Claribel and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

That harvest night we lay in the fields, impatient of the dark,
All eager for the trumpet's voice to rouse the slothful lark;
For the king had sent his challenge out to Essex and the Right,
And Essex flung his answer back—We meet at morning's light.

O many a sleepless eye, be sure! that night did watch the stars,
Their silent marches following, so high above our jars;
And many a thought might stoop toward the melancholy earth,
Whereto so soon we must return for all our martial worth.

Even they might ponder in such sort—those reckless cavaliers;
And our raw troopers be forgiven for some unharden'd fears:
Not fears! natheless we may be dull in the shadow of the fray,
With brothers in the hostile camp, dead brothers ere a day.

Now with the dawn King Charles' part on the hill-top stand array'd,
Their ordnance planted, horse and foot in their battalions made;
And many of their captains brave have thrown their doublets off,—
Not so intending battle-heat, but rather triumphscoff.

Charge up the hill!—Prince Rupert's horse have met our first attack,
With mighty dint upon our force, the foremost pressing back;
The tide of our assault recoils, but the wave flows up again,
Another, and another yet, the foremost to sustain.

Right fiercely Rupert's cavalry salute our city bands;
But the blue-coat Londoners are staunch, their regiment firmly stands.
Repulsed, the horse wheel round again; charge back, and ours reply,—
Till they do not wheel but reel away from our sharp musketry.

And yet a third attempt they make, dashing in squadrons full,
Striving to break our serried ranks with valour masterful;
But the bullet-cloud athwart them bursts, o'erthrowing man and horse.
Methinks they will not dare again repeat so warm a course.

On swiftly now! Lord Essex leads; his white hat is our guide,
One single wreath of snowy foam upon the ocean's pride.
On sharply! drive them back once more! on! rally yet again!
Beat them from hedge to hedge until scarce two or three remain.

Meanwhile the fight holds otherwhere. A mile below the hill
They have fallen on our rearmost guard: speed down to check their will!
But we pause in mid career, till some the opponent force have known;
For they too wear the furze and broom we took to mark our own.

Spur through the traitors!—Up again to Essex on the brow!
Where the royal ordnance was at dawn our ordnance climbeth now;
One with another they dispute, 'gainst cannon cannon's mouth,
As if the battle with the day but rose to sultrier growth.

And ever the sturdy Londoners oppose the hottest fray;
Open to horse and ordnance both, 'gainst odds they make their way;
And overmatch'd with mightier odds yet stand undauntedly:
The Rupert can not scatter them, they know not how to fly.

Even as a grove of pines, that doth the tempest-rage endure,
Their heads or branching arms may wave, they keep their footing sure:
So these are firmly rooted there, or, only honourmoved,
Step forward, gaining on the foe some vantage-ground approved.

And so, till darkness sundered us. Yet neither host withdrew;
Only upon the hill's far side their horse safe distance knew,
With the broken remnant of their foot gather'd behind them there;
Our men no less too wearied are to give them much of care.

Another morning: we remain the masters of the field.
They drew off in the night: their chief a broken hope did wield.
We are marshall'd, ready; none appear to the challenge of our shot;
One shout—for Newbury field is ours! Prince Rupert turneth not.

Four earls of Charles' part have fallen, and many hundred more
Of English-hearted foemen whom their brother foes deplore.
For either side like Englishmen did war with might and main.
God send such mournful victory be needed ne'er again!

And Falkland lieth there at peace, whose spirit was so sad—
That lofty spirit—for the wounds his hapless country had.
They say—he own'd him tired of life ere we began the fight.
Well might he be most sad, who knew he strove against the Right.

Shout we again for Newbury field—the righteous victory!
We shall hear an echoing triumph-shout before a month goes by.
Shine thou on Cromwell's Waisby sheaf, O Newbury's harvest moon!
‘Charge through!’ ay, through! ‘for Truth, and Peace’—the truthful conqueror's boon.

THE OLD LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR

‘Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering; thy life-vow
Of patriot service thou didst well maintain:
Therefore, though Death may hide thy valour now,
When comes worst need thou shalt return again.’

So chaunted in low tones the fairy crew
Of that dark barge whereon King Arthur lay,
Drifting adown the misty river's flood,
After his latest fight. So chaunted they,
Staunching his death-clefts; while he, sad of soul,
Ponder'd Sir Lukyn's story wonder-fraught:
How when Excalibar, at Arthur's hest
Flung in the stream, had dipp'd toward the wave,
A hand had risen, and grasp'd and borne it down.
And thus King Arthur dream'd amid his wounds.

‘Excalibar, the charmed sword, returns
Unto the hand that gave it,—sunk,—drawn in,—
Nor left such ripple as an autumn leaf
Reaching the water-marge on Evening's breath.
So sinks my life after its turmoil'd years
Without a trace: blown from its branch of power,—
And Time's dull stream flows o'er it heedlessly.
It should not be so. I have served the Gods;
Kept myself pure; and stoutly grappled Hope,
Till, firm-embraced, our pulses were but one.
It is no braggart speech: yon gifted sword
Had courage for its handle, and as straight
My life was and close-hammer'd as the blade,—
True steel that never struck an idle blow.
Unto what end its stalwartness? Defeat.
Lo, I lie here. The sword hath left no mark.’

‘Thou shalt return again!’ the Ladies sang;
While the sore-hearted dream'd amid his wounds.

‘Year after year I strove, and through the fight
Bore Hope upon my breast, as one would bear
His beautiful bride; and when they slew her there
I struggled on beneath her dearest form.
O Hope! belovéd, best-belovéd Hope!
That brought my Country's ransom as thy dower;

O Hope! that I have cherish'd ’mid my griefs
In long night-watches and through all the din
Of battle-storm; ay! even when toil was curst,
And knightliest endeavour by repulse
Was driven away, like chaff swept from the floor;
When field on field beheld me overthrown.
Yet never conquer'd: witness Dawn and Eve,
That ever found me rising from defeat
As clomb the Sun from yesternight's red couch!
Would I might battle yet! Give way! I will;
And pile our foes upon the last free space
Of British earth. Why am I slumbering here,
And my good sword not ready to my hand?

‘Year after year, and ever the same fierce strife
Without remission. I was as a pass
Through which a host defiles with measured tramp:
Squadron hard-following squadron till the earth
Rejoices in the custom of sure steps.
Let me be buried in the shallowest tomb,
Beneath the march of heroes! Death is nought,
If I may be a stair to Victory.
Where art thou? Victory!—I am here, o'ercome.’

And shame, more deep than spear-thrusts, draining life,
He lay entranced, nor heard the Fairies' song:—

‘Calmly the sun drops in its western grave,
The seed beneath the glebe, and life to death;
To-morrow comes in joy, ripe corn-fields wave,
And ever the heroic wears its wreath.’

‘How have I fallen? Has the fault been mine?
I have not flinch'd from peril, nor counted pains;
What adverse odds, what difficult steeps to climb,
What possible inconvenience or mishap,
Troubled me never. I ask'd nought but this—
May it serve thee? my Country! Welcome then.
Self-care was but a feather in the scale,
Or as a spark in one vast-soaring blaze—
The fiery passionate wish to rescue thee.
Thou wast my sacrificial altar; I
A bridegroom offering. Do I boast? Ye Gods!
The boaster has done nothing. Lived and died.
He boasts a failure. Give him leave to say
He fell as a king falleth.’

Where again
The Chorus swell'd around him, as a pulse
Throbbing indignantly against reproach.
‘Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering!’—still they sang.

‘Ho! who will follow Arthur to the war?
Methought when once our banner was display'd
The whole land should have risen as one man.
Behold your duty—Forward at the foe—
Had been enough.—The recreants! Woe is me!
They cavil'd at the standard-bearer's name;
Doubted the leader could maintain his place;
Others were worthier, might be 'mong themselves;
'Twas an unlucky day to close with Doom;
Yon covert safest was for skirmishers;
Some little forethought till the rest came up;—
And so sate down on cowardice, a soft couch,
Where some would plan campaigns, as sluggards think
In morning sleeps they put their armour on,
And wake in bed. But these would never wake:
Rotting amid their reveries till the land
Stank with the Cowards' Pestilence. 'Twas so—
Brave Hearts that fought by me from first to last!
That we were left to meet the invader's whelm:
Wrong ever active, while before these homes
Right humbly begg'd for alms some stealthy help
In her sore want. Even that was oft denied.
False-lifed lip-servants! pillow'd warriors!
Whose crest should be a liar's cloven tongue,—
You barter'd Freedom for a dunghill ease,
And let the land of all our glorious sires

Be trampled underneath the ruffian heel
Of foreign tyranny.—My soul is drear.

‘Do I forget you? Arthur's trusty peers!
Proud comrades, lovely in your noble strength:
My Knights, my Royal Ones! whose words were deeds,
Whose deeds were liymns of triumph. Let me die,
Since you are fallen. Have the Powers betray'd
Your promise? Worth is worthless. Life itself
Is falsehood.—It may be the Powers are weak,
Since Valour wins not. Is their own abode
Invaded by the Evil of our days?—
I am a king, and I may dare to ask.—
Are even the Gods grown false and dastardly?
I hear the smooth lush whispering of the stream,
And, blending with it, words as dreamy smooth.
What forms are these that hang above my bier?
Where do they carry me, throughout this night?—
Defeat, and death, and all before me dark.’

But the white garments glimmer'd in his sight
For all the darkness,—like the first of dawn
To one lone-watching on some weary height;
And the sweet chaunt slid through his barren griefs
Like softest rain in fields long parch'd with drought.

Ever the Fairies sang, as glode the barge.

‘Thou knewest nor fear nor faltering. Thy sure life
Has been an act devout, whose worth shall chain
The future to thy purpose. When the strife
Hath reach'd its height thou shalt return again.’

And one clear voice—whose echoes leap'd to shore
And stirr'd the dead upon the battle-ground—
Sang yet again: the King forgot his wounds.

‘Thy true adventure was a living seed,
The harvest of the Eternal can not fail:
Thy spirit shall return, at their worst need
To help whom now thy arm may not avail.’

It is a fable of the meed of Truth:
Most knight-like Truth, that, scorning sloth or fear,
Hastens to meet the Evils of the time;
And, be he ne'er so poorly companied,
Dares all their force, copes with their fiercest tides,
Defies disaster and despair itself,
And leaves upon the sorriest place of death—
Where hopes are scatter'd like autumnal wrecks—
A memory that shall live and bring his name
In fire to the hearts of new endeavourers,—
Leading them from the gloomiest depth of care,

Even when their need shall be most desperate,
With power as if his Angel had return'd
To avenge the past defeat with victory.

True-soul'd and valiant! Arthur! come again.
Is not our need enough?

What voice replies?

THRENODY

IN MEMORY OF ALBERT DARASZ

(London, 19 Sept., 1852.)

Another death! another Martyr lain
In the Exiles' Tomb!—O Grief! thy fangs are sharp;
And these heart-cleaving agonies threat to warp
The hopefullest spirit from its upward strain.
Alas! the higher hope, the farther fall:
And more than lofty hope must be thy pall.

O unaccomplish'd hope! O grief of griefs,
When the sap faileth ere the worth is ripe!
Thou proud fruit-bearer, whom Decay doth wipe,
As a mere painting, from life's page! The chiefs
Of the world's worthiest look'd to thee for aid;
And we to worship in thy branching shade.

The axe hath struck thee in thy manhood's prime:
Thy purpose unmatured: so fairly blown
Thy blossom, and the fruit set: all foreknown
The richness of thy virtue, the sublime
Eternity enkernel'd in its growth.
Thy life read to us certain as God's troth.

Far from thy home thou liest; strangers' ground
Must pillow thy sad sleep. Some two or three,
Thy brother-exiles, doubly kin to thee,
Their tears long since exhausted, droop around
Thy narrow deathbed: hearts that may not break,—
Harden'd against thy loss for Poland's sake.

Over thy grave no tears; but death-like clasp
Of hands that may not wave thee back to shore!
Thy tomb is but one martyr-stair the more,
Whereon we mount the martyr's crown to grasp.
O Friend! we dare not whisper Hope to lay
Our bones by thine. Our hope must turn away.

Must turn even from thy ashes, Well-beloved!
Not thou, nor ought but our relentless task,
May claim our thought. And yet, if toil might ask
A guerdon for the toiler worth-approved,
'T would be some weary hours, toil-spared, to gaze
Back on thy life, re-studying all its praise.

In vain! Recall the past! Recall thy life!—
The shadow followeth the vanish'd form;
His grave is yet moist earth, their tears are warm:
But flowers spring up, new blossoming smiles are rife.
Not unto us. Thy shadow clouds the world,
Deepening the gloom wherein our life was furl'd.

For we have lost thee; and, though round our brows
The hastening hours entwine their dearest wreath,
Our country's freedom and the world's, thy death
Would shade the laurel blossoms. How carouse
The full of joy above thy distant grave?
Despair hath buried all in that sea cave.

Ah, no! God's world is wider than our earth.
What is this earth? A narrow altar-stone,
Which thou, brave friend! did'st lay thy life upon
For God: a sacrifice of endless worth.
All worth is endless, thou must live therefore:
Part of the Eternal Work for evermore.

We look to see again thy form divine;
We pray to follow on thy path. What prayer?
The vow that slayeth even grief's despair,
The prayer of deeds of the same high stamp as thine.
Stay for us, Angel! within heaven's gate:
Thy ancient comrades call on thee to wait.

Our arms again shall hold thee to our heart;
Our eyes again shall read thy inmost soul;
And foot by foot toward the higher goal
Our lives shall climb:—God! nevermore to part.
Pray God to snatch us up to heaven's gate:
Lest thy swift-soaring spirit should not wait.

The sun is down; but in the western clouds
The lengthening trail of splendour grandly lies:
The hem of Hope yet glistens in our eyes.
And what though night the sunniest memory shrouds?
God hath a morrow for the loving. We
Will grieve no more for one lost utterly.

Memory and faith shall lift us to thy side.
So shall our thought be wing'd, even as the dove
Of comfort, that the weary ark may move
Toward the shore. And whatsoe'er betide
Our lives,—do we not know that thou art free
From earth's lament, from earth's anxiety?

