The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell With Introductory Notice and Memoir by John Nichol |
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| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. | SCENE XXVIII. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell |  |
196
SCENE XXVIII.
The Study.Balder. Enter Dr. Paul.
Balder.
Come? Thanks!
Doctor.
How? is she worse?
Balder.
I know not that.
I sent for thee to hear yet once again
The story of her sorrows.
Doctor.
The old errand!
Balder.
Not so. Thou hast been here in vain to seek
A hope, but I send for thee now to find.
Cure her!
Doctor.
Four solemn times within this month
Have I told thee——
Balder.
Paul, Paul, if I can bear
My portion in this venture dost thou blench
At thine? Is it so very much that thou
Who canst sit careless of the stars, whose hand
Shakes not already with adverse aspècts,
Shouldst draw the horoscope once more for me
And cast the fates anew? 'Tis the last time.
I swear that what conjuncts for bliss or bale
This sovereign hour determines I accept
As doom. Therefore be patient. Strain thy skill!
197
Nought but an eyeball, and his sight to thine
As he to thee, he could not magnify
Thy deviation! Thine art is not mine,
I am no Esculapian, but I know
Less alteration than our sense can mete
Would make the inexorable asymptote
Close like fond lips. Get thee new instruments;
No pinhole points and measure of mortal hairs,
But compass that shall set his foot between
Two feathers of a butterfly; a scale
Scored with——
Doctor.
Well, well, I'll see her, and do my best.
But hope for nought; if even thine anxious gaze—
And love is more than science,—can discern
No better sign.
Balder.
Full many a time and oft
I have sat still thro' all a summer day,
And listened to its change as to a book
Read by untiring lips. Thou wouldst have sworn
The day was like a field of buttercups,
Where every shining moment stood and smiled
Beside his golden likeness; but not I!
I know the hours, and call them by their names,
As a shepherd his sheep. So in thy world
The microcosm——
Doctor.
Ah that word microcosm!
A true word, my dear poet, a true word,
198
If the seventh day wherein He rests be not
The sabbath of the grave——
Balder.
In that world, Paul,
Which is thy study, as this other mine,
I would look with thine eyes.
Doctor.
As you will, friend.
Shall I go in?
Balder.
Ay, no, I had forgotten;
She sleeps; I'll waken her.
Doctor.
Not hastily.
Balder.
With saddest music.
[Goes to his harp by the open window.
Do ye well to smile
Superior, ye wise Heavens, because ye see
I am a coward and fool Time to keep
Fate at the door? All this and more I know
No less than you. I am as wise as you
If this be wisdom! I pray you cloud over.
[Balder sings.
In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands,
At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.
The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed—
And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.
Hour by hour her serving men enter by the curtained door,
And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor,
And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eye-lids red,
‘Touch him not,’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
‘Oh, my own dear mistress,’ her ancient Nurse did say,
‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watched him where he lay.’
‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ the hoary Steward said,
‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groaned the Warrener grey,
‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bowed his aged head;
‘On your lives!’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.
The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed—
And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.
199
And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor,
And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eye-lids red,
‘Touch him not,’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
‘Oh, my own dear mistress,’ her ancient Nurse did say,
‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watched him where he lay.’
‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ the hoary Steward said,
‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groaned the Warrener grey,
‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bowed his aged head;
‘On your lives!’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
Then a father Priest they sought,
The priest that taught her all she knew,
And they told him of her loss.
‘For she is mild and sweet of will,
She loved him, and his words are peace,
And he shall heal her ill.’
But her watch she did not cease.
He blest her where she sat distraught,
And showed her holy cross,—
The cross she kissed from year to year—
But she neither saw nor heard;
And said he in her deaf ear
All he had been wont to teach,
All she had been fond to hear,
Missalled prayer, and solemn speech,
But she answered not a word.
The priest that taught her all she knew,
And they told him of her loss.
‘For she is mild and sweet of will,
She loved him, and his words are peace,
And he shall heal her ill.’
But her watch she did not cease.
He blest her where she sat distraught,
And showed her holy cross,—
The cross she kissed from year to year—
200
And said he in her deaf ear
All he had been wont to teach,
All she had been fond to hear,
Missalled prayer, and solemn speech,
But she answered not a word.
Only when he turned to speak with those who wept about the bed,
‘On your lives!’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
Then how sadly he turned from her it were wonderful to tell,
And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,
And he leaned o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,
‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smoothed his brow.
‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!
‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’
‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and called her maidens round.
With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;
‘Oh Nurse,’ she sighed, ‘oh Nurse,’ she cried, ‘oh Nurse!’ and then she smiled,
‘On your lives!’ she shrieked and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’
Then how sadly he turned from her it were wonderful to tell,
And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,
And he leaned o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,
‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smoothed his brow.
‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!
‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’
‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and called her maidens round.
