An Actor's Reminiscences and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

No lily is whiter now for Christ or Keats.—
No blue-bell lifts within green woods a head
Tenderer, for æons of the heroic dead:—
Within the sea no pulse of Shelley beats.
Ten thousand years ago the rose was red;
To-day's rose merely the same tale repeats;
Where hearts have travailed and torn souls have bled,
The white wild pangless rose the June-morn greets!

Not for one word that Christ or Milton spake
Is any blossom fairer. Their soft bloom
By ripples of the Galilean lake
Was nurtured, and they laughed round Milton's tomb;
But if no human voice earth's primal air
Had thrilled, no rosebud would have shone less fair.

Nov. 2, 1881.

SONNET V. ETERNAL.

When over an hundred years have passed and fled
Shalt thou be living yet within my song,
And just as vivid thy soft brown-haired head
As ever, earth's fair queens of love among?
And shall I be remembered, sweetheart true,
Still most of all as poet-lover of thee,—
When other far-off skies than ours are blue,
And grey eyes,—not thine eyes,—watch new grey sea?
What is an hundred years?—But one brief day
To love that changes not, that ne'er can sleep:
Eternal as the sun's unending ray,
And as the unfathomable ocean deep,
And full of God's own strength that folds all things
In ceaseless mantle of almighty wings.

SONNET VII. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Ah! Beauty, let me wake thee with a kiss!
What? thou art matronly and married long?
Then all the sweeter shall be passion's song
And soft romance's tender-bosomed bliss!
Thou art growing old, thou sayest? Nay, what of this!
Passion repressed for centuries waxes strong:—
Lo! rose-winged red-lipped love-thoughts round thee throng,
And August love is sweet as spring's, I wis?

Ah! Beauty, let me wake thee from thy sleep
And touch the lips and kiss the lashes deep—
(What matter if he hears us!—help is near.
See! underneath thy window on the lake
Night's silver ripples round a boat's prow shake:)
Lock thou thine hand in mine,—and have no fear!

SONNET X. LONELY.

Alone!—And yet the poet hath the sun,—
And for his lonely gaze the stars are fair,
And the sweet June-wind dallieth with his hair,
And strange wild sea-shores hath his footing won.
But ah! the sadness,—to be known of none
Save of the cold-lipped gruesome bride, Despair!
The weight of genius-thought alone to bear;
Alone,—alone; till life and death be done.

The poet hath the roses and the sky,
But not the sympathy his spirit seeks.
Is it a soul-delivering thing to lie
Amid sea-poppies by grey winding creeks
Or on the hills whereo'er the white mists fly,—
Waiting the gold-winged word no woman speaks?

SONNET XII. VENUS.

But in warm arms as fragrant as of old
Venus received him,—and she lulled to sleep
The weary soul, and made soft darkness deep
Over and round him with her hair of gold.
She kissed the dead pale lips that, loud and bold,
Had sung of her where England's wild waves leap:—
The mouth that by green down and chalky steep,
Fatigueless ever, her renown had told.

And this was his reward,—the eternal kiss
Of Venus, and her arms wherein to rest,
And the soft fragrance of her perfect breast.
This was his heaven of old-world endless bliss.
What did it matter if a world forsook,
When in white deathless clasp his soul she took!

SONNET XIII. “THOU COULD'ST NOT WATCH WITH ME!”

Thou could'st not watch with me!—The flowers are thine
Soft in the valleys,—where the blue stream speeds
By banks of osier and the bending reeds,
And where the sunlit golden ripples shine.
The foaming white salt sea-waves' crested line,
And the blue-gentianed austere mountain-meads,
And snow-fields whence thy traitor foot recedes,
And the far dim laborious peaks,—are mine.

O thou whose hazel eyes so pure and deep
Should towards far splendid heights have led the way,
Hadst thou no holy watch with me to keep?
The dark is lessening, and the pale morn's grey
Glimmers. O girl-heart, art thou still asleep?
And girl-lips, have ye no sweet word to say?

SONNET XVII. THE CHILD.

And now the child is gone.—Her simple woes
Will torture thine almighty brain no more.
Thou art free,—thou art free! Thy shackled life is o'er:
Her death wide open life's gold gateway throws.
Thou hast thy longed-for infinite repose!
Now thou mayest ponder on the lonely shore
Uninterrupted, and thy soul outpour:
No more the stream of questions by thee flows.

Silence is thine. And is the silence rest?—
I asked the question: and I was aware
Of a lone man who beat upon his breast,
And sighed, and groaned to the unanswering air,
“All fame and genius would I give to hold
Once more in mine the child's hand as of old!”

SONNET XIX. THE SOUTHERN PASSION.

I held a woman fairer than the sun,
And marvelled as she kissed me. Was I set
Beside the seas the eyes of Shelley met?
Had I the Italian dark-haired rapture won?—
I seemed no longer where our dim streams run
And where the leaves with ceaseless storms are wet:—
The woman's long loose hair was black as jet;
Its scent stayed with me when the kiss was done.

The glory of Southern passion filled my mind,
And pale seemed even Venus' locks of gold
And poor and worthless by those black locks twined
Over the brow some god had bent to mould:
And her warm starlike eyes seemed sweeter things
Than any colder gaze our Northland brings.

SONNET XXV. “SOMETHING WAS WANTING.”

Though the sun slept upon the yellow sand,
And though the ferns waved idly in the breeze,
And though the green resplendent sun-kissed trees
Lifted tall gracious heads on either hand,—
And though the purple heather filled the land,
And the pine-odour wafted o'er the leas
Seemed softer than the salt strong scent of seas,—
I felt a pain I could not understand.