O blessed Dead! beyond all earthly pains;
Beyond the calculation of low needs;
Thy growth no longer choked by earthy weeds;
Thy spirit clear'd from care's corrosive chains!
O blessed Dead! O blessed Life-in-death,
Transcending all life's poor decease of breath!

Thou walkest not upon some desolate moor
In the storm-wildering midnight, when thine own,
Thy trusted friend, hath lagg'd and left thee lone.
He knows not poverty who, being poor,
Hath still one friend. But he who fain had kept
The comrade whom his zeal hath overstept.

Thou sufferest not the friendly caviling
Impugning motive; nor that worse than spear
Of foeman,—biting doubt of one most dear
Laid in thy deepest heart, a barbed sting
Never to be withdrawn. For we were friends:
Alas! and neither to the other bends.

Thou hast escaped continual falling off
Of old companions; and that aching void
Of the proud heart which has been over-buoy'd
With friendship's idle breath; and now the scoff
Of failure even as idly passeth by
Thy poor remains:—Thou soaring through the sky.

Knowing no more that malady of hope—
The sickness of deferral, thou canst look
Thorough the heavens and, healthily patient, brook
Delay,—defeat. For in thy vision's scope
Most distant cometh. We might see it too,
But dizzying faintness overveils our view.

And when disaster flings us in the dust,—
Or when we wearily drop on the highway-side,—
Or when in prison'd, exiled depths the pride
Of suffering bows its head, as oft it must,—
We can not, looking on thy wasted corse,
Perceive the future. Lend us of thy force!

No more of grief!—Thy voice comes to us now,
Answering our invocation. We uplift
Our eyes; and, looking through the tempest-rift,
Behold the light of thy triumphant brow
There in the line of God. Lest we should miss
His farthest throne, he neareth us with this.

EURYDICE

[_]

(‘Orpheus' Sweetest Song.’)

From out the thick shade of a laurel grove
(Crowning a little knoll of sacred ground,
Like to a wreath forlorn hung o'er an urn,)
Issued a dim and melancholy voice,
The tender air infecting with sad breath.
The yellow leaves dropp'd down the failing light,
The autumn wind crept slowly through the boughs;
The wind and falling leaves with low sweet tones
Echoed that plaint, till the great pulse of life
Seem'd but the ebb and flow of one long sigh.
‘Eurydice! Eurydice!’ was all
The burthen of that sorrow: but anon
These words came sobbing forth from a burst heart,
Gushing in full flow of abandon'd grief,
Like the low pining wail of Philomel.

‘Eurydice! mine own Eurydice!—
O Earth o'er which her music footsteps moved;
O clear blue Sky, not deeper than her eyes;
Thou Forest-shade with sunlight leaping through,
Not sunnier than her laugh,—nor lovelier that
Than her thought-shadow'd depth of seriousness;
Ye Torrents, grandly falling, like her hair;
Ye honey-clefted Rocks, firm as her truth;
And ye sun-kissed Slopes of harvest land,
Smooth-rounded as the blessed globes above
Her fertile heart: O Earth and Sky, O Life,—
That speak to me of her in every tone,
That spoke to me of her in every word:—
Why are ye beautiful, and She no more?

‘Ye Hamadryads, with brown arms enlaced,
Leaning against the gnarled trunks, half-veil'd
In flood of level sunshine, your bright eyes
Flashing amid green leaves; or ye who glide
Mistily down dim aisles, with gentle feet
Responsive to the gentle fall of rain
Dropping upon soft turf from lofty boughs,
And glistening in the moonlight, like quick tears
Upon a smiling face:—why do ye mock
My longing with vain phantoms, till mine eyes
Strain to the distant purple of warm eves,

To reach her form? why do ye play with grief?
Ye Naiads pure, calm-flowing in the cool
Of overhanging foliage, your lank hair
Trailing along the current,—why do ye
Babble with ripply lips that sweetest word—
Eurydice, until the blabbing reeds
That told King Midas' secret whisper mine
To every wind, till every trickling wave
Repeats my woe in more melodious tone?
Ye Nereids, with your coral crowns, and plumes
Of waving weed, and blue hair in the spray
Caught on the wave's edge by some eager breeze,—
Why do ye haunt the sea-board with your grace?
Still rusheth up the shingle and returns
The melody of dancing feet, and round
The smooth-cheek'd pebbles slides the creamy foam.
Eurydice!—O Presences and Powers
Of Nature, once so dear, my heart is deaf
To your best witcheries. The strings are rent.
My lyre no more can answer your delight,
Nor with glad notes provoke your swift reply.

‘Eurydice! my lost Eurydice!
No more thy bounding limbs are eloquent.
On the smooth beach our Greek girls, as of old,
Dance in the twilight: in the torches' glare,

Answering the passion of the westering sun,
Their warm cheeks flush more rosily; I see
The gleam of their uplifted arms, as each
Hastily in the mazes of the dance
Passes the flame unto some sister hand;
I hear the song, borne by the gentle-voiced,
Close-following upon the trail of fire
In all its windings,—that dear Freedom-song
Our youths and maidens love; and I can hear
The sweet time-beats of soft feet on the sand:—
Eurydice! Eurydice! no more
Thou lead'st the chorus. Freedom, Fatherland:—
Eurydice! the future as the past
Is buried in thine urn. I have no hymn.
The torches are extinguish'd; the drear sea
Moans in the gloomy hollows of its caves.

‘O thou vast soul of Nature I once waked
With lightest touch! O throbbing heart of Life
That used to listen fondly to my lyre
Made eloquent by her! I do appeal
Unto thy grateful memories. Alas!
The pulse of Life is no more audible.—
Dryads and Oreads! wherefore have we laid
Our oil and milk and honey at your feet?
O Nymphs of forest, mountain, plain, and flood!

Why have we pour'd our songs more honey-sweet,
Our oil-smooth songs, our rich and fruity songs,—
Why have we borne our Dionysian songs
To you, making you jocund with much mirth,
And ye are silent now? O gentle Nymphs!
Have ye no drops left in your brimming cups?
Dear Echo! has thy sympathy no word,
No drained flavour of those richnesses,
To bring to my dry heart in her dear name?
Ye Satyrs! wont to troop around our path,
With rude, broad gambols, your most awkward speech
Were musical as Phoibos' golden tongue,
If you would tell me whither She is gone.
I pray to you, for all my household gods
Are scatter'd. Unto you the Homeless prays,
Powers of the waste and solitude, once loved!

‘Eurydice! my own Eurydice!—
Alas! no voice replies: the Earth is dead.—
My Beautiful! whose life was as the crown
Of festal days,—whose blush was as the bloom
On the full fruit,—whose days were as ripe grapes,
Clear and delicious on one cluster growing;
My Beautiful! whose smile moved o'er the earth
Like the first sunbeam of the year,—whose voice
Was the mild wind that whispereth odourously

100

Unto the yearning buds that Spring is come;
More beautiful than Eos rosy-brow'd,
Or than the arrow-bearing Artemis,—
Thou Dawn of my existence, Promiser
Of glorious days, thou pure Light-bearing One
Chasing the shadows from across my path
When night hung darkly o'er my clouded thought;
Thou spirit of my potent lyre, now mute;
Thou Genius of my life; thou Life; thou Song;
Eurydice! my own Eurydice!

‘She is not dead: this death is but a dream.
Where art thou gone? Eurydice!—Return,
Ere doubt hath grown to madness!—It is not.
The serpent did but coil around my sleep.
Eurydice!—Sweet Echo! she will come,
Prank'd in thy guise, out of the forest depth,
And smile on me with that deep-hearted smile,
More radiant than Persephone's when closed
Her welcoming arms around Demeter's head
Bow'd with its sheaf of joy upon her breast.—
Alas! the mourning friends, the solemn priests,
The virgin train, the sobs that hid the cry
Of painful steps toward the funeral pyre,—
Alas! this little urn clasp'd to my heart,
This empty husk of life, this loneliness,

101

This death of life,—attest that thou art not:
That Sorrow lives, but not Eurydice.

‘Thou shalt not die! O Son of Zeus, who brought
Alcestis to this upper air, attend
My dearer quest! I will descend to her,
And with my fervent song require from Dis
My own Eurydice. She shall return
Unto this pleasant earth. Persephone
Will listen as my words shall fill her lap
With Enna's flowers, and in her eyes shall look
Demeter's mother-glances till her own
O'erflow with ruth, and she shall wind her arms
Around the gloomy king and him conjure
To give me the Belovéd to my song.
Or my whole life shall stand amid the shades,
Before the Fates, and with its chaunt enweave
Her thread of life anew. I will bring back
Her beauty to the earth, and live again,
Strong in the sunlight of her summer love:
Even as a tree that lifteth up its head
After a storm, and, shaking off the weight
Of passed tears, laughs freshly in the sun.
And yet again, her hand upon my heart,
My lyre shall speak unto the Life of things;
And the fair Nymphs crowd round us as of old;

102

And even Satyr shapes look beautiful;
And the dumb Spirit of the Inanimate
Be stirr'd into expression; and the Earth,
Hearing the music of thy thoughts, Belovéd!
Grow beautiful as thou art, till the world
Resume the glory of the olden gods.

‘Eurydice! my own Eurydice!
My grief is at my feet. My will is strong.
My soul hath pass'd the ferry of despair;
My song pours forth resistless eloquence;
My voice is firm; the Inexorable Three
Relent. Persephone amid her tears
Clingeth impassion'd to the knees of Power:
Thou canst not hold the Loved; she shall return.
There is no deed impossible to prayer,
To faithful will.—I hear thy following feet,
Most musical of echoes; step by step
I count those dearest of dear promises,
Conquering the steep ascent; I see the light
Of our old life; I hear thy eager pants
Closer and closer; now thy fragrant breath
Kisses my neck, thy passion-parted lips
Lean forward, and the music of thy curls
Touches my cheek,—Mine own Belovéd One,
Eurydice, mine own Eurydice—

103

O God! O Sorrow!—’

Life is all a dream.
The Past returns not. Look no more behind!
It is a phantom. Rather let thy song
Mount as a pyre-flame up into the heavens.
O Constellated Beauty! thou art there.
Not on the earth, nor with the buried Past,
Lo, thy Eurydice awaiteth thee.
Eurydice!
Eurydice!

104

QUEEN LIBUSSA

(WHOSE LOVE SOUGHT THE LABOURER)

O that Queen Libussa!
None so fair as she:
With the wisdom of her choice
Ruling royally.
How her lieges did rejoice
In their loyalty!

Beautiful Libussa!
Queen in her own right
Of exceeding beauty,
And that clear insight
Unto the heart of duty—
Which makes toil delight.

105

White horse! in the sunshine
Speed thou o'er the land,
Bounding like the Elbe's white spray
Over the golden sand:—
Twelve proud nobles track his way,
By the Queen's command.

Riderless he seeketh
Whom the Queen would see:—
‘On iron table dineth
Under a lonely tree
He for whom fate designeth
Bohemia's royalty.’

White horse! in the sunshine
Speed thou o'er the land;
Through the broad Elbe, through the spray,
Over the golden sand;
Through the wide fields choose thy way,
Guided by no hand.

And the nobles follow;
Slow their speed to his:
Never the white horse resteth,
Never his way doth miss:
‘By our Lady, if she jesteth,
Wearisome jesting this!’

106

From her tower she watcheth:
Her assuréd glance
Saith—My choosing may not drift
On the waves of chance:
And now her sunniest smiles uplift
Her perfect countenance.

Toil the milk-white bullocks,
In the sultry air:
Rest they now in the pear-tree's shade;
Rests the ploughman there;
Resting dines, the black crust laid
On the bright plough-share.

Speed thou through the sunshine,
White horse! to his side;
Stoop thy proud neck,—thou hast found him,
Found the Prophesied:
And the nobles crowd around him,
Heralds from his bride.

Bring the robe of purple,
Golden spurs and sword!
This is he whom we have sought;
This is Toil's reward.
So they to Libussa brought
Her Bohemian lord.

107

First his staff he planteth,
Heaps the earth around:
Lo! the hazel buds are springing;
And his thoughts unbound
Seeds of prophecy are flinging
O'er the furrow'd ground.

So doth Love enlighten;
So doth Labour freed
All the golden story
Of the future read:
But now, in the present glory,
Is no prophet-need.

Swift as swiftest sunshine,
Swift as lover's thanks,
Swift as the foaming Elbe's white spray
Over the golden banks,—
Yet ever the golden rowels pray
In the tireless courser's flanks.

O thou queenliest beauty,
Beyond all compare!
Reverently he kneeleth,
Soul-submissive there,—
Till his lips she sealeth,
And his wild eyes veileth
Underneath her hair.

108

Ever so, Belovéd!
Kneels my soul to thee,—
Evermore to render
Life adoringly,
Thou pale star, whose splendour
Crowns my poverty!

Yet shalt thou, Delightful!
Hold the Future's chain,
When thou trusting loosest
Labour's steed again,—
When the Poor thou choosest
By thy side to reign.

109

THE BRAVE WOMEN OF TANN

[_]

[There is a little town in the Vosges, where on all public occasions the women take precedence of the men, in virtue of their conduct related below.]

Sate the heavy burghers
In their gloomy hall,
Pondering all the dangers
Likely to befall,—
Ward they yet or yield the strangers
Their beleaguer'd wall.

‘All our trade is ruin'd:
Saw I this afar,—
Said I not—our markets
Month-long siege will mar?
Let not our good town embark its
Fortunes on this war.

110

‘Now our folly takes us:
War first hath his share,
Famine now; who dreameth
Bankrupts can repair
Double loss? or likely seemeth
Victors should despair?

‘And our trade is ruin'd:
Little that remains
Let us save, to hearse us
From these bloody pains,
Ere the wrathful foe amerce us
Of our farthest gains!’

Up and speaks young Hermann
With the flushing cheek—
‘Shame were it to render:
Though the wall be weak’—
Say the old men—‘Let us end or
Certain death we seek!’

