Poems Real and Ideal By George Barlow |
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| XIV. |
| XVII. |
| XIX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XLIV, XLV, XLVI. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| XLVII. |
| LI. |
| LIV. |
| LVII. |
| LIX. |
| SONNETS. |
| IV. |
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| II. |
| IV. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| IX. |
| XII. |
| XXII. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
107
SONNETS.
1876, 1877.
109
IV. THE ONE STAR.
There are sad places where no star-beam shines,
Waste desolate abysses of the dark,
Where no glad light the wandering soul may mark,—
Whereover the black waves in stormy lines
Pour ceaselessly:—spots where no angel's foot
Has trodden; lurid as deep deadly mines:
Hell-pits wherein the lingering captive pines;
Devoid of buds and flowers and gracious fruit.
Waste desolate abysses of the dark,
Where no glad light the wandering soul may mark,—
Whereover the black waves in stormy lines
Pour ceaselessly:—spots where no angel's foot
Has trodden; lurid as deep deadly mines:
Hell-pits wherein the lingering captive pines;
Devoid of buds and flowers and gracious fruit.
What star can light them, or what step traverse
These regions branded with a mystic curse?
What help can reach the prisoners therein bound,—
Cold pulses there shall throb at what glad sound?
What flame, what fire, can comfort there impart?
Only the sweet fire of a woman's heart.
These regions branded with a mystic curse?
What help can reach the prisoners therein bound,—
Cold pulses there shall throb at what glad sound?
What flame, what fire, can comfort there impart?
Only the sweet fire of a woman's heart.
125
THY SPANISH LOVES.
(To Alfred de Musset.)
Ah yes! thy Spanish loves, O sweet-lipped brother poet—
I know their glory well.
What poet ever loved dark eyes, and does not know it,—
And knowing it, now knows not heaven, and hell?
I know their glory well.
What poet ever loved dark eyes, and does not know it,—
And knowing it, now knows not heaven, and hell?
First heaven, then hell,—and heaven and hell again and so on.
When dark eyes are in vogue
Satan wakes up and calls his carriage. What will go on
He knows full well,—the rogue!
When dark eyes are in vogue
Satan wakes up and calls his carriage. What will go on
He knows full well,—the rogue!
134
Dark eyes and coal-black hair,—and murder and adultery
And other suchlike things.
Love stops at nothing in Spain. The Spanish skies are sultry
And,—God! how sweetly a Spanish soft laugh rings!
And other suchlike things.
Love stops at nothing in Spain. The Spanish skies are sultry
And,—God! how sweetly a Spanish soft laugh rings!
Blue eyes mean nothing much; but dark eyes mean the devil,—
The devil and all his train.
They mean long nights when wild loosehaired mad sweet dreams revel
Till morning blushes at the pane!
The devil and all his train.
They mean long nights when wild loosehaired mad sweet dreams revel
Till morning blushes at the pane!
And when the Spanish eyes and Spanish locks in London
Gleam tenderly, good Lord!
All sober vows and strict resolves are straightway undone.
Does conscience speak? You pink him with your sword!
Gleam tenderly, good Lord!
All sober vows and strict resolves are straightway undone.
Does conscience speak? You pink him with your sword!
135
If Spanish eyes and hair could madden a French poet
In France or sunny Spain
They madden thrice as much in this pale land,—I know it,
And give us thrice the pleasure, and thrice the pain.
In France or sunny Spain
They madden thrice as much in this pale land,—I know it,
And give us thrice the pleasure, and thrice the pain.
Dec., 1882.
136
SEVEN SONNETS.
147
II. CAPITAL PUNISHMENT.
“Vengeance is mine.” So saith the mighty Lord.
“Vengeance is mine; deliver unto me
The man—I claim him. He is not for thee,
Thou land of his, to slay. Mine is the sword
Of vengeance. Put by that accursed cord,
And hack to pieces that black gallows-tree;—
Murder no murderer; let the creature be;
Mine are the gates of death,”—so saith the Lord.
“Vengeance is mine; deliver unto me
The man—I claim him. He is not for thee,
Thou land of his, to slay. Mine is the sword
Of vengeance. Put by that accursed cord,
And hack to pieces that black gallows-tree;—
Murder no murderer; let the creature be;
Mine are the gates of death,”—so saith the Lord.
“The spirit he hath slain is in my hand;
I will judge justly, punish and requite;
But purge this stain of blood from out the land.
The dawn is waiting, but its golden light
Trembles, for in its path your gibbets stand,
Still clothed about with horrors of the night.”
I will judge justly, punish and requite;
But purge this stain of blood from out the land.
The dawn is waiting, but its golden light
Trembles, for in its path your gibbets stand,
Still clothed about with horrors of the night.”
April 18, 1882.
149
IV. THE DAY OF THANKSGIVING: AFTER THE EGYPTIAN WAR OF 1882.
Thank God for what, ye clerical conclave?
For corpses piled beneath the Eastern sky,
And wounded men whose one prayer is to die?
For blood and wrath and battle and the grave?
Now from church aisle and arched cathedral nave
Must sound of triumph-hymning float on high?
Nay, rather close the red book with a sigh,
And seek in sober calm the land to save.
For corpses piled beneath the Eastern sky,
And wounded men whose one prayer is to die?
For blood and wrath and battle and the grave?
Now from church aisle and arched cathedral nave
Must sound of triumph-hymning float on high?
Nay, rather close the red book with a sigh,
And seek in sober calm the land to save.
Ye priests, who now would make God such as ye,
Refrain,—and let the pale dead sleep in peace.
Let the white Eastern moon soar silently
Over the bloodied plains; let shouting cease.
Think you the hearts of watching angels glowed
When through dark ranks wet bayonets rent their road?
Refrain,—and let the pale dead sleep in peace.
Let the white Eastern moon soar silently
Over the bloodied plains; let shouting cease.
Think you the hearts of watching angels glowed
When through dark ranks wet bayonets rent their road?
Sept. 23, 1882.
151
VI. FOR VICTOR HUGO'S EIGHTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1883.
The skies have had their poets, and the flowers
Have had their poets, and the sea has heard
Passionate singing louder than of bird
Who chants amid the night's dim throbbing bowers.
Poets have sung of love's absorbing hours,
And battle has put in its fiery word,
And sorrow itself to sweetest song has spurred;—
The storms have had their singers, and the showers.
Have had their poets, and the sea has heard
Passionate singing louder than of bird
Who chants amid the night's dim throbbing bowers.
Poets have sung of love's absorbing hours,
And battle has put in its fiery word,
And sorrow itself to sweetest song has spurred;—
The storms have had their singers, and the showers.
But only one great soul has sung the whole
Of Nature and of Man, commensurate
With both of these, and touched song's loftiest goal;
One man has challenged Time and conquered Fate:
Hugo—who saw the century's sunrise glow,
Eighty and one majestic years ago.
Of Nature and of Man, commensurate
With both of these, and touched song's loftiest goal;
One man has challenged Time and conquered Fate:
Hugo—who saw the century's sunrise glow,
Eighty and one majestic years ago.
153
VII. WILLIAM GOULDSTONE.
The man “sees red”. A man who slays wholesale—Makes his own hearthstone run with dripping gore,
And, having killed three children, seeks for more
To slaughter, doing a deed which turneth pale
E'en Love and Mercy 'neath the eternal veil
Of cloud whence white-winged pity and healing soar;
A man who brings the ravage of red war
Into his peaceful home, and then can hail
His own fierce-eyed intolerable deed
As a deliverance from his pressing woe;
The man who, when his own five children bleed
Before him, thinks that he has holpen so
Their mother:—if thou hang “till he be dead”
This madman, England—then thine eyes “see red!”
Sept. 20, 1883.
This unfortunate man, in a fit of homicidal frenzy, killed three of his children, and violently attacked and injured the remaining two. His life was subsequently spared on the ground of insanity.
154
A WINTER VISION.
