The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) ::

“Ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
Di quei sospiri ond' io nudriva il core
In sul mio primo giovenile errore
Quand' era in parte altr' uom da quel ch' i' sono.”
Petrarca, Sonnet I.

BOOK I.

THE FIRST TIME.

“A te le luci mie
Volgo, o stella, che serri ed apri 'l die.”
Tasso, Canzone XV.

DEDICATION.

(To J. F.)

I

Memory, on this shrill harp, records
How Love with Pain waged mortal strife.
Her songs she sings to fitful chords.
Those songs may now be empty words,
But, ah! they once were life.

II

With bleeding breast, and broken wing,
Love, wounded in the unequal sight,
Made moan to Memory, murmuring
‘Sing me to sleep with songs that bring
Sweet dreams of lost delight!’

III

Then, o'er the harpstrings bending, she
Began to sing of joys that sprung
To flower when youth was fancy-free;
And, since she sung of youth, to thee,
Friend of my youth, she sung.

IV

Friend of my youth, and guide! and oh
Far more than friend, far more than guide!
Whose heart from mine nor bribe nor blow,
Nor many a fault, nor many a foe,
Have ever turn'd aside.

V

O tenderest heart in bravest breast,
No lie can lure, no truth offend!
In wisdom wisest, manliest
In massive manhood! O my best,
First, last, and noblest friend,

VI

Accept—not these, the sobs and cries
Of spent emotions, songs that be
Salt with the tears of Boyhood's eyes—
Not these—but all their utterance tries
To save from death, for thee:

VII

Delights that, dying, turn'd to pains:
Summers that, fading, left behind
No store, alas! of ripen'd grains,
But roseleaves strewn, and wandering strains
Of music on the wind.

VIII

Sung sorrows, these, of sorriest sort,
Because they once were joys! dead leaves
That have been flowers, but now the sport
Of hungry winds whose drear resort
Is round dismantled eaves:

IX

Love's failures, blown thro' chinks of rhyme
By gusts of aimless grief, they are.
Arisen from out a ruin'd time,
And whirl'd in passion's stormy clime,
They will not wander far.

X

Yet, where the wind blows, let them play,
And lightly o'er thy pathway lie;
Nor crush these dead leaves down i' the clay.
Fair, living, loving things were they.
They did not wish to die.

XI

They were the summers of my heart:
They are the memories of my youth.
Take them, for what they are—some part
Of what I was—things void of art,
But not devoid of truth.

XII

For, tho' thy princely heart retains
The loftiest sons of song in fee,
To thee these else-uncared-for strains
My own heart pours. In thine remains
Fit place for them, and me.

XIII

And thee my lays may please, tho' much
Unfit for praise by others sound.
Since music, little prized as such,
Hath, haply, power to find, and touch,
And wake to answering sound,

XIV

Some secret chord in hearts that take
Their pleasure from the voice that sings:—
Songs welcomed for the singer's sake,
Or for the memories they awake
Of half-forgotten things.

PROLOGUE.

I

There is a pleasure that is born of pain.
The grave of all things hath its violet.
Else why should Love with holy rites be fain
To deck the bier of Hope, and robe Regret?
Why put the posy in the cold clay hand?
Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?
Why bring the embalmèd corpse across the wave,
And deem the dead more near in native land?

II

Wherefore, if I have girt the loin, and lit
The pilgrim lamp, along the waste of years
To find the backward path, and follow it,
Thro' many a dubious winding wet with tears,
Thither where, wormlike and unwitness'd, stole
Into youth's unripe rose the wingless Love
Who round about his budding winglets wove
The fibres of the substance of my soul,

III

It is not with resentful hand to cast
From out the blemisht garden of my life
A single floweret of the faded past,
Nor from the roots with unreluctant knife
Tear any thought whose canker'd growth, once green,
Fed wasteful wishes. Past with past is twined
So in the midmost texture of the mind,
That from the tangled depths of what hath been

IV

Who can pluck out the bitter weed of pain,
Nor harm one tendril of remember'd joy?
Who, tho' resolved to rid the burthen'd brain
Of love's regrets, love's memories would destroy?
Not I, at least, whate'er those memories be!
To whom, upsmiling from the past laid bare,
The innocent eyes of Childhood plead ‘Forbear!
Nor injure us, who never injured thee.’

V

Unhurt, undimm'd, tho' mine with tears be fill'd,
Still smile, sweet eyes! still light my footsteps on
Far off in Memory's holiest haunts to build
A bower for Love's last bride, Oblivion!
And thou, divine Remembrance, thou that art
The cupbearer of gods, with rapture strong
Brim all these vacant chalices of song!
Pour out thy nectarous urn! I hold my heart.

