University of Virginia Library

Miscellaneous Poems.

(1866–70.)

THE DEATH OF ROLAND.

I.

Dead was Gerard the fair, the girl-mouth'd, the gay,
Who jested with the foe he slung his sword to slay;
Dead was the giant Guy, big-hearted, small of brain;
Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red hunch slit in twain;
Dead was the old hawk Luz, and sleeping by his side
His twin-sons, Charles the fleet, and Pierre the serpent-eyed;
Dead was Antoine, the same who swore to speak no word
Till five score heathen heads fell by his single sword;
Dead was the wise Gerin, who gript both spear and pen;
Sansun was dead, Gereir was dead!—dead were the mighty men!

II.

Then Roland felt his sense return, and stirr'd, and cried,
Felt down if Adalmar lay safe against his side,
And smiled most quietlie, for joy the Sword was there;
With heavy-mailed hand brush'd back his bloody hair,
And lying prone upon his back, beheld on high
The stars like leopard-spots strewn in the sapphire sky.
He turn'd his head, and lo! the large hills looming dim,
In the wan west the Moon with red and wasting rim;
Then sighing sore, swung round his head as in a swoon,
And met the hunchback's eyne, glazèd beneath the Moon.
Chill was the air, and frosty vapours to and fro,
Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, were stealing slow;
And Roland thought, because his wound had made him weak,
The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his cheek.
Crawling unto his knees, shivering in the cold,
He loosed his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roll'd;
And darkly his dim eyes distinguish'd things around,—
The mute and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground,
A helm glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red,
A white steed quivering beside a warrior dead,
And in one moonlit place, a ring on a white hand,
When Roland thought, ‘Gerard! the brightest of the band!’
And no one stirr'd; behind, the hills loom'd large and dim;
And in the west the waning Moon with red and wasting rim.

III.

Then Roland cried aloud, ‘If living man there be
Among these heaps of slain, let that man answer me!’
And no soul spake. The wind crept chilly over all,
And no man felt it creep, or heard the leader call.
‘Ho, Olivier! Gerin! speak, an' ye be not slain!’
The voices of the hills echoed the cry again,—
Only a heathen churl rose cursing on his side,
And spat at him who spake, and curl'd his limbs, and died.
Then Roland's mighty heart was heavy with its woes,—
When fitfully, across the fields, faint radiance rose,
First a faint spark, and then a gleam, and then a glare,
Then smoke and crimson streaks that mingled in the air,
And as the thick flame clear'd, and the black smoke swam higher,
There loom'd beyond a Shape like one girt round with fire!
And Roland cried aloud, because his joy was great,
And brandish'd Adalmar, and fell beneath the weight,
But lying prone strain'd eyes, and, gazing through the night,
Still saw the glittering Shape circled with spectral light.
He seem'd in a dark dream, he could not think at all,
Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl:
Then, like a bruisèd worm weary he slipt and slow,
Straining his fever'd eyes lest the sweet ghost should go,
And oft he paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail,
'Mong heathens foul to smell and warriors clad in mail,
But coming near the gleam beheld the godly man,
Turpin the Archbishòp, unhelm'd and gaunt and wan,—
Gripping with skinny hand the ivory Cross sat he,
Clad head to heel in frost-white mail and propt against a tree.

IV.

And when on hands and knees the stricken Chief came near,
The Bishop raised the Cross, and knew his comrade dear;
And Roland's heart swell'd up, and tears were on his cheek,
He touch'd the blessèd Cross, and smiled and did not speak;
While, ‘Glory be to God!’ the Bishop faintly said,
‘Thou livest, kinsman dear, though all the rest be dead!
For while I linger'd here and listen'd for a sound,
And in the dim red Moon beheld the dead around,
Thinking I heard a cry, I sought to cry again,
But all my force had fled, and I was spent with pain;
When, peering round, I saw this heathen at my heel,
And search'd his leathern scrip and gat me flint and steel,
Then crawl'd, though swooning-sick, and found his charger gray,
And searching in the bags found wither'd grass and hay,
And made a fire, a sign for thee, whoe'er thou wert,
But fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt;
And waken'd to behold thee near, wounded and weak,
The red fire flaming on thy face, thy breath upon my cheek.’