Something was wanting.—Then I climbed a hill
And the blue Brighton downs beneath their haze
Stretched far before me. With one wild soul-thrill
And one long eager tearful burning gaze
I yearned towards these, and felt my heart grow still:
Then turned again to the green woodland ways.

104

SONNET XXIX. CHRIST AND ENGLAND.

Nay! but our own dear land thou shalt not hold,
Lord Christ. Thou hast thy white-walled Eastern town,
And thine own endless worshipful renown,
And heaven's own sunlit heights, and towers of gold.—
Not thine the English wild furze-yellowed wold;
Not thine the breeze that sweeps green hill and down;
Not thine the roses that our gardens crown;
Not thine our sea-winds ululant and bold.

Rest where thou art, lest thou shouldst have a fall.—
The storm is in our spirits, and the sea;
The skies' grim armies hearken at our call,
And the grey mountain-vapours round us flee,
And murmurous ocean girds us like a wall.
We are content. We have no need of thee.

108

SONNET XXX. CHRIST AND WOMAN.

Nor shalt thou hold our women. Their grey eyes,
Filled with the grey shine of the sea that stems
Our shore and all the golden sand-line hems,
Smile at thy visions of blue deathless skies.—
Rest thou content at home if thou be wise,
And bathe white feet in Jordan, not in Thames;
And seek the heavenly rubied diadems,
But not the crowns our womanhood supplies.

No great pure English woman-heart is thine.—
Thou hast thy maidens,—and they are most fair,
With Eastern brown eyes and the Eastern hair,
Born in the sultry land of fig and vine:
Thou art the rightful lord and ruler there:
Thou rulest not the land of oak and pine.

109

SONNET XXXI. A QUESTION.

And can he spread wide songful burning wings
And through the heavenly void thy spirit bear?
And can he twine soft love-flowers in thine hair,
Fresh with the pearly dew each new morn brings?
Can he do any or all of these glad things?—
And art thou unto him surpassing fair,—
And is thy touch as sweet as summer air
Circling the patient head of him who sings?

And can he bring thee in his arms the bliss
Of leaves and winds and seasons full of glee
And endless tender roses,—hath he this
Song-force of soul wherewith to encounter me?
And can he give thee through his lips the kiss
And living breath of all the inviolate sea?

110

SONNET XXXII. “LO! ONE CALLS.”

Oh, though the wife be close by day, by night,
And though the husband gaze within her eyes,
And though his hand upon her bosom lies,
And though her body wonderful and white
Be spread before him for a common sight,
And though her passive lips towards his lips rise,—
Love round about the sleepers mocking flies
And flashes laughter from his glances bright!

Not all these things shall hold her.—Lo! one calls,
And wrapped in silent cloak anigh the door
She stands,—and the soft moon-rays round her pour;
Now, close beside, her lover's footstep falls,
And towards the lakeside bower they wend their way:
“Passion's sweet God be with them both!” I say.

111

SONNET XXXIII. RED DAWN.

“Hark! is he sleeping?—Let the soft lips meet.
Who knows? the bright June morning may flame red,
Yea scarlet round about this white dim bed
Where all seems now so moon-caressed and sweet.
Ah! sweetheart, how thy tender heart doth beat!
Let me kiss every trembling pulse instead,
And kiss thy limbs,—kiss upward to thine head;
Thrice-rapturous are the night hours,—yet how fleet!

“Is that the morning at the window-pane?
Let the wild burning red lips cling once more!
Ha! the swift sudden sword-flash at the door:
Kiss me; I wait; do thou the garden gain”—
She would not leave him. That dark evil stain
Is where their hearts' blood fountained on the floor.

112

SONNET XXXIV. FAIRY LAND.

I fell asleep, and dreamed of Fairy Land.—
Of cruel monsters with red savage eyes,
And yellow snowdrops, and strange twilight skies:
A blue-haired fairy took me by the hand
And led me towards a Palace where a band
Of fays, with locks like the pink fronds that rise
Within the sea-waves, danced in gleesome wise:—
Then came the Fairy Queen with golden wand.

She moved to meet me. When my eyes met hers,
I felt along my veins a sudden thrill,
As when the passionate young blood leaps and stirs:—
I woke: I lay upon a low sand-hill
'Mid gold sea-poppies and the gaunt grey furze—
But that Queen's hazel glances haunt me still.

113

SONNET XXXV. BALACLAVA.

Along the valley the wild riders speed.—
This is the complement of Waterloo:
That showed what English infantry could do:
To-day the horsemen win fame's deathless meed.
Horsemen and infantry are one indeed;
The horsemen are the English fiery soul
Loosened at length from years of still control,—
The others are the calm that did precede.

When English horse and English foot combine,
Who shall withstand that red tremendous line
Holding both passions of the English race,—
The calm still passion of its pent-up strength,
And fury as of the Light Brigade at length
Free for that fiery blood-splashed charge and chase!

114

SONNET XXXIX. NOT CHRIST, BUT CHRIST'S GOD.

Though Christ we need not, yet the God who shone
Upon the Jewish hero's soul we need.
Though we despise the grey-beard Church's creed,
Christ we despise not,—nor his image wan
Upon the canvas of vast centuries gone:
The tender heart that for the race did bleed
We reverence, and to its great thoughts give heed,—
Yet the huge surge of Progress thundereth on!

The God of Christ we yearn for more than we
Desire the Hebrew. 'Mid our lanes of rose,—
Where the soft clinging honeysuckle grows
And scents the shoreside,—by our own wild sea,—
We would with God the eternal Father be;—
Not in one heart alone God's Spirit glows.

