Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

“. . . . Entre les ouvertures de paix qui furent faites pendant la trêve, on proposa de marier le Prince d'Espagne, Dom Carlos, fils unique de Philippe et de Marie de Portugal sa première femme, avec Madame Elizabeth fille ainée de France . . . . aussi-tôt qu'il fut proposé, elle concut beaucoup d'estime pour l'époux qu'on lui destinoit. . . Le Prince d'Espagne n'etoit pas moins content de sa destinée . . . il s'abandonna avec plaisir à tout ce que cette idée lui inspiroit d'amoureux . . . Cependant les affaires changèrent de face par la rupture de la trêve . . . Il est aisé de juger quelle fut la douleur de Dom Carlos . . . et quelle fut sa joie quand on reprit la négociation de la paix: cependant cette paix qui flatoit si doucement ses esperances, fut ce qui le ruina pour toujours. Pendant le tems que la négociation dura, Philippe II. devint veuf par la mort de Marie Reine d'Angleterre sa seconde femme; comme il avoit dessein de se remarier, il fit demander pour lui la Princesse qu'on lui avoit accordée pour son fils: On auroit mieux aimé la donner à l'héritier de la Couronne qui etoit de même âge qu'elle, qu'à un Prince qui pouvoit être son père, et dont elle n'auroit que des Cadets, mai son ne put honnêtement le refuser.” —Œuvres de M. l' Abbé de Saint Réal (M.DCC.XXIV.) t. iii. p. 63–5.

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If we are to believe the contents of a Spanish Document purporting to have been written by Fray Juan de Avila (said to be the confessor of Don Carlos, and an eye-witness of what he describes), which was discovered in the archives at Simancas by the late Herr Gustave Bergenroth, and made public in 1870 (Gustave Bergenroth, a Memorial Sketch, by W. C. Cartwright, M.P.), the mystery which has hitherto shrouded the fate of this unhappy son of Philip II. can be accounted a mystery no longer. According to this authority, Don Carlos was privately executed by having his throat cut, by his father's orders, upon the night of Feb. 23, 1568, for complicity in the rebellion of the Prince of Orange and Counts Egmont and Horn in the Low Countries, after he had been previously imprisoned, tried for high treason, and subjected to the interrogatory of the Inquisition, accompanied by torture, the King having said, “that the judges should employ all lawful means of discovering the truth, just as though the accused were a common subject of low condition” (Gustave Bergenroth, p. 198). Letters of a somewhat compromising nature which, it is stated, had passed between the Prince and the Queen his stepmother, are said to have added greatly to the King's displeasure. A report was afterwards circulated to the effect that Don Carlos had died of illness in prison, the King not desiring “to make public the shameful conduct of his son, and he added, although he was perfectly justified, ‘There were people who would think him hard and sanguinary if they were to know the truth.’” This account differs materially from those of former historians who have agreed upon July 24 as the date of the Prince's death. Fray Diego de Chaves is the name given by Monsieur Gachard to the confessor of Don Carlos. —V. F.

“You say, Fray Juan, I must die to-night,
The King has sign'd the warrant. Be it so,
Strange though such tidings be! I would not go
Through future days in this disastrous plight,
Nor these most miserable nights renew
For all the wealth the Indies or Peru
Could freight our galleons with. Each night I said
‘Would God that it were morn!’ and when the sun
Show'd, by his first faint beam the day begun,
‘Would God that it were eve!’ Alive yet dead,
Betray'd, despoil'd of all, discredited
And doom'd to death! Thus far am I undone!
Bear with me, holy father, for a space,
A few short moments, for I would retrace
My piteous story, since we are alone.

112

“Alone at last! and yet with all this load
Of sins and sorrows! Kindly Heaven grants
One of my pray'rs at least; those sycophants,
Lerma, Ruy Gomez, Borja,—who abode
Here in my chamber, watching night and day
My ev'ry action,—have been call'd away
To do their final service two hours since;
To see that all is order'd, test the blade,
Make fast the doors and have the sawdust laid
Ready to drink the life-blood of their Prince;
For this they left me. Think not that I wince
To know their errand! Rather I rejoice
Exceedingly, impatient for relief;
So, since my time for converse here is brief,
Hear me, good father, whilst I have a voice.

“I am the only son of one who held
The world in awe, yet am I not her son,—
My sweet Señora . . . Thus was it begun
This love,—this hatred,—never to be quell'd;
The great King Philip who hath earn'd my hate,
Taking my gentle mother for a mate,

113

Begat me in the hey-day of his prime,
Before Ambition kill'd poor Love with cold,
So am I proud and headstrong, though I hold
Nothing so good as Love. My mother's clime
(My mother who departed ere her time,)
Lent its volcanic fires to warm my blood
To deeds of chivalry and high emprise,
Yet so that in some lovely lady's eyes
I fail'd to win approval, naught seem'd good.

“So did the days go by that led to these . . .
Though when King Philip, seeking wider sway,
Turned his keen glance to those chill Isles that lay
Wrapp'd in grey mists, amongst the Northern seas;—
Where dwelt a lady, kindred of his line,
Mary the Queen,—(daughter of Katherine,
His father's cousin:) as God hears me now
In His high place,—I swear that no ill-will
Bore I the King for this! Nay, more, until
His English wife had pass'd away, I vow
I mused much on the brother I might know

114

And greet and love one day, were he to reign
And turn those islands of the stormy sea
Into a second home, if I should be
His brother-king upon the Throne of Spain.

“Let me consider if that poor Queen's death
Seem'd fraught with ominous presage to my heart?
Nay, what King Philip took in such good part
Was it for me to seem to groan beneath? . .
But for the mourning weeds wherewith I clothed
Myself from courtesy, mine own betrothed,
My pearl of France, possessing all my soul,
Turn'd my mind rather to my bridal cheer
Than to that loveless lady's lonely bier. . . .
Nay, but Fray Juan, you shall hear the whole,
As God shall hear me! . . . When my father stole
And made the bride that was my bride, his own,—
How had you felt, if, haply, you had been
A man not vow'd to God, or, unforeseen,
Surprised a heart beneath your monkish gown?