V.

Then those brave (hiefs wrung hands, and as the crimson flare
Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer;
And shadows loom'd out black against the frosty shine,
While Turpin search'd his pouch and murmur'd, ‘Here is wine!’
And Roland on his elbows raised himself and quaff'd,
Yea, till his head reel'd round, a great and goodly draught,
And quickly he felt strong, his heart was wild and light,
He placed his dear Sword softly down, and rose his height,
Loosening his mail, drew forth the shirt that lay beneath,
And took the blood-stain'd silk and tore it with his teeth,
Dressing the Bishop's wounds with chilly hand and slow,
Then, while the Bishop pray'd, bound up his own wide wound alsoe.

VI.

Then Roland search'd around, dipping his hands in blood,
Till in a henchman's pack he found a torch of wood,
And taking flint and steel, blew with his mouth, and lo!
The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the glow.
Then into Turpin's hands he set that beacon bright
Who glittering like fire, sat looming in its light,
And crept across the mead, into the dark again,
And felt the faces of the dead, seeking the mighty men.

VII.

Blest be thy name, White Mary, for thy breath and might,
Like vapour cold, did fill the nostrils of thy knight!
Yea, all his force came back, his red wound ceased to bleed,
And he had hands of strength to do a blessèd deed!
For one by one he found each well-belovèd head,
Sought out the mighty Chiefs, among the drifts of dead,
Softly unloosed their helms, let the long tresses flow,
Trail'd them to Turpin's feet and set them in a row;
And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazing bright
Lit shapes in silvern mail and faces snowy white:
Sansun, who grasp'd his sword with grip that ne'er unloosed;
Gerin, with chin on breast, as if he breathed and mused;
Great Guy, with twisted limbs, and bosom gash'd and bare,
And blood-clots on his arms the frost had frozen there;
Old Luz, his skinny hands filled with a foeman's beard;
Charles with his feet lopp'd off, Pierre with his green eye spear'd;
Sanche, the fierce woman's foe, and round his neck, behold!
A lock of lady's hair set in a ring of gold;
Antoine, with crafty smile, as if new fights he plann'd;
Gerard, still smiling on the ring that deckt his hand;
And, brightest of the host, our Roland's comrade dear,
The iron woman-shape, the long-lock'd Olivier,
Who gript the bladeless hilt of Durandal his pride,
And held it to his kissing lips, as when he droop'd and died.

VIII.

And Turpin raised the torch, counted them, one by one:
‘Ah, woe is me, sweet knights, for now your work is done!’
Then, reaching with the Cross, he touch'd their brows and cried:
‘White Mary take your souls, and place them at her side,
White Mary take your souls, and guard them tenderlie,—
For ye were goodly men as any men that be!’
And Roland stooping touch'd the brow of Olivier,
Smoothing the silken hair behind the small white ear,
And cried, ‘Ah, woe is me, that we should ever part!’
And kiss'd him on the clay-cold lips, and swoon'd, for ache of heart.

IX.

Then Turpin dropt the torch, that flamed upon the ground,
But drinking blood and dew, died out with drizzlie sound;
He groped for Roland's heart, and felt it faintly beat,
And, feeling on the earth, he found the wine-flask sweet,
And fainting with the toil, slaked not his own great drouth,
But, shivering, held the flask to Roland's gentle mouth:
E'en then, his Soul shot up, and in its shirt of steel
The Corse sank back, with crash like ice that cracks beneath the heel!

X.

The frosty wind awaken'd Roland from his swound,
And, spitting salt foam from his tongue, he look'd around,
And saw the Bishop dear lying at length close by,—
Touch'd him, and found him cold, and utter'd a great cry:
‘Now, dead and cold, alas! lieth the noblest wight
For preaching sermons sweet and wielding sword in fight;
His voice was as a trump that on a mountain blows,
He scatter'd oils of grace and wasted heathen-foes,—
White Mary take his soul, to join our comrades dear,
And let him wear his Bishop's crown in heaven above, as here!’