I
When Winter round us throwsHis mantle of white snows
And dimmer
The fog-bound daylight grows
Nor glimmer
Is with us of red rose
Nor swimmer
Through the blue water goes,—
163
II
Where are we then to findRest for the weary mind?—
No splendour
Of green hills where the wind
Wails tender
Through avenues black-pined
Can render
Our worn-out hearts resigned!
III
Where the grand sunsets redAbove the lake were shed
Till rushes
Amid the water bled
And bushes
Waved many a golden head,
Now blushes
No sky-cheek: all is dead.
164
IV
Where the white lilies grewAnd harebells, dainty-blue,
And flowers
Diverse in scent and hue,
And bowers
The August sun flamed through,
And towers
Of greenery draped in dew,
V
The weary white wet snowBefore the wind doth blow
And eddy:
Homeward we have to go,
And ready
We find our books a-row;
With steady
Gaze we glance to and fro;—
165
VI
And in a moment weForget the snow-clad lea:
The glory
Of Guinevere we see,
And hoary
Breakers that burst and flee,
And gory
Knights battling knee to knee.
VII
Or else in FairylandWith Spenser's self we stand,
Or follow
The pious Latian band
O'er hollow
Sea-gulfs from strand to strand:—
Apollo
Next takes us by the hand.
166
VIII
Through Italy we goWith hearts and souls a-glow,—
The thunder
Of Dante's rhythmic flow
Doth sunder
The heavens with throb and throe,
And wonder
On wonder doth forthshow.
IX
With Hugo next we treadThrough streets and alleys red,—
Are taken
To haunts of the great dead;
Heart-shaken
We bow before his head
Forsaken
Full oft of those it led.
167
X
With Keats we thread the deepDream-land of love and sleep,
And fancies
Bright-winged around us leap
With glances
That make the spirit weep
And lances
That the old-world forests sweep.
XI
And Wordsworth makes the airWith mountain-sweetness fair,
And gracious
With song of rivers rare,
And spacious,—
The mountain-valleys bear
Capacious
Woods nestling everywhere.
168
XII
And Shakespeare with the eyesThat saw all storms and skies
And lifted
Man heavenward in strange wise,
God-gifted
Now doth before us rise:—
Time's shifted,—
Behold, dull Winter flies!
Dec., 1881.
169
A WINTER SONG.
I
Lo! the snowOn the roofs rests, dreary white:
Was the glow
Of Love's beauty ever bright?
II
Green, serene,Were sweet gardens ever fair?
Did love lean
Downward through the enchanted air?
170
III
Soft and oftDid the touch of Venus come?
Now aloft
Hangs alone the snow's cold bloom!
IV
Rose, where glowsAll thy June-glad beauty now?
Hoar-frost throws
Its wild web o'er every bough!
V
Death, whose breathThrough the green glad year delayed,
Twines his wreath
Now within the hawthorn shade.
171
VI
Bowers and flowersAll have vanished, all are gone:
Dreary hours
Crown us with their chaplets wan.
VII
Cold doth holdHand and heart and harp and lyre:
Young and old
Huddle round the heaped-up fire.
VIII
Art hath partNever with the dreary cold:
All his heart
Yearns towards Summer's hair of gold!
172
IX
Eyes like skiesHath he,—large and deepest blue:
Now he flies
With drooped wings the raw air through!
X
Now his browLowereth,—and his eyes are dull,
Wondering how
Grass can edge the frozen pool!
XI
Night is brightOnly in the theatre:
There we might
Find Art's Bride, and gaze at her!
173
XII
Gain the FaneOf life's wintry Art, and there,
Loud, amain,
Music thrills the lighted air!
XIII
Clear and dear,Soft Ophelia's voice is heard,
Hovering near,
Lute-sweet as a summer bird!
XIV
Death MacbethPlans for king and guest and friend:
Hamlet saith
Words that haunt us to the end.
174
XV
Blind we findAged Lear,—we watch and weep
As the wind
Roars round many a castled steep.
XVI
Fair the hairOf pale Desdemona gleams:
Through the air
Of still night we watch her dreams.
XVII
Gaunt the vauntOf Othello breaks the hush.
Fairies haunt
Brake and mere and blossomed bush:
175
XVIII
Oberon's robeGlitters in the leafy glen;
Many a globe
Of white dew-drops sparkles then!
XIX
Here the clearVoice of Art in winter sounds,
Far and near
Thrilling all the forest-bounds!
XX
Winter thin,Peaked of face and sharp of hand,
Treads not in
That enchanted viewless land.
176
XXI
There the airEver full of high romance
Shines June-fair,—
And blue streams for ever dance
XXII
'Tween the greenSweet unfrozen mellow fields,
And gold sheen
Strikes on strong knights' sunlit shields.
Dec., 1881.
177
AND YET.
All seemed forlorn: bright hope had died away,—
The waves were grey,
And sullen waters on the shore-banks beat;
The heaven I once desired had vanished quite
And all its light—
And yet the world was sweet!
The waves were grey,
And sullen waters on the shore-banks beat;
The heaven I once desired had vanished quite
And all its light—
And yet the world was sweet!
Death and the end of all things hasteneth on,—
Soon are we gone,—
The gaudy-winged reproachful years are fleet;
A flower no sooner bloometh soft and fair
Than comes despair—
And yet earth's skies are sweet!
Soon are we gone,—
The gaudy-winged reproachful years are fleet;
178
Than comes despair—
And yet earth's skies are sweet!
The old hope has fled with swift resounding wings;
No glad voice sings;
Dreams silver-plumed and tender-lipped retreat;
To-day we live,—to-morrow our spent breath
Is still in death—
And yet the streams sound sweet!
No glad voice sings;
Dreams silver-plumed and tender-lipped retreat;
To-day we live,—to-morrow our spent breath
Is still in death—
And yet the streams sound sweet!
The summer mocks us with its wealth of blue
And wondrous hue
And fervent fierce unsympathetic heat;
The blossoms mock us with their wealth of sheen,
Gay midst the green—
Yet starlit nights are sweet!
And wondrous hue
And fervent fierce unsympathetic heat;
The blossoms mock us with their wealth of sheen,
Gay midst the green—
Yet starlit nights are sweet!
179
Places where love in old bright days was fair
And joys that were
The one same swift despairing chant repeat;
The grass will shortly wave above our tomb
With green wild bloom—
And yet the grass is sweet!
And joys that were
The one same swift despairing chant repeat;
The grass will shortly wave above our tomb
With green wild bloom—
And yet the grass is sweet!
Women are frail, and not so true as fair;
Their gold bright hair
Withers, as withers the rich auburn wheat;
They pass,—yea, all things pass; the loveliest things
Have readiest wings—
Yet lovely things are sweet!
Their gold bright hair
Withers, as withers the rich auburn wheat;
They pass,—yea, all things pass; the loveliest things
Have readiest wings—
Yet lovely things are sweet!
Love and all tender joys will soon be o'er
And we no more
Shall thrill at the approach of woman's feet;
Quiet we soon in the chill earth shall lie,
My love and I—
And yet my love is sweet!
And we no more
Shall thrill at the approach of woman's feet;
180
My love and I—
And yet my love is sweet!
June, 1881.
181
MIRROR AND ROSE.
“When visiting the sea, he takes his microscope,
And all his passion of soul is centred in the hope
That he may find a prize
Amid the pallid weeds and slimy shelly things:
In butterflies he loves the scales upon their wings,—
He never sees the skies.
And all his passion of soul is centred in the hope
That he may find a prize
Amid the pallid weeds and slimy shelly things:
In butterflies he loves the scales upon their wings,—
He never sees the skies.
“He never sees the waves whose shining squadrons break
On moonlit shining shores; blue ripples of the lake
Are nothing unto him:
Here am I, woman-ripe and splendid (am I fair?
Oh answer me, soft eyes of mirror over there?)—
But still his eyes are dim!
On moonlit shining shores; blue ripples of the lake
Are nothing unto him:
205
Oh answer me, soft eyes of mirror over there?)—
But still his eyes are dim!
“Not all men's eyes are dim! Not every man is blind:
Am I (I wonder much?) a sinner if I find
Man's gracious homage sweet?