With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;
‘Oh Nurse,’ she sighed, ‘oh Nurse,’ she cried, ‘oh Nurse!’ and then she smiled,
201
And then she wept; with that they drew
About her, as of old;
Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,
Her trembling touch was cold;
But she said, ‘my maidens true
No more weeping and well-away;
Let them kill the feast.
I would be happy in my soul.
“He is better,” saith the Priest;
He did but sleep the weary day,
And will waken whole.
Carry me to his dear side,
And let the halls be trim;
Whistly, whistly,’ said she,
‘I am wan with watching and wail,
He must not wake to see me pale,
Let me sleep with him.
See you keep the tryst for me,
I would rest till he awake
And rise up like a bride.
But whistly, whistly!’ said she.
‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;
And for his dear sake
Say Laus Domine.’
Silent they cast down their eyes,
And every breast a sob did rive,
She lifted her in wild surprise
And they dared not disobey.
About her, as of old;
Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,
Her trembling touch was cold;
But she said, ‘my maidens true
No more weeping and well-away;
Let them kill the feast.
I would be happy in my soul.
“He is better,” saith the Priest;
He did but sleep the weary day,
And will waken whole.
Carry me to his dear side,
And let the halls be trim;
Whistly, whistly,’ said she,
‘I am wan with watching and wail,
He must not wake to see me pale,
Let me sleep with him.
See you keep the tryst for me,
I would rest till he awake
And rise up like a bride.
But whistly, whistly!’ said she.
‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;
And for his dear sake
Say Laus Domine.’
Silent they cast down their eyes,
And every breast a sob did rive,
She lifted her in wild surprise
And they dared not disobey.
202
‘Laus Deo,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new,
‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;
‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.
‘Laus Deo,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;
‘Laus Deo,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.
The old Nurse moved her lips in vain
And she stood among the train
Like a dead tree shaking dew.
Then the Priest he softly stept
Midway in the little band
And he took the Lady's hand
‘Laus Deo!’ he said, aloud,
‘Laus Deo!’ they said again,
Yet again, and yet again,
Humbly crossed and lowly bowed,
Till in wont and fear it rose
To the Sabbath strain.
But she neither turned her head
Nor ‘whistly, whistly,’ said she.
Her hands were folded as in grace,
We laid her with her ancient race
And all the village wept.
And she stood among the train
Like a dead tree shaking dew.
Then the Priest he softly stept
Midway in the little band
And he took the Lady's hand
‘Laus Deo!’ he said, aloud,
‘Laus Deo!’ they said again,
Yet again, and yet again,
Humbly crossed and lowly bowed,
Till in wont and fear it rose
To the Sabbath strain.
But she neither turned her head
Nor ‘whistly, whistly,’ said she.
Her hands were folded as in grace,
We laid her with her ancient race
And all the village wept.
Balder.
I think she stirs. Go in!
[The Doctor enters, remains, and reappears.
Balder.
Is there no change?
Doctor.
None that brings hope.
Balder.
That day seems scarcely past—
203
Doctor.
My poor friend, when a ship strikes
Long time on the mad surge she heaves and falls,
And dips in winds and waves her leaning spars:
Till, like a dying horse, with a last plunge
She rises, reels, and over from the reef
Goes mast-down in the deep. To see her rise
Rises the landsman's cheer along the shore,
And sinks with her.
Balder.
Enough.
Paul, long ago
I said a time would come to raise the veil
On yonder scroll. Lift it to-day. I owe
No less excuse for my relentless gripe,
And thy still barren labour. Read out, Paul,
For I would hear what I have lost; albeit
To me those words are but a rosary,
As unlike what they count as beads and prayers.
Read slowly, and with a minute respect,
As thou wouldst touch the enchanted elements
On a magician's table—poor to look on,
But things that, being moved, perplex the stars,
And knot the threads of Nature. Do but fail
Or falter, and by Heaven! I strike thee dead!
Aye, marvel at me, for thou knowest not
What I shall see. For thee, as men infer
From maps and charts the living earth and heavens,
Learn there what once was she—what is she now
Thou knowest.
I said a time would come to raise the veil
On yonder scroll. Lift it to-day. I owe
No less excuse for my relentless gripe,
And thy still barren labour. Read out, Paul,
For I would hear what I have lost; albeit
To me those words are but a rosary,
As unlike what they count as beads and prayers.
Read slowly, and with a minute respect,
As thou wouldst touch the enchanted elements
On a magician's table—poor to look on,
But things that, being moved, perplex the stars,
And knot the threads of Nature. Do but fail
Or falter, and by Heaven! I strike thee dead!
Aye, marvel at me, for thou knowest not
What I shall see. For thee, as men infer
From maps and charts the living earth and heavens,
Learn there what once was she—what is she now
204
Doctor
(aside).
He is pale,—pale to his lips,
His eye is set. I'll humour him.
[Doctor
lifts the veil, and reads the scroll beneath.
His eye is set. I'll humour him.
(Reads.)