In their gloomy chamber
Thus their councils wend:—
‘Five of our most trusted
With the morn descend;
Say—So peace may be adjusted
Chained lives we'll spend.

111

‘Now home to our women!
They'll be glad to learn
We have weigh'd so gravely
“Peace” hath fill'd the urn:
Though in truth they've borne them bravely
In this weary turn.’

Home unto their women;
But each burgher found
Scorn in place of smiling:
For each good-wife frown'd
On this coward reconciling,
Peace with honour bound.

In their morrow's council
Woman voices rise:
‘Count ye babes and women
But as merchandize,
To be traffick'd with the foemen,—
Things of such a price?

‘We will man your ramparts;
Ye, who are not men,
Go hide in your coffers!
We will call you when’—
Slid home 'mid the crowd of scoffers
Those five heralds then.

112

In the morrow's danger
Women take their share;
Many a sad grey morning
Found them watching there:
Till we learn'd from their high scorning
To make light of care.

Chief with our gaunt warders
Hermann's young Betrothed
Pass'd, like Victory's Splendour,—
In bright courage clothed:
Fear hid, fearful to offend her,
Knowing himself loathed.

Blinding red the sunset!
In that hopeful breast
Stay'd the foeman's arrow
So 'twas won. The rest—
How Despair in strait most narrow
Smote the Conqueror's crest—

Matters not. Our women
Drove him to his den.
'Twas his last invasion;
We've had peace since then.—
This is why on State occasion
They precede our men.

113

THE CAPTIVE ARAB

The captive of his bow and of his sword,
I dwell within his walls and can not leave;
Though ever in the absence of my lord
Hopes of escape I weave.

But he returns and holds my hands in his,
My heart to his, and all the hopes are gone;
And I forget my restlessness in bliss
With that Belovéd One.

Woe, woe is me, a wretched prisoner!
A fetter'd slave! a bondwoman! a thrall!
Now he unbinds me, yet I can not stir:
His love binds more than all.

121

O joy! great joy! my lord comes home again:
My lord, my loved, my master and my king!
My own Belovéd! this one passionate strain
Amends all suffering.

And—‘Dost thou love me well?’ I meet his smile
With radiant answer: Love makes bondage sweet;
I would not leave thee. In a little while
My joy is less complete.

And longings for old Araby return—
My Araby the Blest. Love's hearth is dim.
So strong the thoughts with which I can but yearn,
I scarcely think of Him.

My free wild Arab life! This place grows dark,—
This narrowness is dreadful as a tomb.
Ay! in the Temple and before the Ark
I'd pine for want of room.

My free delightful Araby! my life!
My roving independent carelessness!
It is a yoke—this destiny of Wife:
I love thee ne'ertheless.

122

It is a yoke—O very hard to bear,
For one who never knew constraint or let.
I am not fit for this. I can not wear
Your homely jewels yet.

Though I will try. Dear Love! I kiss thy lids,
And draw thee sleeping closer to my heart.
What restless dream another kiss forbids,
Lest I should ne'er depart?

Lest I of slavery should grow so fond
As to rejoice in it for thy dear sake?
Never! my wings are crush'd, my hopes despond,
My heart can only break.

In mine own wilds I was a wilful queen:
How can I take a menial's place and form?
Love's heaven is high—you tell me, pure, serene.
The eagle loves the storm.

I must be gone. His eyes are closed in sleep,
Weary with love; I put him from my breast.
One kiss: Love! thou art strong, but canst not keep
Thy wild bird in its nest.

123

I must make haste to go before he wakes,
Before his arms encircle me again
As with a band of iron (my heart aches
With love and restless pain),

Before his eyes can look their fond reproach,
Before his waking touch thrills through my heart.
How to keep back these thoughts that will encroach
Whene'er I would depart?

He woke soon as I turn'd, and I return'd:
His look was as a chain I could not break.
I tried to bless him in whose fire I burn'd,
Who tied me to the stake.

And so again some days of plaintive joy,
Of happiness. Indeed I love thee well:
Thy love makes present gold of my alloy,
A heaven of my hell.

But in thy absence! O, it can not be.
I will depart now. I will not be led
Bound to thy triumph, no! not even by thee,
Not to a bridal bed.

124

Thou hast unbound me; I take up my bow
And the old arrows; I halt not to test
The slackness of the string; I leave thee now.
Yes! leaving thee is best.

Forget me and make merry in thy home
With one more fit for bondage and delight.
More loving eyes shall look on thee, and some
Be pleasant in thy sight.

For me—O how I hate this closing wall!
I must be gone. My will speeds through thy gates.
When thou return'st—O Love! Love! Love! thy thrall
Upon the threshold waits.

125

THE RUINED CITY

So that great city underwent the curse
Of silence, till its very life was death:
Until all outer act was but the hearse
Of its inborne monotony of breath.

The doer went abroad to daily toil;
Did, and came duly back against the night;
Wearily won and sadly wore the spoil,—
A woe-worn victim even for all the plight

Of wreathéd victory (that fearful doom
Had struck out love and joy and worthy pride
And energy): he was as one to whom
Is given a soul's work, yet the soul denied.

126

He did, because it seemed right to do;
He lived, because he had no wish to die;
His life was death; there was no change, he knew,—
For death seems only life borne silently.

And all the city underwent that spell
Of burying hope beneath their sealed lips:
As if the sun was gone, and none might tell
Even his own heart the end of the eclipse.

A people without hope. Stern Faith awhile
Held on. But Faith has sometimes need of Hope.
So Faith's closed lips at last fix'd in a smile
Of sullen scorn: a smile that might not ope

The low dark room of the sepulchral heart,—
Wherein one tenant was, the trailing thought
Of many-coiled sorrow, whose fell smart
Was painless now, and only torpor wrought.

Till even the merest form of life became
Too burdensome for stoutest will to bear:
One might as well suppose a motionless flame
As life fed only on a still despair.

127

The living hopes had made the city great,
The hero strengths had built its palace pride,
Lay down in the grassy streets, dull-eyed, to wait
The slow repeats of morn and eventide.

The palace towers crumbled unrepair'd;
The city gates were shut, and none went forth;
Weeds choked the glorious ways, and no man cared;
None spoke: since Hope forsook the City of Worth.

There in the ruin'd temple once had stood
Her statue beside Faith. Hers fell that day
She pass'd out thence. And now in the solitude
Beneath the feet of Faith her image lay,

Shatter'd to pieces. Wherefore this still fate,
This silence, this accurséd penalty.
The Gods desert us. We not even wait
The useless Death: for, living thus, we die.

Faith's statue yet remain'd: a piteous sight:
Clothed by great spiders, hooded thick with dust,
Worshipp'd by unscared vermin day and night,
The marble flaw'd, the gold devour'd by rust.

128

So the long years crawl'd on. What lived or died
In the great city matter'd unto none.
Oblivion! be merciful, and hide
The wasting misery of the overthrown.

One word alone had been the mighty leaven
Out of this sealed tomb to raise the dead,
To lift despair from hell to highest heaven:
One only word—that never may be said.

129

FIVE SERMONS FROM ONE TEXT:

EVE—THE INDIAN WIDOW—VESTA'S PRIEST—JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER—IPHIGENIA AT AULIS

EVE

Flung out of Eden, and my child is Cain.
Woe, woe is me!
I have pluck'd knowledge, and I find it pain.
Love hath made me accurst: since all the gain
Of self is misery.

O fierce desire that would not let me rest!
O lovely snake—
Thou subtilest beast, that with thy low behest
Lured me from innocence!—From good to best
My way I take.

For innocence is not the best, though good.
Thy gates are shut,
Sweet Eden!—I return not if I could.

130

Better, O Man! hard labour and scant food
In this poor hut.

From innocence through sorrow and much wrong
Our pathway lies.
Only by suffering doth the soul grow strong.
Leave we the lower creatures, the vile throng
Of sense. Arise!

Forth to the desert! We will plant out there
A garden brave.
This doom of death, this darkness of despair,
Is the shadow of higher Love. And look thou where
He bursts the grave.

THE INDIAN WIDOW

Through the purifying fire—
Upheap the sandal-wood, and thereupon
Throw cinnamon,
Rich-scented gums, sweet frankincense, and myrrh;
And pour the holy oil
Over the forest spoil
Till the flame enrobeth her!—
‘I aspire!’

131

‘Through the purifying fire—
‘With the dead Belovéd lying at my feet,
‘And music sweet
‘Climbing the golden smoke toward the sky;
‘The white flowers in my wreath
‘Crowning me Bride of Death.
‘Let the earth pass cloudily!
‘I aspire!’

Through the purifying fire—
True Spirit! free thyself from robes of sense;
Soul! grow intense;
Devotion! climb unto Love's highest throne.
Behold, O seeking eyes!
The pile of sacrifice,
And the flame for bridal zone.—
‘I aspire!’

VESTA'S PRIEST

O white-robed Vesta! to maintain thy flame I swear.
Bow, proud patrician! From thy snowy hair,
O Wisdom! take the crown.
Kneel humbly down

132

Ye warriors! and ye, reverend priests! bend low
Before the Sacred Virgins as they go
Along the public street:
Blessing the way with feet
That tread down shame.

O clear-eyed Vesta! O neglected flame!—
O Death!—
Close veil her weakness! lead her hence beneath
The all-concealing earth!
Why speak of worth,
Of innocence, of natural loving need?
We hear in vain, we may but heed
The worship and the oath.
Unfaithful to her troth,
We bury Shame.

Divinest Vesta! Mother of the Powers!
Inspire
My heart, and fill me with thy purest fire.
Choose for thy lamp this soul,
To show the goal
Of virtue, only in thy temple gain'd
By lives ungrieved, unstain'd.
Keep me above the earth!
Kindle within me worth
For all the hours!

133

JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER

Give me a little while to mourn my youth!—
This lightning is too swift. Let me behold—
One instant—if thy vow have so much ruth—
Hope's violet tints melt in the ruddy gold.

Let me chain back the flood-gates of my tears,
Harden these quivering lips, hot cheeks make pale;
Let me gaze firmly up the marbled years
Even to the utmost bleakness I must scale.

It was a wild vow, O my Father!—wild
As all vows are: rash Will outreaching Right.
Nevertheless I am thine own true child.
Slay me, since good that seemeth in thy sight.

Kill me for very righteousness, though none
May know the simple meaning of my doom.
So thou and thy least word may be at one,
Shadow thy victor helm with this dead bloom.

O beautiful lightning!—all life's rainbow hues
Tone thy brief splendour: thy far purples, Love!
Joy's roseate glow. Now, Father! smite: I choose
The clear white sword-gleam. Smite as I approve.

134

IPHIGENIA AT AULIS

I am Achilles. Thou wast hither brought
To be my wife, not for a sacrifice.
Greece and her kings may stand aside as nought
To what Thou art in my expectant eyes.

Or kings or gods. I too am heaven-born.
I trample on their auguries and needs.
Where the foreboding dares to front my scorn
Or break the promise from my heart proceeds?

But thou, Belovéd! smilést down my wrath
So able to protect thee. Who should harm
Achilles' Bride?—Thou pointest to the path
Of sacrifice, yet leaning on my arm.

There is no need of words; from me reply
As little requisite: Thy lightest hand
Guideth me, as the helm the ship; Thine eye
Doth more than all the Atridæ could command.

Thou givést life and love for Greece and Right:
I will stand by thee lest thou shouldst be weak—
Not weak of soul.—I will but hold in sight
Thy marvelous beauty.—Here is She you seek.

135

THE HUNCHBACK

God lays his burden on each back:
But who
What is within the pack
May know?

All pointed at the Hunchback. He, they said,
Was hideous; and their scorn
Doubled the anguish which bow'd down his head,—
So friendlessly forlorn.

Low bow'd his head, even lower than was need,
For all his Atlas weight;
Bow'd with men's scorn, and with his own sad heed
Of what might be the freight

136

'Neath which so painfully his being creep'd:
‘Was it a heritage,
Growth of his father's sins on him upheap'd?
Or his own sinful wage?’

Ask'd he of lawgiver and sage and priest,
Of all the esteem'd and wise;
And gat no answer. Nay! not even the least
From worshipp'd Beauty's eyes.

Not that they spake not. Some said—It was nought,
There was no hump at all;
And some that—It was nothing which he sought—
The why such did befall;

Some laugh'd; and some long visages did pull;
Some knew not what he meant;
But the Belovéd was so pitiful
He cursed her as he went.

Some bade him quit vain inquest, and delight
Each sense with pleasant things;
And some swore 'twas the sign that Heaven would blight
His highest imagings;

137

And some—An operation would remove
The mere excrescent flesh;
While others—Pruning it would only prove
How fast 'twould grow afresh.

And some, who cited law and gospel, laid
New heaviness on his neck:
Let him that hath have ever more, thèy said,
And let the wreck'd bear wreck!

Yet after every check, repulse, and scoff,
He ask'd again, again—
What is this burthen? Can none take it off?
Is there no end of pain?

Flung back on his own soul, what he inquired
Was hardly, sadly taught;
With desperate travail he at length acquired
Something of what he sought.

He found there was a meaning: that was much:
He trusted God was Good:—
These thoughts made patience earnest, out of such
He earn'd some spirit-food.

138

And grew: for all the evil hump remain'd,
Like Sindbad's Man o' the Sea.
Only he had no hope to be unchain'd:
How from himself get free?

At last came Time, who from the chrysalis
Brings forth the rainbow'd fly;
Of Time he ask'd—What was this weight of his?
And Time gave full reply.

Time mask'd as Death, yet smiling, did unpack
The worn man's crushing load:
Two wings sprang forth; high o'er the cloudy wrack
The Angel, whom men call'd That Poor Hunchback,
Through farthest heavens rode.

So, looking westward yestereve, I knew
A figure of warm cloud:
A very humpback till his load he threw,
As Lazarus left his shroud.

139

GOD WISH

[_]

[‘Perhaps the notablest Norse God we hear tell of is the God Wunsch or Wish.’—Carlyle's Hero Worship.]

God Wish! if one of modern days
Might lift to thee a prayer,
What form of worship should he raise
To claim thy care?

