon; + And the leaves, of old age dying, + Earthy hues put on; + Out on every lone wind sighing + That their day is gone. + + Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking + Down to winter low; + And our hearts are thinking, thinking + Of the sleet and snow; + For our sun is slowly sliding + Down the hill of might; + And no moon is softly gliding + Up the slope of night. + + See the bare fields' pillaged prizes + Heaped in golden glooms! + See, the earth's outworn sunrises + Dream in cloudy tombs! + Darkling flowers but wait the blowing + Of a quickening wind; + And the man, through Death's door going, + Leaves old Death behind. + + Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; + Let the gold turn gray; + Feet, though feeble, still may falter + Toward the better day! + Brother, let not weak faith linger + O'er a withered thing; + Mark how Autumn's prophet finger + Burns to hues of Spring. + + + + + +_WINTER SONG_. + + + They were parted then at last? + Was it duty, or force, or fate? + Or did a worldly blast + Blow-to the meeting-gate? + + An old, short story is this! + A glance, a trembling, a sigh, + A gaze in the eyes, a kiss-- + Why will it not go by! + + + + + +PICTURE SONGS. + + + I. + + A pale green sky is gleaming; + The steely stars are few; + The moorland pond is steaming + A mist of gray and blue. + + Along the pathway lonely + My horse is walking slow; + Three living creatures only, + He, I, and a home-bound crow! + + The moon is hardly shaping + Her circle in the fog; + A dumb stream is escaping + Its prison in the bog. + + But in my heart are ringing + Tones of a lofty song; + A voice that I know, is singing, + And my heart all night must long. + + + II. + + Over a shining land-- + Once such a land I knew-- + Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned, + The sky is all white and blue. + + The waves are kissing the shores, + Murmuring love and for ever; + A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars + Flash out of the level river. + + Oh to be there with thee + And the sun, on wet sands, my love! + With the shining river, the sparkling sea, + And the radiant sky above! + + + III. + + The autumn winds are sighing + Over land and sea; + The autumn woods are dying + Over hill and lea; + And my heart is sighing, dying, + Maiden, for thee. + + The autumn clouds are flying + Homeless over me; + The nestless birds are crying + In the naked tree; + And my heart is flying, crying, + Maiden, to thee. + + The autumn sea is crawling + Up the chilly shore; + The thin-voiced firs are calling + Ghostily evermore: + Maiden, maiden! I am falling + Dead at thy door. + + + IV. + + The waters are rising and flowing + Over the weedy stone-- + Over it, over it going: + It is never gone. + + Waves upon waves of weeping + Went over the ancient pain; + Glad waves go over it leaping-- + Still it rises again! + + + + + +_A DREAM SONG_. + + + I dreamed of a song--I heard it sung; + In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung. + What were its words I could not tell, + Only the voice I heard right well, + For its tones unearthly my spirit bound + In a calm delirium of mystic sound-- + Held me floating, alone and high, + Placeless and silent, drinking my fill + Of dews that from cloudless skies distil + On desert places that thirst and sigh. + 'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep, + Rousing old echoes that all day sleep + In cavern and solitude, each apart, + Here and there in the waiting heart;-- + A voice with a wild melodious cry + Reaching and longing afar and high. + Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife, + Gainful death, and new-born life, + Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song. + In my heart it said: O Lord, how long + Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray, + Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day! + + +1842. + + + + +_AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET_. + + + Heaven and the sea attend the dying day, + And in their sadness overflow and blend-- + Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray: + Far out amid them my pale soul I send. + + For, as they mingle, so mix life and death; + An hour draws near when my day too will die; + Already I forecast unheaving breath, + Eviction on the moorland of yon sky. + + Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone, + Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space! + At board and hearth from this time forth unknown! + Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face! + + Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea! + Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky! + Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee! + I am not dead; I live, and cannot die! + + Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before? + Did you fare thus when first ye came this way? + Somewhere there must be yet another door!-- + A door in somewhere from this dreary gray! + + Come walking over watery hill and glen, + Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext; + Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten, + And bring me patient hoping for the next. + + Maker of heaven and earth, father of me, + My words are but a weak, fantastic moan! + Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea, + Thou still wert with me; I were not alone! + + I am in thee, O father, lord of sky, + And lord of waves, and lord of human souls! + In thee all precious ones to me more nigh + Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals! + + I shall not be alone although I die, + And loved ones should delay their coming long; + Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky, + Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song. + + They are thy garments; thou art near within, + Father of fathers, friend-creating friend! + Thou art for ever, therefore I begin; + Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end! + + Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child; + I pray thee, father, give me everything; + Give me the joy that makes the children wild; + Give throat and heart an old new song to sing. + + Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ, + And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere! + With all the true I keep a hoping tryst; + Eternal love is my eternal prayer. + + +1890. + + + +_A FATHER TO A MOTHER_. + + + When God's own child came down to earth, + High heaven was very glad; + The angels sang for holy mirth; + Not God himself was sad! + + Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret? + Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow! + The little one will not forget; + It's only till to-morrow! + + + + + +_THE TEMPLE OF GOD_. + + + In the desert by the bush, + Moses to his heart said _Hush_. + + David on his bed did pray; + God all night went not away. + + From his heap of ashes foul + Job to God did lift his soul, + + God came down to see him there, + And to answer all his prayer. + + On a dark hill, in the wind, + Jesus did his father find, + + But while he on earth did fare, + Every spot was place of prayer; + + And where man is any day, + God can not be far away. + + But the place he loveth best, + Place where he himself can rest, + + Where alone he prayer doth seek, + Is the spirit of the meek. + + To the humble God doth come; + In his heart he makes his home. + + + + + +_GOING TO SLEEP_. + + + Little one, you must not fret + That I take your clothes away; + Better sleep you so will get, + And at morning wake more gay-- + Saith the children's mother. + + You I must unclothe again, + For you need a better dress; + Too much worn are body and brain; + You need everlastingness-- + Saith the heavenly father. + + I went down death's lonely stair; + Laid my garments in the tomb; + Dressed again one morning fair; + Hastened up, and hied me home-- + Saith the elder brother. + + Then I will not be afraid + Any ill can come to me; + When 'tis time to go to bed, + I will rise and go with thee-- + Saith the little brother. + + + + + +_TO-MORROW_. + + + My TO-MORROW is but a flitting + Fancy of the brain; + God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting, + Ready for joy or pain. + + My TO-MORROW has no soul, + Dead as yesterdays; + God's--a brimming silver bowl + Of life that gleams and plays. + + My TO-MORROW, I mock you away! + Shadowless nothing, thou! + God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day, + For God is in thee now. + + + + + +_FOOLISH CHILDREN_. + + + Waking in the night to pray, + Sleeping when the answer comes, + Foolish are we even at play-- + Tearfully we beat our drums! + Cast the good dry bread away, + Weep, and gather up the crumbs! + + "Evermore," while shines the day, + "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!" + Soon as evening groweth gray, + Thy fair will we fain would shun! + "Take, oh, take thy hand away! + See the horrid dark begun!" + + "Thou hast conquered Death," we say, + "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!" + Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay! + Death it is," we cry, "not sleep! + Grave, take all. Shut out the Day. + Sit we on the ground and weep!" + + Gathering potsherds all the day, + Truant children, Lord, we roam; + Fret, and longer want to play, + When at cool thy voice doth come!-- + Elder Brother, lead the way; + Make us good as we go home. + + + +_LOVE IS HOME_. + + + Love is the part, and love is the whole; + Love is the robe, and love is the pall; + Ruler of heart and brain and soul, + Love is the lord and the slave of all! + I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me; + I thank thee more that I love thee. + + Love is the rain, and love is the air, + Love is the earth that holdeth fast; + Love is the root that is buried there, + Love is the open flower at last! + I thank thee, Love all round about, + That the eyes of my love are looking out. + + Love is the sun, and love is the sea; + Love is the tide that comes and goes; + Flowing and flowing it comes to me; + Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows! + Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide! + My sea, and my shore, and all beside! + + Light, oh light that art by showing; + Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion; + Thought, oh thought that art by knowing; + Will, that art born in self-devotion! + Love is you, though not all of you know it; + Ye are not love, yet ye always show it! + + Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father, + Home of our heart-infolded brother, + Home to thee all thy glories gather-- + All are thy love, and there is no other! + O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam-- + Home unto thee, we are coming home! + + + + +_FAITH_. + + + "Earth, if aught should check thy race, + Rushing through unfended space, + Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall + Into yonder glowing ball!" + + "Beggar of the universe, + Faithless as an empty purse! + Sent abroad to cool and tame, + Think'st I fear my native flame?" + + "If thou never on thy track + Turn thee round and hie thee back, + Thou wilt wander evermore, + Outcast, cold--a comet hoar!" + + "While I sweep my ring along + In an air of joyous song, + Thou art drifting, heart awry, + From the sun of liberty!" + + + + + +_WAITING_. + + + I waited for the Master + In the darkness dumb; + Light came fast and faster-- + My light did not come! + + I waited all the daylight, + All through noon's hot flame: + In the evening's gray light, + Lo, the Master came! + + + + + +_OUR SHIP_. + + + Had I a great ship coming home, + With big plunge o'er the sea, + What bright things, hid from star and foam, + Lay in her heart for thee! + + The stormy billows heave and dip, + The wild winds veer and play; + But, regnant all, God's stately ship + Is steering home this way! + + + + + +_MY HEART THY LARK_. + + + Why dost thou want to sing + When thou hast no song, my heart? + If there be in thee a hidden spring, + Wherefore will no word start? + + On its way thou hearest no song, + Yet flutters thy unborn joy! + The years of thy life are growing long-- + Art still the heart of a boy?-- + + Father, I am thy child! + My heart is in thy hand! + Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild, + Of a song in thy high land. + + It will answer--but how, my God, + Thou knowest; I cannot say: + It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod-- + Thy lark to meet thy day! + + + + + +_TWO IN ONE_. + + + Were thou and I the white pinions + On some eager, heaven-born dove, + Swift would we mount to the old dominions, + To our rest of old, my love! + + Were thou and I trembling strands + In music's enchanted line, + We would wait and wait for magic hands + To untwist the magic twine. + + Were we two sky-tints, thou and I, + Thou the golden, I the red; + We would quiver and glow and darken and die, + And love until we were dead! + + Nearer than wings of one dove, + Than tones or colours in chord, + We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love, + Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord. + + + + + +_BEDTIME_. + + + "Come, children, put away your toys; + Roll up that kite's long line; + The day is done for girls and boys-- + Look, it is almost nine! + Come, weary foot, and sleepy head, + Get up, and come along to bed." + + The children, loath, must yet obey; + Up the long stair they creep; + Lie down, and something sing or say + Until they fall asleep, + To steal through caverns of the night + Into the morning's golden light. + + We, elder ones, sit up more late, + And tasks unfinished ply, + But, gently busy, watch and wait-- + Dear sister, you and I, + To hear the Father, with soft tread, + Coming to carry us to bed. + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + + Thou who mad'st the mighty clock + Of the great world go; + Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock, + Ceaseless to and fro; + Thou whose will doth push and draw + Every orb in heaven, + Help me move by higher law + In my spirit graven. + + Like a planet let me swing-- + With intention strong; + In my orbit rushing sing + Jubilant along; + Help me answer in my course + To my seasons due; + Lord of every stayless force, + Make my Willing true. + + + + + +_A SONG PRAYER_. + + + Lord Jesus, + Oh, ease us + Of Self that oppresses, + Annoys and distresses + Body and brain + With dull pain! + Thou never, + Since ever, + Save one moment only, + Wast left, or wast lonely: + We are alone, + And make moan. + + Far parted, + Dull-hearted, + We wander, sleep-walking, + Mere shadows, dim-stalking: + Orphans we roam, + Far from home. + + Oh new man, + Sole human, + God's son, and our brother, + Give each to the other-- + No one left out + In cold doubt! + + High Father, + Oh gather + Thy sons and thy daughters, + Through fires and through waters, + Home to the nest + Of thy breast! + + There under + The wonder + Of great wings of healing, + Of love and revealing, + Teach us anew + To sing true. + + + + + + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS. + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS_. + + + I. + + A glory on the chamber wall! + A glory in the brain! + Triumphant floods of glory fall + On heath, and wold, and plain. + + Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss; + She has, and seeks no more; + Forgets that days come after this, + Forgets the days before. + + Each ripple waves a flickering fire + Of gladness, as it runs; + They laugh and flash, and leap and spire, + And toss ten thousand suns. + + But hark! low, in the world within, + One sad aeolian tone: + "Ah! shall we ever, ever win + A summer of our own?" + + + II. + + A morn of winds and swaying trees-- + Earth's jubilance rushing out! + The birds are fighting with the breeze; + The waters heave about. + + White clouds are swept across the sky, + Their shadows o'er the graves; + Purpling the green, they float and fly + Athwart the sunny waves. + + The long grass--an earth-rooted sea-- + Mimics the watery strife. + To boat or horse? Wild motion we + Shall find harmonious life. + + But whither? Roll and sweep and bend + Suffice for Nature's part; + But motion to an endless end + Is needful for our heart. + + + III. + + The morn awakes like brooding dove, + With outspread wings of gray; + Her feathery clouds close in above, + And roof a sober day. + + No motion in the deeps of air! + No trembling in the leaves! + A still contentment everywhere, + That neither laughs nor grieves! + + A film of sheeted silver gray + Shuts in the ocean's hue; + White-winged feluccas cleave their way + In paths of gorgeous blue. + + Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day, + Thy very clouds are dreams! + Yon child is dreaming far away-- + He is not where he seems. + + IV. + + The lark is up, his faith is strong, + He mounts the morning air; + Lone voice of all the creature throng, + He sings the morning prayer. + + Slow clouds from north and south appear, + Black-based, with shining slope; + In sullen forms their might they rear, + And climb the vaulted cope. + + A lightning flash, a thunder boom!-- + Nor sun nor clouds are there; + A single, all-pervading gloom + Hangs in the heavy air. + + A weeping, wasting afternoon + Weighs down the aspiring corn; + Amber and red, the sunset soon + Leads back to golden morn. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The dreary wind of night is out, + Homeless and wandering slow; + O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt, + It breathes, but will not blow. + + It sighs from out the helpless past, + Where doleful things abide; + Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast + Across its ebbing tide. + + O'er marshy pools it faints and flows, + All deaf and dumb and blind; + O'er moor and mountain aimless goes-- + The listless woesome wind! + + Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night! + The sigh is all in me; + Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might, + Until I wake and see. + + + II. + + The west is broken into bars + Of orange, gold, and gray; + Gone is the sun, fast come the stars, + And night infolds the day. + + My boat glides with the gliding stream, + Following adown its breast + One flowing mirrored amber gleam, + The death-smile of the west. + + The river moves; the sky is still, + No ceaseless quest it knows: + Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill + At sight of its repose. + + The ripples run; all patient sit + The stars above the night. + In shade and gleam the waters flit: + The heavens are changeless bright! + + + III. + + Alone I lie, buried amid + The long luxurious grass; + The bats flit round me, born and hid + In twilight's wavering mass. + + The fir-top floats, an airy isle, + High o'er the mossy ground; + Harmonious silence breathes the while + In scent instead of sound. + + The flaming rose glooms swarthy red; + The borage gleams more blue; + Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed + Glimmers the rich dusk through. + + Hid in the summer grass I lie, + Lost in the great blue cave; + My body gazes at the sky, + And measures out its grave. + + + IV. + + What art thou, gathering dusky cool, + In slow gradation fine? + Death's lovely shadow, flickering full + Of eyes about to shine. + + When weary Day goes down below, + Thou leanest o'er his grave, + Revolving all the vanished show + The gracious splendour gave. + + Or art thou not she rather--say-- + Dark-browed, with luminous eyes, + Of whom is born the mighty Day, + That fights and saves and dies? + + For action sleeps with sleeping light; + Calm thought awakes with thee: + The soul is then a summer night, + With stars that shine and see. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_. + + + I. + + We bore him through the golden land, + One early harvest morn; + The corn stood ripe on either hand-- + He knew all about the corn. + + How shall the harvest gathered be + Without him standing by? + Without him walking on the lea, + The sky is scarce a sky. + + The year's glad work is almost done; + The land is rich in fruit; + Yellow it floats in air and sun-- + Earth holds it by the root. + + Why should earth hold it for a day + When harvest-time is come? + Death is triumphant o'er decay, + And leads the ripened home. + + + II. + + And though the sun be not so warm, + His shining is not lost; + Both corn and hope, of heart and farm, + Lie hid from coming frost. + + The sombre woods are richly sad, + Their leaves are red and gold: + Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad + Signs that we men grow old? + + Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain + From fields and days gone by; + And mournful memories again + Are born, are loved, and die. + + The mornings clear, the evenings cool + Foretell no wintry wars; + The day of dying leaves is full, + The night of glowing stars. + + + III. + + 'Tis late before the sun will rise, + And early he will go; + Gray fringes hang from the gray skies, + And wet the ground below. + + Red fruit has followed golden corn; + The leaves are few and sere; + My thoughts are old as soon as born, + And chill with coming fear. + + The winds lie sick; no softest breath + Floats through the branches bare; + A silence as of coming death + Is growing in the air. + + But what must fade can bear to fade-- + Was born to meet the ill: + Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade! + We sorrow, and are still. + + + IV. + + There is no longer any heaven + To glorify our clouds; + The rising vapours downward driven + Come home in palls and shrouds. + + The sun himself is ill bested + A heavenly sign to show; + His radiance, dimmed to glowing red, + Can hardly further go. + + An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, + Pervade the moveless air; + The year is sinking to its tomb, + And death is everywhere. + + But while sad thoughts together creep, + Like bees too cold to sting, + God's children, in their beds asleep, + Are dreaming of the spring. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + O night, send up the harvest moon + To walk about the fields, + And make of midnight magic noon + On lonely tarns and wealds. + + In golden ranks, with golden crowns, + All in the yellow land, + Old solemn kings in rustling gowns, + The shocks moon-charmed stand. + + Sky-mirror she, afloat in space, + Beholds our coming morn: + Her heavenly joy hath such a grace, + It ripens earthly corn; + + Like some lone saint with upward eyes, + Lost in the deeps of prayer: + The people still their prayers and sighs, + And gazing ripen there. + + II. + + So, like the corn moon-ripened last, + Would I, weary and gray, + On golden memories ripen fast, + And ripening pass away. + + In an old night so let me die; + A slow wind out of doors; + A waning moon low in the sky; + A vapour on the moors; + + A fire just dying in the gloom; + Earth haunted all with dreams; + A sound of waters in the room; + A mirror's moony gleams; + + And near me, in the sinking night, + More thoughts than move in me-- + Forgiving wrong, and loving right, + And waiting till I see. + + + III. + + Across the stubble glooms the wind; + High sails the lated crow; + The west with pallid green is lined; + Fog tracks the river's flow. + + My heart is cold and sad; I moan, + Yet care not for my grief; + The summer fervours all are gone; + The roses are but leaf. + + Old age is coming, frosty, hoar; + The snows of time will fall; + My jubilance, dream-like, no more + Returns for any call! + + O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain + Sends up the blood so spare, + That my poor withering autumn brain + Sees autumn everywhere! + + + IV. + + Lord of my life! if I am blind, + I reck not--thou canst see; + I well may wait my summer mind, + When I am sure of thee! + + _I_ made no brave bright suns arise, + Veiled up no sweet gray eves; + _I_ hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes, + Sent out no windy leaves! + + I said not "I will cast a charm + These gracious forms around;" + My heart with unwilled love grew warm; + I took but what I found! + + When cold winds range my winter-night, + Be thou my summer-door; + Keep for me all my young delight, + Till I am old no more. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS_. + + + I. + + The sky has turned its heart away, + The earth its sorrow found; + The daisies turn from childhood's play, + And creep into the ground. + + The earth is black and cold and hard; + Thin films of dry white ice, + Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred, + The children's feet entice. + + Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned + The winter in the land; + With idle icicles adorned, + That mill-wheel soon will stand. + + But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part, + Is to let in the cold; + We'll make a summer of the heart, + And laugh at winter old. + + + II. + + With vague dead gleam the morning white + Comes through the window-panes; + The clouds have fallen all the night, + Without the noise of rains. + + As of departing, unseen ghost, + Footprints go from the door; + The man himself must long be lost + Who left those footprints hoar! + + Yet follow thou; tread down the snow; + Leave all the road behind; + Heed not the winds that steely blow, + Heed not the sky unkind; + + For though the glittering air grow dark, + The snow will shine till morn; + And long ere then one dear home-spark + Will winter laugh to scorn. + + III. + + Oh wildly wild the roaring blast + Torments the fallen snow! + The wintry storms are up at last, + And care not how they go! + + In foam-like wreaths the water hoar, + Rapt whistling in the air, + Gleams through the dismal twilight frore; + A region in despair, + + A spectral ocean lies outside, + Torn by a tempest dark; + Its ghostly billows, dim descried, + Leap on my stranded bark. + + Death-sheeted figures, long and white, + Rave driving through the spray; + Or, bosomed in the ghastly night, + Shriek doom-cries far away. + + + IV. + + A morning clear, with frosty light + From sunbeams late and low; + They shine upon the snow so white, + And shine back from the snow. + + Down tusks of ice one drop will go, + Nor fall: at sunny noon + 'Twill hang a diamond--fade, and grow + An opal for the moon. + + And when the bright sad sun is low + Behind the mountain-dome, + A twilight wind will come and blow + Around the children's home, + + And puff and waft the powdery snow, + As feet unseen did pass; + While, waiting in its bed below, + Green lies the summer grass. + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + Back shining from the pane, the fire + Seems outside in the snow: + So love set free from love's desire + Lights grief of long ago. + + The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine, + The earth bedecked with moon; + Out on the worlds we surely shine + More radiant than in June! + + In the white garden lies a heap + As brown as deep-dug mould: + A hundred partridges that keep + Each other from the cold. + + My father gives them sheaves of corn, + For shelter both and food: + High hope in me was early born, + My father was so good. + + + II. + + The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms + Across my clouded pane; + Weaves melodies of ancient psalms + All through my passive brain. + + Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head: + My father is in the room; + The very curtains of my bed + Are from Love's sheltering loom! + + The lovely vision melts away; + I am a child no more; + Work rises from the floor of play; + Duty is at the door. + + But if I face with courage stout + The labour and the din, + Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out + My heart with thee stay in. + + + III. + + Up to my ear my soul doth run-- + Her other door is dark; + There she can see without the sun, + And there she sits to mark. + + I hear the dull unheeding wind + Mumble o'er heath and wold; + My fancy leaves my brain behind, + And floats into the cold. + + Like a forgotten face that lies + One of the speechless crowd, + The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes, + White-folded in her shroud. + + O'er leafless woods and cornless farms, + Dead rivers, fireless thorps, + I brood, the heart still throbbing warm + In Nature's wintered corpse. + + IV. + + To all the world mine eyes are blind: + Their drop serene is--night, + With stores of snow piled up the wind + An awful airy height. + + And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye: + The simple faithful stars + Beyond are shining, careless high, + Nor heed our storms and jars. + + And when o'er storm and jar I climb-- + Beyond life's atmosphere, + I shall behold the lord of time + And space--of world and year. + + Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart + Shall ever find its goal! + I turn me home--and there thou art, + My Father, in my soul! + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_. + + + I. + + A gentle wind, of western birth + On some far summer sea, + Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, + Wakes hopes in wintry me. + + The sun is low; the paths are wet, + And dance with frolic hail; + The trees--their spring-time is not yet-- + Swing sighing in the gale. + + Young gleams of sunshine peep and play; + Clouds shoulder in between; + I scarce believe one coming day + The earth will all be green. + + The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, + And flaps his snowy wing: + Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; + Thou canst not bar our spring. + + + II. + + Up comes the primrose, wondering; + The snowdrop droopeth by; + The holy spirit of the spring + Is working silently. + + Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile + The later children out; + O'er woods and farms a sunny smile + Is flickering about. + + The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; + To death almost she slept: + Over her, heaven grew beautiful, + And forth her beauty crept. + + Showers yet must fall, and waters grow + Dark-wan with furrowing blast; + But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, + Till the year flowers at last. + + + III. + + The sky is smiling over me, + Hath smiled away the frost; + White daisies star the sky-like lea, + With buds the wood's embossed. + + Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky + Up through the latticed boughs; + Till comes the green cloud by and by, + It is not time to house. + + Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on; + The winter is forgot; + Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone: + Pain that is past, is not. + + Joy that was past is yet the same: + If care the summer brings, + 'Twill only be another name + For love that broods, not sings. + + + IV. + + Blow on me, wind, from west and south; + Sweet summer-spirit, blow! + Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth, + Who knows not what I know. + + The earth's perfection dawneth soon; + Ours lingereth alway; + We have a morning, not a noon; + Spring, but no summer gay. + + Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn + Crown soon the swift year's life: + In us a higher hope is born, + And claims a longer strife. + + Will heaven be an eternal spring + With summer at the door? + Or shall we one day tell its king + That we desire no more? + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The flush of green that dyed the day + Hath vanished in the moon; + Flower-scents float stronger out, and play + An unborn, coming tune. + + One southern eve like this, the dew + Had cooled and left the ground; + The moon hung half-way from the blue, + No disc, but conglobed round; + + Light-leaved acacias, by the door, + Bathed in the balmy air, + Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore, + And breathed a perfume rare; + + Great gold-flakes from the starry sky + Fell flashing on the deep: + One scent of moist earth floating by, + Almost it made me weep. + + + II. + + Those gorgeous stars were not my own, + They made me alien go! + The mother o'er her head had thrown + A veil I did not know! + + The moon-blanched fields that seaward went, + The palm-flung, dusky shades, + Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent, + No slender, spear-like blades. + + I longed to see the starry host + Afar in fainter blue; + But plenteous grass I missed the most, + With daisies glimmering through. + + The common things were not the same! + I longed across the foam: + From dew-damp earth that odour came-- + I knew the world my home. + + + III. + + The stars are glad in gulfy space-- + Friendly the dark to them! + From day's deep mine, their hiding-place, + Night wooeth every gem. + + A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar, + When up the day is furled, + Shines in the sky a light afar, + Mayhap a home-filled world. + + Sometimes upon the inner sky + We catch a doubtful shine: + A mote or star? A flash in the eye + Or jewel of God's mine? + + A star to us, all glimmer and glance, + May teem with seraphim: + A fancy to our ignorance + May be a truth to Him. + + + IV. + + The night is damp and warm and still, + And soft with summer dreams; + The buds are bursting at their will, + And shy the half moon gleams. + + My soul is cool, as bathed within + By dews that silent weep-- + Like child that has confessed his sin, + And now will go to sleep. + + My body ages, form and hue; + But when the spring winds blow, + My spirit stirs and buds anew, + Younger than long ago. + + Lord, make me more a child, and more, + Till Time his own end bring, + And out of every winter sore + I pass into thy spring. + + + + + +A BOOK OF DREAMS. + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + I lay and dreamed. The Master came, + In seamless garment drest; + I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame, + Not ready to be blest. + + He stretched his arms, and gently sought + To clasp me to his heart; + I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought + He knew me but in part. + + I did not love him as I would! + Embraces were not meet! + I dared not ev'n stand where he stood-- + I fell and kissed his feet. + + Years, years have passed away since then; + Oft hast thou come to me; + The question scarce will rise again + Whether I care for thee. + + In thee lies hid my unknown heart, + In thee my perfect mind; + In all my joys, my Lord, thou art + The deeper joy behind. + + But when fresh light and visions bold + My heart and hope expand, + Up comes the vanity of old + That now I understand: + + Away, away from thee I drift, + Forgetting, not forgot; + Till sudden yawns a downward rift-- + I start--and see thee not. + + Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours! + All in the dark I stray, + Until my spirit fainting cowers + On the threshold of the day. + + Hence not even yet I child-like dare + Nestle unto thy breast, + Though well I know that only there + Lies hid the secret rest. + + But now I shrink not from thy will, + Nor, guilty, judge my guilt; + Thy good shall meet and slay my ill-- + Do with me as thou wilt. + + If I should dream that dream once more, + Me in my dreaming meet; + Embrace me, Master, I implore, + And let me kiss thy feet. + + + II. + + I stood before my childhood's home, + Outside its belt of trees; + All round my glances flit and roam + O'er well-known hills and leas; + + When sudden rushed across the plain + A host of hurrying waves, + Loosed by some witchery of the brain + From far, dream-hidden caves. + + And up the hill they clomb and came, + A wild, fast-flowing sea: + Careless I looked as on a game; + No terror woke in me. + + For, just the belting trees within, + I saw my father wait; + And should the waves the summit win, + There was the open gate! + + With him beside, all doubt was dumb; + There let the waters foam! + No mightiest flood would dare to come + And drown his holy home! + + Two days passed by. With restless toss, + The red flood brake its doors; + Prostrate I lay, and looked across + To the eternal shores. + + The world was fair, and hope was high; + My friends had all been true; + Life burned in me, and Death and I + Would have a hard ado. + + Sudden came back the dream so good, + My trouble to abate: + At his own door my Father stood-- + I just without the gate! + + "Thou know'st what is, and what appears," + I said; "mine eyes to thine + Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears, + But also hear'st with mine:" + + "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay, + How trembles my life's node; + Thou art the potter, I am the clay-- + 'Tis thine to bear the load." + + + III. + + A piece of gold had left my purse, + Which I had guarded ill; + I feared a lack, but feared yet worse + Regret returning still. + + I lifted up my feeble prayer + To him who maketh strong, + That thence no haunting thoughts of care + Might do my spirit wrong. + + And even before my body slept, + Such visions fair I had, + That seldom soul with chamber swept + Was more serenely glad. + + No white-robed angel floated by + On slow, reposing wings; + I only saw, with inward eye, + Some very common things. + + First rose the scarlet pimpernel + With burning purple heart; + I saw within it, and could spell + The lesson of its art. + + Then came the primrose, child-like flower, + And looked me in the face; + It bore a message full of power, + And confidence, and grace. + + And breezes rose on pastures trim + And bathed me all about; + Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim, + Or only half spoke out. + + Sudden it closed, some door of heaven, + But what came out remained: + The poorest man my loss had given + For that which I had gained! + + Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup + Where I bemoaned a sip; + How easily thou didst make up + For that my fault let slip! + + What said the flowers? what message new + Embalmed my soul with rest? + I scarce can tell--only they grew + Right out of God's own breast. + + They said, to every flower he made + God's thought was root and stem-- + Perhaps said what the lilies said + When Jesus looked at them. + + + IV. + + Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake, + Our souls with visions teem + Which to the slumbering brain would take + The form of wondrous dream. + + Once, with my thought-sight, I descried + A plain with hills around; + A lordly company on each side + Leaves bare the middle ground. + + Great terrace-steps at one end rise + To something like a throne, + And thither all the radiant eyes, + As to a centre, shone. + + A snow-white glory, dim-defined, + Those seeking eyes beseech-- + Him who was not in fire or wind, + But in the gentle speech. + + They see his eyes far-fixed wait: + Adown the widening vale + They, turning, look; their breath they bate, + With dread-filled wonder pale. + + In raiment worn and blood-bedewed, + With faltering step and numb, + Toward the shining multitude + A weary man did come. + + His face was white, and still-composed, + As of a man nigh dead; + The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed, + A faint, wan splendour shed. + + Drops on his hair disordered hung + Like rubies dull of hue; + His hands were pitifully wrung, + And stricken through and through. + + Silent they stood with tender awe: + Between their ranks he came; + Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw + What made his feet so lame. + + He reached the steps below the throne, + There sank upon his knees; + Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan, + And spake in words like these:-- + + "Father, I am come back. Thy will + Is sometimes hard to do." + From all that multitude so still + A sound of weeping grew. + + Then mournful-glad came down the One; + He kneeled and clasped his child; + Lay on his breast the outworn man, + And wept until he smiled. + + The people, who, in bitter woe + And love, had sobbed and cried, + Raised aweful eyes at length--and, Lo, + The two sat side by side! + + + V. + + Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood + High in the gloomy air; + One bore a thief, and one the Good; + The other waited bare. + + A soldier came up to the place, + And took me for the third; + My eyes they sought the Master's face, + My will the Master's word. + + He bent his head; I took the sign, + And gave the error way; + Gesture nor look nor word of mine + The secret should betray. + + The soldier from the cross's foot + Turned. I stood waiting there: + That grim, expectant tree, for fruit + My dying form must bear. + + Up rose the steaming mists of doubt + And chilled both heart and brain; + They shut the world of vision out, + And fear saw only pain. + + "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow! + The nails that rend and pierce! + The shock may stun, but, slow and slow, + The torture will grow fierce." + + "Alas, the awful fight with death! + The hours to hang and die! + The thirsting gasp for common breath! + The weakness that would cry!" + + My soul returned: "A faintness soon + Will shroud thee in its fold; + The hours will bring the fearful noon; + 'Twill pass--and thou art cold." + + "'Tis his to care that thou endure, + To curb or loose the pain; + With bleeding hands hang on thy cure-- + It shall not be in vain." + + But, ah, the will, which thus could quail, + Might yield--oh, horror drear! + Then, more than love, the fear to fail + Kept down the other fear. + + I stood, nor moved. But inward strife + The bonds of slumber broke: + Oh! had I fled, and lost the life + Of which the Master spoke? + + VI. + + Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial + The last shades darken, friends say, "_He was good_;" + I struggling fail to speak my faint denial-- + They whisper, "_His humility withstood_." + + I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; + And find the unknown world not all unknown: + The bonds that held me from my centre broken, + I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne. + + How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder; + I think I know what I will say to him; + I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder, + I fear no passing vision great and dim. + + But he knows all my weary sinful story: + How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair? + I come to him in all his conquered glory, + Won from the life that I went dreaming there! + + I come; I fall before him, faintly saying: + "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win? + Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying; + I have no honour--but may I come in?" + + I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable; + To me the earth was very lovely too: + Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able + To love it greatly!--but thou hast got through." + + + +PART II. + + + + I. + + A gloomy and a windy day! + No sunny spot is bare; + Dull vapours, in uncomely play, + Go weltering through the air: + If through the windows of my mind + I let them come and go, + My thoughts will also in the wind + Sweep restless to and fro. + + I drop my curtains for a dream.-- + What comes? A mighty swan, + With plumage like a sunny gleam, + And folded airy van! + She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent + By sea-maids to my shore, + With stately head proud-humbly bent, + And slackening swarthy oar. + + Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, + A water-hollowed cell, + Where echoes of old storms go by, + Like murmurs in a shell. + The waters half the gloomy way + Beneath its arches come; + Throbbing to outside billowy play, + The green gulfs waver dumb. + + Undawning twilights through the cave + In moony glimmers go, + Half from the swan above the wave, + Half from the swan below, + + As to my feet she gently drifts + Through dim, wet-shiny things, + And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts + The shoulders of her wings. + + Old earth is rich with many a nest + Of softness ever new, + Deep, delicate, and full of rest-- + But loveliest there are two: + I may not tell them save to minds + That are as white as they; + But none will hear, of other kinds-- + They all are turned away. + + On foamy mounds between the wings + Of a white sailing swan, + A flaky bed of shelterings, + There you will find the one. + The other--well, it will not out, + Nor need I tell it you; + I've told you one, and can you doubt, + When there are only two? + + Fill full my dream, O splendid bird! + Me o'er the waters bear: + Never was tranquil ocean stirred + By ship so shapely fair! + Nor ever whiteness found a dress + In which on earth to go, + So true, profound, and rich, unless + It was the falling snow! + + Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, + Impatient fan her crown; + I cannot choose but nestle soft + Into the depth of down. + + With oary-pulsing webs unseen, + Out the white frigate sweeps; + In middle space we hang, between + The air- and ocean-deeps. + + Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, + With stroke on stroke we rack; + As down the sinking slope we slide, + She cleaves a talking track-- + Like heather-bells on lonely steep, + Like soft rain on the glass, + Like children murmuring in their sleep, + Like winds in reedy grass. + + Her white breast heaving like a wave, + She beats the solemn time; + With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, + Hearkens the ripples rime. + All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, + I catch the gleam, vague, wide, + With which the waves, from dark to dawn, + Heave up the polished side. + + The night is blue; the stars aglow + Crowd the still, vaulted steep, + Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow + Of the self-murmurous deep-- + A thicker night, with gathered moan! + A dull dethroned sky! + The shadows of its stars alone + Left in to know it by! + + What faints across yon lifted loop + Where the west gleams its last? + With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group + Of Nereids dreaming past. + + Row on, fair swan;--who knows but I, + Ere night hath sought her cave, + May see in splendour pale float by + The Venus of the wave! + + + II. + + A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, + A glory that deepened and grew, + A song of colour and odour + That thrilled her through and through: + 'Twas a dream of too much gladness + Ever to see the light; + They are only dreams of sadness + That weary out the night. + + Slow darkness began to rifle + The nest of the sunset fair; + Dank vapour began to stifle + The scents that enriched the air; + The flowers paled fast and faster, + They crumbled, leaf and crown, + Till they looked like the stained plaster + Of a cornice fallen down. + + And the change crept nigh and nigher, + Inward and closer stole, + Till the flameless, blasting fire + Entered and withered her soul.-- + But the fiends had only flouted + Her vision of the night; + Up came the morn and routed + The darksome things with light. + + Wide awake I have often been in it-- + The dream that all is none; + It will come in the gladdest minute + And wither the very sun. + + Two moments of sad commotion, + One more of doubt's palsied rule-- + And the great wave-pulsing ocean + Is only a gathered pool; + + A flower is a spot of painting, + A lifeless, loveless hue; + Though your heart be sick to fainting + It says not a word to you; + A bird knows nothing of gladness, + Is only a song-machine; + A man is a reasoning madness, + A woman a pictured queen! + + Then fiercely we dig the fountain: + Oh! whence do the waters rise? + Then panting we climb the mountain: + Oh! are there indeed blue skies? + We dig till the soul is weary, + Nor find the water-nest out; + We climb to the stone-crest dreary, + And still the sky is a doubt! + + Let alone the roots of the fountain; + Drink of the water bright; + Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, + Walk in its torrent of light; + Although thou seest no beauty, + Though widowed thy heart yet cries, + With thy hands go and do thy duty, + And thy work will clear thine eyes. + + + III. + + A great church in an empty square, + A haunt of echoing tones! + Feet pass not oft enough to wear + The grass between the stones. + + The jarring hinges of its gates + A stifled thunder boom; + The boding heart slow-listening waits, + As for a coming doom. + + The door stands wide. With hideous grin, + Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, + A gulf of death, all dark within, + Hath swallowed half the floor. + + Its uncouth sides of earth and clay + O'erhang the void below; + Ah, some one force my feet away, + Or down I needs must go! + + See, see the horrid, crumbling slope! + It breathes up damp and fust! + What man would for his lost loves grope + Amid the charnel dust! + + Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high! + Methinks, with anguish dull, + I enter by the empty eye + Into a monstrous skull! + + Stumbling on what I dare not guess, + Blind-wading through the gloom, + Still down, still on, I sink, I press, + To meet some awful doom. + + My searching hands have caught a door + With iron clenched and barred: + Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core, + Grim Death keeps watch and ward! + + Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed, + As if a ghastly wind, + That never bore a leaf or cloud, + Were pressing hard behind. + + They shake, they groan, they outward strain: + What thing of dire dismay + Will freeze its form upon my brain, + And fright my soul away? + + They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack; + The bars, the doors divide; + A flood of glory at their back + Hath burst the portals wide! + + In flows a summer afternoon; + I know the very breeze! + It used to blow the silvery moon + About the summer trees. + + The gulf is filled with flashing tides; + Blue sky through boughs looks in; + Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides + A mazy arras spin. + + The empty church, the yawning cleft, + The earthy, dead despair + Are gone, and I alive am left + In sunshine and in air! + + + IV. + + Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly + Through the ivory wicket creep; + Then suddenly the inward eye + Sees them outside the sleep. + + Once, wandering in the border gray, + I spied one past me swim; + I caught it on its truant way + To nowhere in the dim. + + All o'er a steep of grassy ground, + Lay ruined statues old, + Such forms as never more are found + Save deep in ancient mould, + + A host of marble Anakim + Shattered in deadly fight! + Oh, what a wealth one broken limb + Had been to waking sight! + + But sudden, the weak mind to mock + That could not keep its own, + Without a shiver or a shock, + Behold, the dream was gone! + + For each dim form of marble rare + Stood broken rush or reed; + So bends on autumn field, long bare, + Some tall rain-battered weed. + + The shapeless night hung empty, drear, + O'er my scarce slumbering head; + There is no good in staying here, + My spirit moaned, and fled. + + + V. + + The simplest joys that daily pass + Grow ecstasies in sleep; + A wind on heights of waving grass + In a dream has made me weep. + + No wonder then my heart one night + Was joy-full to the brim: + I was with one whose love and might + Had drawn me close to him! + + But from a church into the street + Came pouring, crowding on, + A troubled throng with hurrying feet, + And Lo, my friend was gone! + + Alone upon a miry road + I walked a wretched plain; + Onward without a goal I strode + Through mist and drizzling rain. + + Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits, + And brick-fields scarred the globe; + Those wastes where desolation sits + Without her ancient robe. + + The dreariness, the nothingness + Grew worse almost than fear; + If ever hope was needful bliss, + Hope sure was needful here! + + Did potent wish work joyous change + Like wizard's glamour-spell? + Wishes not always fruitless range, + And sometimes it is well! + + I know not. Sudden sank the way, + Burst in the ocean-waves; + Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay, + Red rocks and sounding caves! + + Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask-- + Shall earthly dreams, forsooth, + Set the old Heavens too hard a task + To match them with the truth? + + + VI. + + Once more I build a dream, awake, + Which sleeping I would dream; + Once more an unborn fancy take + And try to make it seem! + Some strange delight shall fill my breast, + Enticed from sleep's abyss, + With sense of motion, yet of rest, + Of sleep, yet waking bliss! + + It comes!--I lie on something warm + That lifts me from below; + It rounds me like a mighty arm + Though soft as drifted snow. + A dream, indeed!--Oh, happy me + Whom Titan woman bears + Afloat upon a gentle sea + Of wandering midnight airs! + + A breeze, just cool enough to lave + With sense each conscious limb, + Glides round and under, like a wave + Of twilight growing dim! + She bears me over sleeping towns, + O'er murmuring ears of corn; + O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs, + O'er moorland wastes forlorn. + + The harebells in the mountain-pass + Flutter their blue about; + The myriad blades of meadow grass + Float scarce-heard music out. + Over the lake!--ah! nearer float, + Nearer the water's breast; + Let me look deeper--let me doat + Upon that lily-nest. + + Old homes we brush--in wood, on road; + Their windows do not shine; + Their dwellers must be all abroad + In lovely dreams like mine! + Hark--drifting syllables that break + Like foam-bells on fleet ships! + The little airs are all awake + With softly kissing lips. + + Light laughter ripples down the wind, + Sweet sighs float everywhere; + But when I look I nothing find, + For every star is there. + O lady lovely, lady strong, + Ungiven thy best gift lies! + Thou bear'st me in thine arms along, + Dost not reveal thine eyes! + + Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest, + In darts a pang of loss: + My outstretched hand, for hills of rest, + Finds only mounds of moss! + Faint and far off the stars appear; + The wind begins to weep; + 'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear, + And all but me asleep! + + + + + +ROADSIDE POEMS. + + + + +_BETTER THINGS_. + + + Better to smell the violet + Than sip the glowing wine; + Better to hearken to a brook + Than watch a diamond shine. + + Better to have a loving friend + Than ten admiring foes; + Better a daisy's earthy root + Than a gorgeous, dying rose. + + Better to love in loneliness + Than bask in love all day; + Better the fountain in the heart + Than the fountain by the way. + + Better be fed by mother's hand + Than eat alone at will; + Better to trust in God, than say, + My goods my storehouse fill. + + Better to be a little wise + Than in knowledge to abound; + Better to teach a child than toil + To fill perfection's round. + + Better to sit at some man's feet + Than thrill a listening state; + Better suspect that thou art proud + Than be sure that thou art great. + + Better to walk the realm unseen + Than watch the hour's event; + Better the _Well done, faithful slave_! + Than the air with shoutings rent. + + Better to have a quiet grief + Than many turbulent joys; + Better to miss thy manhood's aim + Than sacrifice the boy's. + + Better a death when work is done + Than earth's most favoured birth; + Better a child in God's great house + Than the king of all the earth. + + + + + +_AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT_. + + + My wife contrived a fleecy thing + Her husband to infold, + For 'tis the pride of woman still + To cover from the cold: + My daughter made it a new text + For a sermon very old. + + The child came trotting to her side, + Ready with bootless aid: + "Lily make veckit for papa," + The tiny woman said: + Her mother gave the means and ways, + And a knot upon her thread. + + "Mamma, mamma!--it won't come through!" + In meek dismay she cried. + Her mother cut away the knot, + And she was satisfied, + Pulling the long thread through and through, + In fabricating pride. + + Her mother told me this: I caught + A glimpse of something more: + Great meanings often hide behind + The little word before! + And I brooded over my new text + Till the seed a sermon bore. + + Nannie, to you I preach it now-- + A little sermon, low: + Is it not thus a thousand times, + As through the world we go? + Do we not tug, and fret, and cry-- + Instead of _Yes, Lord--No_? + + While all the rough things that we meet + Which will not move a jot, + The hindrances to heart and feet, + _The Crook in every Lot_, + Mean plainly but that children's threads + Have at the end a knot. + + This world of life God weaves for us, + Nor spares he pains or cost, + But we must turn the web to clothes + And shield our hearts from frost: + Shall we, because the thread holds fast, + Count labour vain and lost? + + If he should cut away the knot, + And yield each fancy wild, + The hidden life within our hearts-- + His life, the undefiled-- + Would fare as ill as I should fare + From the needle of my child. + + As tack and sheet unto the sail, + As to my verse the rime, + + As mountains to the low green earth-- + So hard for feet to climb, + As call of striking clock amid + The quiet flow of time, + + As sculptor's mallet to the birth + Of the slow-dawning face, + As knot upon my Lily's thread + When she would work apace, + God's _Nay_ is such, and worketh so + For his children's coming grace. + + Who, knowing God's intent with him, + His birthright would refuse? + What makes us what we have to be + Is the only thing to choose: + We understand nor end nor means, + And yet his ways accuse! + + This is my sermon. It is preached + Against all fretful strife. + Chafe not with anything that is, + Nor cut it with thy knife. + Ah! be not angry with the knot + That holdeth fast thy life. + + + + + +_LITTLE ELFIE_. + + + I have a puppet-jointed child, + She's but three half-years old; + Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild + With looks both shy and bold. + + Like little imps, her tiny hands + Dart out and push and take; + Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, + And like two leaves they shake. + + But to her mind a minute gone + Is like a year ago; + And when you lift your eyes anon, + Anon you must say _No_! + + Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, + She has her sleepless fits; + Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair + The elfish mortal sits;-- + + Where, if by chance in mood more grave, + A hermit she appears + Propped in the opening of his cave, + Mummied almost with years; + + Or like an idol set upright + With folded legs for stem, + Ready to hear prayers all the night + And never answer them. + + But where's the idol-hermit thrust? + Her knees like flail-joints go! + Alternate kiss, her mother must, + Now that, now this big toe! + + I turn away from her, and write + For minutes three or four: + A tiny spectre, tall and white, + She's standing by the door! + + Then something comes into my head + That makes me stop and think: + She's on the table, the quadruped, + And dabbling in my ink! + + O Elfie, make no haste to lose + Thy ignorance of offence! + Thou hast the best gift I could choose, + A heavenly confidence. + + 'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, + To put you in the ark! + Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, + Sleep shining through the dark. + + + + + +_RECIPROCITY_. + + + Her mother, Elfie older grown, + One evening, for adieu, + Said, "You'll not mind being left alone, + For God takes care of you!" + + In child-way her heart's eye did see + The correlation's node: + "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me, + An' I take care o' God." + + The child and woman were the same, + She changed not, only grew; + 'Twixt God and her no shadow came: + The true is always true! + + As daughter, sister, promised wife, + Her heart with love did brim: + Now, sure, it brims as full of life, + Hid fourteen years in him! + + +1892. + + + + +_THE SHADOWS_. + + + My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks, + And dreamy, large, brown eyes, + Not often, little wisehead, speaks, + But hearing, weighs and tries. + + "God is not only in the sky," + His sister said one day-- + Not older much, but she would cry + Like Wisdom in the way-- + + "He's in this room." His dreamy, clear, + Large eyes look round for God: + In vain they search, in vain they peer; + His wits are all abroad! + + "He is not here, mamma? No, no; + I do not see him at all! + He's not the shadows, is he?" So + His doubtful accents fall-- + + Fall on my heart, no babble mere! + They rouse both love and shame: + But for earth's loneliness and fear, + I might be saying the same! + + Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break + And home the shadows flee, + In my dim room even yet I take + Those shadows, Lord, for thee! + + + + + +_THE CHILD-MOTHER_. + + + Heavily slumbered noonday bright + Upon the lone field, glory-dight, + A burnished grassy sea: + The child, in gorgeous golden hours, + Through heaven-descended starry flowers, + Went walking on the lea. + + Velvety bees make busy hum; + Green flies and striped wasps go and come; + The butterflies gleam white; + Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro + The dragon-flies like arrows go, + Or hang in moveless flight:-- + + Not one she followed; like a rill + She wandered on with quiet will; + Received, but did not miss; + Her step was neither quick nor long; + Nought but a snatch of murmured song + Ever revealed her bliss. + + An almost solemn woman-child, + Not fashioned frolicsome and wild, + She had more love than glee; + And now, though nine and nothing more, + Another little child she bore, + Almost as big as she. + + No silken cloud from solar harms + Had she to spread; with shifting arms + She dodged him from the sun; + Mother and sister both in heart, + She did a gracious woman's part, + Life's task even now begun! + + They came upon a stagnant ditch, + The slippery sloping banks of which + More varied blossoms line; + Some ragged-robins baby spies, + Stretches his hands, and crows and cries, + Plain saying, "They are mine!" + + What baby wants, that baby has-- + A law unalterable as + The poor shall serve the rich: + They are beyond her reach--almost! + She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed, + Topples into the ditch. + + Adown the side she slanting rolled, + But her two arms convulsive hold + The precious baby tight; + She lets herself sublimely go, + And in the ditch's muddy flow + Stands up, in evil plight. + + 'Tis nothing that her feet are wet, + But her new shoes she can't forget-- + They cost five shillings bright! + Her petticoat, her tippet blue, + Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue! + But baby is all right! + + And baby laughs, and baby crows; + And baby being right, she knows + That nothing can be wrong; + So, with a troubled heart yet stout, + She plans how _ever_ to get out + With meditation long. + + The high bank's edge is far away, + The slope is steep, and made of clay; + And what to do with baby? + For even a monkey, up to run, + Would need his four hands, every one:-- + She is perplexed as may be. + + And all her puzzling is no good! + Blank-staring up the side she stood, + Which, settling she, grew higher. + At last, seized with a fresh dismay + Lest baby's patience should give way, + She plucked her feet from the mire, + + And up and down the ditch, not glad, + But patient, very, did promenade-- + Splash, splash, went her small feet! + And baby thought it rare good fun, + Sucking his bit of pulpy bun, + And smelling meadow-sweet. + + But, oh, the world that she had left-- + The meads from her so lately reft-- + Poor infant Proserpine! + A fabled land they lay above, + A paradise of sunny love, + In breezy space divine! + + Frequent from neighbouring village-green + Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen, + And barks of well-known dogs, + While she, the hot sun overhead, + Her lonely watery way must tread + In mud and weeds and frogs! + + Sudden, the ditch about her shakes; + Her little heart, responsive, quakes + With fear of uncouth woes; + She lifts her boding eyes perforce-- + To see the huge head of a horse + Go past upon its nose. + + Then, hark, what sounds of tearing grass + And puffing breath!--With knobs of brass + On horns of frightful size, + A cow's head through the broken hedge + Looks awful from the other edge, + Though mild her pondering eyes. + + The horse, the cow are passed and gone; + The sun keeps going on and on, + And still no help comes near.-- + At misery's last--oh joy, the sound + Of human footsteps on the ground! + She cried aloud, "_I_'m here!" + + It was a man--oh, heavenly joy! + He looked amazed at girl and boy, + And reached his hand so strong: + "Give me the child," he said; but no! + Care would not let the burden go + Which Love had borne so long. + + Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands, + And them unparted safely lands + In the upper world again. + Her low thanks feebly murmured, she + Drags her legs homeward painfully-- + Poor, wet, one-chickened hen! + + Arrived at length--Lo, scarce a speck + Was on the child from heel to neck, + Though she was sorely mired! + No tear confessed the long-drawn rack, + Till her mother took the baby back, + And the she cried, "I'm tired!" + + And, intermixed with sobbing wail, + She told her mother all the tale, + Her wet cheeks in a glow: + "But, mother, mother, though I fell, + I kept the baby pretty well-- + I did not let him go!" + + + + + +_HE HEEDED NOT_. + + + Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, + And sermons of the silent stone; + To read in brooks the print so clear + Of motion, shadowy light, and tone-- + That man hath neither eye nor ear + Who careth not for human moan. + + Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste, + From sin that passeth helpless by; + The weak antennae of whose taste + From touch of alien grossness fly-- + Shall, banished to the outer waste, + Never in Nature's bosom lie. + + But he whose heart is full of grace + To his own kindred all about, + Shall find in lowest human face, + Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt, + More than in Nature's holiest place + Where mountains dwell and streams run out. + + Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear, + In suburb-ways, one summer morn; + A wretched alley I drew near + Whence on the air the sounds were borne-- + Growls breaking into curses clear, + And shrill retorts of keener scorn. + + Slow from its narrow entrance came, + His senses drowned with revels dire, + Scarce fit to answer to his name, + A man unconscious save of ire; + Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame + Broke from the embers of his fire. + + He cast a glance of stupid hate + Behind him, every step he took, + Where followed him, like following fate, + An aged crone, with bloated look: + A something checked his listless gait; + She neared him, rating till she shook. + + Why stood he still to be disgraced? + What hindered? Lost in his employ, + His eager head high as his waist, + Half-buttressed him a tiny boy, + An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced, + Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy. + + Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled + For one poor coin to keep the peace + With hunger! or home would have led + And given him up to sleep's release: + Well he might know the good of bed + To make the drunken fever cease! + + Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird + He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher, + But no expostulating word + Did in his anxious soul aspire; + With humbler care his heart was stirred, + With humbler service to his sire. + + He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red, + Though forward leaning, held his foot + Lest on the darling he should tread: + A misty sense had taken root + Somewhere in his bewildered head + That round him kindness hovered mute. + + The words his simmering rage did spill + Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn; + Safer than bee whose dodging skill + And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn, + The boy, absorbed in loving will, + Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn. + + Over his calm, unconscious face + No motion passed, no change of mood; + Still as a pool in its own place, + Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood, + It kept its quiet shadowy grace, + As round it all things had been good. + + Was the boy deaf--the tender palm + Of him that made him folded round + The little head to keep it calm + With a _hitherto_ to every sound-- + And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm + Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound? + + Or came in force the happy law + That customed things themselves erase? + Or was he too intent for awe? + Did love take all the thinking place? + I cannot tell; I only saw + An earnest, fearless, hopeless face. + + + + + +_THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT_. + + + The thousand streets of London gray + Repel all country sights; + But bar not winds upon their way, + Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay + In depth of summer nights. + + And here and there an open spot, + Still bare to light and dark, + With grass receives the wanderer hot; + There trees are growing, houses not-- + They call the place a park. + + Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, + God's sheep from hill and plain, + Flow thitherward in fitful tides, + There weary lie on woolly sides, + Or crop the grass amain. + + And from dark alley, yard, and den, + In ragged skirts and coats, + Come thither children of poor men, + Wild things, untaught of word or pen-- + The little human goats. + + In Regent's Park, one cloudless day, + An overdriven sheep, + Come a hard, long, and dusty way, + Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay, + A panting woollen heap. + + But help is nearer than we know + For ills of every name: + Ragged enough to scare the crow, + But with a heart to pity woe, + A quick-eyed urchin came. + + Little he knew of field or fold, + Yet knew what ailed; his cap + Was ready cup for water cold; + Though creased, and stained, and very old, + 'Twas not much torn, good hap! + + Shaping the rim and crown he went, + Till crown from rim was deep; + The water gushed from pore and rent, + Before he came one half was spent-- + The other saved the sheep. + + O little goat, born, bred in ill, + Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn, + Thou to the sheep from breezy hill + Wast bishop, pastor, what you will, + In London dry and lorn! + + And let priests say the thing they please, + My faith, though poor and dim, + Thinks he will say who always sees, + In doing it to one of these + Thou didst it unto him. + + + + +_THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER_. + + + When things are holding wonted pace + In wonted paths, without a trace + Or hint of neighbouring wonder, + Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, + A scent, a vision, swift, alone, + Breaks common life asunder. + + Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door, + It makes you ponder something more-- + Unseen with seen things linking: + To neighbours met one festive night, + Was given a quaint and lovely sight, + That set some of them thinking. + + They stand, in music's fetters bound + By a clear brook of warbled sound, + A canzonet of Haydn, + When the door slowly comes ajar-- + A little further--just as far + As shows a tiny maiden. + + Softly she enters, her pink toes + Daintily peeping, as she goes, + Her long nightgown from under. + The varied mien, the questioning look + Were worth a picture; but she took + No notice of their wonder. + + They made a path, and she went through; + She had her little chair in view + Close by the chimney-corner; + She turned, sat down before them all, + Stately as princess at a ball, + And silent as a mourner. + + Then looking closer yet, they spy + What mazedness hid from every eye + As ghost-like she came creeping: + They see that though sweet little Rose + Her settled way unerring goes, + Plainly the child is sleeping. + + "Play on, sing on," the mother said; + "Oft music draws her from her bed."-- + Dumb Echo, she sat listening; + Over her face the sweet concent + Like winds o'er placid waters went, + Her cheeks like eyes were glistening. + + Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold + Like long grass drooping on the wold + Her sightless head is bending; + She sits all ears, and drinks her fill, + Then rising goes, sedate and still, + On silent white feet wending. + + Surely, while she was listening so, + Glad thoughts in her went to and fro + Preparing her 'gainst sorrow, + And ripening faith for that sure day + When earnest first looks out of play, + And thought out of to-morrow. + + She will not know from what fair skies + Troop hopes to front anxieties-- + In what far fields they gather, + Until she knows that even in sleep, + Yea, in the dark of trouble deep, + The child is with the Father. + + + + +_A DREAM OF WAKING_. + + + A child was born in sin and shame, + Wronged by his very birth, + Without a home, without a name, + One over in the earth. + + No wifely triumph he inspired, + Allayed no husband's fear; + Intruder bare, whom none desired, + He had a welcome drear. + + Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift + For knocking at earth's gate, + His mother, like an evil gift, + Shunned him with sickly hate. + + And now the mistress on her knee + The unloved baby bore, + The while the servant sullenly + Prepared to leave her door. + + Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, + Her chickens to the hen; + All young ones bring with them their love, + Of sheep, or goats, or men! + + This one lone child shall not have come + In vain for love to seek: + Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, + A sister-babe will speak! + + "Mother, keep baby--keep him _so_; + Don't let him go away." + "But, darling, if his mother go, + Poor baby cannot stay." + + "He's crying, mother: don't you see + He wants to stay with you?" + "No, child; he does not care for me." + "Do keep him, mother--_do_." + + "For his own mother he would cry; + He's hungry now, I think." + "Give him to me, and let _me_ try + If I can make him drink." + + "Susan would hurt him! Mother _will_ + Let the poor baby stay?" + Her mother's heart grew sore, but still + Baby must go away! + + The red lip trembled; the slow tears + Came darkening in her eyes; + Pressed on her heart a weight of fears + That sought not ease in cries. + + 'Twas torture--must not be endured!-- + A too outrageous grief! + Was there an ill could _not_ be cured? + She _would_ find some relief! + + All round her universe she pried: + No dawn began to break: + In prophet-agony she cried-- + "Mother! when _shall_ we wake?" + + O insight born of torture's might!