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The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell

With Introductory Notice and Memoir by John Nichol
Dobell, Sydney (1824-1874)

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VOL. I.
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VOL. II.
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BALDER. PART THE FIRST.
 I. 
SCENE I.
 II. 
SCENE II.
 III. 
SCENE III.
 IV. 
SCENE IV.
 V. 
SCENE V.
 VI. 
SCENE VI.
 VII. 
SCENE VII.
 VIII. 
SCENE VIII.
 IX. 
SCENE IX.
 X. 
SCENE X.
 XI. 
SCENE XI.
 XII. 
SCENE XII.
 XIII. 
SCENE XIII.
 XIV. 
SCENE XIV.
 XV. 
SCENE XV.
 XVI. 
SCENE XVI.
 XVII. 
SCENE XVII.
 XVIII. 
SCENE XVIII.
 XIX. 
SCENE XIX.
 XX. 
SCENE XX.
 XXI. 
SCENE XXI.
 XXII. 
SCENE XXII.
 XXIII. 
SCENE XXIII.
 XXIV. 
SCENE XXIV.
 XXV. 
SCENE XXV.
 XXVI. 
SCENE XXVI.
 XXVII. 
SCENE XXVII.
 XXVIII. 
SCENE XXVIII.
 XXIX. 
SCENE XXIX.
 XXX. 
SCENE XXX.
 XXXI. 
SCENE XXXI.
 XXXII. 
SCENE XXXII.
 XXXIII. 
SCENE XXXIII.
 XXXIV. 
SCENE XXXIV.
 XXXV. 
SCENE XXXV.
 XXXVI. 
SCENE XXXVI.
 XXXVII. 
SCENE XXXVII.
 XXXVIII. 
SCENE XXXVIII.
 XXXIX. 
SCENE XXXIX.
 XL. 
SCENE XL.
 XLI. 
SCENE XLI.
 XLII. 
SCENE XLII.
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LATER MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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SONNETS AND OTHER SHORT POEMS.

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32

SCENE IV.

The Empty Study.
Through the half-open Door is heard the voice of Amy.
Amy.
My lord, that walkest thro' the universe,
Did I not go beside thee, as a child,
With humble step and looking to thy face?
My king, who reignest wheresoe'er thou art!
All do thy hest, my King! but who as I?
Hast thou not all thy subjects here in me?
My husband, who hast loved me like a god,
And blessed me, surely I did well to love
Thee as a god?—but can a god forget?
Wherein have I offended? Nay, thy brow
Is sweet and cloudless—I have done no ill.
My husband, have I not been still thy bird,
Thy dove, thy snow-white dove, upon thy wrist,
Or in thy breast, or feeding from thy lips,
Or round thine head, or fluttering with fond feint
Before thy footsteps—with mine eyes on thee?
Was I not as a lamb around thy feet,
That loved thee? For my neck thou didst entwine
33

Sweet garlands and I followed thee, nor knew
The inexorable sadness, till a door
Opened, and thou art among men, and I
Am but a lamb, and bleat about the gate.
My husband, I have been an orphan fawn
That ran beside the cubless lioness;
Who spared her, and did make with her what sport
Befits the offspring of the forest king.
And the poor fawn still gambolled in her blood.
Have I not been a moth about thy light
Scorched, scorched; but, husband! when the wound was worst,
Winging with madder passion still to thee!
Wert thou not always as a crescent moon,
And I thy star within thee, till the time
Came, and the lengthening distance, and I knew
My rising and my setting were not thine.
Oh was I not a floweret in thine hand
When thou didst stand upon the peak of thought
Gazing to heaven, which with a thunder-shock
Rolled back, and angels came to thee, and thou
Didst stretch to them thine open hands uplift
In welcome, and I fell to where I am.
34

I think they touched thine eyes, and that thenceforth
Thou seest all things clearly, and me here,
Nor knowest it is very far from thee.
Oh husband! it is night here in the vale,
And I lie on the rugged earth who had
Thy bosom; moreover I cannot hear
Thy voice, nor tho' thou seest me can I see
Thy face. It is not with me as with thee;
The shadows here are always long and deep,
Also the night comes sooner than to thee.

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