Such words as these?—I would have health;
I would have strength of limb,
With truth at heart, and wisdom's wealth
Of eyes ne'er dim;

I would be gentle, pure, and fair,
As One who loved me pray'd;
And bold and firm to do or bear
In Virtue's aid;

140

I would have will to prophesy;
Brave deeds I would achieve,
And on the Future's tapestry
Grand tissues weave;

My life should journey as a star
Tow'rd an eternal aim,
And nations worship from afar
Its track of flame;

I would build up in my own mind
A temple unto Truth,
And on its shrine an offering bind,—
My age and youth;

I would have faith of One to whom
My faith should be a prize;
And love,—if thou couldst ope the tomb
Wherein One lies;

And children's beauty should bud forth
Around the parent stem,
And hope behold our scantiest worth
Fullgrown in them;

141

I would have means to enrich the poor,
And power to uplift the low,
And all misfortune's barren moor
With blessings sow;

And I would win my fellows' love,
If love may guerdon zeal
That dares their deepest miseries prove
To surely heal;

And praise should keep my name embalm'd
In history's choicest cell,
That men might say in years joy-calm'd—
‘He loved us well.’—

Or should I pray in fewer words
For virtue, love, and fame?
Or ask all joy that earth affords
In one loved name?—

No answer issues from the North;
The Norsemen's potent God
Sits signless; Doom no more comes forth
To obey his nod.

142

God Wish! have I not pray'd aright?
Yet grant, before I die,
One lightning-flash athwart the fight,
One glimpse of sky.—

God Wish!—What other God but thou,
Under some aspect Greek,
Approved his favourites with the vow—
‘Have what ye seek!’

They chose ‘what best might please the Powers’
Ere morning did return
The hope of all their youthful hours
Lay in an urn.

143

SONG OF THE STREAMS

We leap from the rock's sheer edge,
Boisterously:
With a shout and hearty laughter
Fore and after:
Joyously:
Slide we over the mossy ledge,
Lusciously,
Dreaming deliciously:
And an eternal roar rolls with us on our way.

Clear is the young spring day!
The trilling laugh of childish glee
And sobs and bubbling mirth are ours
'Mid the wild flowers,—
The playful hours racing us through the heath,
Down the hill-side racing us out of breath.
O'er us the eternal voice rolls on sonorously.

144

An organ thunder—the dim melody
Of many instruments—a rushing throng
Of men and voices,—near a charmed song,
Solemn afar, even as the voice of God:
And heaven is children-trod:
Over the many hills the same bright tune
Singing to sun and moon;
High company upon the hills we had;
Were not we glad,
Leaping from crag to crag?

Leaping from crag to crag;
Hiding behind the masses of the rocks;
Deem'd from afar to be the shining flocks
Of God upon the mountains fed,
Everywhere scattered:
Now as a silver thread
Along the deep ravine
The torrent speedeth; and again between
The massed rocks, fall after fall,
With uproar musical,
Bounding from crag to crag, on travel we.

145

Anon our passage free
A mountain wall hath stopp'd;
And we lie chafing in the fond distress
Of way ward pettishness,
Boiling with childish rage,
Till gentler tones assuage
Impetuosity:
Still, still hold watch and ward!
A postern is unbarr'd:
Through the quick gap our damm'd-up waters gush
All eagerly:
And our high song hath dropp'd
Adown the steeps of life, and youthhood's flush
Floweth more steadily.

Continueth our glee
Through the wide meadows, through the long lush grass;
Our jocund course between
The great grand trees, who in our changeful glass
Gaze, as a seer into a depth of dreams:
Queenliest trees, proud-form'd, with port serene:
And now our many streams
Are blending, and the mountain alleys,
Merged in one broad road, plunge toward the valleys,
While o'er our torrent force the hill-song leaps.

146

And here and there uppeeps
Through grassy hair the weird and rugged face
Of some grey rock, one of the giant race
Of our bleak birth-place, grey as the memories
Of an uncultured world, the asperities
Of our progressive life: and ever keeps
The ancient hill in sight, its head in heaven:
And little rustic homelinesses
Welcome the mountain-born with flower-wreathing,
Bright buttercups, primroses quiet-breathing,
Rich-scented chestnut-bloom:
And in the torrent's foam
The sweet May dips her tresses,
Scarcely distinct:—On, on the waves are driven,
As o'er us the old mountain voice still hovers.

And every turn discovers
New beauty; other streamlets pour,
Like other minds their flood of thought,
Or other beings influence, brought
From many a distance, hour by hour;
And the stream swells its volume, and the tide
Of power is amplified;
And earth is fertilized, field-glories wave,
And human dwellings stand on either side: While with melodious stave

147

The river saileth through the busy scene,
And o'er it most serene
The hill-song, like a heaven-burden, hovers.

Now, like two eager lovers,
Two fair streams mingle hearts, and our full song
Is the quick panting of voluptuous life
The harvest fields among,
Beneath heaven-arched skies with blithest warblings rife:
And our sunn'd face is flush'd even as a bride's:
And many a trickling kiss in music glides,
Like molten silver bells, our features o'er—
A chorus liquefied of birds and flowers:
Such ecstacy is ours.
Yet still floats o'er our life the distant roar
Of the far mountain hymn:—God whispers as of old.

148

CHORUSES

FROM A POLITICAL POEM

1848

Through thy pain, and through the languor
Of despair, and from the anger
Of long-disappointed hope,
Thou, O Human World! redeeming,
The pale phantoms of thy dreaming,
Shalt have strength with Time to cope.
Though thy weary feet be tender,
Though thy lids bear not the splendour
Of the Coming of thy Lord,
Yet, fond Hope! shalt thou behold him,
And thy powerful arms enfold him,
And thou know thyself adored.

149

Yet shall Love, O Hope pursuing!
On thy heart his life renewing,
Speed with thee his tireless flight;
And the wake of his star-tresses
O'er earth's untrack'd wildernesses
Guide Man to the far delight.
Lo! I hear the acclamations
Of the Faith-awaken'd Nations;
And the sweet low-chaunted song
Of their organized endeavour:
It soars upward ever, ever,
On the swift wings, angel-strong.

Awake, sad Hope! the tyrants of the earth
Are passing like night-shadows: though some clouds
Seek to prolong their reign, those lingering shrouds
Cradle the Morning in its hour of birth.
Ye ‘Dead’ come forth!

Upon the broad firm ground
Base ye the templéd round
Of human Right, where Men as Gods shall be!
O ye Republic Nations!
Lay wide the deep foundations

150

Both of your own and Man's Equality!—
Uprear the varied columns
In their own ample volumes,—
Upbear the sacred roof of Country, ye
Who know what Freedom meaneth!
When each on other leaneth,
Best power of service is real Liberty.—
Devote upon that shrine
Your lives to the Divine,—
Render to Heaven the worship of the Free!
The Heaven of sure progression,
Whose harmonized expression
Is thy perpetual song, Humanity!

From the depth of night
I have taken flight
Into the dawn of a pure delight:
And my song upsprings
Upon mighty wings
To the light of thy smile's imaginings;—

151

Into the Heaven
Where Faith was driven
When Earth by the winter storm was riven;
From the rock and chain
Of a hopeless pain
Up to thy Heaven I soar again;—
From the lowliest grave
That Truth dared brave,
Seeking even Death, to redeem the Slave;
Like an angel's psalm,
To the realms of calm,
Where Love is heal'd with immortal balm;—
To the azure sky
Of Faith's visions high
Of a serene Eternity,—
Where Toil is blest,
And where Hope may rest
To gaze in the eyes of the Loveliest.

152

DEFINITIONS

VALOUR
Realized earnestness, in every game
Flung, like Thor's hammer, always at an aim.

COURAGE
Heart-action, valour's heart-felt cheerfulness,
Making the firm lips smile in grief's worst stress.

HONESTY
Due keeping, though none witness, claim, or force,
Whatever bond thy conscience doth endorse.

RIGHT
What conscience warrants thee thy right shall be:
Right is the secret of Eternity.

WISDOM
The perfect sight of duty; thought that moulds
A rounded life, and all its aim beholds.

DUTY
The debt of Life. To what? Unto the whole
Of Life,—unto the Universal Soul.

153

LIFE
The soul's due exercize, by will impell'd:
The courser of a chariot, driven and held.

TRUTH
Healthfullest life of thought, look, word, and deed:
Of endless worth the never failing seed.

DEATH
Inaction: the soul's sleep: God doth not die,
Needing no rest in his eternity.

HEALTH
The child of Exercize and Truth, whom Mirth
Nursed from the very moment of its birth.

FAITH
Trust in the Beautiful. Undoubting Youth!
Thy Mistress is not truer than God's Truth.

RELIGION
The baluster of life, whose stairs are creeds
Whereon the eternal soul tow'rd God proceeds.

REVERENCE
Obeisance unto Greatness under-stood:
The first step of a human life toward Good.

SACRIFICE
An offering unto God, a gift of worth;
The halcyon of the storms that toss our earth.

154

CHEERFULNESS
The thankful smile that lights the martyr's pyre;
The highest Jubilate of God's choir.

ASPIRATION
Elijah's chariot of winged fire:
We journey heavenward when we aspire.

SELFISHNESS
Grazing, he looks on earth: how can he see
The opening heavens and God's eternity?

SERVICE
Think what God doth for man: so mayst thou know
How god-like service is, and serve also.

WORK
Life, health, worth, worship,—rest itself no more
Than labour the tired labourer to restore.

INTEGRITY
The perfectly rounded wholeness of a life
Whose core is truth, whose hours are ne'er at strife.

VIRTUE
Virtue is Manhood. Male and female He
Created Man, and said—Live manfully!

SELF-POSSESSION
The user of virtuous qualities; the hand
That grasps and guides and forward thrusts the brand.

155

PRINCIPLE
A life's beginning: ay! the very ground
Where best expedients flourish and abound.

BEGINNING
Begun, or promised: it is all the same.
False is the arrow falls short of its aim.

WILL
The parent of an act, the seed of worth:
Life's threshold. Pilgrim! halt not, but go forth.

WILLING
Who wills says—‘I will do; at least I try,’
‘I will’ is a bond, an oath, a prophecy.

EXPEDIENCY
Ex pede: building, hastening, foot by foot.
Building foundation needs, as growth needs root.

FEAR
Paralysis of will; torpedo doubt,
Changing the accomplish'd knight to helpless lout.

DESPAIR
The shadow of a slave who turns his back
On the light, and cries—The universe is black.

DARING
Some fear to dare not; some ‘dare’ when none see;
Some are blind-bold: none dare of all these three.

156

DOUBT
The mountain's image trembles in the lake:
Lake Doubt, Perhaps the mountain does not quake.

IMPOSSIBILITIES
Folly's unproveable assertions; lies
Given credence to by credulous cowardice.

DISAPPOINTMENT
I worshipp'd Truth and Justice: wherefore I
Had Disappointment for my enemy.

PATIENCE
Baffled and helpless Valour laid in bonds,
That bideth God's delay, and ne'er desponds.

FORTITUDE
Unchain me, Strength! from this Caucasian fell:
For I have acted and endured as well.

DEFEAT
One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count
What you have trampled on! Look up, and mount!

FAILURE
Who knows? Each year, as every wheat-seed, dies:
And so God harvests his eternities.

TRIUMPH
Christ on his Cross, Prometheus vulture-riven:
A sacrificial flame that reaches heaven.

157

SUCCESS
The harvest of a worshipful essay.
The sower waits the seasons: God his stay.

GLORY
Lo where some dunghill cock 'mid rotting sheaves
Crows—‘I am laurel-crown'd’: but who believes?

HONOUR
A saintly glory: ay! a starry crown
Bright in the night-time of Oblivion's frown.

FREEDOM
The opportunity for healthy growth;
No liar's licence, but a virtuous oath.

VICE
Blasphemy 'gainst thy self: a making foul
The Holy of Holies even in thine own soul.

SIN
Inquire of God! of thine own soul! or—Stay!
In yon field hangs a scarecrow: will he say?

SHAME
The wage of Baseness; and the shadow of Wrong:
However lofty or however strong.

PLEASURE
A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace;
But turn not from thy road, nor slacken pace!

158

PAIN
One of God's words to thee. Is it a curse?
Contempt and even pleasure might be worse.

LOVE
Pure worship of the Beautiful—the True—
Under whatever form it comes to you.

BEAUTY
A vision, or an image, or a look,
Of the Eternal in Time's rippling brook.

PURITY
‘To the pure all things pure’ does not include
Practice or knowledge of the impure and lewd.

PASSION
Beasts have their appetites and instincts; men
The passion of love: live differently, then!

CHASTITY
A temple's vestal guardian, who maintains
Even the marbled avenue pure from stains.

MARRIAGE
The wedding of the twin halves of the soul:
Making one perfect and productive whole.

FRIENDSHIP
Hand-linking of two sympathetic lives;
A double bloom that in mid-winter thrives.

159

HAPPINESS
The sunshine and the starlight of the soul:
God's smile on Courage nearing Virtue's goal.

PROSPERITY
A bloom that groweth not on every flower:
But only on Beauty in some fortunate hour.

RESIGNATION
Resign is re-assign. To God resign!
But man gave nought: contend while life is thine.

HOPE
The cup-bearer of life: a water-wraith:
In heaven the bride of Strength: Gods call her Faith.

CHARITY
More real than Hope and far even Faith above
Is Charity: when Charity is Love.

FALSEHOOD
A coward's arrow aim'd with the feather first;
The vile begetter of a race accurst.

LOYALTY
Holding with Evil, flunkeying a Lie,—
This is Thieves' Honour, but not Loyalty.

PATRIOTISM
Not the mere holding a great flag unfurl'd,—
But making it the goodliest in the world.

160

PEACE
Victory's good angel, not a corse 'mong worms:
The shepherd's dog scorns peace on wolfish terms.

NON-INTERVENTION
Cain's cowardliest son, whose yet more insolent word
Is—I am not my brother's keeper, Lord!

TRADE
Real Trade is the honest interchange of wealth.
The eyeless-needle-seller's name was Stealth.