-- + Such grief _can_ only seem. + Rise o'er the hills, eternal light, + And melt the earthly dream. + + + + + +_A MANCHESTER POEM_. + + + 'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. + The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold + The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, + And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks, + A black precipitate, on miry streets. + And faces gray glide through the darkened fog. + + Slave engines utter again their ugly growl, + And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone + That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver + Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells, + Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms + To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength + With labour; and among the many come + A man and woman--the woman with her gown + Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck + Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar, + And clash, and shudder of the awful force, + They enter and part--each to a different task, + But each a soul of knowledge to brute force, + Working a will through the organized whole + Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws + Wherewith small man has eked his body out, + And made himself a mighty, weary giant. + In labour close they pass the murky day, + 'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels, + And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads, + Which weave a sultry chaos all about; + Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow + Up from the caves of night to make an end, + Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms, + The monster-engines, and the flying gear. + 'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home + Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse + Her tired children--like a mother-ghost + With her neglected darlings in the dark. + So out they walk, with sense of glad release, + And home--to a dreary place! Unfinished walls, + Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools + Lie round it like a rampart against the spring, + The summer, and all sieges of the year. + + But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire! + The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs + Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light, + Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts; + Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread; + And in the twilight edges of the light, + A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil, + Their faces--hiding God's own holiest place! + Even their bed figures the would-be grave + Where One arose triumphant, slept no more! + So at their altar-table they sit down + To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart + That reads the live will in the dead command, + _He_ is the bread, yea, all of every meal. + But as, in weary rest, they silent sit, + They gradually grow aware of light + That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind, + Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms + That make a cross of darkness on the white. + The woman rises, eagerly looks out: + Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog, + And, far aloft, the white exultant moon, + From her blue window, curtained all with white, + Looks greeting them--God's creatures they and she! + Smiling she turns; he understands the smile: + To-morrow will be fair--as holy, fair! + And lying down, in sleep they die till morn, + While through their night throb low aurora-gleams + Of resurrection and the coming dawn. + They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there, + But thin and ghostly--clothed upon with light, + As if, while they were sleeping, she had died. + They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire, + And, through their lowly door, enter God's room. + The sun is up, the emblem on his shield. + One side the street, the windows all are moons + To light the other side that lies in shade. + See, down the sun-side, an old woman come + In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad! + A long-belated autumn-flower she seems, + Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life + Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun, + But in her cloak and smile they know the spring, + And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets + Widening to larger glimmers of growing green. + Oh, far away the streets repel the spring! + Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares + The life that thrills anew the outworn earth, + A right Bethesda angel--for all, not some! + + A street unfinished leads them forth at length + Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart, + Stand waiting in the air as for some good, + And the sky is broad and blue--and there is all! + No peaceful river meditates along + The weary flat to the less level sea! + No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs + Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft + A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves! + No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks + Down babbling with the news of silent things! + But love itself is commonest of all, + And loveliest of all, in all the worlds! + And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill, + Must learn to read aright what commoner books + Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes-- + Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades, + And misty minglings of the sea and sky. + If only fields--the humble man of heart + Will revel in the grass beneath his foot, + And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven, + God's palette, where his careless painter-hand + Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul; + Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks; + Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags; + Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark. + To them the sun and air are feast enough, + As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk; + But sometimes, on the far horizon dim + A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills, + Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky; + Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks + As for some thing forgot--loved long ago, + But on the hither verge of childhood dropt: + 'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring! + Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life, + Which _is_ because it _would be_, fill the world; + The very light is new-born with the grass; + The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells, + Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close + And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm + In every little corner, nest, and crack + Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed + Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun. + The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life + Oozes exuberant in brown and green, + Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined + With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change. + Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes, + Calling and rousing the dull sap within: + The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous, + From airy root thrilling to earthy branch. + And though as yet no buddy baby dots + Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs, + The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell + In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath. + The sun had left behind him the keystone + Of his low arch half-way when they turned home, + Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring: + Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house + To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought. + + But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced + Upon a spot where once had been a home, + And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss. + 'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet + Lay the old shadow of a vanished care; + The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map + Was yet discernible by thinner grass + Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry + Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds, + A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop, + The lonely remnant of a family + That in the garden dwelt about the home-- + Reviving with the spring when home was gone: + They see; its spiritual counterpart + Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls-- + A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness, + The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child, + That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head + As it had nought to say 'gainst any world; + While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself, + Inherit in their meekness all the worlds. + + I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer + Upon the verge of my humanity. + Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart + The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass-- + White-minded memory of lowly friends! + But almost more I love thee for the earth + Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy, + Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave; + Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure + Upon thy road into the light and air, + The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain + Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth + Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings, + I love the cognizance of our family. + + With careful hands uprooting it, they bore + The little plant a willing captive home-- + Fearless of dark abode, because secure + In its own tale of light. As once of old + The angel of the annunciation shone, + Bearing all heaven into a common house, + It brings in with it field and sky and air. + A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth, + Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, + Its world the priests of that small temple-room, + It takes its prophet-place with fire and book, + Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc + Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky. + At night, when the dark shadow of the cross + Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan + Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower + Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird + Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun, + And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged, + Will break into its song--Lo, God is light! + + Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go; + And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white + Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen. + + * * * * * + + Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room, + My precious books, the cherub-forms above, + And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods; + And roving odours met me on my way. + I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault + Of boughs, and clouded leaves--filmy and pale + Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet + Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay + Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring. + The place was silent, save for the broken song + Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird + That burst into a carol and was still; + It was not lonely: golden beetles crept, + Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things + Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery; + And here and yonder a flaky butterfly + Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. + But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace, + Drove a dividing wedge, and far away + It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away + By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:-- + Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope? + In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay + Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! + My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, + And summer crushed it with its weight of light! + + Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, + Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore; + Summer is too complete for growing hearts-- + Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, + Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; + Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave; + We need a broken season, where the cloud + Is ruffled into glory, and the dark + Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world + Whose shadows ever point away from it; + A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres, + And circles cut, and perfect laws the while + That marvellous imperfection ever points + To higher perfectness than heart can think; + Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring, + Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, + Is lovely as was never rosiest rose; + A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry, + Says more than lily, stately in breathing white; + A window through a vaulted roof of rain + Lets in a light that comes from farther away, + And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy + Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world: + Man seeks a better home than Paradise; + Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, + A disappointment better than a feast, + And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea + Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four. + + + + + +_WHAT THE LORD SAITH_. + + + Trust my father, saith the eldest-born; + I did trust him ere the earth began; + Not to know him is to be forlorn; + Not to love him is--not to be man. + + He that knows him loves him altogether; + With my father I am so content + That through all this dreary human weather + I am working, waiting, confident. + + He is with me; I am not alone; + Life is bliss, because I am his child; + Down in Hades will I lay the stone + Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled. + + Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story! + Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me: + Our one father is a perfect glory; + He is light, and there is none but he. + + Come then with me; I will lead the way; + All of you, sore-hearted, heavy-shod, + Come to father, yours and mine, I pray; + Little ones, I pray you, come to God! + + + + + +_HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG_? + + + How shall he sing who hath no song? + He laugh who hath no mirth? + Will cannot wake the sleeping song! + Yea, Love itself in vain may long + To sing with them that have a song, + Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth! + He who would sing but hath no song + Must speak the right, denounce the wrong, + Must humbly front the indignant throng, + Must yield his back to Satire's thong, + Nor shield his face from liar's prong, + Must say and do and be the truth, + And fearless wait for what ensueth, + Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong, + Until God's glory fill the earth; + Then shall he sing who had no song, + He laugh who had no mirth! + + Yea, if in land of stony dearth + Like barren rock thou sit, + Round which the phantom-waters flit + Of heart- and brain-mirage + That can no thirst assuage, + Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long; + A right sea comes to drown the wrong; + God's glory comes to fill the earth, + And thou, no more a scathed rock, + Shalt start alive with gladsome shock, + Shalt a hand-clapping billow be, + And shout with the eternal sea! + + To righteousness and love belong + The dance, the jubilance, the song, + When the great Right hath quelled the wrong, + And Truth hath stilled the lying tongue! + Then men must sing because of song, + And laugh because of mirth! + And this shall be their anthem strong-- + Hallow! the glad God fills the earth, + And Love sits down by every hearth! + + + + + +_THIS WORLD_. + + + Thy world is made to fit thine own, + A nursery for thy children small, + The playground-footstool of thy throne, + Thy solemn school-room, Father of all! + When day is done, in twilight's gloom, + We pass into thy presence-room. + + Because from selfishness and wrath, + Our cold and hot extremes of ill, + We grope and stagger on the path-- + Thou tell'st us from thy holy hill, + With icy storms and sunshine rude, + That we are all unripe in good. + + Because of snaky things that creep + Through our soul's sea, dim-undulant, + Thou fill'st the mystery of thy deep + With faces heartless, grim, and gaunt; + That we may know how ugly seem + The things our spirit-oceans teem. + + Because of half-way things that hold + Good names, and have a poisonous breath-- + Prudence that is but trust in gold, + And faith that is but fear of death-- + Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, + Thou sendest some that are not good. + + Thou stay'st thy hand from finishing things + To make thy child love the complete; + Full many a flower comes up thy springs + Unshamed in imperfection sweet; + That through good all, and good in part, + Thy work be perfect in the heart. + + Because, in careless confidence, + So oft we leave the narrow way, + Its borders thorny hedges fence, + Beyond them marshy deeps affray; + But farther on, the heavenly road + Lies through the gardens of our God. + + Because thy sheep so often will + Forsake the meadow cool and damp + To climb the stony, grassless hill, + Or wallow in the slimy swamp, + Thy sicknesses, where'er they roam, + Go after them to bring them home. + + One day, all fear, all ugliness, + All pain, all discord, dumb or loud, + All selfishness, and all distress, + Will melt like low-spread morning cloud, + And heart and brain be free from thrall, + Because thou, God, art all in all! + + + + + +_SAINT PETER_. + + + O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt? + Indeed the spray flew fast about, + But he was there whose walking foot + Could make the wandering hills take root; + And he had said, "Come down to me," + Else hadst thou not set foot on sea! + Christ did not call thee to thy grave! + Was it the boat that made thee brave? + + "Easy for thee who wast not there + To think thou more than I couldst dare! + It hardly fits thee though to mock + Scared as thou wast that railway shock! + Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go-- + The plague will soon be here, I know!' + Who, when thy child slept--not to death-- + Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'" + + Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! + It needs no tempest me to quell, + Not even a spent lash of its spray! + Things far too little to affray + Will wake the doubt that's worst of all-- + Is there a God to hear me call? + But if he be, I never think + That he will hear and let me sink! + + Lord of my little faith, my Lord, + Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; + Let not the cross itself appall + Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; + Let reeling brain nor fainting heart + Wipe out the soreness that thou art; + Dwell farther in than doubt can go, + And make _I hope_ become _I know_. + Then, sure, if thou should please to say, + "Come to my side," some stormy way, + My feet, atoning to thy will, + Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still; + No heart of lead shall sink me where + Prudence lies crowned with cold despair, + But I shall reach and clasp thy hand, + And on the sea forget the land! + + + + + +_ZACCHAEUS_. + + + To whom the heavy burden clings, + It yet may serve him like a staff; + One day the cross will break in wings, + The sinner laugh a holy laugh. + + The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree, + His humble stature set him high; + The Lord the little man did see + Who sought the great man passing by. + + Up to the tree he came, and stopped: + "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide." + A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped, + Ripe for the Master, at his side. + + Sure never host with gladder look + A welcome guest home with him bore! + Then rose the Satan of rebuke + And loudly spake beside the door: + + "This is no place for holy feet; + Sinners should house and eat alone! + This man sits in the stranger's seat + And grinds the faces of his own!" + + Outspoke the man, in Truth's own might: + "Lord, half my goods I give the poor; + If one I've taken more than right + With four I make atonement sure!" + + "Salvation here is entered in; + This man indeed is Abraham's son!" + Said he who came the lost to win-- + And saved the lost whom he had won. + + + + + +_AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS_. + + + I. + + Who follows Jesus shall not walk + In darksome road with danger rife; + But in his heart the Truth will talk, + And on his way will shine the Life. + + So, on the story we must pore + Of him who lives for us, and died, + That we may see him walk before, + And know the Father in the guide. + + + II. + + In words of truth Christ all excels, + Leaves all his holy ones behind; + And he in whom his spirit dwells + Their hidden manna sure shall find. + + Gather wouldst thou the perfect grains, + And Jesus fully understand? + Thou must obey him with huge pains, + And to God's will be as Christ's hand. + + + III. + + What profits it to reason high + And in hard questions court dispute, + When thou dost lack humility, + Displeasing God at very root! + + Profoundest words man ever spake + Not once of blame washed any clear; + A simple life alone could make + Nathanael to his master dear. + + + IV. + + The eye with seeing is not filled, + The ear with hearing not at rest; + Desire with having is not stilled; + With human praise no heart is blest. + + Vanity, then, of vanities + All things for which men grasp and grope! + The precious things in heavenly eyes + Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope. + + + V. + + Better the clown who God doth love + Than he that high can go + And name each little star above + But sees not God below! + + What if all things on earth I knew, + Yea, love were all my creed, + It serveth nothing with the True; + He goes by heart and deed. + + + VI. + + If thou dost think thy knowledge good, + Thy intellect not slow, + Bethink thee of the multitude + Of things thou dost not know. + + Why look on any from on high + Because thou knowest more? + Thou need'st but look abroad, to spy + Ten thousand thee before. + + Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance + And gather learning's fruit, + In love confess thy ignorance, + And thy Self-love confute. + + + VII. + + This is the highest learning, + The hardest and the best-- + From self to keep still turning, + And honour all the rest. + + If one should break the letter, + Yea, spirit of command, + Think not that thou art better, + Thou may'st not always stand! + + We all are weak--but weaker + Hold no one than thou art; + Then, as thou growest meeker, + Higher will go thy heart. + + + VIII. + + Sense and judgment oft indeed + Spy but little and mislead, + Ground us on a shelf! + + Happy he whom Truth doth teach, + Not by forms of passing speech, + But her very self! + + Why of hidden things dispute, + Mind unwise, howe'er astute, + Making that thy task + Where the Judge will, at the last, + When disputing all is past, + Not a question ask? + + Folly great it is to brood + Over neither bad nor good, + Eyes and ears unheedful! + Ears and eyes, ah, open wide + For what may be heard or spied + Of the one thing needful! + + + + + +TO AND OF FRIENDS. + + + + +_TO LADY NOEL BYRON_. + + + Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake, + The lost elixir old + Whose magic touch should instant make + The meaner metals gold. + + A nobler alchymy is thine + Which love from pain doth press: + Gold in thy hand becomes divine, + Grows truth and tenderness. + + + + + +_TO THE SAME_. + + + Dead, why defend thee, who in life + For thy worst foe hadst died; + Who, thy own name a word of strife, + Didst silent stand aside? + + Grand in forgiveness, what to thee + The big world's puny prate! + Or thy great heart hath ceased to be + Or loveth still its mate! + + + + +_TO AURELIO SAFFI_. + + + _To God and man be simply true; + Do as thou hast been wont to do; + Bring out thy treasures, old and new_-- + Mean all the same when said to you. + + I love thee: thou art calm and strong; + Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; + Thy heart, in every raging throng, + A chamber shut for prayer and song. + + Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know, + Although thy aims so lofty go + They need as long to root and grow + As infant hills to reach the snow. + + Press on and prosper, holy friend! + I, weak and ignorant, would lend + A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send + Prospering onward without end. + + + + + +_A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE_. + + + The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him + Who next it stood before us, first so long, + We see not; but between the cherubim + The light burns clearer: come--a thankful song! + + Lord, for thy prophet's calm commanding voice, + For his majestic innocence and truth, + For his unswerving purity of choice, + For all his tender wrath and plenteous ruth; + + For his obedient, wise, clear-listening care + To hear for us what word The Word would say, + For all the trembling fervency of prayer + With which he led our souls the prayerful way; + + For all the heavenly glory of his face + That caught the white Transfiguration's shine + And cast on us the reflex of thy grace-- + Of all thy men late left, the most divine; + + For all his learning, and the thought of power + That seized thy one Idea everywhere, + Brought the eternal down into the hour, + And taught the dead thy life to claim and share; + + For his humility, dove-clear of guile;-- + The sin denouncing, he, like thy great Paul, + Still claimed in it the greatest share, the while + Our eyes, love-sharpened, saw him best of all! + + For his high victories over sin and fear, + The captive hope his words of truth set free; + For his abiding memory, holy, dear; + Last, for his death and hiding now in thee, + + We praise, we magnify thee, Lord of him: + Thou hast him still; he ever was thine own; + Nor shall our tears prevail the path to dim + That leads where, lowly still, he haunts thy throne. + + When thou, O Lord, ascendedst up on high + Good gifts thou sentest down to cheer thy men: + Lo, he ascends!--we follow with the cry, + His spirit send thou back in thine again. + + + + + +_GEORGE ROLLESTON_. + + + Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid + Over whose couch the saving God did stand-- + "She is not dead but sleepeth," said, + And took her by the hand! + + Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled, + But following still where life's great father led, + He turned, and taking up his child, + Raised thee too from the dead, + + O living, thou hast passed thy second birth, + Found all things new, and some things lovely strange; + But thou wilt not forget the earth, + Or in thy loving change! + + + + + +TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM. + + + The silence of traitorous feet! + The silence of close-pent rage! + The roar, and the sudden heart-beat! + And the shot through the true heart going, + The truest heart of the age! + And the Nile serenely flowing! + + Carnage and curses and cries! + He utters never a word; + Still as a child he lies; + The wind of the desert is blowing + Across the dead man of the Lord; + And the Nile is softly flowing. + + But the song is stilled in heaven + To welcome one more king: + For the truth he hath witnessed and striven, + And let the world go crowing, + And Mammon's church-bell go ring, + And the Nile blood-red go flowing! + + Man who hated the sword + Yet wielded the sword and axe-- + Farewell, O arm of the Lord, + The Lord's own harvest mowing-- + With a wind in the smoking flax + Where our foul rivers are flowing! + + In war thou didst cherish peace, + Thou slewest for love of life: + Hail, hail thy stormy release + Go home and await thy sowing, + The patient flower of thy strife, + Thy bread on the Nile cast flowing. + + Not thy earth to our earth alone, + Thy spirit is left with us! + Thy body is victory's throne, + And our hearts around it are glowing: + Would that we others died thus + Where the Thames and the Clyde are flowing! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS_, + +JANUARY 26, 1885. + + + Gordon, the self-refusing, + Gordon, the lover of God, + Gordon, the good part choosing, + Welcome along the road! + + Thou knowest the man, O Father! + To do thy will he ran; + Men's praises he did not gather: + There is scarce such another man! + + Thy black sheep's faithful shepherd + Who knew not how to flee, + Is torn by the desert leopard, + And comes wounded home to thee! + + Home he is coming the faster + That the way he could not miss: + In thy arms, oh take him, Master, + And heal him with a kiss! + + Then give him a thousand cities + To rule till their evils cease, + And their wailing minor ditties + Die in a psalm of peace. + + + + +_FAILURE_. + + + Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! + Man who hated the sword, + Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred! + Farewell, O word of the Word! + Man who knew no failure + But the failure of the Lord! + + + + + +_TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK_. + + + A broken tale of endless things, + Take, lady: thou art not of those + Who in what vale a fountain springs + Would have its journey close. + + Countless beginnings, fair first parts, + Leap to the light, and shining flow; + All broken things, or toys or hearts, + Are mended where they go. + + Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, + Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; + 'Tis God that has begun the tale + And does not mean to end. + + + + + +_TO G. M. T_. + + + The sun is sinking in the west, + Long grow the shadows dim; + Have patience, sister, to be blest, + Wait patiently for Him. + + Thou knowest love, much love hast had, + Great things of love mayst tell, + Ought'st never to be very sad + For thou too hast lov'd well. + + His house thou know'st, who on the brink + Of death loved more than thou, + Loved more than thy great heart can think, + And just as then loves now-- + + In that great house is one who waits + For thy slow-coming foot; + Glad is he with his angel-mates + Yet often listens mute, + + For he of all men loves thee best: + He haunts the heavenly clock; + Ah, he has long been up and drest + To open to thy knock! + + Fear not, doubt not because of those + On whom earth's keen winds blow; + God's love shames all our pitying woes, + Be ready thou to go. + + Forsaken dream not hearts which here + Bask in no sunny shine; + Each shall one coming day be dear + To love as good as thine. + + + + + +_IN MEMORIUM_ + +_LADY CAROLINE CHARTERIS_. + + + The mountain-stream may humbly boast + For her the loud waves call; + The hamlet feeds the nation's host, + The home-farm feeds the hall; + + And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend + The right, of high import, + The gladsome privilege to send + New courtiers to Love's court. + + Not strange to thee, O lady dear, + Life in that palace fair, + For thou while waiting with us here + Didst just as they do there! + + Thy heart still open to receive, + Open thy hand to give, + God had thee graced with more than leave + In heavenly state to live! + + And though thou art gone up so high + Thou art not gone so far + But that thy love to us comes nigh, + As starlight from a star. + + And ours must reach where'er thou art, + In far or near abode, + For God is of all love the heart, + And we are all in God. + + + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD IN TWO VOLUMES, VOLUME I *** + +This file should be named 7pgm110.txt or 7pgm110.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 7pgm111.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 7pgm110a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: The Poetical Works of George MacDonald in Two Volumes, Volume I + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9543] +[This file was first posted on October 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD IN TWO VOLUMES, VOLUME I *** + + + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince, and Project Gutenberg +Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + +THE POETICAL WORKS + +OF + +GEORGE MACDONALD + +IN TWO VOLUMES + +VOL. I + +1893 + + + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +A HIDDEN LIFE + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE + +THE DISCIPLE + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN-- + 1. The Mother Mary + 2. The Woman that lifted up her Voice + 3. The Mother of Zebedee's Children + 4. The Syrophenician Woman + 5. The Widow of Nain + 6. The Woman whom Satan had bound + 7. The Woman who came behind Him in the Crowd + 8. The Widow with the Two Mites + 9. The Women who ministered unto Him + 10. Pilate's Wife + 11. The Woman of Samaria + 12. Mary Magdalene + 13. The Woman in the Temple + 14. Martha + 15. Mary + 16. The Woman that was a Sinner + +A BOOK OF SONNETS-- + The Burnt-Offering + The Unseen Face + Concerning Jesus + A Memorial of Africa + A.M.D + To Garibaldi, with a Book + To S.F.S + Russell Gurney + To One threatened with Blindness + To Aubrey de Vere + General Gordon + The Chrysalis + The Sweeper of the Floor + Death + +ORGAN SONGS-- + To A.J. Scott + Light + To A. J. Scott + I would I were a Child + A Prayer for the Past + Longing + I know what Beauty is + Sympathy + The Thank-Offering + Prayer + Rest + O do not leave Me + Blessed are the Meek, for they shall inherit the Earth + Hymn for a Sick Girl + Written for One in sore Pain + A Christmas Carol for 1862 + A Christmas Carol + The Sleepless Jesus + Christmas, 1873 + Christmas, 1884 + An Old Story + A Song for Christmas + To my Aging Friends + Christmas Song of the Old Children + Christmas Meditation + The Old Castle + Christmas Prayer + Song of the Innocents + Christmas Day and Every Day + The Children's Heaven + Rejoice + The Grace of Grace + Antiphon + Dorcas + Marriage Song + Blind Bartimeus + Come unto Me + Morning Hymn + Noontide Hymn + Evening Hymn + The Holy Midnight + Rondel + A Prayer + Home from the Wars + God; not Gift + To any Friend + +VIOLIN SONGS-- + Hope Deferred + Death + Hard Times + If I were a Monk, and Thou wert a Nun + My Heart + The Flower-Angels + To my Sister + Oh Thou of little Faith + Wild Flowers + Spring Song + Summer Song + Autumn Song + Winter Song + Picture Songs + A Dream Song + At my Window after Sunset + A Father to a Mother + The Temple of God + Going to Sleep + To-Morrow + Foolish Children + Love is Home + Faith + Waiting + Our Ship + My Heart thy Lark + Two in One + Bedtime + A Prayer + A Song Prayer + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS-- + Songs of the Summer Days + Songs of the Summer Nights + Songs of the Autumn Days + Songs of the Autumn Nights + Songs of the Winter Days + Songs of the Winter Nights + Songs of the Spring Days + Songs of the Spring Nights + +A BOOK OF DREAMS + +ROADSIDE POEMS-- + Better Things + An Old Sermon with a New Text + Little Elfie + Reciprocity + The Shadows + The Child-Mother + He Heeded Not + The Sheep and the Goat + The Wakeful Sleeper + A Dream of Waking + A Manchester Poem + What the Lord Saith + How shall He Sing who hath No Song + This World + Saint Peter + Zacchaeus + After Thomas Kemp + +TO AND OF FRIENDS-- + To Lady Noel Byron + To the Same + To Aurelio Saffi + A Thanksgiving for F.D. Maurice + George Rolleston + To Gordon, leaving Khartoum + Song of the Saints and Angels + Failure + To E.G., dedicating a Book + To G.M.T. + In Memoriam Lady Caroline Charteris + + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT: + + +A Dramatic Poem. + + What life it is, and how that all these lives do gather-- + With outward maker's force, or like an inward father. + + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S _Arcadia_. + +_Written December and January_, 1850-51. + +TO L.P.M.D. + + Receive thine own; for I and it are thine. + Thou know'st its story; how for forty days-- + Weary with sickness and with social haze, + (After thy hands and lips with love divine + Had somewhat soothed me, made the glory shine, + Though with a watery lustre,) more delays + Of blessedness forbid--I took my ways + Into a solitude, Invention's mine; + There thought and wrote, afar, and yet with thee. + Those days gone past, I came, and brought a book; + My child, developed since in limb and look. + It came in shining vapours from the sea, + And in thy stead sung low sweet songs to me, + When the red life-blood labour would not brook. + + + _May_, 1855. + + + + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT + + +PART I. + + Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door; + And pray to Him in secret: He will hear. + But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear + The numberless ascensions, more and more, + Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before + Thou comest to the Father's likeness near, + And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear + That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o'er. + Be thou content if on thy weary need + There falls a sense of showers and of the spring; + A hope that makes it possible to fling + Sickness aside, and go and do the deed; + For highest aspiration will not lead + Unto the calm beyond all questioning. + +SCENE I.--_A cell in a convent_. JULIAN _alone_. + + _Julian_. + Evening again slow creeping like a death! + And the red sunbeams fading from the wall, + On which they flung a sky, with streaks and bars + Of the poor window-pane that let them in, + For clouds and shadings of the mimic heaven! + Soul of my cell, they part, no more to come. + But what is light to me, while I am dark! + And yet they strangely draw me, those faint hues, + Reflected flushes from the Evening's face, + Which as a bride, with glowing arms outstretched, + Takes to her blushing heaven him who has left + His chamber in the dim deserted east. + Through walls and hills I see it! The rosy sea! + The radiant head half-sunk! A pool of light, + As the blue globe had by a blow been broken, + And the insphered glory bubbled forth! + Or the sun were a splendid water-bird, + That flying furrowed with its golden feet + A flashing wake over the waves, and home! + Lo there!--Alas, the dull blank wall!--High up, + The window-pane a dead gray eye! and night + Come on me like a thief!--Ah, well! the sun + Has always made me sad! I'll go and pray: + The terror of the night begins with prayer. + + (_Vesper bell_.) + Call them that need thee; I need not thy summons; + My knees would not so pain me when I kneel, + If only at thy voice my prayer awoke. + I will not to the chapel. When I find Him, + Then will I praise him from the heights of peace; + But now my soul is as a speck of life + Cast on the deserts of eternity; + A hungering and a thirsting, nothing more. + I am as a child new-born, its mother dead, + Its father far away beyond the seas. + Blindly I stretch my arms and seek for him: + He goeth by me, and I see him not. + I cry to him: as if I sprinkled ashes, + My prayers fall back in dust upon my soul. + + (_Choir and organ-music_.) + I bless you, sweet sounds, for your visiting. + What friends I have! Prismatic harmonies + Have just departed in the sun's bright coach, + And fair, convolved sounds troop in to me, + Stealing my soul with faint deliciousness. + Would they took shapes! What levees I should hold! + How should my cell be filled with wavering forms! + Louder they grow, each swelling higher, higher; + Trembling and hesitating to float off, + As bright air-bubbles linger, that a boy + Blows, with their interchanging, wood-dove-hues, + Just throbbing to their flight, like them to die. + --Gone now! Gone to the Hades of dead loves! + Is it for this that I have left the world?-- + Left what, poor fool? Is this, then, all that comes + Of that night when the closing door fell dumb + On music and on voices, and I went + Forth from the ordered tumult of the dance, + Under the clear cope of the moonless night, + Wandering away without the city-walls, + Between the silent meadows and the stars, + Till something woke in me, and moved my spirit, + And of themselves my thoughts turned toward God; + When straight within my soul I felt as if + An eye was opened; but I knew not whether + 'Twas I that saw, or God that looked on me? + It closed again, and darkness fell; but not + To hide the memory; that, in many failings + Of spirit and of purpose, still returned; + And I came here at last to search for God. + Would I could find him! Oh, what quiet content + Would then absorb my heart, yet leave it free! + + _A knock at the door. Enter Brother_ ROBERT _with a light_. + + _Robert_. + Head in your hands as usual! You will fret + Your life out, sitting moping in the dark. + Come, it is supper-time. + + _Julian_. + I will not sup to-night. + + _Robert_. + Not sup? You'll never live to be a saint. + + _Julian_. + A saint! The devil has me by the heel. + + _Robert_. + So has he all saints; as a boy his kite, + Which ever struggles higher for his hold. + It is a silly devil to gripe so hard;-- + He should let go his hold, and then he has you. + If you'll not come, I'll leave the light with you. + Hark to the chorus! Brother Stephen sings. + + Chorus. _Always merry, and never drunk. + That's the life of the jolly monk_. + + SONG. + + They say the first monks were lonely men, + Praying each in his lonely den, + Rising up to kneel again, + Each a skinny male Magdalene, + Peeping scared from out his hole + Like a burrowing rabbit or a mole; + But years ring changes as they roll-- + + Cho. _Now always merry, &c_. + + When the moon gets up with her big round face, + Like Mistress Poll's in the market-place, + Down to the village below we pace;-- + We know a supper that wants a grace: + Past the curtsying women we go, + Past the smithy, all a glow, + To the snug little houses at top of the row-- + + Cho. _For always merry, &c_. + + And there we find, among the ale, + The fragments of a floating tale: + To piece them together we never fail; + And we fit them rightly, I'll go bail. + And so we have them all in hand, + The lads and lasses throughout the land, + And we are the masters,--you understand? + + Cho. _So always merry, &c_. + + Last night we had such a game of play + With the nephews and nieces over the way, + All for the gold that belonged to the clay + That lies in lead till the judgment-day! + The old man's soul they'd leave in the lurch, + But we saved her share for old Mamma Church. + How they eyed the bag as they stood in the porch! + + Cho. _Oh! always merry, and never drunk_. + That's the life of the jolly monk! + + _Robert_. + The song is hardly to your taste, I see! + Where shall I set the light? + + _Julian_. + I do not need it. + + _Robert_. + Come, come! The dark is a hot-bed for fancies. + I wish you were at table, were it only + To stop the talking of the men about you. + You in the dark are talked of in the light. + + _Julian_. + Well, brother, let them talk; it hurts not me. + + _Robert_. + No; but it hurts your friend to hear them say, + You would be thought a saint without the trouble; + You do no penance that they can discover. + You keep shut up, say some, eating your heart, + Possessed with a bad conscience, the worst demon. + You are a prince, say others, hiding here, + Till circumstance that bound you, set you free. + To-night, there are some whispers of a lady + That would refuse your love. + + _Julian_. + Ay! What of her? + + _Robert_. + I heard no more than so; and that you came + To seek the next best service you could find: + Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's. + + _Julian_. + One part at least is true: I knock at God's; + He has not yet been pleased to let me in. + As for the lady--that is--so far true, + But matters little. Had I less to think, + This talking might annoy me; as it is, + Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; + I keep in-doors. + + _Robert_. + Gloomy as usual, brother! + Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send + The light that all day long gladdened the earth, + Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire + Transformed the weathercock into a star, + That you should gloom within stone walls all day. + At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: + We will salute the breezes, as they rise + And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours + Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss-- + Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring + Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. + Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light + Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, + And thence descend triumphant, step by step, + The stairway of the hills. Free air and action + Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain. + + _Julian_. + My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, + "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" + Through every open room the child would pass, + Timidly looking for the friendly eye; + Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder + At what he saw, until he found his sire; + But gathered to his bosom, straight he is + The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. + And so with me: not having seen Him yet, + The light rests on me with a heaviness; + All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; + A voice is in the wind I do not know; + A meaning on the face of the high hills + Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. + A something is behind them: that is God. + These are his words, I doubt not, language strange; + These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; + And he is present, but I find him not. + I have not yet been held close to his heart. + Once in his inner room, and by his eyes + Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, + 'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, + And sounds that never lose love's mystery. + Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him. + + _Robert + (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess_). See, there + is God revealed in human form! + + _Julian (kneeling and crossing_). + Alas, my friend!--revealed--but as in nature: + I see the man; I cannot find the God. + I know his voice is in the wind, his presence + Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth; + And there stands Manhood: and the God is there, + Not here, not here! + + (_Pointing to his bosom_.) + [_Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone_--] + + You do not understand me. + Without my need, you cannot know my want. + You will all night be puzzling to determine + With which of the old heretics to class me. + But you are honest; will not rouse the cry + Against me. I am honest. For the proof, + Such as will satisfy a monk, look here! + Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here! + Did one week's scourging seam my side like that? + I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show + Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you, + And cannot bear but you should think me true. + Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk + Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried, + And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate, + Let out one stray beam of its living light, + Or humbled that proud _I_ that knows not God! + You are my friend:--if you should find this cell + Empty some morning, do not be afraid + That any ill has happened. + + _Robert_.] + Well, perhaps + 'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, + But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [_Goes_. + + _Julian_. + Amen.--A good man; but he has not waked, + And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. + God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; + And so he does, as possible for him. + How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! + He thinks me an enthusiast, because + I seek to know God, and to hear his voice + Talk to my heart in silence; as of old + The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, + He lay communing with his heart; and God + With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until + In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. + My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, + And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God; + And let me know the living Father cares + For me, even me; for this one of his children.-- + Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought. + God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, + And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. + See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou + Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. + I am a child, a fool before thee, God; + But thou hast made my weakness as my strength. + I am an emptiness for thee to fill; + My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie + Diffused, abandoning myself to thee.... + --I will look up, if life should fail in looking. + Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring! + Ah me! A life lost from its father-life! + + + + +SCENE II.--_The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation_. +ROBERT _enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in_. + + _Stephen_ + (_speaking across the table_). + You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic; + Or, if you like it better, stand to reason; + For in this doctrine is involved a _cause_ + Which for its very being doth depend + Upon its own _effect_. For, don't you see, + He tells me to have faith and I shall live! + Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall + Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven; + What is salvation else? If I believe, + Then he will save me! But, so, this his _will_ + Has no existence till that I believe; + And there is nothing for my faith to rest on, + No object for belief. How can I trust + In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo. + Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence; + To all intents save one, most plenary-- + And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd. + + _Monk_. + 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. + And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling + At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one + Should find it poison. I have no pique at him-- + But there's that Julian!-- + + _Stephen_. + Hush! speak lower, friend. + + _Two_ Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_. + + _1st Monk_. + Where did you find her? + + _2nd Monk_. + She was taken ill + At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, + And so they called me in. I found her dying. + But ere she would confess and make her peace, + She begged to know if I had ever seen, + About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, + Moody and silent, with a little stoop + As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, + And a strange look of mingled youth and age,-- + + _1st Monk_. + Julian, by-- + + _2nd Monk_. + 'St--no names! I had not seen him. + I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, + And urged her to proceed; and she began; + But went not far before delirium came, + With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, + Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past + Was running riot in her conquered brain; + And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group + Held carnival; went freely out and in, + Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed + As some confused tragedy went on; + Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant + Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain + Lay desolate and silent. I can gather + So much, and little more:--This Julian + Is one of some distinction; probably rich, + And titled Count. He had a love-affair, + In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.-- + Give me the woman; love is troublesome!-- + She loved him too, but falsehood came between, + And used this woman for her minister; + Who never would have peached, but for a witness + Hidden behind some curtain in her heart-- + An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, + Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude + His story to some double-ghostly father, + For she is ghostly penitent by this. + Our consciences will play us no such tricks; + They are the Church's, not our own. We must + Keep this small matter secret. If it should + Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye-- + A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns! + And so the world will have the benefit + Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. + I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else + Until our Abbot comes. + + _1st Monk_. + That is to-morrow. + + _Another group near the bottom of the table, in which + is_ ROBERT. + + _1st Monk_. + 'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him. + Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, + Which passes like a thought across his face, + When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, + A while to our discourse?--he never joins. + + _2nd Monk_. + I know quite well. I stood beside him once, + Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking: + He chanced to say the words, _Our Holy Faith_. + "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips, + Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words + Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure + He is an atheist at the least. + + _3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_). + And I + Fear he is something worse. I had a trance + In which the devil tempted me: the shape + Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. + _Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame. + I am sure of one thing--music tortures him: + I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_, + When the whole chapel trembled in the sound, + Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain, + And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, + Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees. + + _2nd Monk_. + He does not know his rubric; stands when others + Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice + With his missal upside down. + + _4th Monk (plethoric and husky_). + He blew his nose + Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, + And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat. + + _Robert_. + When he returns, we must complain; and beg + He'll take such measures as the case requires. + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, +its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at +the light_. + + + _Julian_. + And so all growth that is not toward God + Is growing to decay. All increase gained + Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. + 'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, + Towering above the light it overcomes, + But ever sinking with the dying flame. + O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life! + No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! + Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? + Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none + That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. + Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me? + I have done naught for thee, am but a want; + But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; + And this same need of thee which thou hast given, + Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, + And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. + Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled + This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead + For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. + + Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; + Or was it but my heart that spoke for him? + "Thou mak'st me long," I said, "therefore wilt give; + My longing is thy promise, O my God! + If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, + Why doth the longing yet remain with me, + And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?" + Methought I heard for answer: "Question on. + Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds + Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, + A hungering and a fainting and a pain, + Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead + While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. + Better to live in pain than die that death." + + So I will live, and nourish this my pain; + For oft it giveth birth unto a hope + That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. + Softly I'll walk the earth; for it is his, + Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. + A still small voice I cannot but believe, + Says on within: God _will_ reveal himself. + + I must go from this place. I cannot rest. + It boots not staying. A desire like thirst + Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, + To be abroad on the mysterious earth, + Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. + + 'Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. + For many months I had not seen her form, + Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, + Until I laid me down an hour ago; + When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes, + The memory passed, reclothed in verity: + Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze + Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon; + The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, + "Ah! wake me not," which left them to their sleep, + All save the poplar: it was full of joy, + So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. + Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea, + She issued radiant from the pearly night. + It took me half with fear--the glimmer and gleam + Of her white festal garments, haloed round + With denser moonbeams. On she came--and there + I am bewildered. Something I remember + Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound, + Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; + Of agony, as when a spirit seeks + In vain to hold communion with a man; + A hand that would and would not stay in mine; + A gleaming of white garments far away; + And then I know not what. The moon was low, + When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet, + Dripping with dew-- + + _Enter_ ROBERT _cautiously_. + + Why, how now, Robert? + + [_Rising on his elbow_.] + _Robert (glancing at the chest_). + I see; that's well. Are + you nearly ready? + + _Julian_. + Why? What's the matter? + + _Robert_. + You must go this night, + If you would go at all. + + _Julian_. + Why must I go? + [_Rises_.] + _Robert (turning over the things in the chest_). + Here, put + this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. + No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat, + + [_Going to the chest again_.] + + Or something for your head? There's such a hubbub + Got up about you! The Abbot comes to-morrow. + + _Julian_. + Ah, well! I need not ask. I know it all. + + _Robert_. + No, you do not. Nor is there time to tell you. + Ten minutes more, they will be round to bar + The outer doors; and then--good-bye, poor Julian! + + [_JULIAN has been rapidly changing his clothes_.] + + _Julian_. + Now I am ready, Robert. Thank you, friend. + Farewell! God bless you! We shall meet again. + + _Robert_. + Farewell, dear friend! Keep far away from this. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _follows him out of the cell, steps along a narrow + passage to a door, which he opens slowly. He goes out, + and closes the door behind him_.] + + + + +SCENE IV.--_Night. The court of a country-inn. The_ Abbot, _while +his horse is brought out_. + + _Abbot_. + Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, + Within the holiest of the holy place! + I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, + With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; + And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, + Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, + Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved + By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem. + And over him shall bend the Mother mild, + In silken white and coroneted gems. + Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now-- + The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; + Nor know I any nests of money-bees + That could yield half-contentment to my need. + Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet + In journeying through this vale of tears have I + Projected pomp that did not blaze anon. + + + +SCENE V.--_After midnight_. JULIAN _seated under a tree by the +roadside_. + + + _Julian_. + So lies my journey--on into the dark! + Without my will I find myself alive, + And must go forward. Is it God that draws + Magnetic all the souls unto their home, + Travelling, they know not how, but unto God? + It matters little what may come to me + Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, + Social condition, yea, or love or hate; + But what shall _I_ be, fifty summers hence? + My life, my being, all that meaneth _me_, + Goes darkling forward into something--what? + O God, thou knowest. It is not my care. + If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, + It were a fearful thing to be and grow + We know not what. My God, take care of me; + Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, + Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. + And let thy own design in me work on, + Unfolding the ideal man in me; + Which being greater far than I have grown, + I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. + One day, completed unto thine intent, + I shall be able to discourse with thee; + For thy Idea, gifted with a self, + Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, + And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. + Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; + I ask not whither, for it must be on. + + This road will lead me to the hills, I think; + And there I am in safety and at home. + + + +SCENE VI.--_The Abbot's room. The_ Abbot _and one of the_ Monks. + + _Abbot_. + Did she say _Julian_? Did she say the name? + + _Monk_. + She did. + + _Abbot_. + What did she call the lady? What? + + _Monk_. + I could not hear. + + _Abbot_. + Nor where she lived? + _Monk_. + Nor that. + She was too wild for leading where I would. + + _Abbot_. + So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: + You have kept this matter secret? + + _Monk_. + Yes, my lord. + _Abbot_. + Well, go and send him hither. + + [Monk _goes_.] + Said I well, + That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me? + That God would hear his own elect who cried? + Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means + That it shall draw the eyes by power of light! + So tender in conceit, that it shall draw + The heart by very strength of delicateness, + And move proud thought to worship! + I must act + With caution now; must win his confidence; + Question him of the secret enemies + That fight against his soul; and lead him thus + To tell me, by degrees, his history. + So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation + For future acts, as circumstance requires. + For if the tale be true that he is rich, + And if---- + + _Re-enter _Monk _in haste and terror_. + + _Monk_. + He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty. + + _Abbot_ (_starting up_). + What! You are crazy! Gone? + His cell is empty? + + _Monk_. + 'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes! + + _Abbot_. + Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear! + There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied! + Some one is in his confidence!--who is it? + Go rouse the convent. + + [Monk _goes_.] + + He must be followed, found. + Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag! + But by and by your horns, and then your side! + 'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating. + I'll go and sift this business to the bran. + Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!--God's + curse! it shall fare ill with any man + That has connived at this, if I detect him. + + + +SCENE VII.--_Afternoon. The mountains_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven! + I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak + Is miles away, and high amid the clouds. + Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, + With the fantastic rock upon its side, + Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window + Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze + With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, + Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, + The _hitherto_ of my child-thoughts. Beyond, + A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, + Might be the depths of the unfathomed space, + This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. + Upon its very point I have watched a star + For a few moments crown it with a fire, + As of an incense-offering that blazed + Upon this mighty altar high uplift, + And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. + From the next window I could look abroad + Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted + With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, + Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, + In white and green; but still I turned to look + At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: + All here I saw--I knew not what was there. + O love of knowledge and of mystery, + Striving together in the heart of man! + "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."-- + Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: + "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!" + But I must hasten; else the sun will set + Before I reach the smoother valley-road. + I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has + Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, + Four years of wandering since I left my home, + In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, + Must have worn changes in this face of mine + Sufficient to conceal me, if I will. + + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the +floor_. ROBERT. + + + _Robert_. + One comfort is, he's far away by this. + Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. + Where shall I find a daysman in this strife + Between my heart and holy Church's words? + Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, + Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must + Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, + Be subject to the written law of words; + Impulses made, made strong, that we might have + Within the temple's court live things to bring + And slay upon his altar; that we may, + By this hard penance of the heart and soul, + Become the slaves of Christ.--I have done wrong; + I ought not to have let poor Julian go. + And yet that light upon the floor says, yes-- + Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, + Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life + That he might be in peace. Still up and down + The balance goes, a good in either scale; + Two angels giving each to each the lie, + And none to part them or decide the question. + But still the _words_ come down the heaviest + Upon my conscience as that scale descends; + But that may be because they hurt me more, + Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. + Would God forbid us to do what is right, + Even for his sake? But then Julian's life + Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! + I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God + Commanded different things in different tones. + Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest + God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, + Like Mary singing to her mangered child; + The other like a self-restrained tempest; + Like--ah, alas!--the trumpet on Mount Sinai, + Louder and louder, and the voice of _words_. + O for some light! Would they would kill me! then + I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, + And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; + And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. + I should not fear, for he would comfort me, + Because I am perplexed, and long to know. + But this perplexity may be my sin, + And come of pride that will not yield to him! + O for one word from God! his own, and fresh + From him to me! Alas, what shall I do! + + + + + +_PART II_. + + + Hark, hark, a voice amid the quiet intense! + It is thy Duty waiting thee without. + Rise from thy knees in hope, the half of doubt; + A hand doth pull thee--it is Providence; + Open thy door straightway, and get thee hence; + Go forth into the tumult and the shout; + Work, love, with workers, lovers, all about: + Of noise alone is born the inward sense + Of silence; and from action springs alone + The inward knowledge of true love and faith. + Then, weary, go thou back with failing breath, + And in thy chamber make thy prayer and moan: + One day upon _His_ bosom, all thine own, + Thou shall lie still, embraced in holy death. + + + +SCENE I.--_A room in Julian's castle_. JULIAN _and the old_ Nurse. + + + _Julian_. + Nembroni? Count Nembroni?--I remember: + A man about my height, but stronger built? + I have seen him at her father's. There was something + I did not like about him:--ah! I know: + He had a way of darting looks at you, + As if he wished to know you, but by stealth. + + _Nurse_. + The same, my lord. He is the creditor. + The common story is, he sought the daughter, + But sought in vain: the lady would not wed. + 'Twas rumoured soon they were in grievous trouble, + Which caused much wonder, for the family + Was always reckoned wealthy. Count Nembroni + Contrived to be the only creditor, + And so imprisoned him. + + _Julian_. + Where is the lady? + _Nurse_. + Down in the town. + _Julian_. + But where? + _Nurse_. + If you turn left, + When you go through the gate, 'tis the last house + Upon this side the way. An honest couple, + Who once were almost pensioners of hers, + Have given her shelter: still she hopes a home + With distant friends. Alas, poor lady! 'tis + A wretched change for her. + + _Julian_. + Hm! ah! I see. + What kind of man is this Nembroni, nurse? + + _Nurse_. + Here he is little known. His title comes + From an estate, they say, beyond the hills. + He looks ungracious: I have seen the children + Run to the doors when he came up the street. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, nurse; you may go. Stay--one thing more: + Have any of my people seen me? + + _Nurse_. None + But me, my lord. + + _Julian_. + And can you keep it secret?-- + know you will for my sake. I will trust you. + Bring me some supper; I am tired and faint. [Nurse goes.] + Poor and alone! Such a man has not laid + His plans for nothing further! I will watch him. + Heaven may have brought me hither for her sake. + Poor child! I would protect thee as thy father, + Who cannot help thee. Thou wast not to blame; + My love had no claim on like love from thee.--How + the old tide comes rushing to my heart! + + I know not what I can do yet but watch. + I have no hold on him. I cannot go, + Say, _I suspect_; and, _Is it so or not_? + I should but injure them by doing so. + True, I might pay her father's debts; and will, + If Joseph, my old friend, has managed well + During my absence. _I_ have not spent much. + But still she'd be in danger from this man, + If not permitted to betray himself; + And I, discovered, could no more protect. + Or if, unseen by her, I yet could haunt + Her footsteps like an angel, not for long + Should I remain unseen of other eyes, + That peer from under cowls--not angel-eyes-- + Hunting me out, over the stormy earth. + No; I must watch. I can do nothing better. + + + +SCENE II.--_A poor cottage. An old_ Man _and_ Woman _sitting together_. + + _Man_. + How's the poor lady now? + + _Woman_. + She's poorly still. + I fancy every day she's growing thinner. + I am sure she's wasting steadily. + + _Man_. + Has the count + Been here again to-day? + + _Woman_. + No. And I think + He will not come again. She was so proud + The last time he was here, you would have thought + She was a queen at least. + + _Man_. + Remember, wife, + What she has been. Trouble like that throws down + The common folk like us all of a heap: + With folks like her, that are high bred and blood, + It sets the mettle up. + + _Woman_. + All very right; + But take her as she was, she might do worse + Than wed the Count Nembroni. + + _Man_. + Possible. + But are you sure there is no other man + Stands in his way? + + _Woman_. + How can I tell? So be, + He should be here to help her. What she'll do + I am sure I do not know. We cannot keep her. + And for her work, she does it far too well + To earn a living by it. Her times are changed-- + She should not give herself such prideful airs. + + _Man_. + Come, come, old wife! you women are so hard + On one another! You speak fair for men, + And make allowances; but when a woman + Crosses your way, you speak the worst of her. + But where is this you're going then to-night? + Do they want me to go as well as you? + + _Woman_. + Yes, you must go, or else it is no use. + They cannot give the money to me, except + My husband go with me. He told me so. + + _Man_. + Well, wife, it's worth the going--but to see: + I don't expect a groat to come of it. + + + +SCENE III.--_Kitchen of a small inn_. Host _and_ Hostess. + + + _Host_. + That's a queer customer you've got upstairs! + What the deuce is he? + + _Hostess_. + What is that to us? + He always pays his way, and handsomely. + I wish there were more like him. + + _Host_. + Has he been + At home all day? + + _Hostess_. + He has not stirred a foot + Across the threshold. That's his only fault-- + He's always in the way. + + _Host_. + What does he do? + + _Hostess_. + Paces about the room, or sits at the window. + I sometimes make an errand to the cupboard, + To see what he's about: he looks annoyed, + But does not speak a word. + _Host_. + He must be crazed, + Or else in hiding for some scrape or other. + + _Hostess_. + He has a wild look in his eye sometimes; + But sure he would not sit so much in the dark, + If he were mad, or anything on his conscience; + And though he does not say much, when he speaks + A civiller man ne'er came in woman's way. + + _Host_. + Oh! he's all right, I warrant. Is the wine come? + + + +SCENE IV.--_The inn; a room upstairs_. JULIAN _at the window, half +hidden by the curtain_. + + _Julian_. + With what profusion her white fingers spend + Delicate motions on the insensate cloth! + It was so late this morning ere she came! + I fear she has been ill. She looks so pale! + Her beauty is much less, but she more lovely. + Do I not love he? more than when that beauty + Beamed out like starlight, radiating beyond + The confines of her wondrous face and form, + And animated with a present power + Her garment's folds, even to the very hem! + + Ha! there is something now: the old woman drest + In her Sunday clothes, and waiting at the door, + As for her husband. Something will follow this. + And here he comes, all in his best like her. + They will be gone a while. Slowly they walk, + With short steps down the street. Now I must wake + The sleeping hunter-eagle in my eyes! + + + +SCENE V.--_A back street. Two_ Servants _with a carriage and pair_. + + _1st Serv_. + Heavens, what a cloud! as big as Aetna! There! + That gust blew stormy. Take Juno by the head, + I'll stand by Neptune. Take her head, I say; + We'll have enough to do, if it should lighten. + + _2nd Serv_. + Such drops! That's the first of it. I declare + She spreads her nostrils and looks wild already, + As if she smelt it coming. I wish we were + Under some roof or other. I fear this business + Is not of the right sort. + + _1st Serv_. + He looked as black + As if he too had lightning in his bosom. + There! Down, you brute! Mind the pole, Beppo! + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room. JULIAN standing at the window, his face +pressed against a pane. Storm and gathering darkness without_. + + _Julian_. + Plague on the lamp! 'tis gone--no, there it flares! + I wish the wind would leave or blow it out. + Heavens! how it thunders! This terrific storm + Will either cow or harden him. I'm blind! + That lightning! Oh, let me see again, lest he + Should enter in the dark! I cannot bear + This glimmering longer. Now that gush of rain + Has blotted all my view with crossing lights. + 'Tis no use waiting here. I must cross over, + And take my stand in the corner by the door. + But if he comes while I go down the stairs, + And I not see? To make sure, I'll go gently + Up the stair to the landing by her door. + + [_He goes quickly toward the door_.] + + _Hostess (opening the door and looking in_). + If you please, sir-- + + [_He hurries past_] + + The devil's in the man! + + + +SCENE VII.--_The landing_. + + _Voice within_. + If you scream, I must muffle you. + + _Julian (rushing up the stair_). + He _is_ there! + His hand is on her mouth! She tries to scream! + + [_Flinging the door open, as_ NEMBRONI _springs + forward on the other side_.] + + Back! + + _Nembroni_. + What the devil!--Beggar! + + [_Drawing his sword, and making a thrust at_ JULIAN, _which + he parries with his left arm, as, drawing his dagger, he + springs within_ NEMBRONI'S _guard_.] + + _Julian (taking him by the throat_). + I have faced worse + storms than you. + + [_They struggle_.] + + Heart point and hilt strung on the line of force, + + [_He stabs him_.] + + Your ribs will not mail your heart! + + [NEMBRONI _falls dead_. JULIAN _wipes his dagger on the + dead man's coat_.] + + If men _will_ be devils, + They are better in hell than here. + + [_Lightning flashes on the blade_.] + + What a night + For a soul to go out of doors! God in heaven! + + [_Approaches the lady within_.] + + Ah! she has fainted. That is well. I hope + It will not pass too soon. It is not far + To the half-hidden door in my own fence, + And that is well. If I step carefully, + Such rain will soon wash out the tell-tale footprints. + What! blood? _He_ does not bleed much, I should think! + Oh, I see! it is mine--he has wounded me. + That's awkward now. + + [_Takes a handkerchief from the floor by the window_.] + + Pardon me, dear lady; + + [_Ties the handkerchief with hand and teeth round his arm_.] + + 'Tis not to save my blood I would defile + Even your handkerchief. + + [_Coming towards the door, carrying her_.] + + I am pleased to think + Ten monkish months have not ta'en all my strength. + + [_Looking out of the window on the landing_.] + + For once, thank darkness! 'Twas sent for us, not him. + + [_He goes down the stair_] + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A room in the castle_. JULIAN _and the_ Nurse. + + _Julian_. + Ask me no questions now, my dear old nurse. + You have put your charge to bed? + + _Nurse_. + Yes, my dear lord. + + _Julian_. + And has she spoken yet? + + _Nurse_. + After you left, + Her eyelids half unclosed; she murmured once: + _Where am I, mother_?--then she looked at me, + And her eyes wandered over all my face, + Till half in comfort, half in weariness, + They closed again. Bless her, dear soul! she is + As feeble as a child. + + _Julian_. + Under your care + She'll soon be well again. Let no one know + She is in the house:--blood has been shed for her. + + _Nurse_. + Alas! I feared it; blood is on her dress. + + _Julian_. + That's mine, not his. But put it in the fire. + Get her another. I'll leave a purse with you. + + _Nurse_. + Leave? + + _Julian_. + Yes. I am off to-night, wandering again + Over the earth and sea. She must not know + I have been here. You must contrive to keep + My share a secret. Once she moved and spoke + When a branch caught me, but she could not see me. + She thought, no doubt, it was Nembroni had her; + Nor would she have known me. You must hide her, nurse. + Let her on no pretense guess where she is, + Nor utter word that might suggest the fact. + When she is well and wishes to be gone, + Then write to this address--but under cover + + [_Writing_.] + + To the Prince Calboli at Florence. I + Will see to all the rest. But let her know + Her father is set free; assuredly, + Ere you can say it is, it will be so. + + _Nurse_. + How shall I best conceal her, my good lord? + + _Julian_. + I have thought of that. There's a deserted room + In the old west wing, at the further end + Of the oak gallery. + + _Nurse_. + Not deserted quite. + I ventured, when you left, to make it mine, + Because you loved it when a boy, my lord. + + _Julian_. + You do not know, nurse, why I loved it though: + I found a sliding panel, and a door + Into a room behind. I'll show it you. + You'll find some musty traces of me yet, + When you go in. Now take her to your room, + But get the other ready. Light a fire, + And keep it burning well for several days. + Then, one by one, out of the other rooms, + Take everything to make it comfortable; + Quietly, you know. If you must have your daughter, + Bind her to be as secret as yourself. + Then put her there. I'll let her father know + She is in safety.--I must change attire, + And be far off or ever morning break. + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + My treasure-room! how little then I thought, + Glad in my secret, one day it would hold + A treasure unto which I dared not come. + Perhaps she'd love me now--a very little!-- + But not with even a heavenly gift would I + Go begging love; that should be free as light, + Cleaving unto myself even for myself. + I have enough to brood on, joy to turn + Over and over in my secret heart:-- + She lives, and is the better that I live! + + _Re-enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, her mind is wandering; she is raving; + She's in a dreadful fever. We must send + To Arli for the doctor, else her life + Will be in danger. + + _Julian_ + (_rising disturbed_). + Go and fetch your daughter. + Between you, take her to my room, yours now. + I'll see her there. I think you can together! + + _Nurse_. + O yes, my lord; she is so thin, poor child! + + [Nurse _goes_.] + + _Julian_. + I ought to know the way to treat a fever, + If it be one of twenty. Hers has come + Of low food, wasting, and anxiety. + I've seen enough of that in Prague and Smyrna! + + + +SCENE IX.--_The Abbot's room in the monastery. The_ Abbot. + + _Abbot_. + 'Tis useless all. No trace of him found yet. + One hope remains: that fellow has a head! + + _Enter_ STEPHEN. + + Stephen, I have sent for you, because I am told + You said to-day, if I commissioned you, + You'd scent him out, if skulking in his grave. + + _Stephen_. + I did, my lord. + + _Abbot_. + How would you do it, Stephen? + + _Stephen_. + Try one plan till it failed; then try another; + Try half-a-dozen plans at once; keep eyes + And ears wide open, and mouth shut, my lord: + Your bull-dog sometimes makes the best retriever. + I have no plan; but, give me time and money, + I'll find him out. + + _Abbot_. + Stephen, you're just the man + I have been longing for. Get yourself ready. + + + +SCENE X.--_Towards morning. The Nurse's room_. LILIA _in bed_. +JULIAN _watching_. + + _Julian_. + I think she sleeps. Would God it be so; then + She will do well. What strange things she has spoken! + My heart is beating as if it would spend + Its life in this one night, and beat it out. + And well it may, for there is more of life + In one such moment than in many years! + Pure life is measured by intensity, + Not by the how much of the crawling clock. + Is that a bar of moonlight stretched across + The window-blind? or is it but a band + Of whiter cloth my thrifty dame has sewed + Upon the other?--'Tis the moon herself, + Low in the west. 'Twas such a moon as this-- + + _Lilia_ + (_half-asleep, wildly_). + If Julian had been here, you dared not do it!-- + Julian! Julian! + + [_Half-rising_.] + + _Julian_ + (_forgetting his caution, and going up to her_). + I am here, my Lilia. + Put your head down, my love. 'Twas all a dream, + A terrible dream. Gone now--is it not? + + [_She looks at him with wide restless eyes; then sinks back on + the pillow. He leaves her_.] + + How her dear eyes bewildered looked at me! + But her soul's eyes are closed. If this last long + She'll die before my sight, and Joy will lead + In by the hand her sister, Grief, pale-faced, + And leave her to console my solitude. + Ah, what a joy! I dare not think of it! + And what a grief! I will not think of that! + Love? and from her? my beautiful, my own! + O God, I did not know thou wast so rich + In making and in giving; did not know + The gathered glory of this earth of thine. + What! wilt thou crush me with an infinite joy? + Make me a god by giving? Wilt thou take + Thy centre-thought of living beauty, born + In thee, and send it home to dwell with me? + + [_He leans on the wall_.] + + _Lilia_ + (_softly_). + Am I in heaven? There's something makes me glad, + As if I were in heaven! Yes, yes, I am. + I see the flashing of ten thousand glories; + I hear the trembling of a thousand wings, + That vibrate music on the murmuring air! + Each tiny feather-blade crushes its pool + Of circling air to sound, and quivers music!-- + What is it, though, that makes me glad like this? + I knew, but cannot find it--I forget. + It must be here--what was it?--Hark! the fall, + The endless going of the stream of life!-- + Ah me! I thirst, I thirst,--I am so thirsty! + + [_Querulously_.] + + [JULIAN _gives her drink, supporting her. She looks at him + again, with large wondering eyes_.] + + Ah! now I know--I was so very thirsty! + + [_He lays her down. She is comforted, and falls asleep. He + extinguishes the light, and looks out of the window_.] + + _Julian_. + The gray earth dawning up, cold, comfortless; + With its obtrusive _I am_ written large + Upon its face! + + [_Approaches the bed, and gazes on_ LILIA _silently with + clasped hands; then returns to the window_.] + + She sleeps so peacefully! + O God, I thank thee: thou hast sent her sleep. + Lord, let it sink into her heart and brain. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + Oh, nurse, I'm glad you're come! She is asleep. + You must be near her when she wakes again. + I think she'll be herself. But do be careful-- + Right cautious how you tell her I am here. + Sweet woman-child, may God be in your sleep! + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Nurse_. + Bless her white face, she looks just like my daughter, + That's now a saint in heaven! Just those thin cheeks, + And eyelids hardly closed over her eyes!-- + Dream on, poor darling! you are drinking life + From the breast of sleep. And yet I fain would see + Your shutters open, for I then should know + Whether the soul had drawn her curtains back, + To peep at morning from her own bright windows. + Ah! what a joy is ready, waiting her, + To break her fast upon, if her wild dreams + Have but betrayed her secrets honestly! + Will he not give thee love as dear as thine! + + + +SCENE XI.--_A hilly road_. STEPHEN, _trudging alone, pauses to look +around him_. + + _Stephen_. + Not a footprint! not a trace that a blood-hound + would nose at! But Stephen shall be acknowledged + good dog and true. If I had him within stick-length--mind + thy head, brother Julian! Thou hast not + hair enough to protect it, and thy tonsure shall not. + Neither shalt thou tarry at Jericho.