University of Virginia Library

TIME'S WHISPERINGS.

RIPENING MANHOOD.

Have the old blossoms dwindled—is the past
Become one distant ever-lessening dream,
Fast-lessening like some vessel's tapering mast
Seen over wide waves of the ocean-stream?
Must passion's joys no more be song's sweet theme?
Are all Love's tender rosebuds waxing white?
And is the gold past but a silver gleam
Soon to shade gently into utter night,
Soon to be known but by one threadbare beam?
Is such Love's piteous, unmeasured plight
Now that Death's feet e'en at life's doorway seem?
Are all the summers fluttering out of sight
With bird-like widespread tense sarcastic wings?
Is such the message ripening manhood brings?

ALL THE SUMMERS.

Yea, all the summers! Are they all departing?
Their sweet low music ripples on the blast;
The tender music leaves the pierced heart smarting—
Yea, on the waves of sound our soul is cast,
Remembering every blossom of the past,
Recalling sacred moons long vanishèd,
And summer nights whose glory could not last,
And many a maiden's gentle gold-crowned head;
Ah! where are all the summers?—are they dead?
Where are the white dear roses?—are they gone?
Where are the lush carnations that flamed red
Amid their nest of stalks grey-blue and wan?
O all ye sacred summers that are past,
Into my farewell song your music cast!

ALL THE MAIDENS.

And all ye maidens who have filled with pleasure
The byways and the highways of the years,
Some golden-tressed, some dark-eyed with sweet treasure
Of coal-black locks, now Death the loveless nears,
Sing your soft silver music in mine ears
Once more; and, lady of the early days,
Before whose feet I cast all hopes and fears
Of youth, and all my passion for the bays,
List yet again to these far-murmuring lays;
And let thine eyes fill tenderly, as of old
They filled, when through the moonlit silent ways
We walked, and watched the slow sea burn to gold
Beneath the rippling flood of splendid light
The soaring moon flung fierce athwart the night.

MY QUEEN.

Thou wast my Queen! Thou badest me achieve
Fame, and a wreath of laurels for thy sake;
When my sad, lonely footpath thou didst leave,
Thou badest me my harp with vigour take
And o'er the strings quick singing fingers shake,
That so thy splendour might be known of men,
And other hearts with love of thee might break,
As, at thy swift departure, mine broke then.
Have I not, lady, with my fervent pen,
Rung thy sweet fame around our sea-girt land,
Till the bright waves laughed, echoing again
My tender praise of eyes, or lip, or hand?
Have I not, sweetheart, since that sad, far time,
Crowned thee with living wreaths of steadfast rhyme?

NOUGHT.

And hast thou nought, O lady of the sea,
For whom I've traversed such far leagues of song,
No gentle word divine to say to me,
Now that, like fluttering plumes of birds who throng
The leafy coverts when June's days are long,
My crowds of linnet-sonnets round thy head
Chant, and my throstle-poems wail their strong
Lament for thee as vanished—yea, as dead?
Shall not one gracious word of hope be said?
Art thou as changeful as the meadow-sweet
That blooms divine one day—the next is shed
In powdery perfumed dust about our feet?
O lady, if my song be worthy thee,
Speak thou one worthy, tender word to me!

OLDER.

WHAT IS TIME?

THY WHITENESS.

O thou wast white! Beyond all earthly splendour
Of utmost love thine utter whiteness shone:
Moon-radiant, subtle, sweet, supremely tender,
Luring with gentle might my passion on—
No singing words can all thy beauty render,
It gleamed one perfect moment—then 'twas gone!
A lily waved on earth her flower-stalk slender,
And seemed to smile up at me soft and wan!
But thou hadst vanished, sweet, and never more
Shall I set foot on that far heavenly shore;
Or see thy whiteness glittering through my sleep.
The lily yet I have—but not thy form,
As for one awful moment, white and warm,
It mingled into mine in rapture deep.

WHEN LOVE SHALL BIND.

When love shall bind at length thine errant soul,
Thou shalt be mine beyond all need of song,
Beyond all speech—life's tides fast onward roll;
We leave behind full many a conquered goal,
Climbing fierce upward heights with footstep strong.
It may be that no more my voice may sound
Soon for thee, no more these swift songs abound;
No more thy feet bruise blossoms in a throng—
I reach at length the poets' mountain-ground
Of three-and-thirty summers when they long
To pass, and do pass often, pale and crowned,
Towards spheres where folly of earth no further wrong
Can work upon them; let my words have weight,
Spoken now ten years nearer death's sure gate.

BEATRICE.

ALONG THE AGES.