WEALTH
Cornelia's jewels; blind old Milton's thought;
Job's patience; and the lesson Lazarus taught.

POVERTY
Can Wealth be envious? Dives! Dives! thou
For all thy wealth dost envy Lazarus now.

CONTENT
The oil on a slave's chain; the ease of beasts;
Sometimes brave Strength despising common feasts.

ENVY
The swinish greed which of all good would make
Merely a pool its own vile thirst to slake.

JEALOUSY
Be jealous of evil, but make way for good!
True Jealousy! act not as Envy would!

161

EQUALITY
Procrustes' bed? No! Justice equal beam:
Which weigheth all, both what they are and seem.

CONSISTENCY
Last night I wore a cloak; this morning not.
Last night was cold; this morning it was hot.

NARROWNESS
Be narrow!—as the bud, the flame, the dart:
But narrow in thy aim, not at thy heart.

JUSTICE
The sightless Angel by God's Throne, who hears
The falling of the Wrong'd One's lightest tears.

MERCY
Twin genii of life prepare God's path:
The fair one Mercy call'd, the dark one Wrath.

WRATH
The thunder-burst that clears the stagnant air:
A divine fury; Truth with horrent hair.

VENGEANCE
God's sentence upon Wrong: or lightning swift,
Or slowly gathering like a winter drift.

VINDICTIVENESS
When God names thee his Thunder-bearer—Then
Spare to revenge thyself on erring men.

162

REVENGE
Evening the scale of life down-drawn by ill:
Not heaping on wrong done more wrongful will.

FORGIVENESS
The condonation of a wrong. What then?
Are not wrong-doers mostly brother men?

PITY
The tears that left undimm'd the Angel's eyes
When he thrust Adam forth from Paradise.

TOLERANCE
Serve thou Truth first, albeit Tolerance wait!
Falsehood is more intolerable than hate.

KINDNESS
Ask the physician if he seeks to please!
How shall we name thè kind Austerities?

FRANKNESS
Sincerity of speech: the temperate breeze
That gives the convalescing health and ease.

LIBERALITY
True liberality gives of its own:
And charity for vice and crime has none.

GENEROSITY
The giving grandly. Giving never asks
For gratitude; nor barters; nor sets tasks.

163

BENEVOLENCE
Well-wishing. Well! at best but an intent.
May not a poor man be benevolent?

USURY
Who giveth to the Poor lends to the Lord:
The usurer trusts to the securest word.

DISINTERESTEDNESS
Selling for glory? lending to the Lord?
I will not ask even Conscience for reward.

ROYALTY
Reality: no ape in a lion's skin,
But Crowned Strength that worthily doth win.

GENTILITY
His Grace's scullion, housed at Beulah Spa,
Keeping a gig; Vulgarity's Mamma.

GENTLENESS
The grace and delicate manner of a flower;
The expression of a heart of genial power.

COURTESY
A royalest grace; the womanly bending down
From queenliest state to even the lowliest clown.

PRIDE
Dne reverence toward thy self. Doth God come there?
Make thou the house well worthy his repair.

164

HUMILITY
Self, seen in a puddle: lift thee toward the sky,
And proudly thank God for Eternity!

OBSTINACY
A mule with blinkers. Ay! he goes quite straight;
Runs at the gate-post and will miss the gate.

PRUDENCE
The saddle-girth of valour. Thou art wise
To gird it well, but not around thine eyes.

COMPROMISE
Twice two is four, but three and two is five:
Shall Five and Four or compromise or strive?

ABSTINENCE
Shirking the battle. Every morn doth sound
God's trumpet-call: where then shouldst thou be found?

ENDEAVOUR
Earth gave Antæus, oft as thrown, new force:
Yet Hercules held in the air his corse.

165

REAL AND TRUE

Only the Beautiful is real!
All things of which our life is full,
All mysteries that life enwreathe,
Birth, life, and death,
All that we dread or darkly feel,—
All are but shadows, and the Beautiful
Alone is real.

Nothing but Love is true!
Earth's many lies, whirl'd upon Time's swift wheel,
Shift and repeat their state,—
Birth, life, and death,
And all that they bequeath
Of hope or memory, thus do alternate
Continually:

166

Love doth anneal,
Doth beauteously imbue,
The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate.

Love, Truth, and Beauty,—all are one!
If life may expiate
The wilderings of its dimness, death be known
But as the mighty ever-living gate
Into the Beautiful—
All things flow on
Into one Heart, into one Melody,
Eternally.

SHADOWS

The world goes round and the rain is falling:
Welladay!
The world goes round and the rain is falling;
Ever the Shadowy Ones are calling—
Come away!

The world goes round and the leaves are falling
Every day.

167

The world goes round and the leaves are falling;
Autumn weeds are the Spring forestalling;—
Earth is grey.

The world goes round and Death is calling—
Come away!
The world goes round and Death is calling,
Hour by hour, poor Life appalling.
Welladay!

The world goes round and the stars are falling,
Welladay!
The world goes round and the stars are falling:
All things, God! unto thee, are calling—
Be our stay!

168

DEATH

O welcome, Death!
Long have I sought thee thorough trials many;
Long, long, and tempted would not be of any:
Most welcome Death!

Thy foes, O Death!
Wisdom and Fame, woo'd me; to my pale lips
Fond Beauty clung—a cloud too thin to eclipse
The mooned Death.

O trusty Death!
Wisdom with cold sneer mocks thy prophecies;
And Glory would outbid thy promises:
Yet welcome, Death!

All hate thee, Death!
Have not I reason? thou hast stolen away
The sunshine of my being:—my sole stay
Art thou, O Death!

169

O gentle Death!
Ill things are said of thee: that thou dost rend
The loving hearts, and mocking ever blend
Foul dust with breath.

Belovéd Death!
Men call thee Pain, and say that thou dost fasten
Thy fangs in the heart of Joy: and yet all hasten
To the arms of Death.

Impassion'd Death!
All lovely things pillow them on thy breast:
What seek they? surer dreams than life, or rest?
Serenest Death!

O silent Death!
What joy in thy dream-circled home abideth?
Over the moon-lit face a calm smile glideth.
O silent Death!

170

A FUNERAL HYMN

Why are your spirits sad?
Why is't ye weep,
When the Weak and Pain-wearied
Are bosom'd in sleep?
Hush! lest ye vex the Tired with your rude cries:
In the calm home of Death there are no agonies.
Why do ye weep?

Why are your hearts unstrung?
Why are ye dull?
Though our Lost was so young,
And is beautiful.
Whom God best loveth he first calleth home:
Wouldst thou detain the summon'd through long years to roam,
To toil and weep?

Why mourn ye thanklessly?
Toil needeth rest,—
Pain asketh remedy,—
‘Friends! death is best.’

171

Better to strew his pillow with green praise
Than pile on his sere heart the snow of evil days!
Then ye might weep.

Mourn not what we have lost!
What hath he won?
Love ever smileth most.
Where he is gone,
There shall we follow. Joy that he hath gain'd
God's blessed peace so soon, that he is first unchain'd.
How can ye weep?

Why are your spirits sad?
He is at rest.
O, be ye calmly glad!
Wrong not the Blest!
What though we see him not, though life is dim?
Hope sits with us in the shade, bearing one wish from him—
‘Friends! do not weep!’

172

A DIRGE

‘SWEETS TO THE SWEET!’

Nightingale! sing o'er her tomb;
Forest-flowers! bend o'er her:
Song to song, and bloom to bloom:
God's wide universe the dome
Wherein we adore her.

Let our lives sing o'er her tomb,
True thoughts blossom o'er her!
Song to song, and bloom to bloom:
God smiles through the narrow room,
White wings float before her.

Soul of song! thou hast no tomb;
God's own bosom wore her:
Song of song and Bloom of bloom!—
Weep not! in the Blessed Doom
God's love watcheth o'er her.

173

NIGHT-MUSIC

O nightingale! why singest thou in May,
Amid the tender leaves,
Unto the crescent moon, in the twilight grey
Of sultry eves?
Kissing the pale-brow'd Night with thy low moan,
When the written song o' the sun is blotted out and gone.

O Nightingale! why singest to the moon,
The full-orb'd moon of May?
Pouring the fragrance of that pining tune
Upon the feet of Day;
Ever from vesper time to near the morn
Trilling thy sweetest plaint, thou ecstasy forlorn!

O Nightingale! O life so sweetly sad!
Singing 'mid yellow buds that may not leaf;
O soul of song! whose noble music had
Borrow'd its dearest eloquence from grief:—
O thou broad-fronted Heaven, with thy clear eyes,
Solve the sad quest of these melodious agonies!

174

OLD FRIENDS

The old old friends!
Some changed; some buried; some gone out of sight;
Some enemies, and in this world's swift fight
No time to make amends.

The old old friends—
Where are they? Three are lying in one grave;
And one from the far-off world on the daily wave
No loving message sends.

The old dear friends!
One passes daily; and one wears a mask;
Another long estranged cares not to ask
Where causeless anger ends.

The dear old friends,
So many and so fond in days of youth!
Alas that Faith can be divorced from Truth,
When love in severance ends.

175

The old old friends!
They hover round me still in evening shades:
Surely they shall return when sunlight fades,
And life on God depends.

THE DIRGE OF LOVE

Strew flowers, for Love is dead!
Flowers with the Morning's tears upon them shed.
Drop them in Love's lone grave,
By Sorrow's ceaseless wave.
For Love is dead!

Not flowers!—or take the crown
Hope in her desperate agony flung down!
Unweave each wither'd stem;
And idly scatter them
Where Love lies dead!

No flowers, but grey moss'd stones!
Or greyer yet, from heights the lichen owns!
Pile them on Love's lone grave,
By Sorrow's moaning wave.
Now Love is dead!

176

Fair flowers! ye bloom no more.
Grey mountain summits! ye are clouded o'er.
Lay neither stones nor flowers,
But only woeful hours,
Where Love lies dead!

Not flowers! but tears instead!
Love was the flower of life—and Love is dead.
Pile up no record stones!
For Sorrow ever moans
Where Love lies dead.

NOUGHT

Hope and fear are nought to me,—
Even despair outwears its sting;
Fear is whelm'd in certainty,—
Hope, far from me wandering,
Rests where Love may be:
Sorrow sleepeth at my side,
Like the veil'd corse of a bride,—
Ever calmly smileth she:
Earthly hope is not for me.—
Woe is me!

177

Hope and fear are nought to me,
Throned o'er Time and Circumstance
In desolation's majesty;
Evil-tiding and Mischance
Dare not look on Me.
O'er the world the pilgrim fareth;
To the grave Love's cross he beareth:
Pity clingeth tearfully.
Hope and fear are nought to me:
Woe is me!

HOPE

Poor hope sate on a grave, a very child,
Blowing her rainbow bubbles; as she cast
Each one in the air, it broke. Yet still she smiled
Upon the latest one. ‘Look! this will last.’

178

GONE

Will the dead Hours come again,
From the arms of the buried Years?
Though we call, we call in vain,
And they will not heed our tears.
Why, O why were they slain
By thy fears?

Will the dead Love e'er return,
For all thy late desire?
Can thy grief unclose Love's urn,
Or make of the ashes—fire;
Though the cinders yet may burn
Round the pyre?

Alas and alas for the Gone!
We mourn and we mourn in vain.
Like a ghost, or the dreamy tone
Of some long-forgotten strain,
Their memory haunts the Lone
But with pain.

179

TO THE WEST WIND

O sweet West Wind! thou breathést on my brow:
O dear West Wind! thou comést from my home.
O heedless Wind! had I been free as thou
To stay or go, I had not cared to roam.

O glad West Wind! what bringest thou from Her?
Thy breath is fragrant with her plaint to thee.
What message hast thou from the weary stir
Of that lone heart which ever beats for me?

O happy Wind! love-laden with her sighs:
What dreamy kisses layest thou on my brow?
O sad West Wind!—sad, sad, and most unwise:
A fugitive like me—an exile now.

180

LITERÆ SCRIPTÆ

Words, loving words, since kisses can not be!
Words, passionate words that echo past delight!
O Love! whose sun is absent, give to me
Some starry memories to cheat my night!

Words, loving words! repeat that thou art mine!
Words, burning words! to warm my heart so cold,
Iced in this polar distance, where I pine
For summer and its splendours manifold.

Words, fiery words! a pentecost of flame:
Words, tonguéd fire! to comfort my despair:
Crowning my brow with every passion'd name,—
Electric sparks from Phoibos' golden hair.

Words, star-like words! each word a globe of fire!
My Sun-god hath departed: life is dim.
Words! words! a heaven of stars!—O fond Desire!
The starriest night is darkness, wanting Him.

181

FALSE HOPE

God save me from mine enemy!
I pray we ne'er may meet again.
She has been worse than foe to me:
And yet, if we should meet again
I should believe her, to my bane.

She has been worse than foe to me,
With promised love and present pain,
Till love seem'd only injury,
And troth was known to be in vain:
I did believe her, to my bane.

Her clear eyes look'd so lovingly,
'She clung with such a hearty strain,
Her lips—O God! so sweet to me—
Left upon mine a poison blain:
I did believe her, to my bane.

She has been worse than foe to me:
Yet I should love her o'er again
If we should meet—dear Injury!
Men call her Hope,—but she is Pain.
Pray God we may not meet again.

182

VAIN COUNSEL

Cease to love! since all thy wooing
Can not win her, cease pursuing!
Cease thy loving all so gainless!
Cease, since love can not be painless!
Love not to thine own undoing!

Cease to love love so uncaring!
Cease a love she is not sharing!
Cease to love whose love is fickle!
Fling aside thy broken sickle!
Why should one reap but despairing?

Cease rejected vows to tender!
Cease! thy worthless hope surrender!
Cease to love!—But words are idle.
Will could never yet Love bridle:
Love struck mad with loving splendour.

183

FOOT-PRINTS

There are days of our lives that lie on the past
Like the prints of bleeding feet:
But the heart's wayfaring records last,
Though Hope and Joy may meet.
Never effaced by the summer rain,
Those marks must aye remain.