XI.

Now it grew chiller far, the grass was moist with dew,
The landskip glimmer'd pale, the frosty breezes blew,
The many stars above melted like snowflakes white,
Behind the great blue hills the East was laced with light,
The dismal vale loom'd clear against a crimson glow,
Clouds spread above like wool, pale steam arose below,
And on the faces dead the frosty Morning came,
On mighty men of mark and squires unknown to fame,
And golden mail gleam'd bright, and broken steel gleam'd gray,
And cold dew filled the wounds of those who sleeping lay;
And Roland, rising, drank the dawn with lips apart,
But scents were in the air that sicken'd his proud heart!
Yea, all was deathly still; and now, though it was day,
The Moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away,
The white mist wreath'd and curl'd over the glittering dead;
A cock crew, far among the hills, and echoes answerèd.

XII.

Then peering to the East, through the thick vaporous steam,
He spied a naked wood, hard by a running stream;
Thirsting full sore, he rose, and thither did he hie,
Faintly, and panting hard, because his end was nigh;
But first he stooping loosed from Turpin's fingers cold
The Cross inlaid with gems and wrought about with gold,
And bare the holy Cross aloft in one weak hand,
And with the other trail'd great Adalmar his brand.
Thus wearily he came into the woody place,
And stooping to the stream therein did dip his face,
And in the pleasant cold let swim his great black curls,
Then swung his head up, damp with the dim dewy pearls;
And while the black blood spouted in a burning jet,
He loosed the bandage of his wound and made it wet,
Wringing the silken folds, making them free from gore,
Then placed them cool upon the wound, and tighten'd them once more.

XIII.

Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in air,
Ghastly and round the Sun loom'd with a lurid glare,
High overhead the Moon shrivell'd with sickle chill,
The frosty wind dropp'd down, and all was deathlier still,
When Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours cold
Beheld three marble steps, as of a Ruin old,
And at the great tree-bolls lay many a carven stone,
Thereto a Dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown;
And frosted were the boughs that gather'd all around,
And cold the runlet crept, with soft and soothing sound,
And sweetly Roland smiled, thinking, ‘Since death is nigh,
In sooth, I know no gentler place where gentle man could die!’

XIV.

Whereon he heard a cry, a cry, a crash of breaking boughs,
And from the thicket wild leapt one with painted brows;
Half-naked, glistening grim, with oily limbs, he came,
His long-nail'd fingers curl'd, his bloodshot eyes aflame,
Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the Chief he flew,
‘Yield thee thy sword of fame, and thine own flesh thereto!’
Then Roland gazed and frown'd, though nigh unto his death,
Sat still, and drew up all his strength in one great breath,
Pray'd swiftly to the Saints he served in former days,
With right hand clutch'd the Sword he was too weak to raise,
And in the left swung up the Cross!—and, shrieking hoarse,
Between the eyebrows smote the foe with all his force,
Yea, smote him to the brain, crashing through skin and bone,
And prone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone,—
While gold and gems of price, unloosen'd by the blow,
Ev'n as he fell rain'd round the ringlets of the foe;
But Roland kiss'd the Cross, and, laughing, backward fell,
And on the hollow air the laugh rang heavy, like a knell.

XV.

And Roland thought: ‘I surely die; but, ere I end,
Let me be sure that thou art ended too, O friend!
For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am clay,
My ghost would grieve full sore until the Judgment Day!’
Then to the marble steps, under the tall bare trees,
Trailing the mighty Sword, he crawl'd on hands and knees,
And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with might—
The bright hilt sounding shook, the blade flash'd sparks of light;
Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round,
Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound;
Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down the glade,
Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter'd the peerless blade!

XVI.