Am I (I question much?) a sinner if I pour
What he will never seek some other soul before,—
Yea, at another's feet?
Am I (I wonder much?) a sinner if I find
Man's gracious homage sweet?
Am I (I question much?) a sinner if I pour
What he will never seek some other soul before,—
Yea, at another's feet?
“Through all these weary years my soul hath lived alone:
Sometimes it hath endured,—and sometimes made its moan
To stars and midnight breeze:—
He never thinks me fair,—he never thinks me sweet,—
(Slide off, thou foolish gown—so—rustle to my feet!
What is't the mirror sees?
Sometimes it hath endured,—and sometimes made its moan
To stars and midnight breeze:—
He never thinks me fair,—he never thinks me sweet,—
(Slide off, thou foolish gown—so—rustle to my feet!
What is't the mirror sees?
206
“Ah! . . . Lo! before the glass unclothed, a woman white,
I stand: ah, now I know:—but never till this night
Deemed I that I was fair.
How the strange scent from that just-gathered dewy rose
Like fragrance in a dream all round about me goes,—
Like love's own fatal air!
I stand: ah, now I know:—but never till this night
Deemed I that I was fair.
How the strange scent from that just-gathered dewy rose
Like fragrance in a dream all round about me goes,—
Like love's own fatal air!
“Ah! some one said to-night . . . what was it? . . . that my hair
Was beautiful: rush round my shining shoulder bare,—
Twine serpent-like—ah! so:
And if my lover's face shone fair within the glass,
Red lips you'd forward lean? Or would you let it pass?—
Tongue,—would you whisper, ‘No!’)
Was beautiful: rush round my shining shoulder bare,—
Twine serpent-like—ah! so:
And if my lover's face shone fair within the glass,
Red lips you'd forward lean? Or would you let it pass?—
Tongue,—would you whisper, ‘No!’)
“Hark! on the stairs a step—Gown, hasten on again;
If he should find you thus, how he would stare amain
This white soft shape to see.
To him it would mean less—a whole world less indeed—
Than snowy plume of some tide-tangled gummy weed
Or sea-anemone!
If he should find you thus, how he would stare amain
This white soft shape to see.
207
Than snowy plume of some tide-tangled gummy weed
Or sea-anemone!
“He'd think I was bewitched: I've half a mind—but no!
Only the eyes that love must ever see me so;
Only those eyes of grey!
And the dear mirror's eyes,—now, mirror, be discreet!
Remember that you saw just nothing but my feet!
Rose, thou wilt not betray?
Only the eyes that love must ever see me so;
Only those eyes of grey!
And the dear mirror's eyes,—now, mirror, be discreet!
Remember that you saw just nothing but my feet!
Rose, thou wilt not betray?
“His feet upon the stairs,—his hand upon the door;
This brooch,—and all is then just as it was before:
Remember, mirror and rose!”—
“Quick, Maggie! run and fetch the table and the lamp;
This seaweed must be searched while still the fronds are damp;—
How bright that pier-glass glows!”
This brooch,—and all is then just as it was before:
Remember, mirror and rose!”—
“Quick, Maggie! run and fetch the table and the lamp;
This seaweed must be searched while still the fronds are damp;—
How bright that pier-glass glows!”
March, 1882.
210
THE KING.
The king had but to stretch his hand forth and they brought him
Fair women. All the queens of all the far lands sought him.
He sent through land and sea
For dark-eyed dark-haired brides to add to his harem's treasures:
Just as he sank on cushions, sank he amid pleasures:
Life seemed for him just one long blossoming tree.
Fair women. All the queens of all the far lands sought him.
He sent through land and sea
For dark-eyed dark-haired brides to add to his harem's treasures:
Just as he sank on cushions, sank he amid pleasures:
Life seemed for him just one long blossoming tree.
Loves came from North and South; from Eastern and Western cities:
At night the feast was spread, and amorous hymns and ditties
Rose up to the moonlit air.
Then the still dark was lit by white arms and embraces,
And the rich blossoms' scent crept round about close faces,—
And each night some unkissed new mouth was there.
At night the feast was spread, and amorous hymns and ditties
Rose up to the moonlit air.
214
And the rich blossoms' scent crept round about close faces,—
And each night some unkissed new mouth was there.
If in the streets he saw some maiden or some married
Dark eyes desirable, his strong men straightway carried
The woman to the high
White palace-walls: and there on silken cushions seated,
Soft curtains hanging around, blue, gold, and crimson-pleated,
She waited, the king's august couch anigh.
Dark eyes desirable, his strong men straightway carried
The woman to the high
White palace-walls: and there on silken cushions seated,
Soft curtains hanging around, blue, gold, and crimson-pleated,
She waited, the king's august couch anigh.
But one day, found in some far-off dim wind-swept island
Where the wan mist-wreaths dwell and crown each granite highland,
A grey-eyed maid was brought
Captive to the great king; and she the night he sought her
By her own dagger fled, the intrepid Northland's daughter,
And passed beyond the reach of hand or thought.
Where the wan mist-wreaths dwell and crown each granite highland,
A grey-eyed maid was brought
Captive to the great king; and she the night he sought her
By her own dagger fled, the intrepid Northland's daughter,
And passed beyond the reach of hand or thought.
215
And ever till he died the great king pined and maddened,
And 'mid the cushions bright his tarnished sick soul saddened:
For, though he had all things
And all the women of all the land at his disposal,
Yet just the one he sought had shirked her royal espousal
And in the desert spread a sea-bird's wings.
And 'mid the cushions bright his tarnished sick soul saddened:
For, though he had all things
And all the women of all the land at his disposal,
Yet just the one he sought had shirked her royal espousal
And in the desert spread a sea-bird's wings.
This glimpse was all he had of woman's soul. Thereafter
Through every embrace he heard the Western girl's clear laughter
As out the dagger flew:—
And when the lips of slaves upon his lips were lavish
He longed for that one mouth no king or God could ravish
And yearned for those unconquered eyes grey-blue.
Through every embrace he heard the Western girl's clear laughter
As out the dagger flew:—
And when the lips of slaves upon his lips were lavish
He longed for that one mouth no king or God could ravish
And yearned for those unconquered eyes grey-blue.
Sept., 1882.
216
TWO SONNETS.
I. TO-NIGHT.
To-night I claim thee, lady—claim thy soul.
Give all thou canst with lavish hands away,
All that I covet, suffer for, will stay—
Far, far it is even out of thy control.
Now on the closing of thy marriage-day
As it were, I come to thee, and would unveil
With tender solemn speed thy beauty pale,
And gaze deep in thine eyes of marvellous grey.
Give all thou canst with lavish hands away,
All that I covet, suffer for, will stay—
Far, far it is even out of thy control.
Now on the closing of thy marriage-day
As it were, I come to thee, and would unveil
With tender solemn speed thy beauty pale,
And gaze deep in thine eyes of marvellous grey.
Deep, deep, and ever deeper I would gaze,
Till on this evening of thy day of days
I draw thee forth, as from his very embrace:
Yea, strenuous arms of his shall tremble, and part,
Till, heeding not the prison where thou art,
I weeping, kiss thee on the weeping face.
Till on this evening of thy day of days
I draw thee forth, as from his very embrace:
Yea, strenuous arms of his shall tremble, and part,
Till, heeding not the prison where thou art,
I weeping, kiss thee on the weeping face.
April 27, 1876.
232
II. ALONE.
Yea, next, my love shall come to me alone,
Dividing herself from all friends and kin:
So passion's supreme pleasure we shall win,
And watch God, without trembling, on his throne.
Then shalt thou be, my lady sweet, mine own;—
Then all the fierce sad seasons that have been,
Heavy with sorrow, dark or red with sin,
Shall vanish, like pale mists to nightward blown.
Dividing herself from all friends and kin:
So passion's supreme pleasure we shall win,
And watch God, without trembling, on his throne.
Then shalt thou be, my lady sweet, mine own;—
Then all the fierce sad seasons that have been,
Heavy with sorrow, dark or red with sin,
Shall vanish, like pale mists to nightward blown.