Look not back, thou Unhappy One!
For the blood will blind thine eyes;
Look not down on thy feet; begone
From the track of agonies.
Leave to the past the things of the past:
For, alas! those marks must last.

184

TO HIS LOVE

WHO HAD UNJUSTLY REBUKED HIM

Gentle as Truth, and zealous even as Love—
Which is the fiercest of all earthly things;
Frank, and yet using caution as a glove
To guard the skin from foulnesses or stings,—
Giving the bare hand surely to the true:
Such would I be, to make me worthy you.

Bitter sometimes, as wholesome tonics are;
Wrathful as Justice in her earnest mood;
Scornful as Honour is, yet not to bar
Appreciation of the lowest good;
Loathing the vile, the cruel, the untrue:
How should my manhood else be worthy you?

Say I am subtil, fierce, and bitter-tongued:
Love is all this, and yet Love is beloved.
But say not that I wilfully have wrong'd
Even those whose hate and falsehood I have proved.
Who say this know me not, and never knew
What I would be, but to be worthy you.

185

BEGINNINGS

A small small seed, and of no account,—
'Twas a chance if it would grow:
In a deep rock crevice a hidden fount,—
Mere drops, too few to flow.

Now the seed is a spreading upas tree,
No joy can live beneath:
And that fount has flooded love's pleasant lea
With the dark deep tide of death.

LOVE'S TALISMAN

Thou say'st—‘Will thy love last?’ Look through the years;
Behold where Change still sleepeth with the dust
On his closed eye-lids. Let not thy vain fears
A waken him! Love's talisman is trust.

186

THE WOUNDED KNIGHT

Let me rest! the fight is over; I am smitten unto death.
Leave me! I shall be unwounded by the worst the foeman saith:
Foeman's taunts no more can move him whom his friend dishonoureth.

O, 'tis thou hast struck my spirit, stabb'd me in the thickest fight
With thy doubt most false and cruel: thou and I had else such might,
That all odds had fallen before us, strong in brotherhood and right.

Thou didst hold thy shield before me; when my sword-point as of old
Cover'd thee, thou lookedst on me with a smile so scornful cold,
Saying—‘Henceforth I will guard me with an arm that is not sold.’

187

Thou spakest plainly, roundly chargedst me with a treason unconceived;
Badest me turn my sword against thee, only so to be believed;
Smotest me with a vile suspicion never more to be retrieved.

So I fell, fell fighting madly, without thee to shield my life;
All unused to fight dishonour'd, rushing blindly to the strife:
So fell, stabb'd to the heart,—O friendliest! stabb'd, and by no foeman's knife.

Leave me now! thy pity hurts me. Thou wilt think that thou wert wrong:
Thou wilt think?—O, henceforth rest thee in thy false assurance strong:
No such wound be thine as speeds me this dark flood of grief along!

Yet, true friend! thou didst not falsely, thou by treacherous words beguiled.
Closer! thy true tears fall on me! closer!—my words too were wild:
My death-smile would whisper to thee—how our love is reconciled.

188

TEARS

Weep! weep bitter tears! for thy friends
Are the Dead and the Overthrown
And the Sacrificed: God lends
Such help to the Lone.

Weep! weep bitter tears! for thy friends
Are the Friendless: what art thou?
How silently each yellow leaf wends
From the wither'd bough.

Weep desperate tears! in the tomb
Build thy palace brave!
A sure friend and a certain home
There alone thou may'st have.

189

WATCHING

O I am weary, watching for thy coming,—
And yet thou comést not;
Day after day my weary feet are roaming
To that dear spot
Where thou didst bless me with those words so vain—
‘We soon shall meet again.’

My soul is worn with prayer for thy returning,
And yet thou dost not come;
All through the long long night the lamp is burning
In thy lone home,—
Thy home, my heart, where echo yet in vain
Thy words—‘We meet again.’

190

A ROMANCE

‘O sister! leave your broidery-frame;
Come to the window, Dear!
Be quick: I hear them shout his name;
The music draweth near.’—
She leaneth o'er her broidery-frame,
Her tears are dropping fast;
She heedeth not the glad acclaim,
Nor the triumph thronging past.

‘O Sister! look,— how grand they ride;
Come to the window, Sweet!
Be quick: the king is at his side,
They're coming down the street.’—
She leaneth o'er her broidery-frame,
Her tears are dropping fast;
She heedeth not the pomp of fame,
Nor the banners flaunting past.

‘The sun smiles on their blazonry:
Come, Dear! or they'll be gone.
Be quick—his eyes are seeking me,—
My own Victorious One!’—

191

She lifts her brow; 'tis flush'd with shame;
‘He was my wooer last.’
She lieth dead by her broidery-frame,
Ere the knight hath ridden past.

PARTING

[_]

(From the French)

Not a penny left, and you know in such a case
You have but to leave me, Darling! and—it's easy to forget.
One kiss, one look again into your bonny face,
And we part, we part for ever—But your eyes are wet.

It is nought, dear! we have pass'd a many happy days,
To say nothing of our nights; but days and nights are past.
Could they have been more lasting—But the proverb soothly says—
The very best of joys are those which may not last.

192

VALENTINE'S DAY

Some young urchin, shamming lonely,
Writes on ‘gilt-edged superfine’
To some unknown charmer, only—
‘Be thou, Darling! ever mine’
Draws a heart, with arrow-skewer,—
‘So Love hath transfix'd me thine.’
Never recipe was truer
For a perfect Valentine.

Birds are billing, birds are cooing;
All things lovely go in pairs:
We are willing, why not wooing,
When sweet Spring comes unawares?
Very cold though is this spring-time,
Snow on every tiny spray;
Better wait some happier ring-time:
Valentine! put off thy day.

193

Ho, Saint Valentine so simple,
Sadly simple Valentine,
All so earnest for a dimple
And a smile that meets not thine!
Gentle Love! do not deceive me:
Is thy heart quite throughly mine,
And the arrow barb'd? Believe me
Thine own faithful Valentine.

MIND YOUR KNITTING

[_]

(After Béranger)

Lucy! mind your knitting:
Blind as I may be,
I am certain you're not sitting
At your work by me.—
‘'Tis so hot this April weather.’—
Is it cooler where
You and Robert sit together?
You are idling there.
Lucy! mind your knitting.

194

Lucy! mind your knitting:
You have left your seat.
Tell me where again you're flitting:
Those are not your feet.—
‘'Tis the cat that you hear moving.’—
You speak false to me:
I'd like Robert better loving
You more openly.
Lucy! mind your knitting.

Lucy! mind your knitting;
Lucy! have a fear:
Some day Robert will be quitting—
Ah! she does not hear.
These young folk will still be scorning
All we old folk say;
They will never heed our warning
While their playmates stay.
Lucy! mind your knitting.

195

TWO FABLES

POT AND KETTLE

‘Wipe out that black stain, naughty Sister Pot!’
‘You're just as foul, Dame Kettle!’ Pot replied.
'Twas nicely mean'd by each. And yet, God wot,
Some scouring had done more on either side.

PLATE AND JUG

Says Plate—‘You are narrow and thin;
And, poor Jug! I abominate that.’
Jug replies—‘You may call it a sin:
But, my dear! I'm not shallow and flat.’

196

MAIDEN WISDOM

It is so hard to keep my lover in his sorrow,
When, O Love! this very moment I would pine to make him blest.
O wisest Mother! tell me, wherefore say To-morrow,
When there on the threshold waits my heart's expected guest?

Tell me, dear Mother! tell me, wherefore test him with denial,
When I know that he is true, for I would give him life or death?
Is there need to prove his honour? Is there any need of trial
When he tells me that he loves me and I listen with rapt breath?

When I answer, as you bade me, that he had best be waiting
Till proofs of love's reality and persistence can be had,

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Then he laughing says—‘The birds are less cautious in their mating’
Or his eyelids droop so sadly that my darken'd heart is sad.

Be sure he's earnest, Mother! very true and pure and loving;
Could you see his heart as I do, you would say I might be sure:
And he looks, O so imploringly,—Even is there need of proving,
I would rather say—Dear Lover! I can trust you to endure.

198

WINE SONG

Let the purple wine o'erbrim the golden beaker,
Pouring o'er the Bacchants richly sculptured there;
Never cease thy song-stream, eloquentest speaker!
Ne'er, till all believe, thy sweet discoursing spare.

Quickly pour the wine from out the fruit-lipp'd beaker;
Whisper to us, Bacchus! how this life is fair;
Speak out roundly, Wine-god! fortunatest seeker!
Thou most true bliss-finder! tell us how and where.

Let again the flood o'erbrim the perfect beaker;
Lift our hearts, Ascender! make our lives thy care;
Yet, yet once more bless—Thy voice is growing weaker—
Bless us with those ripe lips, on this heaven-stair.

199

WHAT I HATE

I hate cant,
And I hate a ‘plant,’
And humbug I hate altogether;
And I hate a lie,
And treachery,
Worse than the foulest weather.

And as much as I can
Ever hate a man,
I hate one with a voice unpleasant,
With a mouth most greedy
And an eye unsteady:
Him I hate, as a snare the pheasant.

I hate rich fools,
And I hate sham schools,
And I hate the pretence of passion;
And I hate foul words,
And swine and swineherds,
Though Pork be the height of the fashion.

200

I hate weak rhymes—
Though I use them at times;
And I hate all the baseness of evil;
And I hate some things more
Even worse than a bore,—
And a bore I hate worse than the Devil.

TRIADS

Three things that are gone for ever
Whén once they have pass'd away:
A man's and a woman's honour
And the life of Yesterday!

The last in our dreams returneth—
Though the wakening doubles pain;
But, however the sad heart yearneth,
Lost honour is sought in vain.

Two things that can never be mended
By penance or prayer or power:
The trust in a broken promise,
The growth of a sever'd flower!

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And a third that is yet more tender—
The hope of our trustful years:
Like the autumn's morning splendour,
Gone—gone in a waste of tears.

Three more should endure for ever:
The strength of a heavenward song,
The heart of a brave endeavour,
The pardon that meeteth wrong!

And three should be ever exhaustless—
Ay! four,—though the heavens depart:
True effort and faith and mercy
And the love of a loving heart.

SWEET GALE

The sweet South Wind once underground was frozen,
And only growth to save her could avail.
She grew up through a plant; the plant so chosen
We call in our North Country the Sweet Gale.

202

AN HOUR OF ROBIN HOOD

O for an hour with Robin Hood, deep, deep in the forest green,
With fern and budding bramble waving o'er me as a screen,
In mid noon shade,
Where the hot-breath'd Trade
Came never the boughs between.

O for an hour of Robin Hood, and the brave health of the free,
Out of the noisome smoke to where the earth breathes fragrantly,
Where heaven is seen,
And the smile serene
Of heavenliest liberty.

O for the life of Robin Hood, to wander an outlaw free
Rather than crawl in the market-place of human slavery:

203

Better with men
In the wildest glen,
Than palaced with Infamy.

My life for a breath of Robin Hood, with the arrow before my eye
And a tyrant but within bow-shot reach: how gladly could I die
With the fame of Tell,
With Robin so well
Embalm'd in history.

O but to rest, like Robin Hood, beneath some forestgreen,
Where the wild-flowers of the coming spring on my mouldering heart may lean;
For England's sward
Is trampled hard
With the journeyings of the Mean.

204

THE SONG OF THE PAUPER

Spring cometh to the world;
Spring cometh not to me:
There is no Spring in the poor-house yard,
For the prison'd Misery.
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.

Spring shouteth jubilee:
The pauper may not fare
From the closeness of his winter ward
Into the fragrant air.
Spring loosens the frozen earth;
The forests their free arms are flinging
Abroad: to me are clinging
Death and the rule of dearth.

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Spring smileth: the free birds mate;
The free flower blossometh:—
The home of the pauper is desolate;
The grave-weed is his wreath.
There is no smile for me;
No child to my life is clinging;
Though the buds on the moors are springing,
I have no family.

Spring cometh to the world;
Spring giveth life to all:
O, when shall the Spring of poor Human-kind
Proclaim its festival?
The fond Spring whispereth:
The merry birds are singing;
The chime o' the flowers is ringing:—
But mine is prison breath.

208

RICH AND POOR

In the softly carpeted and richly furnish'd room
Young life hath enjoyment, as a flower its bloom;
Broidering some pretty toy the dainty fingers ply
An easy task, 'mid pleasant hours, in very luxury.

On the bare floor, in the attic, where cold winds drive through,
Young life withers sadly, wanting all its due;
Broidering some gorgeous robe for wealthy dame to wear,
Slowly weary fingers labour,—pleasure smiles not there.

In the mansion child and maiden know all life's delight;
Child and maiden homed with Squalor live in sorry plight.

Yet the mansion and the hovel are not far apart;
Under rags or satin beats the human heart;

209

And the child, on floor or carpet, hopes, desires, and fears;
And the rich lass than the poorest hath no pearlier tears.

Tell your children that God made them brethren, sisters, all,
Born in even a manger or baronial hall;
Teach them what the Poor Man taught the rich long time ago,
How all of us are God's children, be we ne'er so low.

Little children! learn the lesson: wheresoe'er you be,
Love and loving help each other, truly, tenderly.

UNSEEN WORTH

A single drop of rain fell from the skies:
None saw it, on that day so bright and fair.
It slid into the ground, and nourish'd there
The acorn of an oak to live for centuries.

210

THE PALACE

Ill-built, dim-window'd, many a broken tile,—
A king dwells here, kings are his visitors.
Which is the palace? This? or yonder pile
Where crowned Meanness hides, past all its golden doors?

212

NATURE'S GENTLEMAN

(To James Watson)

He boasts nor wealth nor high descent, yet he may claim to be
A gentleman to match the best of any pedigree:
His blood hath run in peasant veins through many a noteless year;
Yet, search in every prince's court, you'll rarely find his peer.
For he's one of Nature's Gentlemen, the best of every time.

He owns no mansion in the Square, inherits no estate;
He hath no stud, no hounds, no duns, no lacqueys at his gate;
He drinks no wine, and wears no gloves, his coat is thread-bare worn:
Yet he's a gentleman no less, and he was gentle born.
He is one of Nature's Gentlemen, the best of every time.