115

“I will not ask you. . . I, that am no priest
But unregenerate man, have come to know
The rancorous emotions that may grow
Out of a heart thus trampled! No wild beast
Defrauded of its prey, no mother torn
From her one babe, no wanderer forlorn
In arid deserts, in their bitterest hour
E'er felt more mad,—more hopeless. . . Ev'ry day
To see her face,—to be condemn'd to stay
And watch King Philip wearing my white flower;—
To call her ‘Queen,’ and ‘Mother,’ whom no power
Might turn to wife of mine! . . . What had I done,
Good father, to the great God over-head
That, not in nether hell, but here, instead,
It thus should please Him to torment His son?

“Some say she shudder'd seeing his grey hairs,—
And that he chid her, taking it amiss;
(Mark you, 'twas not the Queen who told me this,
I chanced upon the story unawares:)

116

I have avow'd to you mine own intent,
But swear again the Queen is innocent;—
Go, tell my father:—shield her blameless head,
Tell him his witnesses all swore to lies;
That all the letters were base forgeries
Invented by the foes who wish me dead,—
So soon to be contented! . . . I have said
Who heads the list,—what power clothed in might
And majesty,—would have me cease to live
For private ends: the guilty ne'er forgive,—
And so it happens that I die to-night.

“This ‘mutiny’ in Flanders. . . Is it rare,—
A thing unheard of,—that to test his skill,—
Redress abuses,—call it what you will,—
A stripling, well-nigh driven to despair
By passion, insult, anger,—should desire
Some wider scope for the consuming fire
That burns within his bosom? . . . I confess
I thirsted for adventure;—that through me
The disaffected Flemings might be free
To live like loyal subjects;—none the less
Did I desire the growth and happiness
Of this wide Realm. Who taxes me with more?

117

Alva,—ambitious of supreme command,—
Gil Anton, justly chasten'd by my hand,
And all the perjured crew that falsely swore!

“Say to the Queen, my lady,—if she heard
I was ‘tormented,’—like some common knave
(I that am Prince of Spain!) that, not to save
My body's bitter anguish,—by one word
Shed I the faintest shadow on her fame;
Nay,—rather say that nothing I could name
Of words that she hath breathed or actions done,
Had prejudiced the King.—To me, so soon
Left desolate,—did she vouchsafe the boon
Of motherly regard.—I seem'd her son
And so she let the tender phrases run
Knowing her pure affection undefiled
And fearing no man's malice,—for my sin
(The sin she had no part or parcel in,)
Chiding me even as a wayward child.

“See, on this book of Hours, (my lady's gift,)
How the triumphant lion chased in gold,—
The rampant lion of Léon,—seems to hold
The helpless lily of France, as though to lift

118

And toss it like a plaything, ere his grip
Closes to crush it! . . Pray God that it slip
Betwixt his claws, before those ravenous
And cruel jaws can rend it! . . . As I pray
My mind goes forward past the imminent day
(Seeing her Royal blazon figured thus,)
When this wild heart, that Love made mutinous,
Shall cease to beat;—then is my soul oppress'd
With fears for her; not Christ or all His saints
Can drive them hence;—my faith in Heaven faints
And demons come between me and my rest.

“Yet must I turn to God, and seek relief
Where such fears have no place, since I that stand
Before you now, am by a father's hand
Condemn'd to die ere morning! . . . Time is brief,
The King hath sign'd the warrant, and tonight,
Wrapp'd in a placid consciousness of right,
He, even he, is praying for my soul! . . .

119

Something rings false in this;—some error nurst
Of man's fall'n nature;—thus to smite me first
And then implore a Higher Power to enrol
My name amongst the saved! . . . Mind you, the whole
Of those ten thousand masses go to aid
The Royal pray'rs; one thousand ducats' worth
This year;—then yearly, till the end of earth,
One thousand, at one hundred ducats paid.

“I marvel much how men will deem I died . . .
By fever, plague, or witchcraft? . . . At what tale
Of filial disobedience Kings will quail
Considering their heirs? . . . For he will hide
The ghastly truth, and that which here to-night
Is done in darkness, must not meet the light
To-morrow, or for ever! . . . It were well
To feign me mad, maybe, and mine own hand
Mine own destroyer. Folks would understand,
Look solemn,—shake their heads, and haply tell
The tale so often told, of how I fell

120

At Alcala, and on the narrow stair
Left half my wits, and how the surgeon's knife
Scoop'd out the rest—whence my rebellious life
And shameful death—and bid their sons beware.

“You know I would be buried in the robe
Of the Franciscan order, with the hood
Of a Dominican, —if the King thinks good;—
This garb might suit his purpose. Who would probe
Beneath such saintly covering, to seek
Upon the throat the little tell-tale streak
Conceal'd from all men's prying? . .I would lie
In fair Toledo—at the convent there,—
San Juan de los Reyes,—'neath a square
Of plain Tortosa jasper; tapers high
Should burn on festa days there, but the eye

121

Must light upon no pompous blazonings,
Carved catafalque, or broider'd baldaquin,
Set up to glorify the clay within
In sinful arrogance of earthly things.

“And now farewell, good father; nay, one word—
A word of warning.—Keep you,—guard you well;
You wot of much it were unwise to tell
(For even priests have tongues,) and I have heard
That monarchs, when their servants come to learn
Their secret dealings, have been known to turn
Their favours from them. . . So you sleep secure,
I charge you,—for your profit,—get you hence
Out of Madrid,—inventing some pretence
Of pilgrimage to foreign shrine,—the cure
Of some old ill,—to serve for coverture.
They say a dying man has clearer sight
Than one whose eyes are dazzled with the glare
Of this world's glory;—wherefore, have a care
For these my words,—seeing I die to-night.

