The Last Poems of Richard Watson Dixon :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Last Poems of Richard Watson Dixon

... Selected and Edited by Robert Bridges: With a Preface by M. E. Coleridge

Dixon, Richard Watson (1833-1900)

ODE ON THE DEATH OF DICKENS

THE UNKNOWN KING

TO HOPE

TO PEACE

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TOO MUCH FRIENDSHIP

THE STORY OF SEPTIMIUS AND ALCANDER

When Athens, fallen beneath the Roman sway,
Kept still the relics of her bygone day,
The youth who most adorned her sacred hill
Was named Alcander: by Apollo's will
Votive to those high arts the god has given
To penetrate the ways of earth and heaven:
To whom no less the blind wheel-goddess spared
Her largess lavish; so that few compared
In happiness with him, and one alone
His rival in men's expectation shone.
This was Septimius, who, of Roman name,
To Athens o'er the Tyrrhene waters came,
And held in rhetoric renown as high
As the other equalled in philosophy,
Nor lacked there kindliness between the two
From first, which into closest friendship grew.
The god of arts from their arts different
Inspired them peace, and benediction sent:

And in his sphere, the intellectual sky
Bade his satellites move in harmony.

Long lingered they in youth's fair indolence,
And still would he that noble calm dispense
Which 'tis the due of youth from life to gain
Before dark Care begin her iron reign,
And break the prime: but ah! there came at length
The breaking time: when youth his fiery strength
To match against the awaiting world is moved,
In life's wide lists desirous to be proved.
And first Alcander found it: he in thought
Transfixed would stand, into grave ardour wrought
And musings many: oft would bow his head
Severely pressed, as with a weight of lead,
Pondering what road to take, what thing to do
To tune his studies old to action new,
And be a man amid the world of men.
Often he muttered low, oft seized his pen,
Traced and then tore the workings of his brain,
While newborn joy sank into doubt again.
Apollo smiled watching the noble strife,
Thinking to hold his votary through life,
Deeming occasion would but interpose
To crown his favourite son, what'er he chose.

But who can scape desire? who can be free
Of Nature's bonds, how great soe'er he be?
Amid his mind's unrest Alcander saw
Hypatia, and he bowed to Nature's law:
Hypatia, fairest of the lovely train
That wandered round Lucina's golden fane,

Drawn by the queen of marriage still more near
Her shrine itself with each new budding year.
Into his heart, transported through his eyes
Her lovely image fluttered, there to rise,
The flower of love in wisdom's ordered seat.
For she to him refused not answer meet,
And all sped well, and hindrance was there none;
Ere in short space, the previous rites o'ergone
Of hymeneal, came the day ordained
Whose evening should bring home the bride unstained.
Yet, since fair fortune in the marriage joys
Upbuilds the mind's dominion, not destroys,
Still great Apollo smiled, nor deemed that he
Should lose the subject of his sovereignty:

Nor would he, in respect of those mild hours,
But for the working of malific powers.
Still had he smiled to watch with godlike heart
The flight of yet another human dart
Shot upward toward the seat of entity,
Which all best souls desire; though destiny
Refuse that any reach the traceless shrine.
High gain it is to travel heights divine:
To seek for ever is the joy of thought,
The joy of gods for ever to be sought.
But other thing befell: that shall be told.

Septimius, in the easy weeks that roll'd
From roused Alcander to his marriage day,
Kept unconcerned at first his usual way,
Practising his mimic pleadings with renown

That lightened through the sophist-loving town:
Waiting till sails should come to waft him home
To the wide law-courts of Imperial Rome.
Not needing, like his friend, to arbitrate
'Twixt past and present at a troublous date,
Since his less lofty science set no bar
Betwixt his mind and the dark human war.
Yet Fate to him brought woe, and by the same
Event that to his friend unhindering came
Of purpose high.

To him Alcander brought
His own bethothed in proud and happy thought
That he might share his joy, he whom he deemed
His only fellow, and o'er all esteemed.
Septimius saw; and, lo, from liquid eyes
Bright beyond praise, shot through his arteries,
All in a flash, one glance that woke in him
Strange trouble, and his senses made to swim,
As if some poison thinned to fire his blood,
Then hurled it through him in a raging flood:
In that one look he read, though 'twas but one
Of any from such eyes that must be thrown,
Piteous appeal, disdain, command, whate'er
Makes man's emotion thrall to beauty's snare.