129

LILIES.

THIRTY SONNETS.

131

IX. BENEATH LOFTIER STARS.

Yes! now indeed we meet 'neath loftier stars.
The high airs soothe us, and the silence deep
Seems part of that eternal watch we keep:
Now, nought our reunited passion mars.
Like marvellous and fragrant summer sleep
A sense of life steals over us, and brings
New wondrous visions cradled on its wings:
We stand, victorious, on a nobler steep!

Before us spreads the wonderful wide view,
With ocean in the distance, dim and blue,—
And love, with white and soft plumes, everywhere:
We breathe, with ecstasy beyond all speech,
In this diviner mutual height we reach,
The unknown immortal soul-caressing air.

140

XXX. THE WHOLE.

Would'st thou be with me, if thou knewest the whole?
I cannot tell: my sins are black indeed,—
And yet for every sin I've had to bleed,
Till pale and bloodless is the exhausted soul.
Would still thy woman's pity intercede,
And still thy white hand linger in my own?
Or should I find myself adrift, alone,—
Like one shell in the Atlantic, or one weed?

One thing there is,—if sins of mine are large,
Large is the ocean of my suffering too,
And terribly wave-beaten all its marge:
This, seeing my whole life, thou would'st have to view,—
And thou would'st mark besides a broken targe,
Which once a girl's slight arrow struck right through.

161

TWO SONNETS.

II. WHICH IS THE GREATER?

Which is the greater thing? To dwell on high
As God does, far apart from all the cares
Of mankind, kissed by heavenly golden airs
And all the countless flower-scents of the sky,—
Or Christ-like and Prometheus-like to die?—
Which is the nobler? Man who suffers long?
Or God who guards himself with fence of song
From sight of sorrow and from sound of sigh?—

Which is the grander? God with silken hair
Smooth, fragrant, combed, anointed,—or the grim
Blood-stained and sweat-stained form that faces him?—
Man wounded, marred, yet terrible and fair:
With hand on red sword jagged along the rim
And armour God's weak shoulders could not bear.

Sept. 6, 1882.

163

THOU ART NOT DEAD?

I

God who leadest human creatures
Safe through many a path and winding way;
Thou who guidest all the ages,
And the golden countless orbs dost sway;
Thou whose word the leaping thunders
And the foam-sprent warrior-waves obey:

II

Thou whom not alone the roses
Worship with their tender-glowing bloom
But, besides, the waving grasses

205

Gleaming round about the granite tomb
And the dark-winged dim cloud-clusters
Gathered like grey giants in the gloom:

III

Thou whom all the ancient nations
Sought, and brought their gifts to thine abode;
Thou through whom the heart of Jesus
With the eternal perfect pity glowed;
Thou through whom the race of prophets
Shed their martyr-blood along the road:

IV

Thou through whom our country's glory
Reached its splendid perfect flower indeed;
Thou who gavest to the people
Love for sign and Freedom for a creed;
Thou who sentest chosen warriors
For their country's sake to toil and bleed:

206

V

Still thou livest,—livest surely?—
God, thou art not dead, as some men say?
Men who preach the saws of Science,
And they win the people to their way;
Prating of the central flame-whirl,
And the myriad atoms at their play.

VI

Nay, thou livest: livest surely.—
Far beyond the fiery whirl of things
Thou the God of Love art thronèd,
And the far skies tremble at thy wings:
Thou the living Lord of nature,
And the eternal regnant King of kings.

VII

Our dawn-kindled poets found thee.
When the morning light was in the sky
Thou didst speak to Keats and Shelley,—

207

In the morning roseflush thou wast nigh;
Now the century waxeth older:
Have thine ears grown weary of our cry?

VIII

We the singers of the closing
Fading aging century's dying days
Seek thee,—bring thee all our passion;
Chanting of the sunset's golden rays;—
Now no glory of the morning
Mixes radiant halo with our bays.

IX

Now the wings of time are weary
And the shouts of dawn have died away.
But thou art the same for ever,
Though the century's wild hair groweth grey;
God! thy locks are ever golden;
Countless centuries are to thee one day.

208

X

Thou art living and art with us,
Surely?—as thou wast with all of these.
Still thy giant heart rejoices
In the jubilation of thy seas,—
In the singing of the woodland,
Singing to the singing of the breeze.

XI

God! thou hast not left us swaying
In the blind mad weary whirl of fate?
Thou art still the world's redeemer?
We now living are not born too late?
Love and hope are surely left us,
And an entrance through the starry gate!—

XII

True,—the dusk is round us closing:
Soon another century will be nigh:
Woe to all its bards and lovers

209

If there be no pity in the sky!
If they sink to dust and ashes;
Sing and love and struggle and wail,—and die.

XIII

If the God who brought the ages
Just so far upon their fiery way
Fails and faints and leaves us helpless,
What can any singer's spirit say?
Nought of heart is left for singing:
Not one altar stands at which to pray.

XIV

Why should flowers be born and blossom
And the sweet love dawn in woman's eyes,
If the end is desolation?
Why should summer glisten in new skies?—
God! live thou and reign for ever,
Or the whole world shrivels, shrinks, and dies.

Sept., 1882.

211

TWELVE SONNETS.

(1881.)

213

VIII. “IF THOU WERT FAITHLESS.”

If thou wert faithless, God himself would fall
From the blue topmost pinnacle of heaven,
And not one star would light the towers of even
But awful gloom would overshadow all.
Whom have I but thee on whom I may call?
If thou wert faithless, every song would go:
Choked back for ever would be fancy's glow:
Apollo's wingèd feet would halt and crawl.