122

“Pray for the guilty soul which I commend
To God's great goodness! . . All who love me best
Pray for me now! . . Is this some sorry jest
To break my spirit, or indeed the end?
Thus have I question'd,—doubting. Yet you say
The King hath sign'd my death-warrant today,
A King not giv'n to jesting. . . All is done
Over and ended with me;—he hath pour'd
Out all the vials of his wrath. . . Oh, Lord,
Be thou more merciful! . . . His only son! . . .
Son of the first wife of his youth,—the one
They said he loved so well! . . . Help me to live
Through these last bitter moments! . . . Stay, I hear
Their footsteps on the stair. . The end is near;—
Yes; you can tell the King that I forgive.” . . .

“Il principe di Spagna . . . è talmente dimenticato da ognuno che pare veramente che non sia mai stato al mondo.” —Despatch of Florentine Ambassador to Cosmo de' Medeci, March 30, 1568.

One of his pages who swore facts to his disadvantage.

“. . . un habillement de franciscain et un capuce de dominicain, dans lesquels il désirait être enseveli, comme il le fut.” (See Don Carlos et Philippe II. par M. Gachard, p. 473, and Letters of the Archbishop of Rossano, papal nuncio, of July 27 and 28, 1568, and Letter of Leonardo di Nobili of July 30, for Italian account.)

123

“FIN DE SIECLE.”

The world is old; old in expression of thought,
Old in persistency to dare and do;
Old in endeavour to revive anew
The dead grey ashes that are burnt to naught
By fangs of fiercest flame gnaw'd through and through.

To us, who breathe this breath of latter days,
Can anything seem true, or fresh, or keen,
Whilst mocking voices whisper thus, between
Our smiles and tears, “Ye tread in dead men's ways;
That must wax weaker which hath always been”?

The starved oppressors of a vanish'd race
Cry out for sustenance, and seek their prey
In hearts worn thin and callous, since To-day
Passion and Impulse flag, whilst in their place,
Reason inaugurates her colder sway.

124

“How can I thrive,” asks Love, “on such poor fare?
These know me not, my welcome is out-stay'd.”
Pain, likewise, maketh murmur, all dismay'd:—
“Where is my part in love, my tribute, where,
In days gone by so generously paid?”

Thus, pale and ravening, shall these two feed
On hearts born out of time; a fated few
Predestined, for their sorrow, to renew
The fervid sense of some old Pagan creed
Which may not perish, whether false or true.

125

THE OLD ROCKING HORSE.

(IN THE LUMBER-ROOM.)

He stands in the desolate chamber,
Snorting and pricking his ears,
With the dauntless glance
And the spirited prance
That we knew in the bygone years;

For full thirty summers and winters,
From the dawn to the close of the day,
Has he dwelt in this room,
With never a groom,
Or ever a feed of hay.

The roof is so dingy with cobwebs,
The window so coated with grime,
That he only knows
By the caws of the crows
The morn from the evening-time.

126

The mice, in their frolicsome revels,
Sport over him night and day,
And the burrowing moth
In his saddle-cloth
Has never been flick'd away;

It is seldom his desolate dwelling
Ever echoes to human tread,
And its carpetless floor
Is all litter'd o'er
With the relics of days long dead.

What a medley of eloquent lumber
Do his proud eyes lighten upon,
From those drums and flutes
To the high snow boots
And the mouldering stuff'd wild swan;

And the ruinous magic-lantern,
And the bottomless butterfly net,
And the cage for the doves,
And the prize-fighter's gloves,
And the rickety old spinnet!

127

He must know, this spirited charger,
As he snorts and pricks up his ears,
Why my heart is in pain
As I toy with his mane
And my eyes are half blind with tears;

He must know who slept in that old swing cot,
And who sat in that tiny chair,
And who flew the great kite
That ghostly and white
Leans up in the corner there;

And the bats, and the balls, and the ninepins,
And the boat with the batter'd prow,
Ah, that charger tall
Knows who play'd with them all,
And how sound some are sleeping now!

Yet, for all this burden of knowledge,
His bearing is proud and high,
With the dauntless glance
And the spirited prance
That we knew in the days gone by;

128

And in spite of his lonely confinement,
His muscles are firmly strung,
For the passing of Time,
That has wither'd our prime
Has left him still fresh and young.

He wears saddle, and stirrups, and snaffle,
And frontlet of faded blue,
And a bridle rein
On his flowing mane,
And a tail that fits on with a screw.

Alas, for the sorrows and changes
Since, mounting this dappled grey,
With whip in hand
To some fairy land
I was speedily borne away!

On, on, to those unknown regions
Where all are so fair and kind! . . .
And away and away
Goes the gallant grey,
And we leave the world behind!

129

How his stout green rockers are creaking!
How his long tail feathers and streams! . . .
How his whole frame thrills
With “the pace that kills”
As we hie to the land of dreams!

Of those times, so good to remember,
Few vestiges now remain,
Yet here, to-day,
Stands my gallant grey,
With saddle and bridle-rein;

And I think, as I stroke him sadly,
“For awhile, how sweet it would be
If the women and men,
Who were children then,
Could be all as unchanged as he!”

130

FIRST LOVE.

Oh, happy fresh awakening
To first-felt-love,—a new-born thing,—
So new, we murmur “What is this,
This strange, sweet shyness, stealing o'er
Soul, sense, and frame, from brow to lips,—
From falt'ring feet to finger tips,—
This kiss, that does not seem a kiss
Like any we have known before?”
New days may dawn, new blossoms blow,—
New changing loves may come and go,
Or loves that linger and try to stay,—
Loves braver and truer than youth's fleet dream,
But none that can ever so wonderful seem
As that fickle first love that flutter'd away,
With those first heart-bounds at a sweet surprise,
And those first upliftings of tender eyes,
And those hopes and tremors in secret nurst!—

131

It was good,—it is gone,—but it still was good;—
Tho' I would not beckon it back to me,—no!
I would not beckon it back if I could,
For I think it seem'd good but because it was first,
And I know I could love more nobly now.

132

BY THE SEA.

She watch'd the silvery moonlight fling
Its spell o'er Ocean's ebb and flow,
And, feeling such a feeble thing,
Wonder'd that she should love him so.

He likewise look'd on moon and star,
And saw the white waves lash the shore,
And, feeling strong to make or mar,
Wonder'd he could not love her more.