An unseen power it was that wrought this ill
Blindly enacting destiny's wide will:
For Cupid, who is oft good Hymen's foe,
Hung in the clouds that hour with new-strung bow:
'Twas spring time, when his shafts he best may wield
Against the creatures of the air and field.

He laughed to see the finch his mate pursue
Wing-stroke for wing-stroke o'er the bushes new:
The wild cat in the thicket crying loud
Under the sting: the bull, so royal proud,
Tearing the furrow in his savage need:
The horse that sprang, then tried again to feed,
Then raced his pasture's length against the wind.
So dealt he forth his plague on every kind.
'Twas he who noting that one look unmeant
In the same flash his own sharp arrow sent.

Cureless was such a wound; but not the less
Septimius strove his torment to repress.
‘What caitiff I,’ so to himself he said,
‘My own best brother's bride that shall be led,
In maddest thoughts to hold!’ Then gan he try
Studies and fasts to heal his malady
And struggled sore: sometimes he leaped upright
Crying, ‘I love her not! in love's despite
I love her not! no plague have I to shun’:
Like to maimed men, who think that they can run,
Minding their former lightness, while they deem
Their real misery some unhappy dream.
But soon again Love with descending frown
Into his pit of horror struck him down,
And all his fancied sanity o'erthrew.
The thirling dart again he inly knew,
Again he felt the beat of love and pain,
And shame went through him, and remorse again.
So that at last both strength and heart gan fail:
A fever came to him: his visage pale

And shaking limbs did all his friends aghast.
And thence so swiftly did his body waste,
That on the morn, whose evening would bring bride
To bridegroom's bed, they looked he should have died.

Meantime Alcander, in love's ecstasy,
Observed him little: for with feigned glee
The sick man greeted him whene'er they met.
But on the morn, that was for marriage set,
Speeding to him the first, he found him dressed
In the rich raiment of a wedding guest,
So dressed indeed for welcoming of the day.
But the rich garment served so to display
His ghastliness of feature and of hue,
That the amazed Alcander at the view
Felt sudden awe, and to demand began
Whence 'twas his friend appeared a dying man.
He with evasions wild and stammering strove
To escape confession of unwilling love;
And with a dreary smile to cross the floor
Urged his weak limbs, to win the open door,
And bade him follow to the marriage fest,
Nor be behind his day. But the poor jest
Failed as he spoke it; Love so terribly
Shook him, that it no more might hidden be:
And turning with a deadly look he said,
‘Alcander, in my soul's despite and dread
Thy lady so I love, that night nor day
Her image from my thoughts may pass away:
Yea truly in the phantasies of sleep

She doth pursue me: her by day I keep
Still in my ken: the pain that me doth kill
Is sprung of this: I have no other ill.
I cannot name her, lest from me should burst
Wild callings on her name. I am accursed
Of heaven to be a traitor to my friend.
Now slay me here, and of this woe make end.’

The grave Athenian youth this agony
Heard all unmoved: for magnanimity
Anger forbad: concern and pity filled
His large firm eyes, masterly virtue's guild.
In consultation with himself he stood,
And argued with his mind against his blood,
Recalling many tractates, ancient codes
Of noble friendship, panegyric odes
By poets made of constancy sublime
Which friend to friend had shown in ancient time:
How one had given his life to save his friend,
How some had shared their fortunes to the end:
How friendship was more precious to the wise
Than Indian gold or eastern merchandise:
How one had written that a mistress fair
Should with a friend be held of no compare,
For that a mistress any day is won
But to repair a friend remaineth none.
These and much more regathering in his mind,
At length he spake: ‘Septimius, thou art kind
Giving me warrant to confer a boon,
A wedding day is hasting to the noon
But not the bridegroom I, though she the bride,

For whom the flowers fall thick from side to side.
Hypatia name I thine: receive from me
A gift that answers well my thoughts of thee.’