--It is a poor man + that leaves no trail; and if thou wert poor, I would not + follow thee. + + [_Sings_.] + + + Oh, many a hound is stretching out + His two legs or his four, + And the saddled horses stand about + The court and the castle door, + Till out come the baron, jolly and stout, + To hunt the bristly boar! + + The emperor, he doth keep a pack + In his antechambers standing, + And up and down the stairs, good lack! + And eke upon the landing: + A straining leash, and a quivering back, + And nostrils and chest expanding! + + The devil a hunter long hath been, + Though Doctor Luther said it: + Of his canon-pack he was the dean, + And merrily he led it: + The old one kept them swift and lean + On faith--that's devil's credit! + + Each man is a hunter to his trade, + And they follow one another; + But such a hunter never was made + As the monk that hunted his brother! + And the runaway pig, ere its game be played, + Shall be eaten by its mother! + + + Better hunt a flea in a woolly blanket, than a leg-bail + monk in this wilderness of mountains, forests, and + precipices! But the flea _may_ be caught, and so _shall_ + the monk. I have said it. He is well spotted, with + his silver crown and his uncropped ears. The rascally + heretic! But his vows shall keep him, though he won't + keep his vows. The whining, blubbering idiot! Gave + his plaything, and wants it back!--I wonder whereabouts + I am. + + +SCENE XII.--_The Nurse's room_. LILIA _sitting up in bed_. JULIAN +_seated by her; an open note in his hand_. + + _Lilia_. + Tear it up, Julian. + + _Julian_. + No; I'll treasure it + As the remembrance of a by-gone grief: + I love it well, because it is _not_ yours. + + _Lilia_. + Where have you been these long, long years away? + You look much older. You have suffered, Julian! + + _Julian_. + Since that day, Lilia, I have seen much, thought much, + Suffered a little. When you are quite yourself, + I'll tell you all you want to know about me. + + _Lilia_. + Do tell me something now. I feel quite strong; + It will not hurt me. + + _Julian_. + Wait a day or two. + Indeed 'twould weary you to tell you all. + + _Lilia_. + And I have much to tell you, Julian. I + Have suffered too--not all for my own sake. + + [_Recalling something_.] + + Oh, what a dream I had! Oh, Julian!-- + I don't know when it was. It must have been + Before you brought me here! I am sure it was. + + _Julian_. + Don't speak about it. Tell me afterwards. + You must keep quiet now. Indeed you must. + + _Lilia_. + I will obey you, will not speak a word. + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + Blessings upon her! she's near well already. + Who would have thought, three days ago, to see + You look so bright! My lord, you have done wonders. + + _Julian_. + My art has helped a little, I thank God.-- + To please me, Lilia, go to sleep a while. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + _Lilia_. + Why does he always wear that curious cap? + + _Nurse_. + I don't know. You must sleep. + + _Lilia_. + Yes. I forgot. + + + +SCENE XIII.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN _and the_ Steward. _Papers +on the table, which_ JULIAN _has just finished examining_. + + _Julian_. + Thank you much, Joseph; you have done well for me. + You sent that note privately to my friend? + + _Steward_. + I did, my lord; and have conveyed the money, + Putting all things in train for his release, + Without appearing in it personally, + Or giving any clue to other hands. + He sent this message by my messenger: + His hearty thanks, and God will bless you for it. + He will be secret. For his daughter, she + Is safe with you as with himself; and so + God bless you both! He will expect to hear + From both of you from England. + + _Julian_. + Well, again. + What money is remaining in your hands? + + _Steward_. + Two bags, three hundred each; that's all. + I fear To wake suspicion, if I call in more. + + _Julian_. + One thing, and I have done: lest a mischance + Befall us, though I do not fear it much-- + have been very secret--is that boat + I had before I left, in sailing trim? + + _Steward_. + I knew it was a favorite with my lord; + I've taken care of it. A month ago, + With my own hands I painted it all fresh, + Fitting new oars and rowlocks. The old sail + I'll have replaced immediately; and then + 'Twill be as good as new. + + _Julian_. + That's excellent. + Well, launch it in the evening. Make it fast + To the stone steps behind my garden study. + Stow in the lockers some sea-stores, and put + The money in the old desk in the study. + + _Steward_. + I will, my lord. It will be safe enough. + + + + +SCENE XIV.--_A road near the town_. _A_ Waggoner. STEPHEN, _in lay +dress, coming up to him_. + + _Stephen_. + Whose castle's that upon the hill, good fellow? + + _Waggoner_. + Its present owner's of the Uglii; + They call him Lorenzino. + + _Stephen_. + Whose is that + Down in the valley? + + _Waggoner_. + That is Count Lamballa's. + + _Stephen_. + What is his Christian name? + + _Waggoner_. + Omfredo. No, + That was his father's; his is Julian. + + _Stephen_. + Is he at home? + + _Waggoner_. + No, not for many a day. + His steward, honest man, I know is doubtful + Whether he be alive; and yet his land + Is better farmed than any in the country. + + _Stephen_. + He is not married, then? + + _Waggoner_. + No. There's a gossip + Amongst the women--but who would heed their talk!-- + That love half-crazed, then drove him out of doors, + To wander here and there, like a bad ghost, + Because a silly wench refused him:--fudge! + + _Stephen_. + Most probably. I quite agree with you. + Where do you stop? + + _Waggoner_. + At the first inn we come to; + You'll see it from the bottom of the hill. + There is a better at the other end, + But here the stabling is by far the best. + + _Stephen_. + I must push on. Four legs can never go + Down-hill so fast as two. Good morning, friend. + + _Waggoner_. + Good morning, sir. + + _Stephen (aside_) + I take the further house. + + + +SCENE XV.--_The Nurse's room_. JULIAN _and_ LILIA _standing near the +window_. + + _Julian_. + But do you really love me, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Why do you make me say it so often, Julian? + You make me say _I love you_, oftener far + Than you say you love me. + + _Julian_. + To love you seems + So much a thing of mere necessity! + I can refrain from loving you no more + Than keep from waking when the sun shines full + Upon my face. + + _Lilia_. + And yet I love to say + How, how I love you, Julian! + + [_Leans her head on his arm_. JULIAN _winces a little. She + raises her head and looks at him_.] + + Did I hurt you? + Would you not have me lean my head on you? + + _Julian_. + Come on this side, my love; 'tis a slight hurt + Not yet quite healed. + + _Lilia_. + Ah, my poor Julian! How-- + I am so sorry!--Oh, I _do_ remember! + I saw it all quite plain! It was no dream! + I saw you fighting!--Surely you did not kill him? + + _Julian_ + (_calmly, but drawing himself up_). + I killed him as I would a dog that bit you. + + _Lilia_ + (_turning pale, and covering her face with her + hands_.) + Oh, that was dreadful! there is blood on you! + + _Julian_. + Shall I go, Lilia? + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, no, no, do not.-- + I shall be better presently. + + _Julian_. + You shrink + As from a murderer! + + _Lilia_. + Oh no, I love you-- + Will never leave you. Pardon me, my Julian; + But blood is terrible. + + _Julian_ + (_drawing her close to him_). + My own sweet Lilia, + 'Twas justly shed, for your defense and mine, + As it had been a tiger that I killed. + He had no right to live. Be at peace, darling; + His blood lies not on me, but on himself; + I do not feel its stain upon my conscience. + + [_A tap at the door_.] + + _Enter_ Nurse. + + _Nurse_. + My lord, the steward waits on you below. + + [JULIAN _goes_.] + + You have been standing till you're faint, my lady! + Lie down a little. There!--I'll fetch you something. + + + +SCENE XVI.--_The Steward's room_. JULIAN. _The Steward_. + + _Julian_. + Well, Joseph, that will do. I shall expect + To hear from you soon after my arrival. + Is the boat ready? + + _Steward_. + Yes, my lord; afloat + Where you directed. + + _Julian_. + A strange feeling haunts me, + As of some danger near. Unlock it, and cast + The chain around the post. Muffle the oars. + + _Steward_. + I will, directly. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Julian_. + How shall I manage it? + I have her father's leave, but have not dared + To tell her all; and she must know it first! + She fears me half, even now: what will she think + To see my shaven head? My heart is free-- + I know that God absolves mistaken vows. + I looked for help in the high search from those + Who knew the secret place of the Most High. + If I had known, would I have bound myself + Brother to men from whose low, marshy minds + Never a lark springs to salute the day? + The loftiest of them dreamers, and the best + Content with goodness growing like moss on stones! + It cannot be God's will I should be such. + But there was more: they virtually condemned + Me in my quest; would have had me content + To kneel with them around a wayside post, + Nor heed the pointing finger at its top? + It was the dull abode of foolishness: + Not such the house where God would train his children! + My very birth into a world of men + Shows me the school where he would have me learn; + Shows me the place of penance; shows the field + Where I must fight and die victorious, + Or yield and perish. True, I know not how + This will fall out: he must direct my way! + But then for her--she cannot see all this; + Words will not make it plain; and if they would, + The time is shorter than the words would need: + This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.-- + It _may_ be only vapour, of the heat + Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear + That the fair gladness is too good to live: + The wider prospect from the steep hill's crest, + The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down; + But how will she receive it? Will she think + I have been mocking her? How could I help it? + Her illness and my danger! But, indeed, + So strong was I in truth, I never thought + Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way. + My love did make her so a part of me, + I never dreamed she might judge otherwise, + Until our talk of yesterday. And now + Her horror at Nembroni's death confirms me: + To wed a monk will seem to her the worst + Of crimes which in a fever one might dream. + I cannot take the truth, and, bodily, + Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong. + She loves me--not as I love her. But always + --There's Robert for an instance--I have loved + A life for what it might become, far more + Than for its present: there's a germ in her + Of something noble, much beyond her now: + Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not. + + This evening must decide it, come what will. + + + +SCENE XVII.--_The inn; the room which had been_ JULIAN'S. STEPHEN, +Host, _and_ Hostess. _Wine on the table_. + + _Stephen_. + Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass; + Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband. + + _Hostess_. + I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine; + My husband's choice is praised. I cannot say + I am a judge myself. + + _Host_. + I'm confident + It needs but to be tasted. + + _Stephen_ + (_tasting critically, then nodding_). + That is wine! + Let me congratulate you, my good sir, + Upon your exquisite judgment! + + _Host_. + Thank you, sir. + + _Stephen_ + (_to the_ Hostess). + And so this man, you say, was here until + The night the count was murdered: did he leave + Before or after that? + + _Hostess_. + I cannot tell; + He left, I know, before it was discovered. + In the middle of the storm, like one possessed, + He rushed into the street, half tumbling me + Headlong down stairs, and never came again. + He had paid his bill that morning, luckily; + So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one! + + _Stephen_. + What was he like, fair Hostess? + + _Hostess_. + Tall and dark, + And with a lowering look about his brows. + He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil. + One queer thing was, he always wore his hat, + Indoors as well as out. I dare not say + He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange + He always sat at that same window there, + And looked into the street. 'Tis not as if + There were much traffic in the village now; + These are changed times; but I have seen the day-- + + _Stephen_. + Excuse me; you were saying that the man + Sat at the window-- + + _Hostess_. + Yes; even after dark + He would sit on, and never call for lights. + The first night, I brought candles, as of course; + He let me set them on the table, true; + But soon's my back was turned, he put them out. + + _Stephen_. + Where is the lady? + + _Hostess_. + That's the strangest thing + Of all the story: she has disappeared, + As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead, + White as my apron. The whole house was empty, + Just as I told you. + + _Stephen_. + Has no search been made? + _Host_. + The closest search; a thousand pieces offered + For any information that should lead + To the murderer's capture. I believe his brother, + Who is his heir, they say, is still in town, + Seeking in vain for some intelligence. + + _Stephen_. + 'Tis very odd; the oddest thing I've heard + For a long time. Send me a pen and ink; + I have to write some letters. + + _Hostess (rising_). + Thank you, sir, + For your kind entertainment. + + [_Exeunt Host and Hostess_.] + + _Stephen_. + We've found the badger's hole; we'll draw + him next. He couldn't have gone far with her and not + be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and + corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a + wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother + Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away + with a wench at last! Well, there's a downfall! He'll + be for marrying her on the sly, and away!--I know the + old fox!--for her conscience-sake, probably not for his! + Well, one comfort is, it's damnation and no reprieve. + The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old + mother wasn't indulgent enough to the foibles of her + children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her + dutiful sons, that she's nearly blind with winking. There's + nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to + marry, and knock one's vows on the head! Therein is + displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable + progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the + cloven foot. _Keep back thy servant_, &c.--Purgatory + couldn't cleanse that; and more, 'twill never have the + chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I'll + go find the new count. The Church shall have the + castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new + count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well + have the thousand pieces as not. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Night. The Nurse's room_. LILIA; _to her_ JULIAN. + + _Lilia_. + How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + My Lilia, will you go to England with me? + + _Lilia_. + Julian, my father! + + _Julian_. + Not without his leave. + He says, God bless us both. + + _Lilia_. + Leave him in prison? + + _Julian_. + No, Lilia; he's at liberty and safe, + And far from this ere now. + + _Lilia_. + You have done this, + My noble Julian! I will go with you + To sunset, if you will. My father gone! + Julian, there's none to love me now but you. + You _will_ love me, Julian?--always? + + _Julian_. + I but fear + That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough + To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it. + + _Lilia_. + I know why you think that; and I deserve it. + But try me, Julian. I was very silly. + I could not help it. I was ill, you know; + Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian, + How your arm is to-day? + + _Julian_. + Almost well, child. + Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I'm afraid. + + _Lilia_. + Never mind that, if it be well again. + + _Julian_. + I do not mind it; but when I remember + That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch + Or stain should be upon me--soul, body, yours. + And there are more scars on me now than I + Should like to make you own, without confession. + + _Lilia_. + My poor, poor Julian! never think of it; + + [_Putting her arms round him_.] + + I will but love you more. I thought you had + Already told me suffering enough; + But not the half, it seems, of your adventures. + You have been a soldier! + + _Julian_. + I have fought, my Lilia. + I have been down among the horses' feet; + But strange to tell, and harder to believe, + Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood + Save what I lifted from the gory ground. + + [_Sighing_.] + + My wounds are not of such. + + [LILIA, _loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a + kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation_.] + + No. Penance, Lilia; + Such penance as the saints of old inflicted + Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know; + As a lord would exalt himself, by making + His willing servants into trembling slaves! + Yet I have borne it. + + _Lilia_ + (_laying her hand on his arm_). + Ah, alas, my Julian, + You have been guilty! + + _Julian_. + Not what men call guilty, + Save it be now; now you will think I sin. + Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.-- + Lilia, I have been a monk. + + _Lilia_. + A monk? + + [_Turningpale_.] + + I thought-- + + [_Faltering_.] + + Julian,--I thought you said.... did you not say ... ? + + [_Very pale, brokenly_.] + + I thought you said ... + + [_With an effort_.] + + I was to be your wife! + + [_Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears_.] + + _Julian_ + (_speaking low and in pain_). + And so I did. + + _Lilia_ + (_hopefully, and looking up_). + Then you've had dispensation? + + _Julian_. + God has absolved me, though the Church will not. + He knows it was in ignorance I did it. + Rather would he have men to do his will, + Than keep a weight of words upon their souls, + Which they laid there, not graven by his finger. + The vow was made to him--to him I break it. + + _Lilia_ + (_weeping bitterly_). + I would ... your words were true ... but I do know ... + It never can ... be right to break a vow; + If so, men might be liars every day; + You'd do the same by me, if we were married. + + _Julian_ + (_in anguish_). + 'Tis ever so. Words are the living things! + There is no spirit--save what's born of words! + Words are the bonds that of two souls make one! + Words the security of heart to heart! + God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God! + + _Lilia_ + (_not heeding him_). + Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon + Gave late repentance; I should weep away + My life within a convent. + + _Julian_. + Come to England, + To England, Lilia. + + _Lilia_. + Men would point, and say: + _There go the monk and his wife_; if they, in truth, + Called me not by a harder name than that. + + _Julian_. + There are no monks in England. + + _Lilia_. + But will that + Make right what's wrong? + + _Julian_. + Did I say so, my Lilia? + I answered but your last objections thus; + I had a different answer for the first. + + _Lilia_. + No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it. + + _Julian_. + Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot. + --I would have told you all before, but thought, + Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;-- + I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more; + I would not hurt your body, less your soul, + For all the blessedness your love can give: + For love's sake weigh the weight of what I say. + Think not that _must_ be right which you have heard + From infancy--it may---- + + [_Enter the_ Steward _in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding_.] + + _Steward_. + My lord, there's such an uproar in the town! + They call you murderer and heretic. + The officers of justice, with a monk, + And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied + By a fierce mob with torches, howling out + For justice on you, madly cursing you! + They caught a glimpse of me as I returned, + And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm; + But I escaped them, old man as I am, + And was in time to bar the castle-gates.-- + Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut + The river from the moat! + + [_Distant yells and cries_.] + + Escape, my lord! + + _Julian_ + (_calmly_). + Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph? + + _Steward_. + A little while, my lord; but those damned torches! + Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls! + + _Julian_. + Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window, + And tell us of their progress. + + [JOSEPH _goes. Sounds approach_.] + + Farewell, Lilia! + + [_Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone_.] + + Fear of a coward's name shall not detain me. + My presence would but bring down evil on you, + My heart's beloved; yes, all the ill you fear, + The terrible things that you have imaged out + If you fled with me. They will not hurt you, + If you be not polluted by my presence. + + [_Light from without flares on the wall_.] + + They've fired the gate. + + [_An outburst of mingled cries_.] + + _Steward_ + (_entering_). + They've fired the gate, my lord! + + _Julian_. + Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph. + You and old Agata tell all the truth, + And they'll forgive you. It will not hurt me; + I shall be safe--you know me--never fear. + + _Steward_. + God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord! + + [_Is going_.] + + _Julian_. + But add, it was in vain; the signorina + Would not consent; therefore I fled alone. + + [LILIA _stands as before_.] + + _Steward_. + Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master! + + [Goes.] + + _Julian_. + Put your arms round me once, my Lilia. + Not once?--not once at parting? + + [_Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries_.] + + O God! farewell! + + [_He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the + panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both + behind him_. LILIA _starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment, + and flies after him, but forgets to close + the panel_.] + + _Lilia_. + Julian! Julian! + + [_The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door + of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of + the mob_.] + + _1st_. + I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still! + + _2nd_. + Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his + own. Look under the bed, Gian. + + _3rd_. + Nothing there. + + _4th_. + Another door! another door! He's in a trap + now, and will soon be in hell! (_Opening the door with + difficulty_.) The devil had better leave him, and make up + the fire at home--he'll be cold by and by. (_Rushes into + the inner room_.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.] + + _Voices from within_. + I have him! I have him! Curse + your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You + won't pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you. + Bring the light there, will you? (_One runs out for the + light_.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall! + The hell-faggot's gone! After him, after him, noodles! + + [_Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with + torches and follow_.] + + * * * * * + +SCENE XIX.--_The river-side_. LILIA _seated in the boat_; JULIAN +_handing her the bags_. + + _Julian_. + There! One at a time!--Take care, love; it + is heavy.-- + Put them right in the middle, of the boat: + Gold makes good ballast. + + [_A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose, + then pushes gently off_.] + + Look how the torches gleam + Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped! + + [_He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with + cries of search_.] + + (_In a low tone_.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length + In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white, + And would return the torches' glare. I fear + The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this. + + [_Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her_.] + + Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars! + The water mutters Spanish in its sleep. + My beautiful! my bride! my spirit's wife! + God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults, + Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!-- + Once round the headland, I will set the sail; + The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream. + Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all, + White angel lying in my little boat! + Strange that my boyhood's skill with sail and helm, + Oft steering safely 'twixt the winding banks, + Should make me rich with womanhood and life! + + [_The boat rounds the headland_, JULIAN _singing_.] + + SONG. + + Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife, + Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled; + Unresting yet, though folded up from life; + Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind, + O cover me with kisses of her mouth; + Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind; + To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south! + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing + From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail's wing, + Us to a new love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float; + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + + + +PART III. + + + And weep not, though the Beautiful decay + Within thy heart, as daily in thine eyes; + Thy heart must have its autumn, its pale skies, + Leading, mayhap, to winter's dim dismay. + Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away; + Her form departs not, though her body dies. + Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies, + Waiting the spring's young resurrection-day, + Through the kind nurture of the winter cold. + Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive + The summer-time, when roses were alive; + Do thou thy work--be willing to be old: + Thy sorrow is the husk that doth infold + A gorgeous June, for which thou need'st not strive. + + + +Time: _Five years later_. + +SCENE I.--_Night. London. A large meanly furnished room; a single +candle on the table; a child asleep in a little crib_. JULIAN +_sits by the table, reading in a low voice out of a book. He looks +older, and his hair is lined with grey; his eyes look clearer_. + + _Julian_. + What is this? let me see; 'tis called _The Singer_: + +"Melchah stood looking on the corpse of his son, and spoke not. At +length he broke the silence and said: 'He hath told his tale to the +Immortals.' Abdiel, the friend of him that was dead, asked him what +he meant by the words. The old man, still regarding the dead body, +spake as follows:--" + +"Three years ago, I fell asleep on the summit of the hill Yarib; and +there I dreamed a dream. I thought I lay at the foot of a cliff, near +the top of a great mountain; for beneath me were the clouds, and +above me, the heavens deep and dark. And I heard voices sweet and +strong; and I lifted up my eyes, and, Lo! over against me, on a +rocky slope, some seated, each on his own crag, some reclining +between the fragments, I saw a hundred majestic forms, as of men who +had striven and conquered. Then I heard one say: 'What wouldst thou +sing unto us, young man?' A youthful voice replied, tremblingly: 'A +song which I have made for my singing.' 'Come, then, and I will lead +thee to the hole in the rock: enter and sing.' From the assembly +came forth one whose countenance was calm unto awfulness; but whose +eyes looked in love, mingled with doubt, on the face of a youth whom +he led by the hand toward the spot where I lay. The features of the +youth I could not discern: either it was the indistinctness of a +dream, or I was not permitted to behold them. And, Lo! behind me was +a great hole in the rock, narrow at the entrance, but deep and wide +within; and when I looked into it, I shuddered; for I thought I saw, +far down, the glimmer of a star. The youth entered and vanished. His +guide strode back to his seat; and I lay in terror near the mouth of +the vast cavern. When I looked up once more, I saw all the men +leaning forward, with head aside, as if listening intently to a +far-off sound. I likewise listened; but, though much nearer than they, +I heard nothing. But I could see their faces change like waters in a +windy and half-cloudy day. Sometimes, though I heard nought, it +seemed to me as if one sighed and prayed beside me; and once I heard +a clang of music triumphant in hope; but I looked up, and, Lo! it +was the listeners who stood on their feet and sang. They ceased, sat +down, and listened as before. At last one approached me, and I +ventured to question him. 'Sir,' I said, 'wilt thou tell me what it +means?' And he answered me thus: 'The youth desired to sing to the +Immortals. It is a law with us that no one shall sing a song who +cannot be the hero of his tale--who cannot live the song that he +sings; for what right hath he else to devise great things, and to +take holy deeds in his mouth? Therefore he enters the cavern where +God weaves the garments of souls; and there he lives in the forms of +his own tale; for God gives them being that he may be tried. The +sighs which thou didst hear were his longings after his own Ideal; +and thou didst hear him praying for the Truth he beheld, but could +not reach. We sang, because, in his first great battle, he strove +well and overcame. We await the next.' A deep sleep seemed to fall +upon me; and when I awoke, I saw the Immortals standing with their +eyes fixed on the mouth of the cavern. I arose and turned toward it +likewise. The youth came forth. His face was worn and pale, as that +of the dead man before me; but his eyes were open, and tears trembled +within them. Yet not the less was it the same face, the face of my +son, I tell thee; and in joy and fear I gazed upon him. With a weary +step he approached the Immortals. But he who had led him to the cave +hastened to meet him, spread forth his arms, and embraced him, and +said unto him: 'Thou hast told a noble tale; sing to us now what +songs thou wilt.' Therefore said I, as I gazed on my son: 'He hath +told his tale to the Immortals.'" + + [_He puts the book down; meditates awhile; then rises and + walks up and down the room_.] + + And so five years have poured their silent streams, + Flowing from fountains in eternity, + Into my soul, which, as an infinite gulf, + Hath swallowed them; whose living caves they feed; + And time to spirit grows, transformed and kept. + And now the day draws nigh when Christ was born; + The day that showed how like to God himself + Man had been made, since God could be revealed + By one that was a man with men, and still + Was one with God the Father; that men might + By drawing nigh to him draw nigh to God, + Who had come near to them in tenderness. + O God! I thank thee for the friendly eye + That oft hath opened on me these five years; + Thank thee for those enlightenings of my spirit + That let me know thy thought was toward me; + Those moments fore-enjoyed from future years, + Telling what converse I should hold with God. + I thank thee for the sorrow and the care, + Through which they gleamed, bright phosphorescent sparks + Crushed from the troubled waters, borne on which + Through mist and dark my soul draws nigh to thee. + Five years ago, I prayed in agony + That thou wouldst speak to me. Thou wouldst not then, + With that close speech I craved so hungrily. + Thy inmost speech is heart embracing heart; + And thou wast all the time instructing me + To know the language of thy inmost speech. + I thought thou didst refuse, when every hour + Thou spakest every word my heart could hear, + Though oft I did not know it was thy voice. + My prayer arose from lonely wastes of soul; + As if a world far-off in depths of space, + Chaotic, had implored that it might shine + Straightway in sunlight as the morning star. + My soul must be more pure ere it could hold + With thee communion. 'Tis the pure in heart + That shall see God. As if a well that lay + Unvisited, till water-weeds had grown + Up from its depths, and woven a thick mass + Over its surface, could give back the sun! + Or, dug from ancient battle-plain, a shield + Could be a mirror to the stars of heaven! + And though I am not yet come near to him, + I know I am more nigh; and am content + To walk a long and weary road to find + My father's house once more. Well may it be + A long and weary--I had wandered far. + My God, I thank thee, thou dost care for me. + I am content, rejoicing to go on, + Even when my home seems very far away; + For over grief, and aching emptiness, + And fading hopes, a higher joy arises. + In cloudiest nights, one lonely spot is bright, + High overhead, through folds and folds of space; + It is the earnest-star of all my heavens; + And tremulous in the deep well of my being + Its image answers, gazing eagerly. + + Alas, my Lilia!--But I'll think of Jesus, + Not of thee now; him who hath led my soul + Thus far upon its journey home to God. + By poor attempts to do the things he said, + Faith has been born; free will become a fact; + And love grown strong to enter into his, + And know the spirit that inhabits there. + One day his truth will spring to life in me, + And make me free, as God says "I am free." + When I am like him, then my soul will dawn + With the full glory of the God revealed-- + Full as to me, though but one beam from him; + The light will shine, for I shall comprehend it: + In his light I shall see light. God can speak, + Yea, _will_ speak to me then, and I shall hear. + Not yet like him, how can I hear his words? + + [_Stopping by the crib, and bending over the child_.] + + My darling child! God's little daughter, drest + In human clothes, that light may thus be clad + In shining, so to reach my human eyes! + Come as a little Christ from heaven to earth, + To call me _father_, that my heart may know + What father means, and turn its eyes to God! + Sometimes I feel, when thou art clinging to me, + How all unfit this heart of mine to have + The guardianship of a bright thing like thee, + Come to entice, allure me back to God + By flitting round me, gleaming of thy home, + And radiating of thy purity + Into my stained heart; which unto thee + Shall ever show the father, answering + The divine childhood dwelling in thine eyes. + O how thou teachest me with thy sweet ways, + All ignorant of wherefore thou art come, + And what thou art to me, my heavenly ward, + Whose eyes have drunk that secret place's light + And pour it forth on me! God bless his own! + +[_He resumes his walk, singing in a low voice_.] + + My child woke crying from her sleep; + I bended o'er her bed, + And soothed her, till in slumber deep + She from the darkness fled. + + And as beside my child I stood, + A still voice said in me-- + "Even thus thy Father, strong and good, + Is bending over thee." + + +SCENE II.--_Rooms in Lord Seaford's house. A large company; dancers; +gentlemen looking on_. + + 1_st Gentleman_. + Henry, what dark-haired queen is that? She moves + As if her body were instinct with thought, + Moulded to motion by the music's waves, + As floats the swan upon the swelling lake; + Or as in dreams one sees an angel move, + Sweeping on slow wings through the buoyant air, + Then folding them, and turning on his track. + + 2_nd_. + You seem inspired; nor can I wonder at it; + She is a glorious woman; and such eyes! + Think--to be loved by such a woman now! + + 1_st_. + You have seen her, then, before: what is her name? + + 2_nd_. + I saw her once; but could not learn her name. + + 3_rd_. + She is the wife of an Italian count, + Who for some cause, political I think, + Took refuge in this country. His estates + The Church has eaten up, as I have heard: + Mephisto says the Church has a good stomach. + + 2_nd_. + How do they live? + + 3_rd_. + Poorly, I should suppose; + For she gives Lady Gertrude music-lessons: + That's how they know her.--Ah, you should hear her sing! + + 2_nd_. + If she sings as she looks or as she dances, + It were as well for me I did not hear. + + 3_rd_. + If Count Lamballa followed Lady Seaford + To heaven, I know who'd follow her on earth. + + + +SCENE III.--_Julian's room_. LILY _asleep_. + + _Julian_. + I wish she would come home. When the child wakes, + I cannot bear to see her eyes first rest + On me, then wander searching through the room, + And then return and rest. And yet, poor Lilia! + 'Tis nothing strange thou shouldst be glad to go + From this dull place, and for a few short hours + Have thy lost girlhood given back to thee; + For thou art very young for such hard things + As poor men's wives in cities must endure. + + I am afraid the thought is not at rest, + But rises still, that she is not my wife-- + Not truly, lawfully. I hoped the child + Would kill that fancy; but I fear instead, + She thinks I have begun to think the same-- + Thinks that it lies a heavy weight of sin + Upon my heart. Alas, my Lilia! + When every time I pray, I pray that God + Would look and see that thou and I be one! + + _Lily_ + (_starting up in her crib_). + Oh, take me! take me! + + _Julian_ + (_going up to her with a smile_). + What is the matter with my little child? + + _Lily_. + I don't know, father; I was very frightened. + + _Julian_. + 'Twas nothing but a dream. Look--I am with you. + + _Lily_. + I am wake now; I know you're there; but then + I did not know it. + + [_Smiling_.] + + _Julian_. + Lie down now, darling. Go to sleep again. + + _Lily_ + (_beseechingly_). + Not yet. Don't tell me go to sleep again; + It makes me so, so frightened! Take me up, + And let me sit upon your knee.--Where's mother? + I cannot see her. + + _Julian_. + She's not at home, my child; + But soon she will be back. + + _Lily_. + But if she walk + Out in the dark streets--so dark, it will catch her. + + _Julian_. + She will not walk--but what would catch her, sweet? + + _Lily_. + I don't know. Tell me a story till she comes. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her, and sitting with her on his knees by the fire_). + Come then, my little Lily, I will tell you + A story I have read this very night. + + [_She looks in his face_.] + + There was a man who had a little boy, + And when the boy grew big, he went and asked + His father to give him a purse of money. + His father gave him such a large purse full! + And then he went away and left his home. + You see he did not love his father much. + + _Lily_. + Oh! didn't he?--If he had, he wouldn't have gone! + + _Julian_. + Away he went, far far away he went, + Until he could not even spy the top + Of the great mountain by his father's house. + And still he went away, away, as if + He tried how far his feet could go away; + Until he came to a city huge and wide, + Like London here. + + _Lily_. + Perhaps it was London. + + _Julian_. + Perhaps it was, my child. And there he spent + All, all his father's money, buying things + That he had always told him were not worth, + And not to buy them; but he would and did. + + _Lily_. + How very naughty of him! + + _Julian_. + Yes, my child. + And so when he had spent his last few pence, + He grew quite hungry. But he had none left + To buy a piece of bread. And bread was scarce; + Nobody gave him any. He had been + Always so idle, that he could not work. + But at last some one sent him to feed swine. + + _Lily_. + _Swine_! Oh! + + _Julian_. + Yes, swine: 'twas all that he could do; + And he was glad to eat some of their food. + + [_She stares at him_.] + + But at the last, hunger and waking love + Made him remember his old happy home. + "How many servants in my father's house + Have plenty, and to spare!" he said. "I'll go + And say, 'I have done very wrong, my father; + I am not worthy to be called your son; + Put me among your servants, father, please.'" + Then he rose up and went; but thought the road + So much, much farther to walk back again, + When he was tired and hungry. But at last + He saw the blue top of the great big hill + That stood beside his father's house; and then + He walked much faster. But a great way off, + His father saw him coming, lame and weary + With his long walk; and very different + From what he had been. All his clothes were hanging + In tatters, and his toes stuck through his shoes-- + + [_She bursts into tears_.] + + _Lily_ + (_sobbing_). + Like that poor beggar I saw yesterday? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my dear child. + + _Lily_. + And was he dirty too? + + _Julian_. + Yes, very dirty; he had been so long + Among the swine. + + _Lily_. + Is it all true though, father? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my darling; all true, and truer far + Than you can think. + + _Lily_. + What was his father like? + + _Julian_. + A tall, grand, stately man. + + _Lily_. + Like you, dear father? + + _Julian_. + Like me, only much grander. + + _Lily_. + I love you + The best though. + + [_Kissing him_.] + + _Julian_. + Well, all dirty as he was, + And thin, and pale, and torn, with staring eyes, + His father knew him, the first look, far off, + And ran so fast to meet him! put his arms + Around his neck and kissed him. + + _Lily_. + Oh, how dear! + I love him too;--but not so well as you. + + [_Sound of a carriage drawing up_.] + + _Julian_. + There is your mother. + + _Lily_. + I am glad, so glad! + + _Enter_ LILIA, _looking pale_. + + _Lilia_. + You naughty child, why are you not in bed? + + _Lily_ + (_pouting_). + I am not naughty. I am afraid to go, + Because you don't go with me into sleep; + And when I see things, and you are not there, + Nor father, I am so frightened, I cry out, + And stretch my hands, and so I come awake. + Come with me into sleep, dear mother; come. + + _Lilia_. + What a strange child it is! There! (_kissing her_) go to bed. + + [_Lays her down_.] + + _Julian_ + (_gazing on the child_). + As thou art in thy dreams without thy mother, + So are we lost in life without our God. + + + +SCENE IV.--LILIA _in bed. The room lighted from a gas-lamp in the +street; the bright shadow of the window on the wall and ceiling_. + + _Lilia_. + Oh, it is dreary, dreary! All the time + My thoughts would wander to my dreary home. + Through every dance, my soul walked evermore + In a most dreary dance through this same room. + I saw these walls, this carpet; and I heard, + As now, his measured step in the next chamber, + Go pacing up and down, and I shut out! + He is too good for me, I weak for him. + Yet if he put his arms around me once, + And held me fast as then, kissed me as then, + My soul, I think, would come again to me, + And pass from me in trembling love to him. + But he repels me now. He loves me, true,-- + Because I am his wife: he ought to love me! + Me, the cold statue, thus he drapes with duty. + Sometimes he waits upon me like a maid, + Silent with watchful eyes. Oh, would to Heaven, + He used me like a slave bought in the market! + Yes, used me roughly! So, I were his own; + And words of tenderness would falter in, + Relenting from the sternness of command. + But I am not enough for him: he needs + Some high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and him. + So, as he loves me not, his deeds for me + Lie on me like a sepulchre of stones. + Italian lovers love not so; but he + Has German blood in those great veins of his. + He never brings me now a little flower. + He sings low wandering sweet songs to the child; + But never sings to me what the voice-bird + Sings to the silent, sitting on the nest. + I would I were his child, and not his wife! + How I should love him then! Yet I have thoughts + Fit to be women to his mighty men; + And he would love them, if he saw them once. + + Ah! there they come, the visions of my land! + The long sweep of a bay, white sands, and cliffs + Purple above the blue waves at their feet! + Down the full river comes a light-blue sail; + And down the near hill-side come country girls, + Brown, rosy, laden light with glowing fruits; + Down to the sands come ladies, young, and clad + For holiday; in whose hearts wonderment + At manhood is the upmost, deepest thought; + And to their side come stately, youthful forms, + Italy's youth, with burning eyes and hearts:-- + Triumphant Love is lord of the bright day. + Yet one heart, under that blue sail, would look + With pity on their poor contentedness; + For he sits at the helm, I at his feet. + He sung a song, and I replied to him. + His song was of the wind that blew us down + From sheltered hills to the unsheltered sea. + Ah, little thought my heart that the wide sea, + Where I should cry for comforting in vain, + Was the expanse of his wide awful soul, + To which that wind was helpless drifting me! + I would he were less great, and loved me more. + I sung to him a song, broken with sighs, + For even then I feared the time to come: + "O will thine eyes shine always, love, as now? + And will thy lips for aye be sweetly curved?" + Said my song, flowing unrhymed from my heart. + "And will thy forehead ever, sunlike bend, + And suck my soul in vapours up to thee? + Ah love! I need love, beauty, and sweet odours. + Thou livest on the hoary mountains; I + In the warm valley, with the lily pale, + Shadowed with mountains and its own great leaves; + Where odours are the sole invisible clouds, + Making the heart weep for deliciousness. + Will thy eternal mountain always bear + Blue flowers upspringing at the glacier's foot? + Alas! I fear the storms, the blinding snow, + The vapours which thou gatherest round thy head, + Wherewith thou shuttest up thy chamber-door, + And goest from me into loneliness." + Ah me, my song! it is a song no more! + He is alone amid his windy rocks; + I wandering on a low and dreary plain! + + +[_She weeps herself asleep_.] + + + +SCENE V.--LORD SEAFORD, _alternately writing at a table and +composing at his pianoforte_. + + SONG. + + Eyes of beauty, eyes of light, + Sweetly, softly, sadly bright! + Draw not, ever, o'er my eye, + Radiant mists of ecstasy. + + Be not proud, O glorious orbs! + Not your mystery absorbs; + But the starry soul that lies + Looking through your night of eyes. + + One moment, be less perfect, sweet; + Sin once in something small; + One fault to lift me on my feet + From love's too perfect thrall! + + For now I have no soul; a sea + Fills up my caverned brain, + Heaving in silent waves to thee, + The mistress of that main. + + O angel! take my hand in thine; + Unfold thy shining silver wings; + Spread them around thy face and mine, + Close curtained in their murmurings. + + But I should faint with too much bliss + To be alone in space with thee; + Except, O dread! one angel-kiss + In sweetest death should set me free. + + O beauteous devil, tempt me, tempt me on, + Till thou hast won my soul in sighs; + I'll smile with thee upon thy flaming throne, + If thou wilt keep those eyes. + + And if the meanings of untold desires + Should charm thy pain of one faint sting, + I will arise amid the scorching fires, + I will arise and sing. + + O what is God to me? He sits apart + Amid the clear stars, passionless and cold. + Divine! thou art enough to fill my heart; + O fold me in thy heaven, sweet love, infold. + + With too much life, I fall before thee dead. + With holding thee, my sense consumes in storm. + Thou art too keen a flame, too hallowed + For any temple but thy holy form. + + + +SCENE VI.--_Julian's room next morning; no fire_. JULIAN _stands at +the window, looking into a London fog_. + + _Julian_. + And there are mountains on the earth, far-off; + Steep precipices laved at morn in wind + From the blue glaciers fresh; and falls that leap, + Springing from rock to pool abandonedly; + And all the spirit of the earth breathed out, + Bearing the soul, as on an altar-flame, + Aloft to God! And there is woman-love-- + Far off, ah me! + + [_Sitting down wearily_.] + + --the heart of earth's delight + Withered from mine! O for a desert sea, + The cold sun flashing on the sailing icebergs! + Where I might cry aloud on God, until + My soul burst forth upon the wings of pain, + And fled to him. A numbness as of death + Infolds me. As in sleep I walk. I live, + But my dull soul can hardly keep awake. + Yet God is here as on the mountain-top, + Or on the desert sea, or lonely isle; + And I should know him here, if Lilia loved me, + As once I thought she did. But can I blame her? + The change has been too much for her to bear. + Can poverty make one of two hearts cold, + And warm the other with the love of God? + But then I have been silent, often moody, + Drowned in much questioning; and she has thought + That I was tired of her, while more than all + I pondered how to wake her living soul. + She cannot think why I should haunt my chamber, + Except a goaded conscience were my grief; + Thinks not of aught to gain, but all to shun. + Deeming, poor child, that I repent me thus + Of that which makes her mine for evermore, + It is no wonder if her love grow less. + Then I am older much than she; and this + Fever, I think, has made me old indeed + Before my fortieth year; although, within, + I seem as young as ever to myself. + O my poor Lilia! thou art not to blame; + I'll love thee more than ever; I will be + So gentle to thy heart where love lies dead! + For carefully men ope the door, and walk + With silent footfall through the room where lies, + Exhausted, sleeping, with its travail sore, + The body that erewhile hath borne a spirit. + Alas, my Lilia! where is dead Love's child? + + I must go forth and do my daily work. + I thank thee, God, that it is hard sometimes + To do my daily labour; for, of old, + When men were poor, and could not bring thee much, + A turtle-dove was all that thou didst ask; + And so in poverty, and with a heart + Oppressed with heaviness, I try to do + My day's work well to thee,--my offering: + That he has taught me, who one day sat weary + At Sychar's well. Then home when I return, + I come without upbraiding thoughts to thee. + Ah! well I see man need not seek for penance-- + Thou wilt provide the lamb for sacrifice; + Thou only wise enough to teach the soul, + Measuring out the labour and the grief, + Which it must bear for thy sake, not its own. + He neither chose his glory, nor devised + The burden he should bear; left all to God; + And of them both God gave to him enough. + And see the sun looks faintly through the mist; + It cometh as a messenger to me. + My soul is heavy, but I will go forth; + My days seem perishing, but God yet lives + And loves. I cannot feel, but will believe. + + [_He rises and is going_. LILIA _enters, looking weary_.] + + Look, my dear Lilia, how the sun shines out! + + _Lilia_. + Shines out indeed! Yet 'tis not bad for England. + I would I were in Italy, my own! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + 'Tis the same sun that shines in Italy. + + _Lilia_. + But never more will shine upon us there! + It is too late; all wishing is in vain; + But would that we had not so ill deserved + As to be banished from fair Italy! + + _Julian_. + Ah! my dear Lilia, do not, do not think + That God is angry when we suffer ill. + 'Twere terrible indeed, if 'twere in anger. + + _Lilia_. + Julian, I cannot feel as you. I wish + I felt as you feel. + + _Julian_. + God will hear you, child, + If you will speak to him. But I must go. + Kiss me, my Lilia. + + [_She kisses him mechanically. He goes with a sigh_.] + + _Lilia_. + It is plain to see + He tries to love me, but is weary of me. + + [_She weeps_.] + + _Enter_ LILY. + + _Lily_. + Mother, have you been naughty? Mother, dear! + + [_Pulling her hand from her face_.] + + + + +SCENE VII.--_Julian's room. Noon_. LILIA _at work_; LILY _playing in +a closet_. + + _Lily_ + (_running up to her mother_). + Sing me a little song; please, mother dear. + + [LILIA, _looking off her work, and thinking with + fixed eyes for a few moments, sings_.] + + SONG. + + Once I was a child, + Oimè! + Full of frolic wild; + Oimè! + All the stars for glancing, + All the earth for dancing; + Oimè! Oimè! + + When I ran about, + Oimè! + All the flowers came out, + Oimè! + Here and there like stray things, + Just to be my playthings. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Mother's eyes were deep, + Oimè! + Never needing sleep. + Oimè! + Morning--they're above me! + Eventide--they love me! + Oimè! Oimè! + + Father was so tall! + Oimè! + Stronger he than all! + Oimè! + On his arm he bore me, + Queen of all before me. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Mother is asleep; + Oimè! + For her eyes so deep, + Oimè! + Grew so tired and aching, + They could not keep waking. + Oimè! Oimè! + + Father, though so strong, + Oimè! + Laid him down along-- + Oimè! + By my mother sleeping; + And they left me weeping, + Oimè! Oimè! + + Now nor bird, nor bee, + Oimè! + Ever sings to me! + Oimè! + Since they left me crying, + All things have been dying. + Oimè! Oimè! + + [LILY _looks long in her mother's face, as if wondering + what the song could be about; then turns away to the closet. + After a little she comes running with a box in her hand_.] + + _Lily_. + O mother, mother! there's the old box I had + So long ago, and all my cups and saucers, + And the farm-house and cows.--Oh! some are broken. + Father will mend them for me, I am sure. + I'll ask him when he comes to-night--I will: + He can do everything, you know, dear mother. + + + +SCENE VIII.--_A merchants counting-house_. JULIAN _preparing to go +home_. + + _Julian_. + I would not give these days of common toil, + This murky atmosphere that creeps and sinks + Into the very soul, and mars its hue-- + Not for the evenings when with gliding keel + I cut a pale green track across the west-- + Pale-green, and dashed with snowy white, and spotted + With sunset crimson; when the wind breathed low, + So low it hardly swelled my xebec's sails, + That pointed to the south, and wavered not, + Erect upon the waters.--Jesus said + His followers should have a hundred fold + Of earth's most precious things, with suffering.-- + In all the labourings of a weary spirit, + I have been bless'd with gleams of glorious things. + The sights and sounds of nature touch my soul, + No more look in from far.--I never see + Such radiant, filmy clouds, gathered about + A gently opening eye into the blue, + But swells my heart, and bends my sinking knee, + Bowing in prayer. The setting sun, before, + Signed only that the hour for prayer was come, + But now it moves my inmost soul to pray. + + On this same earth He walked; even thus he looked + Upon its thousand glories; read them all; + In splendour let them pass on through his soul, + And triumph in their new beatitude, + Finding a heaven of truth to take them in; + But walked on steadily through pain to death. + + Better to have the poet's heart than brain, + Feeling than song; but better far than both, + To be a song, a music of God's making; + A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame, + In words harmonious, of triumphant verse, + That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear, + That out of darkness he hath called the light. + It may be voice to such is after given, + To tell the mighty tale to other worlds. + + Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope + That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds + Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were + Most blest of men, if I were now returning + To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God, + I can but look to thee. And then the child!-- + Why should my love to her break out in tears? + Why should she be only a consolation, + And not an added joy, to fill my soul + With gladness overflowing in many voices + Of song, and prayer--and weeping only when + Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance? + + + +SCENE IX.--LILIA _preparing to go out_. LILY. + + _Lily_. + Don't go to-night again. + + _Lilia_. + Why, child, your father + Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me. + + _Lily_. + Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad + When you're not here! + + _Lilia_ + (_aside_). + He cannot look much sadder + Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief + To find his child alone when he returns. + + _Lily_. + Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry + Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee, + And tell such lovely tales: you never do-- + Nor sing me songs made all for my own self. + He does not kiss me half so many times + As you do, mother; but he loves me more. + Do you love father, too? I love him _so_! + + _Lilia_ + (_ready_). + There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool, + And look at the pictures till your father comes. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lily_ + (_putting the book down, and going to the window_). + I wish he would come home. I wish he would. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + Oh, there he is! + + [_Running up to him_.] + + Oh, now I am so happy! + + [_Laughing_.] + + I had not time to watch before you came. + + _Julian_ + (_taking her in his arms_). + I am very glad to have my little girl; + I walked quite fast to come to her again. + + _Lily_. + I do, _do_ love you. Shall I tell you something? + Think I should like to tell you. Tis a dream + That I went into, somewhere in last night. + I was alone--quite;--you were not with me, + So I must tell you. 'Twas a garden, like + That one you took me to, long, long ago, + When the sun was so hot. It was not winter, + But some of the poor leaves were growing tired + With hanging there so long. And some of them + Gave it up quite, and so dropped down and lay + Quiet on the ground. And I was watching them. + I saw one falling--down, down--tumbling down-- + Just at the earth--when suddenly it spread + Great wings and flew.--It was a butterfly, + So beautiful with wings, black, red, and white-- + + [_Laughing heartily_.] + + I thought it was a crackly, withered leaf. + Away it flew! I don't know where it went. + And so I thought, I have a story now + To tell dear father when he comes to Lily. + + _Julian_. + Thank you, my child; a very pretty dream. + But I am tired--will you go find another-- + Another dream somewhere in sleep for me? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will.--Perhaps I cannot find one. + + [_He lays her down to sleep; then sits musing_.] + + _Julian_. + What shall I do to give it life again? + To make it spread its wings before it fall, + And lie among the dead things of the earth? + + _Lily_. + I cannot go to sleep. Please, father, sing + The song about the little thirsty lily. + + [JULIAN _sings_.] + + + SONG. + + Little white Lily + Sat by a stone, + Drooping and waiting + Till the sun shone. + Little white Lily + Sunshine has fed; + Little white Lily + Is lifting her head. + + Little white Lily + Said, "It is good: + Little white Lily's + Clothing and food! + Little white Lily + Drest like a bride! + Shining with whiteness, + And crowned beside!" + + Little white Lily + Droopeth in pain, + Waiting and waiting + For the wet rain. + Little white Lily + Holdeth her cup; + Rain is fast falling, + And filling it up. + + Little white Lily + Said, "Good again, + When I am thirsty + To have nice rain! + Now I am stronger, + Now I am cool; + Heat cannot burn me, + My veins are so full!" + + Little white Lily + Smells very sweet: + On her head sunshine, + Rain at her feet. + "Thanks to the sunshine! + Thanks to the rain! + Little white Lily + Is happy again!" + + [_He is silent for a moment; then goes and looks at her_.] + + _Julian_. + She is asleep, the darling! Easily + Is Sleep enticed to brood on childhood's heart. + Gone home unto thy Father for the night! + + [_He returns to his seat_.] + + I have grown common to her. It is strange-- + This commonness--that, as a blight, eats up + All the heart's springing corn and promised fruit. + + [_Looking round_.] + + This room is very common: everything + Has such a well-known look of nothing in it; + And yet when first I called it hers and mine, + There was a mystery inexhaustible + About each trifle on the chimney-shelf: + The gilding now is nearly all worn off. + Even she, the goddess of the wonder-world, + Seems less mysterious and worshipful: + No wonder I am common in her eyes. + Alas! what must I think? Is this the true? + Was that the false that was so beautiful? + Was it a rosy mist that wrapped it round? + Or was love to the eyes as opium, + Making all things more beauteous than they were? + And can that opium do more than God + To waken beauty in a human brain? + Is this the real, the cold, undraperied truth-- + A skeleton admitted as a guest + At life's loud feast, wearing a life-like mask? + No, no; my heart would die if I believed it. + A blighting fog uprises with the days, + False, cold, dull, leaden, gray. It clings about + The present, far dragging like a robe; but ever + Forsakes the past, and lets its hues shine out: + On past and future pours the light of heaven. + The Commonplace is of the present mind. + The Lovely is the True. The Beautiful + Is what God made. Men from whose narrow bosoms + The great child-heart has withered, backward look + To their first-love, and laugh, and call it folly, + A mere delusion to which youth is subject, + As childhood to diseases. They know better! + And proud of their denying, tell the youth, + On whom the wonder of his being shines, + That will be over with him by and by: + "I was so when a boy--look at me now!" + Youth, be not one of them, but love thy love. + So with all worship of the high and good, + And pure and beautiful. These men are wiser! + Their god, Experience, but their own decay; + Their wisdom but the gray hairs gathered on them. + Yea, some will mourn and sing about their loss, + And for the sake of sweet sounds cherish it, + Nor yet believe that it was more than seeming. + But he in whom the child's heart hath not died, + But grown a man's heart, loveth yet the Past; + Believes in all its beauty; knows the hours + Will melt the mist; and that, although this day + Cast but a dull stone on Time's heaped-up cairn, + A morning light will break one morn and draw + The hidden glories of a thousand hues + Out from its diamond-depths and ruby-spots + And sapphire-veins, unseen, unknown, before. + Far in the future lies his refuge. Time + Is God's, and all its miracles are his; + And in the Future he overtakes the Past, + Which was a prophecy of times to come: + _There_ lie great flashing stars, the same that shone + In childhood's laughing heaven; there lies the wonder + In which the sun went down and moon arose; + The joy with which the meadows opened out + Their daisies to the warming sun of spring; + Yea, all the inward glory, ere cold fear + Froze, or doubt shook the mirror of his soul: + To reach it, he must climb the present slope + Of this day's duty--here he would not rest. + But all the time the glory is at hand, + Urging and guiding--only o'er its face + Hangs ever, pledge and screen, the bridal veil: + He knows the beauty radiant underneath; + He knows that God who is the living God, + The God of living things, not of the dying, + Would never give his child, for God-born love, + A cloud-made phantom, fading in the sun. + Faith vanishes in sight; the cloudy veil + Will melt away, destroyed of inward light. + + If thy young heart yet lived, my Lilia, thou + And I might, as two children, hand in hand, + Go home unto our Father.--I believe + It only sleeps, and may be wakened yet. + + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room. Christmas Day; early morn_. JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + The light comes feebly, slowly, to the world + On this one day that blesses all the year, + Just as it comes on any other day: + A feeble child he came, yet not the less + Brought godlike childhood to the aged earth, + Where nothing now is common any more. + All things had hitherto proclaimed God: + The wide spread air; the luminous mist that hid + The far horizon of the fading sea; + The low persistent music evermore + Flung down upon the sands, and at the base + Of the great rocks that hold it as a cup; + All things most common; the furze, now golden, now + Opening dark pods in music to the heat + Of the high summer-sun at afternoon; + The lone black tarn upon the round hill-top, + O'er which the gray clouds brood like rising smoke, + Sending its many rills, o'erarched and hid, + Singing like children down the rocky sides;-- + Where shall I find the most unnoticed thing, + For that sang God with all its voice of song? + But men heard not, they knew not God in these; + To their strange speech unlistening ears were strange; + For with a stammering tongue and broken words, + With mingled falsehoods and denials loud, + Man witnessed God unto his fellow man: + How then himself the voice of Nature hear? + Or how himself he heeded, when, the leader, + He in the chorus sang a discord vile? + When prophet lies, how shall the people preach? + But when He came in poverty, and low, + A real man to half-unreal men, + A man whose human thoughts were all divine, + The head and upturned face of human kind-- + Then God shone forth from all the lowly earth, + And men began to read their maker there. + Now the Divine descends, pervading all. + Earth is no more a banishment from heaven; + But a lone field among the distant hills, + Well ploughed and sown, whence corn is gathered home. + Now, now we feel the holy mystery + That permeates all being: all is God's; + And my poor life is terribly sublime. + Where'er I look, I am alone in God, + As this round world is wrapt in folding space; + Behind, before, begin and end in him: + So all beginnings and all ends are hid; + And he is hid in me, and I in him. + + Oh, what a unity, to mean them all!-- + The peach-dyed morn; cold stars in colder blue + Gazing across upon the sun-dyed west, + While the dank wind is running o'er the graves; + Green buds, red flowers, brown leaves, and ghostly snow; + The grassy hills, breeze-haunted on the brow; + And sandy deserts hung with stinging stars! + Half-vanished hangs the moon, with daylight sick, + Wan-faced and lost and lonely: daylight fades-- + Blooms out the pale eternal flower of space, + The opal night, whose odours are gray dreams-- + Core of its petal-cup, the radiant moon! + All, all the unnumbered meanings of the earth, + Changing with every cloud that passes o'er; + All, all, from rocks slow-crumbling in the frost + Of Alpine deserts, isled in stormy air, + To where the pool in warm brown shadow sleeps, + The stream, sun-ransomed, dances in the sun; + All, all, from polar seas of jewelled ice, + To where she dreams out gorgeous flowers--all, all + The unlike children of her single womb! + Oh, my heart labours with infinitude! + All, all the messages that these have borne + To eyes and ears, and watching, listening souls; + And all the kindling cheeks and swelling hearts, + That since the first-born, young, attempting day, + Have gazed and worshipped!--What a unity, + To mean each one, yet fuse each in the all! + O centre of all forms! O concord's home! + O world alive in one condensed world! + O face of Him, in whose heart lay concealed + The fountain-thought of all this kingdom of heaven! + Lord, thou art infinite, and I am thine! + + I sought my God; I pressed importunate; + I spoke to him, I cried, and in my heart + It seemed he answered me. I said--"Oh! take + Me nigh to thee, thou mighty life of life! + I faint, I die; I am a child alone + 'Mid the wild storm, the brooding desert-night." + + "Go thou, poor child, to him who once, like thee, + Trod the highways and deserts of the world." + + "Thou sendest me then, wretched, from thy sight! + Thou wilt not have me--I am not worth thy care!" + + "I send thee not away; child, think not so; + From the cloud resting on the mountain-peak, + I call to guide thee in the path by which + Thou may'st come soonest home unto my heart. + I, I am leading thee. Think not of him + As he were one and I were one; in him + Thou wilt find me, for he and I are one. + Learn thou to worship at his lowly shrine, + And see that God dwelleth in lowliness." + + I came to Him; I gazed upon his face; + And Lo! from out his eyes God looked on me!-- + Yea, let them laugh! I _will_ sit at his feet, + As a child sits upon the ground, and looks + Up in his mother's face. One smile from him, + One look from those sad eyes, is more to me + Than to be lord myself of hearts and thoughts. + O perfect made through the reacting pain + In which thy making force recoiled on thee! + Whom no less glory could make visible + Than the utter giving of thyself away; + Brooding no thought of grandeur in the deed, + More than a child embracing from full heart! + Lord of thyself and me through the sore grief + Which thou didst bear to bring us back to God, + Or rather, bear in being unto us + Thy own pure shining self of love and truth! + When I have learned to think thy radiant thoughts, + To love the truth beyond the power to know it, + To bear my light as thou thy heavy cross, + Nor ever feel a martyr for thy sake, + But an unprofitable servant still,-- + My highest sacrifice my simplest duty + Imperative and unavoidable, + Less than which _All_, were nothingness and waste; + When I have lost myself in other men, + And found myself in thee--the Father then + Will come with thee, and will abide with me. + + + * * * * * + +SCENE XI.--LILIA _teaching_ LADY GERTRUDE. _Enter_ LORD SEAFORD. +LILIA _rises_. _He places her a chair, and seats himself at the +instrument; plays a low, half-melancholy, half-defiant prelude, and +sings_. + + SONG. + + Look on the magic mirror; + A glory thou wilt spy; + + Be with thine heart a sharer, + But go not thou too nigh; + Else thou wilt rue thine error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye. + + The youth looked on the mirror, + And he went not too nigh; + And yet he rued his error, + With a tear-filled, sleepless eye; + For he could not be a sharer + In what he there did spy. + + He went to the magician + Upon the morrow morn. + "Mighty," was his petition, + "Look not on me in scorn; + But one last gaze elision, + Lest I should die forlorn!" + + He saw her in her glory, + Floating upon the main. + Ah me! the same sad story! + The darkness and the rain! + If I live till I am hoary, + I shall never laugh again. + + She held the youth enchanted, + Till his trembling lips were pale, + And his full heart heaved and panted + To utter all its tale: + Forward he rushed, undaunted-- + And the shattered mirror fell. + + [_He rises and leaves the room. LILIA weeping_.] + + + + +PART IV. + + + And should the twilight darken into night, + And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou strong; + Thou art in God, and nothing can go wrong + Which a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright. + That thou dost know the darkness, proves the light. + Weep if thou wilt, but weep not all too long; + Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. + But search thy heart, if, hid from all thy sight, + There lies no cause for beauty's slow decay; + If for completeness and diviner youth, + And not for very love, thou seek'st the truth; + If thou hast learned to give thyself away + For love's own self, not for thyself, I say: + Were God's love less, the world were lost, in sooth! + + + +SCENE I.--_Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of +poems_. + + + Love me, beloved; the thick clouds lower; + A sleepiness filleth the earth and air; + The rain has been falling for many an hour; + A weary look the summer doth wear: + Beautiful things that cannot be so; + Loveliness clad in the garments of woe. + + Love me, beloved; I hear the birds; + The clouds are lighter; I see the blue; + The wind in the leaves is like gentle words + Quietly passing 'twixt me and you; + The evening air will bathe the buds + With the soothing coolness of summer floods. + + Love me, beloved; for, many a day, + Will the mist of the morning pass away; + Many a day will the brightness of noon + Lead to a night that hath lost her moon; + And in joy or in sadness, in autumn or spring, + Thy love to my soul is a needful thing. + + Love me, beloved; for thou mayest lie + Dead in my sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + Love me, O love me, and let me know + The love that within thee moves to and fro; + That many a form of thy love may be + Gathered around thy memory. + + Love me, beloved; for I may lie + Dead in thy sight, 'neath the same blue sky; + The more thou hast loved me, the less thy pain, + The stronger thy hope till we meet again; + And forth on the pathway we do not know, + With a load of love, my soul would go. + + Love me, beloved; for one must lie + Motionless, lifeless, beneath the sky; + The pale stiff lips return no kiss + To the lips that never brought love amiss; + And the dark brown earth be heaped above + The head that lay on the bosom of love. + + Love me, beloved; for both must lie + Under the earth and beneath the sky; + The world be the same when we are gone; + The leaves and the waters all sound on; + The spring come forth, and the wild flowers live, + Gifts for the poor man's love to give; + The sea, the lordly, the gentle sea, + Tell the same tales to others than thee; + And joys, that flush with an inward morn, + Irradiate hearts that are yet unborn; + A youthful race call our earth their own, + And gaze on its wonders from thought's high throne; + Embraced by fair Nature, the youth will embrace. + The maid beside him, his queen of the race; + When thou and I shall have passed away + Like the foam-flake thou looked'st on yesterday. + + Love me, beloved; for both must tread + On the threshold of Hades, the house of the dead; + Where now but in thinkings strange we roam, + We shall live and think, and shall be at home; + The sights and the sounds of the spirit land + No stranger to us than the white sea-sand, + Than the voice of the waves, and the eye of the moon, + Than the crowded street in the sunlit noon. + I pray thee to love me, belov'd of my heart; + If we love not truly, at death we part; + And how would it be with our souls to find + That love, like a body, was left behind! + + Love me, beloved; Hades and Death + Shall vanish away like a frosty breath; + These hands, that now are at home in thine, + Shall clasp thee again, if thou still art mine; + And thou shall be mine, my spirit's bride, + In the ceaseless flow of eternity's tide, + If the truest love that thy heart can know + Meet the truest love that from mine can flow. + Pray God, beloved, for thee and me, + That our souls may be wedded eternally. + + [_He closes the book, and is silent for some moments_.] + + Ah me, O Poet! did _thy_ love last out + The common life together every hour? + The slumber side by side with wondrousness + Each night after a day of fog and rain? + Did thy love glory o'er the empty purse, + And the poor meal sometimes the poet's lot? + Is she dead, Poet? Is thy love awake? + + Alas! and is it come to this with me? + _I_ might have written that! where am I now? + Yet let me think: I love less passionately, + But not less truly; I would die for her-- + A little thing, but all a man can do. + O my beloved, where the answering love? + Love me, beloved. Whither art thou gone? + + * * * * * + +SCENE II.--_Lilia's room_. LILIA. + + _Lilia_. + He grows more moody still, more self-withdrawn. + Were it not better that I went away, + And left him with the child; for she alone + Can bring the sunshine on his cloudy face? + Alas, he used to say to me, _my child_! + Some convent would receive me in my land, + Where I might weep unseen, unquestioned; + And pray that God in whom he seems to dwell, + To take me likewise in, beside him there. + + Had I not better make one trial first + To win again his love to compass me? + Might I not kneel, lie down before his feet, + And beg and pray for love as for my life? + Clasping his knees, look up to that stern heaven, + That broods above his eyes, and pray for smiles? + What if endurance were my only meed? + He would not turn away, but speak forced words, + Soothing with kindness me who thirst for love, + And giving service where I wanted smiles; + Till by degrees all had gone back again + To where it was, a slow dull misery. + No. 'Tis the best thing I can do for him-- + And that I will do--free him from my sight. + In love I gave myself away to him; + And now in love I take myself again. + He will not miss me; I am nothing now. + + * * * * * + +SCENE III.--_Lord Seaford's garden_. LILIA; LORD SEAFORD. + + _Lord S_. + How the white roses cluster on the trellis! + They look in the dim light as if they floated + Within the fluid dusk that bathes them round. + One could believe that those far distant tones + Of scarce-heard music, rose with the faint scent, + Breathed odorous from the heart of the pale flowers, + As the low rushing from a river-bed, + Or the continuous bubbling of a spring + In deep woods, turning over its own joy + In its own heart luxuriously, alone. + 'Twas on such nights, after such sunny days, + The poets of old Greece saw beauteous shapes + Sighed forth from out the rooted, earth-fast trees, + With likeness undefinable retained + In higher human form to their tree-homes, + Which fainting let them forth into the air, + And lived a life in death till they returned. + The large-limbed, sweepy-curved, smooth-rounded beech + Gave forth the perfect woman to the night; + From the pale birch, breeze-bent and waving, stole + The graceful, slight-curved maiden, scarcely grown. + The hidden well gave forth its hidden charm, + The Naiad with the hair that flowed like streams, + And arms that gleamed like moonshine on wet sands. + The broad-browed oak, the stately elm, gave forth + Their inner life in shapes of ecstasy. + All varied, loveliest forms of womanhood + Dawned out in twilight, and athwart the grass + Half danced with cool and naked feet, half floated + Borne on winds dense enough for them to swim. + O what a life they lived! in poet's brain-- + Not on this earth, alas!--But you are sad; + You do not speak, dear lady. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon me. + If such words make me sad, I am to blame. + + _Lord S_. + Ah, no! I spoke of lovely, beauteous things: + Beauty and sadness always go together. + Nature thought Beauty too golden to go forth + Upon the earth without a meet alloy. + If Beauty had been born the twin of Gladness, + Poets had never needed this dream-life; + Each blessed man had but to look beside him, + And be more blest. How easily could God + Have made our life one consciousness of joy! + It is denied us. Beauty flung around + Most lavishly, to teach our longing hearts + To worship her; then when the soul is full + Of lovely shapes, and all sweet sounds that breathe, + And colours that bring tears into the eyes-- + Steeped until saturated with her essence; + And, faint with longing, gasps for some one thing + More beautiful than all, containing all, + Essential Beauty's self, that it may say: + "Thou art my Queen--I dare not think to crown thee, + For thou art crowned already, every part, + With thy perfection; but I kneel to thee, + The utterance of the beauty of the earth, + As of the trees the Hamadryades; + I worship thee, intense of loveliness! + Not sea-born only; sprung from Earth, Air, Ocean, + Star-Fire; all elements and forms commingling + To give thee birth, to utter each its thought + Of beauty held in many forms diverse, + In one form, holding all, a living Love, + Their far-surpassing child, their chosen queen + By virtue of thy dignities combined!"-- + And when in some great hour of wild surprise, + She floats into his sight; and, rapt, entranced, + At last he gazes, as I gaze on thee, + And, breathless, his full heart stands still for joy, + And his soul thinks not, having lost itself + In her, pervaded with her being; strayed + Out from his eyes, and gathered round her form, + Clothing her with the only beauty yet + That could be added, ownness unto him;-- + Then falls the stern, cold _No_ with thunder-tone. + Think, lady,--the poor unresisting soul + Clear-burnished to a crystalline abyss + To house in central deep the ideal form; + Led then to Beauty, and one glance allowed, + From heart of hungry, vacant, waiting shrine, + To set it on the Pisgah of desire;-- + Then the black rain! low-slanting, sweeping rain! + Stormy confusions! far gray distances! + And the dim rush of countless years behind! + + [_He sinks at her feet_.] + + Yet for this moment, let me worship thee! + + _Lilia_ + (_agitated_). + Rise, rise, my lord; this cannot be, indeed. + I pray you, cease; I will not listen to you. + Indeed it must not, cannot, must not be! + + [_Moving as to go_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_rising_). + Forgive me, madam. Let me cast myself + On your good thoughts. I had been thinking thus, + All the bright morning, as I walked alone; + And when you came, my thoughts flowed forth in words. + It is a weakness with me from my boyhood, + That if I act a part in any play, + Or follow, merely intellectually, + A passion or a motive--ere I know, + My being is absorbed, my brain on fire; + I am possessed with something not myself, + And live and move and speak in foreign forms. + Pity my weakness, madam; and forgive + My rudeness with your gentleness and truth. + That you are beautiful is simple fact; + And when I once began to speak my thoughts, + The wheels of speech ran on, till they took fire, + And in your face flung foolish sparks and dust. + I am ashamed; and but for dread of shame, + I should be kneeling now to beg forgiveness. + + _Lilia_. + Think nothing more of it, my lord, I pray. + --What is this purple flower with the black spot + In its deep heart? I never saw it before. + + + +SCENE IV.