How fair along the ages shine the flowers,
Loved of the poets—tenderly we read
E'en in these modern passionless swift hours,
The strain wherein great Dante's heart did bleed
For Beatrice—we mark the eager speed
Wherewith his laurelled lady Petrarch sung—
Then English minstrels softly did succeed—
Came gentle Spenser with the golden tongue
And the high sonnet-hymn of Shakespeare rung—
Oh, that my chanting might add one flower more,
One blossom whose dear wholesome roots have clung
To English soil, to blossoms loved of yore—
Rich were our women-blossoms in those days,
Yet eyes as sweet demand as passionate praise.

THROUGH THE FAR-OFF GATES.

O, wilt thou meet one day within the halls
Of heaven the golden-haired, supreme delight,
Whose voice through Spenser's song to the ages calls?
Wilt thou, my lady of the sea-glance bright,
Take 'mid those heavenly bowers thy place by right,
Borne on the wide waves of my fearless singing
Through time's vain-struggling armies clothed in night?
To-day thy soft arms unto me are clinging,
And in mine ears thy silver laugh is ringing,
Lifted I am in spirit beyond all measure;
Lo! through the far-off gold gates I am bringing
A new-born, heaven-august impassioned treasure;
I set my love, my lady of song, my bride,
In heaven, at Dante's Beatrice's side.

THE HIGH THUNDER.

When the high thunder shakes along the crest
Its lightning like fierce sanguine-tinted plumes
Abide in peace—yea, in thy valley rest.
This fire of God earth's blossom-heart consumes:
When through the thunderous canopy forth looms
The white august unkindled mountain-top,
Unscorched and laughing,—where the green earth blooms
Far from the lightning do thou, sweetheart, stop,
Nor tempt the swift forked fire to rake thy crop
Of golden quiet corn,—but let me soar
Up to blue regions whence the wild larks drop
Unable, even they, one blue yard more
To traverse—then the eagles' wings I'll take,
And meads and creeds of earth for e'er forsake.

BRIDE OF THE EAGLES.

Or wilt thou dare the height, and be my bride,
Bride of the eagles, loftier than the lark
Upsoaring, through the tremulous bright tide
Of air at dawn, or through the sundered dark
Wherein the moon a red fierce floating spark
Swims, and it dims the darkness round our heads,—
And now far upland voices sound, and hark!
Close to us seem the star-embroidered meads
Through which the chariot of the four winds speeds—
Yea, thine shall be the gentle west wind's crown—
I am the wind that rustles 'mid the reeds
In harsh December, shakes earth's turrets down—
Thou art the west wind, sweet, and I the north—
With wedded splendid breath we sally forth!

IN LIFE, OR IN DEATH?

NO ENDING.

O, not for him who loves is there an ending
To song, or to imagination's flight!
The bow of fancy stronger grows by bending,
And fiercer the poetic fiery might
As death's vast sunless breakers loom in sight:
More wonderful the soft thin-petalled rose
That golden-centred, pink or pearly-white,
Spangled about the lush green June-hedge blows;—
Truly we know not where we pass to soon;
To loveless lands devoid of sun or moon
Or stars it may be, where no woman speaks,
And never new-born passion dyes the cheeks;
Therefore our lyre with double force we sweep
Ere life makes way for death, and song for sleep.

POETS MANY AND FAIR.

IN PLACE OF THEE.

Yea—what of England, then? What hands shall weave
Crownals for lovers? or what voices sound
Triumphant in the morn, or soft at eve?
Round what bright brows shall lily-buds be bound?
In what black tresses the red rose-bud wound?
What eyes shall then outshine the shining sea?
What white feet tremble o'er the grassy ground?
The small white clover-blossoms still will be
Strewn starlike o'er our cliff-top—who shall stand
Watching the wide sea from it, hand in hand?
Whose eyes shall pierce, as ours pierced, the far foam,
Yearning to travel to some island-home
Beyond the fading sunset—who shall be
Set thereon by the years in place of thee?

IN PLACE OF ME.

And what glad bard in place of me shall sing—
Shall round the brows of what fair woman twine
His tribute, be it of autumn leaves or spring
Snowdrops, or dark-green tresses of the pine,
Or yellow-white adhesive eglantine?
What ripple of music shall the far seas hear?
What tune the white waves echo line on line
As o'er the old golden sands they stream in sheer
Unpliant armies of approach, with clear
Wide rings of foam—what harp-strings through the night
Shall reach what woman's downbent listening ear?
What window shall frame Juliet's shoulders white?
What face as fair as thy face—can it be?
Shall flash responsive to the future sea?

THE SKY-GOD'S HEART.