Who that is set in strait 'twixt death and love
But must refuse the bat and take the dove?
Septimius, gazing on that lofty face
Where greatness occupied in passion's place,
Bowed to the boon, though tear arose on tear,
And 'twas remorse to feel his joy so dear.
Some gifts there are, that he who offers makes
Refusal wrong, he honours best who takes.
So to make short the story of that day,
When to the nuptial feast they took their way,
He held the bridegroom's room: nor she denied
To yield into his arms a willing bride.
Therewith Apollo smiled upon his son,
Deeming his doubtful victory twice won,
And love removed better than love retrieved,
For the great ends which he in him conceived.
He smiled: but as his smile shot through the cloud
Discovered Cupid fled, sobbing aloud,
Where secretly all-armed above the earth
He flew, and saw the spoiling of his mirth,
And the calm bosom of the Athenian.
Handling his vengeful bolts he flew and ran,
And woe betide Apollo's votary,
If him unfenced in wisdom's panoply
He ever mark: such spiteful rage he fed
Finding his former arrow idly sped,
Alcander having plucked it from his breast,

And e'en Septimius' grief too soon redressed.
Great Master of the Muses, hast not thou
Felt in thy heart that torturing barb? then how
Safety to mortal man canst thou ensure
And bid life's game be without forfeiture?

Who now so lightsome as Septimius,
When his mad sorrows were concluded thus?
For Rome he sailed, departing with his bride,
Blessing Alcander, who with smiles replied,
And with unruffled brow beheld the prore
Rise to the sea beneath the quickened oar.
Anon in the great city of the hills
Septimius' praised name all hearing fills:
No orator like him the forum swayed,
To him the gathered gowns with awe obeyed;
The offices of state to him stand wide,
The open gates for Fortune's flowing tide:
Lovely Hypatia, who his honour shares,
By her fine wit more high the structure rears;
High suitors throng his ivory chair around,
And all the city to his will he found.

Meanwhile revengeful Love, to exact his due,
With Fortune joined, Alcander to pursue.
When Athensward from the bleak shore he hies,
E'en there the fickle goddess through the skies
Rattled her keys ('twas she indeed who thus,
Combined with Love, upraised Septimius),
And the same hour her favourite downwards thrust
Upon that wheel that turns 'twixt cloud and dust.
A sleety shower blew up, with bitter wind:

Low thunders growled in the clear blue behind.
But angrier were the faces that he met,
When in the town's fair street his feet he set.
The kinsmen of Hypatia, a dark band,
Frowningly met him: nor aside would stand,
Nor scarce give way when he looked pleasantly.
And after him sent shouts of ‘Villany,’
And ‘Go thou villain of a filthy trade,’
And ‘There goes he who hath his bride betrayed
And from a lover rich acquired base gain.’
He pondering the moment in disdain
Of ill construction, soon resumed his road,
Wrapped in high musings, toward his own abode.

But in a little while he found not vain
The menaces of that incensèd train.
A suit at law was brought, the vile pretence
That he had sold his bride for recompense
Of money given: doing despite and scorn
To all her kin: such crime was laid and sworn,
And in indictment vast was spread the feud
At legal length: the words the words pursued.
In vain he pled: no eloquence had power
Against the frown of all, and in an hour
He was cast down from fortune and from fame
In such a mulct, that the extremest shame
Alone awaited him, exposed to stand
A slave for purchase at the bidder's hand.
A Thracian merchant bought him, and he went
O'er wintry seas from shame to banishment.
Unhappy man! like the inclement shore

That took him, was the rigorous doom he bore.
O'er the cold hills it was his part to lead
At break of day his master's flock, and feed:
To follow in the snow along the waste
Afoot his horse's heels, while on he paced:
And every season both in frost and heat,
Extremest both the most, his toils repeat:
And for himself to trap the deer and bear,
Or in the frozen river leave his snare
Ere to his tasks he went: that with such pain
Precariously his life he might sustain.
Over his own unfriended head the roof
He reared, which kept the winds of night aloof.
But still Apollo smiled: ‘Now shall be known,’
Mused he, ‘the greatness of my favourite son:
Penury, slavery, shall only prove
How fixed in heart the virtue which I move.’
And so indeed it seemed: cramped and constrained,
Steadfast to science still the man remained:
Some loftier moments snatching, he by stealth
Communed with books, the remnants of his wealth,
In secret haunts: and on rough tablets wrought,
Or frizzled skins, the minutes of his thought:
And this contented him; one moment's scope
For days of toil, held him alive through hope.
Hope who still drops her anchor in life's sand,
And to firm hold the atoms loose would band,
That life's tossed ship outride the tempest's rage:
Hope, that to ease turns pain, to youth turns age:
Hope, that in mortal nature so is fixed,