213

His manners are not polish'd, he has never learn'd to bow:
But his heart is gentle,—gentle manner out of it doth grow,
Like a flower whose fragrance blesseth all within its beauteous reach,
Or the dainty bloom upon a plum, or the softness of a peach.
For he's one of Nature's gentle ones, the best of every time.

He takes small pains to smoothe his words to fit a courtly phrase;
And he would scorn to file his soul for even royal praise;
And he has wrath too when the proud the gentlesoul'd distress:
He's not the form—gentility, but very gentleness.
Ay! one of Nature's gentle men, the best of every time.

As true old Chaucer sang to us, so many years ago,
He is the gentlest man who dares the gentlest deeds to do:
However rude his birth or state, however low his place,

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He is the gentle man whose life right gentle thought doth grace.
He is one of Nature's Gentlemen, the best of every time.

What though his hand is hard and rough with years of honest pains,—
Who ever thought the knight disgraced by honour's weather-stains?
What though no Heralds' College in their books his line can trace,—
We can see that he is gentle by the smile upon his face.
For he's one of Nature's Gentlemen, the best of every time.

217

PRAYER

Let us pray! Our prayer be truthful!
Fervent and effectual thought
Is a spirit strong and youthful,
Whose desire in deed is wrought.
Let us pray!

Let us pray! Our hope be daring!
Prayer is an eternal seed,—
Germ of will, and sure of bearing
Energetic, zealous deed.
Let us pray!

Let us pray! And prayer is action:
Prayer! thou art a hero-sword.
Rive the battle; make no paction
Until Victory own thee lord!
Let us pray!

Let us pray! as prays the sower,—
Pray we as the soldier prays!
Though our harvest may be slower,
Though in heaven we reap the bays.
Let us pray!

218

TRIUMPH

Work can never miss its wages.
One wide song rings through the ages:
Ever loss true gain presages.

Not alone that flowers are blowing
Over graves,—that bread is growing
In warm tears from heaven flowing,—

That old Winter Spring-seed hiveth;
Ever Death Creation wiveth,
And God's Love the tempest driveth.

Let the conqueror blush for winning!
Little worth his conquest-sinning:
They who lose are so beginning.

Through the years one chorus ringeth:
The death-chaunt the martyr singeth
Is the root whence victory springeth.

In the Desert sink the Weary,—
Dry their pitcher; angels near ye,—
Ishmael! Arab empires hear thee.

219

Joseph by his brethren barter'd
Hath his full revenge: the Martyr'd
Egypt ruled and Israel charter'd.

Round the ark the river gushes,—
All is lost; amid the rushes
Pharaoh's Daughter, dawn-like, blushes.

Calvary's complete surrender
Is of utmost conquest tender,
And its gloom intensest splendour.

What though Ruin cometh faster,
Look thou God-ward through disaster:
‘In this sign thou shalt be master!’

Ever hangs 'twixt earth and heaven
Victory's Victor, unforgiven,
Crown'd with thorn and earthquake-riven.

Ever the same chorus ringeth:
From his cross the martyr flingeth
Wide the seed whence victory springeth.

Ever through the book of ages.
The same echoes close the pages:
Ever loss true gain presages.

220

AFTER A DEFEAT

Yet we labour, ever hoping,
Though misfortune mocks endeavour;
Down disaster's desperate sloping
Yet we struggle, hoping ever,—
Wearily.

Even as the stream is flowing
To the sea with ceaseless motion,
Never wave its current knowing,
Pass our lives to sorrow's ocean,
Ceaselessly.

Weep'st thou, Hope! unhappy mother,
O'er thy dead child, Misery?
Let us sit by one another,
And our moan shall echo thee
Drearily.

Yet, though Hope herself be dying
In despite of Love and Glory,
Our crush'd lives beside her lying
Should maintain the same high story,
Steadfastly.

221

Yet, O Hope! thy ghost shall lead us
Through the graves of Time's commotion,
Till the Eternal Watchers heed us,
Till they give to our devotion
Victory.

222

THE PEARL

But one of God's good angels hast thou known:
Disease. And would'st thou treat him like a churl?
Be wise and thankful! From disease is grown
The Pearl.

224

SAD QUESTIONING

Why is it so? O God!
The old old cry:
As in impatient youth,
So now, our years gone by,
When thy afflictive rod
Would teach us truth.

Why is it so? O Power!
The rocks are bare
With wasting streams; our lives
Are wasted by despair:
In some far vale the flower
Of the future thrives.

Why is it so? O God!
The old vain cry
That asketh thee to spare.
What is it that we die?
Green sod and then green sod
Thy way prepare.

225

MIDWINTER

Midwinter comes to-morrow,
My welcome guest to be:
White-hair'd, wide-winged Sorrow,
With Christmas gifts for me.
Thy angel, God!—I thank thee still.
Thy will be done—Thy better will!

I thank thee, Lord!—the whiteness
Of winter on my heart
Shall keep some glint of brightness,
Till sun and stars depart.
Thou smilést on the snow: Thy will
Is dread and drear, but lovely still.

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GAUDIAMUS IGITUR

Ay! the road is very lonesome, very rugged, very steep:
See yon cheerful flowers before us,
While the summer sun high o'er us
His bright way doth keep:
Gaudiamus igitur!

In the fierce noon fades the flower; now the storm bursts overhead:
Look, how beautiful the lightning,—
Like some proud life's courage brightening
In the depths of dread:
Gaudiamus igitur!

Starless night, the worn wayfarer ploddeth on through sleety rain:
Has thy soul no starry glory?
Was the lamp of hero story
Given thee in vain?
Gaudiamus igitur!

227

Thou art poor, and joy is costly; simplest happiness so dear:
What's a brave smile's market value?
What laugh-dealer may forestall you?
Never stint thy cheer!
Gaudiamus igitur!

At the death-bed of thy brother, over the belovéd tomb:
Grief by memory's flash be riven!
Look on Love star-throned in heaven!
Joy again hath room:
Gaudiamus igitur!

TIME'S GIFTS

Time hath two blessings for mankind: the first
Is earthly joy;
He gives the second even to the most accurst,—
Rest from annoy.

228

CHANGE

O'er the hills another dawn advances;
Yesterday is past. Is Past untrue?
The grave-stones of its changes and its chances
Are the triumphal pavement of the New.

And To-day toward the western billows
Passeth even as Yesterday did pass.
Morrow morns will smile on human pillows;
Morrow evenings gild the churchyard grass.

Yet Life overliveth tides and chances;
Yet Truth groweth stronger and more true;
Reverence shrines the Old, while Faith advances
Ever on and on from New to New.

229

SELF-JUSTIFICATION

Satan was not the Devil because he fell,
But for his pride in falling—when he said
Evil! be thou my good: to err is well.
Self-justification is his devilhead.

THE ADVENT OF PEACE

Over the red field strode an armed knight:
Men knew him not; but when the fray did cease,
God's Angel stoop'd to bless Victorious Right,
And bade the hero's name thenceforth be Peace.

230

NARROWNESS

You complain that I am narrow—
Going straightly to my aim:
Will you quarrel with the arrow
For the same?

Many a bitter name hast thou,—
‘Pedant,’ ‘bigot’: hold thy blame
While that sword and nail and plough
Are the same.

I would cleave my world-path cleanly—
With an axe', a razor' edge;
Drive my truth through,—not more meanly
Than a wedge.

Far is wide, though force is narrow:
Look straight to thy aim!
Crystal, bud, and flame, and arrow,
Are the same.

231

LOVE

‘Love gives soul and strength to woman, stronger man hath Will instead;
Love could but degrade him earth ward, so let Genius live unwed:’
Words like these, my brow quick flushing, 'neath a subtil myth I read.

Love! who wrote these words had never known the lover's conscious might,
Nor true passion whose proud soaring climbeth the divinest height,
Nor the holiest uplifting of Love's eloquent delight.

Yet thy prophet eyes are on me; and the splendour of thy smile,
Like the dawn from some high mountain reaching over many an isle
To the eternal verge of ocean, leads my spirit as ere while.

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I can answer from Thy teaching:—Love is Genius' only ark;
Will is but a blinded athlete, straining God-ward in the dark,
Without Love to point endeavour, like an arrow to its mark.

Say that love of the unworthy doth degrade to lower needs;
Thou art but misusing language. Love from Beauty aye proceeds;
Love is Worship of the Worthy, can have no unworthy heeds.

Matters not or man or woman. Love of Beauty, like a flame,
Ever heaven ward aspireth,—there is no diviner aim;
Faith, Devotion to the Eternal—Love and these are still the same.

Be it of the Divine or Human, Love pursueth one emprize—
One, whate'er the priest, the altar, or the form of sacrifice:
Truth is none the less resplendent beaming from a woman's eyes.

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Never may the world be ransom'd till this Word be understood:
Love is Genius' strength and conscience; Love is Will's sustaining food,
And his guide across the desert, and his crown upon the rood.

Love is holiest gospel ever.—Thy pale beauty, like a star,
Lights me to the steps of glory where the restless angels are:
As thy radiance, Mother Blessed! led the Magi from afar.

234

TWO STORIES OF ONE FATE

1

Take him,—love him, Sister!—love him dearly for my sake.
If your love should ever fail him, O be sure my heart would break.
It is not breaking now,—believe me! though my tears rain down so fast:
You shall soon have sunshine through them of a joy that aye will last.

Yes, indeed I love him dearly. Could I help it? Sister mine!
Who could refuse to love him, so lovely, so divine?
I will not blush for saying—I did yearn for love of him.
Is my cheek still burning? dear one! But my eyes no more are dim.

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I do, do love him. Never I deny that holy love.
I love him more than life and joy, all selfish hope above.
That I love him is my reason, dear! for laying on your heart
My Darling,—since I found his life was of your life a part.

You will love him as I love him; with a love too past my might,—
For I know through all his silentness your love is his delight.
Love's eyes are very keen, Love's heart has little need of words:
And I can read your heart and his and all their sweet accords.

Love him, love him dearly, Sister! life hath not too many days.
Why these tears? And I am smiling. For my glad heart fills with praise
To God, who gives us love's best blessing,—to assure the Loved One's bliss—
I with my soul's devotedness, and thou—with thy life-kiss.

236

2

Thy hand, my friend! I claim again the brother's trusting hand:
Though if you dared to call her yours I'd slay you where you stand.
She is not yours, nor mine; but we are wholly, humbly hers,
Her knights, her lieges, her true friends, her trusty servitors.

Thou canst not love her more than I. Is this the only right,
For life and death I grapple thee, and mock thy utmost might.
Take all the odds of honour that my love of thee e'er gave,
I'd overstride thee, wast thou king and I Love's meanest slave.

Thou canst not love her more than I. It is no claim at all.
Her own will is our only law, whatever may befall.

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Till then upon this worthy field against thee I contend—
Hath she spoken so? God help me! I will not be false, my friend!

And look that thou be loyal, for I love her none the less;
See that thy very nobleness her every hope may bless.
Shouldst thou fail her in one tittle—Grasp me firmly! Words are vain.
She loves thee: who could fail upon the very heart of gain?

And thou wilt let me love her still, in duteous, lowly guise:
Watching before thy happy gate, lest evil may surprize:
Asking no wages but thy trust, and one approving glance
From eyes—dear eyes!—Thy hand, great friend! I bless thy happy chance.

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A HOMILY

Why hath God led thy noble beauty hither?
To lay upon my heart, a gather'd flower,
Through the brief time of passion; then to wither,
And drop away upon my coffin'd hour?

Is human life nought but a lusty living,
A day of pleasure nighted by the grave,
With no hereafter dawning, no forgiving
Of all the eternal hopes our spirits crave?

Is love the mere lamp of a wanton chamber,
Whose walls are grave-stones, ne'er so finely hid?
Is all the height where Love and Hope can clamber,
Alas! no higher than our coffin-lid?

Is Love a fool for all its future-yearning?
Wise only in the drunkenness of bliss?
Is there no flame divine within us burning?
Is Hope betray'd so cheaply with a kiss?

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Why hath God led thy noble beauty hither?
Why doth celestial light inform thine eyes?
Is it to guide the lone wayfarer? Whither?
The Star of the East hangs not o'er Paradise.

Some girl with delicate skin and golden tresses,
And eyes that float in their voluptuous light,
Holding her boy-adorer in the jesses
Of her caprice, staying his spirit's flight,

Smoothing his folded pinions with light fingers,
Kissing his vigour to a pleasant swoon,
Until the God sunk in the Dreamer lingers
Fondly beside her for the frailest boon,—

Is this the highest end of all thy beauty?
O noble woman! art thou but a girl?
Hast thou no thought of all the scope of duty?
No aim beyond the fingering of a curl?

Why hath God made thee beautiful and loving?
Only to bear the bacchanal cup of life?
Cup-bearing Hebe! seek thou Jove's approving:
O Beauty! be thou Strength's diviner wife.

240

WHAT LOVE IS

Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not the mere toying of a boy and girl,—
She kissing his fair brow, and he a curl:
Love is not this.

Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not the mere mingling of most passionate breath:
There are who have the Loved to very death,
And yet love miss.

Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not hope nor having: whoso love forget
Love's joy in their great task—to pay love's debt,—
Not paid with a kiss.

How shall I tell thee what love really is?
O Love! thy merest trifle is delight;
And passion's hell or heaven is infinite
In bale or bliss.

How shall I tell thee what love really is?
O Perfect Beauty! let my worship be
The happiest bloom of thy eternity.
True love is this.

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LOVE'S TRINITY

Justice, Love, and Faith are one:
Love resumeth all the three:
Justice—love for what is done,—
Love—the present royalty,—
Faith—the love of what shall be.

Justice vindicates the Past:
Keeps its truth from dying with
The formal life that could not last;
Still maintains the central pith
And the essence of the myth.

Faith is Love of the Unseen,
Of the Future beyond sight:
Faith, above the sky serene
Of present Love, with tireless flight
Cleaves the clouded Infinite.

Love is Truth and Faith in one,—
Love is life's true harmony:
There was Truth in what is gone,
Though it seem not; there shall be
New Truth to eternity.