‘In her,
Nature's first thought was beauty; she conceived
Her image sitting in her robe of white
Thinking of spring, and, at the fancy moved,
Smiling breathed softly, and did turn to make
The firstling snowdrop of the stainless year.
And, as the year arose, her fairer thought
Took substance, and, consummate in her care,
Grew with the growing year; for at her will
Day after day past by, and passing dropt
Its own memorial flower, the better sign
Of all; and night by night, when shades are deep,
And that mysterious sorrow is transact
Unseen, and there is weeping in the air,
She, understanding all, midst common dews,
Caught the accepted tear that makes the hour
So holy. Nor herself in greater deeds
Forgot the less, thro' each surpassing mood
In which with higher ecstasy she wrought
Abundant summer, whatsoe'er confessed
Her happier hand—elect and dedicate
Encreased the secret store; and over all
Frequent and fond with dainty change and wise—
As meet perfection of each part admits
Phœbus or Dian,—various balm of life
She poured from golden and from silver vase
Of sun and moon. But when the year was grown,
(And sweet by warmer sweet to nuptial June
The flowery adolescence slowly filled,
Till in a passion of Roses all the time
Flushed, and around the glowing Heavens made suit)
And onward through the rank and buxom days,
Tho' she ceased not to work and help the year
Great with the burden of the honeyed past,
And gave her good deliverance and great pomp
Of harvest, and in royal glory robed
Matron and mother, to her dearer hoard
She added nought, nor what her love had hid
Unclosed before the broad unclouded face
And heated welfare of the lusty world.
But when the destiny that haunts the proud
Did tardy judgment, and the prosperous year,
Struck in her young maternity, beheld
First born and last lie low, and wrapping wild
The early mists about her, on the ground
Amid her prostrate hopes disconsolate
Sat veiled: or standing forth with upstretched hands
And strange appealing eyes, and wildered face
Hectic with fate, looked like her spring-time self
Transfigured on some martyr pile of woe
Seen through the flame; then Nature knew her hour
And at conjunction of the setting signs
Opened her sacred Casket and took forth
Well-pleased: and of the lone and latter rose,
Pale autumn violets, and all hapless blooms
Did make in mournful fragrance sadly sweet
The mortal breath of beauty.’
Nature's first thought was beauty; she conceived
Her image sitting in her robe of white
Thinking of spring, and, at the fancy moved,
Smiling breathed softly, and did turn to make
The firstling snowdrop of the stainless year.
And, as the year arose, her fairer thought
Took substance, and, consummate in her care,
Grew with the growing year; for at her will
Day after day past by, and passing dropt
Its own memorial flower, the better sign
Of all; and night by night, when shades are deep,
And that mysterious sorrow is transact
Unseen, and there is weeping in the air,
She, understanding all, midst common dews,
Caught the accepted tear that makes the hour
So holy. Nor herself in greater deeds
Forgot the less, thro' each surpassing mood
In which with higher ecstasy she wrought
Abundant summer, whatsoe'er confessed
Her happier hand—elect and dedicate
Encreased the secret store; and over all
Frequent and fond with dainty change and wise—
As meet perfection of each part admits
205
She poured from golden and from silver vase
Of sun and moon. But when the year was grown,
(And sweet by warmer sweet to nuptial June
The flowery adolescence slowly filled,
Till in a passion of Roses all the time
Flushed, and around the glowing Heavens made suit)
And onward through the rank and buxom days,
Tho' she ceased not to work and help the year
Great with the burden of the honeyed past,
And gave her good deliverance and great pomp
Of harvest, and in royal glory robed
Matron and mother, to her dearer hoard
She added nought, nor what her love had hid
Unclosed before the broad unclouded face
And heated welfare of the lusty world.
But when the destiny that haunts the proud
Did tardy judgment, and the prosperous year,
Struck in her young maternity, beheld
First born and last lie low, and wrapping wild
The early mists about her, on the ground
Amid her prostrate hopes disconsolate
Sat veiled: or standing forth with upstretched hands
And strange appealing eyes, and wildered face
Hectic with fate, looked like her spring-time self
Transfigured on some martyr pile of woe
Seen through the flame; then Nature knew her hour
And at conjunction of the setting signs
206
Well-pleased: and of the lone and latter rose,
Pale autumn violets, and all hapless blooms
Did make in mournful fragrance sadly sweet
The mortal breath of beauty.’
Balder.
Do not smile!
This is no dream, for she came in September,
And if she were o'erlaid with lily-leaves,
And substantived by mere content of dews,
Or limbed of flower-stalks and sweet pedicels,
Or made of golden dust from thing of bees,
Or caught of morning mist, or the unseen
Material of an odour, her pure text
Could seem no more remote from the corrupt
And seething compound of our common flesh!
Nay, as I oft have told thee—a whole year
Ere she was born, her mother fed on fruits.
Read on, Sir Science, for thou readest truth!
Truth is a Janus, Paul, but either face
Herself, therefore be reverent.
Doctor
reads.