That no damned wretch in misery's mortar mixed,
No sodden villain brought to extreme shame,
Would change to other and not be the same:
Albeit both high and low willingly would
Add to themselves another's share of good,
Desiring this man's fame, and that man's wealth,
Yonder man's beauty, and that other's health;
So they these goods upon their own might pile,
But never cease to be themselves the while:
Hope bade him live; and Hope at length bequeathed
As dying givers do, her promise breathed,
Dying to give what could not be outlived,
But, unlike givers, in her death revived:
She died in certainty: but, knowing then
Her gift unlike all other gifts, that men
Die if she live not, dying rose once more
Living, to bid him live, as heretofore.
For, on a day when most he felt his chain,
He found it loose! the everlasting strain
Suddenly ceased; and he was free to fly.
The watchdog slaves, who still beset him nigh,
Were with their master fierce withdrawn away,
Forgetting him some hours that happy day:
He snatched his books and fled: and many a length
Of wild and waste he went, the hilly strength
Of Rhodope and Haemus, where the blast
Blows clearest, or with sudden change o'ercast,
The sky hurls darksome white: where ice and snow
Make alternation, as the wild winds blow.
Long was his flight: he day by day lay hid

In trees and caves; and walked when Hesper bid
With westward course, to reach the Ausonian plains:
And now, descending, the last goal he gains,
And stands in Rome itself, amazed and blind
Amid the mighty concourse of mankind.

Beside the Virgin's Fount he sets him down,
Viewing the dwellers of the high-built town:
The innumerous youth who in the Martial space
Hurl dart, toss disk, contend in breathless race;
The civic crowd which in the forum meet,
The slave-borne litters tossing through the street;
The flute-led worshippers who slowly march
To disappear beneath some temple's arch;
The sculptured walls, the bastions gathered high
From side to side across the purple sky.

But on the wanderer of that mighty town
None smiled: none spake him ere the sun went down.
Though hope had sent him there perchance to find
His friend, and her whom he to him resigned.
Hungry and spent he leaned against the walls,
And felt how cold the warmth of alien halls,
How hard Rome's pavement to a foot unshod;
Mailed should they be on those proud streets who trod.
Then in the growing darkness he was fain
To seek that haunt of misery and pain,
Which oft, ere death, the sleep of death would give
By night to wretches who with morning live,
And to the outside tombs his steps to turn,

Where with his head on an inverted urn
More sweetly slept he than down-pillowed guilt
Sleeps in the palace which itself hath built.

But innocence the show of guilt may wear
If guilt like innocence too oft appear,
For, as it happed, unto that very stead
Wherein Alcander lay, two robbers fled,
There to divide the spoil which they had pilled;
Who quarrelling, the one the other killed,
And left him there: the morning came and lit
With light the corpse, as he had slaughtered it
In the tomb's entrance: they who saw went in
And found Alcander wrapped in sleep within:
So deeming that the murderer they had found,
They dragged him forth, with chains his hands they bound.
And he in silence standing, and dark mood,
As it had been another there who stood,
Both let them bind the chains about his hands
And drag him through the streets: anon he stands
In the wide law-court mid the clamouring throng,
Mute, making no defence, careless of wrong,
Scorning denial, for misfortune's blow
Had turned to stone his heart his rags below.

He heard the charge preferred, the proof made plain,
Nor aught of vindication would he deign,
Nor break his bitter silence; so that all
Hungered for some sharp doom on him to fall,
And such malicious silence overcome:

On racks the lame man leaps, and sings the dumb.

The judge began his sentence to declare:
And when that voice first rose upon the air,
He started at the sound, nor could forbear
One moment's eyeflash toward the ivory chair.
Septimius was the judge! The haggard man
Thought to proclaim himself an instant span,
But then: ‘No, no: heaven has in me designed
The perfect pattern wretch of all mankind,
I will not baulk it: well, 'tis well, that he
Should cast me forth to death and infamy
To whom I gave my best, through whom I fell
From wealth to wretchedness: yes, this is well;
And better, in that if I called his name,
That word would ransom me from perilous shame.
I make no sign.’—Clear, calm, and regular
The voice rolled on that ruled the Roman bar.