Then Roland wept, and set his face against the stone—
‘Ah, woe! I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and bone!’
And sickness seized his soul to die so cheerless death;
When on his naked neck he felt a touch, like breath,—
And did not stir, but thought, ‘O God, that madest me,
And shall my sword of fame brandish'd by heathens be?
And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen's heel?
Too spent to slay the slave whose hated breath I feel!’
Then, clenching teeth, he turn'd to look upon the foe,
His bright eyes growing dim with coming death; and lo!
His life shot up in fire, his heart arose again,
For no unhallow'd face loom'd on his dying ken,
No heathen-breath he felt, — though he beheld, indeed,
The white arch'd head and round brown eyes of Veillintif, his Steed!

XVII.

And pressing his moist cheek on his who gazed beneath,
Curling the upper lip to show the large white teeth,
The white horse, quivering, look'd with luminous liquid eye,
Then waved his streaming mane, and utter'd up a cry;
And Roland's bitterness was spent—he laugh'd, he smiled,
He clasp'd his darling's neck, wept like a little child;
He kiss'd the foam-fleck'd lips, and clasp'd his friend and cried:
‘Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle ride!
Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet comrades be,
And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting thee?
To leave thy brave bright heart to break, in slavery to the foe?
I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so!
Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners bright unfurl'd,
A shining light 'mong lesser lights, a wonder to the world!’

XVIII.

THE GIFT OF EOS.

CHORUS OF HOURS.

TITHONOS.
What low, strange music throbs about my brain?
I hear a motion as of robes—a moaning.

EOS.
'Tis the three sisters and their shadowy train,
Beating the right foot solemnly, and intoning.
Ah! weary one, and have thy dreams been ill,
That thou upheavest thus a face so pale?

TITHONOS.
Methought that I was dead, and cold, and still,
Deep in the navel of a charmëd dale!
Ah, love, thy gift doth heavy burthen bring,
Now I grow old, grow old,
And these weird songs the sisters nightly sing
Haunt me with memories strange and manifold;
For every eve, when Phoibos fades away
Yonder across Parnassos' snow-tipt height,
These halls feel empty, and the courts grow gray,
The sisters lose the radiance of the day,
And thy bright hair fades to a silvern light;
And nothing seems that is not sad though sweet!
But Heaven, this East, yea, and the earth below
Are silenced to the ditties these repeat,
Sinking their voices sad and singing slow:
Yea, Ocean moans with many waters! sleep
Is troublous even upon eyes that weep!
The monsters of the earth are in their lairs
Moonlit and cold; the owl sits still and stares
Through woody nooks with round white eye; the wind
Breatheth and gropeth blind;
The burthen and the mystery and the dream,
The sense of things that are and yet may be.
The strife between what is and what doth seem,
Is weary then on all, and most on me!

EOS.
It is enough to know thou canst not die,
Like those of whom thou 'plainest, drowsy one!

TITHONOS.
The seasons come and go, the moments fly
Like snow-flakes falling, melting in the sun.
Nothing abideth—all must change the earth
Puts on fresh raiment every dawn of day—
What seems most precious turns to little worth—
Our love, whose face was an auroral birth,
Steps in the shade an instant,—and is clay.
Is it enough to know I cannot die?
Further than deathless life, can I implore?
Ah, but to know, as the slow years sweep by,
That life is worthy to be lived, is more.
Wherefore the burthen and the dream below?
Wherefore the happiness, the hope, the woe?
Wherefore the slimy sense of evil things
That draws the adder round the young man's eyes?
Wherefore the yearnings and imaginings,
The songs of bards, the broodings of the wise?
Have the gods written only on their scroll:
‘Man striveth merely for a little space,—
Then there is slumber, and the death-bells toll,
The children cry, the widow hides her face,
The foolish dream is o'er,
And all is done for ever evermore?’
Oh, wherefore life at all, if life be such,—
A joy, a weariness, a growing gray!
If life be more, how may man live too much?

EOS.
Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away.