All these, thy friends of youth, thou shalt forsake,—
Husband and home, and mother,—and shalt take
Thine own sweet soul, that only, in thine hand:—
This shalt thou in the far sure future do;
Ages may pass-yet God's word shall come true;
One day thou shalt arise at Love's command.
Husband and home, and mother,—and shalt take
Thine own sweet soul, that only, in thine hand:—
This shalt thou in the far sure future do;
Ages may pass-yet God's word shall come true;
One day thou shalt arise at Love's command.
April 27, 1876.
233
A RUSSIAN WOMAN TO A RUSSIAN NIHILIST.
I love thy red right hand. I love thy reckless daring:
Thine eyes with half the fire of some fierce tiger's glaring.
I love thy strength and zeal.
If thou wert quite alone, and all the world united
Against thee, thou wouldst be (I know!) the more delighted:
With lonely rapture brain and heart would reel.
Thine eyes with half the fire of some fierce tiger's glaring.
I love thy strength and zeal.
If thou wert quite alone, and all the world united
Against thee, thou wouldst be (I know!) the more delighted:
With lonely rapture brain and heart would reel.
Yes, thou art wicked, love. Thou art a malefactor.
Thine own hands do dark deeds: thou art no sluggish actor
In all this century's strife.
The hand that I have kissed upon the dagger closes
With deadly iron grip. I gather harmless roses:
But thou dost gather with red pruning-knife.
Thine own hands do dark deeds: thou art no sluggish actor
In all this century's strife.
241
With deadly iron grip. I gather harmless roses:
But thou dost gather with red pruning-knife.
Thou hast no mercy of heart nor pity of soul within thee:
Only a vast wild flame, consuming, wrathful, in thee;
Canst thou love, sweetheart, me?
Nay, I am but a river; my banks are full of flowers:
My hair is full of scent of honey-suckle bowers:
Thou art the tidal cruel desperate sea.
Only a vast wild flame, consuming, wrathful, in thee;
Canst thou love, sweetheart, me?
Nay, I am but a river; my banks are full of flowers:
My hair is full of scent of honey-suckle bowers:
Thou art the tidal cruel desperate sea.
Thou art the sea—but red: not blue or sweet or quiet.
I know thee. Through thy brain wild deeds in maddest riot
Roar on their lonely way.
Thou art the sea. I am the gentle-souled calm river
Along whose banks the reeds in their green squadrons quiver.
I meet thee,—then am tinged with blood-shot spray.
I know thee. Through thy brain wild deeds in maddest riot
Roar on their lonely way.
Thou art the sea. I am the gentle-souled calm river
Along whose banks the reeds in their green squadrons quiver.
I meet thee,—then am tinged with blood-shot spray.
242
I meet thee. Then with joy of every pulse that tingles
My calm white river-soul with thy red spirit mingles
And with thy fury of heart.
I cast for wreaths and crowns my river-flowers upon thee
And cast my whole rapt soul in love and worship on thee;
Then watch thee for some fiery deed depart.
My calm white river-soul with thy red spirit mingles
And with thy fury of heart.
I cast for wreaths and crowns my river-flowers upon thee
And cast my whole rapt soul in love and worship on thee;
Then watch thee for some fiery deed depart.
Thy vast tides crimson-stained flow half way up the river,
O sea-love, making all my bank-side poplars shiver
With awe at the strange red:—
And I,—I bring thee down a flower or two with laughter
From far-off inland meads which thou shalt wear hereafter,
Lover, when I am lost in thee and dead.
O sea-love, making all my bank-side poplars shiver
With awe at the strange red:—
And I,—I bring thee down a flower or two with laughter
From far-off inland meads which thou shalt wear hereafter,
Lover, when I am lost in thee and dead.
Thou hast made women weep. I love thee better for it.
Their lovers hast thou slain? I care not for their florid
Display of tears and woe.
Or—if their woe be real—is not my joy still plainer
That follows on their grief as watchful-eyed retainer
And dogs them with its steady footstep slow?
Their lovers hast thou slain? I care not for their florid
Display of tears and woe.
243
That follows on their grief as watchful-eyed retainer
And dogs them with its steady footstep slow?
Thou: thou wouldst battle, strong and iron-armed and fearless,
Against great hosts of stars,—and I could watch thee, tearless,
Yea revelling, O my lord,
In thy stern wrath as through the golden serried legions
Summoned by bugle of God from far blue pathless regions
Flickered the quick sheen of thy dripping sword.
Against great hosts of stars,—and I could watch thee, tearless,
Yea revelling, O my lord,
In thy stern wrath as through the golden serried legions
Summoned by bugle of God from far blue pathless regions
Flickered the quick sheen of thy dripping sword.
Thou hast no pity of heart. I know and I have said it.
Thy pitiless strong soul—I know nor do I dread it
Though it should cast off me!
What is a soft stream worth whose ripples dance and revel
Compared to the great force that fears not God or devil,—
The sea-like monstrous furious force of thee?
Thy pitiless strong soul—I know nor do I dread it
Though it should cast off me!
What is a soft stream worth whose ripples dance and revel
Compared to the great force that fears not God or devil,—
The sea-like monstrous furious force of thee?
244
I am thy river-bride. But thou art oceanic
And limitless and fierce, steel-sinewed and Titanic,—
A very god to me.
Full of the singing strength of all the white-waved water:
I am the golden sunlight's flower-engendering daughter;
Thou art the offspring of the flowerless sea.
And limitless and fierce, steel-sinewed and Titanic,—
A very god to me.
Full of the singing strength of all the white-waved water:
I am the golden sunlight's flower-engendering daughter;
Thou art the offspring of the flowerless sea.
Thou fearest hardly God. If God were king and tyrant
Thine would be the first sword, swift, eager, and aspirant
That tyrant-God to slay.
Thou hast the strength of will of God himself within thee,
And that is why my soul so longs, O love, to win thee,
And why my fingers in thy black locks play.
Thine would be the first sword, swift, eager, and aspirant
That tyrant-God to slay.
Thou hast the strength of will of God himself within thee,
And that is why my soul so longs, O love, to win thee,
And why my fingers in thy black locks play.
If God were tyrant here, thou wouldst be calm—no bragger.
But out would leap thy keen bright-polished trusty dagger
And straight to the very heart
God thou wouldst stab.—And lo! his blood would flow around thee
And it would be as if a red sunset had crowned thee
Painted in heaven by thy swift splashing dart.
But out would leap thy keen bright-polished trusty dagger
And straight to the very heart
245
And it would be as if a red sunset had crowned thee
Painted in heaven by thy swift splashing dart.
How I would love thee then!—From river-side and hollow
I'd bring thee violets then, and thy strong footstep follow
O lover, O my sea,
Soft, flower-sweet, flower-divine,—thy soft companion truly;
The one soul in the world who understands thee duly
And worships the enormous force in thee.
I'd bring thee violets then, and thy strong footstep follow
O lover, O my sea,
Soft, flower-sweet, flower-divine,—thy soft companion truly;
The one soul in the world who understands thee duly
And worships the enormous force in thee.
I pray for thee. (So strange is woman's complex passion!)
I pray for thee in true deep-yearning woman's fashion:
Yet thou art God and lord
To me,—and I would kiss in holy sacramental
Calm tearless fearless wise, with loving lips and gentle,
The blade, yet reeking, of thy yet warm sword.
I pray for thee in true deep-yearning woman's fashion:
Yet thou art God and lord
To me,—and I would kiss in holy sacramental
Calm tearless fearless wise, with loving lips and gentle,
The blade, yet reeking, of thy yet warm sword.
246
What is a woman's love but love for strength and power?
Just the strange love of some poor simple stream-side flower
For the vast power and might
That fills the sea with strength, and fills the heavens with burning
Vast quenchless ever-new, at each new dawn returning,
Unfathomable wonderful sunlight.
Just the strange love of some poor simple stream-side flower
For the vast power and might
That fills the sea with strength, and fills the heavens with burning
Vast quenchless ever-new, at each new dawn returning,
Unfathomable wonderful sunlight.