But ere it ended, lo, a new surprise
Broke the high accents, and drew all men's eyes.
Shouts rose without, and tumult spread around,
And in was brought another prisoner bound,
The real slayer of his robber fere;
Who, selling in the town their plundered gear,
Being caught confessed the crime: the crime confessed,
Alcander's innocence left manifest.
And all men marvelled, that, when death had played
So close with him, he nor defence had made
Nor aught abated his fixed countenance,
So wronging innocence in his own chance.

But greater marvel was the judge to see
Rise sudden from his place of majesty,
And to the prisoner making way full fast,
In strict embrace his arms about him cast:
Septimius hailed Alcander; and with tears
Recalled the benefit of former years;
And with consent of all the concourse there
Took off his chains: joy was the charioteer
When, in the sight of mighty shouting Rome,
Septimius led Alcander to his home.

And now Apollo smiled indeed, at last
Deeming his son secure through peril past,
And straitlier trained his favourite votary.
Safe were the books of his philosophy,
The precious load to which he still had clung,
When in adventurous shift his life had hung.
Now should the glorious schedule be complete
Which should uplift him to the heavenly seat
Of everlasting fame, mid those allowed
(How few!) to issue from the mortal crowd.

For he, in philosophic garment dressed,
Steps through the Roman halls, an honoured guest,
To mildness all restored and dignity,
And high in state as is Septimius high:
In look more noble than the Academe
Beheld him once, and old Ilissus' stream,
When him to greet the fair Hypatia came,
Whom he had yielded then in friendship's name,
More beautiful for marriage, in such stole
As Portia wore, great Cato's other soul,

Or sad Volumnia hid her sweetness in.
He met her with a smile, nor felt within
Trouble of soul, regret, remorse, or care:
Nor, having in full sight her beauty rare,
Doubted that, if such choice returned again,
His part should be that which it had been then:
And the great power, all jealous of his own,
Who had slain Marsyas, gloried in his son.

But now came up the doom long gathering
Against the mortal who had dared to fling
The boon of Love away, with purpose high,
Beyond man's scope, preferring friendship's tie.
Virtue, that was the blazon of his deed,
Incensed the powers still more—them who succeed
To every vacant place of empiry
In man, advancing their ascendancy
With watchful gaze. The injured god of love
With his ally blind Fortune chode and strove:
To whom he said, ‘Returning on thy wheel
Thou bringest back this man from woe to weal
Contrary to our pact: but still remains
My due of penance and exacted pains:
I seek an aid beyond thy transient power.’
Light-winged he flew, leaving her cloudy bower,
And sought his kinsman Death, of aspect mild,
Who seemed as fair as he—as fair a child
As ever at a wedding fest flung flowers,
Or danced about the circle of the Hours.
With him he long conferred: and thence he sped
To the pale Graiae in their weaving shed,

Who sighing gave consent to that he bade.
The Acidalian mountain next he made,
Where his own mother lay in sweets dissolved,
Whose humid eyes in flames as quick revolved:
With her he lastly planned a pageantry
By which his grief surely avenged might be.

'Twas such a day when our Athenian
Most blessed his lot: when he had power to scan
The ways of being with art's happiest might,
Luxuriously severe; though subtle, bright.
Caverned he sat, Alcander, with his books,
Amid the rocks where flow the Tiber's brooks,
Inrunning with short course into their stream
Far from the town: for he in blissful dream
Had wandered from the gatherings of mankind,
Following the airy beacons of the mind.
There as he sat alone, the Destinies
Began to work Love's ruinous ministries,
Which were prepared: they sighed while their thin hands,
Distant but strong, undid the filmy bands
Which hid the ready doom. From off the sky
The spacious clouds that summer hung on high
Rolled largely off: and in the space between
Fair Venus and her dove-drawn car were seen.
Her rolling eyes were sweet, her hair was spread
In pearls and gold around her glorious head:
Wide flowed her crimson mantle; round her waist
The cestus, fatal zone, with care was placed:
Which whoso saw straightway in frenzy fell

For beauty's sake (so powerful was the spell),
And, if of mortal mould, grew sane no more.
Slack in her hands the crimson tape she bore
With which her loving pair the chariot drew,
Whose dainty wings flashed in the heavenly blue.
Above her flew all-armed her cruel son,
Poising a gift that he from Death had won,
A bolt of serpent power, which unespied,
Painless, unfelt, would through the vitals glide.