VI

I hold my heart. It fills, o'erflows mine eyes,
And thro' the flashing fall of sudden tears,
Dim in the starlight of delicious skies,
Once more the garden of my youth appears,
Once more the form, the face, that made erewhile
Dull time divine, and all his glowing hours
Deep heavens wherein love dwelt! The breath of flowers
Is on the air, and on my spirit her smile,

VII

Sweet with unspoken joy. The breeze is dead.
The leaf is silent on the slumbrous bough,
As I at her loved feet. No word is said,
But I can feel her warm hand wandering now
Thro' my thrill'd hair. We are alone together.
How? where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream,
Drifting, slow drifting down a starlit stream.
Whither! Together, and I care not whither!

VIII

The summer moon is set. There is no light
Save of the thick-sown stars—a glory pale
In purple air—and what, by fits, makes bright
Red oleanders in a rocky vale
Flusht by the twinkling fly, whose tremulous spark
Throbs in and out, like passion-kindled hope
Thro' mine own heart. I knew the laurell'd slope,
I know each cypress sighing on the dark,

IX

I know the flowers, the fields, and whence she twined
Thro' those warm curls the wild anemonies.
Stream, you sweet curls, forever unconfined,
In hovering shade o'er these enraptured eyes!
Fall not, you favour'd flowers, from that white hand!
Stay, shy foot, peeping from this snowy skirt!
No daisy, prest by you, was ever hurt.
O love, forever thus before me stand!

X

“Forever thus?” Ah, rash illomen'd word!
Most sure to rouse the slumbering Fates to wrath,
When on the foolish lips of Joy 'tis heard.
Joy, that was never longlived, and whose path
Is thro' a world that knows him not! Sad years
Have worn that moment's place from memory now,
And she is gone,—I know not where, but know
Wishes are pilgrims to the vale of tears;

XI

And every wind is burthen'd with the moan
Of some man's loss. By night, on Shinar plain,
'Mid Babel's battlements by Heaven o'erthrown,
No baffled builder ever wail'd in vain
Hope's fabric fallen, with a grief more bleak,
More bitter, more unshelter'd, than my own.
For all I built and blest is broken down,
And if I lean upon my heart 'twill break.

XII

Behold these shatter'd shards—once aëry towers,
With pillar'd porches, built into the blue
Of blissful climes, the home of happy hours,—
Now ruins bare, round which the years renew
Only the casual weed, and creeping shade.
Pause, stranger, and be sad that such things were
And are not. Say, at least, the plan was fair,
The structure bravely, beautifully, made.

XIII

How firmly hewn from out the inmost heart,
How lightly lifted to the upmost heaven,
The temple rose! and, ah, by what fond art
With hallow'd names its gracious walls were graven!
What spacious music bathed these silent shrines
Of pious harps by priestly fingers play'd!
What happy whisperers wander'd in the shade
Of these lone aisles where now no taper shines!

XIV

But there Bliss settles not. She will not dwell
In any habitation made by hands.
Free as the bird of heaven, nor tameable
By careful craft, she over seas and lands
Hovers in hollow air. From spray to spray,
Set trembling by her touch, she springs, and sings;
And, while thou listenest, upon lightest wings,
Scared by a sigh, a breath, she flits away.

XV

Build not! It comes and goes without our will,
The wisht Delight, for which we early rise,
And so late rest, and so long labour still.
Sleep! heedless, deedless, mindless, with shut eyes.
And o'er thy dreaming head, with wings aquiver,
'Twill perch unsummon'd, and ungreeted sit.
O breathe not, breathe not! Fear to welcome it.
Soon as thou call'st it thine, 'tis fled forever.

XVI

I cannot build again, but I will deck
With flowers of later growth, Love's broken pile.
The bliss that's gone I cannot beckon back,
But beauty haunts the heart it fill'd erewhile.
These balms and spices, strewn the bier above
Of one fair corpse, shall from corruption save her.
I bless my lost one for the love I gave her,
And blame not anything she gave my love.

THE MAGIC LAND.

I

By woodland belt, by ocean bar,
The full south breeze our foreheads fann'd,
And lightly roll'd round moon and star
Low music from the Magic Land.

II

By ocean bar, by woodland belt,
More fragrant grew the glowing night,
While, faint thro' dark blue air, we felt
The breath of some unnamed Delight;

III

Till Morning rose, and smote from far
Her elfin harps. Then sea, and sky,
And woodland belt, and ocean bar,
To one sweet note, sigh'd Italy!

DESIRE.

The Night is come,—ah, not too soon!
I have waited her wearily all day long,
While the heart, now husht, of the feverish noon
In his burthen'd bosom was beating strong.
But the cool clear light of the quiet moon
Hath quench'd day's fever, and forth in song,
One by one, with a boyant flight,
Arise day's wishes releast by night.

The night is come! On the hills above
Her dusky hair she hath shaken free,
And her tender eyes are dim with love,
And her balmy bosom lies bare to me.
She hath loosen'd the shade of the cedar grove,
And shaken it over the long dark lea.
She hath kindled the glow-worm, and cradled the dove,
In the silent cypress tree.