Beyond the birthplace of the purest breezes,
Beyond the regions of the faintest stars,
High up, till the earthly strainèd eyeball ceases
To follow our flight—beyond all chains and bars—
Beyond the scent of every gentle flower
Of earth—beyond the secrets of the rose—
Beyond love's glimmering green-woven bower—
Beyond the whiteness of the unstained snows—
Beyond the voices soft of man and maiden—
Beyond all rivers' tongues, all children's tones—
Beyond the dim porch honeysuckle-laden—
Beyond yon church's white array of stones—
High up, high up, till thou and I, apart,
Drink of the fulness of the sky-god's heart.

SONG.—LIFE IS NOT LONG.

LIFE AND DEATH.

SWEET LIFE.

THE FLOWER OF MY SINGING.

SOUTHERN LANDS.

GREATNESS.

Let us be great, and love, though all the world
Rose up against us, shall we be alone?
Then all the wide earth for one fitting throne
We'll take; our wings of flight shall not be furled
Till the far southern azure is our own,
Yea, hills by the grey olives overgrown:—
Earth's famous cities, sweetheart, we'll explore—
Hear the blue Adriatic's lulling tone
And the white-waved Atlantic's wrathful roar;
Tread where sweet Keats and Shelley trod of yore,
And make of many a wilderness a bower—
Till, gladly, at the appointed wondrous hour,
We reach a Paradise where each high dream
To greet us in some living shape doth seem.

AND DOST THOU DREAD?

And dost thou dread the fool-scorn of the world,
Its fool-laugh? Am not I, thy lover, here,
And shall not every foe be backward hurled?
Can we not, living and triumphant, steer
A joyous course with not one mortal near,
For are we not the spirits of the breeze
Immortal, and o' the heavens crystal-clear
And of the swift unconquerable seas?
Have we not in us all the force of these—
And is there any human spirit to dare
Oppose the invulnerable thing we please—
Are we not girt by armour of high air?
Have we not this my sword of song divine,
Along the serried foes to smite and shine?

THY CROWN.

Shall men not look back wondering, and declare
“Here was one woman-spirit free and great;
A woman who could utterly once dare
To link her sweet unsullied life and fate
Unto a poet's, and to hurl time's gate
Aside”—oh, shall not some far higher crown
Be thine than jewels; or rich massive weight
Of gold—the future shall fling garlands down,
Nor shall thy name in the shifting eddies drown;
Women shall love thee; poets shall adore
Thy beauty, and if these leaves I bring turn brown
And wither, singers shall weave thousands more
Into a chaplet that no time shall spoil,
Nor any dust of desecration soil.

THE STARS ARE BECKONING.

Therefore, be bold. Turn not to watch the foam
In boiling venturous swift swirls at our feet;
Lift thou the rather all thy bright gaze home,—
Yea, mark our future of high triumph, sweet,
The limitless glad leagues of golden wheat
Waving—the leagues of joyous flowery plain,
The land of promise whither we retreat,
Our plumes of venture void of any stain,
To dwell for ever in love's pure domain:
Weary I am of waiting; come thou, love—
The stars are beckoning, and the sweet mists cling
The azure-folded mountain-tops above;
Awake thou first—then sleep thou, while I sing
And touch thine eyes with soporific wing.

REST.

Is this not rest? Is this not sweet, O lady!
After the weary years, the long sad gleam
Of sunburnt, bitter life,—now in the shady
Cool house of quiet love to rest and dream?
Sleep while I watch—lo! how the white moonbeam
Falls on thy face and glorifies its sweetness,
Till heaven-pure and soft the features seem!
Ready to pass to heaven in angel-meetness:
Lo! now at last the incarnate God reveals
Himself, Herself, in thee; and thou dost bring
The flowers of heaven in thy breath and wing,
And in thy voice the voice of God now peals
Forth silver-soft,—thou art ready to be slain—
Ready to die from earth, in heaven to reign.

THY SPLENDID FACE.

Thy splendid face and splendid body sleeping
Have in them all God's gift of womanhood:
Lo! as I watch thee, all my being weeping
Sees all the issue of life, and finds it good.
Upon how great a height my soul hath stood
Now once—upon how far a cloud-wrapped hill,
Hearing God's voice bid all the wild waves rude
And all their countless foaming tongues “be still.”
One we are made with the Eternal's will,
Beautiful in its strength; we join our hands,
And, passing fast by many a soft-voiced rill,
Yea, many a sweet-voiced memory of old lands,
We meet each other's eyes once—never more
Shall cloud of pain conceal the light they pour.

SONG.—SLEEP.