Soon as Alcander saw this fleeting show
He left the place where he reclined below
Gazing the Paphian queen with ravished eyes,
The while she flitted through the opened skies
And entered the receiving cloud again.
Then flinging up his arms in rapturous pain
He at the instant took the arrow keen
While madness seized him: through his breast unseen
The streak went reckless: leaping with a shout
All frantic from the cave he issued out,
And on the shore in furious wise began
Laughing aloud: among the rocks he ran
Laughing aloud, louder, with fury more
His precious books, Apollo's due, he tore
Piecemeal, and sent them fluttering down the wind,
And cried with roaring voice, ‘Thus I unbind,
Thus, thus, the cursèd load which I have borne.
These sophistries, that are free Nature's scorn
By cheating demons forged: hence, hence away,
Away I give you to the winds that play,

As from the hawker's hand the tame prey-bird
Is tossed to the air: but, tongueless hence, unheard;
Yet prey no more, though air-tossed: off! nor add
Your woes, your rigours to man's heart made mad
By griefs enough themselves: I who have stored
Your villanies, scatter the rotten hoard,
Lies, sophistries, shackles for poor man's use,
Hence, hence, hence! Waking from the mind's abase,
Jocund, content, and frolic, lo, I sing
Songs of high comfort: O, the heavens shall ring
Hypatia, sweet Hypatia!’ Thus he cried
Among the dun rocks by the riverside:
And rending off his garments now began
To dance all naked where the river ran.
His mighty limbs, with muscles hung, were seen
Strange-coloured midst the dark rock-mosses green,
And soon were torn by stones and trailing brier:
But still he danced and cried: nor might respire
From that strange rapture, till an answering shout
Rose from the uplands near: anon a rout
Came hurrying into sight, the shepherd folk
Chased him and hemmed him, and their cudgels broke
On his defenceless limbs: he lay at last
Wounded to death: the fit was overpassed;
Love's vengeance was complete: and now the sum,
Except the very end itself, was come.
Love smiled to accomplish this: Love gave him breath,
And handed him to reason ere his death:
He knew before his fixing eyes grew dim,

Septimius and Hypatia knelt by him.

They reasoned too, as on his death they gazed:
Love sent one thought that both their bosoms raised,
And out of being smote the only good
That he in all had gained, their gratitude.

‘So is it best for us,’ Septimius said.
Hypatia looked, and nodded o'er the dead.

LOW RIVER

So high the river wont to rise
When wintry rains his wells increase,
Now lowly in his channel lies
That summer bids his torrent cease.

And now all day his stony bed
Glares to the sun in ruin wide:
There pebble-heaps and wastes are spread,
Which once were shallows in the tide.

Great boulders standing gaunt and bare
Seem to expect their watery screen,
And cast their strong sharp shadows where
Their dancing image late was seen.

But thread-like still comes on, glints low,
And breaks not continuity,
The thin, persistent, glistening flow
That makes the river river be;

And to the strewage says, ‘Not long
Shall wait my organ of fine tones,
Ere I return in volume strong
To wake your music, wistful stones.

DUST AND WIND

The dust takes form of the wind, that bloweth where it lists;
The wind takes form of the dust, that maniacally resists:
The wind takes form of the dust, as the soul takes form of the clay;
A spectral form it is, and quickly it fades away.

A rushing archer seems this dust that doth arise;
His bow in the whirl is bent, his arrows seek the eyes:
A myriad myriad atoms compose his transient form,
Gathered between the flower of the grass and the root-gnawing worm.

Then he falls at once, and lies scattered on the plain:
A myriad made his form: I take a single grain:
'Tis greater than the whole; an atom infinite:
Will it yield up that which dwells within it, as I write?

Yes, there blooms within it invisible a flower,
Rooted in the atomy clod, which bloomed in its own hour:
And in the unending dance of days shall bloom again
In that wild resurrection which ever is joy with pain.

'Twas once compacted well in a form of bone and brain;
It went therefrom in its season, but the form did still remain:
The form itself was dissolved, and gathered to the grave;
And this atom of it, perchance, clung round the charnel cave.