Thou art the sea and sun. I lose in thee my being,
Some far-off high divine fair consummation seeing
When thou and I made one
Shall pass along the ranks of fiery-winged immortals
And through eternal life's irrevocable portals,
For thou art God: God is the sea and sun.
Some far-off high divine fair consummation seeing
When thou and I made one
Shall pass along the ranks of fiery-winged immortals
And through eternal life's irrevocable portals,
For thou art God: God is the sea and sun.
April, 1883.
247
POETRY AND SCIENCE.
Not all the songs of stars and starry wild embraces
Are worth the very least and worst of human faces:
Not all the suns can shine
Like one true human heart that glows with loving-kindness:
Gaze through your telescopes till ye be stricken with blindness;
Not all your lore is worth one golden line!
Are worth the very least and worst of human faces:
Not all the suns can shine
Like one true human heart that glows with loving-kindness:
Gaze through your telescopes till ye be stricken with blindness;
Not all your lore is worth one golden line!
What is it unto man to know the leagues that sever
Our patient green-grassed earth for ever and for ever
From Sirius or from Mars?
What is it unto us to know that three-ringed Saturn
Is uncompleted yet, a laggard and a slattern,
For all his moons, amid the elder stars!
Our patient green-grassed earth for ever and for ever
From Sirius or from Mars?
248
Is uncompleted yet, a laggard and a slattern,
For all his moons, amid the elder stars!
What is it unto us to gaze till brain grows dizzy
At the wild golden ants who make the heaven so busy
As over it they creep?
If unto us the heaven were opened, and we knew them,
Gold star by star, and could, long rank by rank, review them,
Would it be worth one gift of white-armed sleep?
At the wild golden ants who make the heaven so busy
As over it they creep?
If unto us the heaven were opened, and we knew them,
Gold star by star, and could, long rank by rank, review them,
Would it be worth one gift of white-armed sleep?
Would it be worth the sleep that Love pours o'er the pillow
When the soft rest succeeds to passion's wild fierce billow?
Would all the starry lore
Be worth two star-like eyes, and mouth so sweet and tender
Its warm close touch outweighs the cold sidereal splendour?
Love gives us all things. Can the stars do more?
When the soft rest succeeds to passion's wild fierce billow?
Would all the starry lore
Be worth two star-like eyes, and mouth so sweet and tender
Its warm close touch outweighs the cold sidereal splendour?
Love gives us all things. Can the stars do more?
249
What is it worth to man to thread the chill star-spaces?
Oh here on earth are warm white passionate embraces!
Thou needst not seek the sky!
Lo! very near and sweet the flowers of earth surround thee.
If woman's lips have touched and woman's love hath crowned thee
Thou hast thine heaven of suns and stars,—close by.
Oh here on earth are warm white passionate embraces!
Thou needst not seek the sky!
Lo! very near and sweet the flowers of earth surround thee.
If woman's lips have touched and woman's love hath crowned thee
Thou hast thine heaven of suns and stars,—close by.
In traversing the air one grows quite cold and chilly!
Far, far, beyond all rocks and cliffs and uplands hilly
The eyes of Science seek.
Then back to earth they turn; and yet the glow within them
Is not what we should see (and see with gladness) in them
Had Love once touched cold Science' frigid cheek!
Far, far, beyond all rocks and cliffs and uplands hilly
The eyes of Science seek.
Then back to earth they turn; and yet the glow within them
Is not what we should see (and see with gladness) in them
Had Love once touched cold Science' frigid cheek!
The old warm myths of Greece had far more life and glory
Than Science e'er will have, though she wax old and hoary
And wise beyond her dream.
The moon and sun were gods. We could not do without them.
Our misery is now we know too much about them.
We analyse Apollo's golden beam.
Than Science e'er will have, though she wax old and hoary
And wise beyond her dream.
250
Our misery is now we know too much about them.
We analyse Apollo's golden beam.
We analyse all things, and push too far inquiry.—
The rainbow is mere light. The sun is but a fiery
Vast glowing blazing orb.
Oh, better far than this through the green woods to wander
And meet a white-robed sweet great-eyed grand goddess yonder
And let her beauty all your soul absorb!
The rainbow is mere light. The sun is but a fiery
Vast glowing blazing orb.
Oh, better far than this through the green woods to wander
And meet a white-robed sweet great-eyed grand goddess yonder
And let her beauty all your soul absorb!
It was far better—yes!—to meet a woodland fairy
Than to sail forth throughout the blue void regions airy
With Tyndall by your side!
I'd choose—yes, I would choose!—had I the choice, to follow
Along the gold-flowered mead the footsteps of Apollo
Rather than Proctor's,—though his path be wide!
Than to sail forth throughout the blue void regions airy
With Tyndall by your side!
I'd choose—yes, I would choose!—had I the choice, to follow
Along the gold-flowered mead the footsteps of Apollo
Rather than Proctor's,—though his path be wide!
251
Give me the days of faith, and not the days of Science,
Where fancy is concerned. Each new exact appliance
Leaves still less room to dream.
The fairies, like the wolves that haunted forest-marches,
Are disappearing fast. No white robe thrills the larches:
Titania travels not the moony gleam!
Where fancy is concerned. Each new exact appliance
Leaves still less room to dream.
The fairies, like the wolves that haunted forest-marches,
Are disappearing fast. No white robe thrills the larches:
Titania travels not the moony gleam!
Knowledge hath little worth, if all the dreams are going.
God! let me wander forth beside blue waters flowing
And find sweet Venus there.
Let me within the grove find some gay frolic fairy
And clasp her round the waist, and kiss the red lips chary!
Let me watch in the stream the Naiad's hair!
God! let me wander forth beside blue waters flowing
And find sweet Venus there.
Let me within the grove find some gay frolic fairy
And clasp her round the waist, and kiss the red lips chary!
Let me watch in the stream the Naiad's hair!
To know is great and well: but not to know is better.
To add new facts to facts adds fetter unto fetter
For all the human race.
To number all the stars outweighs not what we are losing
In knowing that no more among the reed-beds musing
Shall we see Pan's half-human wrinkled face.
To add new facts to facts adds fetter unto fetter
For all the human race.
252
In knowing that no more among the reed-beds musing
Shall we see Pan's half-human wrinkled face.
March, 1883.
253
SOPHIA PEROVSKAIA.
“She was beautiful. It was not the beauty which dazzles at first
sight, but that which fascinates the more, the more it is regarded.
“A blonde, with a pair of blue eyes, serious, and penetrating,
under a broad and spacious forehead. A delicate little nose, a charming
mouth, which showed, when she smiled, two rows of very fine white
teeth.
“It was, however, her countenance as a whole which was the attraction.
There was something brisk, vivacious, and at the same time,
ingenuous in her rounded face. She was girlhood personified. Notwithstanding
her twenty-six years, she seemed scarcely eighteen. A small,
slender, and very graceful figure, and a voice as charming, silvery, and
sympathetic as could be, heightened this illusion. It became almost a
certainty, when she began to laugh, which very often happened. She
had the ready laugh of a girl, and laughed with so much heartiness,
and so unaffectedly, that she really seemed a young lass of sixteen.
“She gave little thought to her appearance. She dressed in the
most modest manner, and perhaps did not even know what dress or
ornament was becoming or unbecoming. But she had a passion for
neatness, and in this was as punctilious as a Swiss girl.
“She was very fond of children, and was an excellent school-mistress.
There was, however, another office that she filled even
better; that of nurse. When any of her friends fell ill, Sophia was the
first to offer herself for this difficult duty, and she performed that duty
with such gentleness, cheerfulness, and patience, that she won the
hearts of her patients, for all time.
“Yet this woman, with such an innocent appearance, and with such
a sweet and affectionate disposition, was one of the most dreaded
members of the Terrorist party.
“It was she who had the direction of the attempt of March 13; it
was she who, with a pencil, drew out upon an old envelope the plan of
the locality, who assigned to the conspirators their respective posts, and
who, upon the fatal morning, remained upon the field of battle, receiving
from her sentinels news of the Emperor's movements, and informing
the conspirators, by means of a handkerchief, where they were
to proceed.