133

AN “OLD, OLD STORY.”

“Let me die with this ring on my finger, then fold my hands, so, on my bosom,
I had never the heart to pawn it, tho' it wasn't a wedding ring;
I have said how I came by it now: Last year, when the broom was in blossom,
Down by the low-lying lands where the very first nightingales sing,
When the lilacs were thick on the bough, but ere ever the hawthorn was over,
When the evening shadows grew long, and the river seemed all in a glow,
Whilst the grasshopper chirped under foot and the moths were aflit in the clover,
Down by the low-lying lands—there is no use denying it now!

134

Ah! if ever your sweetheart, your Will, had said anything half so tender,
Had he pleaded thus night after night, and press'd you thus day after day—
But, no! I may do you a wrong; you might never have made surrender,
So, sister, forgive me my words, you might always have said him nay!
But then, we were never alike, no more than the rose and the bramble,
You were always so sweet and sedate, whilst I was accounted so wild,
Ever ripe for a romp in the hay, or awake for a moonlight ramble,
And with never a fear of aught since the day that I grew from a child.

And Will—I mean not to offend, for you know it as well as another—
Had courted me nigh two years, had been trying to make me tame;
Will, who seem'd like a schoolmaster then—your husband since, and my brother—
Had ask'd me to share his home, and had ask'd me to bear his name.

135

So a good man cared for me once; surely this is a thought I may cling to,
He took me for honest and true, tho' a trifle light-hearted and wild,
A pupil to preach to and teach, or a playmate to fondle and sing to,
Having no more notion of guile than might lurk in the heart of a child.

But my heart was away at the Hall, with its tapestry hangings and armour,
With its banner that waved from the tow'r over-looking the half of the Shire;
I had drunk of the poison'd cup and bent low to the voice of the charmer,
To the tempter that came to me clothed in the form of our brave young Squire.
“What is Willy, in spite of his worth?” I said to myself, in my blindness,
As I look'd at his gamekeeper's coat, and toss'd up my head in my pride;
Tho' I knew, for the matter of that, that for honesty, wisdom, and kindness,
He'd have beaten the very best husband that breathed in the country side.

136

As I look from this hospital window, it all seems so long pass'd over,
And more like a dream than a truth that I never may look on him more,
That my bed must be under the turf, with only the worm for a lover,
I'm glad, though I cried so at first, that the baby has gone before,
For I mayn't feel so lonesome and lost in the great, grand heavenly palace;
And mother may welcome me, too, that was taken a year last June;
She will wonder at seeing me, her mad little venturesome Alice;
And I shan't like to tell her, at first, how I come to be there so soon!

Why should Love, that God set in our hearts, that was none of our own inventing,
Bring so often a curse to us girls and plant such a thorn in our breasts?
Did the robins and ring-doves at home, limp about broken-wing'd and lamenting,
Just because, when the season came round, they pair'd off and built themselves nests?

137

I know I'm a sinner; I know I scarce hope to go quite unforgiven;
I bow to the dust, in my shame, in the sight of the Father above,
But I seem to feel, somehow, quite sure, if I'm counted too wicked for heaven,
That it won't be because when on earth I had learnt what it was to love!

Let me die with this ring on my finger, then fold my hands, so, on my bosom,
I had never the heart to pawn it, tho' it wasn't a wedding ring;
I have said how I came by it now: Last year, when the broom was in blossom,
Down by the low-lying lands where the very first nightingales sing,
When the lilacs were thick on the bough, but ere ever the hawthorn was over,
When the evening shadows grew long, and the river seem'd all in a glow,
Whilst the grasshopper chirp'd at our feet and the moths were aflit in the clover,
Down by the low-lying lands—there is no use denying it now!”

138

TO THE BIRDS.

(AFTER THE BREAK-UP OF A LONG FROST.)

Ungrateful birds! that to my frosted pane,
One short week since, importunately flew,
Impell'd by “cupboard” love and greed of gain,
A frozen-out, appealing, pauper crew,

Where are ye fled? When all your world was white,
And lying spellbound 'neath the breath that numbs,
What timepiece taught you all to guess aright
The frequently recurring hour of crumbs?

Nay, did I chance to loiter, tapping bill
Or eager chirrup made your presence known,
As here you perch'd in line upon the sill
Whence you have all unanimously flown!

Pert sparrows, ever foremost at the feast,
And strutting daws were wont to meet my view,
With brave cock-robins, bright of eye and breast,
And all the titmouse tribe, in buff and blue.

139

The yaffel trick'd out in his parrot-green,
Wearing his bright red cap; the screeching jay,
The lesser woodpecker, so seldom seen;
The little linnet, clothed in Quaker gray;

The greedy speckled thrush, the crested finch
And all his clan; he of the “golden bill,”
Only last week, disputed ev'ry inch
Upon this now deserted window-sill.

But lo! a change has come! All Nature yields,
The raindrops twinkle on the gleaming ledge,
The snow forsakes the furrows of the fields,
The river flows beneath its drooping sedge;

And now the writhing worm and portly slug,
Unconscious of their coming doom, prepare
To leave their hermit-cells, secure and snug,
And breathe once more the breath of upper air.

So, gobbling sycophants! your need is o'er;
And ye who cringed and truckled all day long,
Now that she cannot serve you any more,
Scarce deem your benefactress worth a song!

140

A WIFE'S CONFESSION.

“Hear me this once, my husband; you who deem
Me stern and cold,—not loving mine own child,
Our first-born son,—your darling and your heir,
The child you mourn to-day! . . Hear me this once,
Nay, do not hear, but read these written words
When my sad voice is silent. Learn at last
The story of these miserable years
During the which I did my best to seem
A happy wife and mother! . . .

. . . You remember
That day of days, just twenty years ago
When, on the terrace-walk, amongst the yews,
You said you loved me? All the world was still,
Whilst the great sunflow'rs, like a row of ghosts,
Stared out upon us from the garden beds.
I can remember ev'ry word you said
On that too blessèd ev'ning; how the years
Had glided by, since you, a sailor lad,
The second son of your illustrious house,

141

And I—a baby girl—your Rector's daughter,
Had play'd together 'neath those very trees
In old departed days, and how, anon,
Ere you had deem'd it possible,—so fast
Tripp'd the light-footed years,—you came and found
Your playmate grown to woman, and how your heart
Had yearn'd towards her! Yet, because you knew
Your life to be so shifting and unstable,
You strove against your love. . . .