'Tis still the law of things that the atom reseek the whole
In the atom-built world of death: but what of the life, of the soul?
Whither retires the force, that gradual leaves the limb?
Whither returns the fire, when the eye begins to dim?

This is the secret thing that still to the dust adheres;
It is force, the thing that not fails when the atom disappears:
Which when it departs at length, departs by a secret course:
It is the wonder of power and the miracle of force.

The limb begins to fail, but retains its bulk and size:
The sight grows dim, but still stand bright and full the eyes.
When the limb begins to fail, whither doth force retire?
And when the eye grows dim, whither returns its fire?

In a spirit-atom world do they reseek the whole?
And, as they thither depart, posts after them the soul?
Rejoin they the soul again, which they have fled before,
Mysterious light and might, to quit it never more?

Ah who can measure spirit, or compass force and power?
Is that the secret of dust, is that the invisible flower,
Which methought I saw unfurled in the atom lifeless and cold,
Because anciently some soul in form did that atom hold?

Canst thou, oh atom, tell; oh, wilt thou hear thy name,
Why after losing thee the form remained the same?
Why, after losing others that took thy place and part,
The force fell from the limbs, the form died round its heart?

Oh, thou wilt answer not, thou keepest thy secret still;
Get thee back to the phantom crowd, that the wind whirls at his will:
Thy flower is unopened yet, or else invisibly blooms,
As the voice of the bat that at evening wails weakly by the tombs.

Oh, dust, thou art faithful still to man, to the tribes of earth:
Thy dark and dreadful silence forbiddeth not other birth;
And that future birth shall be, for the former things remain,
Ever that resurrection, which is unto joy with pain.

But now, oh what of the wind, that uplifteth thy multitudes?
Is he too, faithful to earth, and to earth's unhappy broods?
Is the wind content to breathe, like the voiceless voice of the dust,
The story of joy with pain, and of justice made unjust?

Nay, gone he is full far, since he dropped thee on the plain:
And he taketh his other forms, of the sea, of the cloud, of the rain,
Of the beams of the sun and moon, of the hightossed forest trees
Whose boughs sweep the earth like billows, whose voice is the voice of seas.

He upseals the evening sky with the chilly roses of eve,
Pressed far on the infinite blue, and thus would he deceive:

As if he would image to man another world of light,
Amidst his watery show—down rushes the curtain of night.

Oh dust, thou art faithful to man, thou promisest man no more
Than has been in the ancient age, in the years that are gone before:
Thy coming is but for a moment, thy form is stern and rude,
Thy essence an atom is, thy abiding is solitude.

Oh wind, thou art faithless to man, thou comest and goest on earth,
Thou shakest these rude atoms into a transient birth:
Thou bearest a double meaning: thy whisper drieth the tear,
Thy voice brings tempest; but what thou sayest, who can hear?

TO THE EARTH PLANET

Thou fliest far, thou fliest far
Companion of each circling star,
But yet thou dost but fill thy year:
Thy orbit mayst thou not forsake,
The path in space which thou must make,
Till death shall touch thy charmèd sphere.

Half turning to the weary blaze
Which measures out thy countless days,
Half bathing in the depths of night,
Thou urgest thy unfaltering speed,
As if thou wouldst of force be freed:
But still thou art the slave of light.

Or moved or fixed in vacancy
Thy pitying sisters gaze on thee,
Where'er be sped thy wondrous race:
Nigher to thee they may not come;
Their eyes weep light, their lips are dumb;
Time is their lord, their prison space.

Thy lord is Time; to imitate
Eternity, yet bring thy date:
Space holds thee; but seems infinite.
But what of them? Thy mystery,
Or shared or not by them with thee,
Lies in thy breast—thy parasite.

Art thou alone the planet, Earth,
That gives to being that new birth
Of which the womb is care and pain?
Lives man alone in that thick space
Which through thin space doth hugely race,
A clot that swims the immeasured main?

Who answers? Not the instruments,
To pierce all space which he invents,
And to untwist each ray that beats
From the fire-fountain of these things,
And those remoter sparks, whose wings
Win flame from nature's other seats.

THE SILENT HEAVENS

Here I wander about, and here I mournfully ponder:
Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of night:
Here is captivity still, there would be captivity yonder:
Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with a blight.

Much I complain of my state to my own heart heavily beating:
Much to the stars I complain: much to the universe cold;
The stars that of old were fixed, in spheres their courses repeating;
Solidly once were they fixed, and with them their spheres were rolled.