“What Titanic force was concealed under this serene appearance?
What qualities did this extraordinary woman possess?
“She united in herself the three forces which of themselves constitute
power of the highest order: a profound and vast capacity, an
enthusiastic and ardent disposition, and, above all, an iron will.”
“Sophia Perovskaia belonged, like Krapotkine, to the highest
aristocracy of Russia. The Perovski are the younger branch of the
family of the famous Rasumovsky, the morganatic husband of the
Empress Elizabeth, daughter of Peter the Great, who occupied the
throne of Russia in the middle of the last century (1741–1762). Her
grandfather was Minister of Public Instruction; her father was Governor-General
of St. Petersburg; her paternal uncle, the celebrated Count
Perovsky, conquered for the Emperor Nicholas a considerable part of
Central Asia.
“Such was the family to which this woman belonged who gave
such a tremendous blow to Czarism.
“Sophia was born in the year 1854. Her youth was sorrowful.
She had a despotic father, and an adored mother, always outraged and
humiliated. It was in her home that the germs were developed in her,
of that hatred of oppression, and that generous love of the weak and
oppressed, which she preserved throughout her whole life.”—
“Underground Russia: Revolutionary Profiles and Sketches from
Life.” By Stepniak. Translated from the Italian. London: 1883.
Pp. 126, 127, 128.
“She was beautiful. It was not the beauty which dazzles at first sight, but that which fascinates the more, the more it is regarded.
“A blonde, with a pair of blue eyes, serious, and penetrating, under a broad and spacious forehead. A delicate little nose, a charming mouth, which showed, when she smiled, two rows of very fine white teeth.
“It was, however, her countenance as a whole which was the attraction. There was something brisk, vivacious, and at the same time, ingenuous in her rounded face. She was girlhood personified. Notwithstanding her twenty-six years, she seemed scarcely eighteen. A small, slender, and very graceful figure, and a voice as charming, silvery, and sympathetic as could be, heightened this illusion. It became almost a certainty, when she began to laugh, which very often happened. She had the ready laugh of a girl, and laughed with so much heartiness, and so unaffectedly, that she really seemed a young lass of sixteen.
“She gave little thought to her appearance. She dressed in the most modest manner, and perhaps did not even know what dress or ornament was becoming or unbecoming. But she had a passion for neatness, and in this was as punctilious as a Swiss girl.
“She was very fond of children, and was an excellent school-mistress. There was, however, another office that she filled even better; that of nurse. When any of her friends fell ill, Sophia was the first to offer herself for this difficult duty, and she performed that duty with such gentleness, cheerfulness, and patience, that she won the hearts of her patients, for all time.
“Yet this woman, with such an innocent appearance, and with such a sweet and affectionate disposition, was one of the most dreaded members of the Terrorist party.
“It was she who had the direction of the attempt of March 13; it was she who, with a pencil, drew out upon an old envelope the plan of the locality, who assigned to the conspirators their respective posts, and who, upon the fatal morning, remained upon the field of battle, receiving from her sentinels news of the Emperor's movements, and informing the conspirators, by means of a handkerchief, where they were to proceed.
“What Titanic force was concealed under this serene appearance? What qualities did this extraordinary woman possess?
“She united in herself the three forces which of themselves constitute power of the highest order: a profound and vast capacity, an enthusiastic and ardent disposition, and, above all, an iron will.”
“Sophia Perovskaia belonged, like Krapotkine, to the highest aristocracy of Russia. The Perovski are the younger branch of the family of the famous Rasumovsky, the morganatic husband of the Empress Elizabeth, daughter of Peter the Great, who occupied the throne of Russia in the middle of the last century (1741–1762). Her grandfather was Minister of Public Instruction; her father was Governor-General of St. Petersburg; her paternal uncle, the celebrated Count Perovsky, conquered for the Emperor Nicholas a considerable part of Central Asia.
“Such was the family to which this woman belonged who gave such a tremendous blow to Czarism.
“Sophia was born in the year 1854. Her youth was sorrowful. She had a despotic father, and an adored mother, always outraged and humiliated. It was in her home that the germs were developed in her, of that hatred of oppression, and that generous love of the weak and oppressed, which she preserved throughout her whole life.”—
“Underground Russia: Revolutionary Profiles and Sketches from Life.” By Stepniak. Translated from the Italian. London: 1883. Pp. 126, 127, 128.
I
Blue-eyed, fair-haired, and young,—a girl in outward seeming,—Yet when thy foot did pass amid the meadows dreaming
Of gold-haired spring,
What dreams were thine, O strange heroic woman-spirit?
Dreams of the Freedom which thy land shall yet inherit?
Dreams of vast tyrannies upon the wing?—
270
II
When other maidens dream of love and tender flowersAnd lovers' voices sweet within the may-white bowers,
Thou,—thou alone,—
Wast dreaming of the deed that set the world a-wonder
And hurled amid one burst of Revolution's thunder
That world's most mighty monarch from his throne.
III
No blossoms white were thine, but blossoms weird and gory.Thou, thou alone, didst stand before an Empire's glory
And saidst that it should fall.
High-born and noble, thou didst leave the lordly places
And thou didst wander forth, a light for poor men's faces:
Love, wealth, repose;—thou didst surrender all.
271
IV
And has not yet a song from our free isle resounded,For thee, for thee,—who, when the tyrant's deeds abounded,
Didst say that these should cease?
Are all our transports saved for old historic cities?
Have we no hearts, no souls, no fiery loveful ditties,
For Russia? Are we chained to Rome and Greece?
V
When thou didst slay and die, were all our singers staggeredAt thy vast size of soul and might of hand red-daggered?
That none could say:
“The Empire faced one girl. Yet when the battle ended,
That Empire's cruel life with blood and fire was blended;—
A Czar before a girl's stroke passed away.
272
VI
“Passed like a dream.” O thou who didst the deed tremendousDesign and plot and plan,—whose white hand did defend us
From blood-red hands,—
A bitter sin it was that never a poet hearkened
When o'er thine head the storm of black revenge down-darkened:
That not one song was launched from freer lands!
VII
A bitter sin it was that only English watersFree-souled thrilled at thy deed; not England's white-souled daughters,
Nor strong-souled English men.
A grievous thing it was that only our sea-waves knew thee
And saw the noble pulse of English blood beat through thee,
Thee,—free-souled still within thy prison-den.
273
VIII
And I,—I would not die without one strong word spokenWhereby the English chill grim silence may be broken:
I would send unto thee
The greeting of our waves, the love-song of the billows,
And greeting of green leaves of England's oaks and willows,
And our sun's song wherewith he loves our sea.
IX
With more than English force thou didst withstand the tyrant;And round thee Russia's sons ranged, flame-souled and aspirant,
Thee following hard.
An army thou hast had around thee and behind thee;
Yet couldst thou never indeed for all thy greatness find thee
One true-souled singer, one impassioned bard?
274
X
The stars and seas and winds and flowers and leaves, these know thee.Then why should human song o'erlook thee and forego thee,
O thou most great,
Who when thy land was dead and never foot came forward
Didst watch the tyrant-wave with deadly crest roll shoreward,
Yet wast content its thundering blow to wait.
XI
An Empire and a world against thee.—Thou a river,Soft, silver-tongued and sweet,—whereo'er love's branches quiver
And beckon with their bloom.
Love and delights behind, and all the flowers of pleasure;
A life that might yield joy in unknown sumptuous measure;—
Behind thee, rainbow-hopes. In front the tomb.
275
XII
Yet thou didst choose the tomb, and thou didst, river-tender,Against the foaming tides and cruel soulless splendour
Of sea-wide tyranny
Hurl thy blue rippling waves; and thou didst for a season
Make all that tidal waste of oceanic treason
A conquered tideless helpless prostrate sea.
XIII
One river against the sea! Soon its waves fell upon thee,And hurled their gathered might of tidal waters on thee
As tigers leap.