--_Julian's room. The dusk of evening_. JULIAN _standing +with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the floor_. + + _Julian_. + I see her as I saw her then. She sat + On a low chair, the child upon her knees, + Not six months old. Radiant with motherhood, + Her full face beamed upon the face below, + Bent over it, as with love to ripen love; + Till its intensity, like summer heat, + Gathered a mist across her heaven of eyes, + Which grew until it dropt in large slow tears, + The earthly outcome of the heavenly thing! + [_He walks toward the window, seats himself at a + little table, and writes_.] + + THE FATHER'S HYMN FOR THE MOTHER TO SING. + + My child is lying on my knees; + The signs of heaven she reads: + My face is all the heaven she sees, + Is all the heaven she needs. + + And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, + If heaven is in my face-- + Behind it, all is tenderness, + And truthfulness and grace. + + I mean her well so earnestly. + Unchanged in changing mood; + My life would go without a sigh + To bring her something good. + + I also am a child, and I + Am ignorant and weak; + I gaze upon the starry sky, + And then I must not speak; + + For all behind the starry sky, + Behind the world so broad, + Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie + The Infinite of God. + + If true to her, though troubled sore, + I cannot choose but be; + Thou, who art peace for evermore, + Art very true to me. + + If I am low and sinful, bring + More love where need is rife; + _Thou_ knowest what an awful thing + It is to be a life. + + Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap + My waywardness about, + In doubting safety on the lap + Of Love that knows no doubt? + + Lo! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, + My child upon my knee; + She looketh up unto my face, + And I look up to thee. + + + +SCENE V.--_Lord Seaford's house; Lady Gertrude's room_. LADY +GERTRUDE _lying on a couch_; LILIA _seated beside her, with the +girl's hand in both hers_. + + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you to come! And you will stay + And be my beautiful nurse till I grow well? + I am better since you came. You look so sweet, + It brings all summer back into my heart. + + _Lilia_. + I am very glad to come. Indeed, I felt + No one could nurse you quite so well as I. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + How kind of you! Do call me sweet names now; + And put your white cool hands upon my head; + And let me lie and look in your great eyes: + 'Twill do me good; your very eyes are healing. + + _Lilia_. + I must not let you talk too much, dear child. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Well, as I cannot have my music-lesson, + And must not speak much, will you sing to me? + Sing that strange ballad you sang once before; + 'Twill keep me quiet. + + _Lilia_. + What was it, child? + + _Lady Gertrude_. + It was + Something about a race--Death and a lady-- + + _Lilia_. + Oh! I remember. I would rather sing + Some other, though. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + No, no, I want that one. + Its ghost walks up and down inside my head, + But won't stand long enough to show itself. + You must talk Latin to it--sing it away, + Or when I'm ill, 'twill haunt me. + + _Lilia_. + Well, I'll sing it. + + + SONG. + + Death and a lady rode in the wind, + In a starry midnight pale; + Death on a bony horse behind, + With no footfall upon the gale. + + The lady sat a wild-eyed steed; + Eastward he tore to the morn. + But ever the sense of a noiseless speed, + And the sound of reaping corn! + + All the night through, the headlong race + Sped to the morning gray; + The dew gleamed cold on her cold white face-- + From Death or the morning? say. + + Her steed's wide knees began to shake, + As he flung the road behind; + The lady sat still, but her heart did quake, + And a cold breath came down the wind. + + When, Lo! a fleet bay horse beside, + With a silver mane and tail; + A knight, bareheaded, the horse did ride, + With never a coat of mail. + + He never lifted his hand to Death, + And he never couched a spear; + But the lady felt another breath, + And a voice was in her ear. + + He looked her weary eyes through and through, + With his eyes so strong in faith: + Her bridle-hand the lady drew, + And she turned and laughed at Death. + + And away through the mist of the morning gray, + The spectre and horse rode wide; + The dawn came up the old bright way, + And the lady never died. + + + _Lord Seaford_ + (_who has entered during the song_). + Delightful! Why, my little pining Gertrude, + With such charm-music you will soon be well. + Madam, I know not how to speak the thanks + I owe you for your kindness to my daughter: + She looks as different from yesterday + As sunrise from a fog. + + _Lilia_. + I am but too happy + To be of use to one I love so much. + + +SCENE VI.--_A rainy day_. LORD SEAFORD _walking up and down his room, +murmuring to himself_. + + + Oh, my love is like a wind of death, + That turns me to a stone! + Oh, my love is like a desert breath, + That burns me to the bone! + + Oh, my love is a flower with a purple glow, + And a purple scent all day! + But a black spot lies at the heart below, + And smells all night of clay. + + Oh, my love is like the poison sweet + That lurks in the hooded cell! + One flash in the eyes, one bounding beat, + And then the passing bell! + + Oh, my love she's like a white, white rose! + And I am the canker-worm: + Never the bud to a blossom blows; + It falls in the rainy storm. + + + +SCENE VII.--JULIAN _reading in his room_. + + "And yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me." + + [_He closes the book and kneels_.] + + +SCENE VIII.--_Lord Seaford's room_. LILIA _and_ LORD SEAFORD. +_Her hand lies in his_. + + _Lilia_. + It may be true. I am bewildered, though. + I know not what to answer. + + _Lord S_. + Let me answer:-- + You would it were so--you would love me then? + + [_A sudden crash of music from a brass band in the street, + melting away in a low cadence_.] + + _Lilia_ + (starting up). + Let me go, my lord! + + _Lord S_. + (_retaining her hand_). + Why, sweetest! what is this? + + _Lilia_ + (_vehemently, and disengaging her hand_). + Let me go. My husband! Oh, my white child! + + [_She hurries to the door, but falls_.] + + _Lord S_. + (_raising her_). + I thought you trusted me, yes, loved me, Lilia! + + _Lilia_. + Peace! that name is his! Speak it again--I rave. + He thought I loved him--and I did--I do. + Open the door, my lord! + + [_He hesitates. She draws herself up erect, with flashing eyes_.] + + Once more, my lord-- + + Open the door, I say. + + [_He still hesitates. She walks swiftly to the window, flings it + wide, and is throwing herself out_.] + + _Lord S_. + Stop, madam! I will. + + [_He opens the door. She leaves the window, and walks slowly + out. He hears the house-door open and shut, flings himself + on the couch, and hides his face_.] + + _Enter_ LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Dear father, are you ill? I knocked + three times; You did not speak. + + _Lord S_. + I did not hear you, child. + My head aches rather; else I am quite well. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + She is gone. She had + An urgent message to go home at once. + But, Gertrude, now you seem so well, why not + Set out to-morrow? You can travel now; + And for your sake the sooner that we breathe + Italian air the better. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + This is sudden! + I scarcely can be ready by to-morrow. + + _Lord S_. + It will oblige me, child. Do what you can. + Just go and order everything you want. + I will go with you. Ring the bell, my love; + I have a reason for my haste. We'll have + The horses to at once. Come, Gertrude, dear. + + +SCENE IX.--_Evening. Hampstead Heath_. LILIA _seated_. + + _Lilia_. + The first pale star! braving the rear of Day! + And all heaven waiting till the sun has drawn + His long train after him! then half creation + Will follow its queen-leader from the depths. + O harbinger of hope! O star of love! + Thou hast gone down in me, gone down for ever; + And left my soul in such a starless night, + It has not love enough to weep thy loss. + O fool! to know thee once, and, after years, + To take a gleaming marsh-light for thy lamp! + How could I for one moment hear him speak! + O Julian! for my last love-gift I thought + To bring that love itself, bound and resigned, + And offering it a sacrifice to thee, + Lead it away into the wilderness; + But one vile spot hath tainted this my lamb; + Unoffered it must go, footsore and weary, + Not flattering itself to die for thee. + And yet, thank God, it was one moment only, + That, lapt in darkness and the loss of thee, + Sun of my soul, and half my senses dead + Through very weariness and lack of love, + My heart throbbed once responsive to a ray + That glimmered through its gloom from other eyes, + And seemed to promise rest and hope again. + My presence shall not grieve thee any more, + My Julian, my husband. I will find + A quiet place where I will seek thy God. + And--in my heart it wakens like a voice + From him--the Saviour--there are other worlds + Where all gone wrong in this may be set right; + Where I, made pure, may find thee, purer still, + And thou wilt love the love that kneels to thee. + I'll write and tell him I have gone, and why. + But what to say about my late offence, + That he may understand just what it was? + For I must tell him, if I write at all. + I fear he would discover where I was; + Pitiful duty would not let him rest + Until he found me; and I fain would free + From all the weight of mine, that heart of his. + + [_Sound of a coach-horn_.] + + It calls me to rise up and go to him, + Leading me further from him and away. + The earth is round; God's thoughts return again; + And I will go in hope. Help me, my God! + + +SCENE X.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN _reading. A letter is brought in. +He reads it, turns deadly pale, and leans his arms and head on the +table, almost fainting. This lasts some time; then starting up, he +paces through the room, his shoulders slightly shrugged, his arms +rigid by his sides, and his hands clenched hard, as if a net of pain +were drawn tight around his frame. At length he breathes deep, draws +himself up, and walks erect, his chest swelling, but his teeth set_. + + + _Julian_. + Me! My wife! Insect, didst thou say _my_ wife? + + [_Hurriedly turning the letter on the table to see the address_.] + + Why, if she love him more than me, why then + Let her go with him!--Gone to Italy! + Pursue, says he? _Revenge_?--Let the corpse crush + The slimy maggot with its pulpy fingers!-- + What if I stabbed-- + + [_Taking his dagger, and feeling its point_.] + + Whom? Her--what then?--Or him-- + What yet? Would that give back the life to me? + There is one more--myself! Oh, peace! to feel + The earthworms crawling through my mouldering brain!-- + But to be driven along the windy wastes-- + To hear the tempests, raving as they turn, + Howl _Lilia, Lilia_--to be tossed about + Beneath the stars that range themselves for ever + Into the burning letters of her name-- + 'Twere better creep the earth down here than that, + For pain's excess here sometimes deadens pain. + + [_He throws the dagger on the floor_.] + + Have I deserved this? Have I earned it? I? + A pride of innocence darts through my veins. + I stand erect. Shame cannot touch me. Ha! + I laugh at insult. _I_? I am myself-- + + Why starest thou at me? Well, stare thy fill; + When devils mock, the angels lend their wings:-- + But what their wings? I have nowhere to fly. + Lilia! my worship of thy purity! + Hast thou forgotten--ah! thou didst not know + How, watching by thee in thy fever-pain, + When thy white neck and bosom were laid bare, + I turned my eyes away, and turning drew + With trembling hand white darkness over thee, + Because I knew not thou didst love me then. + Love me! O God in heaven! Is love a thing + That can die thus? Love me! Would, for thy penance, + Thou saw'st but once the heart which thou hast torn-- + Shaped all about thy image set within! + But that were fearful! What rage would not, love + Must then do for thee--in mercy I would kill thee, + To save thee from the hell-fire of remorse. + If blood would make thee clean, then blood should flow; + Eager, unwilling, this hand should make thee bleed, + Till, drop by drop, the taint should drop away. + Clean! said I? fit to lie by me in sleep, + My hand upon thy heart!--not fit to lie, + For all thy bleeding, by me in the grave! + + +[_His eye falls on that likeness of Jesus said to be copied from an +emerald engraved for Tiberius. He gazes, drops on his knees, and +covers his face; remains motionless a long time; then rises very pale, +his lips compressed, his eyes filled with tears_.] + + + O my poor Lilia! my bewildered child! + How shall I win thee, save thee, make thee mine? + Where art thou wandering? What words in thine ears? + God, can she never more be clean? no more, + Through all the terrible years? Hast thou no well + In all thy heaven, in all thyself, that can + Wash her soul clean? Her body will go down + Into the friendly earth--would it were lying + There in my arms! for there thy rains will come, + Fresh from the sky, slow sinking through the sod, + Summer and winter; and we two should lie + Mouldering away together, gently washed + Into the heart of earth; and part would float + Forth on the sunny breezes that bear clouds + Through the thin air. But her stained soul, my God! + Canst thou not cleanse it? Then should we, when death + Was gone, creep into heaven at last, and sit + In some still place together, glory-shadowed. + None would ask questions there. And I should be + Content to sorrow a little, so I might + But see her with the darling on her knees, + And know that must be pure that dwelt within + The circle of thy glory. Lilia! Lilia! + I scorn the shame rushing from head to foot; + I would endure it endlessly, to save + One thought of thine from his polluting touch; + Saying ever to myself: this is a part + Of my own Lilia; and the world to me + Is nothing since I lost the smiles of her: + Somehow, I know not how, she faded from me, + And this is all that's left of her. My wife! + Soul of my soul! my oneness with myself! + Come back to me; I will be all to thee: + Back to my heart; and we will weep together, + And pray to God together every hour, + That he would show how strong he is to save. + The one that made is able to renew-- + I know not how.--I'll hold thy heart to mine, + So close that the defilement needs must go. + My love shall ray thee round, and, strong as fire, + Dart through and through thy soul, till it be cleansed.-- + But if she love him? Oh my heart--beat! beat! + Grow not so sick with misery and life, + For fainting will not save thee.--Oh no! no! + She cannot love him as she must love me. + Then if she love him not--oh horrible!--oh God! + + [_He stands in a stupor for some minutes_.] + + What devil whispered that vile word, _unclean_? + I care not--loving more than that can touch. + Let me be shamed, ay, perish in my shame, + As men call perishing, so she be saved. + Saved! my beloved! my Lilia!--Alas, + Would she were here! oh, I would make her weep, + Till her soul wept itself to purity! + Far, far away! where my love cannot reach. + No, no; she is not gone! + + [_Starting and facing wildly through the room_.] + + It is a lie-- + Deluding blind revenge, not keen-eyed love. + I must do something.-- + + [_Enter_ LILY.] + + Ah! there's the precious thing + That shall entice her back. + + [_Kneeling and clasping the child to his heart_.] + + My little Lily, + I have lost your mother. + + _Lily_. + Oh! + + [_Beginning to weep_.] + + She was so pretty, + Somebody has stolen her. + + _Julian_. + Will you go with me, + And help me look for her? + + _Lily_. + O yes, I will. + + [_Clasping him round the neck_.] + + But my head aches so! Will you carry me? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own darling. Come, we'll get your bonnet. + + _Lily_. + Oh! you've been crying, father. You're so white! + + [_Putting her finger to his cheek_.] + + +SCENE XI.--_A table in a club-room. Several_ Gentlemen _seated round +it. To them enter another_. + + _1st Gentleman_. + Why, Bernard, you look heated! what's the matter? + + _Bernard_. + Hot work, as looked at; cool enough, as done. + + _2nd G_. + A good antithesis, as usual, Bernard, + But a shell too hard for the vulgar teeth + Of our impatient curiosity. + + _Bernard_. + Most unexpectedly I found myself + Spectator of a scene in a home-drama + Worth all stage-tragedies I ever saw. + + _All_. + What was it? Tell us then. Here, take this seat. + + [_He sits at the table, and pours out a glass of wine_.] + + _Bernard_. + I went to call on Seaford, and was told + He had gone to town. So I, as privileged, + Went to his cabinet to write a note; + Which finished, I came down, and called his valet. + Just as I crossed the hall I heard a voice-- + "The Countess Lamballa--is she here to-day?" + And looking toward the door, I caught a glimpse + Of a tall figure, gaunt and stooping, drest + In a blue shabby frock down to his knees, + And on his left arm sat a little child. + The porter gave short answer, with the door + For period to the same; when, like a flash, + It flew wide open, and the serving man + Went reeling, staggering backward to the stairs, + 'Gainst which he fell, and, rolling down, lay stunned. + In walked the visitor; but in the moment + Just measured by the closing of the door, + Heavens, what a change! He walked erect, as if + Heading a column, with an eye and face + As if a fountain-shaft of blood had shot + Up suddenly within his wasted frame. + The child sat on his arm quite still and pale, + But with a look of triumph in her eyes. + He glanced in each room opening from the hall, + Set his face for the stair, and came right on-- + In every motion calm as glacier's flow, + Save, now and then, a movement, sudden, quick, + Of his right hand across to his left side: + 'Twas plain he had been used to carry arms. + + _3rd G_. + Did no one stop him? + + _Bernard_. + Stop him? I'd as soon + Have faced a tiger with bare hands. 'Tis easy + In passion to meet passion; but it is + A daunting thing to look on, when the blood + Is going its wonted pace through your own veins. + Besides, this man had something in his face, + With its live eyes, close lips, nostrils distended, + A self-reliance, and a self-command, + That would go right up to its goal, in spite + Of any _no_ from any man. I would + As soon have stopped a cannon-ball as him. + Over the porter, lying where he fell, + He strode, and up the stairs. I heard him go-- + I listened as it were a ghost that walked + With pallid spectre-child upon its arm-- + Along the corridors, from door to door, + Opening and shutting. But at last a sting + Of sudden fear lest he should find the lady, + And mischief follow, shot me up the stairs. + I met him at the top, quiet as at first; + The fire had faded from his eyes; the child + Held in her tiny hand a lady's glove + Of delicate primrose. When he reached the hall, + He turned him to the porter, who had scarce + Recovered what poor wits he had, and saying, + "The count Lamballa waited on lord Seaford," + Turned him again, and strode into the street. + + _1st G_. + Have you learned anything of what it meant? + + _Bernard_. + Of course he had suspicions of his wife: + For all the gifts a woman has to give, + I would not rouse such blood. And yet to see + The gentle fairy child fall kissing him, + And, with her little arms grasping his neck, + Peep anxious round into his shaggy face, + As they went down the street!--it almost made + A fool of me.--I'd marry for such a child! + + + +SCENE XII.--_A by-street_. JULIAN _walking home very weary. The +child in his arms, her head lying on his shoulder. An_ Organ-boy +_with a monkey, sitting on a door-step. He sings in a low voice_. + + _Julian_. + Look at the monkey, Lily. + + _Lily_. + No, dear father; + I do not like monkeys. + + _Julian_. + Hear the poor boy sing. + + [_They listen. He sings_.] + + SONG. + + Wenn ich höre dich mir nah', + Stimmen in den Blättern da; + Wenn ich fühl' dich weit und breit, + Vater, das ist Seligkeit. + + Nun die Sonne liebend scheint, + Mich mit dir und All vereint; + Biene zu den Blumen fliegt, + Seel' an Lieb' sich liebend schmiegt. + + So mich völlig lieb du hast, + Daseyn ist nicht eine Last; + Wenn ich seh' und höre dich, + Das genügt mir inniglich. + + _Lily_. + It sounds so curious. What is he saying, father? + + _Julian_. + My boy, you are not German? + + _Boy_. + No; my mother + Came from those parts. She used to sing the song. + I do not understand it well myself, + For I was born in Genoa.--Ah! my mother! + + [_Weeps_.] + + _Julian_. + My mother was a German, my poor boy; + My father was Italian: I am like you. + + [_Giving him money_.] + + You sing of leaves and sunshine, flowers and bees, + Poor child, upon a stone in the dark street! + + _Boy_. + My mother sings it in her grave; and I + Will sing it everywhere, until I die. + + + +SCENE XIII.--LILIA'S _room_. JULIAN _enters with the child; +undresses her, and puts her to bed_. + + _Lily_. + Father does all things for his little Lily. + + _Julian_. + My own dear Lily! Go to sleep, my pet. + + [_Sitting by her_.] + + "Wenn ich seh' und höre dich, + Das genügt mir inniglich." + + [_Falling on his knees_.] + + I come to thee, and, lying on thy breast, + Father of me, I tell thee in thine ear, + Half-shrinking from the sound, yet speaking free, + That thou art not enough for me, my God. + Oh, dearly do I love thee! Look: no fear + Lest thou shouldst be offended, touches me. + Herein I know thy love: mine casts out fear. + O give me back my wife; thou without her + Canst never make me blessed to the full. + + [_Silence_.] + + O yes; thou art enough for me, my God; + Part of thyself she is, else never mine. + My need of her is but thy thought of me; + She is the offspring of thy beauty, God; + Yea of the womanhood that dwells in thee: + Thou wilt restore her to my very soul. + + [_Rising_.] + + It may be all a lie. Some needful cause + Keeps her away. Wretch that I am, to think + One moment that my wife could sin against me! + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + I never can forgive my jealousy! + Or that fool-visit to lord Seaford's house! + + + [_His eyes fall on the glove which the child still holds in her + sleeping hand. He takes it gently away, and hides it in + his bosom_.] + + It will be all explained. To think I should, + Without one word from her, condemn her so! + What can I say to her when she returns? + I shall be utterly ashamed before her. + She will come back to-night. I know she will. + + [_He throws himself wearily on the bed_.] + + + +SCENE XIV.--_Crowd about the Italian Opera-House_. JULIAN. LILY +_in his arms. Three_ Students. + + _1st Student_. + Edward, you see that long, lank, thread-bare man? + There is a character for that same novel + You talk of thunder-striking London with, + One of these days. + + _2nd St_. + I scarcely noticed him; + I was so taken with the lovely child. + She is angelic. + + _3rd St_. + You see angels always, + Where others, less dim-sighted, see but mortals. + She is a pretty child. Her eyes are splendid. + I wonder what the old fellow is about. + Some crazed enthusiast, music-distract, + That lingers at the door he cannot enter! + Give him an obol, Frank, to pay old Charon, + And cross to the Elysium of sweet sounds. + Here's mine. + + _1st St_. + And mine. + + _2nd St_. + And mine. + + [_3rd Student offers the money to_ JULIAN.] + + _Julian_ + (_very quietly_). + No, thank you, sir. + + _Lily_. + Oh! there is mother! + + [_Stretching-her hands toward a lady stepping out of a carriage_.] + + _Julian_. + No, no; hush, my child! + + [_The lady looks round, and _LILY _clings to her father_. + Women _talking_.] + + _1st W_. + I'm sure he's stolen the child. She can't be his. + + _2nd W_. + There's a suspicious look about him. + + _3rd W_ + True; + But the child clings to him as if she loved him. + + [JULIAN _moves on slowly_.] + + + +SCENE XV.--JULIAN _seated in his room, his eyes fixed on the floor_. +LILY _playing in a corner_. + + _Julian_. + Though I am lonely, yet this little child-- + She understands me better than the Twelve + Knew the great heart of him they called their Lord. + Ten times last night I woke in agony, + I knew not why. There was no comforter. + I stretched my arm to find her, and her place + Was empty as my heart. Sometimes my pain + Forgets its cause, benumbed by its own being; + Then would I lay my aching, weary head + Upon her bosom, promise of relief: + I lift my eyes, and Lo, the vacant world! + + [_He looks up and sees the child playing with his dagger_.] + + You'll hurt yourself, my child; it is too sharp. + Give it to me, my darling. Thank you, dear. + + [_He breaks the hilt from the blade and gives it her_.] + + 'Here, take the pretty part. It's not so pretty + As it was once! + + [_Thinking aloud_.] + I picked the jewels out + To buy your mother the last dress I gave her. + There's just one left, I see, for you, my Lily. + Why did I kill Nembroni? Poor saviour I, + Saving thee only for a greater ill! + If thou wert dead, the child would comfort me;-- + Is she not part of thee, and all my own? + But now---- + + _Lily_ + (_throwing down the dagger-hilt and running up to him_). + Father, what is a poetry? + + _Julian_. + A beautiful thing,--of the most beautiful + That God has made. + + _Lily_. + As beautiful as mother? + _Julian_. + No, my dear child; but very beautiful. + + _Lily_. + Do let me see a poetry. + + _Julian_ + (_opening a book_). + There, love! + _Lily_ + (_disappointedly_). + I don't think that's so very pretty, father. + One side is very well--smooth; but the other + + [_Rubbing her finger up and down the ends of the lines_.] + + Is rough, rough; just like my hair in the morning, + + [_Smoothing her hair down with both hands_.] + + Before it's brushed. I don't care much about it. + + _Julian_ + (_putting the book down, and taking her on his knee_). + You do not understand it yet, my child. + You cannot know where it is beautiful. + But though you do not see it very pretty, + Perhaps your little ears could hear it pretty. + + [_He reads_.] + + _Lily_ + (_looking pleased_). + Oh! that's much prettier, father. Very pretty. + It sounds so nice!--not half so pretty as mother. + + _Julian_. + There's something in it very beautiful, + If I could let you see it. When you're older + You'll find it for yourself, and love it well. + Do you believe me, Lily? + + _Lily_. + Yes, dear father. + + [_Kissing him, then looking at the book_.] + + I wonder where its prettiness is, though; + I cannot see it anywhere at all. + + [_He sets her down. She goes to her corner_.] + + _Julian_ + (_musing_). + True, there's not much in me to love, and yet + I feel worth loving. I am very poor, + But that I could not help; and I grow old, + But there are saints in heaven older than I. + I have a world within me; there I thought + I had a store of lovely, precious things + Laid up for thinking; shady woods, and grass; + Clear streams rejoicing down their sloping channels; + And glimmering daylight in the cloven east; + There morning sunbeams stand, a vapoury column, + 'Twixt the dark boles of solemn forest trees; + There, spokes of the sun-wheel, that cross their bridge, + Break through the arch of the clouds, fall on the earth, + And travel round, as the wind blows the clouds: + The distant meadows and the gloomy river + Shine out as over them the ray-pencil sweeps.-- + Alas! where am I? Beauty now is torture: + Of this fair world I would have made her queen;-- + Then led her through the shadowy gates beyond + Into that farther world of things unspoken, + Of which these glories are the outer stars, + The clouds that float within its atmosphere. + Under the holy might of teaching love, + I thought her eyes would open--see how, far + And near, Truth spreads her empire, widening out, + And brooding, a still spirit, everywhere; + Thought she would turn into her spirit's chamber, + Open the little window, and look forth + On the wide silent ocean, silent winds, + And see what she must see, I could not tell. + By sounding mighty chords I strove to wake + The sleeping music of her poet-soul: + We read together many magic words; + Gazed on the forms and hues of ancient art; + Sent forth our souls on the same tide of sound; + Worshipped beneath the same high temple-roofs; + And evermore I talked. I was too proud, + Too confident of power to waken life, + Believing in my might upon her heart, + Not trusting in the strength of living truth. + Unhappy saviour, who by force of self + Would save from selfishness and narrow needs! + I have not been a saviour. She grew weary. + I began wrong. The infinitely High, + Made manifest in lowliness, had been + The first, one lesson. Had I brought her there, + And set her down by humble Mary's side, + He would have taught her all I could not teach. + Yet, O my God! why hast thou made me thus + Terribly wretched, and beyond relief? + + [_He looks up and sees that the child has taken the book + to her corner. She peeps into it; then holds it to her ear; + then rubs her hand over it; then puts her tongue on it_.] + + _Julian (bursting into tears_). + Father, I am thy _child_. + Forgive me this: + Thy poetry is very hard to read. + + +SCENE XVI.--JULIAN _walking with_ LILY _through one of the squares_. + + _Lily_. + Wish we could find her somewhere. 'Tis so sad + Not to have any mother! Shall I ask + This gentleman if he knows where she is? + + _Julian_. + No, no, my love; we'll find her by and by. + + +BERNARD. and another Gentleman talking together. + + _Bernard_. + Have you seen Seaford lately? + _Gentleman_. + No. In fact, + He vanished somewhat oddly, days ago. + Sam saw him with a lady in his cab; + And if I hear aright, one more is missing-- + Just the companion for his lordship's taste. + You've not forgot that fine Italian woman + You met there once, some months ago? + + _Bern_. + Forgot her! + I have to try though, sometimes--hard enough: + Her husband is alive! + + _Lily_. + Mother was Italy, father,--was she not? + + _Julian_. + Hush, hush, my child! you must not say a word. + + _Gentleman_. + Oh, yes; no doubt! + But what of that?--a poor half-crazy creature! + + _Bern_. + Something quite different, I assure you, Harry. + Last week I saw him--never to forget him-- + Ranging through Seaford's house, like the questing beast. + + _Gentleman_. + Better please two than one, he thought--and wisely. + 'Tis not for me to blame him: she is a prize + Worth sinning for a little more than little. + + _Lily_ + (_whispering_). + Why don't you ask them whether it was mother? + I am sure it was. I am quite sure of it. + + _Gentleman_. + Look what a lovely child! + + _Bern_. + Harry! Good heavens! + It is the Count Lamballa. Come along. + + +SCENE XVII.--_Julian's room_. JULIAN. LILY _asleep_. + + + _Julian_. + I thank thee. Thou hast comforted me, thou, + To whom I never lift my soul, in hope + To reach thee with my thinking, but the tears + Swell up and fill my eyes from the full heart + That cannot hold the thought of thee, the thought + Of him in whom I live, who lives in me, + And makes me live in him; by whose one thought, + Alone, unreachable, the making thought, + Infinite and self-bounded, I am here, + A living, thinking will, that cannot know + The power whereby I am--so blest the more + In being thus in thee--Father, thy child. + I cannot, cannot speak the thoughts in me. + My being shares thy glory: lay on me + What thou wouldst have me bear. Do thou with me + Whate'er thou wilt. Tell me thy will, that I + May do it as my best, my highest joy; + For thou dost work in me, I dwell in thee. + + Wilt thou not save my wife? I cannot know + The power in thee to purify from sin. + But Life _can_ cleanse the life it lived alive. + Thou knowest all that lesseneth her fault. + She loves me not, I know--ah, my sick heart!-- + I will love her the more, to fill the cup; + One bond is snapped, the other shall be doubled; + For if I love her not, how desolate + The poor child will be left! _he_ loves her not. + + I have but one prayer more to pray to thee:-- + Give me my wife again, that I may watch + And weep with her, and pray with her, and tell + What loving-kindness I have found in thee; + And she will come to thee to make her clean. + Her soul must wake as from a dream of bliss, + To know a dead one lieth in the house: + Let me be near her in that agony, + To tend her in the fever of the soul, + Bring her cool waters from the wells of hope, + Look forth and tell her that the morn is nigh; + And when I cannot comfort, help her weep. + God, I would give her love like thine to me, + _Because_ I love her, and her need is great. + Lord, I need her far more than thou need'st me, + And thou art Love down to the deeps of hell: + Help me to love her with a love like thine. + + How shall I find her? It were horrible + If the dread hour should come, and I not near. + Yet pray I not she should be spared one pang, + One writhing of self-loathing and remorse, + For she must hate the evil she has done; + Only take not away hope utterly. + + _Lily (in her sleep_). + Lily means me--don't throw it over the wall. + _Julian (going to her_). + She is so flushed! I fear the child is ill. + I have fatigued her too much, wandering restless. + To-morrow I will take her to the sea. + + [_Returning_.] + + If I knew where, I would write to her, and write + So tenderly, she could not choose but come. + I will write now; I'll tell her that strange dream + I dreamed last night: 'twill comfort her as well. + + [_He sits down and writes_.] + + My heart was crushed that I could hardly breathe. + I was alone upon a desolate moor; + And the wind blew by fits and died away-- + I know not if it was the wind or me. + How long I wandered there, I cannot tell; + But some one came and took me by the hand. + I gazed, but could not see the form that led me, + And went unquestioning, I cared not whither. + We came into a street I seemed to know, + Came to a house that I had seen before. + The shutters were all closed; the house was dead. + The door went open soundless. We went in, + And entered yet again an inner room. + The darkness was so dense, I shrank as if + From striking on it. The door closed behind. + And then I saw that there was something black, + Dark in the blackness of the night, heaved up + In the middle of the room. And then I saw + That there were shapes of woe all round the room, + Like women in long mantles, bent in grief, + With long veils hanging low down from their heads, + All blacker in the darkness. Not a sound + Broke the death-stillness. Then the shapeless thing + Began to move. Four horrid muffled figures + Had lifted, bore it from the room. We followed, + The bending woman-shapes, and I. We left + The house in long procession. I was walking + Alone beside the coffin--such it was-- + Now in the glimmering light I saw the thing. + And now I saw and knew the woman-shapes: + Undine clothed in spray, and heaving up + White arms of lamentation; Desdemona + In her night-robe, crimson on the left side; + Thekla in black, with resolute white face; + And Margaret in fetters, gliding slow-- + That last look, when she shrieked on Henry, frozen + Upon her face. And many more I knew-- + Long-suffering women, true in heart and life; + Women that make man proud for very love + Of their humility, and of his pride + Ashamed. And in the coffin lay my wife. + On, on, we went. The scene changed, and low hills + Began to rise on each side of the path + Until at last we came into a glen, + From which the mountains soared abrupt to heaven, + Shot cones and pinnacles into the skies. + Upon the eastern side one mighty summit + Shone with its snow faint through the dusky air; + And on its sides the glaciers gave a tint, + A dull metallic gleam, to the slow night. + From base to top, on climbing peak and crag, + Ay, on the glaciers' breast, were human shapes, + Motionless, waiting; men that trod the earth + Like gods; or forms ideal that inspired + Great men of old--up, even to the apex + Of the snow-spear-point. _Morning_ had arisen + From Giulian's tomb in Florence, where the chisel + Of Michelangelo laid him reclining, + And stood upon the crest. + A cry awoke + Amid the watchers at the lowest base, + And swelling rose, and sprang from mouth to mouth, + Up the vast mountain, to its aerial top; + And "_Is God coming_?" was the cry; which died + Away in silence; for no voice said _No_. + The bearers stood and set the coffin down; + The mourners gathered round it in a group; + Somewhat apart I stood, I know not why. + So minutes passed. Again that cry awoke, + And clomb the mountain-side, and died away + In the thin air, far-lost. No answer came. + + How long we waited thus, I cannot tell-- + How oft the cry arose and died again. + + At last, from far, faint summit to the base, + Filling the mountain with a throng of echoes, + A mighty voice descended: "_God is coming_!" + Oh! what a music clothed the mountain-side, + From all that multitude's melodious throats, + Of joy and lamentation and strong prayer! + It ceased, for hope was too intense for song. + A pause.--The figure on the crest flashed out, + Bordered with light. The sun was rising--rose + Higher and higher still. One ray fell keen + Upon the coffin 'mid the circling group. + + What God did for the rest, I know not; it + Was easy to help them.--I saw them not.-- + I saw thee at my feet, my wife, my own! + Thy lovely face angelic now with grief; + But that I saw not first: thy head was bent, + Thou on thy knees, thy dear hands clasped between. + I sought to raise thee, but thou wouldst not rise, + Once only lifting that sweet face to mine, + Then turning it to earth. Would God the dream + Had lasted ever!--No; 'twas but a dream; + Thou art not rescued yet. + + Earth's morning came, + And my soul's morning died in tearful gray. + The last I saw was thy white shroud yet steeped + In that sun-glory, all-transfiguring; + The last I heard, a chant break suddenly + Into an anthem. Silence took me like sound: + I had not listened in the excess of joy. + + + +SCENE XVIII.--_Portsmouth. A bedroom_. LORD SEAFORD. LADY GERTRUDE. + + _Lord S_. + Tis for your sake, my Gertrude, I am sorry. + If you could go alone, I'd have you go. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + And leave you ill? No, you are not so cruel. + Believe me, father, I am happier + In your sick room, than on a glowing island + In the blue Bay of Naples. + + _Lord S_. + It was so sudden! + 'Tis plain it will not go again as quickly. + But have your walk before the sun be hot. + Put the ice near me, child. There, that will do. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + Good-bye then, father, for a little + while. + + [_Goes_.] + + _Lord S_. + I never knew what illness was before. + O life! to think a man should stand so little + On his own will and choice, as to be thus + Cast from his high throne suddenly, and sent + To grovel beast-like. All the glow is gone + From the rich world! No sense is left me more + To touch with beauty. Even she has faded + Into the far horizon, a spent dream + Of love and loss and passionate despair! + + Is there no beauty? Is it all a show + Flung outward from the healthy blood and nerves, + A reflex of well-ordered organism? + Is earth a desert? Is a woman's heart + No more mysterious, no more beautiful, + Than I am to myself this ghastly moment? + It must be so--it _must_, except God is, + And means the meaning that we think we see, + Sends forth the beauty we are taking in. + O Soul of nature, if thou art not, if + There dwelt not in thy thought the primrose-flower + Before it blew on any bank of spring, + Then all is untruth, unreality, + And we are wretched things; our highest needs + Are less than we, the offspring of ourselves; + And when we are sick, they _are_ not; and our hearts + Die with the voidness of the universe. + + But if thou art, O God, then all is true; + Nor are thy thoughts less radiant that our eyes + Are filmy, and the weary, troubled brain + Throbs in an endless round of its own dreams. + And she _is_ beautiful--and I have lost her! + + O God! thou art, thou art; and I have sinned + Against thy beauty and thy graciousness! + That woman-splendour was not mine, but thine. + Thy thought passed into form, that glory passed + Before my eyes, a bright particular star: + Like foolish child, I reached out for the star, + Nor kneeled, nor worshipped. I will be content + That she, the Beautiful, dwells on in thee, + Mine to revere, though not to call my own. + Forgive me, God! Forgive me, Lilia! + + My love has taken vengeance on my love. + I writhe and moan. Yet I will be content. + Yea, gladly will I yield thee, so to find + That thou art not a phantom, but God's child; + That Beauty is, though it is not for me. + When I would hold it, then I disbelieved. + That I may yet believe, I will not touch it. + I have sinned against the Soul of love and beauty, + Denying him in grasping at his work. + + +SCENE XIX.--_A country churchyard_. JULIAN _seated on a tombstone_. +LILY _gathering flowers and grass among the grass_. + + _Julian_. + O soft place of the earth! down-pillowed couch, + Made ready for the weary! Everywhere, + O Earth, thou hast one gift for thy poor children-- + Room to lie down, leave to cease standing up, + Leave to return to thee, and in thy bosom + Lie in the luxury of primeval peace, + Fearless of any morn; as a new babe + Lies nestling in his mother's arms in bed: + That home of blessedness is all there is; + He never feels the silent rushing tide, + Strong setting for the sea, which bears him on, + Unconscious, helpless, to wide consciousness. + But thou, thank God, hast this warm bed at last + Ready for him when weary: well the green + Close-matted coverlid shuts out the dawn. + O Lilia, would it were our wedding bed + To which I bore thee with a nobler joy! + --Alas! there's no such rest: I only dream + Poor pagan dreams with a tired Christian brain. + + How couldst thou leave me, my poor child? my heart + Was all so tender to thee! But I fear + My face was not. Alas! I was perplexed + With questions to be solved, before my face + Could turn to thee in peace: thy part in me + Fared ill in troubled workings of the brain. + Ah, now I know I did not well for thee + In making thee my wife! I should have gone + Alone into eternity. I was + Too rough for thee, for any tender woman-- + Other I had not loved--so full of fancies! + Too given to meditation. A deed of love + Is stronger than a metaphysic truth; + Smiles better teachers are than mightiest words. + Thou, who wast life, not thought, how couldst thou help it? + How love me on, withdrawn from all thy sight-- + For life must ever need the shows of life? + How fail to love a man so like thyself, + Whose manhood sought thy fainting womanhood? + I brought thee pine-boughs, rich in hanging cones, + But never white flowers, rubied at the heart. + O God, forgive me; it is all my fault. + Would I have had dead Love, pain-galvanized, + Led fettered after me by gaoler Duty? + Thou gavest me a woman rich in heart, + And I have kept her like a caged seamew + Starved by a boy, who weeps when it is dead. + O God, my eyes are opening--fearfully: + I know it now--'twas pride, yes, very pride, + That kept me back from speaking all my soul. + I was self-haunted, self-possessed--the worst + Of all possessions. Wherefore did I never + Cast all my being, life and all, on hers, + In burning words of openness and truth? + Why never fling my doubts, my hopes, my love, + Prone at her feet abandonedly? Why not + Have been content to minister and wait; + And if she answered not to my desires, + Have smiled and waited patient? God, they say, + Gives to his aloe years to breed its flower: + I gave not five years to a woman's soul! + Had I not drunk at last old wine of love? + I shut her love back on her lovely heart; + I did not shield her in the wintry day; + And she has withered up and died and gone. + God, let me perish, so thy beautiful + Be brought with gladness and with singing home. + If thou wilt give her back to me, I vow + To be her slave, and serve her with my soul. + I in my hand will take my heart, and burn + Sweet perfumes on it to relieve her pain. + I, I have ruined her--O God, save thou! + + [_His bends his head upon his knees_. LILY _comes running up + to him, stumbling over the graves_.] + + _Lily_. + Why do they make so many hillocks, father? + The flowers would grow without them. + + _Julian_. + So they would. + + _Lily_. + What are they for, then? + + _Julian (aside_). + I wish I had not brought her; + She _will_ ask questions. I must tell her all. + + (_Aloud_). + + 'Tis where they lay them when the story's done. + + _Lily_. + What! lay the boys and girls? + + _Julian_. + Yes, my own child-- + To keep them warm till it begin again. + + _Lily_. + Is it dark down there? + + [_Clinging to_ JULIAN, _and pointing down_.] + + _Julian_. + Yes, it is dark; but pleasant--oh, so sweet! + For out of there come all the pretty flowers. + + _Lily_. + Did the church grow out of there, with the long stalk + That tries to touch the little frightened clouds? + + _Julian_. + It did, my darling.--There's a door down there + That leads away to where the church is pointing. + + [_She is silent far some time, and keeps looking first down and + then up_. JULIAN _carries her away_.] + + +SCENE XX.--_Portsmouth_. LORD SEAFORD, _partially recovered. Enter_ +LADY GERTRUDE _and_ BERNARD. + + _Lady Gertrude_. + I have found an old friend, father. Here he is! + + _Lord S_. + Bernard! Who would have thought to see you here! + + _Bern_. + I came on Lady Gertrude in the street. + I know not which of us was more surprised. + + [LADY GERTRUDE _goes_.] + + _Bern_. + Where is the countess? + + _Lord S_. + Countess! What do you mean? I do not know. + + _Bern_. + The Italian lady. + + _Lord S_. + Countess Lamballa, do you mean? You frighten me! + + _Bern_. + I am glad indeed to know your ignorance; + For since I saw the count, I would not have you + Wrong one gray hair upon his noble head. + + [LORD SEAFORD _covers his eyes with his hands_.] + + You have not then heard the news about yourself? + Such interesting echoes reach the last + A man's own ear. The public has decreed + You and the countess run away together. + 'Tis certain she has balked the London Argos, + And that she has been often to your house. + The count believes it--clearly from his face: + The man is dying slowly on his feet. + + _Lord S. (starting up and ringing the bell_). + O God! what am I? My love burns like hate, + Scorching and blasting with a fiery breath! + + _Bern_. + What the deuce ails you, Seaford? Are you raving? + + _Enter_ Waiter. + + _Lord S_. + Post-chaise for London--four horses--instantly. + + [_He sinks exhausted in his chair_.] + + +SCENE XXI.--_LILY in bed. JULIAN seated by her_. + + _Lily_. + O father, take me on your knee, and nurse me. + Another story is very nearly done. + + [_He takes her on his knees_.] + + I am so tired! Think I should like to go + Down to the warm place that the flowers come from, + Where all the little boys and girls are lying + In little beds--white curtains, and white tassels. + --No, no, no--it is so dark down there! + Father will not come near me all the night. + + _Julian_. + You shall not go, my darling; I will keep you. + + _Lily_. + O will you keep me always, father dear? + And though I sleep ever so sound, still keep me? + Oh, I should be so happy, never to move! + 'Tis such a dear well place, here in your arms! + Don't let it take me; do not let me go: + I cannot leave you, father--love hurts so. + + _Julian_. + Yes, darling; love does hurt. It is too good + Never to hurt. Shall I walk with you now, + And try to make you sleep? + + _Lily_. + Yes--no; for I should leave you then. Oh, my head! + Mother, mother, dear mother!--Sing to me, father. + + [_He tries to sing_.] + + Oh the hurt, the hurt, and the hurt of love! + Wherever the sun shines, the waters go. + It hurts the snowdrop, it hurts the dove, + God on his throne, and man below. + + But sun would not shine, nor waters go, + Snowdrop tremble, nor fair dove moan, + God be on high, nor man below, + But for love--for the love with its hurt alone. + + Thou knowest, O Saviour, its hurt and its sorrows; + Didst rescue its joy by the might of thy pain: + Lord of all yesterdays, days, and to-morrows, + Help us love on in the hope of thy gain; + + Hurt as it may, love on, love for ever; + Love for love's sake, like the Father above, + But for whose brave-hearted Son we had never + Known the sweet hurt of the sorrowful love. + + [_She sleeps at last. He sits as before, with the child + leaning on his bosom, and falls into a kind of stupor, in + which he talks_.] + + _Julian_. + A voice comes from the vacant, wide sea-vault: + _Man with the heart, praying for woman's love, + Receive thy prayer; be loved; and take thy choice: + Take this or this_. O Heaven and Earth! I see--What + is it? Statue trembling into life + With the first rosy flush upon the skin? + Or woman-angel, richer by lack of wings? + I see her--where I know not; for I see + Nought else: she filleth space, and eyes, and brain-- + God keep me!--in celestial nakedness. + She leaneth forward, looking down in space, + With large eyes full of longing, made intense + By mingled fear of something yet unknown; + Her arms thrown forward, circling half; her hands + Half lifted, and half circling, like her arms. + + O heavenly artist! whither hast thou gone + To find my own ideal womanhood-- + Glory grown grace, divine to human grown? + + I hear the voice again: _Speak but the word: + She will array herself and come to thee. + Lo, at her white foot lie her daylight clothes, + Her earthly dress for work and weary rest_! + --I see a woman-form, laid as in sleep, + Close by the white foot of the wonderful. + It is the same shape, line for line, as she. + Long grass and daisies shadow round her limbs. + Why speak I not the word?------Clothe thee, and come, + O infinite woman! my life faints for thee. + + Once more the voice: _Stay! look on this side first: + I spake of choice. Look here, O son of man! + Choose then between them_. Ah! ah! + + [_Silence_.] + + Her I knew + Some ages gone; the woman who did sail + Down a long river with me to the sea; + Who gave her lips up freely to my lips, + Her body willingly into my arms; + Came down from off her statue-pedestal, + And was a woman in a common house, + Not beautified by fancy every day, + And losing worship by her gifts to me. + She gave me that white child--what came of her? + I have forgot.--I opened her great heart, + And filled it half-way to the brim with love-- + With love half wine, half vinegar and gall-- + And so--and so--she--went away and died? + O God! what was it?--something terrible-- + I will not stay to choose, or look again + Upon the beautiful. Give me my wife, + The woman of the old time on the earth. + O lovely spirit, fold not thy parted hands, + Nor let thy hair weep like a sunset-rain + + If thou descend to earth, and find no man + To love thee purely, strongly, in his will, + Even as he loves the truth, because he will, + And when he cannot see it beautiful-- + Then thou mayst weep, and I will help thee weep. + Voice, speak again, and tell my wife to come. + + 'Tis she, 'tis she, low-kneeling at my feet! + In the same dress, same flowing of the hair, + As long ago, on earth: is her face changed? + Sweet, my love rains on thee, like a warm shower; + My dove descending rests upon thy head; + I bless and sanctify thee for my own: + Lift up thy face, and let me look on thee. + + Heavens, what a face! 'Tis hers! It is not hers! + She rises--turns it up from me to God, + With great rapt orbs, and such a brow!--the stars + Might find new orbits there, and be content. + O blessed lips, so sweetly closed that sure + Their opening must be prophecy or song! + A high-entranced maiden, ever pure, + And thronged with burning thoughts of God and Truth! + + Vanish her garments; vanishes the silk + That the worm spun, the linen of the flax;-- + O heavens! she standeth there, my statue-form, + With the rich golden torrent-hair, white feet, + And hands with rosy palms--my own ideal! + The woman of _my_ world, with deeper eyes + Than I had power to think--and yet my Lilia, + My wife, with homely airs of earth about her, + And dearer to my heart as my lost wife, + Than to my soul as its new-found ideal! + Oh, Lilia! teach me; at thy knees I kneel: + Make me thy scholar; speak, and I will hear. + Yea, all eternity-- + + [_He is roused by a cry from the child_.] + + _Lily_. + Oh, father! put your arms close round about me. + Kiss me. Kiss me harder, father dear. + Now! I am better now. + + [_She looks long and passionately in his face. Her + eyes close; her head drops backward. She is dead_.] + + +SCENE XXII.--_A cottage-room_. LILIA _folding a letter_. + + _Lilia_. + Now I have told him all; no word kept back + To burn within me like an evil fire. + And where I am, I have told him; and I wait + To know his will. What though he love me not, + If I love him!--I will go back to him, + And wait on him submissive. Tis enough + For one life, to be servant to that man! + It was but pride--at best, love stained with pride, + That drove me from him. He and my sweet child + Must miss my hands, if not my eyes and heart. + How lonely is my Lily all the day, + Till he comes home and makes her paradise! + + I go to be his servant. Every word + That comes from him softer than a command, + I'll count it gain, and lay it in my heart, + And serve him better for it.--He will receive me. + + +SCENE XXIII.--LILY _lying dead. JULIAN bending over her_. + + _Julian_. + The light of setting suns be on thee, child! + Nay, nay, my child, the light of rising suns + Is on thee! Joy is with thee--God is Joy; + Peace to himself, and unto us deep joy; + Joy to himself, in the reflex of our joy. + Love be with thee! yea God, for he is Love. + Thou wilt need love, even God's, to give thee joy. + + Children, they say, are born into a world + Where grief is their first portion: thou, I think, + Never hadst much of grief--thy second birth + Into the spirit-world has taught thee grief, + If, orphaned now, thou know'st thy mother's story, + And know'st thy father's hardness. O my God, + Let not my Lily turn away from me. + + Now I am free to follow and find her. + Thy truer Father took thee home to him, + That he might grant my prayer, and save my wife. + I thank him for his gift of thee; for all + That thou hast taught me, blessed little child. + I love thee, dear, with an eternal love. + And now farewell! + + [Kissing her.] + + --no, not farewell; I come. + Years hold not back, they lead me on to thee. + Yes, they will also lead me on to her. + + _Enter a Jew_. + + _Jew_. + What is your pleasure with me? Here I am, sir. + + + _Julian_. + Walk into the next room; then look at this, + And tell me what you'll give for everything. + + [Jew goes.] + + My darling's death has made me almost happy. + Now, now I follow, follow. I'm young again. + When I have laid my little one to rest + Among the flowers in that same sunny spot, + Straight from her grave I'll take my pilgrim-way; + And, calling up all old forgotten skill, + Lapsed social claims, and knowledge of mankind, + I'll be a man once more in the loud world. + Revived experience in its winding ways, + Senses and wits made sharp by sleepless love, + If all the world were sworn to secrecy, + Will guide me to her, sure as questing Death. + I'll follow my wife, follow until I die. + How shall I face the Shepherd of the sheep, + Without the one ewe-lamb he gave to me? + How find her in great Hades, if not here + In this poor little round O of a world? + I'll follow my wife, follow until I find. + + _Re-enter_ Jew. + + Well, how much? Name your sum. Be liberal. + + _Jew_. + Let me see this room, too. The things are all + Old-fashioned and ill-kept. They're worth but little. + + _Julian_. + Say what you will--only make haste and go. + + _Jew_. + Say twenty pounds? + + _Julian_. + Well, fetch the money at once, + And take possession. But make haste, I pray. + + +SCENE XXIV.--_The country-churchyard_. JULIAN _standing by_ LILY'S +_new-filled grave. He looks very worn and ill_. + + _Julian_. + Now I can leave thee safely to thy sleep; + Thou wilt not wake and miss me, my fair child! + Nor will they, for she's fair, steal this ewe-lamb + Out of this fold, while I am gone to seek + And find the wandering mother of my lamb. + I cannot weep; I know thee with me still. + Thou dost not find it very dark down there? + Would I could go to thee; I long to go; + My limbs are tired; my eyes are sleepy too; + And fain my heart would cease this beat, beat, beat. + O gladly would I come to thee, my child, + And lay my head upon thy little heart, + And sleep in the divine munificence + Of thy great love! But my night has not come; + She is not rescued yet. Good-bye, little one. + + [_He turns, but sinks on the grave. Recovering and rising_.] + + Now for the world--that's Italy, and her! + + +SCENE XXV.--_The empty room, formerly Lilia's_. + + _Enter_ JULIAN. + + _Julian_. + How am I here? Alas! I do not know. + I should have been at sea.--Ah, now I know! + I have come here to die. + + [_Lies down on the floor_.] + Where's Lilia? + I cannot find her. She is here, I know. + But oh these endless passages and stairs, + And dreadful shafts of darkness! Lilia! + Lilia! wait for me, child; I'm coming fast, + But something holds me. Let me go, devil! + My Lilia, have faith; they cannot hurt you. + You are God's child--they dare not touch you, wife. + O pardon me, my beautiful, my own! + + [_Sings_.] + + Wind, wind, thou blowest many a drifting thing + From sheltering cove, down to the unsheltered sea; + Thou blowest to the sea ray blue sail's wing-- + Us to a new, love-lit futurity: + Out to the ocean fleet and float-- + Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat. + + [_While he sings, enter_ LORD SEAFORD, _pale and haggard_.] + + JULIAN _descries him suddenly_. + What are you, man? O brother, bury me-- + There's money in my pocket-- + + [_Emptying the Jew's gold on the floor_.] + + by my child. + + [_Staring at him_.] + + Oh! you are Death. Go, saddle the pale horse-- + I will not walk--I'll ride. What, skeleton! + _I cannot sit him_! ha! ha! Hither, brute! + Here, Lilia, do the lady's task, my child, + And buckle on my spurs. I'll send him up + With a gleam through the blue, snorting white foam-flakes. + Ah me! I have not won my golden spurs, + Nor is there any maid to bind them on: + + I will not ride the horse, I'll walk with thee. + Come, Death, give me thine arm, good slave!--we'll go. + + _Lord Seaford (stooping over him_). + I am Seaford, Count. + + _Julian_. + + Seaford! What Seaford? + + [_Recollecting_.] + + _--Seaford_! + + [_Springing to his feet_.] + + Where is my wife? + + [_He falls into SEAFORD'S arms. He lays him down_.] + + _Lord S_. + Had I seen _him_, she had been safe for me. + + [_Goes_.] + + [JULIAN _lies motionless. Insensibility passes into sleep. He + wakes calm, in the sultry dusk of a summer evening_.] + + _Julian_. + Still, still alive! I thought that I was dead. + I had a frightful dream. 'Tis gone, thank God! + + [_He is quiet a little_.] + + So then thou didst not take the child away + That I might find my wife! Thy will be done. + Thou wilt not let me go. This last desire + I send away with grief, but willingly. + I have prayed to thee, and thou hast heard my prayer: + Take thou thine own way, only lead her home. + Cleanse her, O Lord. I cannot know thy might; + But thou art mighty, with a power unlike + All, all that we know by the name of power, + Transcending it as intellect transcends + 'The stone upon the ground--it may be more, + For these are both created--thou creator, + Lonely, supreme. + + Now it is almost over, + My spirit's journey through this strange sad world; + This part is done, whatever cometh next. + Morning and evening have made out their day; + My sun is going down in stormy dark, + But I will face it fearless. + The first act Is over of the drama.--Is it so? + What means this dim dawn of half-memories? + + There's something I knew once and know not now!-- + A something different from all this earth! + It matters little; I care not--only know + That God will keep the living thing he made. + How mighty must he be to have the right + Of swaying this great power I feel I am-- + Moulding and forming it, as pleaseth him! + O God, I come to thee! thou art my life; + O God, thou art my home; I come to thee. + + Can this be death? Lo! I am lifted up + Large-eyed into the night. Nothing I see + But that which _is_, the living awful Truth-- + All forms of which are but the sparks flung out + From the luminous ocean clothing round the sun, + Himself all dark. Ah, I remember me: + Christ said to Martha--"Whosoever liveth, + And doth believe in me, shall never die"! + I wait, I wait, wait wondering, till the door + Of God's wide theatre be open flung + To let me in. What marvels I shall see! + The expectation fills me, like new life + Dancing through all my veins. + + Once more I thank thee + For all that thou hast made me--most of all, + That thou didst make me wonder and seek thee. + I thank thee for my wife: to thee I trust her; + Forget her not, my God. If thou save her, + I shall be able then to thank thee so + As will content thee--with full-flowing song, + The very bubbles on whose dancing waves + Are daring thoughts flung faithful at thy feet. + + My heart sinks in me.--I grow faint. Oh! whence + This wind of love that fans me out of life? + One stoops to kiss me!--Ah, my lily child! + God hath not flung thee over his garden-wall. + + [_Re-enter_ LORD SEAFORD _with the doctor_. JULIAN _takes no + heed of them. The doctor shakes his head_.] + + My little child, I'll never leave thee more; + We are both children now in God's big house. + Come, lead me; you are older here than I + By three whole days, my darling angel-child! + + [_A letter is brought in_. LORD SEAFORD _holds it before_ + JULIAN'S _eyes. He looks vaguely at it_.] + + _Lord S_. + It is a letter from your wife, I think. + + _Julian (feebly_). + A letter from my Lilia! Bury it with me-- + I'll read it in my chamber, by and by: + Dear words should not be read with others nigh. + Lilia, my wife! I am going home to God. + + _Lord S. (pending over him_). + Your wife is innocent. I _know_ she is. + + JULIAN _gazes at him blankly. A light begins to grow in his + eyes. It grows till his face is transfigured. It vanishes. + He dies_. + + + +PART V. + + AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain + More than the Father's heart rich good invent? + Each time we smell the autumn's dying scent, + We know the primrose time will come again; + Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our pain. + Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent + Is confidence unto the Father lent: + Thy need is sown and rooted for his rain. + His thoughts are as thine own; nor are his ways + Other than thine, but by pure opulence + Of beauty infinite and love immense. + Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of praise, + A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; + Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. + + + +A DREAM. + +SCENE I.--"_A world not realized_." LILY. _To her_ JULIAN. + + _Lily_. + O father, come with me! I have found her--mother! + + +SCENE II.--_A room in a cottage_. LILIA _on her knees before a +crucifix. Her back only is seen, for the Poet dares not look on her +face. On a chair beside her lies a book, open at CHAPTER VIII. +Behind her stands an Angel, bending forward, as if to protect her +with his wings partly expanded. Appear_ JULIAN, _with_ LILY _in his +arms_. LILY _looks with love on the angel, and a kind of longing +fear on her mother_. + + _Julian_. + Angel, thy part is done; leave her to me. + + _Angel_. + Sorrowful man, to thee I must give place; + Thy ministry is stronger far than mine; + Yet have I done my part.--She sat with him. + He gave her rich white flowers with crimson scent, + The tuberose and datura ever burning + Their incense to the dusky face of night. + He spoke to her pure words of lofty sense, + But tinged with poison for a tranced ear. + He bade low music sound of faint farewells, + Which fixed her eyes upon a leafy picture, + Wherein she wandered through an amber twilight + Toward a still grave in a sleepy nook. + And ever and anon she sipped pale wine, + Rose-tinged, rose-odoured, from a silver cup. + He sang a song, each pause of which closed up, + Like a day-wearied daisy for the night, + With these words falling like an echo low: + "Love, let us love and weep and faint and die." + With the last pause the tears flowed at their will, + Without a sob, down from their cloudy skies. + He took her hand in his, and it lay still.-- + blast of music from a wandering band + Billowed the air with sudden storm that moment. + The visible rampart of material things + Was rent--the vast eternal void looked in + Upon her awe-struck soul. She cried and fled. + + It was the sealing of her destiny. + A wild convulsion shook her inner world; + Its lowest depths were heaved tumultuously; + Far unknown molten gulfs of being rushed + Up into mountain-peaks, rushed up and stood. + The soul that led a fairy life, athirst + For beauty only, passed into a woman's: + In pain and tears was born the child-like need + For God, for Truth, and for essential Love. + But first she woke to terror; was alone, + For God she saw not;--woke up in the night, + The great wide night alone. No mother's hand, + To soothe her pangs, no father's voice was near. + She would not come to thee; for love itself + Too keenly stung her sad, repentant heart, + Giving her bitter names to give herself; + But, calling back old words which thou hadst spoken, + In other days, by light winds borne afar, + And now returning on the storm of grief, + Hither she came to seek her Julian's God. + Farewell, strange friend! My care of her is over. + + _Julian_. + A heart that knows what thou canst never know, + Fair angel, blesseth thee, and saith, farewell. + + [_The_ Angel _goes_. JULIAN _and_ LILY _take his place_. + LILIA _is praying, and they hear parts of her prayer_.] + + _Lilia_. + O Jesus, hear me! Let me speak to thee. + No fear oppresses me; for misery + Fills my heart up too full for any fear. + + Is there no help, O Holy? Am I stained + Beyond release? + + _Julian_. + Lilia, thy purity + Maketh thy heart abuse thee. I, thy husband, + Sinned more against thee, in believing ill, + Than thou, by ten times what thou didst, poor child, + Hadst wronged thy husband. + + _Lilia_. + Pardon will not do: + I need much more, O Master. That word _go_ + Surely thou didst not speak to send away + The sinful wife thou wouldst not yet condemn! + Or was that crime, though not too great for pardon, + Too great for loving-kindness afterward? + Might she not too have come behind thy feet, + And, weeping, wiped and kissed them, Mary's son, + Blessed for ever with a heavenly grief? + Ah! she nor I can claim with her who gave + Her tears, her hair, her lips, her precious oil, + To soothe feet worn with Galilean roads:-- + She sinned against herself, not against--Julian. + + My Lord, my God, find some excuse for me. + Find in thy heart something to say for me, + As for the crowd that cried against thee, then, + When heaven was dark because thy lamp burned low. + + _Julian_. + Not thou, but I am guilty, Lilia. + I made it possible to tempt thee, child. + Thou didst not fall, my love; only, one moment, + Beauty was queen, and Truth not lord of all. + + _Lilia_. + O Julian, my husband, is it strange, + That, when I think of Him, he looks like thee? + That, when he speaks to comfort me, the voice + Is like thy voice, my husband, my beloved? + Oh! if I could but lie down at thy feet, + And tell thee all--yea, every thought--I know + That thou wouldst think the best that could be thought, + And love and comfort me. O Julian, + I am more thine than ever.--Forgive me, husband, + For calling me, defiled and outcast, thine. + Yet may I not be thine as I am His? + Would I might be thy servant--yes, thy slave, + To wash thy feet, and dress thy lovely child, + And bring her at thy call--more wife than I. + But I shall never see thee, till the earth + Lies on us both--apart--oh, far apart! + How lonely shall I lie the long, long years! + + _Lily_. + O mother, there are blue skies here, and flowers, + And blowing winds, and kisses, mother dear! + And every time my father kisses me, + It is not father only, but another. + Make haste and come. My head never aches here. + + _Lilia_. + Can it be that they are dead? Is it possible? + I feel as if they were near me!--Speak again, + Beloved voices; comfort me; I need it. + + _Julian (singing_). + + Come to us: above the storm + Ever shines the blue. + Come to us: beyond its form + Ever lies the True. + + + _Lily (singing_). + + Mother, darling, do not weep-- + All I cannot tell: + By and by you'll go to sleep, + And you'll wake so well. + + _Julian (singing_). + + There is sunshine everywhere + For thy heart and mine: + God, for every sin and care, + Is the cure divine. + + _Lily (singing_). + + We're so happy all the day, + Waiting for another! + All the flowers and sunshine stay, + Watching for my mother. + + + _Julian_. + My maiden! for true wife is always maiden + To the true husband: thou art mine for ever. + + _Lilia_. + What gentle hopes keep passing to and fro! + Thou shadowest me with thine own rest, my God; + A cloud from thee stoops down and covers me. + + [_She falls asleep on her knees_] + + + +SCENE III.--JULIAN _on the summit of a mountain-peak. The stars are +brilliant around a crescent moon, hanging half-way between the +mountain and the zenith. Below lies a sea of vapour. Beyond rises a +loftier pinnacle, across which is stretched a bar of cloud_. LILY +_lies on the cloud, looking earnestly into the mist below_. + + _Julian (gazing upward_). + And thou wast with me all the time, my God, + Even as now! I was not far from thee. + Thy spirit spoke in all my wants and fears, + And hopes and longings. Thou art all in all. + I am not mine, but thine. I cannot speak + The thoughts that work within me like a sea. + When on the earth I lay, crushed down beneath + A hopeless weight of empty desolation, + Thy loving face was lighted then, O Christ, + With expectation of my joy to come, + When all the realm of possible ill should lie + Under my feet, and I should stand as now + Heart-sure of thee, true-hearted, only One. + Was ever soul filled to such overflowing + With the pure wine of blessedness, my God! + Filled as the night with stars, am I with joys; + Filled as the heavens with thee, am I with peace; + For now I wait the end of all my prayers-- + Of all that have to do with old-world things: + What new things come to wake new prayers, my God, + Thou know'st; I wait on thee in perfect peace. + + [_He turns his gaze downward.--From the fog-sea + below half-rises a woman-form, which floats toward him._] + + Lo, as the lily lifts its shining bosom + From the lone couch of waters where it slept, + When the fair morn toucheth and waketh it; + So riseth up my lily from the deep + Where human souls are vexed in awful dreams! + + [LILY _spies her mother, darts down, and is caught in + her arms. They land on_ JULIAN'S _peak, and + climb_, LILY _leading her mother_.] + + _Lily_. + Come faster, mother dear; father is waiting. + + _Lilia_. + Have patience with me, darling. By and by, + I think, I shall do better.--Oh my Julian! + + _Julian_. + I may not help her. She must climb and come. + + [_He reaches his hand, and the three are clasped in + an infinite embrace_.] + + O God, thy thoughts, thy ways, are not as ours: + They fill our longing hearts up to the brim. + + [_The moon and the stars and the blue night close + around them; and the poet awakes from his dream_.] + + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + +TO MY FATHER: + _with my second volume of verse_. + + +I. + + Take of the first fruits, father, of thy care, + Wrapped in the fresh leaves of my gratitude, + Late waked for early gifts ill understood; + Claiming in all my harvests rightful share, + Whether with song that mounts the joyful air + I praise my God, or, in yet deeper mood, + Sit dumb because I know a speechless good, + Needing no voice, but all the soul for prayer. + Thou hast been faithful to my highest need; + And I, thy debtor, ever, evermore, + Shall never feel the grateful burden sore. + Yet most I thank thee, not for any deed, + But for the sense thy living self did breed + Of fatherhood still at the great world's core. + + +II. + + All childhood, reverence clothed thee, undefined, + As for some being of another race; + Ah, not with it, departing--growing apace + As years did bring me manhood's loftier mind, + Able to see thy human life behind-- + The same hid heart, the same revealing face-- + My own dim contest settling into grace, + Of sorrow, strife, and victory combined! + So I beheld my God, in childhood's morn, + A mist, a darkness, great, and far apart, + Moveless and dim--I scarce could say _Thou art_: + My manhood came, of joy and sadness born;-- + Full soon the misty dark, asunder torn, + Revealed man's glory, God's great human heart. + +G.M.D. jr. + +ALGIERS, _April, 1857_. + + + + + +A HIDDEN LIFE. + + Proudly the youth, sudden with manhood crowned, + Went walking by his horses, the first time, + That morning, to the plough. No soldier gay + Feels at his side the throb of the gold hilt + (Knowing the blue blade hides within its sheath, + As lightning in the cloud) with more delight, + When first he belts it on, than he that day + Heard still the clank of the plough-chains against + His horses' harnessed sides, as to the field + They went to make it fruitful. O'er the hill + The sun looked down, baptizing him for toil. + + A farmer's son, a farmer's grandson he; + Yea, his great-grandsire had possessed those fields. + Tradition said they had been tilled by men + Who bore the name long centuries ago, + And married wives, and reared a stalwart race, + And died, and went where all had followed them, + Save one old man, his daughter, and the youth + Who ploughs in pride, nor ever doubts his toil; + And death is far from him this sunny morn. + Why should we think of death when life is high? + The earth laughs all the day, and sleeps all night. + The daylight's labour and the night's repose + Are very good, each better in its time. + + The boy knew little; but he read old tales + Of Scotland's warriors, till his blood ran swift + As charging knights upon their death-career. + He chanted ancient tunes, till the wild blood + Was charmed back into its fountain-well, + And tears arose instead. That poet's songs, + Whose music evermore recalls his name, + His name of waters babbling as they run, + Rose from him in the fields among the kine, + And met the skylark's, raining from the clouds. + But only as the poet-birds he sang-- + From rooted impulse of essential song; + The earth was fair--he knew not it was fair; + His heart was glad--he knew not it was glad; + He walked as in a twilight of the sense-- + Which this one day shall turn to tender morn. + + Long ere the sun had cleared the feathery tops + Of the fir-thicket on the eastward hill, + His horses leaned and laboured. Each great hand + Held rein and plough-stilt in one guiding grasp-- + No ploughman there would brook a helper. Proud + With a true ploughman's pride--nobler, I think, + Than statesman's, ay, or poet's, or painter's pride, + For little praise will come that he ploughs well-- + He did plough well, proud of his work itself, + And not of what would follow. With sure eye, + He saw his horses keep the arrow-track; + He saw the swift share cut the measured sod; + He saw the furrow folding to the right, + Ready with nimble foot to aid at need:-- + Turning its secrets upward to the sun, + And hiding in the dark the sun-born grass, + And daisies dipped in carmine, lay the tilth-- + A million graves to nurse the buried seed, + And send a golden harvest up the air. + + When the steep sun had clomb to his decline, + And pausing seemed, at edge of slow descent, + Upon the keystone of his airy bridge, + They rested likewise, half-tired man and horse, + And homeward went for food and courage new. + Therewith refreshed, they turned again to toil, + And lived in labour all the afternoon; + Till, in the gloaming, once again the plough + Lay like a stranded bark upon the lea, + And home with hanging neck the horses went, + Walking beside their master, force by will: + Then through the lengthening shades a vision came. + + It was a lady mounted on a horse, + A slender girl upon a mighty steed, + That bore her with the pride horses must feel + When they submit to women. Home she went, + Alone, or else her groom lagged far behind. + Scarce had she bent simple acknowledgment + Of the hand in silent salutation lifted + To the bowed head, when something faithless yielded: + The saddle slipped, the horse stopped, and the girl + Stood on her feet, still holding fast the reins. + + Three paces bore him bounding to her side; + Her radiant beauty almost fixed him there; + But with main force, as one that grapples fear, + He threw the fascination off, and saw + The work before him. Soon his hand and knife + Had set the saddle firmer than before + Upon the gentle horse; and then he turned + To mount the maiden. But bewilderment + A moment lasted; for he knew not how, + With stirrup-hand and steady arm, to throne, + Elastic, on her steed, the ascending maid: + A moment only; for while yet she thanked, + Nor yet had time to teach her further will, + About her waist he put his brawny hands, + That all but zoned her round; and like a child + Lifting her high, he set her on the horse; + Whence like a risen moon she smiled on him, + Nor turned aside, although a radiant blush + Shone in her cheek, and shadowed in her eyes. + And he was never sure if from her heart + Or from the rosy sunset came the flush. + Again she thanked him, while again he stood + Bewildered in her beauty. Not a word + Answered her words that flowed, folded in tones + Round which dissolving lambent music played, + Like dropping water in a silver cup; + Till, round the shoulder of the neighbouring hill, + Sudden she disappeared. And he awoke, + And called himself hard names, and turned and went + After his horses, bending like them his head. + + Ah God! when Beauty passes from the door, + Although she came not in, the house is bare: + Shut, shut the door; there's nothing in the house! + Why seems it always that she should be ours? + A secret lies behind which thou dost know, + And I can partly guess. + + But think not then, + The holder of the plough sighed many sighs + Upon his bed that night; or other dreams + Than pleasant rose upon his view in sleep; + Nor think the airy castles of his brain + Had less foundation than the air admits. + But read my simple tale, scarce worth the name, + And answer, if he had not from the fair + Beauty's best gift; and proved her not, in sooth, + An angel vision from a higher world. + + Not much of her I tell. Her glittering life, + Where part the waters on the mountain-ridge, + Ran down the southern side, away from his. + It was not over-blessed; for, I know, + Its tale wiled many sighs, one summer eve, + From her who told, and him who, in the pines + Walking, received it from her loving lips; + But now she was as God had made her, ere + The world had tried to spoil her; tried, I say, + And half succeeded, failing utterly. + Fair was she, frank, and innocent as a child + That looks in every eye; fearless of ill, + Because she knew it not; and brave withal, + Because she led a simple country life, + And loved the animals. Her father's house-- + A Scottish laird was he, of ancient name-- + Was distant but two miles among the hills; + Yet oft as she had passed his father's farm, + The youth had never seen her face before, + And should not twice. Yet was it not enough? + The vision tarried. She, as the harvest moon + That goeth on her way, and knoweth not + The fields of corn whose ripening grain she fills + With strength of life, and hope, and joy for men, + Went on her way, and knew not of the virtue + Gone out of her; yea, never thought of him, + Save at such times when, all at once, old scenes + Return uncalled, with wonder that they come. + Soon was she orphaned of her sheltering hills, + And rounded with dead glitter, not the shine + Of leaves and waters dancing in the sun; + While he abode in ever breaking dawns, + Breathed ever new-born winds into his soul; + And saw the aurora of the heavenly day + Still climb the hill-sides of the heapy world. + + Again I say, no fond romance of love, + No argument of possibilities, + If he were some one, and she sought his help, + Turned his clear brain into a nest of dreams. + As soon he had sat down and twisted cords + To snare, and carry home for household help, + Some woman-angel, wandering half-seen + On moonlight wings, o'er withered autumn fields. + But when he rose next morn, and went abroad, + (The exultation of his new-found rank + Already settling into dignity,) + Behold, the earth was beautiful! The sky + Shone with the expectation of the sun. + Only the daisies grieved him, for they fell + Caught in the furrow, with their innocent heads + Just out, imploring. A gray hedgehog ran, + With tangled mesh of rough-laid spikes, and face + Helplessly innocent, across the field: + He let it run, and blessed it as it ran. + Returned at noon-tide, something drew his feet + Into the barn: entering, he gazed and stood. + For, through the rent roof lighting, one sunbeam + Blazed on the yellow straw one golden spot, + Dulled all the amber heap, and sinking far, + Like flame inverted, through the loose-piled mound, + Crossed the keen splendour with dark shadow-straws, + In lines innumerable. 