See how thy faithfulness is God to me.
The very sign and token of the Lord
Is thy sweet spotless ceaseless purity:
My white stone and my message and reward:—
If thou wert faithless, better had the sea
Above my boyish head wild breakers poured!

221

X. THY WHITENESS.

It is thy whiteness, love, which whiteneth me.
I am the red stained warrior,—thou the flower
Filling with whiteness love's dear spotless bower:
Thou art my crown of splendid purity.
The lessons of high God I learn from thee,
And thou dost gain from me swift thought and power:
So the twin spirits deepen hour by hour,
And love's soul-plant becomes a strong great tree.

Oh, be thou white! My whiteness all is thine,
As, lady dear, thy new-born strength is mine.
And, if I make thee large of heart and strong,
Pour thou thy whiteness through my yearning heart,—
That pure may be the utterance of my Art,
And white as thine own love my urgent song.

225

TWO SONNETS.

I. CHRIST AND LOVE'S ROSE-CROWN.

Yea, Christ has many crowns; he has not this.—
The sweet unsearchable divinely pure
Scent of the rose of passion that can cure
All ills, and turn all woes to perfect bliss.
He has the Father's,—not the bridal kiss
Of God. Love kissed him on his forehead high:
But my lips met Love's lips and did not die:
Marvellous is the thought; deep peace it is.

Deep peace, surpassing rapture, perfect joy:—
O wondrous lips of Love that like a Rose
Swept o'er my mouth, my whole deep being glows
Yet with that memory no death can destroy!
Once was I, while alive on earth I trod,
Kissed by the red rose of the mouth of God.

1877.

226

II. “BECAUSE I DO NOT FEAR.”

Because I do not fear thee, thou art tender.—
Just as a woman, suddenly, bestows
In amplest, purest, and most sweet surrender
On the strong lover all her beauty's rose,
But, ever, from the weak of heart she goes,—
Just as her white arms round her lover cling,
If only with the lordlier voice he sing,
Not heeding overmuch the glance she throws:—

So, as thou fliest from me and glancest back,
O great Lord God, not swiftly on the track
I follow,—knowing that were but to lose!
I give thee time. Then thou shalt turn and fling
Thy white arms, suddenly, around,—and cling,—
While blushes all thy vanquished face suffuse.

1877.

227

THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

I

When the twentieth century fadeth
As the present century nears its doom,
Will the singers it remembers,
Glancing back along the years of bloom,
Be diviner than the singers
Chanting through our century's sun and gloom?

II

What strange wars and tribulations
Will the far-off voices have to sing!
Creeds and thrones of newer peoples:

228

Flowers of many another laughing spring:
Love with eyes the same as ever,
Love the eternal century-mocking king!

III

Yet though grand the future singers,
Stately though their march of music, be,
Our strange century hath been gladdened;
Woodland green and lake and silver sea,
Purple moor and breezy upland,
Golden gorse-bright heather-haunted lea,—

IV

These have heard our century's singers.
What glad faces shone beneath the light
Of the passionate early morning!
When the fields of Europe rang with fight
All the faces of our singers
Brightened into measureless delight!—

229

V

When Napoleon from the Island
Passed, and let the whole world sink to sleep,
Three great singers sang his passing,
Half in triumph, half with eyes that weep;
Byron, Shelley, Victor Hugo,
Rose and sang with passion true and deep.

VI

Far off, very far, it seemeth:
Close beside those early singers stood
Blood-smeared wild-eyed Revolution,
And her spirit mingled with their mood;
Now long bright decades of blossoms
Hide that vision gaunt and gore-imbrued.

VII

Wordsworth stands between. His mountains
Hide the red and blood-streaked dawn of day.
He with ever-tender passion

230

Towards the cloud-swept valleys points the way:
To his spirit Revolution
Had but one pale far-off word to say.

VIII

Oh those valleys and the mountains,
And the lakes and sunsets calm and clear!
Will they be to future singers
As profoundly, passionately, dear?
Will the rocks be mute for ever,
Frowning from their silent towers and sheer?—

IX

Who will sing the Grecian blossoms
As this century's Grecian spirit sang,
Keats,—and all our lanes and hedges
To the sound of Pagan harping rang:—
Forth from dark-hued English waters
Many a sweet-lipped white-limbed Naiad sprang!

231

X

Grey-haired venerable Landor
Full of classic passion lived and died:
Strong-browed drama-moulding Browning
Won our woman-poet for his bride:
She too was this century's singer,—
Lyric soul to Sappho's soul allied.

XI

If the century had been barren,
Seen no may-tree blossom in its dells;
Never one wild climbing rose-bush;
Never any spire of fox-glove bells;
Never luscious-scented gorse-brake
That the air to sweet response compels;—

XII

If no blossom had been with us,
She the flower of flowers had filled the air
With an unexampled fragrance;

232

Sovereign and sufficient, had been there;
Yes, the century would have marvelled
At the song-flowers one sweet heart could bear.

XIII

Now the century's days are darkening:
Round about her still the singers stand:
One with sad eyes light-forsaken
Nobly sings amid the younger band;
Now no more the English meadows
Lay their golden blossoms in his hand.

XIV

Yet when bright and full of beauty
Forth the laughing century like a bride
Stepped, was any sweeter singer
Found among the many at her side?
He among the later chosen
Stands, and every door-way opens wide.

233

XV

All the doorways of the valleys
Open of their free-will unto him:
Why should any be reluctant?
For a season brief his eyes are dim:
But the souls of all the blossoms
And of clouds and waters he can hymn.