HOURS.
Crow's-nest on a yew-tree, swing slow in sad weather,
A lock o' wet hair pastes thy brown sides together!—
Blood-red were her lips till she paled and grew thin,
As the pink under-eyelid of snakes was her skin.
Crow's-nest on a yew-tree that grows on a tomb,
The little black fledglings croak low in the gloom;
O maiden below, canst thou hear how they cry?
Dost thou stir in thy sleep as the adder goes by?
A worm crawl'd away with the little gold ring
He placed on thy finger that summer morning;
Then thy hand became bone, then was turn'd into clay,
While thy heart wither'd slowly; but cheerly, to-day
Thy fingers are leaves on the tree, in whose shade
He sits with as tender a maid!

TITHONOS.
Of death, corruption, change, and mystery,
They chant their chime to which the old world sleeps!
Why not for ever stand they bright and free,
Flinging a glad song over dales and deeps,
As morn by morn they do, when from my breast
With rosy footsteps thou dost bright'ning go,
Blue-wingëd, to Parnassos?

EOS.
Be at rest!
The sense of things is dark on these also!
And e'en immortal gods grow pale at times
To hear their world-old rhymes.
Yea, Zeus the Sire himself beholds and hears,
Stares vacantly into the blue profound,
What time a rainbow drawn from all earth's tears
Fades on Olumpos with a weeping sound!

TITHONOS.
What then remains, my soul, if this be so?

EOS.
Around my neck I wind thy beard of gray,
And kiss thy quivering eyelids till they glow,
And thy face lightens on me, and I say,
‘Look in mine eyes and know!’

HOURS.
O clod of green mould, that wast lately a man,
Time was thou wert footsore and weary and wan,
When thy brain was as fire, when thine eyes were as lead,
When thy hair was as white as the bones of the dead!
Dust in the urn, on a shelf, in a shrine,
Hast thou ears, hast thou eyes, canst thou feel, or divine?
Bones in the ground, can ye guess what ye be?
Brain, in the midst of the bones, canst thou see?
Corse, in a clod-gown clammy with dew,
Skull, with a hole where the arrow went through,
Do ye dream, are ye troubled, remember ye there
The life and the light that ye were?

TITHONOS.
Thine eyes are lit with passion strong enew
To melt a mortal's heart to fiery dew!
The burthen and the wonder and the dream,
Yea, all I am or was, and all I seem,
Are dwarf'd within these liquid orbs of thine
To the blue shadow of a love divine!
Yea, sweetest, love is surest, truest, best!
And dearest, knowing it must last for long!

EOS.
Now, close thine eyes, lean heavy on my breast,
And let my lips rain over thee in song!—
Thou wert a mortal who with fearless eyes
Dared seek the love of an immortal thing;
Plead low thou didst, and strive and agonise,
Yet time ebb'd on, and little peace did bring;
And the immortal joy seem'd far away,
Lessening and lessening to a speck of gold
Against the gates of sunrise,—till that day
I came upon thee where thou sleeping lay,
Breathed smoothness on thy wrinkled forehead old,
And woke thee to these wondrous halls, from whence
Thou seest the glimmering tract of earth below,
And trancëd thee to nuptials so intense
Thy flesh and blood seem'd melting off like snow,
Leaving thy soul in its eternal hues
Clear, strong, and pale, as yonder crystal sphere
That swings above my threshold, sprinkling dews
Immortal over all who enter here!—
And still thy corporal semblance ages on,
Thy hair dries up, thy bones grow chill and bare.
A little while, my love, and all is gone,
Drunk by the lips of a diviner air!

TITHONOS.
Ah woe! ah woe!—and I am lost for aye!