‘I have seen
The poet in his pride, who of his urns
And lachrymals and crystal chalices
Hath one, most treasured of his treasure-house,
To which he goeth only with full heart
And leaves the fulness there; ambrosial blood
As of that cluster, weeping wine, wherein
The blessing is, its vintage all unpressed
Save by the purple and spontaneous touch
Of too abundant being. Nature thus.
The Poet Nature, singing to herself—
Did make Her in sheer love, having delight
Of all her work, and doing all for joy.
And built her like a Temple wherein cost
Is absolute, dark beam and hidden raft
Shittim, each secret work and covert use
Fragrant and golden, all the virgin walls
Pure, and within without, prive and apert,
From buried plinth to viewless pinnacle
Enriched to God.
The poet in his pride, who of his urns
And lachrymals and crystal chalices
Hath one, most treasured of his treasure-house,
To which he goeth only with full heart
And leaves the fulness there; ambrosial blood
As of that cluster, weeping wine, wherein
The blessing is, its vintage all unpressed
207
Of too abundant being. Nature thus.
The Poet Nature, singing to herself—
Did make Her in sheer love, having delight
Of all her work, and doing all for joy.
And built her like a Temple wherein cost
Is absolute, dark beam and hidden raft
Shittim, each secret work and covert use
Fragrant and golden, all the virgin walls
Pure, and within without, prive and apert,
From buried plinth to viewless pinnacle
Enriched to God.
Ah, was the very air
Etherial round her, so that whoso breathed
Revived to his best nature and grew bright
For her sake, as a mote from dim to dim
Sails the sunbeam?—What deity indwelt
Her still small voice, which was her perfect selt
Audible—that most happy voice, which when
It rose to gladness made men rich and glad
Unminished, and receiving but to spend
Sweeter abundance with a lovelier will.
Gayer for gaiety, but of the gay
Still gayest, as bright sun o'er brightened fields
Seems brighter, gaining from the light he gives.
That voice which was to sorrow as its sigh,
And by the side of wonted circumstance
Went as the tinkle of Titania's feet,
Ringing the hour of day on fairy bells
Marriage or funeral. Nor less blessed when
It fell into the bosom of the poor
Like gold and silver. That dear voice which when
She sang her life, the charmed listener hearing,
Accepted for consummate loveliness
Till she was mute, and, his divided soul
Returning to the eyes, her silent beauty
By the higher sense perceived, seemed insomuch
Diviner music.
Etherial round her, so that whoso breathed
Revived to his best nature and grew bright
For her sake, as a mote from dim to dim
Sails the sunbeam?—What deity indwelt
Her still small voice, which was her perfect selt
Audible—that most happy voice, which when
It rose to gladness made men rich and glad
Unminished, and receiving but to spend
Sweeter abundance with a lovelier will.
Gayer for gaiety, but of the gay
Still gayest, as bright sun o'er brightened fields
Seems brighter, gaining from the light he gives.
That voice which was to sorrow as its sigh,
And by the side of wonted circumstance
Went as the tinkle of Titania's feet,
208
Marriage or funeral. Nor less blessed when
It fell into the bosom of the poor
Like gold and silver. That dear voice which when
She sang her life, the charmed listener hearing,
Accepted for consummate loveliness
Till she was mute, and, his divided soul
Returning to the eyes, her silent beauty
By the higher sense perceived, seemed insomuch
Diviner music.
Oft have I admired
When the poor wayfarer on whom she looked
Clothed in his tattered fortune did take rank
A moment in her smile, and could not ask
The alms his famine craved; the passing thief
Had virtue in her service, and the clown
Grace to be hers. The maimed who chanced to meet
Her far-off beauty on the way, aside
Drew into shadow till she passed, nor begged
Aught that might turn the light of her fair face
On the too conscious fault; and Lazarus
Covered his sores with deeper sense of ill.
Rude country-wives to whom in lane or mead
Happened her sweet regards. with honoured face
And thankful did obeisance going by
As owning bounty and a duty known
Unschooled; the village children at the door—
Little two-year children—having gazed,
Ran to her as she passed and caught her skirt
And looking up laughed strange intelligence,
Abashed and pleased, in the mere act repaid,
And wiser than the three-score-years-and-ten
That chid the holy freedom, being purblind.
For they who saw her were as one who knows
A mystic sign and smiles with consciousness.
There is a soul unto the grosser sense
Of spoken language, an unuttered thought
Virgin and peerless, which no man hath said
Nor hath the hope to hear upon the earth,
Tho' it be dear as the unbodied dream
Of early love, familiar as the wife
Upon his breast, albeit untouched as maids
In Paradise. In every human speech
No speaker but hath with him, undeclared,
This angel; and doth bear about a thing
Too lovely for his lips, beloved unnamed.
As every heart upon its secret, so
The world did look on her! Where'er she went
Nature, in dale or hill, in cot or grove,
Owned her, and in the shepherd or the lamb
Confest no less. The Lamb which to her knee
Came fearless, unsuspicious of the gray
Grim guardian of the fold who harmed her not
Nor challenged her just right what-time she took
The lambkin willing, to her purer breast.