XVI

Marston, blind yet full of vision,
Seeing more than soulless myriads see,
Lo! I singing in the twilight
Of the darkening years along with thee
Bring thee greeting of the woodland
And the solemn greeting of the sea.

XVII

In the dawning of the era
Swift-eyed, seeing, the laurelled singers rose:
But the God-endowed blind singer,

234

Pale and patient, waited for its close:
Now we hold his hand, and guide him;
Yet the soul-path he the blind man shows.

XVIII

He the path that leaves the valley
Winding upward towards the heaven of song
Points out: leads us, far less clearly
Seeing, the rocky ringing heights along:
He can shame the mountain eagle
With his soul-gaze keen and full and strong.

XIX

This would make the century brighter
Were no other singer left to see:
Were no voices heard, nor figures
Seen upon the mountains,—only he:
This would soothe the moaning twilight
Into dawn-like rapturous melody.

235

XX

Was there ever heard a sweeter
Song than his to lull a century's close?
Was there ever known a purer
Love than his for violet and for rose?
Were there ever greater stronger
Arms wherein love's bosom might repose?

XXI

Was there ever spirit nearer
To the inmost sacred soul of things?
Did blind Homer's soul see deeper?
Did blind Milton's kingly voice that rings
Through the sonnet chant more sweetly,—
Blind, yet listening to Love's rushing wings!

XXII

Had the tender heart of poet
Ever tenderer sweeter things to say
To the tender heart of woman

236

Than this blind bard singing in our day?
Blind alone to what is evil,—
Wide-eyed as the sun to bright love's ray.

XXIII

Through the sonnet-metre chanting
He hath found full many a word unsaid
By the elder poets waiting
For his coming. Round about his bed
Gleam the robes of many visions,
White-winged, dark-winged, soft or sweet or dread.

XXIV

Keats and Shelley and the early
Singers, I born later in the day
Missed the holy sound and sight of;
But I meet a friend beneath the grey
Evening light: a brother singer,
Blind, but swift of vision even as they.

237

XXV

Never yet the rolling waters
Held more might of colour than they hold
In the song of the blind poet:
There the sunset breathes and burns with gold:
There the beauty of all blossoms
Mixes,—leaf on soft leaf, fold on fold.

XXVI

There the sovereign grace of woman
Gleams, and fills the highways of his strain
With the sunlight of her beauty,—
Crowned, a very queen of song, again:
Death has trodden amid his roses,—
Yet what soft scents passing words remain!

XXVII

Though his song is full of sadness
And a sense of dear love dead and white,
Yet the music of his measure

238

Thrills the hearer's rapt soul with delight;
Though the darkness is around him,
Countless stars about his brow are bright!

XXVIII

Though the darkness closes round him,
Light he gives to others,—and the bloom
Of an infinite soul-healing
Breathes on others from his passion's tomb;
And he comes, and brings the morning
Glancing golden-sandalled through the gloom.

XXIX

All our hearts are full of pity;
And the spirits of mountains and of flowers
And of waves and rocking woodlands
And of sunsets mix their love with ours;
All the hearts of roses know him,
Thrilling as his footstep nears their bowers.

239

XXX

Much our souls would do to help him;
Little may our strongest yearning reach;
Though the pity never fails us,
Fails the song, and weak imperfect speech;
Wild our words are like the wailing
Of the wind through smooth leaves of the beech.

XXXI

Yet our singing, brother, take it,
And the heart that finds the singing weak,
Pale beside the deep emotion
That like the dumb waters cannot speak,—
Only surge, and surge for ever,—
Flash, and for a moment tinge the cheek.

XXXII

Lonely, many waited for thee;
Blind, that thou mightest give them eyes to see:
Jealous flowers and hills and rivers

240

Left forlorn by Shelley looked to thee:
All the unsung heart of Nature;
Many an uncrowned lake, and tearful lea.

XXXIII

For the whole of Nature never,
Bridelike, conquered by a single bard,
Kissed his lips and stood before him,
Loosed her purple deep hair golden-starred;
Still for each the blue receding
Heaven-depths show some mocking gateways barred.

XXXIV

Thus, though Spenser filled the Sonnet
With soft fire and wreathed fair flowers around,
And though Milton shook its pillars
Till live thunder leapt along the ground,
Something still is left for later
Singers: still new harps and newer sound.

241

XXXV

Tender buds of beauty gleaming
Half-unseen beside the grassy way
Waited,—till the blind sweet singer,
Marston, came and touched the buds, and they
Sprang to sudden fragrant glory,
Gold for dim pale yellow, red for grey.

XXXVI

If the whole of Nature truly
Were one bride for one great king of song,
Would not kingly Victor Hugo
With the lips that never fostered wrong,
Only equal wide-eyed justice,
Lure her coy reluctant feet along?

XXXVII

Would not she the spirit of Nature
Who was girlish, young, when Shelley came,
Meet, mature, the century's singer,

242

Hugo,—touch his lips with lips of flame?
Surely, white as if for bridal,
Bride-pure, her our greatest heart may claim.

XXXVIII

If for any single singer
She, sweet Nature, like a woman stood
Conquered, virginal and tearful,
Merging now in passion every mood,
For this singer, high-browed, lonely,
Forth she came, by godlike lips subdued.

XXXIX

Other singers win the kisses
Of the flowers her handmaids sweet and white:
Violet-lips and rose-caresses;
Clasp of pliant ivy-tendrils bright;
But for him her voice of ocean
Sounds, and calls him towards her through the night.

243

XL

He the giant message hearing
Leaves all friends and passes forth alone,
Knowing that the woman calls him,
Nature, to be sharer of her throne:
Through blue gulfs her whisper thrilleth,
Over limitless white waters blown.