'Twas so bright, + His eye was cheated with a spectral smoke + That rose as from a fire. He had not known + How beautiful the sunlight was, not even + Upon the windy fields of morning grass, + Nor on the river, nor the ripening corn! + As if to catch a wild live thing, he crept + On tiptoe silent, laid him on the heap, + And gazing down into the glory-gulf, + Dreamed as a boy half sleeping by the fire-- + Half dreaming rose, and got his horses out. + + God, and not woman, is the heart of all. + But she, as priestess of the visible earth, + Holding the key, herself most beautiful, + Had come to him, and flung the portals wide. + He entered: every beauty was a glass + That gleamed the woman back upon his view. + Shall I not rather say: each beauty gave + Its own soul up to him who worshipped her, + For that his eyes were opened now to see? + + Already in these hours his quickened soul + Put forth the white tip of a floral bud, + Ere long to be a crown-like, aureole flower. + His songs unbidden, his joy in ancient tales, + Had hitherto alone betrayed the seed + That lay in his heart, close hidden even from him, + Yet not the less mellowing all his spring: + Like summer sunshine came the maiden's face, + And in the youth's glad heart the seed awoke. + It grew and spread, and put forth many flowers, + Its every flower a living open eye, + Until his soul was full of eyes within. + Each morning now was a fresh boon to him; + Each wind a spiritual power upon his life; + Each individual animal did share + A common being with him; every kind + Of flower from every other was distinct, + Uttering that for which alone it was-- + Its something human, wrapt in other veil. + + And when the winter came, when thick the snow + Armed the sad fields from gnawing of the frost, + When the low sun but skirted his far realms, + And sank in early night, he drew his chair + Beside the fire; and by the feeble lamp + Read book on book; and wandered other climes, + And lived in other lives and other needs, + And grew a larger self by other selves. + Ere long, the love of knowledge had become + A hungry passion and a conscious power, + And craved for more than reading could supply. + Then, through the night (all dark, except the moon + Shone frosty o'er the heath, or the white snow + Gave back such motes of light as else had sunk + In the dark earth) he bent his plodding way + Over the moors to where the little town + Lay gathered in the hollow. There the student + Who taught from lingering dawn to early dark, + Had older scholars in the long fore-night; + For youths who in the shop, or in the barn, + Or at the loom, had done their needful work, + Came gathering there through starlight, fog, or snow, + And found the fire ablaze, the candles lit, + And him who knew waiting for who would know. + Here mathematics wiled him to their heights; + And strange consent of lines to form and law + Made Euclid a profound romance of truth. + The master saw with wonder how he seized, + How eagerly devoured the offered food, + And longed to give him further kinds. For Knowledge + Would multiply like Life; and two clear souls + That see a truth, and, turning, see at once + Each the other's face glow in that truth's delight, + Are drawn like lovers. So the master offered + To guide the ploughman through the narrow ways + To heights of Roman speech. The youth, alert, + Caught at the offer; and for years of nights, + The house asleep, he groped his twilight way + With lexicon and rule, through ancient story, + Or fable fine, embalmed in Latin old; + Wherein his knowledge of the English tongue, + Through reading many books, much aided him-- + For best is like in all the hearts and tongues. + + At length his progress, through the master's pride + In such a pupil, reached the father's ears. + Great gladness woke within him, and he vowed, + If caring, sparing might accomplish it, + He should to college, and there have his fill + Of that same learning. + + To the plough no more, + All day to school he went; and ere a year, + He wore the scarlet gown with the closed sleeves. + + Awkward at first, but with a dignity + Soon finding fit embodiment in speech + And gesture and address, he made his way, + Unconscious all, to the full-orbed respect + Of students and professors; for whose praise + More than his worth, society, so called, + To its rooms in that great city of the North, + Invited him. He entered. Dazzled at first + By brilliance of the shining show, the lights, + The mirrors, gems, white necks, and radiant eyes, + He stole into a corner, and was quiet + Until the vision too had quieter grown. + Bewildered next by many a sparkling word, + Nor knowing the light-play of polished minds, + Which, like rose-diamonds cut in many facets, + Catch and reflect the wandering rays of truth + As if they were home-born and issuing new, + He held his peace, and silent soon began + To see how little fire it needs to shimmer. + Hence, in the midst of talk, his thoughts would wander + Back to the calm divine of homely toil; + While round him still and ever hung an air + Of breezy fields, and plough, and cart, and scythe-- + A kind of clumsy grace, in which gay girls + Saw but the clumsiness--another sort + Saw the grace too, yea, sometimes, when he spoke, + Saw the grace only; and began at last, + For he sought none, to seek him in the crowd, + And find him unexpected, maiden-wise. + But oftener far they sought him than they found, + For seldom was he drawn away from toil; + Seldomer stinted time held due to toil; + For if one night his panes were dark, the next + They gleamed far into morning. And he won + Honours among the first, each session's close. + + Nor think that new familiarity + With open forms of ill, not to be shunned + Where many youths are met, endangered much + A mind that had begun to will the pure. + Oft when the broad rich humour of a jest + With breezy force drew in its skirts a troop + Of pestilential vapours following-- + Arose within his sudden silent mind + The maiden face that once blushed down on him-- + That lady face, insphered beyond his earth, + Yet visible as bright, particular star. + A flush of tenderness then glowed across + His bosom--shone it clean from passing harm: + Should that sweet face be banished by rude words? + It could not stay what maidens might not hear! + He almost wept for shame, that face, such jest, + Should meet in _his_ house. To his love he made + Love's only worthy offering--purity. + + And if the homage that he sometimes met, + New to the country lad, conveyed in smiles, + Assents, and silent listenings when he spoke, + Threatened yet more his life's simplicity; + An antidote of nature ever came, + Even Nature's self. For, in the summer months, + His former haunts and boyhood's circumstance + Received him to the bosom of their grace. + And he, too noble to despise the past, + Too proud to be ashamed of manly toil, + Too wise to fancy that a gulf gaped wide + Betwixt the labouring hand and thinking brain, + Or that a workman was no gentleman + Because a workman, clothed himself again + In his old garments, took the hoe, the spade, + The sowing sheet, or covered in the grain, + Smoothing with harrows what the plough had ridged. + With ever fresher joy he hailed the fields, + Returning still with larger powers of sight: + Each time he knew them better than before, + And yet their sweetest aspect was the old. + His labour kept him true to life and fact, + Casting out worldly judgments, false desires, + And vain distinctions. Ever, at his toil, + New thoughts would rise, which, when God's night awoke, + He still would seek, like stars, with instruments-- + By science, or by truth's philosophy, + Bridging the gulf betwixt the new and old. + Thus laboured he with hand and brain at once, + Nor missed due readiness when Scotland's sons + Met to reap wisdom, and the fields were white. + + His sire was proud of him; and, most of all, + Because his learning did not make him proud: + He was too wise to build upon his lore. + The neighbours asked what he would make his son: + "I'll make a man of him," the old man said; + "And for the rest, just what he likes himself. + He is my only son--I think he'll keep + The old farm on; and I shall go content, + Leaving a man behind me, as I say." + + So four years long his life swung to and fro, + Alternating the red gown and blue coat, + The garret study and the wide-floored barn, + The wintry city and the sunny fields: + In every change his mind was well content, + For in himself he was the growing same. + + In no one channel flowed his seeking thoughts; + To no profession did he ardent turn: + He knew his father's wish--it was his own. + "Why should a man," he said, "when knowledge grows, + Leave therefore the old patriarchal life, + And seek distinction in the noise of men?" + He turned his asking face on every side; + Went reverent with the anatomist, and saw + The inner form of man laid skilful bare; + Went with the chymist, whose wise-questioning hand + Made Nature do in little, before his eyes, + And momently, what, huge, for centuries, + And in the veil of vastness and lone deeps, + She labours at; bent his inquiring eye + On every source whence knowledge flows for men: + At some he only sipped, at others drank. + + At length, when he had gained the master's right-- + By custom sacred from of old--to sit + With covered head before the awful rank + Of black-gowned senators; and each of those, + Proud of the scholar, was ready at a word + To speed him onward to what goal he would, + He took his books, his well-worn cap and gown, + And, leaving with a sigh the ancient walls, + Crowned with their crown of stone, unchanging gray + In all the blandishments of youthful spring, + Chose for his world the lone ancestral farm. + + With simple gladness met him on the road + His gray-haired father--elder brother now. + Few words were spoken, little welcome said, + But, as they walked, the more was understood. + If with a less delight he brought him home + Than he who met the prodigal returned, + It was with more reliance, with more peace; + For with the leaning pride that old men feel + In young strong arms that draw their might from them, + He led him to the house. His sister there, + Whose kisses were not many, but whose eyes + Were full of watchfulness and hovering love, + Set him beside the fire in the old place, + And heaped the table with best country-fare. + + When the swift night grew deep, the father rose, + And led him, wondering why and where they went, + Thorough the limpid dark, by tortuous path + Between the corn-ricks, to a loft above + The stable, where the same old horses slept + Which he had guided that eventful morn. + Entering, he saw a change-pursuing hand + Had been at work. The father, leading on + Across the floor, heaped high with store of grain + Opened a door. An unexpected light + Flashed on him cheerful from a fire and lamp, + That burned alone, as in a fairy-tale: + Behold! a little room, a curtained bed, + An easy chair, bookshelves, and writing-desk; + An old print of a deep Virgilian wood, + And one of choosing Hercules! The youth + Gazed and spoke not. The old paternal love + Had sought and found an incarnation new! + For, honouring in his son the simple needs + Which his own bounty had begot in him, + He gave him thus a lonely thinking space, + A silent refuge. With a quiet good night, + He left him dumb with love. Faintly beneath, + The horses stamped, and drew the lengthening chain. + + Three sliding years, with slowly blended change, + Drew round their winter, summer, autumn, spring, + Fulfilled of work by hands, and brain, and heart. + He laboured as before; though when he would, + And Nature urged not, he, with privilege, + Would spare from hours of toil--read in his room, + Or wander through the moorland to the hills; + There on the apex of the world would stand, + As on an altar, burning, soul and heart-- + Himself the sacrifice of faith and prayer; + Gaze in the face of the inviting blue + That domed him round; ask why it should be blue; + Pray yet again; and with love-strengthened heart + Go down to lower things with lofty cares. + + When Sundays came, the father, daughter, son + Walked to the church across their own loved fields. + It was an ugly church, with scarce a sign + Of what makes English churches venerable. + Likest a crowing cock upon a heap + It stood--but let us say--St. Peter's cock, + Lacking not many a holy, rousing charm + For one with whose known self it was coeval, + Dawning with it from darkness of the unseen! + And its low mounds of monumental grass + Were far more solemn than great marble tombs; + For flesh is grass, its goodliness the flower. + Oh, lovely is the face of green churchyard + On sunny afternoons! The light itself + Nestles amid the grass; and the sweet wind + Says, _I am here_,--no more. With sun and wind + And crowing cocks, who can believe in death? + He, on such days, when from the church they Came, + And through God's ridges took their thoughtful way, + The last psalm lingering faintly in their hearts, + Would look, inquiring where his ridge would rise; + But when it gloomed or rained, he turned aside: + What mattered it to him? + + And as they walked + Homeward, right well the father loved to hear + The fresh rills pouring from his son's clear well. + For the old man clung not to the old alone, + Nor leaned the young man only to the new; + They would the best, they sought, and followed it. + "The Pastor fills his office well," he said, + In homely jest; "--the Past alone he heeds! + Honours those Jewish times as he were a Jew, + And Christ were neither Jew nor northern man! + He has no ear for this poor Present Hour, + Which wanders up and down the centuries, + Like beggar-boy roaming the wintry streets, + With witless hand held out to passers-by; + And yet God made the voice of its many cries. + Mine be the work that comes first to my hand! + The lever set, I grasp and heave withal. + I love where I live, and let my labour flow + Into the hollows of the neighbour-needs. + Perhaps I like it best: I would not choose + Another than the ordered circumstance. + This farm is God's as much as yonder town; + These men and maidens, kine and horses, his; + For them his laws must be incarnated + In act and fact, and so their world redeemed." + + Though thus he spoke at times, he spake not oft; + Ruled chief by action: what he said, he did. + No grief was suffered there of man or beast + More than was need; no creature fled in fear; + All slaying was with generous suddenness, + Like God's benignant lightning. "For," he said, + "God makes the beasts, and loves them dearly well-- + Better than any parent loves his child, + It may be," would he say; for still the _may be_ + Was sacred with him no less than the _is_-- + "In such humility he lived and wrought-- + Hence are they sacred. Sprung from God as we, + They are our brethren in a lower kind, + And in their face we see the human look." + If any said: "Men look like animals; + Each has his type set in the lower kind;" + His answer was: "The animals are like men; + Each has his true type set in the higher kind, + Though even there only rough-hewn as yet. + The hell of cruelty will be the ghosts + Of the sad beasts: their crowding heads will come, + And with encircling, slow, pain-patient eyes, + Stare the ill man to madness." + + When he spoke, + His word behind it had the force of deeds + Unborn within him, ready to be born; + But, like his race, he promised very slow. + His goodness ever went before his word, + Embodying itself unconsciously + In understanding of the need that prayed, + And cheerful help that would outrun the prayer. + + When from great cities came the old sad news + Of crime and wretchedness, and children sore + With hunger, and neglect, and cruel blows, + He would walk sadly all the afternoon, + With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow; + Arriving ever at the same result-- + Concluding ever: "The best that I can do + For the great world, is the same best I can + For this my world. What truth may be therein + Will pass beyond my narrow circumstance, + In truth's own right." When a philanthropist + Said pompously: "It is not for your gifts + To spend themselves on common labours thus: + You owe the world far nobler things than such;" + He answered him: "The world is in God's hands, + This part of it in mine. My sacred past, + With all its loves inherited, has led + Hither, here left me: shall I judge, arrogant, + Primaeval godlike work in earth and air, + Seed-time and harvest--offered fellowship + With God in nature--unworthy of my hands? + I know your argument--I know with grief!-- + The crowds of men, in whom a starving soul + Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes + For bare humanity, nay, room to grow!-- + Would I could help them! But all crowds are made + Of individuals; and their grief and pain, + Their thirst and hunger--all are of the one, + Not of the many: the true, the saving power + Enters the individual door, and thence + Issues again in thousand influences + Besieging other doors. I cannot throw + A mass of good into the general midst, + Whereof each man may seize his private share; + And if one could, it were of lowest kind, + Not reaching to that hunger of the soul. + Now here I labour whole in the same spot + Where they have known me from my childhood up + And I know them, each individual: + If there is power in me to help my own, + Even of itself it flows beyond my will, + Takes shape in commonest of common acts, + Meets every humble day's necessity: + --I would not always consciously do good, + Not always work from full intent of help, + Lest I forget the measure heaped and pressed + And running over which they pour for me, + And never reap the too-much of return + In smiling trust and beams from kindly eyes. + But in the city, with a few lame words, + And a few wretched coins, sore-coveted, + To mediate 'twixt my _cannot_ and my _would_, + My best attempts would never strike a root; + My scattered corn would turn to wind-blown chaff; + I should grow weak, might weary of my kind, + Misunderstood the most where almost known, + Baffled and beaten by their unbelief: + Years could not place me where I stand this day + High on the vantage-ground of confidence: + I might for years toil on, and reach no man. + Besides, to leave the thing that nearest lies, + And choose the thing far off, more difficult-- + The act, having no touch of God in it, + Who seeks the needy for the pure need's sake, + Must straightway die, choked in its selfishness." + Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good + Held his poor peace, and went his trackless way. + + What of the vision now? the vision fair + Sent forth to meet him, when at eve he went + Home from his first day's ploughing? Oft he dreamed + She passed him smiling on her stately horse; + But never band or buckle yielded more; + Never again his hands enthroned the maid; + He only worshipped with his eyes, and woke. + Nor woke he then with foolish vain regret; + But, saying, "I have seen the beautiful," + Smiled with his eyes upon a flower or bird, + Or living form, whate'er, of gentleness, + That met him first; and all that morn, his face + Would oftener dawn into a blossomy smile. + + And ever when he read a lofty tale, + Or when the storied leaf, or ballad old, + Or spake or sang of woman very fair, + Or wondrous good, he saw her face alone; + The tale was told, the song was sung of her. + He did not turn aside from other maids, + But loved their faces pure and faithful eyes. + He may have thought, "One day I wed a maid, + And make her mine;" but never came the maid, + Or never came the hour: he walked alone. + Meantime how fared the lady? She had wed + One of the common crowd: there must be ore + For the gold grains to lie in: virgin gold + Lies in the rock, enriching not the stone. + She was not one who of herself could _be_; + And she had found no heart which, tuned with hers, + Would beat in rhythm, growing into rime. + She read phantasmagoric tales, sans salt, + Sans hope, sans growth; or listlessly conversed + With phantom-visitors--ladies, not friends, + Mere spectral forms from fashion's concave glass. + She haunted gay assemblies, ill-content-- + Witched woods to hide in from her better self, + And danced, and sang, and ached. What had she felt, + If, called up by the ordered sounds and motions, + A vision had arisen--as once, of old, + The minstrel's art laid bare the seer's eye, + And showed him plenteous waters in the waste;-- + If the gay dance had vanished from her sight, + And she beheld her ploughman-lover go + With his great stride across a lonely field, + Under the dark blue vault ablaze with stars, + Lifting his full eyes to the radiant roof, + Live with our future; or had she beheld + Him studious, with space-compelling mind + Bent on his slate, pursue some planet's course; + Or reading justify the poet's wrath, + Or sage's slow conclusion?--If a voice + Had whispered then: This man in many a dream, + And many a waking moment of keen joy, + Blesses you for the look that woke his heart, + That smiled him into life, and, still undimmed, + Lies lamping in the cabinet of his soul;-- + Would her sad eyes have beamed with sudden light? + Would not her soul, half-dead with nothingness, + Have risen from the couch of its unrest, + And looked to heaven again, again believed + In God and life, courage, and duty, and love? + Would not her soul have sung to its lone self: + "I have a friend, a ploughman, who is wise. + He knows what God, and goodness, and fair faith + Mean in the words and books of mighty men. + He nothing heeds the show of worldly things, + But worships the unconquerable truth. + This man is humble and loves me: I will + Be proud and very humble. If he knew me, + Would he go on and love me till we meet!"? + + In the third year, a heavy harvest fell, + Full filled, before the reaping-hook and scythe. + The heat was scorching, but the men and maids + Lightened their toil with merry jest and song; + Rested at mid-day, and from brimming bowl, + Drank the brown ale, and white abundant milk. + The last ear fell, and spiky stubble stood + Where waved the forests of dry-murmuring corn; + And sheaves rose piled in shocks, like ranged tents + Of an encamping army, tent by tent, + To stand there while the moon should have her will. + + The grain was ripe. The harvest carts went out + Broad-platformed, bearing back the towering load, + With frequent passage 'twixt homeyard and field. + And half the oats already hid their tops, + Their ringing, rustling, wind-responsive sprays, + In the still darkness of the towering stack; + When in the north low billowy clouds appeared, + Blue-based, white-crested, in the afternoon; + And westward, darker masses, plashed with blue, + And outlined vague in misty steep and dell, + Clomb o'er the hill-tops: thunder was at hand. + The air was sultry. But the upper sky + Was clear and radiant. + + Downward went the sun, + Below the sullen clouds that walled the west, + Below the hills, below the shadowed world. + The moon looked over the clear eastern wall, + And slanting rose, and looked, rose, looked again, + And searched for silence in her yellow fields, + But found it not. For there the staggering carts, + Like overladen beasts, crawled homeward still, + Sped fieldward light and low. The laugh broke yet, + That lightning of the soul's unclouded skies-- + Though not so frequent, now that toil forgot + Its natural hour. Still on the labour went, + Straining to beat the welkin-climbing heave + Of the huge rain-clouds, heavy with their floods. + Sleep, old enchantress, sided with the clouds, + The hoisting clouds, and cast benumbing spells + On man and horse. One youth who walked beside + A ponderous load of sheaves, higher than wont, + Which dared the lurking levin overhead, + Woke with a start, falling against the wheel, + That circled slow after the slumbering horse. + Yet none would yield to soft-suggesting sleep, + And quit the last few shocks; for the wild storm + Would catch thereby the skirts of Harvest-home, + And hold her lingering half-way in the rain. + + The scholar laboured with his men all night. + He did not favour such prone headlong race + With Nature. To himself he said: "The night + Is sent for sleep; we ought to sleep in the night, + And leave the clouds to God. Not every storm + That climbeth heavenward overwhelms the earth; + And when God wills, 'tis better he should will; + What he takes from us never can be lost." + But the father so had ordered, and the son + Went manful to his work, and held his peace. + + When the dawn blotted pale the clouded east, + The first drops, overgrown and helpless, fell + On the last home-bound cart, oppressed with sheaves; + And by its side, the last in the retreat, + The scholar walked, slow bringing up the rear. + Half the still lengthening journey he had gone, + When, on opposing strength of upper winds + Tumultuous borne, at last the labouring racks + Met in the zenith, and the silence ceased: + The lightning brake, and flooded all the world, + Its roar of airy billows following it. + The darkness drank the lightning, and again + Lay more unslaked. But ere the darkness came, + In the full revelation of the flash, + Met by some stranger flash from cloudy brain, + He saw the lady, borne upon her horse, + Careless of thunder, as when, years agone, + He saw her once, to see for evermore. + "Ah, ha!" he said, "my dreams are come for me! + Now shall they have me!" For, all through the night, + There had been growing trouble in his frame, + An overshadowing of something dire. + Arrived at home, the weary man and horse + Forsook their load; the one went to his stall, + The other sought the haven of his bed-- + There slept and moaned, cried out, and woke, and slept: + Through all the netted labyrinth of his brain + The fever shot its pent malignant fire. + 'Twas evening when to passing consciousness + He woke and saw his father by his side: + His guardian form in every vision drear + That followed, watching shone; and the healing face + Of his true sister gleamed through all his pain, + Soothing and strengthening with cloudy hope; + Till, at the weary last of many days, + He woke to sweet quiescent consciousness, + Enfeebled much, but with a new-born life-- + His soul a summer evening after rain. + + Slow, with the passing weeks, he gathered strength, + And ere the winter came, seemed half restored; + And hope was busy. But a fire too keen + Burned in his larger eyes; and in his cheek + Too ready came the blood at faintest call, + Glowing a fair, quick-fading, sunset hue. + + Before its hour, a biting frost set in. + It gnawed with icy fangs his shrinking life; + And that disease bemoaned throughout the land, + The smiling, hoping, wasting, radiant death, + Was born of outer cold and inner heat. + + One morn his sister, entering while he slept, + Spied in his listless hand a handkerchief + Spotted with red. Cold with dismay, she stood, + Scared, motionless. But catching in the glass + The sudden glimpse of a white ghostly face, + She started at herself, and he awoke. + He understood, and said with smile unsure, + "Bright red was evermore my master-hue; + And see, I have it in me: that is why." + She shuddered; and he saw, nor jested more, + But smiled again, and looked Death in the face. + + When first he saw the red blood outward leap, + As if it sought again the fountain-heart + Whence it had flowed to fill the golden bowl, + No terror seized--an exaltation swelled + His spirit: now the pondered mystery + Would fling its portals wide, and take him in, + One of the awful dead! Them, fools conceive + As ghosts that fleet and pine, bereft of weight, + And half their valued lives: he otherwise;-- + Hoped now, and now expected; and, again, + Said only, "I await the thing to come." + + So waits a child the lingering curtain's rise, + While yet the panting lamps restrained burn + At half-height, and the theatre is full. + + But as the days went by, they brought sad hours, + When he would sit, his hands upon his knees, + Drooping, and longing for the wine of life. + For when the ninefold crystal spheres, through which + The outer light sinks in, are cracked and broken, + Yet able to keep in the 'piring life, + Distressing shadows cross the chequered soul: + Poor Psyche trims her irresponsive lamp, + And anxious visits oft her store of oil, + And still the shadows fall: she must go pray! + And God, who speaks to man at door and lattice, + Glorious in stars, and winds, and flowers, and waves, + Not seldom shuts the door and dims the pane, + That, isled in calm, his still small voice may sound + The clearer, by the hearth, in the inner room-- + Sound on until the soul, fulfilled of hope, + Look undismayed on that which cannot kill; + And saying in the dark, _I will the light_, + Glow in the gloom the present will of God: + Then melt the shadows of her shaken house. + + He, when his lamp shot up a spiring flame, + Would thus break forth and climb the heaven of prayer: + "Do with us what thou wilt, all-glorious heart! + Thou God of them that are not yet, but grow! + We trust thee for the thing we shall be yet; + We too are ill content with what we are." + And when the flame sank, and the darkness fell, + He lived by faith which is the soul of sight. + + Yet in the frequent pauses of the light, + When all was dreary as a drizzling thaw, + When sleep came not although he prayed for sleep, + And wakeful-weary on his bed he lay, + Like frozen lake that has no heaven within; + Then, then the sleeping horror woke and stirred, + And with the tooth of unsure thought began + To gnaw the roots of life:--What if there were + No truth in beauty! What if loveliness + Were but the invention of a happier mood! + "For, if my mind can dim or slay the Fair, + Why should it not enhance or make the Fair?" + "Nay," Psyche answered; "for a tired man + May drop his eyelids on the visible world, + To whom no dreams, when fancy flieth free, + Will bring the sunny excellence of day. + 'Tis easy to destroy; God only makes. + Could my invention sweep the lucid waves + With purple shadows--next create the joy + With which my life beholds them? Wherefore should + One meet the other without thought of mine, + If God did not mean beauty in them and me, + But dropped them, helpless shadows, from his sun? + There were no God, his image not being mine, + And I should seek in vain for any bliss! + Oh, lack and doubt and fear can only come + Because of plenty, confidence, and love! + Those are the shadow-forms about the feet + Of these--because they are not crystal-clear + To the all-searching sun in which they live: + Dread of its loss is Beauty's certain seal!" + Thus reasoned mourning Psyche. Suddenly + The sun would rise, and vanish Psyche's lamp, + Absorbed in light, not swallowed in the dark. + + It was a wintry time with sunny days, + With visitings of April airs and scents, + That came with sudden presence, unforetold, + As brushed from off the outer spheres of spring + In the great world where all is old and new. + Strange longings he had never known till now, + Awoke within him, flowers of rooted hope. + For a whole silent hour he would sit and gaze + Upon the distant hills, whose dazzling snow + Starred the dim blue, or down their dark ravines + Crept vaporous; until the fancy rose + That on the other side those rampart walls, + A mighty woman sat, with waiting face, + Calm as that life whose rapt intensity + Borders on death, silent, waiting for him, + To make him grand for ever with a kiss, + And send him silent through the toning worlds. + + The father saw him waning. The proud sire + Beheld his pride go drooping in the cold, + Like snowdrop on its grave; and sighed deep thanks + That he was old. But evermore the son + Looked up and smiled as he had heard strange news + Across the waste, of tree-buds and primroses. + Then all at once the other mood would come, + And, like a troubled child, he would seek his father + For father-comfort, which fathers all can give: + Sure there is one great Father in the world, + Since every word of good from fathers' lips + Falleth with such authority, although + They are but men as we! This trembling son, + Who saw the unknown death draw hourly nigher, + Sought solace in his father's tenderness, + And made him strong to die. + + One shining day, + Shining with sun and snow, he came and said, + "What think you, father--is death very sore?" + "My boy," the father answered, "we will try + To make it easy with the present God. + But, as I judge, though more by hope than sight, + It seems much harder to the lookers on + Than to the man who dies. Each panting breath + We call a gasp, may be in him the cry + Of infant eagerness; or, at worst, the sob + With which the unclothed spirit, step by step. + Wades forth into the cool eternal sea. + I think, my boy, death has two sides to it-- + One sunny, and one dark--as this round earth + Is every day half sunny and half dark. + We on the dark side call the mystery _death_; + They on the other, looking down in light, + Wait the glad _birth_, with other tears than ours." + "Be near me, father, when I die," he said. + "I will, my boy, until a better Father + Draws your hand out of mine. Be near in turn, + When my time comes--you in the light beyond, + And knowing well the country--I in the dark." + + The days went by, until the tender green + Shone through the snow in patches. Then the hope + Of life, reviving faintly, stirred his heart; + For the spring drew him--warm, soft, budding spring, + With promises, and he went forth to meet her. + + But he who once had strode a king on the fields, + Walked softly now; lay on the daisied grass; + And sighed sometimes in secret, that so soon + The earth, with all its suns and harvests fair, + Must lie far off, an old forsaken thing. + + But though I lingering listen to the old, + Ere yet I strike new chords that seize the old + And lift their lost souls up the music-stair-- + Think not he was too fearful-faint of heart + To look the blank unknown full in the void; + For he had hope in God--the growth of years, + Of ponderings, of childish aspirations, + Of prayers and readings and repentances; + For something in him had ever sought the peace + Of other something deeper in him still-- + A _faint_ sound sighing for a harmony + With other fainter sounds, that softly drew + Nearer and nearer from the unknown depths + Where the Individual goeth out in God: + The something in him heard, and, hearing, listened, + And sought the way by which the music came, + Hoping at last to find the face of him + To whom Saint John said _Lord_ with holy awe, + And on his bosom fearless leaned the while. + + As his slow spring came on, the swelling life, + The new creation inside of the old, + Pressed up in buds toward the invisible. + And burst the crumbling mould wherein it lay. + Not once he thought of that still churchyard now; + He looked away from earth, and loved the sky. + One earthly notion only clung to him:-- + He thanked God that he died not in the cold; + "For," said he, "I would rather go abroad + When the sun shines, and birds are singing blithe.--It + may be that we know not aught of place, + Or any sense, and only live in thought; + But, knowing not, I cling to warmth and light. + I _may_ pass forth into the sea of air + That swings its massy waves around the earth, + And I would rather go when it is full + Of light, and blue, and larks, than when gray fog + Dulls it with steams of old earth winter-sick. + Now in the dawn of summer I shall die-- + Sinking asleep ere sunset, I will hope, + And going with the light. And when they say, + 'He's dead; he rests at last; his face is changed;' + I shall be saying: Yet, yet, I live, I love!'" + + The weary nights did much to humble him; + They made the good he knew seem all ill known: + He would go by and by to school again! + "Father," he said, "I am nothing; but Thou _art_!" + Like half-asleep, whole-dreaming child, he was, + Who, longing for his mother, has forgot + The arms about him, holding him to her heart: + _Mother_ he murmuring moans; she wakes him up + That he may see her face, and sleep indeed. + + Father! we need thy winter as thy spring; + We need thy earthquakes as thy summer showers; + But through them all thy strong arms carry us, + Thy strong heart bearing large share in our grief. + Because thou lovest goodness more than joy + In them thou lovest, thou dost let them grieve: + We must not vex thee with our peevish cries, + But look into thy face, and hold thee fast, + And say _O Father, Father_! when the pain + Seems overstrong. Remember our poor hearts: + We never grasp the zenith of the time! + We have no spring except in winter-prayers! + But we believe--alas, we only hope!--That + one day we shall thank thee perfectly + For every disappointment, pang, and shame, + That drove us to the bosom of thy love. + + One night, as oft, he lay and could not sleep. + His spirit was a chamber, empty, dark, + Through which bright pictures passed of the outer world: + The regnant Will gazed passive on the show; + The magic tube through which the shadows came, + Witch Memory turned and stayed. In ones and troops, + Glided across the field the things that were, + Silent and sorrowful, like all things old: + Even old rose-leaves have a mournful scent, + And old brown letters are more sad than graves. + + At length, as ever in such vision-hours, + Came the bright maiden, high upon her horse. + Will started all awake, passive no more, + And, necromantic sage, the apparition + That came unbid, commanded to abide. + + Gathered around her form his brooding thoughts: + How had she fared, spinning her history + Into a psyche-cradle? With what wings + Would she come forth to greet the aeonian summer? + Glistening with feathery dust of silver? or + Dull red, and seared with spots of black ingrained? + "I know," he said, "some women fail of life! + The rose hath shed her leaves: is she a rose?" + + The fount of possibilities began + To gurgle, threatful, underneath the thought: + Anon the geyser-column raging rose;-- + For purest souls sometimes have direst fears + In ghost-hours when the shadow of the earth + Is cast on half her children, and the sun + Is busy giving daylight to the rest. + + "Oh, God!" he cried, "if she be such as those!-- + Angels in the eyes of poet-boys, who still + Fancy the wavings of invisible wings, + But, in their own familiar, chamber-thoughts, + Common as clay, and of the trodden earth!-- + It cannot, cannot be! She is of God!-- + And yet things lovely perish! higher life + Gives deeper death! fair gifts make fouler faults!-- + Women themselves--I dare not think the rest!" + Such thoughts went walking up and down his soul + But found at last a spot wherein to rest, + Building a resolution for the day. + + The next day, and the next, he was too worn + To clothe intent in body of a deed. + A cold dry wind blew from the unkindly east, + Making him feel as he had come to the earth + Before God's spirit moved on the water's face, + To make it ready for him. + + But the third + Morning rose radiant. A genial wind + Rippled the blue air 'neath the golden sun, + And brought glad summer-tidings from the south. + + He lay now in his father's room; for there + The southern sun poured all the warmth he had. + His rays fell on the fire, alive with flames, + And turned it ghostly pale, and would have slain-- + Even as the sunshine of the higher life, + Quenching the glow of this, leaves but a coal. + He rose and sat him down 'twixt sun and fire; + Two lives fought in him for the mastery; + And half from each forth flowed the written stream + "Lady, I owe thee much. Stay not to look + Upon my name: I write it, but I date + From the churchyard, where it shall lie in peace, + Thou reading it. Thou know'st me not at all; + Nor dared I write, but death is crowning me + Thy equal. If my boldness yet offend, + Lo, pure in my intent, I am with the ghosts; + Where when thou comest, thou hast already known + God equal makes at first, and Death at last." + + "But pardon, lady. Ere I had begun, + My thoughts moved toward thee with a gentle flow + That bore a depth of waters: when I took + My pen to write, they rushed into a gulf, + Precipitate and foamy. Can it be + That Death who humbles all hath made me proud?" + + "Lady, thy loveliness hath walked my brain, + As if I were thy heritage bequeathed + From many sires; yet only from afar + I have worshipped thee--content to know the vision + Had lifted me above myself who saw, + And ta'en my angel nigh thee in thy heaven. + Thy beauty, lady, hath overflowed, and made + Another being beautiful, beside, + With virtue to aspire and be itself. + Afar as angels or the sainted dead, + Yet near as loveliness can haunt a man, + Thy form hath put on each revealing dress + Of circumstance and history, high or low, + In which, from any tale of selfless life, + Essential womanhood hath shone on me." + + "Ten years have passed away since the first time, + Which was the last, I saw thee. What have these + Made or unmade in thee?--I ask myself. + O lovely in my memory! art thou + As lovely in thyself? Thy glory then + Was what God made thee: art thou such indeed? + Forgive my boldness, lady--I am dead: + The dead may cry, their voices are so small." + + "I have a prayer to make thee--hear the dead. + Lady, for God's sake be as beautiful + As that white form that dwelleth in my heart; + Yea, better still, as that ideal Pure + That waketh in thee, when thou prayest God, + Or helpest thy poor neighbour. For myself + I pray. For if I die and find that she, + My woman-glory, lives in common air, + Is not so very radiant after all, + My sad face will afflict the calm-eyed ghosts, + Unused to see such rooted sorrow there. + With palm to palm my kneeling ghost implores + Thee, living lady--justify my faith + In womanhood's white-handed nobleness, + And thee, its revelation unto me." + + "But I bethink me:--If thou turn thy thoughts + Upon thyself, even for that great sake + Of purity and conscious whiteness' self, + Thou wilt but half succeed. The other half + Is to forget the former, yea, thyself, + Quenching thy moonlight in the blaze of day, + Turning thy being full unto thy God. + Be thou in him a pure, twice holy child, + Doing the right with sweet unconsciousness-- + Having God in thee, thy completing soul." + + "Lady, I die; the Father holds me up. + It is not much to thee that I should die; + It may be much to know he holds me up." + + "I thank thee, lady, for the gentle look + Which crowned me from thine eyes ten years ago, + Ere, clothed in nimbus of the setting sun, + Thee from my dazzled eyes thy horse did bear, + Proud of his burden. My dull tongue was mute-- + I was a fool before thee; but my silence + Was the sole homage possible to me then: + That now I speak, and fear not, is thy gift. + The same sweet look be possible to thee + For evermore! I bless thee with thine own, + And say farewell, and go into my grave-- + No, to the sapphire heaven of all my hopes." + + Followed his name in full, and then the name + Of the green churchyard where his form should lie. + + Back to his couch he crept, weary, and said: + "O God, I am but an attempt at life! + Sleep falls again ere I am full awake. + Light goeth from me in the morning hour. + I have seen nothing clearly; felt no thrill + Of pure emotion, save in dreams, ah--dreams! + The high Truth has but flickered in my soul-- + Even at such times, in wide blue midnight hours, + When, dawning sudden on my inner world, + New stars came forth, revealing unknown depths, + New heights of silence, quelling all my sea, + And for a moment I saw formless fact, + And knew myself a living lonely thought, + Isled in the hyaline of Truth alway! + I have not reaped earth's harvest, O my God; + Have gathered but a few poor wayside flowers, + Harebells, red poppies, daisies, eyebrights blue-- + Gathered them by the way, for comforting! + Have I aimed proudly, therefore aimed too low, + Striving for something visible in my thought, + And not the unseen thing hid far in thine? + Make me content to be a primrose-flower + Among thy nations, so the fair truth, hid + In the sweet primrose, come awake in me, + And I rejoice, an individual soul, + Reflecting thee--as truly then divine + As if I towered the angel of the sun. + Once, in a southern eve, a glowing worm + Gave me a keener joy than the heaven of stars: + Thou camest in the worm nearer me then! + Nor do I think, were I that green delight, + I would change to be the shadowy evening star. + Ah, make me, Father, anything thou wilt, + So be thou will it! I am safe with thee. + I laugh exulting. Make me something, God-- + Clear, sunny, veritable purity + Of mere existence, in thyself content. + And seeking no compare. Sure I _have_ reaped + Earth's harvest if I find this holy death!-- + Now I am ready; take me when thou wilt." + + He laid the letter in his desk, with seal + And superscription. When his sister came, + He told her where to find it--afterwards. + + As the slow eve, through paler, darker shades, + Insensibly declines, until at last + The lordly day is but a memory, + So died he. In the hush of noon he died. + The sun shone on--why should he not shine on? + Glad summer noises rose from all the land; + The love of God lay warm on hill and plain: + 'Tis well to die in summer. + + When the breath, + After a hopeless pause, returned no more, + The father fell upon his knees, and said: + "O God, I thank thee; it is over now! + Through the sore time thy hand has led him well. + Lord, let me follow soon, and be at rest." + Therewith he rose, and comforted the maid, + Who in her brother had lost the pride of life, + And wept as all her heaven were only rain. + + Of the loved lady, little more I know. + I know not if, when she had read his words, + She rose in haste, and to her chamber went, + And shut the door; nor if, when she came forth, + A dawn of holier purpose gleamed across + The sadness of her brow. But this I know, + That, on a warm autumnal afternoon, + When headstone-shadows crossed three neighbour graves, + And, like an ended prayer, the empty church + Stood in the sunshine, or a cenotaph, + A little boy, who watched a cow near by + Gather her milk where alms of clover-fields + Lay scattered on the sides of silent roads, + All sudden saw, nor knew whence she had come, + A lady, veiled, alone, and very still, + Seated upon a grave. Long time she sat + And moved not, weeping sore, the watcher said-- + Though how he knew she wept, were hard to tell. + At length, slow-leaning on her elbow down, + She hid her face a while in the short grass, + And pulled a something small from off the mound-- + A blade of grass it must have been, he thought, + For nothing else was there, not even a daisy-- + And put it in a letter. Then she rose, + And glided silent forth, over the wall, + Where the two steps on this side and on that + Shorten the path from westward to the church.-- + The clang of hoofs and sound of light, swift wheels + Arose and died upon the listener's ear. + + + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + + +TO THEM THAT MOURN. + + Let your tears flow; let your sad sighs have scope; + Only take heed they fan, they water Hope. + + + + +A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE. + +INTRODUCTION. + + I sought the long clear twilights of my home, + Far in the pale-blue skies and slaty seas, + What time the sunset dies not utterly, + But withered to a ghost-like stealthy gleam, + Round the horizon creeps the short-lived night, + And changes into sunrise in a swoon. + I found my home in homeliness unchanged: + The love that made it home, unchangeable, + Received me as a child, and all was well. + My ancient summer-heaven, borne on the hills, + Once more embraced me; and once more the vale, + So often sighed for in the far-off nights, + Rose on my bodily vision, and, behold, + In nothing had the fancy mocked the fact! + The hasting streams went garrulous as of old; + The resting flowers in silence uttered more; + The blue hills rose and dwelt alone in heaven; + Householding Nature from her treasures brought + Things old and new, the same yet not the same, + For all was holier, lovelier than before; + And best of all, once more I paced the fields + With him whose love had made me long for God + So good a father that, needs-must, I sought + A better still, Father of him and me. + + Once on a day, my cousin Frank and I + Sat swiftly borne behind the dear white mare + That oft had carried me in bygone days + Along the lonely paths of moorland hills; + But now we sought the coast, where deep waves foam + 'Gainst rocks that lift their dark fronts to the north. + And with us went a girl, on whose kind face + I had not looked for many a youthful year, + But the old friendship straightway blossomed new. + The heavens were sunny, and the earth was green; + The large harebells in families stood along + The grassy borders, of a tender blue + Transparent as the sky, haunted with wings + Of many butterflies, as blue as they. + And as we talked and talked without restraint, + Brought near by memories of days that were, + And therefore are for ever; by the joy + Of motion through a warm and shining air; + By the glad sense of freedom and like thoughts; + And by the bond of friendship with the dead, + She told the tale which here I tell again. + + I had returned to childish olden time, + And asked her if she knew a castle worn, + Whose masonry, razed utterly above, + Yet faced the sea-cliff up, and met the waves:-- + 'Twas one of my child-marvels; for, each year, + We turned our backs upon the ripening corn, + And sought some village on the Moray shore; + And nigh this ruin, was that I loved the best. + + For oh the riches of that little port!-- + Down almost to the beach, where a high wall + Inclosed them, came the gardens of a lord, + Free to the visitor with foot restrained-- + His shady walks, his ancient trees of state; + His river--that would not be shut within, + But came abroad, went dreaming o'er the sands, + And lost itself in finding out the sea; + Inside, it bore grave swans, white splendours--crept + Under the fairy leap of a wire bridge, + Vanished in leaves, and came again where lawns + Lay verdurous, and the peacock's plumy heaven + Bore azure suns with green and golden rays. + It was my childish Eden; for the skies + Were loftier in that garden, and the clouds + More summer-gracious, edged with broader white; + And when they rained, it was a golden rain + That sparkled as it fell--an odorous rain. + And then its wonder-heart!--a little room, + Half-hollowed in the side of a steep hill, + Which rose, with columned, windy temple crowned, + A landmark to far seas. The enchanted cell + Was clouded over in the gentle night + Of a luxuriant foliage, and its door, + Half-filled with rainbow hues of coloured glass, + Opened into the bosom of the hill. + Never to sesame of mine that door + Gave up its sanctuary; but through the glass, + Gazing with reverent curiosity, + I saw a little chamber, round and high, + Which but to see was to escape the heat, + And bathe in coolness of the eye and brain; + For all was dusky greenness; on one side, + A window, half-blind with ivy manifold, + Whose leaves, like heads of gazers, climbed to the top, + Gave a joy-saddened light, for all that came + Through the thick veil was green, oh, kindest hue! + But the heart has a heart--this heart had one: + Still in the midst, the _ever more_ of all, + On a low column stood, white, cold, dim-clear, + A marble woman. Who she was I know not-- + A Psyche, or a Silence, or an Echo: + Pale, undefined, a silvery shadow, still, + In one lone chamber of my memory, + She is a power upon me as of old. + + But, ah, to dream there through hot summer days, + In coolness shrouded and sea-murmurings, + Forgot by all till twilight shades grew dark! + To find half-hidden in the hollowed wall, + A nest of tales, old volumes such as dreams + Hoard up in bookshops dim in tortuous streets! + That wondrous marble woman evermore + Filling the gloom with calm delirium + Of radiated whiteness, as I read!-- + The fancied joy, too plenteous for its cup, + O'erflowed, and turned to sadness as it fell. + + But the gray ruin on the shattered shore, + Not the green refuge in the bowering hill, + Drew forth our talk that day. For, as I said, + I asked her if she knew it. She replied, + "I know it well. A woman used to live + In one of its low vaults, my mother says." + "I found a hole," I said, "and spiral stair, + Leading from level of the ground above + To a low-vaulted room within the rock, + Whence through a small square window I looked forth + Wide o'er the waters; the dim-sounding waves + Were many feet below, and shrunk in size + To a great ripple." "'Twas not there," she said, + "--Not in that room half up the cliff, but one + Low down, within the margin of spring tides: + When both the tide and northern wind are high, + 'Tis more an ocean-cave than castle-vault." + And then she told me all she knew of her. + + It was a simple tale, a monotone: + She climbed one sunny hill, gazed once abroad, + Then wandered down, to pace a dreary plain; + Alas! how many such are told by night, + In fisher-cottages along the shore! + + Farewell, old summer-day! I turn aside + To tell her story, interwoven with thoughts + Born of its sorrow; for I dare not think + A woman at the mercy of a sea. + + + + THE STORY. + + Aye as it listeth blows the listless wind, + Swelling great sails, and bending lordly masts, + Or hurrying shadow-waves o'er fields of corn, + And hunting lazy clouds across the sky: + Now, like a white cloud o'er another sky, + It blows a tall brig from the harbour's mouth, + Away to high-tossed heads of wallowing waves, + 'Mid hoverings of long-pinioned arrowy birds. + With clouds and birds and sails and broken crests, + All space is full of spots of fluttering white, + And yet the sailor knows that handkerchief + Waved wet with tears, and heavy in the wind. + Blow, wind! draw out the cord that binds the twain; + Draw, for thou canst not break the lengthening cord. + Blow, wind! yet gently; gently blow, fair wind! + And let love's vision slowly, gently die; + Let the bright sails all solemn-slowly pass, + And linger ghost-like o'er the vanished hull, + With a white farewell to her straining eyes; + For never more in morning's level beams, + Will those sea-shadowing sails, dark-stained and worn, + From the gray-billowed north come dancing in; + Oh, never, gliding home 'neath starry skies, + Over the dusk of the dim-glancing sea, + Will the great ship send forth a herald cry + Of home-come sailors, into sleeping streets! + Blow gently, wind! blow slowly, gentle wind! + + Weep not yet, maiden; 'tis not yet thy hour. + Why shouldst thou weep before thy time is come? + Go to thy work; break into song sometimes-- + Song dying slow-forgotten, in the lapse + Of dreamy thought, ere natural pause ensue, + Or sudden dropt what time the eager heart + Hurries the ready eye to north and east. + Sing, maiden, while thou canst, ere yet the truth, + Slow darkening, choke the heart-caged singing bird! + + The weeks went by. Oft leaving household work, + With bare arms and uncovered head she clomb + The landward slope of the prophetic hill; + From whose green head, as from the verge of time, + Far out on the eternity of blue, + Shading her hope-rapt eyes, seer-like she gazed, + If from the Hades of the nether world, + Slow climbing up the round side of the earth, + Haply her prayers were drawing his tardy sails + Over the threshold of the far sky-sea-- + Drawing her sailor home to celebrate, + With holy rites of family and church, + The apotheosis of maidenhood. + + Months passed; he came not; and a shadowy fear, + Long haunting the horizon of her soul, + In deeper gloom and sharper form drew nigh; + And growing in bulk, possessed her atmosphere, + And lost all shape, because it filled all space, + And reached beyond the bounds of consciousness-- + In sudden incarnations darting swift + From out its infinite a gulfy stare + Of terror blank, of hideous emptiness, + Of widowhood ere ever wedding-day. + + On granite ridge, and chalky cliff, and pier, + Far built into the waves along our shores, + Maidens have stood since ever ships went forth; + The same pain at the heart; the same slow mist + Clouding the eye; the same fixed longing look, + As if the soul had gone, and left the door + Wide open--gone to lean, hearken, and peer + Over the awful edge where voidness sinks + Sheer to oblivion--that horizon-line + Over whose edge he vanished--came no more. + O God, why are our souls, waste, helpless seas, + Tortured with such immitigable storm? + What is this love, that now on angel wing + Sweeps us amid the stars in passionate calm; + And now with demon arms fast cincturing, + Drops us, through all gyrations of keen pain, + Down the black vortex, till the giddy whirl + Gives fainting respite to the ghastly brain? + O happy they for whom the Possible + Opens its gates of madness, and becomes + The Real around them!--such to whom henceforth + There is but one to-morrow, the next morn, + Their wedding-day, ever one step removed, + The husband's foot ever upon the verge + Of the day's threshold, in a lasting dream! + Such madness may be but a formless faith-- + A chaos which the breath of God will blow + Into an ordered world of seed and fruit. + Shall not the Possible become the Real? + God sleeps not when he makes his daughters dream. + Shall not the morrow dawn at last which leads + The maiden-ghost, confused and half awake, + Into the land whose shadows are our dreams?-- + Thus questioning we stand upon the shore, + And gaze across into the Unrevealed. + + Upon its visible symbol gazed the girl, + Till earth behind her ceased, and sea was all, + Possessing eyes and brain and shrinking soul-- + A universal mouth to swallow up, + And close eternally in one blue smile! + A still monotony of pauseless greed, + Its only voice an endless, dreary song + Of wailing, and of craving from the world! + + A low dull dirge that ever rose and died, + Recurring without pause or change or close, + Like one verse chaunted ever in sleepless brain, + Still drew her to the shore. It drew her down, + Like witch's spell, that fearful endless moan; + Somewhere, she thought, in the green abyss below, + His body, at the centre of the moan, + Obeyed the motions whence the moaning grew; + Now, now, in circle slow revolved, and now + Swayed like a wind-swung bell, now swept along + Hither and thither, idly to and fro, + Heedlessly wandering through the heedless sea. + Its fascination drew her onward still-- + On to the ridgy rocks that seaward ran, + And out along their furrows and jagged backs, + To the last lonely point where the green mass + Arose and sank, heaved slow and forceful. There + She shuddered and recoiled. Thus, for a time, + Sport-slave of power occult, she came and went, + Betwixt the shore and sea alternating, + Drawn ever to the greedy lapping lip, + Then, terror-stung, driven backward: there it lay, + The heartless, cruel, miserable deep, + Ambushed in horror, with its glittering eye + Still drawing her to its green gulfing maw! + + But every ocean hath its isles, each woe + Its scattered comfortings; and this was one + That often came to her--that she, wave-caught, + Must, in the wash of ever-shifting waters, + In some good hour sure-fixed of pitiful fate, + _All-conscious still of love, despite the sea_, + Float over some stray bone, some particle, + Which far-diffused sense would know as his: + Heart-glad she would sit down, and watch the tide + Slow-growing--till it reached at length her feet, + When, at its first cold touch, up she would spring, + And, ghastful, flee, with white-rimmed sightless eye. + + But still, where'er she fled, the sea-voice followed; + Whisperings innumerable of water-drops + Would grow together to a giant cry; + Now hoarse, half-stifled, pleading, warning tones, + Now thunderous peals of billowy, wrathful shouts, + Called after her to come, and make no pause. + From the loose clouds that mingled with the spray, + And from the tossings of the lifted seas, + Where plunged and rose the raving wilderness, + Outreaching arms, pursuing, beckoning hands, + Came shoreward, lengthening, feeling after her. + Then would she fling her own wild arms on high, + Over her head, in tossings like the waves, + Or fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense, + Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. + Sometimes she sudden from her shoulders tore + Her garments, one by one, and cast them out + Into the roarings of the heedless surge, + In vain oblation to the hungry waves. + As vain was Pity's will to cover her; + Best gifts but bribed the sea, and left her bare. + In her poor heart and brain burned such a fire + That all-unheeded cold winds lapped her round, + And sleet-like spray flashed on her tawny skin. + Her food she seldom ate; her naked arms + Flung it far out to feed the sea; her hair + Streamed after it, like rooted ocean-weed + In headlong current. But, alas, the sea + Took it, and came again--it would have _her_! + And as the wave importunate, so despair, + Back surging, on her heart rushed ever afresh: + Sickening she moaned--half muttered and half moaned-- + "She winna be content; she'll hae mysel!" + + But when the night grew thick upon the sea, + Quenching it almost, save its quenchless voice, + Then, half-released until the light, she rose, + And step by step withdrew--as dreaming man, + With an eternity of slowness, drags + His earth-bound, lead-like, irresponsive feet + Back from a sleeping horror, she withdrew. + But when, upon the narrow beach at last, + She turned her back upon her hidden foe, + It blended with her phantom-breeding brain, + And, scared at very fear, she cried and fled-- + Fled to the battered base of the old tower, + And round the rock, and through the arched gap + Into the yawning blackness of the vault-- + There sank upon the sand, and gasped, and raved. + Close cowering in a nook, she sat all night, + Her face turned to the entrance of the vault, + Through which a pale light shimmered--from the eye + Of the great sleepless ocean--Argus more dread + Than he with hundred lidless watching orbs, + And slept, and dreamed, and dreaming saw the sea. + But in the stormy nights, when all was dark, + And the wild tempest swept with slanting wing + Against her refuge, and the heavy spray + Shot through the doorway serpentine cold arms + To seize the fore-doomed morsel of the sea, + She slept not, evermore stung to new life + By new sea-terrors. Now it was the gull: + His clanging pinions darted through the arch, + And flapped about her head; now 'twas a wave + Grown arrogant: it rushed into her house, + Clasped her waist-high, then out again and away + To swell the devilish laughter in the fog, + And leave her clinging to the rocky wall, + With white face watching. When it came no more, + And the tide ebbed, not yet she slept--sat down, + And sat unmoving, till the low gray dawn + Grew on the misty dance of spouting waves, + That made a picture in the rugged arch; + Then the old fascination woke and drew; + And, rising slowly, forth she went afresh, + To haunt the border of the dawning sea. + + Yet all the time there lay within her soul + An inner chamber, quietest place; but she + Turned from its door, and staid out in the storm. + She, entering there, had found a refuge calm + As summer evening, as a mother's arms. + There had she found her lost love, only lost + In that he slept, and she was still awake. + There she had found, waiting for her to come, + The Love that waits and watches evermore. + + Thou too hast such a chamber, quietest place, + Where that Love waits for thee. What is it, say, + That will not let thee enter? Is it care + For the provision of the unborn day, + As if thou wert a God that must foresee? + Is it poor hunger for the praise of men? + Is it ambition to outstrip thy fellow + In this world's race? Or is it love of self-- + That greed which still to have must still destroy?-- + Go mad for some lost love; some voice of old, + Which first thou madest sing, and after sob; + Some heart thou foundest rich, and leftest bare, + Choking its well of faith with thy false deeds-- + Unlike thy God, who keeps the better wine + Until the last, and, if he giveth grief, + Giveth it first, and ends the tale with joy: + Such madness clings about the feet of God, + Nor lets them go. Better a thousandfold + Be she than thou! for though thy brain be strong + And clear and workful, hers a withered flower + That never came to seed, her heart is full + Of that in whose live might God made the world; + She is a well, and thou an empty cup. + It was the invisible unbroken cord + Between the twain, her and her sailor-lad, + That drew her ever to the ocean marge. + Better to die for love, to rave for love, + Than not to love at all! but to have loved, + And, loved again, then to have turned away-- + Better than that, never to have been born! + + But if thy heart be noble, say if thou + Canst ever all forget an hour of pain, + When, maddened with the thought that could not be, + Thou might'st have yielded to the demon wind + That swept in tempest through thy scorching brain, + And rushed into the night, and howled aloud, + And clamoured to the waves, and beat the rocks; + And never found thy way back to the seat + Of conscious self, and power to rule thy pain, + Had not God made thee strong to bear and live! + The tale is now in thee, not thou in it; + But the sad woman, in her wildest mood, + Thou knowest her thy sister! She is fair + No more; her eyes like fierce suns blaze and burn; + Her cheeks are parched and brown; her haggard form + Is wasted by wild storms of soul and sea; + Yet in her very self is that which still + Reminds thee of a story, old, not dead, + Which God has in his keeping--of thyself. + + Ah, not forgot are children when they sleep! + The darkness lasts all night, and clears the eyes; + Then comes the morning with the joy of light. + Oh, surely madness hideth not from Him! + Nor doth a soul cease to be beautiful + In his sight, that its beauty is withdrawn, + And hid by pale eclipse from human eyes. + As the chill snow is friendly to the earth, + And pain and loss are friendly to the soul, + Shielding it from the black heart-killing frost; + So madness is but one of God's pale winters; + And when the winter over is and gone, + Then smile the skies, then blooms the earth again, + And the fair time of singing birds is come: + Into the cold wind and the howling night, + God sent for her, and she was carried in + Where there was no more sea. + + What messenger + Ran from the door of heaven to bring her home? + The sea, her terror. + + In the rocks that stand + Below the cliff, there lies a rounded hollow, + Scooped like a basin, with jagged and pinnacled sides: + Low buried when the wind heaps up the surge, + It lifts in the respiration of the tide + Its broken edges, and, then, deep within + Lies resting water, radiantly clear: + There, on a morn of sunshine, while the wind + Yet blew, and heaved yet the billowy sea + With memories of a night of stormy dreams, + At rest they found her: in the sleep which is + And is not death, she, lying very still, + Absorbed the bliss that follows after pain. + O life of love, conquered at last by fate! + O life raised from the dead by saviour Death! + O love unconquered and invincible! + The enemy sea had cooled her burning brain; + Had laid to rest the heart that could not rest; + Had hid the horror of its own dread face! + 'Twas but one desolate cry, and then her fear + Became a blessed fact, and straight she knew + What God knew all the time--that it was well. + + O thou whose feet tread ever the wet sands + And howling rocks along the wearing shore, + Roaming the borders of the sea of death! + Strain not thine eyes, bedimmed with longing tears, + No sail comes climbing back across that line. + Turn thee, and to thy work; let God alone, + And wait for him: faint o'er the waves will come + Far-floating whispers from the other shore + To thine averted ears. Do thou thy work, + And thou shalt follow--follow, and find thine own. + + And thou who fearest something that may come; + Around whose house the storm of terror breaks + All night; to whose love-sharpened ear, all day, + The Invisible is calling at the door, + To render up a life thou canst not keep, + Or love that will not stay,--open thy door, + And carry out thy dying to the marge + Of the great sea; yea, walk into the flood, + And lay thy dead upon the moaning waves. + Give them to God to bury; float them again, + With sighs and prayers to waft them through the gloom, + Back to the spring of life. Say--"If they die, + Thou, the one life of life, art still alive, + And thou canst make thy dead alive again!" + + Ah God, the earth is full of cries and moans, + And dull despair, that neither moans nor cries; + Thousands of hearts are waiting helplessly; + The whole creation groaneth, travaileth + For what it knows not--with a formless hope + Of resurrection or of dreamless death! + Raise thou the dead; restore the Aprils withered + In hearts of maidens; give their manhood back + To old men feebly mournful o'er a life + That scarce hath memory but the mournfulness! + There is no past with thee: bring back once more + The summer eves of lovers, over which + The wintry wind that raveth through the world + Heaps wretched leaves in gusts of ghastly snow; + Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, + The brother's and the sister's faithfulness;-- + Bring in the kingdom of the Son of Man. + + They troop around me, children wildly crying; + Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears; + Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone; + Yea, some consuming in cold fires of shame! + O God, thou hast a work for all thy strength + In saving these thy hearts with full content-- + Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink, + And that, my God, were all unworthy thee! + + Dome up, O heaven, yet higher o'er my head! + Back, back, horizon; widen out my world! + Rush in, O fathomless sea of the Unknown! + For, though he slay me, I will trust in God. + + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + + + +DEDICATION. + + To all who fain + Would keep the grain, + And cast the husk away-- + That it may feed + The living seed, + And serve it with decay-- + I offer this dim story + Whose clouds crack into glory. + + + + + +THE DISCIPLE. + +I. + + The times are changed, and gone the day + When the high heavenly land, + Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, + And men could understand. + + The dead yet find it, who, when here, + Did love it more than this; + They enter in, are filled with cheer, + And pain expires in bliss. + + All glorious gleams the blessed land!-- + O God, forgive, I pray: + The heart thou holdest in thy hand + Loves more this sunny day! + + I see the hundred thousand wait + Around the radiant throne: + Ah, what a dreary, gilded state! + What crowds of beings lone! + + I do not care for singing psalms; + I tire of good men's talk; + To me there is no joy in palms, + Or white-robed, solemn walk. + + I love to hear the wild winds meet, + The wild old winds at night; + To watch the cold stars flash and beat, + The feathery snow alight. + + I love all tales of valiant men, + Of women good and fair: + If I were rich and strong, ah, then + I would do something rare! + + But for thy temple in the sky, + Its pillars strong and white-- + I cannot love it, though I try, + And long with all my might. + + Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, + And I am speechless then; + Almost a martyr I could be, + To join the holy men. + + + Straightway my heart is like a clod, + My spirit wrapt in doubt:-- + _A pillar in the house of God, + And never more go out_! + + No more the sunny, breezy morn; + All gone the glowing noon; + No more the silent heath forlorn, + The wan-faced waning moon! + + My God, this heart will never burn, + Must never taste thy joy! + Even Jesus' face is calm and stern: + I am a hapless boy! + + * * * * * + + +II. + + I read good books. My heart despairs. + In vain I try to dress + My soul in feelings like to theirs-- + These men of holiness. + + My thoughts, like doves, abroad I fling + Into a country fair: + Wind-baffled, back, with tired wing, + They to my ark repair. + + Or comes a sympathetic thrill + With long-departed saint, + A feeble dawn, without my will, + Of feelings old and quaint, + + As of a church's holy night, + With low-browed chapels round, + Where common sunshine dares not light + On the too sacred ground,-- + + One glance at sunny fields of grain, + One shout of child at play-- + A merry melody drives amain + The one-toned chant away! + + My spirit will not enter here + To haunt the holy gloom; + I gaze into a mirror mere, + A mirror, not a room. + + And as a bird against the pane + Will strike, deceived sore, + I think to enter, but remain + Outside the closed door. + + Oh, it will call for many a sigh + If it be what it claims-- + This book, so unlike earth and sky, + Unlike man's hopes and aims!-- + + To me a desert parched and bare-- + In which a spirit broods + Whose wisdom I would gladly share + At cost of many goods! + + * * * * * + +III. + + O hear me, God! O give me joy + Such as thy chosen feel; + Have pity on a wretched boy; + My heart is hard as steel. + + I have no care for what is good; + Thyself I do not love; + I relish not this Bible-food; + My heaven is not above. + + Thou wilt not hear: I come no more; + Thou heedest not my woe. + With sighs and tears my heart is sore. + Thou comest not: I go. + + * * * * * + + +IV. + + Once more I kneel. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + If light there be, 'tis but a spark + Amid a world's despair-- + + One hopeless hope there yet may be + A God somewhere to hear; + The God to whom I bend my knee-- + A God with open ear. + + I know that men laugh still to scorn + The grief that is my lot; + Such wounds, they say, are hardly borne, + But easily forgot. + + What matter that my sorrows rest + On ills which men despise! + More hopeless heaves my aching breast + Than when a prophet sighs. + + AEons of griefs have come and gone-- + My grief is yet my mark. + The sun sets every night, yet none + Sees therefore in the dark. + + There's love enough upon the earth, + And beauty too, they say: + There may be plenty, may be dearth, + I care not any way. + + The world hath melted from my sight; + No grace in life is left; + I cry to thee with all my might, + Because I am bereft. + + In vain I cry. The earth is dark, + And darker yet the air; + Of light there trembles now no spark + In my lost soul's despair. + + * * * * * + +V. + + I sit and gaze from window high + Down on the noisy street: + No part in this great coil have I, + No fate to go and meet. + + My books unopened long have lain; + In class I am all astray: + The questions growing in my brain, + Demand and have their way. + + Knowledge is power, the people cry; + Grave men the lure repeat: + After some rarer thing I sigh, + That makes the pulses beat. + + Old truths, new facts, they preach aloud-- + Their tones like wisdom fall: + One sunbeam glancing on a cloud + Hints things beyond them all. + + * * * * * + + +VI. + + But something is not right within; + High hopes are far gone by. + Was it a bootless aim--to win + Sight of a loftier sky? + + They preach men should not faint, but pray, + And seek until they find; + But God is very far away, + Nor is his countenance kind. + + Yet every night my father prayed, + Withdrawing from the throng! + Some answer must have come that made + His heart so high and strong! + + Once more I'll seek the God of men, + Redeeming childhood's vow.-- + --I failed with bitter weeping then, + And fail cold-hearted now! + + +VII. + + Why search for God? A man I tread + This old life-bearing earth; + High thoughts awake and lift my head-- + In me they have their birth. + + The preacher says a Christian must + Do all the good he can:-- + I must be noble, true, and just, + Because I am a man! + + They say a man must watch, and keep + Lamp burning, garments white, + Else he shall sit without and weep + When Christ comes home at night:-- + + A man must hold his honour free, + His conscience must not stain, + Or soil, I say, the dignity + Of heart and blood and brain! + + Yes, I say well--said words are cheap! + For action man was born! + What praise will my one talent reap? + What grapes are on my thorn? + + Have high words kept me pure enough? + In evil have I no part? + Hath not my bosom "perilous stuff + That weighs upon the heart"? + + I am not that which I do praise; + I do not that I say; + I sit a talker in the ways, + A dreamer in the day! + + +VIII. + + The preacher's words are true, I know-- + That man may lose his life; + That every man must downward go + Without the upward strife. + + 'Twere well my soul should cease to roam, + Should seek and have and hold! + It may be there is yet a home + In that religion old. + + Again I kneel, again I pray: + _Wilt thou be God to me? + Wilt thou give ear to what I say, + And lift me up to thee_? + + Lord, is it true? Oh, vision high! + The clouds of heaven dispart; + An opening depth of loving sky + Looks down into my heart! + + There _is_ a home wherein to dwell-- + The very heart of light! + Thyself my sun immutable, + My moon and stars all night! + + I thank thee, Lord. It must be so, + Its beauty is so good. + Up in my heart thou mad'st it go, + And I have understood. + + The clouds return. The common day + Falls on me like a _No_; + But I have seen what might be--may, + And with a hope I go. + + +IX. + + I am a stranger in the land; + It gives no welcome dear; + Its lilies bloom not for my hand, + Its roses for my cheer. + + The sunshine used to make me glad, + But now it knows me not; + This weight of brightness makes me sad-- + It isolates a blot. + + I am forgotten by the hills, + And by the river's play; + No look of recognition thrills + The features of the day. + + Then only am I moved to song, + When down the darkening street, + While vanishes the scattered throng, + The driving rain I meet. + + The rain pours down. My thoughts awake, + Like flowers that languished long; + From bare cold hills the night-winds break, + From me the unwonted song. + + +X. + + I read the Bible with my eyes, + But hardly with my brain; + Should this the meaning recognize, + My heart yet reads in vain. + + These words of promise and of woe + Seem but a tinkling sound; + As through an ancient tomb I go, + With dust-filled urns around. + + Or, as a sadly searching child, + Afar from love and home, + Sits in an ancient chamber, piled + With scroll and musty tome, + + So I, in these epistles old + From men of heavenly care, + Find all the thoughts of other mould + Than I can love or share. + + No sympathy with mine they show, + Their world is not the same; + They move me not with joy or woe, + They touch me not with blame. + + I hear no word that calls my life, + Or owns my struggling powers; + Those ancient ages had their strife, + But not a strife like ours. + + Oh, not like men they move and speak, + Those pictures in old panes! + They alter not their aspect meek + For all the winds and rains! + + Their thoughts are full of figures strange, + Of Jewish forms and rites: + A world of air and sea I range, + Of mornings and of nights! + + + +XI. + + I turn me to the gospel-tale:-- + My hope is faint with fear + That hungriest search will not avail + To find a refuge here. + + A misty wind blows bare and rude + From dead seas of the past; + And through the clouds that halt and brood, + Dim dawns a shape at last: + + A sad worn man who bows his face, + And treads a frightful path, + To save an abject hopeless race + From an eternal wrath. + + Kind words he speaks--but all the time + As from a formless height + To which no human foot can climb-- + Half-swathed in ancient night. + + Nay, sometimes, and to gentle heart, + Unkind words from him go! + Surely it is no saviour's part + To speak to women so! + + Much rather would I refuge take + With Mary, dear to me, + To whom that rough hard speech he spake-- + _What have I to do with thee_? + + Surely I know men tenderer, + Women of larger soul, + Who need no prayer their hearts to stir, + Who always would make whole! + + Oftenest he looks a weary saint, + Embalmed in pallid gleam; + Listless and sad, without complaint, + Like dead man in a dream. + + And, at the best, he is uplift + A spectacle, a show:-- + The worth of such an outworn gift + I know too much to know! + + How find the love to pay my debt?-- + He leads me from the sun!-- + Yet it is hard men should forget + A good deed ever done!-- + + Forget that he, to foil a curse, + Did, on that altar-hill, + Sun of a sunless universe, + Hang dying, patient, still! + + But what is He, whose pardon slow + At so much blood is priced?