Thus or in haunts beloved or foreign fields
Her equal way was all among her own,
Unquestioned still, nor anywhere or new
Or strange. We had a wonted bower, secluse,
Of honeysuckle wild in mossy dell
Facing the noon, and sheltered from the north
By denser shade; flowery it was and deep,
And caught the flowing light as chaliced leaves
The sunset. In the inner sanctities
Shy birds did nest, and all the summer through,
Entering, with tumult of distress I shook
The troubled verdure, but she came at will
And sat there; and the birds went in and out
As tho' she were so merely beautiful
That nought betrayed her limits and she mixed
She, undistinguished—with the love-lit air
The fragrance and the summer joy that lived
In that green bower,
When the poor wayfarer on whom she looked
Clothed in his tattered fortune did take rank
A moment in her smile, and could not ask
The alms his famine craved; the passing thief
Had virtue in her service, and the clown
Grace to be hers. The maimed who chanced to meet
Her far-off beauty on the way, aside
Drew into shadow till she passed, nor begged
Aught that might turn the light of her fair face
On the too conscious fault; and Lazarus
Covered his sores with deeper sense of ill.
Rude country-wives to whom in lane or mead
Happened her sweet regards. with honoured face
And thankful did obeisance going by
As owning bounty and a duty known
Unschooled; the village children at the door—
Little two-year children—having gazed,
209
And looking up laughed strange intelligence,
Abashed and pleased, in the mere act repaid,
And wiser than the three-score-years-and-ten
That chid the holy freedom, being purblind.
For they who saw her were as one who knows
A mystic sign and smiles with consciousness.
There is a soul unto the grosser sense
Of spoken language, an unuttered thought
Virgin and peerless, which no man hath said
Nor hath the hope to hear upon the earth,
Tho' it be dear as the unbodied dream
Of early love, familiar as the wife
Upon his breast, albeit untouched as maids
In Paradise. In every human speech
No speaker but hath with him, undeclared,
This angel; and doth bear about a thing
Too lovely for his lips, beloved unnamed.
As every heart upon its secret, so
The world did look on her! Where'er she went
Nature, in dale or hill, in cot or grove,
Owned her, and in the shepherd or the lamb
Confest no less. The Lamb which to her knee
Came fearless, unsuspicious of the gray
Grim guardian of the fold who harmed her not
Nor challenged her just right what-time she took
The lambkin willing, to her purer breast.
Thus or in haunts beloved or foreign fields
210
Unquestioned still, nor anywhere or new
Or strange. We had a wonted bower, secluse,
Of honeysuckle wild in mossy dell
Facing the noon, and sheltered from the north
By denser shade; flowery it was and deep,
And caught the flowing light as chaliced leaves
The sunset. In the inner sanctities
Shy birds did nest, and all the summer through,
Entering, with tumult of distress I shook
The troubled verdure, but she came at will
And sat there; and the birds went in and out
As tho' she were so merely beautiful
That nought betrayed her limits and she mixed
She, undistinguished—with the love-lit air
The fragrance and the summer joy that lived
In that green bower,
So lovely in her rest
More lovely her awakened beauty played
The smiling pastime of her innocent life
Gracious and holy, wherein fairest thought
And fond performance thro' melodious hours
Rhymed like a gentle ballad. All she did
Expressed her. The mild lore and simple arts
She knew and loved might exercise unblamed
Chaste Flora's self or what pure essence warms
The happy difference of a morn of May.
Song and answering lute, and mute delight
Of pencilled touch, and nice dexterity
Of bending Eve in gardened Paradise
Were hers; she had a faërie forestrie
Of birds, and bees, and summer flies; she knew
Sweet mysteries of sunrise and sunset,
Of seasons, moons, and clouds. But chief in joy
Her skill was among flowers, which in her hand
Took better hues, and fell under her looks
Into an ordered beauty as before
Their queen; and when they crowned her, unaware
The butterfly did court the rose as still
Upon the blushing tree. Yet more I loved
An art which of all others seemed the voice
And argument; rare art, at better close
Of chosen day, worn like a jewel rare
To beautify the beauteous, and make bright
The twilight of some sacred festival
Of love and peace. Her happy memory
Was many poesies, and when serene
Beneath the favouring shades and the first star,
She audibly remembered, they who heard
Believed the Muse no fable. As that star
Unsullied from the skies, out of the shrine
Of her dear beauty beautifully came
The beautiful, untinged by any taint
Of mortal dwelling, neither flushed nor pale,
Pure in the naked loveliness of Heaven.
Such and so graced was she.