Yet thou hadst stemmed the sea! With thy clear river-current
Hadst barred the cruel white waves' multitudinous torrent
And driven them backward on the shuddering deep.
276
XIV
A girl of twenty-six! A mere blue-eyed soft flower!Yet through thee spake the Soul's immeasurable power
That sun nor star
Nor moon can e'er withstand, nor tidal waves oppressive,
Nor crowns that rest on crime, nor rulers retrogressive,
Nor the omnipotent (worm-eaten) Czar.
XV
Through thee the heart of Greece and England's spirit chainlessAnd souls of all brave men and women's spirits stainless
Spake. Through thy maiden hand
The might of Russia struck. Thou didst not perish truly;
For every day thy deed and fearless death speak newly
To thine, and unto many another land.
277
XVI
This is thy crown of glory and title of remembrance:That when the Empire's might and its black-eagle-semblance
And all its chains and bars
On one side were arrayed, and on the lonely other
Thou,—thou didst win:—along with Liberty thy brother,
And all thy clear-eyed sister-hosts the stars.
April, 1883.
The fact that, when in prison under sentence of death, Sophia Perovskaia wrote to her mother asking that some clean collars and cuffs might be sent to her, is a touching comment upon this statement.
278
GELIABOFF.
I
Here is a bridal bower! Here is a marriage-chamber!Hung not with tinted silk, or bright pure cloth of amber:
The deadly black
Scaffold is all that these will know of bower of roses;
Now for the man and maid their earthly journey closes,
And lo! what blood-hounds bay around their track.
II
Only the red strange flowers of Revolution's gardenFor these, who having sinned beyond all mortal pardon
And slain the Czar
279
Where every light goes out, save only perhaps the legion
Of God's lamps,—moon on moon and star on star.
III
O strange embrace for these and enigmatic bridal!Never to meet in love, save only when the tidal
Great streams of human gore
From governmental swords and their own knives were running
And Revolution's waves all human ears were stunning
With their dull deadly desperate ravening roar.
IV
Never to meet in love in joyous green-leafed places!Never to hope for love and common sweet embraces
That all souls hope to win!
280
Great task,—the lover strong, and she the Russian gentle
And high-born woman, red to the eyes with sin!
V
Stained with all deadliest sin—if this be sin, the plottingHow, when a native land lies helpless, bound, and rotting
In slavery grim,
And when a despot holds the keys of every prison,
To bring to prisoned eyes fair Freedom's sunny vision
Even, if it need be, through the death of him.
VI
If this be sin,—to hold that one man's life is little,A thread most thin indeed, and frail of make, and brittle,
Though he be the Czar,
281
Lives multitudinous as the blood-red autumn frondage,
Who surge in pain and beckon from afar.
VII
If this be sin,—to meet the Terror White with savageResponse o'the Terror Red; the swords that slay and ravage
With keener swords that slay;—
To oppose to headstrong brain of one besotted Ruler
Brains forceful as his own,—as resolute but cooler;
To meet white foam-tides with red tidal spray.
VIII
If this be sin,—to cast one's life and all one's beingOn one side in the scale, and then with deep sigh seeing
That for one's country's sake
282
The sacrificial part, with brow and stern lips firmer
Than God's old martyrs at the fiery stake.
IX
And have ye passed away for ever from us gazingFar into heaven in vain, O hearts and souls amazing,
O spirits strong,
Who lived and died pursuing a grand mistake (it may be),
Yet died for Russia's sake? While morn and night and day be,
Your names shall live in Russia's love and song.
X
Have ye beyond the grave, though black your bridal carriageAnd black your bridal wreaths, in love's eternal marriage
Been joined indeed?
283
Of her who sought with thee the perilous hereafter,
With love and freedom—nought else—for a creed?
XI
Though dark mistakes be there, and doubt and complication,Yet for the people indeed, for the vast iron-bound nation,
This man and woman fell:
For Freedom's sake their dream (though it were mad) they cherished,
And for the oppressed and poor without a groan they perished,
First having faced the glittering ranks of hell.
XII
God is on their side; God, and Love, and all the ringingOf free and spotless waves beneath the morning singing;
God present in these things.
284
Heart-yearning. Round them falls the omnipresent splendour
Of Liberty's large sunset-tinctured wings.
XIII
Over the bodies of these the Imperial Army trampled.Yet have they left behind a token unexampled:
Their dead lips say,
“For Russia's sake we left the safe sweet paths of pleasure:
If we were wrong God knows, and knows that past all measure
We loved,—past love of lips that praise and pray.
XIV
“We did a cruel deed? Yes: cruel it was then; granted.But who the bitter seeds of cruelty first planted
In either breast?
285
Our deep-stung souls revolt and surge past retrogression?
Who forced us forth upon the blood-stained quest?
XV
“Who made the love of country one thing with conspiring,And love of our own race the same thing with desiring
To die that it might live?
Who made all glad thoughts fade and dark thoughts only attend us,
So that our swords alone we trusted to defend us
When all defences else were fugitive?
XVI
“Who made our spirits bleed for friends and neighbours scatteredOver the ice-bound steppes,—himself adored and flattered
286
If him we have slain, we have slain the mystic incarnation
Of Tyranny that crushed the chained and helpless nation
And froze all laughter with its deadly smile.”
May, 1883.
287
IRELAND TO ENGLAND.
I
Thou hast set free the slaves o' the world! With pride thou boastestThat Freedom follows upon thy keels where'er thou coastest:
The strength o' the seas is thine.
The free wind whistles through thy copses that front sea-ward,
And yet the clank of chains thou hearest, looking meward,
And not thy wild wind's voice in fir and pine.
288
II
Thy slaves are free, and yet thy dark-haired grey-eyed sisterThou, blue-eyed, golden-haired, though oft thy lips have kissed her
In sister-seeming wise—
Thou guardest as in prison. Each low-browed common varlet
Of thine hath now the right, if he be clothed in scarlet,
To stare his brutal coarse soul down her eyes.
III
Her thou hast yielded up, by thy true mood forsaken.At any corner of street her shoulder may be shaken
By rough and menial hands.
She, once so fair, is now downstricken of heart and bloomless:
Her fields of corn and grass are sheenless and flower-plumeless:
She, once the fairest, now is least of lands.
289
IV
Her mountain-streams run red. In green she used to garb her:But now her soft green fields and sun-bright mountains harbour
But two wild bands indeed,
Pursuers and pursued,—the hunters and the hunted.
She dares not raise her brow: it shines so crimson-fronted.
England has bled. But does not Ireland bleed?
V
Gifts thou hast given. And yet the gift of all gifts never.Give her her own green fields for ever and for ever!
Give, with no grudging hand!
Now thou hast traversed all the earth, and all dark places
Hast lightened somewhat, pour some light on Irish faces.
Turn from the ends of the earth to thine own land.
290
VI
Turn from the China seas and Japanese strange waters:Turn from the task of freeing far India's dusky daughters:
Turn homeward, now at length.
Give unto us the thing that we through wild years long for;
The gift that now at last our hearts and hands are strong for;
Give,—if it be but token of thy strength.
VII
By all thine English hills and every English river,—By the far fields of fight wherein with shock and shiver
Thy sword and lance have met
The sword and lance of far slave-holding state and city,—
Let now thy soul, near home, be roused to love and pity.—
Thou hast done great deeds. Do one deed greater yet.
291
VIII
Do one deed greater yet than all thy history showeth,Though this with strong great deeds brims o'er and over-floweth.
Give liberty to me.—
Our creeds are not the same in outward passing semblance:
Yet are we both fair lands in God's most high remembrance,
And circled, both, by God's vast slaveless sea.
IX
Thou hast stricken off the chains of nation after nation:Thy bayonets fill far lands with hope and exultation;
They fill our homes with woe.
Bulgarian hands to thee stretch out in prayer and find thee:
Greece seeks thee not in vain. O England, look behind thee!
How far afield thy love and succour go!
292
X
Thou hearest if a serf in Russia groans in bondage.Or if in Poland blood dyes pavement or wet frondage
Thou startest up fierce-eyed.