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Justice, Love, and Faith, are One—
Love, the perfect Trinity:
Love is just to what is gone;
Love, aye present unto Thee,
Trusteth to futurity.

MARRIED

O life, O destiny complete!
The sunder'd halves come home again.
So long, so long the yearning twain
Have sought each other: now they meet.

We will not say again our lives:
It is one life henceforth for aye.
Though we may wander far away,
It is one soul that hopes and strives.

It is one soul our life informs,—
It is one life that we shall lead,—
One hope is ours, one will, one creed:
Ye can not part us, all ye storms!

243

My life is not where I may be:
Only a part, removed from her.
We never can be as we were—
Two lives,—but one: for I am She.

And She and I are one brave whole.
The soul's two halves for once unite.
For once: through all the Infinite!
For once: until the farthest goal.

244

POETS

1

Poets!—We are too many. But not one—
Not one of the whole pack deserves the name.
This with his fool-bells plays a jingling game;
That mildly mouths a most mellifluous moan;
A third can fashion heroes without bone;
A fourth flings words like firebrands, without aim;
A fifth—perhaps a sixth—How many grand
Pretentious versifiers, rhymesters, ‘bards’!
But none whose venturous eyes dare look towards
The world's great future; never one whose brand
May sear the actual wrong; not one to stand
Upon that height the Unprophetic guards.
True Poet, with the soul and sword of flame,
Come forth, and for our soul-less words atone!

245

2

True poet!—Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy dreams
In ladies' laps. And silly girls delight
With thy inane apostrophes to Night,
Moonshine, and Wave, and Cloud! Thy fancy teems;
Not genius. Else some high heroic themes
Should from thy brain proceed, as Wisdom's Might
From head of Zeus. For now great Wrong and Right
Affront each other, and War's trumpet screams,
Giddying the earth with dissonance. O where
Is He voiced god-like, unto those who dare
To give more daring with the earnest shout
Of a true battle-hymn? We fight without
The music which should cheer us in our fight,—
While ‘poets’ learn to pipe like whiffling streams.

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THE POET-PROPHET

The poet is the Prophet. His the task
To herald Truth yet far from common sight,
The germs of the world's work to bring to light,
To lift the resurrection-hope from hell.
Song is a Gospel. Whose doth but bask
In poet-glory, who thrusts not the might
Of Wisdom's spear before the ages' fight,
Is not the Poet—sing he ne'er so well.

The Poet is the Prophet. Would'st thou clip
Isaiah's wings, and mew him in a cage—
A singing bird—my Lady Lazy's page—
To soothe dull ears with some luxurious rhyme?
He stands before God's altar; his grand lip
Hath kiss'd the living coal; the prophet-rage
Burneth his heart—and on our darken'd age
Bursts forth, a lava flood of hopes sublime.

The poet is the seër, and sayer too:
Prophet and soothsayer of all mankind.

247

What though—like the Song-Titan, Homer—blind,
And with no conscience of the future growth,
He sings of Troy the Past? Yet Troy the New
Comes on the echo. Is the tempest-wind
Fraught but with battle-shouts? Some tones thou'lt find
Of music yet unknown: past, future,—both.

The Praiser of Admetus' noble Wife
True marriage prophesied: an argument
As close as Milton's, when that seër went
From Freedom's temple down unto his home;
Not less a poet then than by the strife
Angelic standing when high heaven was rent.
He, who best sang of God and Man's Descent,
Sang also of the Paradise to come.

And He who wears the Constellated Crown—
As king of human minds—within the rim
Of his wide realm may see a Brighter dim
The starry point of each haught pyramid.
Brightest the Star whose beams are farthest thrown,
Whereby the storm-confused his sails may trim.
Higher than Hamlet the Promethean Hymn
Of the far future Shelley hath unhid.

248

The Poet is the Prophet: nothing less.
'Tis he who, lark-like, biddeth Toil aspire;
Or through our wilderness, a pillar'd fire,
Goeth before us. Though he seem a cloud,
In this broad glare of little-knowingness,
Ere night our Best shall follow and admire.
The Pole-star of Man's Life is in the Lyre.
Stoop not, O Poet! from thy causeway proud.

THE POET'S MISSION

‘Is but prophetic vision:
‘To him the daring heart is granted—
‘Not the hand.’
Herwegh.

Learn higher apprehending
Of the Poet's task!
To him are God and Nature lending
Ore of mighty thought,
That for such use as the world's need may ask
Fit iron may be wrought.

The passionate impulse furnaced
In the Poet's heart

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Must weld stern word and action earnest:
Poet word and deed
In harmony: that he may take God's part,
And earn a true life's meed.

Clear vision ever lendeth
Faith to his life:
Then only he his mission comprehendeth
When he can wield his soul
Or to creative thought or daily strife,
With artist-like controul.

Not in the purer heaven
Of his own thought
To dwell, enparadised, to him was given
The poet-fire:
But that a grander, truer life be wrought,—
The world exampled higher.

Not only do God's Angels
Behold him with clear eyes:
But day and night they speed his dread evangels
Over the world,—
Their seraph-wings of act and sacrifice
Eternally unfurl'd.

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LABOUR IN VAIN

O not ‘in vain’! Even poor rotting weeds
Nourish the roots of fruitfullest fair trees:
So from thy fortune-loathéd hope proceeds
The experience that shall base high victories.
The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs
A rooting place in thoughtful agonies.
Failures of lofty essays are the seeds
Out of whose dryness, when cold night dissolves
Into the dawning Spring, fertilities
Of healthiest promise leap rejoicingly.
Therefore hold on thy way, all undismay'd
At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly!
Knowing this—past all the woe our earth involves
Sooner or later Truth must be obey'd.

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PRINCIPLE AND OPINION

Principle and Opinion. Of the last
I deem but lightly: 'tis a thing of change;
Holds not the earnest man, or holds not fast;
But which he holds, subjected to the range
Of thought and time and chance. A man can yield
Opinion, hide it, quit it, or defer.
Not so with Principle: he anchors there;
It is his lever; it hath power to wield
His life, to make him ever minister
To its behests; it is his soul, his life;
And whether it shall bring him peace or strife
Is wide o' the mark; it is his sword, his shield,
His dominant chord. They are thus different:
That Principle is fate, Opinion accident.

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THOUGHT AND DEED

God thought of his creation and 'twas done:
For in God's nature thought, will, deed, are one.
And he approacheth unto God most near
Whose thoughts in acts their true responses hear.
Action is natural echo of true will.
Thought is the seed, and will the secret growth
Till act bursts into daylight. Will's an oath
To accomplish thought,—to elaborate, fulfil,
And realize the idea in visible life.
Thought is a prophecy. He puts the knife
To his own growth whose being ends in thought,
Whose thought hath but the stunted growth of words.
'Tis as if warriors, having forged their swords,
Should dream the fight was won, that forged was fought.

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WORD AND DEED

(To Joseph Mazzini)

I said—Whose life is but of thought and word
He is as one who having forged his sword
Sleeps dreaming victory won: for I was wroth,
Seeing how thought and action are divorced
In these dull times, stern principle enforced
To hide in the closet. I should be most loath
To speak or think irreverently of those—
The Lords of Thought, whose words are warrior-blows
In the world-conflict. Yet of them the best
Not only spoke, but did; as faith had need
Of utterance poured forth true word or deed.
Witness our Milton, his great heart express'd
In his daily life! and witness thou, my Friend!
Whose aim steps firmly on to the same heroic end.

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JUNE—1849

For Rome! for Italy!—Our thoughts, our words
Rush forth impetuously. Would they might be
Swift-wing'd as angels, with eternal swords
To smite ‘God's Unforgiven.’ O to see
Our new Camillus scourge those slaves of Gaul
Home to their infamy! Ye ruins grand
Of the time-reverenced Coliseum! fall,
And with Saint Peter's and the Vatican
Be one wide undistinguishable heap
Ere over Rome the Accurséd dare to creep.
Freemen of Rome! your ancient heroes man
The eternal ramparts. Lo, thy martyr band,
Ruffini! leads us.—Build yon batter'd wall
With living men!—O Roman Victory!

(December—1864)

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JUNE—1849

For Rome! for Italy!—ay! for the world:
It is one quarrel. True Republican!
Where'er thy banner'd faith may be unfurl'd
There be thy heart. Thy cause is that of Man,
The cause of the People; and where'er upheld
(Amid Carpathian wilds, or on the steeps
Of Caucasus, above the pride of Eld
Over the Vatican, or midst the heaps
Of England's shameful traffic), thou dost well
To throw thy spirit into danger's van.
For Rome! for Rome! O that our swords were there.
Thou Land of Brutus and of Raffaelle
And of Mazzini! how could we despair
Of Thee, the Holy and Invincible?

[_]

(Ora e sempre)

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OUR COUNTRY

Let us serve our Country!
Whether times be good,
Or disaster whelm her
Like a winter flood.
Let us serve our Country:
Give her life or death;
Give her every action,
Hope, and breath!

Let us serve our Country!
Where our Fathers' dust
Makes each acre holy,
Every field a trust.
Let us serve our Country!
Where our homesteads are;
Lift her fame to heaven,—
Worth's own star.

Let us serve our Country!
That belovéd land,

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Bride-like, proudly beauteous,
Wonderfully grand.
Let us serve her gladly,
Serve her even to death,
Worship her with action,
Hope, and breath!

BE THYSELF

England! be thyself again:
Lift thy life before the world,
Like a royal flag unfurl'd
High above the tented plain.

England! be thyself again:
Think of thy old hero deeds;
They were promises and seeds,—
Were they pledged and sown in vain?

Raise thy spirit from the mire:
Peace and plenteous bread are good;
But true Honour needeth food,
Peace owns Righteousness her sire.

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Ne'er so plenteously fed,
Duty to the world remains:
Shalt thou only count thy gains
While the lands in chains are led?

Doth the clank of prisoners' bonds
Hurt no more the English ear?
Is it England knoweth fear?
Cromwell's England that desponds?

Careless of the Captive's moan,
Fearful of Oppression's strength,
Doubting if our sword have length,
If the quarrel is our own?—

England! be again thyself.
Brave forbearance may be wise:
This poor craft of Cowardice
Cowering in the hole of Pelf

Saveth neither pence nor toil,
Gaineth but a shameful hour,
Wherein Wrong takes breath of power
And so tighteneth the coil.

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England! be thyself again:
Ask not what may serve the time;
See where standeth Truth sublime,
Ask her will, and be thou fain.

If her bidding must be war,
Gird thy sword upon thy thigh;
Shout to the heavens thy battle-cry;
Let thy voice be heard afar,

Heralding the sunny gleam
Of thy swift and steady blade,
Leaping through the realms dismay'd,
As the daylight cleaves a dream.

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1854

Tell the Tzar of England's glories,
Let him learn the deeds of yore!
Tell him how we fought at Florez,
How we won at Azincour!
Tell him of the great Armada
Wreck'd upon our English shore!

Say, for all our peaceful bearing,
England yet hath noble blood;
Dwarf'd we may be, yet our daring
Mocks his height in field or flood:
We have men whose hearts are higher
Than the ebb of Cheapside mud.

Tell him Thor's unerring hammer
Fitteth yet an English hand;
Say, at our first battle-clamour
Arthur comes from fairy-land;
Alfred fronteth the invader,
Drake hath his far-reaching brand.

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Mind him of our Portland glory,
Of the Nile and Trafalgar;
Say, such is the unfinish'd story
Of the Book of English War;
Copenhagen unto Cronstadt,
Tell him, is not overfar.

Tell him, our unwaning glories
Ruin's self could never dim,
Though all England lay at Florez,
Though all Europe bay'd with him:
He might then beware his triumph,—
Grenville's look is very grim.

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HEART AND WILL

Our England's heart is sound as oak;
Our English will is firm;
And through our actions Freedom spoke,
In History's proudest term:
When Blake was lord from shore to shore,
And Cromwell ruled the land,
And Milton's words were shields of power
To stay the oppressor's hand.

Our England's heart is yet as sound,
As firm our English will;
And tyrants, be they cowl'd or crown'd,
Shall find us fearless still.
And though our Vane be in his tomb,
Though Hampden's blood is cold,
Their spirits live to lead our doom
As in the days of old.

Our England's heart is stout as oak;
Our English will as brave

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As when indignant Freedom spoke
From Eliot's prison grave.
And closing yet again with Wrong,
A world in arms shall see
Our England foremost of the Strong
And first among the Free.

A NATIONAL HYMN

O GOD! our England save.
God! who o'er land and wave
Didst lead our sires—
Lead us, through glorious deeds,
Wherever Truth proceeds,
And crown each day with meeds
Of high desires.

O God! who rulést right—
O God! whose word is might—
That word fulfil:
Teach us to do and dare,
Make England's life a prayer,
Her hope a zealous care
To work thy will.

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Let our Republic stand
Ever at Fame's right hand,
Stalwart and free:
Give us heroic health:
So we, despising stealth,
May make our Commonwealth
Worthy of thee.

O Truth! our England bless:
So we through every stress
Shall proudly march:
Gird thou our sheathless sword;
Speak thou our charging word;
Welcome the battle's lord
Under thy arch.

Honour! be thou our guide:
Lead thou our holy pride
Over the earth:
Till all the nations be,
Even as England, free;
Till the last tyrant flee
Before our worth.

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PRAYER FOR ENGLAND

(Sicilian Mariners' Hymn)

Power that mouldest
Virtue's boldest!
Make our England choicest earth:
Give us daring,
With true caring
Both for freedom and for worth.

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A PRAYER FOR TRUTH

O God! the Giver of all which men call good
Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power!
I pray to Thee as all must in their hour
Of need, for solace, medicine, or food,
Whether aloud, or secretly—understood
No less by Thee. I pray: but not for fame,
Nor love's best happiness, nor place, nor wealth.
I ask Thee only for that spiritual health
Which is perception of the True—the same
As in Thy Nature: so to know, and aim
Tow'rd Thee my thought, my word, my whole of life.
Then matters little whether care, or strife,
Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day:
Night cometh, and my star climbeth Thy Heaven-way.