But not alone,
Ah purest! not alone in thy first reign
Of placid pastures and beseeming woods
Palatial, where the conscious waterfalls
That leaped in bliss beside thee did no more
Than all that gave thee thro' the loyal year
Duteous attendance, not alone by glen
Or mountain wert thou absolute! nor he
Who passed thee, tutelar, amid the wilds
Of thine accustomed sanctuary alone
Thy worshipper! Hers was no vulgar glare
Startling the dazzled crowd to blink and gaze,
Nor came she glorious as a summer noon,
Melting all looks to pleasure and all limbs
Relaxing as with heat, and thro' the sense
Sending soft breath of love and southern joy.
The happy paths she blessed led not to courts
Or cities. Loved and loving she would live
No more accompanied than by what train
Is love's, and in the love-feast of her days
Served while she sat or sat whileas she served!
To know where winding from the ancient tree
By the gray style thro' copse and daisied dell,
In every mood of immemorial mind
The simple village went a thousand years;
Or o'er the brook upon the stepping-stones
To follow unperplexed thro' bosky maze,
The feet of sorrow to her shyest lair;
Or at the ruined cot, and down the dim
Deserted path, to watch under the dust
The unwonted grass rise slowly up and lift
The memory of the dead from off the earth;
Or round the wildered garden to convince
The graceless moss of greed; Or from lone lane
At summer eve to trace some ancient track
A-field and learn what need or joy of life
Saw viewless landmarks in the devious way,
Her daily pleasaunce. But where men are met,
If unpropitious hap or lot unsought
Awhile constrained her, fate that did the wrong,
Jealous, allowed no other; as a King
Seizing his bride, rapt from her native bowers
Circassian, in the amorous crime completes
His cruelty and makes the captive queen.
Not otherwise, and looking like a flower
Dropt in the city street—some blossom fair
That grew dew-nursed and lone green miles away—
Into the heedless crowd that knew her not
She came uncrowned, and they wist not she came;
Till simply sitting in the parlous midst
Her presence like a silent virtue spread
About her. For a little while she sat
Unhonoured, but a consciousness disturbed
The spot, and as a holy influence
Did touch the unwilling people into awe,
Whom gentle observance and sweet respect
Disposed, till who partook her magic ring
Still or discursive, sole or sociable,
Each in his several function did denote
Her place. Nor customary in mere use
Perfunctory, and rite of cap or knee,
The general homage; but of some inborn
Content and central sanction in the soul,
Inmost and earlier than where creeds begin
Or doubts divide. Men turned and asked not why,
Nor, seeing, marvelled that they turned; but apt
Took reverent distance: nor, decorous, ceased
The fealty of regard. With decent eyes
And with no louder sign nor needless bruit
Of the unuttered reason than what-time
On wintry day they face by mute consent
The seldom sun. Thus she who came unknown
Into the stranger crowd with modest step
And eyes that rather would be ruled than rule,
Having no need of praise, nor hope of fame,
Nor conscience of dominion, did subdue
Its chaos to her nature, being divine.
And merely present could no less than stir
The dull and gresser essence to revolve
About her, as by instinct and hid force
Of that well-ordered universe whereof
Its matter was a part. Herself informed
The jarring elements, till, as her sway
No utter sign enforced, nor shows of power,
Nor but a golden sweet necessity
Sovereign, unseen, the subject heart gave like
Confession. Not as they confess a queen
With sudden shout, but as two friends regard
A rising star, and speak not of it while
It fills their gaze. The loud debate grew low,
What was unseemly chastened, and the fear
Of Beauty waking her moralities
Sent thro' adjusted limbs the long-forgot
Ambition to be fair. Nor sex, nor rank,
Nor age, nor changed condition, did absolve
Her rule, which whatsoever was remote
From sin the more saluted. Everywhere
Babes smiled on her, and women on her face
Did look as women look in happy love.
More lovely her awakened beauty played
The smiling pastime of her innocent life
Gracious and holy, wherein fairest thought
And fond performance thro' melodious hours
Rhymed like a gentle ballad. All she did
Expressed her. The mild lore and simple arts
She knew and loved might exercise unblamed
Chaste Flora's self or what pure essence warms
The happy difference of a morn of May.
Song and answering lute, and mute delight
211
Of bending Eve in gardened Paradise
Were hers; she had a faërie forestrie
Of birds, and bees, and summer flies; she knew
Sweet mysteries of sunrise and sunset,
Of seasons, moons, and clouds. But chief in joy
Her skill was among flowers, which in her hand
Took better hues, and fell under her looks
Into an ordered beauty as before
Their queen; and when they crowned her, unaware
The butterfly did court the rose as still
Upon the blushing tree. Yet more I loved
An art which of all others seemed the voice
And argument; rare art, at better close
Of chosen day, worn like a jewel rare
To beautify the beauteous, and make bright
The twilight of some sacred festival
Of love and peace. Her happy memory
Was many poesies, and when serene
Beneath the favouring shades and the first star,
She audibly remembered, they who heard
Believed the Muse no fable. As that star
Unsullied from the skies, out of the shrine
Of her dear beauty beautifully came
The beautiful, untinged by any taint
Of mortal dwelling, neither flushed nor pale,
Pure in the naked loveliness of Heaven.