-- + If such thou art, O Jove, I go + To the Promethean Christ! + + +XII. + + A word within says I am to blame, + And therefore must confess; + Must call my doing by its name, + And so make evil less. + + "I could not his false triumph bear, + For he was first in wrong." + "Thy own ill-doings are thy care, + His to himself belong." + + "To do it right, my heart should own + Some sorrow for the ill." + "Plain, honest words will half atone, + And they are in thy will." + + The struggle comes. Evil or I + Must gain the victory now. + I am unmoved and yet would try: + O God, to thee I bow. + + The skies are brass; there falls no aid; + No wind of help will blow. + But I bethink me:--I am made + A man: I rise and go. + + +XIII. + + To Christ I needs must come, they say; + Who went to death for me: + I turn aside; I come, I pray, + My unknown God, to thee. + + He is afar; the story old + Is blotted, worn, and dim; + With thee, O God, I can be bold-- + I cannot pray to him. + + _Pray_! At the word a cloudy grief + Around me folds its pall: + Nothing I have to call belief! + How can I pray at all? + + I know not if a God be there + To heed my crying sore; + If in the great world anywhere + An ear keeps open door! + + An unborn faith I will not nurse, + Pursue an endless task; + Loud out into its universe + My soul shall call and ask! + + Is there no God--earth, sky, and sea + Are but a chaos wild! + Is there a God--I know that he + Must hear his calling child! + + +XIV. + + I kneel. But all my soul is dumb + With hopeless misery: + Is he a friend who will not come, + Whose face I must not see? + + I do not think of broken laws, + Of judge's damning word; + My heart is all one ache, because + I call and am not heard. + + A cry where there is none to hear, + Doubles the lonely pain; + Returns in silence on the ear, + In torture on the brain. + + No look of love a smile can bring, + No kiss wile back the breath + To cold lips: I no answer wring + From this great face of death. + + +XV. + + Yet sometimes when the agony + Dies of its own excess, + A dew-like calm descends on me, + A shadow of tenderness; + + A sense of bounty and of grace, + A cool air in my breast, + As if my soul were yet a place + Where peace might one day rest. + + God! God! I say, and cry no more, + But rise, and think to stand + Unwearied at the closed door + Till comes the opening hand. + + +XVI. + + But is it God?--Once more the fear + Of _No God_ loads my breath: + Amid a sunless atmosphere + I fight again with death. + + Such rest may be like that which lulls + The man who fainting lies: + His bloodless brain his spirit dulls, + Draws darkness o'er his eyes. + + But even such sleep, my heart responds, + May be the ancient rest + Rising released from bodily bonds, + And flowing unreprest. + + The o'ertasked will falls down aghast + In individual death; + God puts aside the severed past, + Breathes-in a primal breath. + + For how should torture breed a calm? + Can death to life give birth? + No labour can create the balm + That soothes the sleeping earth! + + I yet will hope the very One + Whose love is life in me, + Did, when my strength was overdone, + Inspire serenity. + +XVII. + + When the hot sun's too urgent might + Hath shrunk the tender leaf, + Water comes sliding down the night, + And makes its sorrow brief. + + When poet's heart is in eclipse, + A glance from childhood's eye, + A smile from passing maiden's lips, + Will clear a glowing sky. + + Might not from God such influence come + A dying hope to lift? + Might he not send to poor heart some + Unmediated gift? + + My child lies moaning, lost in dreams, + Abandoned, sore dismayed; + Her fancy's world with horror teems, + Her soul is much afraid: + + I lay my hand upon her breast, + Her moaning dies away; + She does not wake, but, lost in rest, + Sleeps on into the day. + + And when my heart with soft release + Grows calm as summer-sea, + Shall I not hope the God of peace + Hath laid his hand on me? + + +XVIII. + + But why from thought should fresh doubt start-- + An ever-lengthening cord? + Might he not make my troubled heart + Right sure it was the Lord? + + God will not let a smaller boon + Hinder the coming best; + A granted sign might all too soon + Rejoice thee into rest. + + Yet could not any sign, though grand + As hosts of fire about, + Though lovely as a sunset-land, + Secure thy soul from doubt. + + A smile from one thou lovedst well + Gladdened thee all the day; + The doubt which all day far did dwell + Came home with twilight gray. + + For doubt will come, will ever come, + Though signs be perfect good, + Till heart to heart strike doubting dumb, + And both are understood. + + +XIX. + + I shall behold him, one day, nigh. + Assailed with glory keen, + My eyes will open wide, and I + Shall see as I am seen. + + Of nothing can my heart be sure + Except the highest, best + When God I see with vision pure, + That sight will be my rest. + + Forward I look with longing eye, + And still my hope renew; + Backward, and think that from the sky + _Did_ come that falling dew. + + +XX. + + But if a vision should unfold + That I might banish fear; + That I, the chosen, might be bold, + And walk with upright cheer; + + My heart would cry: But shares my race + In this great love of thine? + I pray, put me not in good case + Where others lack and pine. + + Nor claim I thus a loving heart + That for itself is mute: + In such love I desire no part + As reaches not my root. + + But if my brothers thou dost call + As children to thy knee, + Thou givest me my being's all, + Thou sayest child to me. + + If thou to me alone shouldst give, + My heart were all beguiled: + It would not be because I live, + And am my Father's child! + + +XXI. + + As little comfort would it bring, + Amid a throng to pass; + To stand with thousands worshipping + Upon the sea of glass; + + To know that, of a sinful world, + I one was saved as well; + My roll of ill with theirs upfurled, + And cast in deepest hell; + + That God looked bounteously on one, + Because on many men; + As shone Judea's earthly sun + On all the healed ten. + + No; thou must be a God to me + As if but me were none; + I such a perfect child to thee + As if thou hadst but one. + + +XXII. + + Oh, then, my Father, hast thou not + A blessing just for me? + Shall I be, barely, not forgot?-- + Never come home to thee? + + Hast thou no care for this one child, + This thinking, living need? + Or is thy countenance only mild, + Thy heart not love indeed? + + For some eternal joy I pray, + To make me strong and free; + Yea, such a friend I need alway + As thou alone canst be. + + Is not creative infinitude + Able, in every man, + To turn itself to every mood + Since God man's life began? + + Art thou not each man's God--his own, + With secret words between, + As thou and he lived all alone, + Insphered in silence keen? + + Ah, God, my heart is not the same + As any heart beside; + My pain is different, and my blame, + My pity and my pride! + + My history thou know'st, my thoughts + Different from other men's; + Thou knowest all the sheep and goats + That mingle in my pens. + + Thou knowest I a love might bring + By none beside me due; + One praiseful song at least might sing + Which could not but be new. + + +XXIII. + + Nor seek I thus to stand apart, + In aught my kind above; + My neighbour, ah, my troubled heart + Must rest ere thee it love! + + If God love not, I have no care, + No power to love, no hope. + What is life here or anywhere? + Or why with darkness cope? + + I scorn my own love's every sign, + So feeble, selfish, low, + If his love give no pledge that mine + Shall one day perfect grow. + + But if I knew Thy love even such, + As tender and intense + As, tested by its human touch, + Would satisfy my sense + + Of what a father never was + But should be to his son, + My heart would leap for joy, because + My rescue was begun. + + Oh then my love, by thine set free, + Would overflow thy men; + In every face my heart would see + God shining out again! + + There are who hold high festival + And at the board crown Death: + I am too weak to live at all + Except I breathe thy breath. + + Show me a love that nothing bates, + Absolute, self-severe-- + Even at Gehenna's prayerless gates + I should not "taint with fear." + + +XXIV. + + I cannot brook that men should say-- + Nor this for gospel take-- + That thou wilt hear me if I pray + Asking for Jesus' sake. + + For love to him is not to me, + And cannot lift my fate; + The love is not that is not free, + Perfect, immediate. + + Love is salvation: life without + No moment can endure. + Those sheep alone go in and out + Who know thy love is pure. + + +XXV. + + But what if God requires indeed, + For cause yet unrevealed, + Assent to one fixed form of creed, + Such as I cannot yield? + + Has God made _for Christ's sake_ a test-- + To take or leave the crust, + That only he may have the best + Who licks the serpent-dust? + + No, no; the words I will not say + With the responding folk; + I at his feet a heart would lay, + Not shoulders for a yoke. + + He were no lord of righteousness + Who subjects such would gain + As yield their birthright for a mess + Of liberty from pain! + + "And wilt thou bargain then with Him?" + The priest makes answer high. + 'Tis thou, priest, makest the sky dim: + My hope is in the sky. + + +XXVI. + + But is my will alive, awake? + The one God will not heed + If in my lips or hands I take + A half-word or half-deed. + + Hour after hour I sit and dream, + Amazed in outwardness; + The powers of things that only seem + The things that are oppress; + + Till in my soul some discord sounds, + Till sinks some yawning lack; + Then turn I from life's rippling rounds, + And unto thee come back. + + Thou seest how poor a thing am I, + Yet hear, whate'er I be; + Despairing of my will, I cry, + Be God enough to me. + + My spirit, low, irresolute, + I cast before thy feet; + And wait, while even prayer is mute, + For what thou judgest meet. + + +XXVII. + + My safety lies not, any hour, + In what I generate, + But in the living, healing power + Of that which doth create. + + If he is God to the incomplete, + Fulfilling lack and need, + Then I may cast before his feet + A half-word or half-deed. + + I bring, Lord, to thy altar-stair, + To thee, love-glorious, + My very lack of will and prayer, + And cry--Thou seest me thus! + + From some old well of life they flow! + The words my being fill!-- + "Of me that man the truth shall know + Who wills the Father's will." + + +XXVIII. + + What is his will?--that I may go + And do it, in the hope + That light will rise and spread and grow, + As deed enlarges scope. + + I need not search the sacred book + To find my duty clear; + Scarce in my bosom need I look, + It lies so very near. + + Henceforward I must watch the door + Of word and action too; + There's one thing I must do no more, + Another I must do. + + Alas, these are such little things! + No glory in their birth! + Doubt from their common aspect springs-- + If God will count them worth. + + But here I am not left to choose, + My duty is my lot; + And weighty things will glory lose + If small ones are forgot. + + I am not worthy high things yet; + I'll humbly do my own; + Good care of sheep may so beget + A fitness for the throne. + + Ah fool! why dost thou reason thus? + Ambition's very fool! + Through high and low, each glorious, + Shines God's all-perfect rule. + + 'Tis God I need, not rank in good: + 'Tis Life, not honour's meed; + With him to fill my every mood, + I am content indeed. + + +XXIX. + + _Will do: shall know_: I feel the force, + The fullness of the word; + His holy boldness held its course, + Claiming divine accord. + + What if, as yet, I have never seen + The true face of the Man! + The named notion may have been + A likeness vague and wan; + + A thing of such unblended hues + As, on his chamber wall, + The humble peasant gladly views, + And _Jesus Christ_ doth call. + + The story I did never scan + With vision calm and strong; + Have never tried to see the Man, + The many words among. + + Pictures there are that do not please + With any sweet surprise, + But gain the heart by slow degrees + Until they feast the eyes; + + And if I ponder what they call + The gospel of God's grace, + Through mists that slowly melt and fall + May dawn a human face. + + What face? Oh, heart-uplifting thought, + That face may dawn on me + Which Moses on the mountain sought, + God would not let him see! + + +XXX. + + All faint at first, as wrapt in veil + Of Sinai's cloudy dark, + But dawning as I read the tale, + I slow discern and mark + + A gracious, simple, truthful man, + Who walks the earth erect, + Nor stoops his noble head to one + From fear or false respect; + + Who seeks to climb no high estate, + No low consent secure, + With high and low serenely great, + Because his love is pure. + + Oh not alone, high o'er our reach, + Our joys and griefs beyond! + To him 'tis joy divine to teach + Where human hearts respond; + + And grief divine it was to him + To see the souls that slept: + "How often, O Jerusalem!" + He said, and gazed, and wept. + + Love was his very being's root, + And healing was its flower; + Love, human love, its stem and fruit, + Its gladness and its power. + + Life of high God, till then unseen! + Undreamt-of glorious show! + Glad, faithful, childlike, love-serene!-- + How poor am I! how low! + + +XXXI. + + As in a living well I gaze, + Kneeling upon its brink: + What are the very words he says? + What did the one man think? + + I find his heart was all above; + Obedience his one thought; + Reposing in his father's love, + His father's will he sought. + + * * * * * + +XXXII. + + Years have passed o'er my broken plan + To picture out a strife, + Where ancient Death, in horror wan, + Faced young and fearing Life. + + More of the tale I tell not so-- + But for myself would say: + My heart is quiet with what I know, + With what I hope, is gay. + + And where I cannot set my faith, + Unknowing or unwise, + I say "If this be what _he_ saith, + Here hidden treasure lies." + + Through years gone by since thus I strove, + Thus shadowed out my strife, + While at my history I wove, + Thou wovest in the life. + + Through poverty that had no lack + For friends divinely good; + Through pain that not too long did rack, + Through love that understood; + + Through light that taught me what to hold + And what to cast away; + Through thy forgiveness manifold, + And things I cannot say, + + Here thou hast brought me--able now + To kiss thy garment's hem, + Entirely to thy will to bow, + And trust thee even for them + + Who in the darkness and the mire + Walk with rebellious feet, + Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire + For heavenly floor unmeet! + + Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how-- + With this blue air, blue sea, + This yellow sand, that grassy brow, + All isolating me-- + + Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, + My thoughts to thine draw near; + But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart, + Who gav'st me words must hear. + + Thou mad'st the hand with which I write, + The eye that watches slow + Through rosy gates that rosy light + Across thy threshold go; + + Those waves that bend in golden spray, + As if thy foot they bore: + I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, + Shall know thee evermore. + + I know thy father thine and mine: + Thou the great fact hast bared: + Master, the mighty words are thine-- + Such I had never dared! + + Lord, thou hast much to make me yet-- + Thy father's infant still: + Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, + That I may grow thy will. + + My soul with truth clothe all about, + And I shall question free: + The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, + In that fear doubteth thee. + + + + + +THE GOSPEL WOMEN. + + + + +I. + + _THE MOTHER MARY_. + +I. + + Mary, to thee the heart was given + For infant hand to hold, + And clasp thus, an eternal heaven, + The great earth in its fold. + + He seized the world with tender might + By making thee his own; + Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height + Was to thyself unknown. + + He came, all helpless, to thy power, + For warmth, and love, and birth; + In thy embraces, every hour, + He grew into the earth. + + Thine was the grief, O mother high, + Which all thy sisters share + Who keep the gate betwixt the sky + And this our lower air; + + But unshared sorrows, gathering slow, + Will rise within thy heart, + Strange thoughts which like a sword will go + Thorough thy inward part. + + For, if a woman bore a son + That was of angel brood, + Who lifted wings ere day was done, + And soared from where she stood, + + Wild grief would rave on love's high throne; + She, sitting in the door, + All day would cry: "He was my own, + And now is mine no more!" + + So thou, O Mary, years on years, + From child-birth to the cross, + Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, + Keen sense of love and loss. + + His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; + His godlike tenderness + Would sometimes seem, in human speech, + To thee than human less. + + Strange pangs await thee, mother mild, + A sorer travail-pain; + Then will the spirit of thy child + Be born in thee again. + + Till then thou wilt forebode and dread; + Loss will be still thy fear-- + Till he be gone, and, in his stead, + His very self appear. + + For, when thy son hath reached his goal, + And vanished from the earth, + Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul, + A second, holier birth. + + +II. + + Ah, there he stands! With wondering face + Old men surround the boy; + The solemn looks, the awful place + Bestill the mother's joy. + + In sweet reproach her gladness hid, + Her trembling voice says--low, + Less like the chiding than the chid-- + "How couldst thou leave us so?" + + But will her dear heart understand + The answer that he gives-- + Childlike, eternal, simple, grand, + The law by which he lives? + + "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear, + The gulf already opes + That will in thee keep live the fear, + And part thee from thy hopes! + + "My father's business--that ye know + I cannot choose but do." + Mother, if he that work forego, + Not long he cares for you. + + Creation's harder, better part + Now occupies his hand: + I marvel not the mother's heart + Not yet could understand. + + +III. + + The Lord of life among them rests; + They quaff the merry wine; + They do not know, those wedding guests, + The present power divine. + + Believe, on such a group he smiled, + Though he might sigh the while; + Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child + Was born without a smile. + + He saw the pitchers, high upturned, + Their last red drops outpour; + His mother's cheek with triumph burned, + And expectation wore. + + He knew the prayer her bosom housed, + He read it in her eyes; + Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused + Ere yet her words arise. + + "They have no wine!" she, halting, said, + Her prayer but half begun; + Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, + Show what thou art, my son!" + + A vision rose before his eyes, + The cross, the waiting tomb, + The people's rage, the darkened skies, + His unavoided doom: + + Ah woman dear, thou must not fret + Thy heart's desire to see! + His hour of honour is not yet-- + 'Twill come too soon for thee! + + His word was dark; his tone was kind; + His heart the mother knew; + His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined; + They gave her heart the cue. + + Another, on the word intent, + Had read refusal there; + She heard in it a full consent, + A sweetly answered prayer. + + "Whate'er he saith unto you, do." + Out flowed his grapes divine; + Though then, as now, not many knew + Who makes the water wine. + + +IV. + + "He is beside himself!" Dismayed, + His mother, brothers talked: + He from the well-known path had strayed + In which their fathers walked! + + With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud + Some one the message bore:-- + He stands within, amid a crowd, + They at the open door:-- + + "Thy mother and thy brothers would + Speak with thee. Lo, they stand + Without and wait thee!" Like a flood + Of sunrise on the land, + + A new-born light his face o'erspread; + Out from his eyes it poured; + He lifted up that gracious head, + Looked round him, took the word: + + "My mother--brothers--who are they?" + Hearest thou, Mary mild? + This is a sword that well may slay-- + Disowned by thy child! + + Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear-- + They are our humble lord's! + O mother, did they wound _thy_ ear?-- + _We_ thank him for the words. + + "Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say, + Stretching his hand abroad, + "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they + That do the will of God!" + + _My brother_! Lord of life and me, + If life might grow to this!-- + Would it not, brother, sister, be + Enough for all amiss? + + Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice: + Thou art his mother still, + But may'st be more--of thy own choice + Doing his Father's will. + + Ambition for thy son restrain, + Thy will to God's will bow: + Thy son he shall be yet again. + And twice his mother thou. + + O humble man, O faithful son! + That woman most forlorn + Who yet thy father's will hath done, + Thee, son of man, hath born! + + +V. + + Life's best things gather round its close + To light it from the door; + When woman's aid no further goes, + She weeps and loves the more. + + She doubted oft, feared for his life, + Yea, feared his mission's loss; + But now she shares the losing strife, + And weeps beside the cross. + + The dreaded hour is come at last, + The sword hath reached her soul; + The hour of tortured hope is past, + And gained the awful goal. + + There hangs the son her body bore, + The limbs her arms had prest! + The hands, the feet the driven nails tore + Had lain upon her breast! + + He speaks; the words how faintly brief, + And how divinely dear! + The mother's heart yearns through its grief + Her dying son to hear. + + "Woman, behold thy son.--Behold + Thy mother." Blessed hest + That friend to her torn heart to fold + Who understood him best! + + Another son--ah, not instead!-- + He gave, lest grief should kill, + While he was down among the dead, + Doing his father's will. + + No, not _instead_! the coming joy + Will make him hers anew; + More hers than when, a little boy, + His life from hers he drew. + + +II. + + _THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE_. + + Filled with his words of truth and right, + Her heart will break or cry: + A woman's cry bursts forth in might + Of loving agony. + + "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare! + The bosom that thee fed!" + A moment's silence filled the air, + All heard the words she said. + + He turns his face: he knows the cry, + The fountain whence it springs-- + A woman's heart that glad would die + For woman's best of things. + + Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, + He never quenched or chode: + "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear + And keep the word of God!" + + He would uplift her, not rebuke. + The crowd began to stir. + We miss how she the answer took; + We hear no more of her. + + +III. + + _THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN_. + + She knelt, she bore a bold request, + Though shy to speak it out: + Ambition, even in mother's breast, + Before him stood in doubt. + + "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, + My sons on thy right hand + And on thy left shall sit when thou + Art king, Lord, in the land." + + "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay + A baptism and a cup + She understood not, in the way + By which he must go up. + + Her mother-love would lift them high + Above their fellow-men; + Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, + Share in their grandeur then! + + Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, + Counted her prayer well heard, + Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, + Hung dying, first and third? + + She knoweth neither way nor end: + In dark despair, full soon, + She will not mock the gracious friend + With prayer for any boon. + + Higher than love could dream or dare + To ask, he them will set; + They shall his cup and baptism share, + And share his kingdom yet! + + They, entering at his palace-door, + Will shun the lofty seat; + Will gird themselves, and water pour, + And wash each other's feet; + + Then down beside their lowly Lord + On the Father's throne shall sit: + For them who godlike help afford + God hath prepared it. + + +IV. + + _THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN_. + + "Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; + She crieth after us." + Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; + Serve not a woman thus. + + Their pride, by condescension fed, + He shapes with teaching tongue: + "It is not meet the children's bread + To little dogs be flung." + + The words, for tender heart so sore, + His voice did seem to rue; + The gentle wrath his countenance wore, + With her had not to do. + + He makes her share the hurt of good, + Takes what she would have lent, + That those proud men their evil mood + May see, and so repent; + + And that the hidden faith in her + May burst in soaring flame: + With childhood deeper, holier, + Is birthright not the same? + + Ill names, of proud religion born-- + She'll wear the worst that comes; + Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, + To share the healing crumbs! + + "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small + Under the table eat + The crumbs the little ones let fall-- + That is not thought unmeet." + + The prayer rebuff could not amate + Was not like water spilt: + "O woman, but thy faith is great! + Be it even as thou wilt." + + Thrice happy she who yet will dare, + Who, baffled, prayeth still! + He, if he may, will grant her prayer + In fulness of _her_ will! + + + +V. + + _THE WIDOW OF NAIN_. + + Forth from the city, with the load + That makes the trampling low, + They walk along the dreary road + That dust and ashes go. + + The other way, toward the gate + Their trampling strong and loud, + With hope of liberty elate, + Comes on another crowd. + + Nearer and nearer draw the twain-- + One with a wailing cry! + How could the Life let such a train + Of death and tears go by! + + "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: + They stand, the dead who bear; + The mother knows nor hope nor fear-- + He waits not for her prayer. + + "Young man, I say to thee, arise." + Who hears, he must obey: + Up starts the body; wide the eyes + Flash wonder and dismay. + + The lips would speak, as if they caught + Some converse sudden broke + When the great word the dead man sought, + And Hades' silence woke. + + The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare + Gives place to ordered sight; + The murmur dies upon the air; + The soul is dumb with light. + + He brings no news; he has forgot, + Or saw with vision weak: + Thou sees! all our unseen lot, + And yet thou dost not speak. + + Hold'st thou the news, as parent might + A too good gift, away, + Lest we should neither sleep at night, + Nor do our work by day? + + The mother leaves us not a spark + Of her triumph over grief; + Her tears alone have left their mark + Upon the holy leaf: + + Oft gratitude will thanks benumb, + Joy will our laughter quell: + May not Eternity be dumb + With things too good to tell? + + Her straining arms her lost one hold; + Question she asketh none; + She trusts for all he leaves untold; + Enough, to clasp her son! + + The ebb is checked, the flow begun, + Sent rushing to the gate: + Death turns him backward to the sun, + And life is yet our fate! + + + +VI. + + _THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND_. + + For years eighteen she, patient soul, + Her eyes had graveward sent; + Her earthly life was lapt in dole, + She was so bowed and bent. + + What words! To her? Who can be near? + What tenderness of hands! + Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? + New hope, or breaking bands? + + The pent life rushes swift along + Channels it used to know; + Up, up, amid the wondering throng, + She rises firm and slow-- + + To bend again in grateful awe-- + For will is power at length-- + In homage to the living Law + Who gives her back her strength. + + Uplifter of the down-bent head! + Unbinder of the bound! + Who seest all the burdened + Who only see the ground! + + Although they see thee not, nor cry, + Thou watchest for the hour + To lift the forward-beaming eye, + To wake the slumbering power! + + Thy hand will wipe the stains of time + From off the withered face; + Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime + Of youthful manhood's grace! + + Like summer days from winter's tomb, + Shall rise thy women fair; + Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, + Lo, is not anywhere! + + All ills of life shall melt away + As melts a cureless woe, + When, by the dawning of the day + Surprised, the dream must go. + + I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, + Whate'er the needful cure; + The great best only thou wilt do, + And hoping I endure. + + + +VII. + + _THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD_. + + Near him she stole, rank after rank; + She feared approach too loud; + She touched his garment's hem, and shrank + Back in the sheltering crowd. + + A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame: + Her twelve years' fainting prayer + Is heard at last! she is the same + As other women there! + + She hears his voice. He looks about. + Ah! is it kind or good + To drag her secret sorrow out + Before that multitude? + + The eyes of men she dares not meet-- + On her they straight must fall!-- + Forward she sped, and at his feet + Fell down, and told him all. + + To the one refuge she hath flown, + The Godhead's burning flame! + Of all earth's women she alone + Hears there the tenderest name: + + "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; + Thy faith hath made thee whole:" + With plenteous love, not healing mere, + He comforteth her soul. + + + +VIII. + + _THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES_. + + Here _much_ and _little_ shift and change, + With scale of need and time; + There _more_ and _less_ have meanings strange, + Which the world cannot rime. + + Sickness may be more hale than health, + And service kingdom high; + Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, + To give like God thereby. + + Bring forth your riches; let them go, + Nor mourn the lost control; + For if ye hoard them, surely so + Their rust will reach your soul. + + Cast in your coins, for God delights + When from wide hands they fall; + But here is one who brings two mites, + And thus gives more than all. + + I think she did not hear the praise-- + Went home content with need; + Walked in her old poor generous ways, + Nor knew her heavenly meed. + + + +IX. + + _THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM_. + + Enough he labours for his hire; + Yea, nought can pay his pain; + But powers that wear and waste and tire, + Need help to toil again. + + They give him freely all they can, + They give him clothes and food; + In this rejoicing, that the man + Is not ashamed they should. + + High love takes form in lowly thing; + He knows the offering such; + To them 'tis little that they bring, + To him 'tis very much. + + + +X. + + _PILATE'S WIFE_. + + Why came in dreams the low-born man + Between thee and thy rest? + In vain thy whispered message ran, + Though justice was its quest! + + Did some young ignorant angel dare-- + Not knowing what must be, + Or blind with agony of care-- + To fly for help to thee? + + I know not. Rather I believe, + Thou, nobler than thy spouse, + His rumoured grandeur didst receive, + And sit with pondering brows, + + Until thy maidens' gathered tale + With possible marvel teems: + Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale + Returneth in thy dreams. + + Well mightst thou suffer things not few + For his sake all the night! + In pale eclipse he suffers, who + Is of the world the light. + + Precious it were to know thy dream + Of such a one as he! + Perhaps of him we, waking, deem + As poor a verity. + + + +XI. + + _THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA_. + + In the hot sun, for water cool + She walked in listless mood: + When back she ran, her pitcher full + Forgot behind her stood. + + Like one who followed straying sheep, + A weary man she saw, + Who sat upon the well so deep, + And nothing had to draw. + + "Give me to drink," he said. Her hand + Was ready with reply; + From out the old well of the land + She drew him plenteously. + + He spake as never man before; + She stands with open ears; + He spake of holy days in store, + Laid bare the vanished years. + + She cannot still her throbbing heart, + She hurries to the town, + And cries aloud in street and mart, + "The Lord is here: come down." + + Her life before was strange and sad, + A very dreary sound: + Ah, let it go--or good or bad: + She has the Master found! + + + +XII. + + _MARY MAGDALENE_. + + With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, + She hither, thither, goes; + Her speech, her motions, all reveal + A mind without repose. + + She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, + By madness tortured, driven; + One hour's forgetfulness would be + A gift from very heaven! + + She slumbers into new distress; + The night is worse than day: + Exulting in her helplessness, + Hell's dogs yet louder bay. + + The demons blast her to and fro; + She has no quiet place, + Enough a woman still, to know + A haunting dim disgrace. + + A human touch! a pang of death! + And in a low delight + Thou liest, waiting for new breath. + For morning out of night. + + Thou risest up: the earth is fair, + The wind is cool; thou art free! + Is it a dream of hell's despair + Dissolves in ecstasy? + + That man did touch thee! Eyes divine + Make sunrise in thy soul; + Thou seëst love in order shine:-- + His health hath made thee whole! + + Thou, sharing in the awful doom, + Didst help thy Lord to die; + Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, + Didst hear him _Mary_ cry. + + He stands in haste; he cannot stop; + Home to his God he fares: + "Go tell my brothers I go up + To my Father, mine and theirs." + + Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; + Cry, cry, and heed not how; + Make all the new-risen world rejoice-- + Its first apostle thou! + + What if old tales of thee have lied, + Or truth have told, thou art + All-safe with him, whate'er betide-- + Dwell'st with him in God's heart! + + + +XIII. + + _THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE_. + + A still dark joy! A sudden face! + Cold daylight, footsteps, cries! + The temple's naked, shining space, + Aglare with judging eyes! + + All in abandoned guilty hair, + With terror-pallid lips, + To vulgar scorn her honour bare, + To lewd remarks and quips, + + Her eyes she fixes on the ground + Her shrinking soul to hide, + Lest, at uncurtained windows found, + Its shame be clear descried. + + All idle hang her listless hands, + They tingle with her shame; + She sees not who beside her stands, + She is so bowed with blame. + + He stoops, he writes upon the ground, + Regards nor priests nor wife; + An awful silence spreads around, + And wakes an inward strife. + + Then comes a voice that speaks for thee, + Pale woman, sore aghast: + "Let him who from this sin is free + At her the first stone cast!" + + Ah then her heart grew slowly sad! + Her eyes bewildered rose; + She saw the one true friend she had, + Who loves her though he knows. + + He stoops. In every charnel breast + Dead conscience rises slow: + They, dumb before that awful guest, + Turn, one by one, and go. + + Up in her deathlike, ashy face + Rises the living red; + No greater wonder sure had place + When Lazarus left the dead! + + She is alone with him whose fear + Made silence all around; + False pride, false shame, they come not near, + She has her saviour found! + + Jesus hath spoken on her side, + Those cruel men withstood! + From him her shame she will not hide! + For him she _will_ be good! + + He rose; he saw the temple bare; + They two are left alone! + He said unto her, "Woman, where + Are thine accusers gone?" + + "Hath none condemned thee?" "Master, no," + She answers, trembling sore. + "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, + And sin not any more." + + She turned and went.--To hope and grieve? + Be what she had not been? + We are not told; but I believe + His kindness made her clean. + + Our sins to thee us captive hale-- + Ambitions, hatreds dire; + Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail, + And sink us in the mire: + + Our captive-cries with pardon meet; + Our passion cleanse with pain; + Lord, thou didst make these miry feet-- + Oh, wash them clean again! + + +XIV. + + _MARTHA_. + + With joyful pride her heart is high: + Her humble house doth hold + The man her nation's prophecy + Long ages hath foretold! + + Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born: + Her woman-soul is proud + To know and hail the coming morn + Before the eyeless crowd. + + At her poor table will he eat? + He shall be served there + With honour and devotion meet + For any king that were! + + 'Tis all she can; she does her part, + Profuse in sacrifice; + Nor dreams that in her unknown heart + A better offering lies. + + But many crosses she must bear; + Her plans are turned and bent; + Do what she can, things will not wear + The form of her intent. + + With idle hands and drooping lid, + See Mary sit at rest! + Shameful it was her sister did + No service for their guest! + + Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot + Must rule thy hands and eyes; + Thou, all thy household cares forgot, + Must sit as idly wise! + + But once more first she set her word + To bar her master's ways, + Crying, "By this he stinketh, Lord, + He hath been dead four days!" + + Her housewife-soul her brother dear + Would fetter where he lies! + Ah, did her buried best then hear, + And with the dead man rise? + + + +XV. + + _MARY_. + + I. + + She sitteth at the Master's feet + In motionless employ; + Her ears, her heart, her soul complete + Drinks in the tide of joy. + + Ah! who but she the glory knows + Of life, pure, high, intense, + In whose eternal silence blows + The wind beyond the sense! + + In her still ear, God's perfect grace + Incarnate is in voice; + Her thoughts, the people of the place, + Receive it, and rejoice. + + Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright, + Are on the ground cast low; + His words of spirit, life, and light-- + _They_ set them shining so. + + But see! a face is at the door + Whose eyes are not at rest; + A voice breaks on divinest lore + With petulant request. + + "Master," it said, "dost thou not care + She lets me serve alone? + Tell her to come and take her share." + But Mary's eyes shine on. + + She lifts them with a questioning glance, + Calmly to him who heard; + The merest sign, she'll rise at once, + Nor wait the uttered word. + + His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore + A sense of coming _nay_; + He told her that her trouble sore + Was needless any day. + + And he would not have Mary chid + For want of needless care; + The needful thing was what she did, + At his feet sitting there. + + Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart + Doing the thing it would, + When he, the holy, took her part, + And called her choice the good! + + Oh needful thing, Oh Mary's choice, + Go not from us away! + Oh Jesus, with the living voice, + Talk to us every day! + + + II. + + Not now the living words are poured + Into one listening ear; + For many guests are at the board, + And many speak and hear. + + With sacred foot, refrained and slow, + With daring, trembling tread, + She comes, in worship bending low + Behind the godlike head. + + The costly chrism, in snowy stone, + A gracious odour sends; + Her little hoard, by sparing grown, + In one full act she spends. + + She breaks the box, the honoured thing! + See how its riches pour! + Her priestly hands anoint him king + Whom peasant Mary bore. + + * * * * * + + Not so does John the tale repeat: + He saw, for he was there, + Mary anoint the Master's feet, + And wipe them with her hair. + + Perhaps she did his head anoint, + And then his feet as well; + And John this one forgotten point + Loved best of all to tell. + + 'Twas Judas called the splendour waste, + 'Twas Jesus said--Not so; + Said that her love his burial graced: + "Ye have the poor; I go." + + Her hands unwares outsped his fate, + The truth-king's felon-doom; + The other women were too late, + For he had left the tomb. + + + +XVI. + + _THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER_. + + His face, his words, her heart awoke; + Awoke her slumbering truth; + She judged him well; her bonds she broke, + And fled to him for ruth. + + With tears she washed his weary feet; + She wiped them with her hair; + Her kisses--call them not unmeet, + When they were welcome _there_. + + What saint a richer crown could throw + At his love-royal feet! + Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go, + His reign begun to greet. + + His holy manhood's perfect worth + Owns her a woman still; + It is impossible henceforth + For her to stoop to ill. + + Her to herself his words restore, + The radiance to the day; + A horror to herself no more, + Not yet a cast-away! + + Her hands and kisses, ointment, tears, + Her gathered wiping hair, + Her love, her shame, her hopes, her fears, + Mingle in worship rare. + + Thou, Mary, too, thy hair didst spread + To wipe the anointed feet; + Nor didst thou only bless his head + With precious spikenard sweet. + + But none say thou thy tears didst pour + To wash his parched feet first; + Of tears thou couldst not have such store + As from this woman burst! + + If not in love she first be read, + Her queen of sorrow greet; + Mary, do thou anoint his head, + And let her crown his feet. + + Simon, her kisses will not soil; + Her tears are pure as rain; + The hair for him she did uncoil + Had been baptized in pain. + + Lo, God hath pardoned her so much, + Love all her being stirs! + His love to his poor child is such + That it hath wakened hers! + + But oh, rejoice, ye sisters pure, + Who scarce can know her case-- + There is no sin but has its cure, + Its all-consuming grace! + + He did not leave her soul in hell, + 'Mong shards the silver dove; + But raised her pure that she might tell + Her sisters how to love! + + She gave him all your best love can! + Despised, rejected, sad-- + Sure, never yet had mighty man + Such homage as he had! + + Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet, + Her love grew so intense, + Earth's sinners all come round thy feet: + Lord, make no difference! + + + + + +A BOOK OF SONNETS. + + +_THE BURNT-OFFERING_. + + Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night, + When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim, + And he hath laid him down in chamber dim, + Straightway begins to tremble and grow bright, + And loose faint flashes toward the vaulted height + Of the great peace that overshadoweth him: + Keen lambent flames of hope awake and swim + Throughout his soul, touching each point with light! + The great earth under him an altar is, + Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, + Burning in love's response up to the skies + Whose fire descended first and kindled his: + When slow the flickering flames at length expire, + Sleep's ashes only hide a glowing fire. + + + +_THE UNSEEN FACE_. + + + "I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face." + "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn! + Thou shall behold as much as may be borne." + And on a rock stood Moses, lone in space. + From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place, + God passed in cloud, an earthy garment worn + To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn, + He put him in a clift of the rock's base, + Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen-- + Passed--lifted it: his back alone appears! + Ah, Moses, had he turned, and hadst thou seen + The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears, + The eyes of the true man, by men belied, + Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died! + + + + + +_CONCERNING JESUS_. + + + I. + + If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race + Of forms divine had thenceforth filled the land! + Methinks I see thee, glorious workman, stand, + Striking a marble window through blind space-- + Thy face's reflex on the coming face, + As dawns the stone to statue 'neath thy hand-- + Body obedient to its soul's command, + Which is thy thought, informing it with grace! + So had it been. But God, who quickeneth clay, + Nor turneth it to marble--maketh eyes, + Not shadowy hollows, where no sunbeams play-- + Would mould his loftiest thought in human guise: + Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad, + God's living sculpture, all-informed of God. + + + II. + + If one should say, "Lo, there thy statue! take + Possession, sculptor; now inherit it; + Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit; + As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake + The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake + The slumber from their hearts, that, where they sit, + They leap straight up, aghast, as at a pit + Gaping beneath;" I hear him answer make: + "Alas for me, I cannot nor would dare + Inform what I revered as I did trace! + Who would be fool that he like fool might fare, + With feeble spirit mocking the enorm + Strength on his forehead!" Thou, God's thought thy form, + Didst live the large significance of thy face. + + + + III. + + Men have I seen, and seen with wonderment, + Noble in form, "lift upward and divine," + In whom I yet must search, as in a mine, + After that soul of theirs, by which they went + Alive upon the earth. And I have bent + Regard on many a woman, who gave sign + God willed her beautiful, when he drew the line + That shaped each float and fold of beauty's tent: + Her soul, alas, chambered in pigmy space, + Left the fair visage pitiful--inane-- + Poor signal only of a coming face + When from the penetrale she filled the fane!-- + Possessed of thee was every form of thine, + Thy very hair replete with the divine. + + + IV. + + If thou hadst built a temple, how my eye + Had hungering fed thereon, from low-browed crypt + Up to the soaring pinnacles that, tipt + With stars, gave signal when the sun drew nigh! + Dark caverns in and under; vivid sky + Its home and aim! Say, from the glory slipt, + And down into the shadows dropt and dipt, + Or reared from darkness up so holy-high?-- + Thou build'st the temple of thy holy ghost + From hid foundation to high-hidden fate-- + Foot in the grave, head at the heavenly gate, + From grave and sky filled with a fighting host! + Man is thy temple; man thy work elect; + His glooms and glory thine, great architect! + + + V. + + If thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, + What outbursts of pent glories, what new grace + Had shone upon us from the great world's face! + How had we read, as in eternal books, + The love of God in loneliest shiest nooks! + A lily, in merest lines thy hand did trace, + Had plainly been God's child of lower race! + And oh how strong the hills, songful the brooks! + To thee all nature's meanings lie light-bare, + Because thy heart is nature's inner side; + Clear as, to us, earth on the dawn's gold tide, + Her notion vast up in thy soul did rise; + Thine is the world, thine all its splendours rare, + Thou Man ideal, with the unsleeping eyes! + + + VI. + + But I have seen pictures the work of man, + In which at first appeared but chaos wild: + So high the art transcended, they beguiled + The eye as formless, and without a plan. + Not soon, the spirit, brooding o'er, began + To see a purpose rise, like mountain isled, + When God said, Let the Dry appear! and, piled + Above the waves, it rose in twilight wan. + So might thy pictures then have been too strange + For us to pierce beyond their outmost look; + A vapour and a darkness; a sealed book; + An atmosphere too high for wings to range; + And so we could but, gazing, pale and change, + And tremble as at a void thought cannot brook. + + + VII. + + But earth is now thy living picture, where + Thou shadowest truth, the simple and profound + By the same form in vital union bound: + Where one can see but the first step of thy stair, + Another sees it vanish far in air. + When thy king David viewed the starry round, + From heart and fingers broke the psaltery-sound: + Lord, what is man, that thou shouldst mind his prayer! + But when the child beholds the heavens on high, + He babbles childish noises--not less dear + Than what the king sang praying--to the ear + Of him who made the child and king and sky. + Earth is thy picture, painter great, whose eye + Sees with the child, sees with the kingly seer. + + + VIII. + + If thou hadst built some mighty instrument, + And set thee down to utter ordered sound, + Whose faithful billows, from thy hands unbound, + Breaking in light, against our spirits went, + And caught, and bore above this earthly tent, + The far-strayed back to their prime natal ground, + Where all roots fast in harmony are found, + And God sits thinking out a pure consent;-- + Nay, that thou couldst not; that was not for thee! + Our broken music thou must first restore-- + A harder task than think thine own out free; + And till thou hast done it, no divinest score, + Though rendered by thine own angelic choir, + Can lift one human spirit from the mire. + + + IX. + + If thou hadst been a poet! On my heart + The thought flashed sudden, burning through the weft + Of life, and with too much I sank bereft. + Up to my eyes the tears, with sudden start, + Thronged blinding: then the veil would rend and part! + The husk of vision would in twain be cleft! + Thy hidden soul in naked beauty left, + I should behold thee, Nature, as thou art! + O poet Jesus! at thy holy feet + I should have lien, sainted with listening; + My pulses answering ever, in rhythmic beat, + The stroke of each triumphant melody's wing, + Creating, as it moved, my being sweet; + My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string. + + + X. + + Thee had we followed through the twilight land + Where thought grows form, and matter is refined + Back into thought of the eternal mind, + Till, seeing them one, Lo, in the morn we stand!-- + Then started fresh and followed, hand in hand, + With sense divinely growing, till, combined, + We heard the music of the planets wind + In harmony with billows on the strand!-- + Till, one with earth and all God's utterance, + We hardly knew whether the sun outspake, + Or a glad sunshine from our spirits brake-- + Whether we think, or winds and blossoms dance! + Alas, O poet leader, for such good + Thou wast God's tragedy, writ in tears and blood! + + + XI. + + Hadst thou been one of these, in many eyes, + Too near to be a glory for thy sheen, + Thou hadst been scorned; and to the best hadst been + A setter forth of strange divinities; + But to the few construct of harmonies, + A sudden sun, uplighting the serene + High heaven of love; and, through the cloudy screen + That 'twixt our souls and truth all wretched lies, + Dawning at length, hadst been a love and fear, + Worshipped on high from Magian's mountain-crest, + And all night long symbolled by lamp-flames clear, + Thy sign, a star upon thy people's breast-- + Where that strange arbitrary token lies + Which once did scare the sun in noontide skies. + + + XII. + + But as thou camest forth to bring the poor, + Whose hearts are nearer faith and verity, + Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy-- + So taught'st the A B C of heavenly lore; + Because thou sat'st not lonely evermore, + With mighty truths informing language high, + But, walking in thy poem continually, + Didst utter deeds, of all true forms the core-- + Poet and poem one indivisible fact; + Because thou didst thine own ideal act, + And so, for parchment, on the human soul + Didst write thine aspirations--at thy goal + Thou didst arrive with curses for acclaim, + And cry to God up through a cloud of shame. + + + XIII. + + For three and thirty years, a living seed, + A lonely germ, dropt on our waste world's side, + Thy death and rising thou didst calmly bide; + Sore companied by many a clinging weed + Sprung from the fallow soil of evil and need; + Hither and thither tossed, by friends denied; + Pitied of goodness dull, and scorned of pride; + Until at length was done the awful deed, + And thou didst lie outworn in stony bower + Three days asleep--oh, slumber godlike-brief + For man of sorrows and acquaint with grief! + Life-seed thou diedst, that Death might lose his power, + And thou, with rooted stem and shadowy leaf, + Rise, of humanity the crimson flower. + + + XIV. + + Where dim the ethereal eye, no art, though clear + As golden star in morning's amber springs, + Can pierce the fogs of low imaginings: + Painting and sculpture are a mockery mere. + Where dull to deafness is the hearing ear, + Vain is the poet. Nought but earthly things + Have credence. When the soaring skylark sings + How shall the stony statue strain to hear? + Open the deaf ear, wake the sleeping eye, + And Lo, musicians, painters, poets--all + Trooping instinctive, come without a call! + As winds that where they list blow evermore; + As waves from silent deserts roll to die + In mighty voices on the peopled shore. + + + XV. + + Our ears thou openedst; mad'st our eyes to see. + All they who work in stone or colour fair, + Or build up temples of the quarried air, + Which we call music, scholars are of thee. + Henceforth in might of such, the earth shall be + Truth's temple-theatre, where she shall wear + All forms of revelation, all men bear + Tapers in acolyte humility. + O master-maker, thy exultant art + Goes forth in making makers! Pictures? No, + But painters, who in love and truth shall show + Glad secrets from thy God's rejoicing heart. + Sudden, green grass and waving corn up start + When through dead sands thy living waters go. + + + XVI. + + From the beginning good and fair are one, + But men the beauty from the truth will part, + And, though the truth is ever beauty's heart, + After the beauty will, short-breathed, run, + And the indwelling truth deny and shun. + Therefore, in cottage, synagogue, and mart, + Thy thoughts came forth in common speech, not art; + With voice and eye, in Jewish Babylon, + Thou taughtest--not with pen or carved stone, + Nor in thy hand the trembling wires didst take: + Thou of the truth not less than all wouldst make; + For Truth's sake even her forms thou didst disown: + Ere, through the love of beauty, truth shall fail, + The light behind shall burn the broidered veil! + + + XVII. + + Holy of holies, my bare feet draw nigh: + Jesus, thy body is the shining veil + By which I look on God, nor grow death-pale. + I know that in my verses poor may lie + Things low, for see, the thinker is not high! + But were my song as loud as saints' all-hail, + As pure as prophet's cry of warning wail, + As holy as thy mother's ecstasy-- + He sings a better, who, for love or ruth, + Into his heart a little child doth take. + Nor thoughts nor feelings, art nor wisdom seal + The man who at thy table bread shall break. + Thy praise was not that thou didst know, or feel, + Or show, or love, but that thou didst the truth. + + + XVIII. + + Despised! Rejected by the priest-led roar + Of the multitude! The imperial purple flung + About the form the hissing scourge had stung, + Witnessing naked to the truth it bore! + True son of father true, I thee adore. + Even the mocking purple truthful hung + On thy true shoulders, bleeding its folds among, + For thou wast king, art king for evermore! + _I know the Father: he knows me the truth_. + Truth-witness, therefore the one essential king, + With thee I die, with thee live worshipping! + O human God, O brother, eldest born, + Never but thee was there a man in sooth, + Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn! + + + + +_A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA_. + + + I. + + Upon a rock I sat--a mountain-side, + Far, far forsaken of the old sea's lip; + A rock where ancient waters' rise and dip, + Recoil and plunge, eddy, and oscillant tide, + Had worn and worn, while races lived and died, + Involved channels. Where the sea-weed's drip + Followed the ebb, now crumbling lichens sip + Sparse dews of heaven that down with sunset slide. + I sat long-gazing southward. A dry flow + Of withering wind sucked up my drooping strength, + Itself weak from the desert's burning length. + Behind me piled, away and up did go + Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, + Where snow gleams ever, panthers roam, they say. + + + II. + + This infant world has taken long to make, + Nor hast Thou done with it, but mak'st it yet, + And wilt be working on when death has set + A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. + On flow the centuries without a break; + Uprise the mountains, ages without let; + The lichens suck; the hard rock's breast they fret; + Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. + But in the dumbness of the rolling time, + No veil of silence shall encompass me-- + Thou wilt not once forget and let me be; + Rather wouldst thou some old chaotic prime + Invade, and, moved by tenderness sublime, + Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see. + + + + + +_A. M. D_. + + + Methinks I see thee, lying straight and low, + Silent and darkling, in thy earthy bed, + The mighty strength in which I trusted, fled, + The long arms lying careless of kiss or blow; + On thy tall form I see the night-robe flow + Down from the pale, composed face--thy head + Crowned with its own dark curls: though thou wast dead, + They dressed thee as for sleep, and left thee so! + My heart, with cares and questionings oppressed, + Not oft since thou didst leave us turns to thee; + But wait, my brother, till I too am dead, + And thou shalt find that heart more true, more free, + More ready in thy love to take its rest, + Than when we lay together in one bed. + + + + + +_TO GARIBALDI--WITH A BOOK_. + + + When at Philippi, he who would have freed + Great Rome from tyrants, for the season brief + That lay 'twixt him and battle, sought relief + From painful thoughts, he in a book did read, + That so the death of Portia might not breed + Unmanful thoughts, and cloud his mind with grief: + Brother of Brutus, of high hearts the chief, + When thou at length receiv'st thy heavenly meed, + And I have found my hoping not in vain, + Tell me my book has wiled away one pang + That out of some lone sacred memory sprang, + Or wrought an hour's forgetfulness of pain, + And I shall rise, my heart brimful of gain, + And thank my God amid the golden clang. + + + + + +_TO S. F. S_. + + + They say that lonely sorrows do not chance: + More gently, I think, sorrows together go; + A new one joins the funeral gliding slow + With less of jar than when it breaks the dance. + Grief swages grief, and joy doth joy enhance; + Nature is generous to her children so. + And were they quick to spy the flowers that blow, + As quick to feel the sharp-edged stones that lance + The foot that must walk naked in life's way,-- + Blest by the roadside lily, free from fear, + Oftener than hurt by dash of flinty spear, + They would walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay; + And when the soft night closed the weary day, + Would sleep like those that far-off music hear. + + + + + +_RUSSELL GURNEY_. + + + In that high country whither thou art gone, + Right noble friend, thou walkest with thy peers, + The gathered great of many a hundred years! + Few are left like thee--few, I say, not none, + Else were thy England soon a Babylon, + A land of outcry, mockery, and tears! + Higher than law, a refuge from its fears, + Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone. + The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face + Was like the sunrise of a morn serene + Among the mountains, making sweet their awe. + Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw; + Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean, + As, whence thou cam'st, it knew the lofty place. + + + + + +_TO ONE THREATENED WITH BLINDNESS_. + + + I. + + Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark, + And twilight cool thy potent day inclose! + The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows + All the night through, sleepless and young and stark. + Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark, + More daring: in the midnight of thy woes, + Dart through them, higher than earth's shadow goes, + Into the Light of which thou art a spark! + Be willing to be blind--that, in thy night, + The Lord may bring his Father to thy door, + And enter in, and feast thy soul with light. + Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more, + Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies, + And shine, God's house, all radiant in our eyes. + + + II. + + Say thou, his will be done who is the good! + His will be borne who knoweth how to bear! + Who also in the night had need of prayer, + Both when awoke divinely longing mood, + And when the power of darkness him withstood. + For what is coming take no jot of care: + Behind, before, around thee as the air, + He o'er thee like thy mother's heart will brood. + And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer, + Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest, + Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest + With what thou bring'st from that ethereal height, + Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share: + He needs no eyes who is a shining light! + + + + +_TO AUBREY DE VERE_. + + + Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere, + Forgive my play fantastic with thy name, + Distilling its true essence by the flame + Which Love 'neath Fancy's limbeck lighteth clear. + I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer; + If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame, + Or furthering by failure each high aim; + If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear; + But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by-- + Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod-- + We laying down the staff, and He the rod-- + So look on me I shall not need to cry-- + "We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I: + We mean the same thing--will the will of God!" + + + + + +_GENERAL GORDON_. + + + I. + + Victorious through failure! faithful Lord, + Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray + From thine own country of eternal day, + To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde, + Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!-- + Our long retarded legions, on their way, + Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile's down-sway, + To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word, + Thou sawest foiled--but glorifiedst him, + Over ten cities giving him thy rule! + We will not mourn a star that grew not dim, + A soldier-child of God gone home from school! + A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff, + And quaffs it now with Christ's imperial staff! + + + II. + + Another to the witnesses' roll-call + Hath answered, "Here I am!" and so stept out-- + With willingness crowned everywhere about, + Not the head only, but the body all, + In one great nimbus of obedient fall, + His heart's blood dashing in the face of doubt-- + Love's last victorious stand amid the rout! + --Silence is left, and the untasted gall. + No chariot with ramping steeds of fire + The Father sent to fetch his man-child home; + His brother only called, "My Gordon, come!" + And like a dove to heaven he did aspire, + His one wing Death, his other, Heart's-desire. + --Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb! + + + + + +_THE CHRYSALIS_. + + + Methought I floated sightless, nor did know + That I had ears until I heard the cry + As of a mighty man in agony: + "How long, Lord, shall I lie thus foul and slow? + The arrows of thy lightning through me go, + And sting and torture me--yet here I lie + A shapeless mass that scarce can mould a sigh!" + The darkness thinned; I saw a thing below + Like sheeted corpse, a knot at head and feet. + Slow clomb the sun the mountains of the dead, + And looked upon the world: the silence broke! + A blinding struggle! then the thunderous beat + Of great exulting pinions stroke on stroke! + And from that world a mighty angel fled. + + + + + +_THE SWEEPER OF THE FLOOR_. + + + Methought that in a solemn church I stood. + Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet, + Lay spread from door to door, from street to street. + Midway the form hung high upon the rood + Of him who gave his life to be our good; + Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet, + Among the candles shining still and sweet. + Men came and went, and worshipped as they could-- + And still their dust a woman with her broom, + Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door. + Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom, + Across the church a silent figure come: + "Daughter," it said, "thou sweepest well my floor!" + It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more. + + + + + +_DEATH_. + + + Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old: + A fresher birth brings every new year in. + Years are Christ's napkins to wipe off the sin. + See now, I'll be to you an angel bold! + My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold, + Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin. + --Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win! + Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:-- + Behind me comes a shining one indeed; + Christ's friend, who from life's cross did take him down, + And set upon his day night's starry crown! + _Death_, say'st thou? Nay--thine be no caitiff creed!-- + A woman-angel! see--in long white gown! + The mother of our youth!--she maketh speed. + + + + + + + +ORGAN SONGS. + + + _TO A. J. SCOTT_ + + WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. + + I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. + Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, + Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed + + A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain. + Closed were the lofty doors that led within; + But by a wicket one might entrance gain. + + 'Twas awe and silence when I entered in; + The night, the weariness, the rain were lost + In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin + + Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, + As if they sought some harmony to find + Which they knew once, but none of all that host + + Could wile the far-fled music back to mind. + Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along + The pillared paths, and up the arches twined + + With sister arches, rising, throng on throng, + Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times + The voices gathered to a burst of song, + + But parted sudden, and were but single rimes + By single bells through Sabbath morning sent, + That have no thought of harmony or chimes. + + Hopeful confusion! Who could be content + Looking and hearkening from the distant door? + I entered further. Solemnly it went-- + + Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar, + Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine: + I loved and listened, listened and loved more. + + May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine + Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone? + Let my poor song be taken in to thine. + + Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own, + Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown? + + + + + +_LIGHT_. + + + First-born of the creating Voice! + Minister of God's Spirit, who wast sent + Waiting upon him first, what time he went + Moving about mid the tumultuous noise + Of each unpiloted element + Upon the face of the void formless deep! + Thou who didst come unbodied and alone + Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, + Or ever the moon shone, + Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! + Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt + Sweeps, glory-giving, over earth and heaven! + Thou comforter, be with me as thou wert + When first I longed for words, to be + A radiant garment for my thought, like thee! + + We lay us down in sorrow, + Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; + In vexing dreams we strive until the morrow; + Grief lifts our eyelids up--and Lo, the light! + The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise + Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; + Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; + Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; + Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; + Of clouds that show thy glory as their own; + O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by! + Light, gladness, motion, are reality! + + Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs + Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; + And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. + The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers + Worship thee all day long, and through the skies + Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. + River of life, thou pourest on the woods, + And on thy waves float out the wakening buds; + The trees lean toward thee, and, in loving pain, + Keep turning still to see thee yet again; + South sides of pines, haunted all day by thee, + Bear violins that tremble humanly. + And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: + Where'er thou art, on every side, + All things are glorified; + And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw + Beautiful shadows, made out of the dark, + That else were shapeless; now it bears thy mark. + + And men have worshipped thee. + The Persian, on his mountain-top, + Waits kneeling till thy sun go up, + God-like in his serenity. + All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near, + And the wide earth waits till his face appear-- + Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps + Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, + Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps. + Sudden, still multitudinous laughter crowds + The universal face: Lo, silently, + Up cometh he, the never-closing eye! + Symbol of Deity, men could not be + Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee! + + Thou plaything of the child, + When from the water's surface thou dost spring, + Thyself upon his chamber ceiling fling, + And there, in mazy dance and motion wild, + Disport thyself--etherial, undefiled. + Capricious, like the thinkings of the child! + I am a child again, to think of thee + In thy consummate glee. + How I would play with thee, athirst to climb + On sloping ladders of thy moted beams, + When through the gray dust darting in long streams! + How marvel at the dusky glimmering red, + With which my closed fingers thou hadst made + Like rainy clouds that curtain the sun's bed! + And how I loved thee always in the moon! + But most about the harvest-time, + When corn and moonlight made a mellow tune, + And thou wast grave and tender as a cooing dove! + And then the stars that flashed cold, deathless love! + And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! + And more mysterious earthly stars, + That shone from windows of the hill and glen-- + Thee prisoned in with lattice-bars, + Mingling with household love and rest of weary men! + And still I am a child, thank God!--to spy + Thee starry stream from bit of broken glass + Upon the brown earth undescried, + Is a found thing to me, a gladness high, + A spark that lights joy's altar-fire within, + A thought of hope to prophecy akin, + That from my spirit fruitless will not pass. + + Thou art the joy of age: + Thy sun is dear when long the shadow falls. + Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls, + And, like the bird hung out in his poor cage + To gather song from radiance, in his chair + Sits by the door; and sitteth there + His soul within him, like a child that lies + Half dreaming, with half-open eyes, + At close of a long afternoon in summer-- + High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where + The raven is almost the only comer-- + Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment + At thy celestial ascent + Through rifted loop to light upon the gold + That waves its bloom in some high airy rent: + So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, + But sleepy mid the ruins that infold. + + What soul-like changes, evanescent moods, + Upon the face of the still passive earth, + Its hills, and fields, and woods, + Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art ever calling forth! + Even like a lord of music bent + Over his instrument, + Giving to carol, now to tempest birth! + When, clear as holiness, the morning ray + Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its feet, + Mottling with shadows all the mountain gray; + When, at the hour of sovereign noon, + Infinite silent cataracts sheet + Shadowless through the air of thunder-breeding June; + When now a yellower glory slanting passes + 'Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow grasses; + And now the moon lifts up her shining shield, + High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; + Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, + Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, + Her still face seeming more to think than see, + Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams of thee! + No mood, eternal or ephemeral, + But wakes obedient at thy silent call! + + Of operative single power, + And simple unity the one emblem, + Yet all the colours that our passionate eyes devour, + In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, + Are the melodious descant of divided thee. + Lo thee in yellow sands! Lo thee + In the blue air and sea! + In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit, + Thy half-souls parted, patient thou dost sit. + Lo thee in dying triumphs of the west! + Lo thee in dew-drop's tiny breast! + Thee on the vast white cloud that floats away, + Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray! + Gold-regent, thou dost spendthrift throw + Thy hoardless wealth of gleam and glow! + The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers + Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; + The jewelled ores in mines that hidden be, + Are dead till touched by thee. + + Everywhere, + Thou art lancing through the air! + Every atom from another + Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; + Continually, + Thou art wetting the wet sea, + Bathing its sluggish woods below, + Making the salt flowers bud and blow; + Silently, + Workest thou, and ardently, + Waking from the night of nought + Into being and to thought; + + Influences + Every beam of thine dispenses, + Potent, subtle, reaching far, + Shooting different from each star. + Not an iron rod can lie + In circle of thy beamy eye, + But its look doth change it so + That it cannot choose but show + Thou, the worker, hast been there; + Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, + Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark + Even in what men call the dark. + Ever doing, ever showing, + Thou dost set our hearts a glowing-- + Universal something sent + To shadow forth the Excellent! + + When the firstborn affections-- + Those winged seekers of the world within, + That search about in all directions, + Some bright thing for themselves to win-- + Through pathless woods, through home-bred fogs, + Through stony plains, through treacherous bogs, + Long, long, have followed faces fair, + Fair soul-less faces, vanished into air, + And darkness is around them and above, + Desolate of aught to love, + And through the gloom on every side, + Strange dismal forms are dim descried, + And the air is as the breath + From the lips of void-eyed Death, + And the knees are bowed in prayer + To the Stronger than despair-- + Then the ever-lifted cry, + _Give us light, or we shall die_, + Cometh to the Father's ears, + And he hearkens, and he hears:-- + + As some slow sun would glimmer forth + From sunless winter of the north, + We, hardly trusting hopeful eyes, + Discern and doubt the opening skies. + From a misty gray that lies on + Our dim future's far horizon, + It grows a fresh aurora, sent + Up the spirit's firmament, + Telling, through the vapours dun, + Of the coming, coming sun! + Tis Truth awaking in the soul! + His Righteousness to make us whole! + And what shall we, this Truth receiving, + Though with but a faint believing, + Call it but eternal Light? + 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night! + + All things most excellent + Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! + Yea, he who from the Father forth was sent, + Came like a lamp, to bring, + Across the winds and wastes of night, + The everlasting light. + Hail, Word of God, the telling of his thought! + Hail, Light of God, the making-visible! + Hail, far-transcending glory brought + In human form with man to dwell-- + Thy dazzling gone; thy power not less + To show, irradiate, and bless; + The gathering of the primal rays divine + Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine! + + Dull horrid pools no motion making! + No bubble on the surface breaking! + The dead air lies, without a sound, + Heavy and moveless on the marshy ground. + + Rushing winds and snow-like drift, + Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift! + Hair-like vapours madly riven! + Waters smitten into dust! + Lightning through the turmoil driven, + Aimless, useless, yet it must! + + Gentle winds through forests calling! + Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing! + Solemn waves on sea-shores falling! + White sails on blue waters dancing! + Mountain streams glad music giving! + Children in the clear pool laving! + Yellow corn and green grass waving! + Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living! + Light, O radiant, it is thou! + Light!--we know our Father now! + + Forming ever without form; + Showing, but thyself unseen; + Pouring stillness on the storm; + Breathing life where death had been! + If thy light thou didst draw in, + Death and Chaos soon were out, + Weltering o'er the slimy sea, + Riding on the whirlwind's rout, + In wild unmaking energy! + God, be round us and within, + Fighting darkness, slaying sin. + + Father of Lights, high-lost, unspeakable, + On whom no changing shadow ever fell! + Thy light we know not, are content to see; + Thee we know not, and are content to be!-- + Nay, nay! until we know thee, not content are we! + But, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, + Shall we imagine darkness in thy breast? + Our hearts awake and witness loud for thee! + The very shadows on our souls that lie, + Good witness to the light supernal bear; + The something 'twixt us and the sky + Could cast no shadow if light were not there! + If children tremble in the night, + It is because their God is light! + The shining of the common day + Is mystery still, howe'er it ebb and flow-- + Behind the seeing orb, the secret lies: + Thy living light's eternal play, + Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know?-- + Behind the life itself, its fountains rise! + In thee, the Light, the darkness hath no place; + And we _have_ seen thee in the Saviour's face. + + Enlighten me, O Light!