XLI

He through crimson dawn returning,
Kissed and held of Nature through the night,
Dazzles us with kingly glances
Till we shrink from their excessive light;
Still the awful kiss of Nature
Leaves his lips imperishably bright.

XLII

Yet the age hath room for others.
Midway 'tween the younger and elder band
Tennyson, most English-hearted,

244

Brow-bound with the English leaf, doth stand:
And the lanes and English meadows
Move and bloom and brighten at his hand.

XLIII

His the message not of ocean:
Not the kiss that floats across the sea:
Not the lips whose breath is breezes:
Not the sweet-winged spirit of night,—not she:—
His the calm heart of the valleys,
Filled with many a flower and golden tree.

XLIV

His all English women's beauty
In the lanes with English violets starred:—
But the century hath another
Whom the thunder crowned and sought for bard;
Whom the lightning kissed, and loved him;
For whose soul the sea-wind wrestled hard.

245

XLV

Byron! still the lonely Jura
Seeks thee, widowed, weary,—and her sighs
Rolling through the rolling thunder
Find no kindred heart nor song-replies;
And the sea hath lost its comrade,—
On its billowy lips the laughter dies.

XLVI

Yet the sea of Revolution
Through a younger fiery singer thrills;
And his heart hath caught the rapture
Somewhat of the green far foam-flecked hills,
And his soul hath laughed for gladness
With the laughing clear-eyed mountain-rills.

XLVII

Somewhat of the Master's mantle
And of speech of his hath fallen on thee,
Swinburne: somewhat of the eternal

246

Might and wrath and rapture of the sea
Through thy sea-like song hath spoken;
Somewhat of the soul of all things free.

XLVIII

And the heart of many a goddess
Left forlorn and weary since the day
When the Pagan shrines' redeemer,
Keats, alas! too early, passed away,
Dares to glance up, and rejoices
Hearing the old note within thy lay.

XLIX

Bowed and full of desolation
Was full many a goddess' bright-haired head
When along the viewless valleys
Rang the news that bright-haired Keats was dead:
Eyes long dry and tearless wept him,
And for years no rose won all its red.

247

L

But before the century fully
Passed, a new and fervent singer rose,
And the gods shook off their mourning;
Lo! again the trembling water glows
Round about the form of Venus,
Wakeful after over-long repose.

LI

Once again an English singer
Twines about his brow the old Grecian bays,
And the bright hills laugh for gladness,
And his feet are swift i' the rose-hung ways
Where the feet of Keats before him
Dashed the dewdrops from the springing sprays.

LII

Ah! we cannot name each singer.
Can we name the flowers that shine along
English glades and wind-kissed meadows?

248

Can we enshrine each star within our song?
League by league o'er blue sky-billows
Falls the splendour of the starry throng.

LIII

Yet a note of sadness mingles
With our song that praises these who sing.
All must pass. One century forward
Just as blue shall gleam the swallow's wing
O'er the deep green water flashing;
Just as sweet shall be the ungrey-haired Spring!

LIV

Pink the early almond-blossom
Still amid the branches brown shall shine:
And the bees shall hum for ever
Through the ivy and round about the vine;
And the blue-green feathery leafage
Still shall crown the red shaft of the pine.

249

LV

Then shall hearts alive and glowing
Seek towards dead strong hearts who sing to-day.
But the rose shall laugh and scatter
Dewy pink-red leaves beside the way:
One live flower shall have the magic
All dead things and bloodless to outweigh.

LVI

Nature! Yes our poets win her,
Some for mistress, some for deathless bride,
So it seems. Yet young and girlish
She shall smile some future bard beside;
Just as if no soul before him
Ever sang her beauty,—and, singing, died.

LVII

Just as if no flower had ever
Loved the sun, and withered at its might:
In a hundred years shall Nature

250

Bring the spring with sudden gleam of white
Snowdrop-handmaids o'er the valleys,—
And the moon is new-born every night.

LVIII

Every night the night's star thrilleth
At the marriage-message of the sea:
What grows old and grey in Nature?
Nought that Nature fashions; only we:—
Not more snowy was the primal
Than last April's dazzling chestnut tree.

LIX

So, when singers are arising,
Eager, young, as singers past arose,
Virginal and full of sweetness
Will the world's eyes meet them, and the rose.
Round about each new-born poet
Arms most white his virgin era throws.

251

LX

Yet when each new bard hath kissed her,
If he looks within her eyes and deep,
Shall he mark a shade of sadness,—
'Mid the throbs that through her bosom leap
Note one single pulse that trembles
For the distant sake of us who sleep?

Sept., 1882.

252

THE OPTIMIST AND THE PESSIMIST:

A DIALOGUE.

Optimist.
How glorious is the summer sun to-day!
All dark-winged dreams of sorrows flee away.
Hardly a mountain mead could be more fair
Than this white-building-edged Trafalgar Square,
So gleams it in the wonderful sunlight.

Pessimist.
Will you suspend your judgment? Wait till night.
Before you think a mountain mead no loss
Spend half-an-hour, at night, at Charing Cross.

253

Optimist.
The city soon will meet with clear-cut towers
The sun. In Covent Garden piles of flowers
Make all the faint air fragrant.

Pessimist.
Very pure
Are the exhalations from that open sewer.

Optimist.
With laughing silvery ripples lo! the Thames
Leaps downward, curling round yon bridge that stems
The swift-foot current. From its upward reaches
Where yellow iris the green bank impleaches
What messages of love and life it brings!

Pessimist.
How that dead body by the pier-steps swings!