. . . And then, you told
The story of your elder brother's death,
And how your father's—following so soon,
Had left you lord of all, and changed your fate.
Then, London and its snares, you spoke of next;—
The careless, pleasure-seeking, empty life;—
The making much of little and little of much;—
Its men and women, wrapp'd in selfish aims,
Envying, doubting, struggling, and for what? . . .
And how, at first, all this had seem'd to you
The best that life could yield, until, at last,
You long'd for something nobler than this strife
For mere amusement;—one, at least, to share
Your so-call'd pleasures, and be gladder for them;—

142

A human life to bless, a face to beam
And brighten at your coming, and, again,
In loftier moods—a faith, a hope, a home
Which Love should bless; and how your lady-mother,
Working upon your mood—had led your mind
To centre upon one who proved unworthy,
And made you deem all women vain and base,
Until, one Sunday, in your village church,
You saw me standing singing in the choir
Dress'd all in white,—for it was summer time,
Before the harvest.

What you thought of me,
Seeing me thus,—my innocence, my faith,
My ignorance of evil,—all was true,
My love, my life! in those too happy days.
I swear the very semblance of a lie
Had never pass'd my lips; upon my youth
The watchful and all-seeing eye of God
Seem'd ever looking down, to keep it pure.
Yes; I was almost worthy, then, of you,
Albeit a humble maiden, set apart
From all temptation. . . . God knows how I fell
Once the temptation came! . . .

143

I like to muse
Now, in my wretchedness, upon that day
When, after church, hard by my mother's grave,
With the great organ pealing down the aisle,
You spoke, and took my hand, and read my heart!
Then follow'd one sweet week of very Heav'n,
Of more than human bliss! . . . The secret joy
That comes of knowing and yet knowing not,
This joy was mine; the golden moments flew
As by enchantment; ev'ry day some pray'r
Seem'd heard and granted, some new hope begot
But to be realised, and then, at last,
Came that blest ev'ning, when the giant yews
Were black against the blushing summer sky,
And Night was near at hand, to fold her wings
Over two happy lovers! . . .

. . . Was I cold,
Or stern, or obdurate, in those dear days,
As you have call'd me since? . . . Did not my heart,
My very soul,—go forth to meet your love? . . .
And then our wedded days;—Was I remiss
In any wifely duty? If I err'd
I knew it not—receiving only praise
For ev'ry action; nay, then all went well!

144

Too well,—too smoothly! Am I paying now
In solitude and tears, the penalty
Of having been vouchsafed too much of love,
Too much of happiness? . . .

. . . Your mother came,
That was our first awak'ning from a dream
Of sweet contentment. She was dear to me,
Being your mother; I, to her, less dear,
Being your wife,—the girl who cross'd her plans;
(This knowledge reach'd me slowly!)—I would cast
No blame on her, nor yet on faithful Alice,
My more than second mother,—once my nurse,
(God grant her soul repose, and give me grace
Only to blame the guilty!) . . . Yet, their sighs
And lamentations, at the childless house,
Made the now growing hunger at my heart
The more insatiate. Thus the days went by.

And now, it seem'd, some transformation swept
Athwart your spirit. You were noble, kind,
And generous as ever, but some link
That bound us in the past, seem'd snapt and gone.
I know not if another had perceived
What I,—who lived for nothing but your love,—

145

Perceived so plainly, when, unconsciously,
You said some little word that stabb'd my heart.
You could not be unkind to living soul,
Yet, now, to me, your kindness bore the taint
Of condescension,—seeming, from a height,
To light upon a being all too lowly
To be a second self; whilst, oftentimes,
You spoke regretfully of days gone by
In which I had no share, as tho' you grieved
To know them past and done. Or else, you dwelt
Upon some sudden project for the future
From which my sex debarr'd me; perilous search
In Arctic regions, after shipwreck'd crews;—
The tracking of the tiger to his lair
In Indian jungles;—hurried journeyings
By land and sea,—long absences from home,
Alone, in distant climes; the roving life
Of your past sailor years resumed once more.
Yet always, when I ask'd you, did you love me?
You answer'd; you had proved it, could I doubt? . . .
But never, now, as in the dear old days,
The precious words we women long to hear
Leapt to your lips unask'd! And once at night,
When you were lying dreaming by my side,
I heard you echo, in sleep, your mother's moan:

146

“A childless home!” Then, waking up, you said
'Twas strange your race had dwindled to one man
And he unworthy;—lapp'd in aimless ease
And self-indulgence!—One, alas, whose loss
Would scarcely be perceived, were he to go,
And take his place in his appointed niche
Beneath the gray church tow'r! . . .

And all this while,
Early and late, one pray'r was in my soul
And on my lips! Ah, wherefore, Lord of Heaven,
Did I not go on beating out my heart
In pray'r and supplication at Thy feet?
Had I proved patient, all in Thy good time
Thou would'st have lent an ear to my complaint! . . .
Oh, erring human heart, this was thy last
Of innocence and truth! . . . Henceforth, one dream,
One hope, possess'd me, which some haunting fiend,—
Some plausible persistent spirit of Hell,—
(Albeit the germ was set in good intent
And clinging tenderness,) did so corrupt
And train amiss, that soon it came to bear
A poison'd fruit!

147

And now, ten married years,
(Bringing no diminution of my love,
But rather, thro' intensity of passion
And longing unfulfill'd, transforming love
Into a curse and torment,) glided by;—
And still, the childless hearth—the aching void;
Whilst she who once had well-nigh been your wife
Had borne her husband seven stalwart sons,
And round about, in all the cottage homes,
Were piping voices heard, and pattering feet! . . .