Such and so graced was she.
212
Ah purest! not alone in thy first reign
Of placid pastures and beseeming woods
Palatial, where the conscious waterfalls
That leaped in bliss beside thee did no more
Than all that gave thee thro' the loyal year
Duteous attendance, not alone by glen
Or mountain wert thou absolute! nor he
Who passed thee, tutelar, amid the wilds
Of thine accustomed sanctuary alone
Thy worshipper! Hers was no vulgar glare
Startling the dazzled crowd to blink and gaze,
Nor came she glorious as a summer noon,
Melting all looks to pleasure and all limbs
Relaxing as with heat, and thro' the sense
Sending soft breath of love and southern joy.
The happy paths she blessed led not to courts
Or cities. Loved and loving she would live
No more accompanied than by what train
Is love's, and in the love-feast of her days
Served while she sat or sat whileas she served!
To know where winding from the ancient tree
By the gray style thro' copse and daisied dell,
In every mood of immemorial mind
The simple village went a thousand years;
Or o'er the brook upon the stepping-stones
To follow unperplexed thro' bosky maze,
The feet of sorrow to her shyest lair;
213
Deserted path, to watch under the dust
The unwonted grass rise slowly up and lift
The memory of the dead from off the earth;
Or round the wildered garden to convince
The graceless moss of greed; Or from lone lane
At summer eve to trace some ancient track
A-field and learn what need or joy of life
Saw viewless landmarks in the devious way,
Her daily pleasaunce. But where men are met,
If unpropitious hap or lot unsought
Awhile constrained her, fate that did the wrong,
Jealous, allowed no other; as a King
Seizing his bride, rapt from her native bowers
Circassian, in the amorous crime completes
His cruelty and makes the captive queen.
Not otherwise, and looking like a flower
Dropt in the city street—some blossom fair
That grew dew-nursed and lone green miles away—
Into the heedless crowd that knew her not
She came uncrowned, and they wist not she came;
Till simply sitting in the parlous midst
Her presence like a silent virtue spread
About her. For a little while she sat
Unhonoured, but a consciousness disturbed
The spot, and as a holy influence
Did touch the unwilling people into awe,
Whom gentle observance and sweet respect
214
Still or discursive, sole or sociable,
Each in his several function did denote
Her place. Nor customary in mere use
Perfunctory, and rite of cap or knee,
The general homage; but of some inborn
Content and central sanction in the soul,
Inmost and earlier than where creeds begin
Or doubts divide. Men turned and asked not why,
Nor, seeing, marvelled that they turned; but apt
Took reverent distance: nor, decorous, ceased
The fealty of regard. With decent eyes
And with no louder sign nor needless bruit
Of the unuttered reason than what-time
On wintry day they face by mute consent
The seldom sun. Thus she who came unknown
Into the stranger crowd with modest step
And eyes that rather would be ruled than rule,
Having no need of praise, nor hope of fame,
Nor conscience of dominion, did subdue
Its chaos to her nature, being divine.
And merely present could no less than stir
The dull and gresser essence to revolve
About her, as by instinct and hid force
Of that well-ordered universe whereof
Its matter was a part. Herself informed
The jarring elements, till, as her sway
No utter sign enforced, nor shows of power,
215
Sovereign, unseen, the subject heart gave like
Confession. Not as they confess a queen
With sudden shout, but as two friends regard
A rising star, and speak not of it while
It fills their gaze. The loud debate grew low,
What was unseemly chastened, and the fear
Of Beauty waking her moralities
Sent thro' adjusted limbs the long-forgot
Ambition to be fair. Nor sex, nor rank,
Nor age, nor changed condition, did absolve
Her rule, which whatsoever was remote
From sin the more saluted. Everywhere
Babes smiled on her, and women on her face
Did look as women look in happy love.
So the world blessed her; and another world
Like spheres of cloud that interpenetrate
Till each is either, met and mixed with this.
And as the angel Earth that bears her heaven
About her so that whereso'er in space
Her footstep stayeth we look up and say
That Heaven is there—She moved and made all times
And seasons equal; trode the mortal life
Immortally, and with her human tears
Bedewed the everlasting, till the Past
And Future lapsed into a golden Now
For ever best. She was much like the moon
Seen in the day time, that by day receives
Like joy with us, but when our night is dark,
Lit by the changeless sun we cannot see,
Shineth no less. And she was like the moon,
Because the beams that brightened her passed o'er
Our dark heads, and we knew them not for light
Till they came back from hers; and she was like
The moon, that whatsoe'er appeared her wane
Or crescent was no loss or gain in her
But in the changed beholder. I, who saw
Her constant countenance, and had its orb
Still full on me with whom she rose and set,
Knew she had no lunation. In herself
The elements of holiness were merged
In white completion, and all graces did
The part of each. To man or Deity
Her sinless life had nought whereof to give
Of worse or better, for she was to God
As a smile to a face. Ah God of Beauty!