EOS.
Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away!
And nothing suffers loss if love remains!
The motion of mine air consumes thy clay,
My breath dries up the moisture of thy veins;
Yet have I given thee immortal being,
Thereto immortal love, immortal power,
Consuming thy base substance till thy seeing
Grows clearer, brighter, purer, hour by hour;—
Immortal honour, too, is thine, for thou
Hast sought the highest meed the gods can give—
Immortal Love hath stoop'd to kiss thy brow!
Immortal Love hath smiled, and bade thee live!
Wherefore the gods have given thee mighty meed,
And snatch'd thee from the death-pyres of thy race,
To wear away these weary mortal weeds
In a serener and a purer place,—
Not amid warriors on a battle plain,
Not by the breath of pestilence or woe,
But here, at the far edge of earth and main,
Whence light and love and resurrection flow—
And I upon thy breast, to soothe the pain!
Immortal life assured, what mattereth
That it be not the old fond life of breath!
Immortal life assured, the soul is free—
It is enough to be!
For lo! the love, the dream, to which is given
Divine assurance by a mortal peace,
Mix with the wonders of supremest heaven,
Become a part of that which cannot cease,
And being eternal must be beauteous too,
And being beauteous, surely must be glad!
O love, my love, thy wildest dreams were true,
Though thou were footsore in thy quest, and sad!
Not in a mist of hungry eyes dies he
Who loveth purely nobler light than theirs;
For him nor weariness nor agony,
Purblind appeals, nor prayers;
But circled by the peace serene and holy
Of that divinest thought he loved so long,
Pensive, not melancholy,
He mingles with those airs that made him strong,—
A little loath to quit
The old familiar dwelling-house of clay,
Yet calm, as the warm wind dissolveth it,
And leaf by leaf it droppeth quite away.
To him the priceless boon
To watch from heights serene till all be done;
Calm in each dreamy rising of the Moon,
Glad in each glorious coming of the Sun!

HOURS.
The stars are fading away in wonder,
Small sounds are stirring around and under,
Far away, from beneath the ocean,
We hear a murmur of wheels in motion,
And the wind that brings it along rejoices,—
Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices!

EOS.
It is Apollo! Hitherward he urges
His four steeds, steaming odorous fumes of day;
Along his chariot-wheels the white sea surges,
As up he drives his fiery-footed way.

TITHONOS.
Ye brighten, O ye columns round about!
Ye melt in purple shades, arches and towers!
Cloud-roof, thou partest, and white hands slip out,
Scattering pearls and flowers!
Brighter and brighter, blazing red and gold,
Purple and amethyst, that float and fly!—
While, creeping in, a dawn-wind fresh and cold
Pours silver o'er the couch whereon I lie!
Afar the coming of Apollo grows!
His breath lifts up my hair! my pulses beat!
My beard is moist with dews divinely sweet,
My lap is fill'd with sparkling leaves of rose,
Wherein my fingers, witherëd and sere,
Grope palsiedly in joy!—Afar I hear
The low, quick breathing that the earth is making—
Eastward she turns her dewy side, awaking.
But thou! but thou!
Insufferably brightening!
Thy feet yet bathed in moist still shade, thy brow
Glistening and lightening,
Thy luminous eyes enlarging, ring in ring
Of liquid azure, and thy golden hair
Unfolding downward, curl on curl, to cling
Around thy naked feet rose-tipt and bare!
Thy hands stretch'd out to catch the flowers down-flowing,
Thy blushing look on mine, thy light green vest
In balmy airs of morning backward blowing
From one divine white breast!
The last star melts above thee in the blue,
The cold moon shrinks her horn, as thou dost go
Parnassos-ward, flower-laden, dripping dew,
Heralding him who cometh from below!

HOURS.

CLARI IN THE WELL.

SERENADES.

IN THE GARDEN.

HE.
Seest thou two waifs of cloud on the dim blue
Wandering in the melancholy light?
Methinks they seem like spirits bright and true,
Blending their gentle breaths, and born anew,
In the still rapture of this heavenly night!
See! how the flowering stars their path bestrew,
Till the moon turns, and smiles, and looks them through,
And breathes upon them, when with bosoms white
They blend on one another, and unite.
Now they are gone, they vanish from our view,
Lost in that radiance exquisitely bright! . . .
O love! my love! methinks that thou and I
Resemble those thin waifs in Heaven astray;
We meet, we blend, grow bright!

SHE.
And we must die!

HE.
Nay, sweet, for Love can never pass away!

SHE.
Are they not gone? and, dear, shall we not go?
O Love is Life, but after Life comes Death!