Then crouch'd the tempting demon at mine ear
And whisper'd low; “His love is on the wane,
The sure decline! Snatch at the fleeting treasure
Ere it elude thee quite! Seize on the means
Beneath thine hand; set mind and will to work,
Achieve thine end, and earn thy sure reward!”
(Read on, and as you read, knowing me dead,
Forgive and pity! . . .)

You remember how,
From grief at losing you, I scarce could hold
The warm tears back, when you departed hence
For but one little week? Yet, when you went
Your long projected voyage round the world
I did not weep. A woman would have mark'd

148

And wonder'd, fear'd, suspected! Not so, you,
Being a man, and blind to many things!
Ah, those were days of loneliness indeed,
Yet, was I not alone; I nursed my hope,
Matured my project; Alice, faithful Alice,
(Nay, foolish, guilty Alice!) aiding me
With sage advice and counsel. (She is dead;
God's peace be with her, for she loved me well!)

I do believe I would have sold my soul
For that first letter, after you had read
My joyful news! . . . You had been months away,
When, at the very uttermost end of Earth,
You learnt that God had hearken'd to my pray'r,
And then, you wrote! . . . I, falling on my knees,
Thank'd Heav'n for those sweet words! . . .

Could I retract,
Go back from my intent, once having read? . . .
Having re-gain'd your heart, re-made you mine,
Re-captured my lost treasure? . . . Could I keep
All you bestow'd, yet seem to give you back
No newer gift than mere undying love? . . .
Twas thus I reason'd. Was I mad, misled,
Or only, wholly wicked? . . .

149

When we met,
Ronald—the blue-eyed boy you mourn to-day,
Lay sleeping in my arms. Can I forget
Your silent greeting? . . . Yes; your heart was mine,
I had reconquer'd it! . . .

My love, my life,
For just the time it takes to read these lines
Try to be me; to see things as I saw
With my poor woman's eyes!

Last night you said,
Looking on Ronald as he lay in death,
These bitter words: “You never loved my boy,
Our eldest born. You ever favoured Frank,
Your second son, as having more of you,
Your face, your disposition! . . . But I swear
Here, by the coffin of my dear dead boy,
That little Frank, for all his winning ways,
Can never conquer in his father's heart
The place that once was Ronald's!”

These, your words,
(Words we had sigh'd together, you and I,
Had things been different!) went to my heart
And stabb'd it like a knife! I did love Ronald
Ere Frank was born! Who was as proud as I

150

On his first birthday, when the bonfire crown'd
Yon purple hill and lit the lake with flame?
Or who more grateful, when your tenants traced
A likeness to so many of your race
Stamp'd on his baby features? . . . “God is kind
And helping me,” (I thought), “He reads the heart;
He heard the bitter cry—the ardent pray'r;
He knew the need; the gracious gift besought;
The gift denied! His ways are not our ways;
Herein is consolation!” And the will,
Helping the erring heart to cloud the brain
And fire the fancy, made that seem the best
Which had its origin in fraud and guile.
We women, by some subtle alchemy,
Turn fiction into fact, dross into gold,
And, when we love, a man into a god!—
What wonder then, this child, so full of life
And strength and beauty, seeming like a link
To bind your heart to mine, should come to be,
For three short years, my darling and my pride? . . .

“For three short years!” and then, my Frank was born,
My very own! . . . And God's avenging hand
Descended like a two-edged sword, to smite

151

My guilty heart, and all was turn'd to tears
And secret bitterness!

. . . You loved not Frank
As you loved Ronald! . . . 'Twas as tho' the want,
The longing of your life, had been assuaged;—
Your heart so fill'd, you had no need of him;
You cared for him with all a father's care,
But ever with a difference, whilst I
Loved him as Ronald never had been loved,
With all a mother's passion for the son
Born after years of longing,—for the child
Of her one love, the husband of her heart!
(Oh, read and pity! . . .) All these seven years
Since Frank was born, my life has been a Hell
Of torment and remorse! . . . Ronald, the first,
Ever before my boy! . . . Why was he tall
And strong, and bold, and daring, and my boy
Thoughtful and gentle, with a dreamer's mind,
A student's nature? . . . “Having more of me,”
You said, and said I loved him most for this;—
Nay! more of you! . . . Ah, husband, let your curse
Fall lightly on my head;—the head of one
So humbled and abased! . . . No drop of blood
Of yours, of mine, of your illustrious sires,

152

E'er flow'd in Ronald's veins! The child you mourn
Was but a pauper foundling; Alice knew
His mother's name, and knew that he should prove
A stalwart, comely lad, but she is dead,—
(Peace to her soul!) Ah, look into your heart,
And understand what brought my own to this,
And read and pardon! . . .

. . . When the tidings came
That both the boys, whilst sailing on the lake,
Had sunk together, and that one was saved
Whilst one had perish'd, in my agony
I pray'd. . . Ah, no! I did not pray for Ronald,
But for our own sweet child! And God has heard
Who would not hear before, and Frank is safe! . . .
But, even as I clasp'd him in my arms,
I saw the look of anguish in your eyes,
And knew that you had pray'd another pray'r,
A pray'r that was not granted! . . .

I too mourn
That brave young life, yet scarce have time for tears;
Let him be laid beside me, I may prove
A better mother to the boy in death!
How could I live on,—knowing that you know,
To meet your scorn, who, having lost your love,

153

Risk'd Heaven to regain it? . . .

. . . . Fare you well,
Love of my life! 'Tis with a twofold aim
I make my mute confession; to implant
Some germ of consolation in your breast,
(If this were possible), for Ronald's death,
Who was no kith or kin to you or me,—
And next, to plead for Frank;—to ask, for him,
That first place in your heart, till now denied.—
Once it was mine, my love, but I have vanish'd
And pass'd into the everlasting shade,—
The place is empty; these are my last words:
“Give it to Frank, your own, our only child!’

154

THE DORMOUSE.

(INSCRIBED TO SOPHY.)

Lonely as Adam in his earliest hour,
Or Alexander Selkirk on his isle,
The Dormouse lay, beside a goodly pile
Of nuts and seeds, within his latticed bow'r
All snugly nested round with wool and hay.