--why art thou such? + Why art thou awful to our eyes, and sweet? + Cherished as love, and slaying with a touch? + Why in thee do the known and unknown meet? + Why swift and tender, strong and delicate? + Simple as truth, yet manifold in might? + Why does one love thee, and another hate? + Why cleave my words to the portals of my speech + When I a goodly matter would indite? + Why mounts my thought of thee beyond my reach? + --In vain to follow thee, I thee beseech, + For God is light. + + + + + +_TO A. J. SCOTT_. + + + When, long ago, the daring of my youth + Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing, + Thou didst receive me; and thy sky of truth + + Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, + Made homely by the tenderness and grace + Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling + + A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face + From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, + Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case. + + I see thee far before me on thy way + Up the great peaks, and striding stronger still; + Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway, + + Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; + Thy wisdom, seer and priest of holy fate, + Searching all truths its prophecy to fill; + + But this my joy: throned in thy heart so great, + High Love is queen, and sits without a mate. + + +_May_, 1857. + + + + +_I WOULD I WERE A CHILD_. + + + I would I were a child, + That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! + And follow thee with running feet, or rather + Be led through dark and wild! + + How I would hold thy hand, + My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting! + Should darkness 'twixt thy face and mine come drifting, + My heart would but expand. + + If an ill thing came near, + I would but creep within thy mantle's folding, + Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, + And soon forget my fear. + + O soul, O soul, rejoice! + Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning; + A poor weak child, yet his, and worth the winning + With saviour eyes and voice. + + Who spake the words? Didst Thou? + They are too good, even for such a giver: + Such water drinking once, I should feel ever + As I had drunk but now. + + Yet sure the Word said so, + Teaching our lips to cry with his, Our Father! + Telling the tale of him who once did gather + His goods to him, and go! + + Ah, thou dost lead me, God! + But it is dark and starless, the way dreary; + Almost I sleep, I am so very weary + Upon this rough hill-road. + + _Almost_! Nay, I _do_ sleep; + There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; + Thy fatherhood above, around, is beaming; + Thy hand my hand doth keep. + + With sighs my soul doth teem; + I have no knowledge but that I am sleeping; + Haunted with lies, my life will fail in weeping; + Wake me from this my dream. + + How long shall heavy night + Deny the day? How long shall this dull sorrow + Say in my heart that never any morrow + Will bring the friendly light? + + Lord, art thou in the room? + Come near my bed; oh, draw aside the curtain! + A child's heart would say _Father_, were it certain + That it would not presume. + + But if this dreary sleep + May not be broken, help thy helpless sleeper + To rest in thee; so shall his sleep grow deeper-- + For evil dreams too deep. + + _Father_! I dare at length; + My childhood sure will hold me free from blaming: + Sinful yet hoping, I to thee come, claiming + Thy tenderness, my strength. + + + + + +_A PRAYER FOR THE PAST_. + + + _All sights and sounds of day and year, + All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, + Are thine, O God, nor will I fear + To talk to thee of them_. + + Too great thy heart is to despise, + Whose day girds centuries about; + From things which we name small, thine eyes + See great things looking out. + + Therefore the prayerful song I sing + May come to thee in ordered words: + Though lowly born, it needs not cling + In terror to its chords. + + I think that nothing made is lost; + That not a moon has ever shone, + That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed + But to my soul is gone. + + That all the lost years garnered lie + In this thy casket, my dim soul; + And thou wilt, once, the key apply, + And show the shining whole. + + _But were they dead in me, they live + In thee, whose Parable is--Time, + And Worlds, and Forms--all things that give + Me thoughts, and this my rime_. + + _And after what men call my death, + When I have crossed the unknown sea, + Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath, + Shall rise this prayer to thee_. + + Oh let me be a child once more, + And dream fine glories in the gloom, + Of sun and moon and stars in store + To ceil my humble room. + + Oh call again the moons that crossed + Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept; + Show me the solemn skies I lost + Because in thee I slept. + + Once more let gathering glory swell, + And lift the world's dim eastern eye; + Once more let lengthening shadows tell + Its time is come to die. + + But show me first--oh, blessed sight! + The lowly house where I was young; + There winter sent wild winds at night, + And up the snow-heaps flung; + + Or soundless brought a chaos fair, + Full, formless, of fantastic forms, + White ghostly trees in sparkling air-- + Chamber for slumbering storms. + + There sudden dawned a dewy morn; + A man was turning up the mould; + And in our hearts the spring was born, + Crept thither through the cold. + + _And Spring, in after years of youth, + Became the form of every form + For hearts now bursting into truth, + Now sighing in the storm_. + + On with the glad year let me go, + With troops of daisies round my feet; + Flying my kite, or, in the glow + Of arching summer heat, + + Outstretched in fear upon a bank, + Lest, gazing up on awful space, + I should fall down into the blank, + From off the round world's face. + + And let my brothers come with me + To play our old games yet again, + Children on earth, more full of glee + That we in heaven are men. + + If then should come the shadowy death, + Take one of us and go, + We left would say, under our breath, + "It is a dream, you know!" + + "And in the dream our brother's gone + Upstairs: he heard our father call; + For one by one we go alone, + Till he has gathered all." + + _Father, in joy our knees we bow: + This earth is not a place of tombs: + We are but in the nursery now; + They in the upper rooms_. + + For are we not at home in thee, + And all this world a visioned show; + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know? + + _And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, + As once of old, in moonlight pale, + I at my father's sat, and heard + Him read a lofty tale_. + + On with my history let me go, + And reap again the gliding years, + Gather great noontide's joyous glow, + Eve's love-contented tears; + + One afternoon sit pondering + In that old chair, in that old room, + Where passing pigeon's sudden wing + Flashed lightning through the gloom; + + There try once more, with effort vain, + To mould in one perplexed things; + There find the solace yet again + Hope in the Father brings; + + Or mount and ride in sun and wind, + Through desert moors, hills bleak and high, + Where wandering vapours fall, and find + In me another sky! + + _For so thy Visible grew mine, + Though half its power I could not know; + And in me wrought a work divine, + Which thou hadst ordered so_; + + Giving me cups that would not spill, + But water carry and yield again; + New bottles with new wine to fill + For comfort of thy men. + + But if thou thus restore the past + One hour, for me to wander in, + I now bethink me at the last-- + O Lord, leave out the sin. + + _And with the thought comes doubt, my God: + Shall I the whole desire to see, + And walk once more, of that hill-road + By which I went to thee_? + + + + +A PRAYER FOR THE PAST. + + + _Now far from my old northern land, + I live where gentle winters pass; + Where green seas lave a wealthy strand, + And unsown is the grass_; + + Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope + Of gazing heaven to spread their show, + Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope, + With fringes flaming low; + + With one beside me in whose eyes + Once more old Nature finds a home; + There treasures up her changeful skies, + Her phosphorescent foam. + + O'er a new joy this day we bend, + Soft power from heaven our souls to lift; + A wondering wonder thou dost lend + With loan outpassing gift-- + + A little child. She sees the sun-- + Once more incarnates thy old law: + One born of two, two born in one, + Shall into one three draw. + + But is there no day creeping on + Which I should tremble to renew? + I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone-- + Thine is the future too! + + _And are we not at home in Thee, + And all this world a visioned show, + That, knowing what Abroad is, we + What Home is too may know_? + + + + +_LONGING_. + + + My heart is full of inarticulate pain, + And beats laborious. Cold ungenial looks + Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, + Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, + No nigher come, I pray: your air is drear; + 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear. + + Beloved, who love beauty and fair truth, + Come nearer me; too near ye cannot come; + Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; + Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; + Speak not a word, for, see, my spirit lies + Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes. + + O all wide places, far from feverous towns; + Great shining seas; pine forests; mountains wild; + Rock-bosomed shores; rough heaths, and sheep-cropt downs; + Vast pallid clouds; blue spaces undefiled-- + Room! give me room! give loneliness and air-- + Free things and plenteous in your regions fair! + + White dove of David, flying overhead, + Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, + Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts are fled + To find a home afar from men of things; + Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, + God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply. + + O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces, + O God of freedom and of joyous hearts, + When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, + There will be room enough in crowded marts! + Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er, + Thy universe my closet with shut door. + + Heart, heart, awake! The love that loveth all + Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. + God in thee, can his children's folly gall? + Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?-- + Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; + Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm! + + + + +_I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS_. + + + I know what beauty is, for thou + Hast set the world within my heart; + Of me thou madest it a part; + I never loved it more than now. + + I know the Sabbath afternoons; + The light asleep upon the graves: + Against the sky the poplar waves; + The river murmurs organ tunes. + + I know the spring with bud and bell; + The hush in summer woods at night; + Autumn, when trees let in more light; + Fantastic winter's lovely spell. + + I know the rapture music gives, + Its mystery of ordered tones: + Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans, + And, half-alive, comes in and lives. + + And verse I know, whose concord high + Of thought and music lifts the soul + Where many a glimmering starry shoal + Glides through the Godhead's living sky. + + Yea, Beauty's regnant All I know-- + The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes; + The God-imprisoned harmonies + That out in gracious motions go. + + But I leave all, O Son of man, + Put off my shoes, and come to thee! + Most lovely thou of all I see, + Most potent thou of all that can! + + As child forsakes his favourite toy, + His sisters' sport, his new-found nest, + And, climbing to his mother's breast, + Enjoys yet more his late-left joy-- + + I lose to find. On fair-browed bride + Fair pearls their fairest light afford; + So, gathered round thy glory, Lord, + All glory else is glorified. + + + + + +_SYMPATHY_. + + + Grief held me silent in my seat; + I neither moved nor smiled: + Joy held her silent at my feet, + My shining lily-child. + + She raised her face and looked in mine; + She deemed herself denied; + The door was shut, there was no shine; + Poor she was left outside! + + Once, twice, three times, with infant grace + Her lips my name did mould; + Her face was pulling at my face-- + She was but ten months old. + + I saw; the sight rebuked my sighs; + It made me think--Does God + Need help from his poor children's eyes + To ease him of his load? + + Ah, if he did, how seldom then + The Father would be glad! + If comfort lay in the eyes of men, + He little comfort had! + + We cry to him in evil case, + When comfort sore we lack; + And when we troubled seek his face, + Consoled he sends us back; + + Nor waits for prayer to rise and climb-- + He wakes the sleeping prayer; + He is our father all the time, + And servant everywhere. + + I looked not up; foreboding hid + Kept down my heart the while; + 'Twas he looked up; my Father did + Smile in my infant's smile. + + + + + +_THE THANK-OFFERING_. + + My Lily snatches not my gift; + Glad is she to be fed, + But to her mouth she will not lift + The piece of broken bread, + Till on my lips, unerring, swift, + The morsel she has laid. + + This is her grace before her food, + This her libation poured; + Even thus his offering, Aaron good + Heaved up to thank the Lord, + When for the people all he stood, + And with a cake adored. + + So, Father, every gift of thine + I offer at thy knee; + Else take I not the love divine + With which it comes to me; + Not else the offered grace is mine + Of sharing life with thee. + + Yea, all my being I would bring, + Yielding it utterly, + Not yet a full-possessed thing + Till heaved again to thee: + Away, my self! away, and cling + To him that makes thee be! + + + + + +_PRAYER_. + + We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, + And ye shall have your prayer; + We turn our thoughts as to a task, + With will constrained and rare. + + And yet we have; these scanty prayers + Yield gold without alloy: + O God, but he that trusts and dares + Must have a boundless joy! + + + + + +_REST_. + +I. + + When round the earth the Father's hands + Have gently drawn the dark; + Sent off the sun to fresher lands, + And curtained in the lark; + 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, + To fade with fading light, + And lie once more, the old weary way, + Upfolded in the night. + + If mothers o'er our slumbers bend, + And unripe kisses reap, + In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, + Till even in dreams we sleep. + And if we wake while night is dumb, + 'Tis sweet to turn and say, + It is an hour ere dawning come, + And I will sleep till day. + + +II. + + There is a dearer, warmer bed, + Where one all day may lie, + Earth's bosom pillowing the head, + And let the world go by. + There come no watching mother's eyes, + The stars instead look down; + Upon it breaks, and silent dies, + The murmur of the town. + + The great world, shouting, forward fares: + This chamber, hid from none, + Hides safe from all, for no one cares + For him whose work is done. + Cheer thee, my friend; bethink thee how + A certain unknown place, + Or here or there, is waiting now, + To rest thee from thy race. + + +III. + + Nay, nay, not there the rest from harms, + The still composed breath! + Not there the folding of the arms, + The cool, the blessed death! + _That_ needs no curtained bed to hide + The world with all its wars, + No grassy cover to divide + From sun and moon and stars. + + It is a rest that deeper grows + In midst of pain and strife; + A mighty, conscious, willed repose, + The death of deepest life. + To have and hold the precious prize + No need of jealous bars; + But windows open to the skies, + And skill to read the stars! + + +IV. + + Who dwelleth in that secret place, + Where tumult enters not, + Is never cold with terror base, + Never with anger hot. + For if an evil host should dare + His very heart invest, + God is his deeper heart, and there + He enters in to rest. + + When mighty sea-winds madly blow, + And tear the scattered waves, + Peaceful as summer woods, below + Lie darkling ocean caves: + The wind of words may toss my heart, + But what is that to me! + Tis but a surface storm--thou art + My deep, still, resting sea. + + + + + +_O DO NOT LEAVE ME_. + + O do not leave me, mother, lest I weep; + Till I forget, be near me in that chair. + The mother's presence leads her down to sleep-- + Leaves her contented there. + + O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, + Till I am dead, and resting in my place. + Love-compassed thus, the girl in peace ascends, + And leaves a raptured face. + + Leave me not, God, until--nay, until when? + Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; + Not till the Life is Light in me, and then + Leaving is left behind. + + + + + +_BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH_. + + A quiet heart, submissive, meek, + Father, do thou bestow, + Which more than granted, will not seek + To have, or give, or know. + + Each little hill then holds its gift + Forth to my joying eyes; + Each mighty mountain then doth lift + My spirit to the skies. + + Lo, then the running water sounds + With gladsome, secret things! + The silent water more abounds, + And more the hidden springs. + + Live murmurs then the trees will blend + With all the feathered song; + The waving grass low tribute lend + Earth's music to prolong. + + The sun will cast great crowns of light + On waves that anthems roar; + The dusky billows break at night + In flashes on the shore. + + Each harebell, each white lily's cup, + The hum of hidden bee, + Yea, every odour floating up, + The insect revelry-- + + Each hue, each harmony divine + The holy world about, + Its soul will send forth into mine, + My soul to widen out. + + And thus the great earth I shall hold, + A perfect gift of thine; + Richer by these, a thousandfold, + Than if broad lands were mine. + + + + + +_HYMN FOR A SICK GIRL_. + + Father, in the dark I lay, + Thirsting for the light, + Helpless, but for hope alway + In thy father-might. + + Out of darkness came the morn, + Out of death came life, + I, and faith, and hope, new-born, + Out of moaning strife! + + So, one morning yet more fair, + I shall, joyous-brave, + Sudden breathing loftier air, + Triumph o'er the grave. + + Though this feeble body lie + Underneath the ground, + Wide awake, not sleeping, I + Shall in him be found. + + But a morn yet fairer must + Quell this inner gloom-- + Resurrection from the dust + Of a deeper tomb! + + Father, wake thy little child; + Give me bread and wine + Till my spirit undefiled + Rise and live in thine. + + + + +_WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN_. + + Shepherd, on before thy sheep, + Hear thy lamb that bleats behind! + Scarce the track I stumbling keep! + Through my thin fleece blows the wind! + + Turn and see me, Son of Man! + Turn and lift thy Father's child; + Scarce I walk where once I ran: + Carry me--the wind is wild! + + Thou art strong--thy strength wilt share; + My poor weight thou wilt not feel; + Weakness made thee strong to bear, + Suffering made thee strong to heal! + + I were still a wandering sheep + But for thee, O Shepherd-man! + Following now, I faint, I weep, + Yet I follow as I can! + + Shepherd, if I fall and lie + Moaning in the frosty wind, + Yet, I know, I shall not die-- + Thou wilt miss me--and wilt find! + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862_, + + THE YEAR OF THE TROUBLE IN LANCASHIRE. + + The skies are pale, the trees are stiff, + The earth is dull and old; + The frost is glittering as if + The very sun were cold. + And hunger fell is joined with frost, + To make men thin and wan: + Come, babe, from heaven, or we are lost; + Be born, O child of man. + + The children cry, the women shake, + The strong men stare about; + They sleep when they should be awake, + They wake ere night is out. + For they have lost their heritage-- + No sweat is on their brow: + Come, babe, and bring them work and wage; + Be born, and save us now. + + Across the sea, beyond our sight, + Roars on the fierce debate; + The men go down in bloody fight, + The women weep and hate; + And in the right be which that may, + Surely the strife is long! + Come, son of man, thy righteous way, + And right will have no wrong. + + Good men speak lies against thine own-- + Tongue quick, and hearing slow; + They will not let thee walk alone, + And think to serve thee so: + If they the children's freedom saw + In thee, the children's king, + They would be still with holy awe, + Or only speak to sing. + + Some neither lie nor starve nor fight, + Nor yet the poor deny; + But in their hearts all is not right,-- + They often sit and sigh. + We need thee every day and hour, + In sunshine and in snow: + Child-king, we pray with all our power-- + Be born, and save us so. + + We are but men and women, Lord; + Thou art a gracious child! + O fill our hearts, and heap our board, + Pray thee--the winter's wild! + The sky is sad, the trees are bare, + Hunger and hate about: + Come, child, and ill deeds and ill fare + Will soon be driven out. + + + + +_A CHRISTMAS CAROL_. + + Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap, + The sun shone in his hair; + And this was how she saw, mayhap, + The crown already there. + + For she sang: "Sleep on, my little king; + Bad Herod dares not come; + Before thee sleeping, holy thing, + The wild winds would be dumb." + + "I kiss thy hands, I kiss thy feet, + My child, so long desired; + Thy hands will never be soiled, my sweet; + Thy feet will never be tired." + + "For thou art the king of men, my son; + Thy crown I see it plain! + And men shall worship thee, every one, + And cry, Glory! Amen!" + + Babe Jesus he opened his eyes wide-- + At Mary looked her lord. + Mother Mary stinted her song and sighed; + Babe Jesus said never a word. + + + + + +_THE SLEEPLESS JESUS_. + + 'Tis time to sleep, my little boy: + Why gaze thy bright eyes so? + At night our children, for new joy + Home to thy father go, + But thou art wakeful! Sleep, my child; + The moon and stars are gone; + The wind is up and raving wild, + But thou art smiling on! + + My child, thou hast immortal eyes + That see by their own light; + They see the children's blood--it lies + Red-glowing through the night! + Thou hast an ever-open ear + For sob or cry or moan: + Thou seemest not to see or hear, + Thou only smilest on! + + When first thou camest to the earth, + All sounds of strife were still; + A silence lay about thy birth, + And thou didst sleep thy fill: + Thou wakest now--why weep'st thou not? + Thy earth is woe-begone; + Both babes and mothers wail their lot, + But still thou smilest on! + + I read thy face like holy book; + No hurt is pictured there; + Deep in thine eyes I see the look + Of one who answers prayer. + Beyond pale grief and wild uproars, + Thou seest God's will well done; + Low prayers, through chambers' closed doors, + Thou hear'st--and smilest on. + + Men say: "I will arise and go;" + God says: "I will go meet:" + Thou seest them gather, weeping low, + About the Father's feet; + And each for each begin to bear, + And standing lonely none: + Answered, O eyes, ye see all prayer! + Smile, Son of God, smile on. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1873_. + + Christmas-Days are still in store:-- + Will they change--steal faded hither? + Or come fresh as heretofore, + Summering all our winter weather? + + Surely they will keep their bloom + All the countless pacing ages: + In the country whence they come + Children only are the sages! + + Hither, every hour and year, + Children come to cure our oldness-- + Oft, alas, to gather sear + Unbelief, and earthy boldness! + + Men they grow and women cold, + Selfish, passionate, and plaining! + Ever faster they grow old:-- + On the world, ah, eld is gaining! + + Child, whose childhood ne'er departs! + Jesus, with the perfect father! + Drive the age from parents' hearts; + To thy heart the children gather. + + Send thy birth into our souls, + With its grand and tender story. + Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!-- + News to men! to God old glory! + + + + +_CHRISTMAS, 1884_. + + Though in my heart no Christmas glee, + Though my song-bird be dumb, + Jesus, it is enough for me + That thou art come. + + What though the loved be scattered far, + Few at the board appear, + In thee, O Lord, they gathered are, + And thou art here. + + And if our hearts be low with lack, + They are not therefore numb; + Not always will thy day come back-- + Thyself will come! + + + + +_AN OLD STORY_. + +I. + + In the ancient house of ages, + See, they cannot rest! + With a hope, which awe assuages, + Tremble all the blest. + For the son and heir eternal, + To be son yet more, + Leaves his stately chair supernal + For the earth's low floor; + + Leaves the room so high and old, + Leaves the all-world hearth, + Seeks the out-air, frosty-cold, + Of the twilight earth-- + To be throned in newer glory + In a mother's lap, + Gather up our broken story, + And right every hap. + + +II. + + There Earth's foster-baby lies, + Sleep-dimmed all his graces, + 'Neath four stars of parents' eyes, + And two heavens of faces! + See! the cow and ass, dumb-staring, + Feel the skirts of good + Fold them in dull-blessed sharing + Of infinitude. + + Make a little room betwixt you, + Pray you, Ass and Cow! + Sure we shall, if I kneel next you, + Know each other now! + To the pit-fallen comes salvation-- + Love is never loath! + Here we are, thy whole creation, + Waiting, Lord, thy growth! + + +III. + + On the slopes of Bethlehem, + Round their resting sheep, + Shepherds sat, and went and came, + Guarding holy sleep; + But the silent, high dome-spaces, + Airy galleries, + Thronged they were with watching faces, + Thronged with open eyes. + + Far across the desert floor, + Come, slow-drawing nigher, + Sages deep in starry lore, + Priests of burning Fire. + In the sky they read his story, + And, through starlight cool, + They come riding to the Glory, + To the Wonderful. + + +IV. + + Babe and mother, coming Mage, + Shepherd, ass, and cow! + Angels watching the new age, + Time's intensest Now! + Heaven down-brooding, Earth upstraining, + Far ends closing in! + Sure the eternal tide is gaining + On the strand of sin! + + See! but see! Heaven's chapel-master + Signs with lifted hand; + Winds divine blow fast and faster, + Swelling bosoms grand. + Hark the torrent-joy let slip! + Hark the great throats ring! + Glory! Peace! Good-fellowship! + And a Child for king! + + + + + +_A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS_. + + Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging + Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death! + Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing! + Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith! + + Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining-- + Moaning, and murmuring, "Life is bare!" + Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining, + Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer! + + Toll for the burying, sexton tolling! + Sing for the second birth, angel Lark! + Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling! + Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark! + + +II. + + Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow; + I will give freedom to mine in song! + Haunt thou the tomb, and deny the morrow; + I will go watch in the dawning long! + + For I shall see them, and know their faces-- + Tenderer, sweeter, and shining more; + Clasp the old self in the new embraces; + Gaze through their eyes' wide open door. + + Loved ones, I come to you: see my sadness; + I am ashamed--but you pardon wrong! + Smile the old smile, and my soul's new gladness + Straight will arise in sorrow and song! + + + + + +_TO MY AGING FRIENDS_. + + It is no winter night comes down + Upon our hearts, dear friends of old; + But a May evening, softly brown, + Whose wind is rather cold. + + We are not, like yon sad-eyed West, + Phantoms that brood o'er Time's dust-hoard, + We are like yon Moon--in mourning drest, + But gazing on her lord. + + Come nearer to the hearth, sweet friends, + Draw nigher, closer, hand and chair; + Ours is a love that never ends, + For God is dearest there! + + We will not talk about the past, + We will not ponder ancient pain; + Those are but deep foundations cast + For peaks of soaring gain! + + We, waiting Dead, will warm our bones + At our poor smouldering earthly fire; + And talk of wide-eyed living ones + Who have what we desire. + + O Living, ye know what is death-- + We, by and by, shall know it too! + Humble, with bated, hoping breath, + We are coming fast to you! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS SONG OF THE OLD CHILDREN_. + + Well for youth to seek the strong, + Beautiful, and brave! + We, the old, who walk along + Gently to the grave, + Only pay our court to thee, + Child of all Eternity! + + We are old who once were young, + And we grow more old; + Songs we are that have been sung, + Tales that have been told; + Yellow leaves, wind-blown to thee, + Childhood of Eternity! + + If we come too sudden near, + Lo, Earth's infant cries, + For our faces wan and drear + Have such withered eyes! + Thou, Heaven's child, turn'st not away + From the wrinkled ones who pray! + + Smile upon us with thy mouth + And thine eyes of grace; + On our cold north breathe thy south. + Thaw the frozen face: + Childhood all from thee doth flow-- + Melt to song our age's snow. + + Gray-haired children come in crowds, + Thee, their Hope, to greet: + Is it swaddling clothes or shrouds + Hampering so our feet? + Eldest child, the shadows gloom: + Take the aged children home. + + We have had enough of play, + And the wood grows drear; + Many who at break of day + Companied us here-- + They have vanished out of sight, + Gone and met the coming light! + + Fair is this out-world of thine, + But its nights are cold; + And the sun that makes it fine + Makes us soon so old! + Long its shadows grow and dim-- + Father, take us back with him! + + +1891. + + + + +_CHRISTMAS MEDITATION_. + + He who by a mother's love + Made the wandering world his own, + Every year comes from above, + Comes the parted to atone, + Binding Earth to the Father's throne. + + Nay, thou comest every day! + No, thou never didst depart! + Never hour hast been away! + Always with us, Lord, thou art, + Binding, binding heart to heart! + + + + + +_THE OLD CASTLE_. + + The brother knew well the castle old, + Every closet, each outlook fair, + Every turret and bartizan bold, + Every chamber, garnished or bare. + The brother was out in the heavenly air; + Little ones lost the starry way, + Wandered down the dungeon stair. + The brother missed them, and on the clay + Of the dungeon-floor he found them all. + Up they jumped when they heard him call! + He led the little ones into the day-- + Out and up to the sunshine gay, + Up to the father's own door-sill-- + In at the father's own room door, + There to be merry and work and play, + There to come and go at their will, + Good boys and girls to be lost no more! + + + + + +CHRISTMAS PRAYER. + + Cold my heart, and poor, and low, + Like thy stable in the rock; + Do not let it orphan go, + It is of thy parent stock! + Come thou in, and it will grow + High and wide, a fane divine; + Like the ruby it will glow, + Like the diamond shine! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE INNOCENTS_. + + Merry, merry we well may be, + For Jesus Christ is come down to see: + Long before, at the top of the stair, + He set our angels a waiting there, + Waiting hither and thither to fly, + Tending the children of the sky, + Lest they dash little feet against big stones, + And tumble down and break little bones; + For the path is rough, and we must not roam; + We have learned to walk, and must follow him home! + + + + + +_CHRISTMAS DAY AND EVERY DAY_. + + Star high, + Baby low: + 'Twixt the two + Wise men go; + Find the baby, + Grasp the star-- + Heirs of all things + Near and far! + + + + + +THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN. + + The infant lies in blessed ease + Upon his mother's breast; + No storm, no dark, the baby sees + Invade his heaven of rest. + He nothing knows of change or death-- + Her face his holy skies; + The air he breathes, his mother's breath; + His stars, his mother's eyes! + + Yet half the soft winds wandering there + Are sighs that come of fears; + The dew slow falling through that air-- + It is the dew of tears; + And ah, my child, thy heavenly home + Hath storms as well as dew; + Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome, + And quench the starry blue! + + "My smile would win no smile again, + If baby saw the things + That ache across his mother's brain + The while to him she sings! + Thy faith in me is faith in vain-- + I am not what I seem: + O dreary day, O cruel pain, + That wakes thee from thy dream!" + + Nay, pity not his dreams so fair, + Fear thou no waking grief; + Oh, safer he than though thou were + Good as his vague belief! + There is a heaven that heaven above + Whereon he gazes now; + A truer love than in thy kiss; + A better friend than thou! + + The Father's arms fold like a nest + Both thee and him about; + His face looks down, a heaven of rest, + Where comes no dark, no doubt. + Its mists are clouds of stars that move + On, on, with progress rife; + Its winds, the goings of his love; + Its dew, the dew of life. + + We for our children seek thy heart, + For them we lift our eyes: + Lord, should their faith in us depart, + Let faith in thee arise. + When childhood's visions them forsake, + To women grown and men, + Back to thy heart their hearts oh take, + And bid them dream again. + + + + + +_REJOICE_. + + "Rejoice," said the Sun; "I will make thee gay + With glory and gladness and holiday; + I am dumb, O man, and I need thy voice!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice in thyself," said he, "O Sun, + For thy daily course is a lordly one; + In thy lofty place rejoice if thou can: + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Wind; "I am free and strong, + And will wake in thy heart an ancient song; + Hear the roaring woods, my organ noise!" + But man would not rejoice. + + "Rejoice, O Wind, in thy strength," said he, + "For thou fulfillest thy destiny; + Shake the forest, the faint flowers fan; + For me, I am only a man." + + "Rejoice," said the Night, "with moon and star, + For the Sun and the Wind are gone afar; + I am here with rest and dreaming choice!" + But man would not rejoice; + + For he said--"What is rest to me, I pray, + Whose labour leads to no gladsome day? + He only can dream who has hope behind: + Alas for me and my kind!" + + Then a voice that came not from moon or star, + From the sun, or the wind that roved afar, + Said, "Man, I am with thee--hear my voice!" + And man said, "I rejoice." + + + + + +_THE GRACE OF GRACE_. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of some old man in lore complete, + My face would worship at his face, + And I sit lowly at his feet. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of childhood, loving shy, apart, + The child should find a nearer place, + And teach me resting on my heart. + + Had I the grace to win the grace + Of maiden living all above, + My soul would trample down the base, + That she might have a man to love. + + A grace I had no grace to win + Knocks now at my half open door: + Ah, Lord of glory, come thou in!-- + Thy grace divine is all, and more. + + + + +_ANTIPHON_. + + Daylight fades away. + Is the Lord at hand + In the shadows gray + Stealing on the land? + + Gently from the east + Come the shadows gray; + But our lowly priest + Nearer is than they. + + It is darkness quite. + Is the Lord at hand, + In the cloak of night + Stolen upon the land? + + But I see no night, + For my Lord is here + With him dark is light, + With him far is near. + + List! the cock's awake. + Is the Lord at hand? + Cometh he to make + Light in all the land? + + Long ago he made + Morning in my heart; + Long ago he bade + Shadowy things depart. + + Lo, the dawning hill! + Is the Lord at hand, + Come to scatter ill, + Ruling in the land? + + He hath scattered ill, + Ruling in my mind; + Growing to his will, + Freedom comes, I find. + + We will watch all day, + Lest the Lord should come; + All night waking stay + In the darkness dumb. + + I will work all day, + For the Lord hath come; + Down my head will lay + All night, glad and dumb. + + For we know not when + Christ may be at hand; + But we know that then + Joy is in the land. + + For I know that where + Christ hath come again, + Quietness without care + Dwelleth in his men. + + + + + +_DORCAS_. + + If I might guess, then guess I would + That, mid the gathered folk, + This gentle Dorcas one day stood, + And heard when Jesus spoke. + + She saw the woven seamless coat-- + Half envious, for his sake: + "Oh, happy hands," she said, "that wrought + The honoured thing to make!" + + Her eyes with longing tears grow dim: + She never can come nigh + To work one service poor for him + For whom she glad would die! + + But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word! + And she has heard indeed! + "When did we see thee naked, Lord, + And clothed thee in thy need?" + + "The King shall answer, Inasmuch + As to my brethren ye + Did it--even to the least of such-- + Ye did it unto me." + + Home, home she went, and plied the loom, + And Jesus' poor arrayed. + She died--they wept about the room, + And showed the coats she made. + + + + + +_MARRIAGE SONG_. + + "They have no more wine!" she said. + But they had enough of bread; + And the vessels by the door + Held for thirst a plenteous store: + Yes, _enough_; but Love divine + Turned the water into wine! + + When should wine like water flow, + But when home two glad hearts go! + When, in sacred bondage bound, + Soul in soul hath freedom found! + Such the time when, holy sign, + Jesus turned the water wine. + + Good is all the feasting then; + Good the merry words of men; + Good the laughter and the smiles; + Good the wine that grief beguiles;-- + Crowning good, the Word divine + Turning water into wine! + + Friends, the Master with you dwell! + Daily work this miracle! + When fair things too common grow, + Bring again their heavenly show! + Ever at your table dine, + Turning water into wine! + + So at last you shall descry + All the patterns of the sky: + Earth a heaven of short abode; + Houses temples unto God; + Water-pots, to vision fine, + Brimming full of heavenly wine. + + + + + +_BLIND BARTIMEUS_. + + As Jesus went into Jericho town, + Twas darkness all, from toe to crown, + About blind Bartimeus. + He said, "My eyes are more than dim, + They are no use for seeing him: + No matter--he can see us!" + + "Cry out, cry out, blind brother--cry; + Let not salvation dear go by.-- + Have mercy, Son of David." + Though they were blind, they both could hear-- + They heard, and cried, and he drew near; + And so the blind were saved. + + O Jesus Christ, I am very blind; + Nothing comes through into my mind; + 'Tis well I am not dumb: + Although I see thee not, nor hear, + I cry because thou may'st be near: + O son of Mary, come! + + I hear it through the all things blind: + Is it thy voice, so gentle and kind-- + "Poor eyes, no more be dim"? + A hand is laid upon mine eyes; + I hear, and hearken, see, and rise;-- + 'Tis He! I follow him! + + + + + +_COME UNTO ME_. + + Come unto me, the Master says:-- + But how? I am not good; + No thankful song my heart will raise, + Nor even wish it could. + + I am not sorry for the past, + Nor able not to sin; + The weary strife would ever last + If once I should begin! + + Hast thou no burden then to bear? + No action to repent? + Is all around so very fair? + Is thy heart quite content? + + Hast thou no sickness in thy soul? + No labour to endure? + Then go in peace, for thou art whole; + Thou needest not his cure. + + Ah, mock me not! I often sigh; + I have a nameless grief, + A faint sad pain--but such that I + Can look for no relief. + + Come, come to him who made thy heart; + Come weary and oppressed; + To come to Jesus is thy part, + His part to give thee rest. + + New grief, new hope he will bestow, + Thy grief and pain to quell; + Into thy heart himself will go, + And that will make thee well. + + + + + +_MORNING HYMN_. + + O Lord of life, thy quickening voice + Awakes my morning song! + In gladsome words I would rejoice + That I to thee belong. + + I see thy light, I feel thy wind; + The world, it is thy word; + Whatever wakes my heart and mind, + Thy presence is, my Lord. + + The living soul which I call me + Doth love, and long to know; + It is a thought of living thee, + Nor forth of thee can go. + + Therefore I choose my highest part, + And turn my face to thee; + Therefore I stir my inmost heart + To worship fervently. + + Lord, let me live and will this day-- + Keep rising from the dead; + Lord, make my spirit good and gay-- + Give me my daily bread. + + Within my heart, speak, Lord, speak on, + My heart alive to keep, + Till comes the night, and, labour done, + In thee I fall asleep. + + + + + +_NOONTIDE HYMN_. + + I love thy skies, thy sunny mists, + Thy fields, thy mountains hoar, + Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-- + Thy will, I love it more. + + I love thy hidden truth to seek + All round, in sea, on shore; + The arts whereby like gods we speak-- + Thy will to me is more. + + I love thy men and women, Lord, + The children round thy door; + Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-- + Thy will than these is more. + + But when thy will my life doth hold + Thine to the very core, + The world, which that same will doth mould, + I love, then, ten times more! + + + + + +_EVENING HYMN_. + + O God, whose daylight leadeth down + Into the sunless way, + Who with restoring sleep dost crown + The labour of the day! + + What I have done, Lord, make it clean + With thy forgiveness dear; + That so to-day what might have been, + To-morrow may appear. + + And when my thought is all astray, + Yet think thou on in me; + That with the new-born innocent day + My soul rise fresh and free. + + Nor let me wander all in vain + Through dreams that mock and flee; + But even in visions of the brain, + Go wandering toward thee. + + + + + +_THE HOLY MIDNIGHT_. + + Ah, holy midnight of the soul, + When stars alone are high; + When winds are resting at their goal, + And sea-waves only sigh! + + Ambition faints from out the will; + Asleep sad longing lies; + All hope of good, all fear of ill, + All need of action dies; + + Because God is, and claims the life + He kindled in thy brain; + And thou in him, rapt far from strife, + Diest and liv'st again. + + + + + +_RONDEL_. + + I follow, tottering, in the funeral train + That bears my body to the welcoming grave. + As those I mourn not, that entomb the brave, + But smile as those that lay aside the vain; + + To me it is a thing of poor disdain, + A clod I would not give a sigh to save! + I follow, careless, in the funeral train, + My outworn raiment to the cleansing grave. + + I follow to the grave with growing pain-- + Then sudden cry: Let Earth take what she gave! + And turn in gladness from the yawning cave-- + Glad even for those whose tears yet flow amain: + They also follow, in their funeral train, + Outworn necessities to the welcoming grave! + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + When I look back upon my life nigh spent, + Nigh spent, although the stream as yet flows on, + I more of follies than of sins repent, + Less for offence than Love's shortcomings moan. + With self, O Father, leave me not alone-- + Leave not with the beguiler the beguiled; + Besmirched and ragged, Lord, take back thine own: + A fool I bring thee to be made a child. + + + + + +_HOME FROM THE WARS_. + + A tattered soldier, gone the glow and gloss, + With wounds half healed, and sorely trembling knee, + Homeward I come, to claim no victory-cross: + I only faced the foe, and did not flee. + + + + + +_GOD; NOT GIFT_. + + Gray clouds my heaven have covered o'er; + My sea ebbs fast, no more to flow; + Ghastly and dry, my desert shore + Parched, bare, unsightly things doth show. + + 'Tis thou, Lord, cloudest up my sky; + Stillest the heart-throb of my sea; + Tellest the sad wind not to sigh, + Yea, life itself to wait for thee! + + Lord, here I am, empty enough! + My music but a soundless moan! + Blind hope, of all my household stuff, + Leaves me, blind hope, not quite alone! + + Shall hope too go, that I may trust + Purely in thee, and spite of all? + Then turn my very heart to dust-- + On thee, on thee, I yet will call. + + List! list! his wind among the pines + Hark! hark! that rushing is his sea's! + O Father, these are but thy signs!-- + For thee I hunger, not for these! + + Not joy itself, though pure and high-- + No gift will do instead of thee! + Let but my spirit know thee nigh, + And all the world may sleep for me! + + + + + +_TO ANY FRIEND_. + + If I did seem to you no more + Than to myself I seem, + Not thus you would fling wide the door, + And on the beggar beam! + + You would not don your radiant best, + Or dole me more than half! + Poor palmer I, no angel guest; + A shaking reed my staff! + + At home, no rich fruit, hanging low, + Have I for Love to pull; + Only unripe things that must grow + Till Autumn's maund be full! + + But I forsake my niggard leas, + My orchard, too late hoar, + And wander over lands and seas + To find the Father's door. + + When I have reached the ancestral farm, + Have clomb the steepy hill, + And round me rests the Father's arm, + Then think me what you will. + + + + + + +VIOLIN SONGS. + + + +_HOPE DEFERRED_. + + Summer is come again. The sun is bright, + And the soft wind is breathing. Airy joy + Is sparkling in thine eyes, and in their light + My soul is shining. Come; our day's employ + Shall be to revel in unlikely things, + In gayest hopes, fondest imaginings, + And make-believes of bliss. Come, we will talk + Of waning moons, low winds, and a dim sea; + Till this fair summer, deepening as we walk, + Has grown a paradise for you and me. + + But ah, those leaves!--it was not summer's mouth + Breathed such a gold upon them. And look there-- + That beech how red! See, through its boughs, half-bare, + How low the sun lies in the mid-day south!-- + The sweetness is but one pined memory flown + Back from our summer, wandering alone! + See, see the dead leaves falling! Hear thy heart, + Which, with the year's pulse beating swift or slow, + Takes in the changing world its changing part, + Return a sigh, an echo sad and low, + To the faint, scarcely audible sound + With which the leaf goes whispering to the ground! + O love, sad winter lieth at the door-- + Behind sad winter, age--we know no more. + + Come round me, dear hearts. All of us will hold + Each of us compassed: we are growing old; + And if we be not as a ring enchanted, + Hearts around heart, with love to keep it gay, + The young, who claim the joy that haunted + Our visions once, will push us far away + Into the desolate regions, dim and gray, + Where the sea moans, and hath no other cry, + The clouds hang low, and have no tears, + Old dreams lie mouldering in a pit of years, + And hopes and songs all careless pass us by. + But if all each do keep, + The rising tide of youth will sweep + Around us with its laughter-joyous waves, + As ocean fair some palmy island laves, + To loneliness heaved slow from out the deep; + And our youth hover round us like the breath + Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death. + + Thus ringed eternally, to parted graves, + The sundered doors into one palace home, + Stumbling through age's thickets, we will go, + Faltering but faithful--willing to lie low, + Willing to part, not willing to deny + The lovely past, where all the futures lie. + + Oh! if thou be, who of the live art lord, + Not of the dead--Lo, by that self-same word, + Thou art not lord of age, but lord of youth-- + Because there is no age, in sooth, + Beyond its passing shows! + A mist o'er life's dimmed lantern grows; + Thou break'st the glass, out streams the light + That knows not youth nor age, + That fears no darkness nor the rage + Of windy tempests--burning still more bright + Than when glad youth was all about, + And summer winds were out! + + +1845. + + + + +_DEATH_. + + When in the bosom of the eldest night + This body lies, cold as a sculptured rest; + When through its shaded windows comes no light, + And its pale hands are folded on its breast-- + + How shall I fare, who had to wander out, + And of the unknown land the frontier cross, + Peering vague-eyed, uncertain, all about, + Unclothed, mayhap unwelcomed, bathed in loss? + + Shall I depart slow-floating like a mist, + Over the city murmuring beneath; + Over the trees and fields, where'er I list, + Seeking the mountain and the lonely heath? + + Or will a darkness, o'er material shows + Descending, hide them from the spirit's sight; + As from the sun a blotting radiance flows + Athwart the stars all glorious through the night; + + And the still spirit hang entranced, alone, + Like one in an exalted opium-dream-- + Soft-flowing time, insisting space, o'erblown, + With form and colour, tone and touch and gleam, + + Thought only waking--thought that may not own + The lapse of ages, or the change of spot; + Its doubt all cast on what it counted known, + Its faith all fixed on what appeareth not? + + Or, worn with weariness, shall we sleep until, + Our life restored by long and dreamless rest, + Of God's oblivion we have drunk our fill, + And wake his little ones, peaceful and blest? + + I nothing know, and nothing need to know. + God is; I shall be ever in his sight! + Give thou me strength to labour well, and so + Do my day's work ere fall my coming night. + + + + + +_HARD TIMES_. + + I am weary, and very lonely, + And can but think--think. + If there were some water only + That a spirit might drink--drink, + And arise, + With light in the eyes + And a crown of hope on the brow, + To walk abroad in the strength of gladness, + Not sit in the house, benumbed with sadness-- + As now! + + But, Lord, thy child will be sad-- + As sad as it pleases thee; + Will sit, not seeking to be glad, + Till thou bid sadness flee, + And, drawing near, + With thy good cheer + Awake thy life in me. + + + + + +_IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN_. + + If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, + Pacing it wearily, wearily, + Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- + Wearily, wearily-- + How would it fare with these hearts of ours + That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers? + + To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, + Morning foul or fair!-- + Such prayer as from weary lips might fall-- + Words, but hardly prayer-- + The chapel's roof, like the law in stone, + Caging the lark that up had flown! + + Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, + The God-revealing, + Turning thy face from the boundless boon-- + Painfully kneeling; + Or, in brown-shadowy solitude, + Bending thy head o'er the legend rude! + + I, in a bare and lonely nook, + Gloomily, gloomily, + Poring over some musty book, + Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; + Or painting pictures of things of old + On parchment-margin in purple and gold! + + Perchance in slow procession to meet, + Wearily, wearily, + In antique, narrow, high-gabled street, + Wearily, wearily; + Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then + Heavily sinking to earth again! + + Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring! + Merrily, merrily!-- + Back to its cell each weary thing, + Wearily, wearily! + Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old, + Most at home in the cloister cold! + + Thou slow rising at vespers' call, + Wearily, wearily; + I looking up on the darkening wall, + Wearily, wearily; + The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, + Listless and dead to thee and me! + + At length for sleep a weary assay, + On the lone couch wearily! + Rising at midnight again to pray, + Wearily, wearily! + And if through the dark dear eyes looked in, + Sending them far as a thought of sin! + + And at last, thy tired soul passing away, + Dreamily, dreamily-- + Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay, + Sleepily, sleepily-- + Over thee held the crucified Best, + But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed! + + And then my passing from cell to clay, + Dreamily, dreamily! + My gray head lying on ashes gray, + Sleepily, sleepily! + But no woman-angel hovering above, + Ready to clasp me in deathless love! + + Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine, + Peacefully, peacefully; + My arm round thee, and my lips on thine, + Lovingly, lovingly-- + Oh! is not a better thing to us given + Than wearily going alone to heaven? + + + + + +_MY HEART_. + + I. + + Night, with her power to silence day, + Filled up my lonely room, + Quenching all sounds but one that lay + Beyond her passing doom, + Where in his shed a workman gay + Went on despite the gloom. + + I listened, and I knew the sound, + And the trade that he was plying; + For backwards, forwards, bound on bound, + A shuttle was flying, flying-- + Weaving ever--till, all unwound, + The weft go out a sighing. + + + II. + + As hidden in thy chamber lowest + As in the sky the lark, + Thou, mystic thing, on working goest + Without the poorest spark, + And yet light's garment round me throwest, + Who else, as thou, were dark. + + With body ever clothing me, + Thou mak'st me child of light; + I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea, + The sky's rejoicing height, + A woven glory, globed by thee, + Unknowing of thy might! + + And when thy darkling labours fail, + And thy shuttle moveless lies, + My world will drop, like untied veil + From before a lady's eyes; + Or, all night read, a finished tale + That in the morning dies. + + + III. + + Yet not in vain dost thou unroll + The stars, the world, the seas-- + A mighty, wonder-painted scroll + Of Patmos mysteries, + Thou mediator 'twixt my soul + And higher things than these! + + Thy holy ephod bound on me, + I pass into a seer; + For still in things thou mak'st me see, + The unseen grows more clear; + Still their indwelling Deity + Speaks plainer in mine ear. + + Divinely taught the craftsman is + Who waketh wonderings; + Whose web, the nursing chrysalis + Round Psyche's folded wings, + To them transfers the loveliness + Of its inwoven things. + + Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- + For a greater heart beats on, + Whose better texture follows fleet + On thy last thread outrun, + With a seamless-woven garment, meet + To clothe a death-born son. + + + + + +_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_. + + + Of old, with goodwill from the skies-- + God's message to them given-- + The angels came, a glad surprise, + And went again to heaven. + + But now the angels are grown rare, + Needed no more as then; + Far lowlier messengers can bear + God's goodwill unto men. + + Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn + Breaks from the earth below; + Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn, + The noontide roses glow. + + The snowdrops first--the dawning gray; + Then out the roses burn! + They speak their word, grow dim--away + To holy dust return. + + Of oracles were little dearth, + Should heaven continue dumb; + From lowliest corners of the earth + God's messages will come. + + In thy face his we see, O Lord, + And are no longer blind; + Need not so much his rarer word, + In flowers even read his mind. + + + + + +_TO MY SISTER_, + + ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. + + + I. + + Old fables are not all a lie + That tell of wondrous birth, + Of Titan children, father Sky, + And mighty mother Earth. + + Yea, now are walking on the ground + Sons of the mingled brood; + Yea, now upon the earth are found + Such daughters of the Good. + + Earth-born, my sister, thou art still + A daughter of the sky; + Oh, climb for ever up the hill + Of thy divinity! + + To thee thy mother Earth is sweet, + Her face to thee is fair; + But thou, a goddess incomplete, + Must climb the starry stair. + + + II. + + Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, + Wouldst see the Father's face? + To all his other children bend, + And take the lowest place. + + Be like a cottage on a moor, + A covert from the wind, + With burning fire and open door, + And welcome free and kind. + + Thus humbly doing on the earth + The things the earthly scorn, + Thou shalt declare the lofty birth + Of all the lowly born. + + + III. + + Be then thy sacred womanhood + A sign upon thee set, + A second baptism--understood-- + For what thou must be yet. + + For, cause and end of all thy strife, + And unrest as thou art, + Still stings thee to a higher life + The Father at thy heart. + + + + + +_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_! + + + Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies + Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow; + But spring is floating up the southern skies, + And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below. + + Let me persuade: in dull December's day + We scarce believe there is a month of June; + But up the stairs of April and of May + The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon. + + Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest. + O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou. + He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;-- + And in his heart thy prayer is resting now. + + + + + +_WILD FLOWERS_. + + + Content Primroses, + With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care, + Peeping as from his mother's lap the child + Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!-- + Hanging Harebell, + Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes, + Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!-- + Fluttering-wild + Anemone, so well + Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free, + Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully, + With _Take me or leave me, + Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone_!-- + Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming + Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!-- + Fire-winged Pimpernel, + Communing with some hidden well, + And secrets with the sun-god holding, + At fixed hour folding and unfolding!-- + How is it with you, children all, + When human children on you fall, + Gather you in eager haste, + Spoil your plenty with their waste-- + Fill and fill their dropping hands? + Feel you hurtfully disgraced + By their injurious demands? + Do you know them from afar, + Shuddering at their merry hum, + Growing faint as near they come? + Blind and deaf they think you are-- + Is it only ye are dumb? + You alive at least, I think, + Trembling almost on the brink + Of our lonely consciousness: + If it be so, + Take this comfort for your woe, + For the breaking of your rest, + For the tearing in your breast, + For the blotting of the sun, + For the death too soon begun, + For all else beyond redress-- + Or what seemeth so to be-- + That the children's wonder-springs + Bubble high at sight of you, + Lovely, lowly, common things: + In you more than you they see! + Take this too--that, walking out, + Looking fearlessly about, + Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt, + And our childhood's faith renew; + So that we, with old age nigh, + Seeing you alive and well + Out of winter's crucible, + Hearing you, from graveyard crept, + Tell us that ye only slept-- + Think we die not, though we die. + + Thus ye die not, though ye die-- + Only yield your being up, + Like a nectar-holding cup: + Deaf, ye give to them that hear, + With a greatness lovely-dear; + Blind, ye give to them that see-- + Poor, but bounteous royally. + Lowly servants to the higher, + Burning upwards in the fire + Of Nature's endless sacrifice, + In great Life's ascent ye rise, + Leave the lowly earth behind, + Pass into the human mind, + Pass with it up into God, + Whence ye came though through the clod-- + Pass, and find yourselves at home + Where but life can go and come; + Where all life is in its nest, + At loving one with holy Best;-- + Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense + Of a past, age-long somnolence! + + + + + +_SPRING SONG_. + + + Days of old, + Ye are not dead, though gone from me; + Ye are not cold, + But like the summer-birds fled o'er some sea. + + The sun brings back the swallows fast + O'er the sea; + When he cometh at the last, + The days of old come back to me. + + + + + +_SUMMER SONG_. + + + "Murmuring, 'twixt a murmur and moan, + Many a tune in a single tone, + For every ear with a secret true-- + The sea-shell wants to whisper to you." + + "Yes--I hear it--far and faint, + Like thin-drawn prayer of drowsy saint; + Like the muffled sounds of a summer rain; + Like the wash of dreams in a weary brain." + + "By smiling lip and fixed eye, + You are hearing a song within the sigh: + The murmurer has many a lovely phrase-- + Tell me, darling, the words it says." + + "I hear a wind on a boatless main + Sigh like the last of a vanishing pain; + On the dreaming waters dreams the moon-- + But I hear no words in the doubtful tune." + + "If it tell thee not that I love thee well, + 'Tis a senseless, wrinkled, ill-curved shell: + If it be not of love, why sigh or sing? + 'Tis a common, mechanical, stupid thing!" + + "It murmurs, it whispers, with prophet voice + Of a peace that comes, of a sealed choice; + It says not a word of your love to me, + But it tells me I love you eternally." + + + + +_AUTUMN SONG_. + + + Autumn clouds are flying, flying + O'er the waste of blue; + Summer flowers are dying, dying, + Late so lovely new. + Labouring wains are slowly rolling + Home with winter grain; + Holy bells are slowly tolling + Over buried men. + + Goldener light sets noon a sleeping + Like an afternoon; + Colder airs come stealing, creeping + From the misty moon; + And the leaves, of old age dying, + Earthy hues put on; + Out on every lone wind sighing + That their day is gone. + + Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking + Down to winter low; + And our hearts are thinking, thinking + Of the sleet and snow; + For our sun is slowly sliding + Down the hill of might; + And no moon is softly gliding + Up the slope of night. + + See the bare fields' pillaged prizes + Heaped in golden glooms! + See, the earth's outworn sunrises + Dream in cloudy tombs! + Darkling flowers but wait the blowing + Of a quickening wind; + And the man, through Death's door going, + Leaves old Death behind. + + Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; + Let the gold turn gray; + Feet, though feeble, still may falter + Toward the better day! + Brother, let not weak faith linger + O'er a withered thing; + Mark how Autumn's prophet finger + Burns to hues of Spring. + + + + + +_WINTER SONG_. + + + They were parted then at last? + Was it duty, or force, or fate? + Or did a worldly blast + Blow-to the meeting-gate? + + An old, short story is this! + A glance, a trembling, a sigh, + A gaze in the eyes, a kiss-- + Why will it not go by! + + + + + +PICTURE SONGS. + + + I. + + A pale green sky is gleaming; + The steely stars are few; + The moorland pond is steaming + A mist of gray and blue. + + Along the pathway lonely + My horse is walking slow; + Three living creatures only, + He, I, and a home-bound crow! + + The moon is hardly shaping + Her circle in the fog; + A dumb stream is escaping + Its prison in the bog. + + But in my heart are ringing + Tones of a lofty song; + A voice that I know, is singing, + And my heart all night must long. + + + II. + + Over a shining land-- + Once such a land I knew-- + Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned, + The sky is all white and blue. + + The waves are kissing the shores, + Murmuring love and for ever; + A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars + Flash out of the level river. + + Oh to be there with thee + And the sun, on wet sands, my love! + With the shining river, the sparkling sea, + And the radiant sky above! + + + III. + + The autumn winds are sighing + Over land and sea; + The autumn woods are dying + Over hill and lea; + And my heart is sighing, dying, + Maiden, for thee. + + The autumn clouds are flying + Homeless over me; + The nestless birds are crying + In the naked tree; + And my heart is flying, crying, + Maiden, to thee. + + The autumn sea is crawling + Up the chilly shore; + The thin-voiced firs are calling + Ghostily evermore: + Maiden, maiden! I am falling + Dead at thy door. + + + IV. + + The waters are rising and flowing + Over the weedy stone-- + Over it, over it going: + It is never gone. + + Waves upon waves of weeping + Went over the ancient pain; + Glad waves go over it leaping-- + Still it rises again! + + + + + +_A DREAM SONG_. + + + I dreamed of a song--I heard it sung; + In the ear of my soul its strange notes rung. + What were its words I could not tell, + Only the voice I heard right well, + For its tones unearthly my spirit bound + In a calm delirium of mystic sound-- + Held me floating, alone and high, + Placeless and silent, drinking my fill + Of dews that from cloudless skies distil + On desert places that thirst and sigh. + 'Twas a woman's voice, deep calling to deep, + Rousing old echoes that all day sleep + In cavern and solitude, each apart, + Here and there in the waiting heart;-- + A voice with a wild melodious cry + Reaching and longing afar and high. + Sorrowful triumph, and hopeful strife, + Gainful death, and new-born life, + Thrilled in each note of the prophet-song. + In my heart it said: O Lord, how long + Shall we groan and travail and faint and pray, + Ere thy lovely kingdom bring the day! + + +1842. + + + + +_AT MY WINDOW AFTER SUNSET_. + + + Heaven and the sea attend the dying day, + And in their sadness overflow and blend-- + Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray: + Far out amid them my pale soul I send. + + For, as they mingle, so mix life and death; + An hour draws near when my day too will die; + Already I forecast unheaving breath, + Eviction on the moorland of yon sky. + + Coldly and sadly lone, unhoused, alone, + Twixt wind-broke wave and heaven's uncaring space! + At board and hearth from this time forth unknown! + Refuge no more in wife or daughter's face! + + Cold, cold and sad, lone as that desert sea! + Sad, lonely, as that hopeless, patient sky! + Forward I cannot go, nor backward flee! + I am not dead; I live, and cannot die! + + Where are ye, loved ones, hither come before? + Did you fare thus when first ye came this way? + Somewhere there must be yet another door!-- + A door in somewhere from this dreary gray! + + Come walking over watery hill and glen, + Or stoop your faces through yon cloud perplext; + Come, any one of dearest, sacred ten, + And bring me patient hoping for the next. + + Maker of heaven and earth, father of me, + My words are but a weak, fantastic moan! + Were I a land-leaf drifting on the sea, + Thou still wert with me; I were not alone! + + I am in thee, O father, lord of sky, + And lord of waves, and lord of human souls! + In thee all precious ones to me more nigh + Than if they rushing came in radiant shoals! + + I shall not be alone although I die, + And loved ones should delay their coming long; + Though I saw round me nought but sea and sky, + Bare sea and sky would wake a holy song. + + They are thy garments; thou art near within, + Father of fathers, friend-creating friend! + Thou art for ever, therefore I begin; + Thou lov'st, therefore my love shall never end! + + Let loose thy giving, father, on thy child; + I pray thee, father, give me everything; + Give me the joy that makes the children wild; + Give throat and heart an old new song to sing. + + Ye are my joy, great father, perfect Christ, + And humble men of heart, oh, everywhere! + With all the true I keep a hoping tryst; + Eternal love is my eternal prayer. + + +1890. + + + +_A FATHER TO A MOTHER_. + + + When God's own child came down to earth, + High heaven was very glad; + The angels sang for holy mirth; + Not God himself was sad! + + Shall we, when ours goes homeward, fret? + Come, Hope, and wait on Sorrow! + The little one will not forget; + It's only till to-morrow! + + + + + +_THE TEMPLE OF GOD_. + + + In the desert by the bush, + Moses to his heart said _Hush_. + + David on his bed did pray; + God all night went not away. + + From his heap of ashes foul + Job to God did lift his soul, + + God came down to see him there, + And to answer all his prayer. + + On a dark hill, in the wind, + Jesus did his father find, + + But while he on earth did fare, + Every spot was place of prayer; + + And where man is any day, + God can not be far away. + + But the place he loveth best, + Place where he himself can rest, + + Where alone he prayer doth seek, + Is the spirit of the meek. + + To the humble God doth come; + In his heart he makes his home. + + + + + +_GOING TO SLEEP_. + + + Little one, you must not fret + That I take your clothes away; + Better sleep you so will get, + And at morning wake more gay-- + Saith the children's mother. + + You I must unclothe again, + For you need a better dress; + Too much worn are body and brain; + You need everlastingness-- + Saith the heavenly father. + + I went down death's lonely stair; + Laid my garments in the tomb; + Dressed again one morning fair; + Hastened up, and hied me home-- + Saith the elder brother. + + Then I will not be afraid + Any ill can come to me; + When 'tis time to go to bed, + I will rise and go with thee-- + Saith the little brother. + + + + + +_TO-MORROW_. + + + My TO-MORROW is but a flitting + Fancy of the brain; + God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting, + Ready for joy or pain. + + My TO-MORROW has no soul, + Dead as yesterdays; + God's--a brimming silver bowl + Of life that gleams and plays. + + My TO-MORROW, I mock you away! + Shadowless nothing, thou! + God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day, + For God is in thee now. + + + + + +_FOOLISH CHILDREN_. + + + Waking in the night to pray, + Sleeping when the answer comes, + Foolish are we even at play-- + Tearfully we beat our drums! + Cast the good dry bread away, + Weep, and gather up the crumbs! + + "Evermore," while shines the day, + "Lord," we cry, "thy will be done!" + Soon as evening groweth gray, + Thy fair will we fain would shun! + "Take, oh, take thy hand away! + See the horrid dark begun!" + + "Thou hast conquered Death," we say, + "Christ, whom Hades could not keep!" + Then, "Ah, see the pallid clay! + Death it is," we cry, "not sleep! + Grave, take all. Shut out the Day. + Sit we on the ground and weep!" + + Gathering potsherds all the day, + Truant children, Lord, we roam; + Fret, and longer want to play, + When at cool thy voice doth come!-- + Elder Brother, lead the way; + Make us good as we go home. + + + +_LOVE IS HOME_. + + + Love is the part, and love is the whole; + Love is the robe, and love is the pall; + Ruler of heart and brain and soul, + Love is the lord and the slave of all! + I thank thee, Love, that thou lov'st me; + I thank thee more that I love thee. + + Love is the rain, and love is the air, + Love is the earth that holdeth fast; + Love is the root that is buried there, + Love is the open flower at last! + I thank thee, Love all round about, + That the eyes of my love are looking out. + + Love is the sun, and love is the sea; + Love is the tide that comes and goes; + Flowing and flowing it comes to me; + Ebbing and ebbing to thee it flows! + Oh my sun, and my wind, and tide! + My sea, and my shore, and all beside! + + Light, oh light that art by showing; + Wind, oh wind that liv'st by motion; + Thought, oh thought that art by knowing; + Will, that art born in self-devotion! + Love is you, though not all of you know it; + Ye are not love, yet ye always show it! + + Faithful creator, heart-longed-for father, + Home of our heart-infolded brother, + Home to thee all thy glories gather-- + All are thy love, and there is no other! + O Love-at-rest, we loves that roam-- + Home unto thee, we are coming home! + + + + +_FAITH_. + + + "Earth, if aught should check thy race, + Rushing through unfended space, + Headlong, stayless, thou wilt fall + Into yonder glowing ball!" + + "Beggar of the universe, + Faithless as an empty purse! + Sent abroad to cool and tame, + Think'st I fear my native flame?" + + "If thou never on thy track + Turn thee round and hie thee back, + Thou wilt wander evermore, + Outcast, cold--a comet hoar!" + + "While I sweep my ring along + In an air of joyous song, + Thou art drifting, heart awry, + From the sun of liberty!" + + + + + +_WAITING_. + + + I waited for the Master + In the darkness dumb; + Light came fast and faster-- + My light did not come! + + I waited all the daylight, + All through noon's hot flame: + In the evening's gray light, + Lo, the Master came! + + + + + +_OUR SHIP_. + + + Had I a great ship coming home, + With big plunge o'er the sea, + What bright things, hid from star and foam, + Lay in her heart for thee! + + The stormy billows heave and dip, + The wild winds veer and play; + But, regnant all, God's stately ship + Is steering home this way! + + + + + +_MY HEART THY LARK_. + + + Why dost thou want to sing + When thou hast no song, my heart? + If there be in thee a hidden spring, + Wherefore will no word start? + + On its way thou hearest no song, + Yet flutters thy unborn joy! + The years of thy life are growing long-- + Art still the heart of a boy?-- + + Father, I am thy child! + My heart is in thy hand! + Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild, + Of a song in thy high land. + + It will answer--but how, my God, + Thou knowest; I cannot say: + It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod-- + Thy lark to meet thy day! + + + + + +_TWO IN ONE_. + + + Were thou and I the white pinions + On some eager, heaven-born dove, + Swift would we mount to the old dominions, + To our rest of old, my love! + + Were thou and I trembling strands + In music's enchanted line, + We would wait and wait for magic hands + To untwist the magic twine. + + Were we two sky-tints, thou and I, + Thou the golden, I the red; + We would quiver and glow and darken and die, + And love until we were dead! + + Nearer than wings of one dove, + Than tones or colours in chord, + We are one--and safe, and for ever, my love, + Two thoughts in the heart of one Lord. + + + + + +_BEDTIME_. + + + "Come, children, put away your toys; + Roll up that kite's long line; + The day is done for girls and boys-- + Look, it is almost nine! + Come, weary foot, and sleepy head, + Get up, and come along to bed." + + The children, loath, must yet obey; + Up the long stair they creep; + Lie down, and something sing or say + Until they fall asleep, + To steal through caverns of the night + Into the morning's golden light. + + We, elder ones, sit up more late, + And tasks unfinished ply, + But, gently busy, watch and wait-- + Dear sister, you and I, + To hear the Father, with soft tread, + Coming to carry us to bed. + + + + + +_A PRAYER_. + + + Thou who mad'st the mighty clock + Of the great world go; + Mad'st its pendulum swing and rock, + Ceaseless to and fro; + Thou whose will doth push and draw + Every orb in heaven, + Help me move by higher law + In my spirit graven. + + Like a planet let me swing-- + With intention strong; + In my orbit rushing sing + Jubilant along; + Help me answer in my course + To my seasons due; + Lord of every stayless force, + Make my Willing true. + + + + + +_A SONG PRAYER_. + + + Lord Jesus, + Oh, ease us + Of Self that oppresses, + Annoys and distresses + Body and brain + With dull pain! + Thou never, + Since ever, + Save one moment only, + Wast left, or wast lonely: + We are alone, + And make moan. + + Far parted, + Dull-hearted, + We wander, sleep-walking, + Mere shadows, dim-stalking: + Orphans we roam, + Far from home. + + Oh new man, + Sole human, + God's son, and our brother, + Give each to the other-- + No one left out + In cold doubt! + + High Father, + Oh gather + Thy sons and thy daughters, + Through fires and through waters, + Home to the nest + Of thy breast! + + There under + The wonder + Of great wings of healing, + Of love and revealing, + Teach us anew + To sing true. + + + + + + +SONGS OF THE DAYS AND NIGHTS. + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER DAYS_. + + + I. + + A glory on the chamber wall! + A glory in the brain! + Triumphant floods of glory fall + On heath, and wold, and plain. + + Earth lieth still in hopeless bliss; + She has, and seeks no more; + Forgets that days come after this, + Forgets the days before. + + Each ripple waves a flickering fire + Of gladness, as it runs; + They laugh and flash, and leap and spire, + And toss ten thousand suns. + + But hark! low, in the world within, + One sad aeolian tone: + "Ah! shall we ever, ever win + A summer of our own?" + + + II. + + A morn of winds and swaying trees-- + Earth's jubilance rushing out! + The birds are fighting with the breeze; + The waters heave about. + + White clouds are swept across the sky, + Their shadows o'er the graves; + Purpling the green, they float and fly + Athwart the sunny waves. + + The long grass--an earth-rooted sea-- + Mimics the watery strife. + To boat or horse? Wild motion we + Shall find harmonious life. + + But whither? Roll and sweep and bend + Suffice for Nature's part; + But motion to an endless end + Is needful for our heart. + + + III. + + The morn awakes like brooding dove, + With outspread wings of gray; + Her feathery clouds close in above, + And roof a sober day. + + No motion in the deeps of air! + No trembling in the leaves! + A still contentment everywhere, + That neither laughs nor grieves! + + A film of sheeted silver gray + Shuts in the ocean's hue; + White-winged feluccas cleave their way + In paths of gorgeous blue. + + Dream on, dream on, O dreamy day, + Thy very clouds are dreams! + Yon child is dreaming far away-- + He is not where he seems. + + IV. + + The lark is up, his faith is strong, + He mounts the morning air; + Lone voice of all the creature throng, + He sings the morning prayer. + + Slow clouds from north and south appear, + Black-based, with shining slope; + In sullen forms their might they rear, + And climb the vaulted cope. + + A lightning flash, a thunder boom!-- + Nor sun nor clouds are there; + A single, all-pervading gloom + Hangs in the heavy air. + + A weeping, wasting afternoon + Weighs down the aspiring corn; + Amber and red, the sunset soon + Leads back to golden morn. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SUMMER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The dreary wind of night is out, + Homeless and wandering slow; + O'er pale seas moaning like a doubt, + It breathes, but will not blow. + + It sighs from out the helpless past, + Where doleful things abide; + Gray ghosts of dead thought sail aghast + Across its ebbing tide. + + O'er marshy pools it faints and flows, + All deaf and dumb and blind; + O'er moor and mountain aimless goes-- + The listless woesome wind! + + Nay, nay!--breathe on, sweet wind of night! + The sigh is all in me; + Flow, fan, and blow, with gentle might, + Until I wake and see. + + + II. + + The west is broken into bars + Of orange, gold, and gray; + Gone is the sun, fast come the stars, + And night infolds the day. + + My boat glides with the gliding stream, + Following adown its breast + One flowing mirrored amber gleam, + The death-smile of the west. + + The river moves; the sky is still, + No ceaseless quest it knows: + Thy bosom swells, thy fair eyes fill + At sight of its repose. + + The ripples run; all patient sit + The stars above the night. + In shade and gleam the waters flit: + The heavens are changeless bright! + + + III. + + Alone I lie, buried amid + The long luxurious grass; + The bats flit round me, born and hid + In twilight's wavering mass. + + The fir-top floats, an airy isle, + High o'er the mossy ground; + Harmonious silence breathes the while + In scent instead of sound. + + The flaming rose glooms swarthy red; + The borage gleams more blue; + Dim-starred with white, a flowery bed + Glimmers the rich dusk through. + + Hid in the summer grass I lie, + Lost in the great blue cave; + My body gazes at the sky, + And measures out its grave. + + + IV. + + What art thou, gathering dusky cool, + In slow gradation fine? + Death's lovely shadow, flickering full + Of eyes about to shine. + + When weary Day goes down below, + Thou leanest o'er his grave, + Revolving all the vanished show + The gracious splendour gave. + + Or art thou not she rather--say-- + Dark-browed, with luminous eyes, + Of whom is born the mighty Day, + That fights and saves and dies? + + For action sleeps with sleeping light; + Calm thought awakes with thee: + The soul is then a summer night, + With stars that shine and see. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN DAYS_. + + + I. + + We bore him through the golden land, + One early harvest morn; + The corn stood ripe on either hand-- + He knew all about the corn. + + How shall the harvest gathered be + Without him standing by? + Without him walking on the lea, + The sky is scarce a sky. + + The year's glad work is almost done; + The land is rich in fruit; + Yellow it floats in air and sun-- + Earth holds it by the root. + + Why should earth hold it for a day + When harvest-time is come? + Death is triumphant o'er decay, + And leads the ripened home. + + + II. + + And though the sun be not so warm, + His shining is not lost; + Both corn and hope, of heart and farm, + Lie hid from coming frost. + + The sombre woods are richly sad, + Their leaves are red and gold: + Are thoughts in solemn splendour clad + Signs that we men grow old? + + Strange odours haunt the doubtful brain + From fields and days gone by; + And mournful memories again + Are born, are loved, and die. + + The mornings clear, the evenings cool + Foretell no wintry wars; + The day of dying leaves is full, + The night of glowing stars. + + + III. + + 'Tis late before the sun will rise, + And early he will go; + Gray fringes hang from the gray skies, + And wet the ground below. + + Red fruit has followed golden corn; + The leaves are few and sere; + My thoughts are old as soon as born, + And chill with coming fear. + + The winds lie sick; no softest breath + Floats through the branches bare; + A silence as of coming death + Is growing in the air. + + But what must fade can bear to fade-- + Was born to meet the ill: + Creep on, old Winter, deathly shade! + We sorrow, and are still. + + + IV. + + There is no longer any heaven + To glorify our clouds; + The rising vapours downward driven + Come home in palls and shrouds. + + The sun himself is ill bested + A heavenly sign to show; + His radiance, dimmed to glowing red, + Can hardly further go. + + An earthy damp, a churchyard gloom, + Pervade the moveless air; + The year is sinking to its tomb, + And death is everywhere. + + But while sad thoughts together creep, + Like bees too cold to sting, + God's children, in their beds asleep, + Are dreaming of the spring. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + O night, send up the harvest moon + To walk about the fields, + And make of midnight magic noon + On lonely tarns and wealds. + + In golden ranks, with golden crowns, + All in the yellow land, + Old solemn kings in rustling gowns, + The shocks moon-charmed stand. + + Sky-mirror she, afloat in space, + Beholds our coming morn: + Her heavenly joy hath such a grace, + It ripens earthly corn; + + Like some lone saint with upward eyes, + Lost in the deeps of prayer: + The people still their prayers and sighs, + And gazing ripen there. + + II. + + So, like the corn moon-ripened last, + Would I, weary and gray, + On golden memories ripen fast, + And ripening pass away. + + In an old night so let me die; + A slow wind out of doors; + A waning moon low in the sky; + A vapour on the moors; + + A fire just dying in the gloom; + Earth haunted all with dreams; + A sound of waters in the room; + A mirror's moony gleams; + + And near me, in the sinking night, + More thoughts than move in me-- + Forgiving wrong, and loving right, + And waiting till I see. + + + III. + + Across the stubble glooms the wind; + High sails the lated crow; + The west with pallid green is lined; + Fog tracks the river's flow. + + My heart is cold and sad; I moan, + Yet care not for my grief; + The summer fervours all are gone; + The roses are but leaf. + + Old age is coming, frosty, hoar; + The snows of time will fall; + My jubilance, dream-like, no more + Returns for any call! + + O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain + Sends up the blood so spare, + That my poor withering autumn brain + Sees autumn everywhere! + + + IV. + + Lord of my life! if I am blind, + I reck not--thou canst see; + I well may wait my summer mind, + When I am sure of thee! + + _I_ made no brave bright suns arise, + Veiled up no sweet gray eves; + _I_ hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes, + Sent out no windy leaves! + + I said not "I will cast a charm + These gracious forms around;" + My heart with unwilled love grew warm; + I took but what I found! + + When cold winds range my winter-night, + Be thou my summer-door; + Keep for me all my young delight, + Till I am old no more. + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS_. + + + I. + + The sky has turned its heart away, + The earth its sorrow found; + The daisies turn from childhood's play, + And creep into the ground. + + The earth is black and cold and hard; + Thin films of dry white ice, + Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred, + The children's feet entice. + + Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned + The winter in the land; + With idle icicles adorned, + That mill-wheel soon will stand. + + But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part, + Is to let in the cold; + We'll make a summer of the heart, + And laugh at winter old. + + + II. + + With vague dead gleam the morning white + Comes through the window-panes; + The clouds have fallen all the night, + Without the noise of rains. + + As of departing, unseen ghost, + Footprints go from the door; + The man himself must long be lost + Who left those footprints hoar! + + Yet follow thou; tread down the snow; + Leave all the road behind; + Heed not the winds that steely blow, + Heed not the sky unkind; + + For though the glittering air grow dark, + The snow will shine till morn; + And long ere then one dear home-spark + Will winter laugh to scorn. + + III. + + Oh wildly wild the roaring blast + Torments the fallen snow! + The wintry storms are up at last, + And care not how they go! + + In foam-like wreaths the water hoar, + Rapt whistling in the air, + Gleams through the dismal twilight frore; + A region in despair, + + A spectral ocean lies outside, + Torn by a tempest dark; + Its ghostly billows, dim descried, + Leap on my stranded bark. + + Death-sheeted figures, long and white, + Rave driving through the spray; + Or, bosomed in the ghastly night, + Shriek doom-cries far away. + + + IV. + + A morning clear, with frosty light + From sunbeams late and low; + They shine upon the snow so white, + And shine back from the snow. + + Down tusks of ice one drop will go, + Nor fall: at sunny noon + 'Twill hang a diamond--fade, and grow + An opal for the moon. + + And when the bright sad sun is low + Behind the mountain-dome, + A twilight wind will come and blow + Around the children's home, + + And puff and waft the powdery snow, + As feet unseen did pass; + While, waiting in its bed below, + Green lies the summer grass. + + + + +_SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + Back shining from the pane, the fire + Seems outside in the snow: + So love set free from love's desire + Lights grief of long ago. + + The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine, + The earth bedecked with moon; + Out on the worlds we surely shine + More radiant than in June! + + In the white garden lies a heap + As brown as deep-dug mould: + A hundred partridges that keep + Each other from the cold. + + My father gives them sheaves of corn, + For shelter both and food: + High hope in me was early born, + My father was so good. + + + II. + + The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms + Across my clouded pane; + Weaves melodies of ancient psalms + All through my passive brain. + + Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head: + My father is in the room; + The very curtains of my bed + Are from Love's sheltering loom! + + The lovely vision melts away; + I am a child no more; + Work rises from the floor of play; + Duty is at the door. + + But if I face with courage stout + The labour and the din, + Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out + My heart with thee stay in. + + + III. + + Up to my ear my soul doth run-- + Her other door is dark; + There she can see without the sun, + And there she sits to mark. + + I hear the dull unheeding wind + Mumble o'er heath and wold; + My fancy leaves my brain behind, + And floats into the cold. + + Like a forgotten face that lies + One of the speechless crowd, + The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes, + White-folded in her shroud. + + O'er leafless woods and cornless farms, + Dead rivers, fireless thorps, + I brood, the heart still throbbing warm + In Nature's wintered corpse. + + IV. + + To all the world mine eyes are blind: + Their drop serene is--night, + With stores of snow piled up the wind + An awful airy height. + + And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye: + The simple faithful stars + Beyond are shining, careless high, + Nor heed our storms and jars. + + And when o'er storm and jar I climb-- + Beyond life's atmosphere, + I shall behold the lord of time + And space--of world and year. + + Oh vain, far quest!--not thus my heart + Shall ever find its goal! + I turn me home--and there thou art, + My Father, in my soul! + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS_. + + + I. + + A gentle wind, of western birth + On some far summer sea, + Wakes daisies in the wintry earth, + Wakes hopes in wintry me. + + The sun is low; the paths are wet, + And dance with frolic hail; + The trees--their spring-time is not yet-- + Swing sighing in the gale. + + Young gleams of sunshine peep and play; + Clouds shoulder in between; + I scarce believe one coming day + The earth will all be green. + + The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves, + And flaps his snowy wing: + Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves; + Thou canst not bar our spring. + + + II. + + Up comes the primrose, wondering; + The snowdrop droopeth by; + The holy spirit of the spring + Is working silently. + + Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile + The later children out; + O'er woods and farms a sunny smile + Is flickering about. + + The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull; + To death almost she slept: + Over her, heaven grew beautiful, + And forth her beauty crept. + + Showers yet must fall, and waters grow + Dark-wan with furrowing blast; + But suns will shine, and soft winds blow, + Till the year flowers at last. + + + III. + + The sky is smiling over me, + Hath smiled away the frost; + White daisies star the sky-like lea, + With buds the wood's embossed. + + Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky + Up through the latticed boughs; + Till comes the green cloud by and by, + It is not time to house. + + Yours is the day, sweet bird--sing on; + The winter is forgot; + Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone: + Pain that is past, is not. + + Joy that was past is yet the same: + If care the summer brings, + 'Twill only be another name + For love that broods, not sings. + + + IV. + + Blow on me, wind, from west and south; + Sweet summer-spirit, blow! + Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth, + Who knows not what I know. + + The earth's perfection dawneth soon; + Ours lingereth alway; + We have a morning, not a noon; + Spring, but no summer gay. + + Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn + Crown soon the swift year's life: + In us a higher hope is born, + And claims a longer strife. + + Will heaven be an eternal spring + With summer at the door? + Or shall we one day tell its king + That we desire no more? + + + + + +_SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS_. + + + I. + + The flush of green that dyed the day + Hath vanished in the moon; + Flower-scents float stronger out, and play + An unborn, coming tune. + + One southern eve like this, the dew + Had cooled and left the ground; + The moon hung half-way from the blue, + No disc, but conglobed round; + + Light-leaved acacias, by the door, + Bathed in the balmy air, + Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore, + And breathed a perfume rare; + + Great gold-flakes from the starry sky + Fell flashing on the deep: + One scent of moist earth floating by, + Almost it made me weep. + + + II. + + Those gorgeous stars were not my own, + They made me alien go! + The mother o'er her head had thrown + A veil I did not know! + + The moon-blanched fields that seaward went, + The palm-flung, dusky shades, + Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent, + No slender, spear-like blades. + + I longed to see the starry host + Afar in fainter blue; + But plenteous grass I missed the most, + With daisies glimmering through. + + The common things were not the same! + I longed across the foam: + From dew-damp earth that odour came-- + I knew the world my home. + + + III. + + The stars are glad in gulfy space-- + Friendly the dark to them! + From day's deep mine, their hiding-place, + Night wooeth every gem. + + A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar, + When up the day is furled, + Shines in the sky a light afar, + Mayhap a home-filled world. + + Sometimes upon the inner sky + We catch a doubtful shine: + A mote or star? A flash in the eye + Or jewel of God's mine? + + A star to us, all glimmer and glance, + May teem with seraphim: + A fancy to our ignorance + May be a truth to Him. + + + IV. + + The night is damp and warm and still, + And soft with summer dreams; + The buds are bursting at their will, + And shy the half moon gleams. + + My soul is cool, as bathed within + By dews that silent weep-- + Like child that has confessed his sin, + And now will go to sleep. + + My body ages, form and hue; + But when the spring winds blow, + My spirit stirs and buds anew, + Younger than long ago. + + Lord, make me more a child, and more, + Till Time his own end bring, + And out of every winter sore + I pass into thy spring. + + + + + +A BOOK OF DREAMS. + + + + +PART I. + + + I. + + I lay and dreamed. The Master came, + In seamless garment drest; + I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame, + Not ready to be blest. + + He stretched his arms, and gently sought + To clasp me to his heart; + I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought + He knew me but in part. + + I did not love him as I would! + Embraces were not meet! + I dared not ev'n stand where he stood-- + I fell and kissed his feet. + + Years, years have passed away since then; + Oft hast thou come to me; + The question scarce will rise again + Whether I care for thee. + + In thee lies hid my unknown heart, + In thee my perfect mind; + In all my joys, my Lord, thou art + The deeper joy behind. + + But when fresh light and visions bold + My heart and hope expand, + Up comes the vanity of old + That now I understand: + + Away, away from thee I drift, + Forgetting, not forgot; + Till sudden yawns a downward rift-- + I start--and see thee not. + + Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours! + All in the dark I stray, + Until my spirit fainting cowers + On the threshold of the day. + + Hence not even yet I child-like dare + Nestle unto thy breast, + Though well I know that only there + Lies hid the secret rest. + + But now I shrink not from thy will, + Nor, guilty, judge my guilt; + Thy good shall meet and slay my ill-- + Do with me as thou wilt. + + If I should dream that dream once more, + Me in my dreaming meet; + Embrace me, Master, I implore, + And let me kiss thy feet. + + + II. + + I stood before my childhood's home, + Outside its belt of trees; + All round my glances flit and roam + O'er well-known hills and leas; + + When sudden rushed across the plain + A host of hurrying waves, + Loosed by some witchery of the brain + From far, dream-hidden caves. + + And up the hill they clomb and came, + A wild, fast-flowing sea: + Careless I looked as on a game; + No terror woke in me. + + For, just the belting trees within, + I saw my father wait; + And should the waves the summit win, + There was the open gate! + + With him beside, all doubt was dumb; + There let the waters foam! + No mightiest flood would dare to come + And drown his holy home! + + Two days passed by. With restless toss, + The red flood brake its doors; + Prostrate I lay, and looked across + To the eternal shores. + + The world was fair, and hope was high; + My friends had all been true; + Life burned in me, and Death and I + Would have a hard ado. + + Sudden came back the dream so good, + My trouble to abate: + At his own door my Father stood-- + I just without the gate! + + "Thou know'st what is, and what appears," + I said; "mine eyes to thine + Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears, + But also hear'st with mine:" + + "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay, + How trembles my life's node; + Thou art the potter, I am the clay-- + 'Tis thine to bear the load." + + + III. + + A piece of gold had left my purse, + Which I had guarded ill; + I feared a lack, but feared yet worse + Regret returning still. + + I lifted up my feeble prayer + To him who maketh strong, + That thence no haunting thoughts of care + Might do my spirit wrong. + + And even before my body slept, + Such visions fair I had, + That seldom soul with chamber swept + Was more serenely glad. + + No white-robed angel floated by + On slow, reposing wings; + I only saw, with inward eye, + Some very common things. + + First rose the scarlet pimpernel + With burning purple heart; + I saw within it, and could spell + The lesson of its art. + + Then came the primrose, child-like flower, + And looked me in the face; + It bore a message full of power, + And confidence, and grace. + + And breezes rose on pastures trim + And bathed me all about; + Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim, + Or only half spoke out. + + Sudden it closed, some door of heaven, + But what came out remained: + The poorest man my loss had given + For that which I had gained! + + Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup + Where I bemoaned a sip; + How easily thou didst make up + For that my fault let slip! + + What said the flowers? what message new + Embalmed my soul with rest? + I scarce can tell--only they grew + Right out of God's own breast. + + They said, to every flower he made + God's thought was root and stem-- + Perhaps said what the lilies said + When Jesus looked at them. + + + IV. + + Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake, + Our souls with visions teem + Which to the slumbering brain would take + The form of wondrous dream. + + Once, with my thought-sight, I descried + A plain with hills around; + A lordly company on each side + Leaves bare the middle ground. + + Great terrace-steps at one end rise + To something like a throne, + And thither all the radiant eyes, + As to a centre, shone. + + A snow-white glory, dim-defined, + Those seeking eyes beseech-- + Him who was not in fire or wind, + But in the gentle speech. + + They see his eyes far-fixed wait: + Adown the widening vale + They, turning, look; their breath they bate, + With dread-filled wonder pale. + + In raiment worn and blood-bedewed, + With faltering step and numb, + Toward the shining multitude + A weary man did come. + + His face was white, and still-composed, + As of a man nigh dead; + The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed, + A faint, wan splendour shed. + + Drops on his hair disordered hung + Like rubies dull of hue; + His hands were pitifully wrung, + And stricken through and through. + + Silent they stood with tender awe: + Between their ranks he came; + Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw + What made his feet so lame. + + He reached the steps below the throne, + There sank upon his knees; + Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan, + And spake in words like these:-- + + "Father, I am come back. Thy will + Is sometimes hard to do." + From all that multitude so still + A sound of weeping grew. + + Then mournful-glad came down the One; + He kneeled and clasped his child; + Lay on his breast the outworn man, + And wept until he smiled. + + The people, who, in bitter woe + And love, had sobbed and cried, + Raised aweful eyes at length--and, Lo, + The two sat side by side! + + + V. + + Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood + High in the gloomy air; + One bore a thief, and one the Good; + The other waited bare. + + A soldier came up to the place, + And took me for the third; + My eyes they sought the Master's face, + My will the Master's word. + + He bent his head; I took the sign, + And gave the error way; + Gesture nor look nor word of mine + The secret should betray. + + The soldier from the cross's foot + Turned. I stood waiting there: + That grim, expectant tree, for fruit + My dying form must bear. + + Up rose the steaming mists of doubt + And chilled both heart and brain; + They shut the world of vision out, + And fear saw only pain. + + "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow! + The nails that rend and pierce! + The shock may stun, but, slow and slow, + The torture will grow fierce." + + "Alas, the awful fight with death! + The hours to hang and die! + The thirsting gasp for common breath! + The weakness that would cry!" + + My soul returned: "A faintness soon + Will shroud thee in its fold; + The hours will bring the fearful noon; + 'Twill pass--and thou art cold." + + "'Tis his to care that thou endure, + To curb or loose the pain; + With bleeding hands hang on thy cure-- + It shall not be in vain." + + But, ah, the will, which thus could quail, + Might yield--oh, horror drear! + Then, more than love, the fear to fail + Kept down the other fear. + + I stood, nor moved. But inward strife + The bonds of slumber broke: + Oh! had I fled, and lost the life + Of which the Master spoke? + + VI. + + Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial + The last shades darken, friends say, "_He was good_;" + I struggling fail to speak my faint denial-- + They whisper, "_His humility withstood_." + + I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; + And find the unknown world not all unknown: + The bonds that held me from my centre broken, + I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne. + + How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder; + I think I know what I will say to him; + I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder, + I fear no passing vision great and dim. + + But he knows all my weary sinful story: + How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair? + I come to him in all his conquered glory, + Won from the life that I went dreaming there! + + I come; I fall before him, faintly saying: + "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win? + Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying; + I have no honour--but may I come in?" + + I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable; + To me the earth was very lovely too: + Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able + To love it greatly!--but thou hast got through." + + + +PART II. + + + + I. + + A gloomy and a windy day! + No sunny spot is bare; + Dull vapours, in uncomely play, + Go weltering through the air: + If through the windows of my mind + I let them come and go, + My thoughts will also in the wind + Sweep restless to and fro. + + I drop my curtains for a dream.-- + What comes? A mighty swan, + With plumage like a sunny gleam, + And folded airy van! + She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent + By sea-maids to my shore, + With stately head proud-humbly bent, + And slackening swarthy oar. + + Lone in a vaulted rock I lie, + A water-hollowed cell, + Where echoes of old storms go by, + Like murmurs in a shell. + The waters half the gloomy way + Beneath its arches come; + Throbbing to outside billowy play, + The green gulfs waver dumb. + + Undawning twilights through the cave + In moony glimmers go, + Half from the swan above the wave, + Half from the swan below, + + As to my feet she gently drifts + Through dim, wet-shiny things, + And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts + The shoulders of her wings. + + Old earth is rich with many a nest + Of softness ever new, + Deep, delicate, and full of rest-- + But loveliest there are two: + I may not tell them save to minds + That are as white as they; + But none will hear, of other kinds-- + They all are turned away. + + On foamy mounds between the wings + Of a white sailing swan, + A flaky bed of shelterings, + There you will find the one. + The other--well, it will not out, + Nor need I tell it you; + I've told you one, and can you doubt, + When there are only two? + + Fill full my dream, O splendid bird! + Me o'er the waters bear: + Never was tranquil ocean stirred + By ship so shapely fair! + Nor ever whiteness found a dress + In which on earth to go, + So true, profound, and rich, unless + It was the falling snow! + + Her wings, with flutter half-aloft, + Impatient fan her crown; + I cannot choose but nestle soft + Into the depth of down. + + With oary-pulsing webs unseen, + Out the white frigate sweeps; + In middle space we hang, between + The air- and ocean-deeps. + + Up the wave's mounting, flowing side, + With stroke on stroke we rack; + As down the sinking slope we slide, + She cleaves a talking track-- + Like heather-bells on lonely steep, + Like soft rain on the glass, + Like children murmuring in their sleep, + Like winds in reedy grass. + + Her white breast heaving like a wave, + She beats the solemn time; + With slow strong sweep, intent and grave, + Hearkens the ripples rime. + All round, from flat gloom upward drawn, + I catch the gleam, vague, wide, + With which the waves, from dark to dawn, + Heave up the polished side. + + The night is blue; the stars aglow + Crowd the still, vaulted steep, + Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow + Of the self-murmurous deep-- + A thicker night, with gathered moan! + A dull dethroned sky! + The shadows of its stars alone + Left in to know it by! + + What faints across yon lifted loop + Where the west gleams its last? + With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group + Of Nereids dreaming past. + + Row on, fair swan;--who knows but I, + Ere night hath sought her cave, + May see in splendour pale float by + The Venus of the wave! + + + II. + + A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her, + A glory that deepened and grew, + A song of colour and odour + That thrilled her through and through: + 'Twas a dream of too much gladness + Ever to see the light; + They are only dreams of sadness + That weary out the night. + + Slow darkness began to rifle + The nest of the sunset fair; + Dank vapour began to stifle + The scents that enriched the air; + The flowers paled fast and faster, + They crumbled, leaf and crown, + Till they looked like the stained plaster + Of a cornice fallen down. + + And the change crept nigh and nigher, + Inward and closer stole, + Till the flameless, blasting fire + Entered and withered her soul.-- + But the fiends had only flouted + Her vision of the night; + Up came the morn and routed + The darksome things with light. + + Wide awake I have often been in it-- + The dream that all is none; + It will come in the gladdest minute + And wither the very sun. + + Two moments of sad commotion, + One more of doubt's palsied rule-- + And the great wave-pulsing ocean + Is only a gathered pool; + + A flower is a spot of painting, + A lifeless, loveless hue; + Though your heart be sick to fainting + It says not a word to you; + A bird knows nothing of gladness, + Is only a song-machine; + A man is a reasoning madness, + A woman a pictured queen! + + Then fiercely we dig the fountain: + Oh! whence do the waters rise? + Then panting we climb the mountain: + Oh! are there indeed blue skies? + We dig till the soul is weary, + Nor find the water-nest out; + We climb to the stone-crest dreary, + And still the sky is a doubt! + + Let alone the roots of the fountain; + Drink of the water bright; + Leave the sky at rest on the mountain, + Walk in its torrent of light; + Although thou seest no beauty, + Though widowed thy heart yet cries, + With thy hands go and do thy duty, + And thy work will clear thine eyes. + + + III. + + A great church in an empty square, + A haunt of echoing tones! + Feet pass not oft enough to wear + The grass between the stones. + + The jarring hinges of its gates + A stifled thunder boom; + The boding heart slow-listening waits, + As for a coming doom. + + The door stands wide. With hideous grin, + Like dumb laugh, evil, frore, + A gulf of death, all dark within, + Hath swallowed half the floor. + + Its uncouth sides of earth and clay + O'erhang the void below; + Ah, some one force my feet away, + Or down I needs must go! + + See, see the horrid, crumbling slope! + It breathes up damp and fust! + What man would for his lost loves grope + Amid the charnel dust! + + Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high! + Methinks, with anguish dull, + I enter by the empty eye + Into a monstrous skull! + + Stumbling on what I dare not guess, + Blind-wading through the gloom, + Still down, still on, I sink, I press, + To meet some awful doom. + + My searching hands have caught a door + With iron clenched and barred: + Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core, + Grim Death keeps watch and ward! + + Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed, + As if a ghastly wind, + That never bore a leaf or cloud, + Were pressing hard behind. + + They shake, they groan, they outward strain: + What thing of dire dismay + Will freeze its form upon my brain, + And fright my soul away? + + They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack; + The bars, the doors divide; + A flood of glory at their back + Hath burst the portals wide! + + In flows a summer afternoon; + I know the very breeze! + It used to blow the silvery moon + About the summer trees. + + The gulf is filled with flashing tides; + Blue sky through boughs looks in; + Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides + A mazy arras spin. + + The empty church, the yawning cleft, + The earthy, dead despair + Are gone, and I alive am left + In sunshine and in air! + + + IV. + + Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly + Through the ivory wicket creep; + Then suddenly the inward eye + Sees them outside the sleep. + + Once, wandering in the border gray, + I spied one past me swim; + I caught it on its truant way + To nowhere in the dim. + + All o'er a steep of grassy ground, + Lay ruined statues old, + Such forms as never more are found + Save deep in ancient mould, + + A host of marble Anakim + Shattered in deadly fight! + Oh, what a wealth one broken limb + Had been to waking sight! + + But sudden, the weak mind to mock + That could not keep its own, + Without a shiver or a shock, + Behold, the dream was gone! + + For each dim form of marble rare + Stood broken rush or reed; + So bends on autumn field, long bare, + Some tall rain-battered weed. + + The shapeless night hung empty, drear, + O'er my scarce slumbering head; + There is no good in staying here, + My spirit moaned, and fled. + + + V. + + The simplest joys that daily pass + Grow ecstasies in sleep; + A wind on heights of waving grass + In a dream has made me weep. + + No wonder then my heart one night + Was joy-full to the brim: + I was with one whose love and might + Had drawn me close to him! + + But from a church into the street + Came pouring, crowding on, + A troubled throng with hurrying feet, + And Lo, my friend was gone! + + Alone upon a miry road + I walked a wretched plain; + Onward without a goal I strode + Through mist and drizzling rain. + + Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits, + And brick-fields scarred the globe; + Those wastes where desolation sits + Without her ancient robe. + + The dreariness, the nothingness + Grew worse almost than fear; + If ever hope was needful bliss, + Hope sure was needful here! + + Did potent wish work joyous change + Like wizard's glamour-spell? + Wishes not always fruitless range, + And sometimes it is well! + + I know not. Sudden sank the way, + Burst in the ocean-waves; + Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay, + Red rocks and sounding caves! + + Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask-- + Shall earthly dreams, forsooth, + Set the old Heavens too hard a task + To match them with the truth? + + + VI. + + Once more I build a dream, awake, + Which sleeping I would dream; + Once more an unborn fancy take + And try to make it seem! + Some strange delight shall fill my breast, + Enticed from sleep's abyss, + With sense of motion, yet of rest, + Of sleep, yet waking bliss! + + It comes!--I lie on something warm + That lifts me from below; + It rounds me like a mighty arm + Though soft as drifted snow. + A dream, indeed!--Oh, happy me + Whom Titan woman bears + Afloat upon a gentle sea + Of wandering midnight airs! + + A breeze, just cool enough to lave + With sense each conscious limb, + Glides round and under, like a wave + Of twilight growing dim! + She bears me over sleeping towns, + O'er murmuring ears of corn; + O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs, + O'er moorland wastes forlorn. + + The harebells in the mountain-pass + Flutter their blue about; + The myriad blades of meadow grass + Float scarce-heard music out. + Over the lake!--ah! nearer float, + Nearer the water's breast; + Let me look deeper--let me doat + Upon that lily-nest. + + Old homes we brush--in wood, on road; + Their windows do not shine; + Their dwellers must be all abroad + In lovely dreams like mine! + Hark--drifting syllables that break + Like foam-bells on fleet ships! + The little airs are all awake + With softly kissing lips. + + Light laughter ripples down the wind, + Sweet sighs float everywhere; + But when I look I nothing find, + For every star is there. + O lady lovely, lady strong, + Ungiven thy best gift lies! + Thou bear'st me in thine arms along, + Dost not reveal thine eyes! + + Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest, + In darts a pang of loss: + My outstretched hand, for hills of rest, + Finds only mounds of moss! + Faint and far off the stars appear; + The wind begins to weep; + 'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear, + And all but me asleep! + + + + + +ROADSIDE POEMS. + + + + +_BETTER THINGS_. + + + Better to smell the violet + Than sip the glowing wine; + Better to hearken to a brook + Than watch a diamond shine. + + Better to have a loving friend + Than ten admiring foes; + Better a daisy's earthy root + Than a gorgeous, dying rose. + + Better to love in loneliness + Than bask in love all day; + Better the fountain in the heart + Than the fountain by the way. + + Better be fed by mother's hand + Than eat alone at will; + Better to trust in God, than say, + My goods my storehouse fill. + + Better to be a little wise + Than in knowledge to abound; + Better to teach a child than toil + To fill perfection's round. + + Better to sit at some man's feet + Than thrill a listening state; + Better suspect that thou art proud + Than be sure that thou art great. + + Better to walk the realm unseen + Than watch the hour's event; + Better the _Well done, faithful slave_! + Than the air with shoutings rent. + + Better to have a quiet grief + Than many turbulent joys; + Better to miss thy manhood's aim + Than sacrifice the boy's. + + Better a death when work is done + Than earth's most favoured birth; + Better a child in God's great house + Than the king of all the earth. + + + + + +_AN OLD SERMON WITH A NEW TEXT_. + + + My wife contrived a fleecy thing + Her husband to infold, + For 'tis the pride of woman still + To cover from the cold: + My daughter made it a new text + For a sermon very old. + + The child came trotting to her side, + Ready with bootless aid: + "Lily make veckit for papa," + The tiny woman said: + Her mother gave the means and ways, + And a knot upon her thread. + + "Mamma, mamma!--it won't come through!" + In meek dismay she cried. + Her mother cut away the knot, + And she was satisfied, + Pulling the long thread through and through, + In fabricating pride. + + Her mother told me this: I caught + A glimpse of something more: + Great meanings often hide behind + The little word before! + And I brooded over my new text + Till the seed a sermon bore. + + Nannie, to you I preach it now-- + A little sermon, low: + Is it not thus a thousand times, + As through the world we go? + Do we not tug, and fret, and cry-- + Instead of _Yes, Lord--No_? + + While all the rough things that we meet + Which will not move a jot, + The hindrances to heart and feet, + _The Crook in every Lot_, + Mean plainly but that children's threads + Have at the end a knot. + + This world of life God weaves for us, + Nor spares he pains or cost, + But we must turn the web to clothes + And shield our hearts from frost: + Shall we, because the thread holds fast, + Count labour vain and lost? + + If he should cut away the knot, + And yield each fancy wild, + The hidden life within our hearts-- + His life, the undefiled-- + Would fare as ill as I should fare + From the needle of my child. + + As tack and sheet unto the sail, + As to my verse the rime, + + As mountains to the low green earth-- + So hard for feet to climb, + As call of striking clock amid + The quiet flow of time, + + As sculptor's mallet to the birth + Of the slow-dawning face, + As knot upon my Lily's thread + When she would work apace, + God's _Nay_ is such, and worketh so + For his children's coming grace. + + Who, knowing God's intent with him, + His birthright would refuse? + What makes us what we have to be + Is the only thing to choose: + We understand nor end nor means, + And yet his ways accuse! + + This is my sermon. It is preached + Against all fretful strife. + Chafe not with anything that is, + Nor cut it with thy knife. + Ah! be not angry with the knot + That holdeth fast thy life. + + + + + +_LITTLE ELFIE_. + + + I have a puppet-jointed child, + She's but three half-years old; + Through lawless hair her eyes gleam wild + With looks both shy and bold. + + Like little imps, her tiny hands + Dart out and push and take; + Chide her--a trembling thing she stands, + And like two leaves they shake. + + But to her mind a minute gone + Is like a year ago; + And when you lift your eyes anon, + Anon you must say _No_! + + Sometimes, though not oppressed with care, + She has her sleepless fits; + Then, blanket-swathed, in that round chair + The elfish mortal sits;-- + + Where, if by chance in mood more grave, + A hermit she appears + Propped in the opening of his cave, + Mummied almost with years; + + Or like an idol set upright + With folded legs for stem, + Ready to hear prayers all the night + And never answer them. + + But where's the idol-hermit thrust? + Her knees like flail-joints go! + Alternate kiss, her mother must, + Now that, now this big toe! + + I turn away from her, and write + For minutes three or four: + A tiny spectre, tall and white, + She's standing by the door! + + Then something comes into my head + That makes me stop and think: + She's on the table, the quadruped, + And dabbling in my ink! + + O Elfie, make no haste to lose + Thy ignorance of offence! + Thou hast the best gift I could choose, + A heavenly confidence. + + 'Tis time, long-white-gowned Mrs. Ham, + To put you in the ark! + Sleep, Elfie, God-infolded lamb, + Sleep shining through the dark. + + + + + +_RECIPROCITY_. + + + Her mother, Elfie older grown, + One evening, for adieu, + Said, "You'll not mind being left alone, + For God takes care of you!" + + In child-way her heart's eye did see + The correlation's node: + "Yes," she said, "God takes care o' me, + An' I take care o' God." + + The child and woman were the same, + She changed not, only grew; + 'Twixt God and her no shadow came: + The true is always true! + + As daughter, sister, promised wife, + Her heart with love did brim: + Now, sure, it brims as full of life, + Hid fourteen years in him! + + +1892. + + + + +_THE SHADOWS_. + + + My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks, + And dreamy, large, brown eyes, + Not often, little wisehead, speaks, + But hearing, weighs and tries. + + "God is not only in the sky," + His sister said one day-- + Not older much, but she would cry + Like Wisdom in the way-- + + "He's in this room." His dreamy, clear, + Large eyes look round for God: + In vain they search, in vain they peer; + His wits are all abroad! + + "He is not here, mamma? No, no; + I do not see him at all! + He's not the shadows, is he?" So + His doubtful accents fall-- + + Fall on my heart, no babble mere! + They rouse both love and shame: + But for earth's loneliness and fear, + I might be saying the same! + + Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break + And home the shadows flee, + In my dim room even yet I take + Those shadows, Lord, for thee! + + + + + +_THE CHILD-MOTHER_. + + + Heavily slumbered noonday bright + Upon the lone field, glory-dight, + A burnished grassy sea: + The child, in gorgeous golden hours, + Through heaven-descended starry flowers, + Went walking on the lea. + + Velvety bees make busy hum; + Green flies and striped wasps go and come; + The butterflies gleam white; + Blue-burning, vaporous, to and fro + The dragon-flies like arrows go, + Or hang in moveless flight:-- + + Not one she followed; like a rill + She wandered on with quiet will; + Received, but did not miss; + Her step was neither quick nor long; + Nought but a snatch of murmured song + Ever revealed her bliss. + + An almost solemn woman-child, + Not fashioned frolicsome and wild, + She had more love than glee; + And now, though nine and nothing more, + Another little child she bore, + Almost as big as she. + + No silken cloud from solar harms + Had she to spread; with shifting arms + She dodged him from the sun; + Mother and sister both in heart, + She did a gracious woman's part, + Life's task even now begun! + + They came upon a stagnant ditch, + The slippery sloping banks of which + More varied blossoms line; + Some ragged-robins baby spies, + Stretches his hands, and crows and cries, + Plain saying, "They are mine!" + + What baby wants, that baby has-- + A law unalterable as + The poor shall serve the rich: + They are beyond her reach--almost! + She kneels, she strains, and, too engrossed, + Topples into the ditch. + + Adown the side she slanting rolled, + But her two arms convulsive hold + The precious baby tight; + She lets herself sublimely go, + And in the ditch's muddy flow + Stands up, in evil plight. + + 'Tis nothing that her feet are wet, + But her new shoes she can't forget-- + They cost five shillings bright! + Her petticoat, her tippet blue, + Her frock, they're smeared with slime like glue! + But baby is all right! + + And baby laughs, and baby crows; + And baby being right, she knows + That nothing can be wrong; + So, with a troubled heart yet stout, + She plans how _ever_ to get out + With meditation long. + + The high bank's edge is far away, + The slope is steep, and made of clay; + And what to do with baby? + For even a monkey, up to run, + Would need his four hands, every one:-- + She is perplexed as may be. + + And all her puzzling is no good! + Blank-staring up the side she stood, + Which, settling she, grew higher. + At last, seized with a fresh dismay + Lest baby's patience should give way, + She plucked her feet from the mire, + + And up and down the ditch, not glad, + But patient, very, did promenade-- + Splash, splash, went her small feet! + And baby thought it rare good fun, + Sucking his bit of pulpy bun, + And smelling meadow-sweet. + + But, oh, the world that she had left-- + The meads from her so lately reft-- + Poor infant Proserpine! + A fabled land they lay above, + A paradise of sunny love, + In breezy space divine! + + Frequent from neighbouring village-green + Came sounds of laughter, faintly keen, + And barks of well-known dogs, + While she, the hot sun overhead, + Her lonely watery way must tread + In mud and weeds and frogs! + + Sudden, the ditch about her shakes; + Her little heart, responsive, quakes + With fear of uncouth woes; + She lifts her boding eyes perforce-- + To see the huge head of a horse + Go past upon its nose. + + Then, hark, what sounds of tearing grass + And puffing breath!--With knobs of brass + On horns of frightful size, + A cow's head through the broken hedge + Looks awful from the other edge, + Though mild her pondering eyes. + + The horse, the cow are passed and gone; + The sun keeps going on and on, + And still no help comes near.-- + At misery's last--oh joy, the sound + Of human footsteps on the ground! + She cried aloud, "_I_'m here!" + + It was a man--oh, heavenly joy! + He looked amazed at girl and boy, + And reached his hand so strong: + "Give me the child," he said; but no! + Care would not let the burden go + Which Love had borne so long. + + Smiling he kneels with outstretched hands, + And them unparted safely lands + In the upper world again. + Her low thanks feebly murmured, she + Drags her legs homeward painfully-- + Poor, wet, one-chickened hen! + + Arrived at length--Lo, scarce a speck + Was on the child from heel to neck, + Though she was sorely mired! + No tear confessed the long-drawn rack, + Till her mother took the baby back, + And the she cried, "I'm tired!" + + And, intermixed with sobbing wail, + She told her mother all the tale, + Her wet cheeks in a glow: + "But, mother, mother, though I fell, + I kept the baby pretty well-- + I did not let him go!" + + + + + +_HE HEEDED NOT_. + + + Of whispering trees the tongues to hear, + And sermons of the silent stone; + To read in brooks the print so clear + Of motion, shadowy light, and tone-- + That man hath neither eye nor ear + Who careth not for human moan. + + Yea, he who draws, in shrinking haste, + From sin that passeth helpless by; + The weak antennae of whose taste + From touch of alien grossness fly-- + Shall, banished to the outer waste, + Never in Nature's bosom lie. + + But he whose heart is full of grace + To his own kindred all about, + Shall find in lowest human face, + Blasted with wrong and dull with doubt, + More than in Nature's holiest place + Where mountains dwell and streams run out. + + Coarse cries of strife assailed my ear, + In suburb-ways, one summer morn; + A wretched alley I drew near + Whence on the air the sounds were borne-- + Growls breaking into curses clear, + And shrill retorts of keener scorn. + + Slow from its narrow entrance came, + His senses drowned with revels dire, + Scarce fit to answer to his name, + A man unconscious save of ire; + Fierce flashes of dull, fitful flame + Broke from the embers of his fire. + + He cast a glance of stupid hate + Behind him, every step he took, + Where followed him, like following fate, + An aged crone, with bloated look: + A something checked his listless gait; + She neared him, rating till she shook. + + Why stood he still to be disgraced? + What hindered? Lost in his employ, + His eager head high as his waist, + Half-buttressed him a tiny boy, + An earnest child, ill-clothed, pale-faced, + Whose eyes held neither hope nor joy. + + Perhaps you think he pushed, and pled + For one poor coin to keep the peace + With hunger! or home would have led + And given him up to sleep's release: + Well he might know the good of bed + To make the drunken fever cease! + + Not so; like unfledged, hungry bird + He stood on tiptoe, reaching higher, + But no expostulating word + Did in his anxious soul aspire; + With humbler care his heart was stirred, + With humbler service to his sire. + + He, sleepless-pale and wrathful red, + Though forward leaning, held his foot + Lest on the darling he should tread: + A misty sense had taken root + Somewhere in his bewildered head + That round him kindness hovered mute. + + The words his simmering rage did spill + Passed o'er the child like breeze o'er corn; + Safer than bee whose dodging skill + And myriad eyes the hail-shower scorn, + The boy, absorbed in loving will, + Buttoned his father's waistcoat worn. + + Over his calm, unconscious face + No motion passed, no change of mood; + Still as a pool in its own place, + Unsunned within a thick-leaved wood, + It kept its quiet shadowy grace, + As round it all things had been good. + + Was the boy deaf--the tender palm + Of him that made him folded round + The little head to keep it calm + With a _hitherto_ to every sound-- + And so nor curse nor shout nor psalm + Could thrill the globe thus grandly bound? + + Or came in force the happy law + That customed things themselves erase? + Or was he too intent for awe? + Did love take all the thinking place? + I cannot tell; I only saw + An earnest, fearless, hopeless face. + + + + + +_THE SHEEP AND THE GOAT_. + + + The thousand streets of London gray + Repel all country sights; + But bar not winds upon their way, + Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay + In depth of summer nights. + + And here and there an open spot, + Still bare to light and dark, + With grass receives the wanderer hot; + There trees are growing, houses not-- + They call the place a park. + + Soft creatures, with ungentle guides, + God's sheep from hill and plain, + Flow thitherward in fitful tides, + There weary lie on woolly sides, + Or crop the grass amain. + + And from dark alley, yard, and den, + In ragged skirts and coats, + Come thither children of poor men, + Wild things, untaught of word or pen-- + The little human goats. + + In Regent's Park, one cloudless day, + An overdriven sheep, + Come a hard, long, and dusty way, + Throbbing with thirst and hotness lay, + A panting woollen heap. + + But help is nearer than we know + For ills of every name: + Ragged enough to scare the crow, + But with a heart to pity woe, + A quick-eyed urchin came. + + Little he knew of field or fold, + Yet knew what ailed; his cap + Was ready cup for water cold; + Though creased, and stained, and very old, + 'Twas not much torn, good hap! + + Shaping the rim and crown he went, + Till crown from rim was deep; + The water gushed from pore and rent, + Before he came one half was spent-- + The other saved the sheep. + + O little goat, born, bred in ill, + Unwashed, half-fed, unshorn, + Thou to the sheep from breezy hill + Wast bishop, pastor, what you will, + In London dry and lorn! + + And let priests say the thing they please, + My faith, though poor and dim, + Thinks he will say who always sees, + In doing it to one of these + Thou didst it unto him. + + + + +_THE WAKEFUL SLEEPER_. + + + When things are holding wonted pace + In wonted paths, without a trace + Or hint of neighbouring wonder, + Sometimes, from other realms, a tone, + A scent, a vision, swift, alone, + Breaks common life asunder. + + Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door, + It makes you ponder something more-- + Unseen with seen things linking: + To neighbours met one festive night, + Was given a quaint and lovely sight, + That set some of them thinking. + + They stand, in music's fetters bound + By a clear brook of warbled sound, + A canzonet of Haydn, + When the door slowly comes ajar-- + A little further--just as far + As shows a tiny maiden. + + Softly she enters, her pink toes + Daintily peeping, as she goes, + Her long nightgown from under. + The varied mien, the questioning look + Were worth a picture; but she took + No notice of their wonder. + + They made a path, and she went through; + She had her little chair in view + Close by the chimney-corner; + She turned, sat down before them all, + Stately as princess at a ball, + And silent as a mourner. + + Then looking closer yet, they spy + What mazedness hid from every eye + As ghost-like she came creeping: + They see that though sweet little Rose + Her settled way unerring goes, + Plainly the child is sleeping. + + "Play on, sing on," the mother said; + "Oft music draws her from her bed."-- + Dumb Echo, she sat listening; + Over her face the sweet concent + Like winds o'er placid waters went, + Her cheeks like eyes were glistening. + + Her hands tight-clasped her bent knees hold + Like long grass drooping on the wold + Her sightless head is bending; + She sits all ears, and drinks her fill, + Then rising goes, sedate and still, + On silent white feet wending. + + Surely, while she was listening so, + Glad thoughts in her went to and fro + Preparing her 'gainst sorrow, + And ripening faith for that sure day + When earnest first looks out of play, + And thought out of to-morrow. + + She will not know from what fair skies + Troop hopes to front anxieties-- + In what far fields they gather, + Until she knows that even in sleep, + Yea, in the dark of trouble deep, + The child is with the Father. + + + + +_A DREAM OF WAKING_. + + + A child was born in sin and shame, + Wronged by his very birth, + Without a home, without a name, + One over in the earth. + + No wifely triumph he inspired, + Allayed no husband's fear; + Intruder bare, whom none desired, + He had a welcome drear. + + Heaven's beggar, all but turned adrift + For knocking at earth's gate, + His mother, like an evil gift, + Shunned him with sickly hate. + + And now the mistress on her knee + The unloved baby bore, + The while the servant sullenly + Prepared to leave her door. + + Her eggs are dear to mother-dove, + Her chickens to the hen; + All young ones bring with them their love, + Of sheep, or goats, or men! + + This one lone child shall not have come + In vain for love to seek: + Let mother's hardened heart be dumb, + A sister-babe will speak! + + "Mother, keep baby--keep him _so_; + Don't let him go away." + "But, darling, if his mother go, + Poor baby cannot stay." + + "He's crying, mother: don't you see + He wants to stay with you?" + "No, child; he does not care for me." + "Do keep him, mother--_do_." + + "For his own mother he would cry; + He's hungry now, I think." + "Give him to me, and let _me_ try + If I can make him drink." + + "Susan would hurt him! Mother _will_ + Let the poor baby stay?" + Her mother's heart grew sore, but still + Baby must go away! + + The red lip trembled; the slow tears + Came darkening in her eyes; + Pressed on her heart a weight of fears + That sought not ease in cries. + + 'Twas torture--must not be endured!-- + A too outrageous grief! + Was there an ill could _not_ be cured? + She _would_ find some relief! + + All round her universe she pried: + No dawn began to break: + In prophet-agony she cried-- + "Mother! when _shall_ we wake?" + + O insight born of torture's might!-- + Such grief _can_ only seem. + Rise o'er the hills, eternal light, + And melt the earthly dream. + + + + + +_A MANCHESTER POEM_. + + + 'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. + The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold + The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, + And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks, + A black precipitate, on miry streets. + And faces gray glide through the darkened fog. + + Slave engines utter again their ugly growl, + And soon the iron bands and blocks of stone + That prison them to their task, will strain and quiver + Until the city tremble. The clamour of bells, + Importunate, keeps calling pale-faced forms + To gather and feed those Samsons' groaning strength + With labour; and among the many come + A man and woman--the woman with her gown + Drawn over her head, the man with bended neck + Submissive to the rain. Amid the jar, + And clash, and shudder of the awful force, + They enter and part--each to a different task, + But each a soul of knowledge to brute force, + Working a will through the organized whole + Of cranks and belts and levers, pinions and screws + Wherewith small man has eked his body out, + And made himself a mighty, weary giant. + In labour close they pass the murky day, + 'Mid floating dust of swift-revolving wheels, + And filmy spoil of quick contorted threads, + Which weave a sultry chaos all about; + Until, at length, old darkness, swelling slow + Up from the caves of night to make an end, + Chokes in its tide the clanking of the looms, + The monster-engines, and the flying gear. + 'Tis Earth that draws her curtains, and calls home + Her little ones, and sets her down to nurse + Her tired children--like a mother-ghost + With her neglected darlings in the dark. + So out they walk, with sense of glad release, + And home--to a dreary place! Unfinished walls, + Earth-heaps, and broken bricks, and muddy pools + Lie round it like a rampart against the spring, + The summer, and all sieges of the year. + + But, Lo, the dark has opened an eye of fire! + The room reveals a temple, witnessed by signs + Seen in the ancient place! Lo, here is light, + Yea, burning fire, with darkness on its skirts; + Pure water, ready to baptize; and bread; + And in the twilight edges of the light, + A book; and, for the cunning-woven veil, + Their faces--hiding God's own holiest place! + Even their bed figures the would-be grave + Where One arose triumphant, slept no more! + So at their altar-table they sit down + To eat their Eucharist; for, to the heart + That reads the live will in the dead command, + _He_ is the bread, yea, all of every meal. + But as, in weary rest, they silent sit, + They gradually grow aware of light + That overcomes their lamp, and, through the blind, + Casts from the window-frame two shadow-glooms + That make a cross of darkness on the white. + The woman rises, eagerly looks out: + Lo, some fair wind has mown the earth-sprung fog, + And, far aloft, the white exultant moon, + From her blue window, curtained all with white, + Looks greeting them--God's creatures they and she! + Smiling she turns; he understands the smile: + To-morrow will be fair--as holy, fair! + And lying down, in sleep they die till morn, + While through their night throb low aurora-gleams + Of resurrection and the coming dawn. + They wake: 'tis Sunday. Still the moon is there, + But thin and ghostly--clothed upon with light, + As if, while they were sleeping, she had died. + They dress themselves, like priests, in clean attire, + And, through their lowly door, enter God's room. + The sun is up, the emblem on his shield. + One side the street, the windows all are moons + To light the other side that lies in shade. + See, down the sun-side, an old woman come + In a red cloak that makes the whole street glad! + A long-belated autumn-flower she seems, + Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life + Up hidden stairs to see the calling sun, + But in her cloak and smile they know the spring, + And haste to meet her through slow dissolving streets + Widening to larger glimmers of growing green. + Oh, far away the streets repel the spring! + Yet every stone in the dull pavement shares + The life that thrills anew the outworn earth, + A right Bethesda angel--for all, not some! + + A street unfinished leads them forth at length + Where green fields bask, and hedgerow trees, apart, + Stand waiting in the air as for some good, + And the sky is broad and blue--and there is all! + No peaceful river meditates along + The weary flat to the less level sea! + No forest brown, on pillared stems, its boughs + Meeting in gothic arches, bears aloft + A groined vault, fretted with tremulous leaves! + No mountains lift their snows, and send their brooks + Down babbling with the news of silent things! + But love itself is commonest of all, + And loveliest of all, in all the worlds! + And he that hath not forest, brook, or hill, + Must learn to read aright what commoner books + Unfold before him. If ocean solitudes-- + Then darkness dashed with glory, infinite shades, + And misty minglings of the sea and sky. + If only fields--the humble man of heart + Will revel in the grass beneath his foot, + And from the lea lift his glad eye to heaven, + God's palette, where his careless painter-hand + Sweeps comet-clouds that net the gazing soul; + Streaks endless stairs, and blots half-sculptured blocks; + Curves filmy pallors; heaps huge mountain-crags; + Nor touches where it leaves not beauty's mark. + To them the sun and air are feast enough, + As through field-paths and lanes they slowly walk; + But sometimes, on the far horizon dim + A veil is lifted, and they spy the hills, + Cloudlike and faint, yet sharp against the sky; + Then wakes an unknown want, which asks and looks + As for some thing forgot--loved long ago, + But on the hither verge of childhood dropt: + 'Tis but home-sickness roused in the soul by Spring! + Fresh birth and eager growth, reviving life, + Which _is_ because it _would be_, fill the world; + The very light is new-born with the grass; + The stones themselves are warm; the brown earth swells, + Filled, sponge-like, with dark beams, which nestle close + And brood unseen and shy, and potent warm + In every little corner, nest, and crack + Where buried lurks a blind and sleepy seed + Waiting the touch of the finger of the sun. + The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life + Oozes exuberant in brown and green, + Are clad in golden splendours, crossed and lined + With shuttle-shadows weaving lovely change. + Through the tree-tops the west wind rushing goes, + Calling and rousing the dull sap within: + The fine jar down the stem sinks tremulous, + From airy root thrilling to earthy branch. + And though as yet no buddy baby dots + Sparkle the darkness of the hedgerow twigs, + The smoke-dried bark appears to spread and swell + In the soft nurture of the warm light-bath. + The sun had left behind him the keystone + Of his low arch half-way when they turned home, + Filled with pure air, and light, and operant spring: + Back, like the bees, they went to their dark house + To store their innocent spoil in honeyed thought. + + But on their way, crossing a field, they chanced + Upon a spot where once had been a home, + And roots of walls still peered out, grown with moss. + 'Twas a dead cottage, mouldered quite, where yet + Lay the old shadow of a vanished care; + The little garden's blunt, half-blotted map + Was yet discernible by thinner grass + Upon the walks. There, in the midst of dry + Bushes, dead flowers, rampant, uncomely weeds, + A single snowdrop drooped its snowy drop, + The lonely remnant of a family + That in the garden dwelt about the home-- + Reviving with the spring when home was gone: + They see; its spiritual counterpart + Wakes up and blossoms white in their meek souls-- + A longing, patient, waiting hopefulness, + The snowdrop of the heart; a heavenly child, + That, pale with the earthly cold, hangs its fair head + As it had nought to say 'gainst any world; + While they in whom it dwells, nor knows itself, + Inherit in their meekness all the worlds. + + I love thee, flower, as a slow lingerer + Upon the verge of my humanity. + Lo, on thine inner leaves and in thy heart + The loveliest green, acknowledging the grass-- + White-minded memory of lowly friends! + But almost more I love thee for the earth + Which clings to thy transfigured radiancy, + Uplifted with thee from thine abandoned grave; + Say rather the soiling of thy garments pure + Upon thy road into the light and air, + The heaven of thy new birth. Some gentle rain + Will one day wash thee white, and send the earth + Back to the earth; but, sweet friend, while it clings, + I love the cognizance of our family. + + With careful hands uprooting it, they bore + The little plant a willing captive home-- + Fearless of dark abode, because secure + In its own tale of light. As once of old + The angel of the annunciation shone, + Bearing all heaven into a common house, + It brings in with it field and sky and air. + A pot of mould its one poor tie to earth, + Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, + Its world the priests of that small temple-room, + It takes its prophet-place with fire and book, + Type of primeval spring, whose mighty arc + Hath not yet drawn the summer up the sky. + At night, when the dark shadow of the cross + Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and wan + Like a pale mourner at its foot the flower + Will, drooping, wait the dawn. Then the dark bird + Which holds breast-caged the secret of the sun, + And therefore hangs himself a prisoner caged, + Will break into its song--Lo, God is light! + + Weary and hopeful, to their sleep they go; + And all night long the snowdrop glimmers white + Thinning the dark, unknowing it, and unseen. + + * * * * * + + Out of my verse I woke, and saw my room, + My precious books, the cherub-forms above, + And rose, and walked abroad, and sought the woods; + And roving odours met me on my way. + I entered Nature's church, a shimmering vault + Of boughs, and clouded leaves--filmy and pale + Betwixt me and the sun, while at my feet + Their shadows, dark and seeming solid, lay + Like tombstones o'er the vanished flowers of Spring. + The place was silent, save for the broken song + Of some Memnonian, glory-stricken bird + That burst into a carol and was still; + It was not lonely: golden beetles crept, + Green goblins, in the roots; and squirrel things + Ran, wild as cherubs, through the tracery; + And here and yonder a flaky butterfly + Was doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. + But 'twixt my heart and summer's perfect grace, + Drove a dividing wedge, and far away + It seemed, like voice heard loud yet far away + By one who, waking half, soon sleeps outright:-- + Where was the snowdrop? where the flower of hope? + In me the spring was throbbing; round me lay + Resting fulfilled, the odour-breathing summer! + My heart heaved swelling like a prisoned bud, + And summer crushed it with its weight of light! + + Winter is full of stings and sharp reproofs, + Healthsome, not hurtful, but yet hurting sore; + Summer is too complete for growing hearts-- + Too idle its noons, its morns too triumphing, + Too full of slumberous dreams its dusky eves; + Autumn is full of ripeness and the grave; + We need a broken season, where the cloud + Is ruffled into glory, and the dark + Falls rainful o'er the sunset; need a world + Whose shadows ever point away from it; + A scheme of cones abrupt, and flattened spheres, + And circles cut, and perfect laws the while + That marvellous imperfection ever points + To higher perfectness than heart can think; + Therefore to us, a flower of harassed Spring, + Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, + Is lovely as was never rosiest rose; + A heath-bell on a waste, lonely and dry, + Says more than lily, stately in breathing white; + A window through a vaulted roof of rain + Lets in a light that comes from farther away, + And, sinking deeper, spreads a finer joy + Than cloudless noon-tide splendorous o'er the world: + Man seeks a better home than Paradise; + Therefore high hope is more than deepest joy, + A disappointment better than a feast, + And the first daisy on a wind-swept lea + Dearer than Eden-groves with rivers four. + + + + + +_WHAT THE LORD SAITH_. + + + Trust my father, saith the eldest-born; + I did trust him ere the earth began; + Not to know him is to be forlorn; + Not to love him is--not to be man. + + He that knows him loves him altogether; + With my father I am so content + That through all this dreary human weather + I am working, waiting, confident. + + He is with me; I am not alone; + Life is bliss, because I am his child; + Down in Hades will I lay the stone + Whence shall rise to Heaven his city piled. + + Hearken, brothers, pray you, to my story! + Hear me, sister; hearken, child, to me: + Our one father is a perfect glory; + He is light, and there is none but he. + + Come then with me; I will lead the way; + All of you, sore-hearted, heavy-shod, + Come to father, yours and mine, I pray; + Little ones, I pray you, come to God! + + + + + +_HOW SHALL HE SING WHO HATH NO SONG_? + + + How shall he sing who hath no song? + He laugh who hath no mirth? + Will cannot wake the sleeping song! + Yea, Love itself in vain may long + To sing with them that have a song, + Or, mirthless, laugh with Mirth! + He who would sing but hath no song + Must speak the right, denounce the wrong, + Must humbly front the indignant throng, + Must yield his back to Satire's thong, + Nor shield his face from liar's prong, + Must say and do and be the truth, + And fearless wait for what ensueth, + Wait, wait, with patience sweet and strong, + Until God's glory fill the earth; + Then shall he sing who had no song, + He laugh who had no mirth! + + Yea, if in land of stony dearth + Like barren rock thou sit, + Round which the phantom-waters flit + Of heart- and brain-mirage + That can no thirst assuage, + Yet be thou still, and wait, wait long; + A right sea comes to drown the wrong; + God's glory comes to fill the earth, + And thou, no more a scathed rock, + Shalt start alive with gladsome shock, + Shalt a hand-clapping billow be, + And shout with the eternal sea! + + To righteousness and love belong + The dance, the jubilance, the song, + When the great Right hath quelled the wrong, + And Truth hath stilled the lying tongue! + Then men must sing because of song, + And laugh because of mirth! + And this shall be their anthem strong-- + Hallow! the glad God fills the earth, + And Love sits down by every hearth! + + + + + +_THIS WORLD_. + + + Thy world is made to fit thine own, + A nursery for thy children small, + The playground-footstool of thy throne, + Thy solemn school-room, Father of all! + When day is done, in twilight's gloom, + We pass into thy presence-room. + + Because from selfishness and wrath, + Our cold and hot extremes of ill, + We grope and stagger on the path-- + Thou tell'st us from thy holy hill, + With icy storms and sunshine rude, + That we are all unripe in good. + + Because of snaky things that creep + Through our soul's sea, dim-undulant, + Thou fill'st the mystery of thy deep + With faces heartless, grim, and gaunt; + That we may know how ugly seem + The things our spirit-oceans teem. + + Because of half-way things that hold + Good names, and have a poisonous breath-- + Prudence that is but trust in gold, + And faith that is but fear of death-- + Amongst thy flowers, the lovely brood, + Thou sendest some that are not good. + + Thou stay'st thy hand from finishing things + To make thy child love the complete; + Full many a flower comes up thy springs + Unshamed in imperfection sweet; + That through good all, and good in part, + Thy work be perfect in the heart. + + Because, in careless confidence, + So oft we leave the narrow way, + Its borders thorny hedges fence, + Beyond them marshy deeps affray; + But farther on, the heavenly road + Lies through the gardens of our God. + + Because thy sheep so often will + Forsake the meadow cool and damp + To climb the stony, grassless hill, + Or wallow in the slimy swamp, + Thy sicknesses, where'er they roam, + Go after them to bring them home. + + One day, all fear, all ugliness, + All pain, all discord, dumb or loud, + All selfishness, and all distress, + Will melt like low-spread morning cloud, + And heart and brain be free from thrall, + Because thou, God, art all in all! + + + + + +_SAINT PETER_. + + + O Peter, wherefore didst thou doubt? + Indeed the spray flew fast about, + But he was there whose walking foot + Could make the wandering hills take root; + And he had said, "Come down to me," + Else hadst thou not set foot on sea! + Christ did not call thee to thy grave! + Was it the boat that made thee brave? + + "Easy for thee who wast not there + To think thou more than I couldst dare! + It hardly fits thee though to mock + Scared as thou wast that railway shock! + Who saidst this morn, 'Wife, we must go-- + The plague will soon be here, I know!' + Who, when thy child slept--not to death-- + Saidst, 'Life is now not worth a breath!'" + + Saint Peter, thou rebukest well! + It needs no tempest me to quell, + Not even a spent lash of its spray! + Things far too little to affray + Will wake the doubt that's worst of all-- + Is there a God to hear me call? + But if he be, I never think + That he will hear and let me sink! + + Lord of my little faith, my Lord, + Help me to fear nor fire nor sword; + Let not the cross itself appall + Which bore thee, Life and Lord of all; + Let reeling brain nor fainting heart + Wipe out the soreness that thou art; + Dwell farther in than doubt can go, + And make _I hope_ become _I know_. + Then, sure, if thou should please to say, + "Come to my side," some stormy way, + My feet, atoning to thy will, + Shall, heaved and tossed, walk toward thee still; + No heart of lead shall sink me where + Prudence lies crowned with cold despair, + But I shall reach and clasp thy hand, + And on the sea forget the land! + + + + + +_ZACCHAEUS_. + + + To whom the heavy burden clings, + It yet may serve him like a staff; + One day the cross will break in wings, + The sinner laugh a holy laugh. + + The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree, + His humble stature set him high; + The Lord the little man did see + Who sought the great man passing by. + + Up to the tree he came, and stopped: + "To-day," he said, "with thee I bide." + A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped, + Ripe for the Master, at his side. + + Sure never host with gladder look + A welcome guest home with him bore! + Then rose the Satan of rebuke + And loudly spake beside the door: + + "This is no place for holy feet; + Sinners should house and eat alone! + This man sits in the stranger's seat + And grinds the faces of his own!" + + Outspoke the man, in Truth's own might: + "Lord, half my goods I give the poor; + If one I've taken more than right + With four I make atonement sure!" + + "Salvation here is entered in; + This man indeed is Abraham's son!" + Said he who came the lost to win-- + And saved the lost whom he had won. + + + + + +_AFTER THOMAS KEMPIS_. + + + I. + + Who follows Jesus shall not walk + In darksome road with danger rife; + But in his heart the Truth will talk, + And on his way will shine the Life. + + So, on the story we must pore + Of him who lives for us, and died, + That we may see him walk before, + And know the Father in the guide. + + + II. + + In words of truth Christ all excels, + Leaves all his holy ones behind; + And he in whom his spirit dwells + Their hidden manna sure shall find. + + Gather wouldst thou the perfect grains, + And Jesus fully understand? + Thou must obey him with huge pains, + And to God's will be as Christ's hand. + + + III. + + What profits it to reason high + And in hard questions court dispute, + When thou dost lack humility, + Displeasing God at very root! + + Profoundest words man ever spake + Not once of blame washed any clear; + A simple life alone could make + Nathanael to his master dear. + + + IV. + + The eye with seeing is not filled, + The ear with hearing not at rest; + Desire with having is not stilled; + With human praise no heart is blest. + + Vanity, then, of vanities + All things for which men grasp and grope! + The precious things in heavenly eyes + Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope. + + + V. + + Better the clown who God doth love + Than he that high can go + And name each little star above + But sees not God below! + + What if all things on earth I knew, + Yea, love were all my creed, + It serveth nothing with the True; + He goes by heart and deed. + + + VI. + + If thou dost think thy knowledge good, + Thy intellect not slow, + Bethink thee of the multitude + Of things thou dost not know. + + Why look on any from on high + Because thou knowest more? + Thou need'st but look abroad, to spy + Ten thousand thee before. + + Wouldst thou in knowledge true advance + And gather learning's fruit, + In love confess thy ignorance, + And thy Self-love confute. + + + VII. + + This is the highest learning, + The hardest and the best-- + From self to keep still turning, + And honour all the rest. + + If one should break the letter, + Yea, spirit of command, + Think not that thou art better, + Thou may'st not always stand! + + We all are weak--but weaker + Hold no one than thou art; + Then, as thou growest meeker, + Higher will go thy heart. + + + VIII. + + Sense and judgment oft indeed + Spy but little and mislead, + Ground us on a shelf! + + Happy he whom Truth doth teach, + Not by forms of passing speech, + But her very self! + + Why of hidden things dispute, + Mind unwise, howe'er astute, + Making that thy task + Where the Judge will, at the last, + When disputing all is past, + Not a question ask? + + Folly great it is to brood + Over neither bad nor good, + Eyes and ears unheedful! + Ears and eyes, ah, open wide + For what may be heard or spied + Of the one thing needful! + + + + + +TO AND OF FRIENDS. + + + + +_TO LADY NOEL BYRON_. + + + Men sought, ambition's thirst to slake, + The lost elixir old + Whose magic touch should instant make + The meaner metals gold. + + A nobler alchymy is thine + Which love from pain doth press: + Gold in thy hand becomes divine, + Grows truth and tenderness. + + + + + +_TO THE SAME_. + + + Dead, why defend thee, who in life + For thy worst foe hadst died; + Who, thy own name a word of strife, + Didst silent stand aside? + + Grand in forgiveness, what to thee + The big world's puny prate! + Or thy great heart hath ceased to be + Or loveth still its mate! + + + + +_TO AURELIO SAFFI_. + + + _To God and man be simply true; + Do as thou hast been wont to do; + Bring out thy treasures, old and new_-- + Mean all the same when said to you. + + I love thee: thou art calm and strong; + Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; + Thy heart, in every raging throng, + A chamber shut for prayer and song. + + Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know, + Although thy aims so lofty go + They need as long to root and grow + As infant hills to reach the snow. + + Press on and prosper, holy friend! + I, weak and ignorant, would lend + A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send + Prospering onward without end. + + + + + +_A THANKSGIVING FOR F. D. MAURICE_. + + + The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him + Who next it stood before us, first so long, + We see not; but between the cherubim + The light burns clearer: come--a thankful song! + + Lord, for thy prophet's calm commanding voice, + For his majestic innocence and truth, + For his unswerving purity of choice, + For all his tender wrath and plenteous ruth; + + For his obedient, wise, clear-listening care + To hear for us what word The Word would say, + For all the trembling fervency of prayer + With which he led our souls the prayerful way; + + For all the heavenly glory of his face + That caught the white Transfiguration's shine + And cast on us the reflex of thy grace-- + Of all thy men late left, the most divine; + + For all his learning, and the thought of power + That seized thy one Idea everywhere, + Brought the eternal down into the hour, + And taught the dead thy life to claim and share; + + For his humility, dove-clear of guile;-- + The sin denouncing, he, like thy great Paul, + Still claimed in it the greatest share, the while + Our eyes, love-sharpened, saw him best of all! + + For his high victories over sin and fear, + The captive hope his words of truth set free; + For his abiding memory, holy, dear; + Last, for his death and hiding now in thee, + + We praise, we magnify thee, Lord of him: + Thou hast him still; he ever was thine own; + Nor shall our tears prevail the path to dim + That leads where, lowly still, he haunts thy throne. + + When thou, O Lord, ascendedst up on high + Good gifts thou sentest down to cheer thy men: + Lo, he ascends!--we follow with the cry, + His spirit send thou back in thine again. + + + + + +_GEORGE ROLLESTON_. + + + Dead art thou? No more dead than was the maid + Over whose couch the saving God did stand-- + "She is not dead but sleepeth," said, + And took her by the hand! + + Thee knowledge never from Life's pathway wiled, + But following still where life's great father led, + He turned, and taking up his child, + Raised thee too from the dead, + + O living, thou hast passed thy second birth, + Found all things new, and some things lovely strange; + But thou wilt not forget the earth, + Or in thy loving change! + + + + + +TO GORDON, LEAVING KHARTOUM. + + + The silence of traitorous feet! + The silence of close-pent rage! + The roar, and the sudden heart-beat! + And the shot through the true heart going, + The truest heart of the age! + And the Nile serenely flowing! + + Carnage and curses and cries! + He utters never a word; + Still as a child he lies; + The wind of the desert is blowing + Across the dead man of the Lord; + And the Nile is softly flowing. + + But the song is stilled in heaven + To welcome one more king: + For the truth he hath witnessed and striven, + And let the world go crowing, + And Mammon's church-bell go ring, + And the Nile blood-red go flowing! + + Man who hated the sword + Yet wielded the sword and axe-- + Farewell, O arm of the Lord, + The Lord's own harvest mowing-- + With a wind in the smoking flax + Where our foul rivers are flowing! + + In war thou didst cherish peace, + Thou slewest for love of life: + Hail, hail thy stormy release + Go home and await thy sowing, + The patient flower of thy strife, + Thy bread on the Nile cast flowing. + + Not thy earth to our earth alone, + Thy spirit is left with us! + Thy body is victory's throne, + And our hearts around it are glowing: + Would that we others died thus + Where the Thames and the Clyde are flowing! + + + + + +_SONG OF THE SAINTS AND ANGELS_, + +JANUARY 26, 1885. + + + Gordon, the self-refusing, + Gordon, the lover of God, + Gordon, the good part choosing, + Welcome along the road! + + Thou knowest the man, O Father! + To do thy will he ran; + Men's praises he did not gather: + There is scarce such another man! + + Thy black sheep's faithful shepherd + Who knew not how to flee, + Is torn by the desert leopard, + And comes wounded home to thee! + + Home he is coming the faster + That the way he could not miss: + In thy arms, oh take him, Master, + And heal him with a kiss! + + Then give him a thousand cities + To rule till their evils cease, + And their wailing minor ditties + Die in a psalm of peace. + + + + +_FAILURE_. + + + Farewell, O Arm of the Lord! + Man who hated the sword, + Yet struck and spared not the thing abhorred! + Farewell, O word of the Word! + Man who knew no failure + But the failure of the Lord! + + + + + +_TO E. G., DEDICATING A BOOK_. + + + A broken tale of endless things, + Take, lady: thou art not of those + Who in what vale a fountain springs + Would have its journey close. + + Countless beginnings, fair first parts, + Leap to the light, and shining flow; + All broken things, or toys or hearts, + Are mended where they go. + + Then down thy stream, with hope-filled sail, + Float faithful fearless on, loved friend; + 'Tis God that has begun the tale + And does not mean to end. + + + + + +_TO G. M. T_. + + + The sun is sinking in the west, + Long grow the shadows dim; + Have patience, sister, to be blest, + Wait patiently for Him. + + Thou knowest love, much love hast had, + Great things of love mayst tell, + Ought'st never to be very sad + For thou too hast lov'd well. + + His house thou know'st, who on the brink + Of death loved more than thou, + Loved more than thy great heart can think, + And just as then loves now-- + + In that great house is one who waits + For thy slow-coming foot; + Glad is he with his angel-mates + Yet often listens mute, + + For he of all men loves thee best: + He haunts the heavenly clock; + Ah, he has long been up and drest + To open to thy knock! + + Fear not, doubt not because of those + On whom earth's keen winds blow; + God's love shames all our pitying woes, + Be ready thou to go. + + Forsaken dream not hearts which here + Bask in no sunny shine; + Each shall one coming day be dear + To love as good as thine. + + + + + +_IN MEMORIUM_ + +_LADY CAROLINE CHARTERIS_. + + + The mountain-stream may humbly boast + For her the loud waves call; + The hamlet feeds the nation's host, + The home-farm feeds the hall; + + And unto earth heaven's Lord doth lend + The right, of high import, + The gladsome privilege to send + New courtiers to Love's court. + + Not strange to thee, O lady dear, + Life in that palace fair, + For thou while waiting with us here + Didst just as they do there! + + Thy heart still open to receive, + Open thy hand to give, + God had thee graced with more than leave + In heavenly state to live! + + And though thou art gone up so high + Thou art not gone so far + But that thy love to us comes nigh, + As starlight from a star. + + And ours must reach where'er thou art, + In far or near abode, + For God is of all love the heart, + And we are all in God. + + + +END OF VOL. I. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE MACDONALD IN TWO VOLUMES, VOLUME I *** + +This file should be named 8pgm110.txt or 8pgm110.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, 8pgm111.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, 8pgm110a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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