Where in this lifeless picture my poor hand
Hath done her wrong, forgive; she was Thy smile,
How could I paint her? That I dared essay
Her image and am innocent, I plead
Resistless intuition, which believes
Where knowledge fails and, powerless to define
Or to confound, still calls the face and smile
Not one, but twain, and contradicts the sense
Material, which, beholding her, beholds
Essence not Effluence, nor Thine but Thee.’
Like spheres of cloud that interpenetrate
Till each is either, met and mixed with this.
And as the angel Earth that bears her heaven
About her so that whereso'er in space
Her footstep stayeth we look up and say
That Heaven is there—She moved and made all times
And seasons equal; trode the mortal life
Immortally, and with her human tears
Bedewed the everlasting, till the Past
And Future lapsed into a golden Now
For ever best. She was much like the moon
216
Like joy with us, but when our night is dark,
Lit by the changeless sun we cannot see,
Shineth no less. And she was like the moon,
Because the beams that brightened her passed o'er
Our dark heads, and we knew them not for light
Till they came back from hers; and she was like
The moon, that whatsoe'er appeared her wane
Or crescent was no loss or gain in her
But in the changed beholder. I, who saw
Her constant countenance, and had its orb
Still full on me with whom she rose and set,
Knew she had no lunation. In herself
The elements of holiness were merged
In white completion, and all graces did
The part of each. To man or Deity
Her sinless life had nought whereof to give
Of worse or better, for she was to God
As a smile to a face. Ah God of Beauty!
Where in this lifeless picture my poor hand
Hath done her wrong, forgive; she was Thy smile,
How could I paint her? That I dared essay
Her image and am innocent, I plead
Resistless intuition, which believes
Where knowledge fails and, powerless to define
Or to confound, still calls the face and smile
Not one, but twain, and contradicts the sense
Material, which, beholding her, beholds
217
Doctor.
Aye—veil it over!
Balder.
Once again I say
Cure her!
Doctor.
And, good friend, hear me once for all.
I have brought to your wife's lamented case
What skill I own,—and twenty years of cure
Have taught me something—but for much esteem
Of her and you, I made her malady
The subject of my college. I stand here
A simple country surgeon, but where'er
Men worship Science, some one of her Priests
Calls me his friend; whatever oracles,
As yet unbruited, murmur from the cell,
I learn from these. Therefore in my poor words
You hear a verdict sworn to by the prime
Of Europe.
Balder.
There is no most rare device
Occult, or cunning of the eye or hand,
Or mastery of subtle elements,
Beyond thee?
Doctor.
No.
Balder.
Whatever lesson new
These latter days have spelled in the unread
And polyglot palimpsest of this body
Is thine already? Thou hast it within
By rote?
Doctor.
Yes.
218
Let us speak of other things.
The sun must be near setting—shall we watch him
From the old rampart of my Ruin? Follow.
Doctor.
With all my heart!
[They ascend to the ramparts.
Doctor.
(emerging).
Truly the light is sweet!
That winding stair—two hundred steps and more——
My head swims.
Balder.
'Tis a fearful height. My Dog,
Whose stature thou didst praise, seen hence appears
Notably less. His kennel which thou knowest
Befits a mastiff of the English breed,
Might house a cur. We have a legend here.
A maniac dwelt in this old tower and hence
Throwing his keeper, hid the battered corse
In yonder tarn. His ghost preserves my fish.
A dalesman would as soon drop line in hell
As in the murder-pool.
Doctor.
I shudder.
Balder.
Sounds
The old tale credible? How say thy craft?
Is the leap death?
Doctor.
Death to a hundred lives!
His mother would not know the face that reached
Yon stones from these.
Balder.
Thou art a feeble man,
I am no giant, but am thrice thy match;
Cure her!
219
Thou hast mine answer.
Balder.
And thou mine.
Cure her.
Doctor.
I cannot.
Balder.
In mine art I know
Passion and terrible occasion make
Men poets, poets gods. Thine may have like
Apotheosis. Cure her!
Doctor.
Hands off! see
The precipice we stand on——
Balder.
Ah! ah! ah!
Cure her!
Doctor.
Thou jestest with me!
Balder.
By the Heavens
No!
Doctor.
Stand back!
Balder.
Cure her!
Doctor.
Free me! Mercy! Help!
We have been friends, thou wilt not murder me?
Balder.
We have been lovers, but I sent a shaft
Into her heart. If thou canst draw it forth
Well; but if not——
Doctor.
Nay, I can fight for life!
Madman! Hold! Murderer! Mercy! Mercy!
Balder.
Cure her!
Doctor.
Spare me! my wife! my children!
Balder.
Cure her!
Doctor.
Christ!
220
Balder.
Cure her!
Doctor.
I will!
Balder
(releasing him).
Thou wilt not!
Liar! Begone! Haste! Lest in my despair
Thou 'scape not twice.
| The Poetical Works of Sydney Dobell | |