He slept his long protracted Winter-sleep,—
A portly sleeper,—sleek, and fat, and full
From Summer feasting, but nor hay nor wool
Nor comfortable coverlid, could keep
His body warm; 'twas thus the Dormouse lay.

“The Dormouse!” . . These two simple words unfold
His piteous story! Wrested from his kind
While yet a mouseling, ere his tender mind
Could frame a wish; whence loneliness and cold;
He was the only Dormouse in the place!—

155

A lonely orphan Dormouse, celibate,
And banish'd from the beauteous world of bough
And bud and blooming spray, and seeming now
Albeit unconscious of his hapless fate,
Like the survivor of some vanish'd race.

Oh, what a wonderland he does not know
Who has not heard the little rustling things
That fill the forest with their whisperings,
Or watch'd the scarlet foam-fleck'd toadstools grow,
Or 'spied the barr'd blue feather of the jay!

The Dormouse knew not these; all unreveal'd
Were Nature's choicest secrets, tho' his mind
Knew no regret. Thus “cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,”
And e'en as one encompass'd and congeal'd
In Winter's cruel thrall, the Dormouse lay.

And oftentimes, at night, with slipper'd feet
The fair Sophia of the golden locks
Would softly rise, and take him from his box,
And listen if his lonely heart still beat,
Her young brow clouded with anxiety;—

156

Fearing the very worst, because so cold]
And death-like was his slumber, and his mien
So absolutely placid and serene
And purged of earthly passion. He seem'd roll'd
Into a ball of pulseless apathy.

Thus did his uneventful days go by
Till Christmas came again,—the time of jests
And merry-making. With it came two guests
Of whom one brought a gift, which silently
He slipp'd in Sophy's eager outstretch'd hand.

Oh, gift acceptable and long desired
Yet seeming, on account of last year's frost,
A thing obtainable at too great cost
To be by one of modest means acquired
Thro' all the breadth and compass of the land! . . .

And still the Dormouse slept, and if a thrill
Pass'd thro' him in a dream, she knew it not
Who, stealing to his dwelling, brought him—what? . . .
This precious gift, and left it, lying still
Next to his heart, amongst the wool and hay!

157

Anon a change came over Nature's face,
And e'en as our first parent woke, of old,
The Dormouse thaw'd and waken'd, and behold!
Still all unconscious,—in his limp embrace
A lovely little lady-Dormouse lay!

1891.

158

A LATTER-DAY MARTYR.

King Winter, one Christmas, in Paris,
Reign'd such absolute lord of the town,
That he even clutch'd at the rich man's heart
'Neath his duvet of eider-down;
Whilst the ladies in satins and velvets
Were afraid to go forth in the street,
But sat in their curtain'd boudoirs
With chaufferettes under their feet:

So bleak was the look of the winter,
So eager the eyes of the poor,
And so bitter the blast that enter'd
Whenever one open'd the door;
Whilst the Seine, like a torpid serpent,
Had scarcely the heart to crawl,
And a fog that was almost English
Hung over its quays like a pall.

159

Yet alone in his comfortless garret,
Thro' many a darkening day,
With not even a pipe to cheer him,
A sculptor had work'd at his clay:
A young man, hungry and haggard,
With cheek-bones pointed and high,
Tho' the flame of a quenchless ardour
Burnt bright in his hollow eye.

“It is finish'd!” at length he murmur'd,
As he flung out his arms and sigh'd;
“Praise be to the Holy Virgin,
For the daylight has almost died!”
Then he rose to his feet exultant,
And quiver'd with pride as he stood
And look'd on the fruit of his labour
And saw that the fruit was good.

He look'd on the placid forehead,
On the tresses braided and crown'd,
On the bold arch'd curve of the eyelid,
On the cheek that was full and round;
On the firm cleft chin with its dimple,
'Neath the lips that so proudly curl'd,
On the face that still seem'd to the artist
The fairest in all the world.

160

Which mistress had proved the kinder,—
This idol of ice and clay,
Or Art, the Heaven-descended? . . .
Both had made of his soul their prey,
And what guerdon remain'd from either
In token of service done,
Of vigour and substance wasted?
One token—and only one;

This flow'r of the days of his labour,
This star of the nights of his shame,
This proud fair face that, for all its pride,
Should serve as his step to Fame;—
And she, even she, might be flatter'd,
Albeit she loved him not,
When she saw herself crown'd like an empress
Who was only—no matter what!

Then again he exclaim'd, “It is finish'd!”
But, ere ever he went to rest,
He wrapp'd up the bust in the tatter'd coat
That cover'd his shirtless breast;
As a mother might swathe her infant,
He smoothed it down fold upon fold,
And sigh'd, as he look'd at the image,
“She was always afraid of the cold!”

161

For so keen was the edge of the winter,
So biting the teeth of its frost,
That he knew, ere the grey of the morning,
His labour might all be lost,
And the name and the fame it might win him
Be nipp'd, ere they came to the bud,
Were the image of clay to be shatter'd
Like the idol of flesh and blood.

But alas for the dreams of the artist,
For the castles he buildeth in vain!
When the cold grey eye of the morning
Peep'd in through the shutterless pane,
It lit on the old coat shrouding
The placid Imperial head—
Whilst, naked and frozen, the sculptor
Lay stark on his squalid bed.

Then his friends of the Quartier Latin—
A dissolute, thriftless band—
Came clattering up the rickety stair
To look on the work of his hand,
And each one stood and marvell'd,
With never a word to say,
As he gazed from the corpse of his comrade
To the “swan-song” utter'd in clay

162

But anon the sous and the centimes,
From palms that were hard and brown
(For the heart may be large, though the purse be light),
Grew into the franc and the crown;
Then the circle of wonderers widened,
And the silver was changed to gold,
And the image was cast in deathless bronze
That had weather'd that night of cold.

And day by day, in the city,
The fame of the statue grew;
And the woman whose features it flatter'd
Grew famous and wealthy too;
And the name of the artist was honour'd,
And all men sounded his praise,
But never so loud as to wake him
From his slumber in Père la Chaise!