Then through the space of the spheres to the steadfast empyrean
Echo on echo to Earth answered her manifold cries:
Earth was the centre of things, and the threne of all, or the pæan,
Bearing hell in her heart, on her bosom all life that dies.

If they were fixed, as of old, in their firmament solid and vaulted,
Then might the echo of woe or of laughter reverberate thence:
Nor my voice alone, but to them all voices exalted,
Should with due answer be met, murmuring sweet to the sense.

But they roll on their way through the void, the inane unretentive:
Past them all voices stream into the echoless space.
Where is the pitying grace, that once was prayer's incentive,
Where is the ear that heard, and the face that once answered to face?

ODE ON THE DEATH OF DICKENS

Beneath the invisible scourge
Of the south to foam upleaps the wave:
The tides hasten: the blasts urge
From the depth of their grey mysterious cave,
The white precipitate clouds, that seem made
More slowly to wander the sky, like a herd
Of deep-uddered cows hotly bayed
By a fierce dog beyond their own pace: but the bird
Turns seaward a sun-smitten wing;
For the storm and the calm are there,
That the blast and the sunbeam fling,
That contend in the gleam-shifting air.

Spirit, the thought of thee
Shall lend to us thine eyes,
Thy season; see, oh, see
From the howling summer skies
How wintry the sounds that come!
They shake the pink sea-thrift,
They shake the heathery bloom
That afar the sandhills lift.

Saidst thou not how near
Sorrow and joy, and peace and strife,
Darkness and light, the smile, the tear,
Death and life?

THE UNKNOWN KING

An unknown king was holding court;
Wide was his sceptre, high his throne:
Sorrow and pleasure made him sport,
And yet he was a king unknown.

But one who went his earthly way
Suddenly saw the form of him:
Suddenly saw the wide array,
Suddenly saw the splendour dim.

And as that wanderer gazed, the king
Turned round, and cast an eye serene;
And stretched his sceptre, beckoning:—
That man on earth no more was seen.

He entered in a wondrous hall,
Whose shape was lost in utter size:
He neared not the receding wall,
And phantoms mocked his seeking eyes.

He felt at once both youth and age,
The curious joy, the grey despair:
Beginning thus a pilgrimage,
Which seemed the forms of earth to wear.

He talked with phantoms of a sense
That seemed like phantoms of the brain,
And knew that in the void immense
They too like him had secret pain.

That he to them a phantom seemed
As they to him,[OMITTED]

And so he turned to seek the king
Who first had beckoned him to come:
He saw him not and shuddering
A moment felt the sense of doom.

And is it death, to see for once
The awful monarch face to face,
To give his summons one response,
Then wander in a vacant place?

And do we cry in hope and fear
‘Then shall we know as we are known’?
How are we known then? Who knows here
Each thought, each word, each pain, each groan?

And who shall say the future life
Shall end such things for evermore?
Is not the ghost-world filled with strife?
Shall not all be as heretofore?

TO HOPE

Sonnet

Fair Hope, that once, fair Hope, my prisoned heart
Delightedst with thy lustre, piercing night
With eyelet twinkle, now thy former part
Renew, with thy one beam my heart delight;
Starlike, not sunlike, not scattering the dark,
Spreading in prisons, thee I ask to shine;
Only to pierce, not scatter, with thy spark
As stars the night, such night wherein I pine.

Then move some space in heaven: but let thy beam
Solace me still: and I shall know and feel
Thy cluster near, the sisters of thy team,
Which in the night above our day do wheel:
Faith, love are there, where Hope on high doth glide,
Though further, fainter, in heaven's depth they ride.

TO PEACE

Sonnet

O peace, O Dove, O shape of the Holy Ghost,
I would not vex thee with too subtle thought,
Put thee in fear by hopes, send thee to coast
Regions unknown for what I dearest sought.
To rough delights I would not open course,
Nor thy composure fray with vague desire,
Nor aspiration hold that did thee force,
Nor move a step that I could not retire.

Nay, nay, I pray thee, close thy startled eye,
Compose again thy self-stirred plumes, nor aim
At other station, in timidity
Of fancied plots, which here I all disclaim.
Well, fly then! for perchance from heavenward flight
Gentler on me thou mayst again alight.