HE.
No flower, no drop of rain, no flake of snow,
No beauteous thing that blossometh below,
May perish, though it vanish ev'n as breath!
The bright moon drinks those wanderers of the west,
They melt in her warm breathing, and are blest.
We see them not, but in that light divine
Upgather'd, they are happy, and they shine:
Not lost, but vanish'd, grown ev'n unawares
A part of a diviner light than theirs!

NIGHTINGALES SING.
Through our throats the raptures rise,
In the scented air they swim;
From the skies,
With their own love-lustre dim,
Gaze innumerable eyes!—
Sweet, O sweet,
Thrills the music from each throat,
Thick and fleet,
Note on note,
Till in ecstasy we float!

SHE.
How vast looks Heaven! how solitary and deep!
Dost thou believe that Spirits walk the air,
Treading those azure fields, and downward peep
With great sad eyes when Earth is fast asleep?

HE.
One spirit, at least, immortal Love, is there!

A SHOOTING STAR.
Swift from my bliss, in the silence above,
I slip to thy kiss, O my star! O my love!

SPIRITS IN THE LEAVES.

HE.
Love, tread this way with rosy feet;
And resting on the shadowy seat
'Neath the laburnum's golden rain,
Watch how with murmurous refrain
The fountain leaps, its basin dark
Flashing with many a starry spark.
With such a bliss, with such a light,
With such an iteration bright,
Our souls upbubbling from the clay,
Leap, sparkle, blend in silvern spray,
Gleam in the Moon, and, falling still,
Sink duskily with tremulous thrill,
Together blent with kiss and press,
In dark surcease of happiness.
Yet there they pause not, but, cast free
After deep pause of ecstasy,
Heavenward they leap, together clinging,
And like the fountain flash, upspringing!

THE FOUNTAIN LEAPING.

NIGHTINGALES SING.
Deeper now our raptures grow;
Softlier let our voices croon!
Yet more slow,
Let our happy music flow,
Sweet and slow, hush'd and low,
Now the dark cloud veils the Moon.
Sweet, O sweet!
Watch her as our wild hearts beat! . .
See! she quits the clasping cloud,
Forth she sails on shining feet,
Smiling, with her bright head bow'd!
Pour the living rapture loud!
Thick and fleet,
Sweet, O sweet,
Now the notes of rapture crowd!

SHE
(to herself).
And this is Love!—Until this hour
I never lived; but like a flower
Close prest i' the bud, with sleeping senses
I drank the dark dim influences
Of sunlight, moonlight, shade, and dew.
At last I open, thrilling thro'
With Love's strange scent, which seemeth part
Of the warm life within my heart,
Part of the air I breathe . . . O bliss!
Was ever night so sweet as this?
It is enough to breathe, to be,
As if one were a flower, a tree,
A leaf o' the bough, just stirring light
With the warm breathing of the night!

SPIRITS IN THE LEAVES.

HE.
For ever and ever! for ever and ever!
As the fount that upleaps, as the breezes that blow,
Love thou me!
For ever and ever, for ever and ever,
While the nightingales sing and the rose garlands glow,
Love I thee!
For ever and ever, with all things to prove us,
In this world, in that world that bendeth above us,
Asleeping, awaking, in earth, as in Heaven,
By this kiss, this other, by thousands ungiven,
By the hands which now touch thee, the arms that enfold thee,
By the soul in my eyes that now swoons to behold thee,
By starlight, by moonlight, by scented rose-blossoms,
By all things partaking the joy of our bosoms,
By the rapture within us, the rapture around us,
By God who has made us and Love who hath crown'd us,
One sense and one soul we are blent, ne'er to sever.
For ever and ever! for ever and ever!
More kisses to seal it **** For ever and ever!

THE WOOD ECHOES.
For ever and ever!

THE ASRAI.

(PROLOGUE TO THE CHANGELING.)

THE CHANGELING.

A LEGEND OF THE MOONLIGHT.

I. The Asrai.

II. The Changeling's Birth.

III. His Mortal Life.

IV. His Sorrow and Sin.

V. The Battle-Field.

VI. The Abbot Paul.

TO CLARI.

WITH THE PRECEDING POEM.