163

TO A NEW SUNDIAL.

Oh, Sundial, you should not be young,
Or fresh and fair, or spick and span!
None should remember when began
Your tenure here, nor whence you sprung!

Like ancient cromlech notch'd and scarr'd,
I would have had you sadly tow'r
Above this world of leaf and flow'r,
All ivy-tress'd and lichen-starr'd;

Ambassador of Time and Fate,
In contrast stern to bud and bloom,
Seeming half temple and half tomb,
And wholly solemn and sedate;

Till, one with God's own works on earth,
The lake, the vale, the mountain-brow,
We might have come to count you now
Whose home was here before our birth.

164

But lo! a priggish, upstart thing—
Set here to tell so old a truth,—
How fleeting are our days of youth,—
You, that were only made last Spring! . . .

Go to! . . . What sermon can you preach
Oh, mushroom-mentor, pert and new?
We are too old to learn of you
What you are all too young to teach!

Yet, Sundial, you and I may swear
Eternal friendship, none the less,
For I'll respect your youthfulness
If you forgive my silver hair!

165

BY THE INDIAN MAIL.

She writes in the dear familiar hand,
In the sweet familiar strain,
And the places and faces I used to know
In the days that seem now so long ago,
From the magic glow of that distant land
Stand forth from the past again;

And those cloudless skies of changeless blue,
And the far-off city's gleam,
And the dusky figures that come and go
In the banyan shade by the bungalow,
Are reveal'd once more to my troubled view
In the flash of a waking dream.

And she,—she is there, with her floating veil,
Array'd for the morning ride,
Or, crown'd with stars, at the Governor's ball,
And ever holding my heart in thrall
With the spell of her beauty, proud and pale,
And drawing me to her side.

166

Ah, me! what memories quicken and smart
As I muse on that vanish'd time! . . .
The moments of hope and the months of dread,
And then, that one day,—to be mark'd in red,
Which, because I knew I had gain'd her heart,
Made a heav'n of that golden clime!

Has her love grown cold that I read her words
With such anguish of wild regret? . . .
Nay! at sight of but half of this tender phrase
My heart had become, in those bygone days,
As grateful and glad as a forest bird's,
And it touches and warms it yet.

But my joy is kill'd by the gnawing pain
Of a wound that can never heal,—
A wound that, in spite of each loving line,
Of each memory binding her soul to mine,
All the days of my life that may still remain
I never shall cease to feel;

For long ere this letter had left the ship
That was bearing it over the wave,
A message, thrilling from East to West,
Had told me the woman I loved the best
(Alas, for the slips between cup and lip!)
Lay cold in an Indian grave!

167

ALL SOULS' DAY.

(“LE JOUR DES MORTS.”)

Ye that are dead and straitly laid to rest
Above whose lowly heads
The wand'ring winds of many winters blow
When the soft falling snow
Makes your green graves as white as live men's beds,
Is not such slumber blest?

Ye are at peace for ever; he that strove
Hath reach'd the promised goal;
The roofless wayfarer hath found a home
Whither can never come
Sting of regret, nor, whilst the ages roll,
Pang of “despisèd love!”

168

Your very silence is articulate
Of stifled sob and sigh;—
Of tumult still'd, dissensions quieted,
Wherefore are most men led
To milder mood in your vicinity
Seeing your fall'n estate.

In sweet unconsecrated fields, hard by,
When village urchins play
On summer days, with merry shout and call,
Should the spent cricket-ball
Or hunted insect chance to go your way,
Hush'd is each joyous cry;

Whilst happy lovers, should their straying feet
Happen to pass you by,
Grow half-ashamed of dalliance, for awhile,
Seeing beyond the stile
Or lych-gate grey, the quiet company
Whose hearts have ceased to beat.

Scarce reason so obscured, or sense so rude
But that some pity, still,

169

Akin to love, in brain and breast awakes
For your departed sakes
Poor prisoners, whose simple records fill
A peopled solitude!

To-day you hold your court, tho' voice nor sign
Comes from your flow'r-strewn graves;
Nay, you accept our votive offerings
Even as sleeping kings
Might take their tribute, seeing not the slaves
Bearing the oil and wine!

170

AT THE CLOSE OF A YEAR.

The years have been fashion'd by man; the work of his meddlesome hand;—
The landmarks he sets by the way that his blundering feet have trod,—
He has parcell'd, and weigh'd, and appraised each pitiful atom of sand,
And mapp'd out, and measured, and reckon'd The gift of an infinite God.

So the breath of our lips, as we breathe it, is ever oppress'd by a fear;—
“How many heart-beatings more ere the sum of our days shall be told?
Are the sands already run down? . . . Have we come to the end of the year?
Then those others are nearer at hand that must number our lot with the old!”

171

All the same old symbols and sayings as when we were careless and young! . . .
The new-born babe with his garland;—the grey-beard, wan with his wings;—
All the well-known words to be said,—all the well-known songs to be sung,—
The symbols, and sayings, and songs, that have turn'd to such sorrowful things!

But the well-known friend at the board? . . Ah, there is his empty chair! . .
So for us can the carols seem blithe, or the new year worthy his crown? . .
Ah, ye makers and marrers of Time! ten thousand-fold better it were
To have left us in peace till the end, with our days neither number'd nor known!

For why, when our hearts may be brighten'd by Fancy, Affection, or Trust,
Should we say, “We are old by the years, so our days of rejoicing are done”?
And be no more esteem'd in the land than those Indians with pitcher and crust
That are led out to wait for their doom in the wilderness under the sun?

172

The reproach of a year cometh not of an Autumn mellow with prime,
Of the bough bent down by the fruit,—of the husk thresh'd clear by the flail;—
But of barren and profitless Spring, like a Winter mistaken in time,
When the canker-worm gnaws at the root, and the blossom is strewn in the gale.

So, altho' the Preacher hath said that our journey is only a span,
I will not be cast down by the way at these records of perch, pole, and rod;—
Our years may be many or few, they are mark'd out and measured by man,
Let us count by the years of the heart, for the heart has been fashion'd by God.