254

Optimist.
Were ever women lovelier than these
Whom in the grand old city's streets one sees!
What goddess-like fair women walk the swards
Of the old sunny cricket-ground at Lord's!

Pessimist.
Yes. There I saw an assignation made
Just by the entrance, in the old wall's shade.
One of our golden youth on starched white cuff
Was writing down a girl's address.—Enough.

Optimist.
Fool! gaze into an English woman's eyes!
You see no evil there. You see the skies.

Pessimist.
Yes, she's not spoken. 'Tis the tongue that lies.

255

Optimist.
Hark how that girl i' the cornfield laughs and sings!
Her hair is browner than a lark's brown wings.
With bright blue petticoat pressed tight and borne
Backward by the stalks, she passes through the corn.
These are the women whence the English race
Sprang in its strength. Her sunburnt honest face
Is full of country mirth, not brazen or bold.

Pessimist.
Wait till the rich man comes here with his gold.
Gold corn-ears are no test of woman's truth:
Wait till some London Boaz sends for Ruth.

Optimist.
Wretch,—dost thou not believe in virtue then?

Pessimist.
When I have found it, I will trust it: when.

256

Optimist.
If human hearts are frail, God's skies are pure;
And the sea-waves' white valiant souls endure.

Pessimist.
As for sea-foam,—the sands the white waves mottle.
And Tyndall made some blue sky in a bottle.

Optimist.
The stars are grand and fair past human hope.

Pessimist.
They are gas and iron: through the spectroscope.

Optimist.
O silver moon that through the calm heaven sailest,
All dreams of man will vanish, when thou failest!
Never was first love born but unto thee

257

It looked, and thou the first love of the sea
Didst win, and thou didst kiss the West Wind's hair.
Through yonder cottage-window, white and fair,
Thou peepest, and thou seest a young girl praying,
Her gold locks on the pillow sprent and straying,
And thou dost mingle with her prayers and dreams.

Pessimist.
Thou seest the cobwebs on the cottage-beams,
O moon,—and cobwebs in the young girl's brain,
And hearest upon the cottage-roof the rain,
And seest it trickle through the gaping thatch,
And hearest the rough-hand East Wind try the latch,
And seest the ragged stockings of the girl
Upon a chair,—and round each (golden!) curl
A bit of torn “Bow Bells” twined. In repose
Her breathing, chiefly, travels through her nose.
While all the time, O moon, thou art thyself
A mere blasé volcano, shelf on shelf,

258

So Science tells us,—full of pits and rifts
That one may measure when thy cloud-veil lifts
Just to let mankind see how poor a thing
Lovers and girls and bards (and idiots) sing.

Optimist.
At any rate the great God reigns on high.

Pessimist.
Not since great Science said that God must die
And pass from heaven, since he had lived too long.
God fainted, when he heard Comte's cradle-song.
Now if you look in heaven you'll surely find
The Chair where God's limbs used to rest reclined:
You will not find God any longer there,—
Only the cushion pressed down in the arm-chair,
And, in his palace, spiders on the roof,
And of his poem, one uncorrected proof:
And a few masks wherewith he used to frighten

259

The world,—and chalk his spectral face to whiten;
And sheets of tin to make theatric thunder;
And the sham sword that Clifford snapped in sunder;
And purple threadbare robes by man mistaken
For royal genuine vesture round him shaken.
These you will find: but God has quite absconded.
Not even a beadle waits in heaven, gold-wanded.

Optimist.
Folly! for when we die, heaven opens wide.
The golden towers and gates are then descried.
E'en now our dead friends at our “circles” meet:
Their arms close round us, and their touch is sweet.

Pessimist.
Have angels dirty necks and dirty nails?
On entering heaven do you tumble over pails?
The touch you take for that of some dead friend

260

Is just the medium's dirty finger-end.
Your spotless angel is the medium's wife
Dressed up, and no one else, I'll stake my life.

Optimist.
O wondrous Death who movest o'er the land
And all sad hearts win healing at thine hand,
Thou art the very breath of God.

Pessimist.
The breath
Of plague and pestilence art thou, O Death.

Optimist.
How the great hearts of veteran soldiers leap
When ere the struggle with the foe they sleep,
Knowing that on the morrow they shall be—

261

Pessimist.
Just so much carrion, most assuredly.

Optimist.
Do you know Boulogne? By the Porte Gayolle
I used in former youthful days to stroll
In summer often,—and a fountain there,
Carven with Cupids, leaps up to the air,
And one could fancy Venus' very self
Peeped o'er the round edge of the marble shelf.

Pessimist.
I know it. To that fountain peasants bring
Pigs newly slain, and wash them in the spring;
And their rough porcine bristly hair they singe
Hard by the fount, and the white Cupids fringe
With skins suspended. I have often been
There in old days, and watched the lively scene.

262

Optimist.
How shout these people, 'mid the groves of pine
That edge this picturesque Alsatian line
Of railway passing! Light of heart and gay,
They start off for a summer holiday,
Shouting and singing.

Pessimist.
And at night they lie
A bloodied maimed heap 'neath the unpitying sky.
From town to town the dismal news is sent:
“Fifty lives lost in railway accident”.—

Optimist.
Beyond all sorrows, heaven and endless bloom
Of heavenly joys.

Pessimist.
Beyond all joys, the tomb.

263

Optimist.
Lo! how these lovers kiss. Their glad lips meet!
Of all joys young love is the joy most sweet.
To-night the world hath vanished from their gaze:
They wander forth beneath the moon's white rays;
Then they return to win their myrtle wreath.