Yet blood for years has poured upon our hills and meadows:
Groans fill the morning air, and fill the evening shadows.
Thou listenest; then dost lightly turn aside.
XI
Thou art upon the road to Ind or Madagascar.Thou hast heard the cry of some poor tortured dark-skinned lascar.
To Borneo thou art bound.
Thou hast a Burmese war on hand: or Boers, it may be,
Must be set free—(In God's great true name, why should they be,—
While still our coupling-irons strike the ground?)
293
XII
Thou hast within thy House of free debate to settleWhether thine arms shall test the Zulus' warlike mettle,
Or try the Afghans' steel.
Thou hast to pass a bill to guard the gulls and widgeons,
Or to protect the poor blood-stained ill-treated pigeons.—
Thou hast no time to give to our appeal.
XIII
Then when in wild despair we strike, not knowing whitherOur random blows may fall, thou sendest armed men hither
As if to possess the land.
Thou lookest in my eyes. Yes: they are blood-shot truly.
Thou lookest at my robe. Yes: it is blood-stained newly.
Yes: drops of English blood run down my hand.
294
XIV
Yes.—Then thou draggest away whole hosts of men to prison.Next lo! in town and town the black trees have arisen,
An evil growth by night.
Blood still cries out for blood, and slaughter leads to slaughter.
Injustice is the sire, and murder is the daughter;
She with the crimson hand, and face quite white.
XV
So it goes on, and will, till thou at length beholdestThe inner truth of things, and thine own flag unfoldest
Above the Irish walls.
For thine is Freedom's flag: but that black deadly other
Grim flag to us thou givest that telleth that another
Blood-stained misjudged misjudging patriot falls.
295
XVI
Of all the world's strange things it will be deemed hereafterMost strange, that English hearts with ring of martial laughter
Fought all the world around
For Freedom's sake,—yet fought at home still more to enslave her
Their sister, when they should have given their souls to save her:
Freed dark arms,—left their white-armed sister bound.
XVII
Scotland!—Yes: she was free—the land of rock and thistle.But thou hast trained her sons to follow at thy whistle:
We are not such as they.
A race is ever a race. A nation is a nation.
No power on earth can join in close amalgamation
Two differing races; for one must obey.
296
XVIII
Try plan on novel plan: expedient on expedient.Still one must conqueror be; the other race obedient;—
Keen swords must threaten or kill.
All schemes have but one end. Oh, make an end of scheming!
Lo! Ireland waits to be twofold in outward seeming,
Then for the first time one in heart and will.
XIX
We have fought side by side. The Irish legions stood theeIn right good stead full oft. Their wild-pulsed strength renewed thee
Fainting at Waterloo.
And on Crimean hills they shed their life-blood willing.
No French or Russian hand our heart's-blood now is spilling:
This was reserved for English hands to do.
297
XX
We wait, and in the end shall triumph. But we sorrowThat the great priceless boon might be conferred to-morrow,
Yet blood on blood must flow
(It seems) ere thou canst wake to see that gifts but madden,
Make bad things worse, enrage and grieve and sting and sadden,
When with the gifts the bullet-cases go.
XXI
Thou art not strong but weak, while we are weak. Thine islandNeeds guards and watchers now in city, in wood, on highland,
Lest red deeds spring to light.
Strike off our chains and thou wilt strike a thousand fetters
From thine own limbs as well, and write in golden letters
Thy name upon our hearts renewed and bright.
298
XXII
Our weakness is thine own. Our strength will be thy glory.Lo! while our arms are red, England, thine own are gory,
And while our weapons shine
Thine dare not seek their sheath. For thine own sake deliver!
When women's laughter rings by Irish lake and river
Fearless, thou wilt be free, proud sister mine!
March, 1883.
299
SONNET XX. “IT IS GOD WE NEED.”
Thou needest God.—Yes, he can conquer death
For thee, and open the eternal gates.
For more than man's love thy sweet spirit waits
And for far more than the one small rose-wreath
That love can give thee. When love's mortal breath
Flags, thou dost need the breath that renovates
The laughing flowers when night's cold dark abates
And when the linnet sings upon the heath.
For thee, and open the eternal gates.
For more than man's love thy sweet spirit waits
And for far more than the one small rose-wreath
That love can give thee. When love's mortal breath
Flags, thou dost need the breath that renovates
The laughing flowers when night's cold dark abates
And when the linnet sings upon the heath.
Yes, woman needeth God. I know it well.
Because I know that I have not the whole
Eternal force to satisfy thy soul
I love thee more than I can ever tell.—
Woman needs man. Man needeth her. And each
Needs God's heart,—smiling ever out of reach.
Because I know that I have not the whole
Eternal force to satisfy thy soul
I love thee more than I can ever tell.—
Woman needs man. Man needeth her. And each
Needs God's heart,—smiling ever out of reach.
327
SONNET XXI. “AND YET WE STRETCH OUR ARMS OUT TO THE HUMAN.”
And yet we seek the human.—When we tire
Of God's great loving limitless embrace
And of the features of the endless face,—
Yea, when we weary of his passion-fire
And of his stern implacable desire,
We turn with longing to some grassy place
On earth, and 'mid the lilies for a space
We rest, and listen to the earth's old lyre.
Of God's great loving limitless embrace
And of the features of the endless face,—
Yea, when we weary of his passion-fire
And of his stern implacable desire,
We turn with longing to some grassy place
On earth, and 'mid the lilies for a space
We rest, and listen to the earth's old lyre.
The human love is very very sweet,
And there are seasons when the highest rhyme
Of kingliest stars would strike as less sublime
Than love-songs sung where the brown waters meet
On earth, or where rose-tendrils cling and climb.—
When God fails, listen for Love's human feet.
And there are seasons when the highest rhyme
Of kingliest stars would strike as less sublime
Than love-songs sung where the brown waters meet
On earth, or where rose-tendrils cling and climb.—
When God fails, listen for Love's human feet.
328
THE DEEP LOVE.
One has to count the cost.—One cannot win love's sweetness—
One cannot grasp fair love in absolute completeness
Without the pain as well.
The sweetest flowers are those which grow not on the mountains
But at the solemn edge, and sprinkled by the fountains,
Of pain's dim red unfathomable hell.
One cannot grasp fair love in absolute completeness
Without the pain as well.
The sweetest flowers are those which grow not on the mountains
But at the solemn edge, and sprinkled by the fountains,
Of pain's dim red unfathomable hell.
Oh, not the common love is sweetest, but the passion
Which bindeth soul to soul in mystic sacred fashion
In spite of adverse things.
Without pursuit could love exult in priceless capture?
No soul can know love's deep immeasurable rapture
And yet forego the pain the deep love brings.
Which bindeth soul to soul in mystic sacred fashion
In spite of adverse things.
Without pursuit could love exult in priceless capture?
No soul can know love's deep immeasurable rapture
And yet forego the pain the deep love brings.
Feb. 25, 1884.
330
SONNET. CHRIST'S ETERNAL POETHOOD.
The Church that made the poet into God
Stole his eternal Poethood from him,
And lo! his eyes of genius waxèd dim
And flowerless grew the plains his God's foot trod.
The batlike blind Church limped along the road
He took, and changed to its own image grim
The Eastern poet; swathed his every limb
With stifling robes, and bound the eyes that glowed.
Stole his eternal Poethood from him,
And lo! his eyes of genius waxèd dim
And flowerless grew the plains his God's foot trod.
The batlike blind Church limped along the road
He took, and changed to its own image grim
The Eastern poet; swathed his every limb
With stifling robes, and bound the eyes that glowed.
But now the eyes are gleaming forth again:
The robes are falling, and his limbs are free:
He standeth forth, a soul without a stain,
And through his eyes love's light unchangeably
Smiles on the men who for his sake are slain
To-day by Churches asking “Where is he?”
The robes are falling, and his limbs are free:
He standeth forth, a soul without a stain,
And through his eyes love's light unchangeably
Smiles on the men who for his sake are slain
To-day by Churches asking “Where is he?”
Jan. 13, 1884.
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