Pessimist.
For the first time she finds he has false teeth.
Or he finds the gold hair he used to beg
Just one dear tress of—hanging on a peg.
The moon has set now, and the bed is fluffy:
Fleas climb white limbs; and the inn-room is stuffy.
The stars have vanished, and Apollo's sandal.
What gives love light? Just one damp tallow-candle.—

Optimist.
Swift-footed maiden tripping o'er the lawn
Like Atalanta, or a swift-foot fawn!

264

Pessimist.
Take off the maiden's shoes. Lay beauty bare,
And wonder at the corns and bunions there.

Optimist.
A London Idyll.—In St. James's Park
Beneath a spreading elm-tree after dark
A Grenadier, red-coated, in the shade
Sits, with strong arm around a nursery-maid.
The summer soft wind sighs along the trees,
And the dark water trembles to the breeze:
Love is the same in palace or in park,
In heart of prince or guardsman.

Pessimist.
After dark.—
Yet wait till they have left the elm-tree trunk.
You'll see your guardsman stagger home, mad drunk.

265

Optimist.
O great days that the race about to be,
Our sons and sons' sons, shall most surely see.
When Revolution's red flag is unfurled
And thunder smites the turrets of the world!

Pessimist.
The “children of the pavement,” dressed in rags,
Will crowd the Boulevards, waving filthy flags.
If any meets them, ragless, washed and clean,
With shouts they escort him—to the guillotine.

Optimist.
O blue-eyed girl, God made no fairer thing
Than thou art,—angel, though without a wing,
And sweeter therefore, since we have thee safe,
Though thou for heaven dost, doubtless, pant and chafe.

266

Pessimist.
What dream, I wonder, now before thee flits,
While thou dost pull that butterfly to bits!

Optimist.
God's heart is childlike. Who hath seen a child
Hath seen the Father, large of heart and mild
And pure and sweet and loving. Children's love
Is just a heaven-gift, sent straight from above.
Who hath gazed deep within a child's frank eyes
Hath gazed in God's, and sounded the blue skies.

Pessimist.
God is like children?—Does God love to spin
A poor cockchafer on a twisted pin?
And when God sees a frog, is he then smit
With mad desire to stone and flatten it,—
And when he sees a bird's nest, with bent legs
To swarm the tree and ravish all the eggs?

267

And, when God sees a silvery pebbly brook,
Does he straightway coax wild worms on a hook?
And, seeing a fly, does God drag off its wings?
(While the fat nursemaid munches toast and sings.)
—Children do these things. God deliver me
From children, and from God,—if such he be!

Optimist.
In Paris, in the old Imperial days,
What splendour! What bright uniforms ablaze!
Chasseurs and Voltigeurs: Imperial Guard:
Flashing cuirasses: officers gold-starred:
Red nodding plumes: great bearskins: tall gendarmes:
Sword-bayonets: swinging sabres: flashing arms.

Pessimist.
And still upon the Eastern plains of France
The sunlight glistens,—here upon a lance,
There on a skull or Grenadier's white bone.
Of all that army, this is left alone!

268

Optimist.
O giant souls of history! Jesus! Paul!
In our hearts' temples ye are deathless all.
Great souls who helped the weary race along.

Pessimist.
Then found the red worms, after all, too strong.

Optimist.
The old man leans upon his loving wife.
Young, sweet, she gave him a new lease of life.
With tender pressure of lips more sweet than honey—

Pessimist.
And tender hands, she angled for his money.
Old man,—more amorous waxing every minute,—
Ope not that cupboard.—There's a lover in it!

269

Optimist.
The heavenliest gift of earth is friendship surely.
To be beloved for one's own sake, and purely.
The earth is nobler, all its bowers more green,
For the divine great friendships it has seen.

Pessimist.
Still, if you meet your friend in some strange place
And see less welcome flushing in his face
Than usual, do not make too close inquiry
(Especially if he, your friend, be fiery).
Such unforeseen things happen in human life:
Follow him home,—and perhaps you'll find your wife.

Optimist.
I choose to look at the bright side of things.
The darkest thunder-cloud hath glorious wings
Of regal purple.

270

Pessimist.
And the lightning-swirl
Has just struck dead a newly-married girl.

Optimist.
The lightning-flash is as God's very stroke.

Pessimist.
Nay, as the devil's,—thinks that blasted oak.

Optimist.
God, love and woman,—these keep all things pure.
Hope on for ever. Victory is sure.

Pessimist.
Doubt on for ever. Woman's no assistance!
And as for God,—he lives at such a distance!

271

Optimist.

And yet, in spite of all, my faith grows stronger,
The more I live and see.
I cannot reach God? God can take the longer
Star-road and search out me.

If woman's sometimes frail, she's oftener faithful.
Although the dark air rings
With many a threat and trembles at the wrathful
Red lightning's jagged wings,

I have the unchanged high faith that at the portal
No man's foot yet hath trod
Wait,—deathless, grand-eyed, loving and immortal,—
Woman and God.

Sept., 1882.

273

II. PART II. LOVE-LYRICS.

294

SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING.

III. “YES, PERHAPS A DREAM IT IS.”

Yes, perhaps a dream it is,—but far too sweet for breaking.
Give me another month to dream on without waking,
Or ever another day!
What are the sweetest things but dreams? What is the summer
But just a gorgeous dream to every blossom-comer
That laughs encircled in the clasp of May!

The real nights are the nights when, golden, beyond number,
Star-thoughts and starlike eyes pervade and haunt our slumber:
The real days are the days
When over and round about us sunny Love is gleaming:—
False days and nights are those that have no heart for dreaming,—
When no thoughts thrill our stormy souls to lays.