O Hesperus, bringer of all sweet things,
Hear me in heaven, and favour my call!
Bring me, O bring me, what naught else brings,
The one sweet thing that is sweeter than all.
Bring me unto her, or bring her to me,
Whose unseen eyes I have felt from afar.
I feel I am near her, but where is she?
I know I shall find her, but when shall it be?
O hasten it, Hesperus star!

My heart, as a wind-thrill'd lyre,
Throbs audibly. Bright in the grove,
Like mine own thoughts taking fire,
The star-flies hover and rove.
Arise! go forth, keen-eyed, swift-wing'd Desire!
Thou art the Bird of Jove,
And strong to bear the thunders that destroy,
Or fetch the ravisht flute-playing Phrygian boy.
Go forth athwart the world, and find my love!—

FATALITY.

I

I have seen her,—the Summer in her soft hair,
And the blush rose husht in her face,
And the violet hid in her eyes!
And my heart, in love with its own dispair,
Speeded each pulse's passionate pace
To that goal where pain is the prize.

II

Hair, a Summer of glories fill'd
With odours! Lips that are ever Spring:
The budding and birth of all joys that be,
All blossoms that brighten, all beams that gild,
All birds that gladden, all breaths that bring
Delight to the spirit in me.

III

And oh, that smile of divine surprise,
That slid out slowly, and lapp'd me round
With a rosy rapture of warmth and light!
It began in the dark of her deep blue eyes,
And, o'erflowing her face and her faint lips, drown'd
Past, present, and future, quite,

IV

In a sea of wonder without a shore.
As tho', while you gaze at a drop of dew,
It should silently open, and softly rise,
And spread to a deluge, and cover you o'er.
So round me, and over me, greaten'd and grew
The smile of those sorrowful eyes.

V

What sort of a world will the world be now?
Oh, never again what the world hath been!
And how happen'd the marvellous change?
What my old life meant I begin to know,
But I know not what may this new life mean.
It is all so sweet and strange!

VI

Enough to be sure of,—that, hand in hand,
We have seen, with each other's eyes,
The heavens grow happier o'er us,
And, here below, in the lovely land,
As, there above, in the blissful skies,
A world of beauty before us!

TRANCE.

I

My body sleeps: my heart awakes.
In search of thee my dreams have roved
Dim slumber's deeps. The last wave breaks,
And brings me to thy breast beloved.
O stretch thy gracious hand to me,
Thro' sleep, thro' night! I hear the rills,
And hear the leopard in the hills,
And down the dark am drawn to thee.

II

The vineyards and the villages
Were silent in the vales, the rocks.
I follow'd past the myrrhy trees,
And by the footsteps of the flocks.
Wild honey, dropt from stone to stone
Where bees have been, my path suggests.
The winds are in the eagles' nests.
The stars are hid. I walk alone.

III

The stars are hid, the moon is set,
Ah wilt thou let me die forlorn?
Upon my hair the dews are wet.
Upon the rocks my feet are torn.

With kisses, never kist, alas!
My lips are parcht: with tears unshed
Mine eyes are dim: and, faint, I tread
With dizzy step the mountain pass.

IV

My path is lost: my staff is gone:
My strength is spent: my lamp is out.
O love, the night is well nigh done.
The camphor clusters all about
Gleam chilly-white, and I can see
The far off dawn. O haste, O haste,
And draw me from the unshelter'd waste,
And draw me from the world to thee!

A VISION OF THE MORNING.

I

One yellow star, the largest and the last
Of all the lovely night, was fading slow
(As fades a lingering pleasure in the past)
And all the east was fair, when, yet aglow
With dreams her looks had glorified, from sleep
I waked, and oped the lattice. Like a rose
Red morn began to blossom and unclose
A flushing brightness on the dewy steep.

II

A bell was chiming thro' the crystal air
From the high convent church upon the hill.
The folk were loitering by to matin prayer.
The church-bell call'd me out, and seem'd to fill
The heaven with pleasant hopes. I reach'd the door
Ere yet full-hearted hymns began to rise
And roll their liquid latin melodies
Round pious groups that strew'd the lucid floor.

III

Breathless I slid among the kneeling folk.
Shrill silvery tinklings bubbled thro' a pause
Of inward prayer. Then forth the clear chaunt broke
Along grey sculptured aisles which in a gauze

Of sunlight glimmer'd. Thickly throbb'd my blood.
I mark'd, in depths of glory-colour'd shade,
Many a little dusk Italian maid
Kneeling and murmuring: and a multitude

IV

Of misty splendours the dyed morning shook
Thro' the dim-threaded window's flame-lit webs.
They touch'd the crown'd Apostle with his hook,
And trembled where the sea of jasper ebbs
Round those white-footed Saints that stand serene,
Each with his legend, each in his own hue
Attired; some, ruby-red, some, sapphire-blue,
These topaz-golden, and these beryl-green.

V

Wherefrom, aslant the snowy altar, roll'd
A radiant interfusion of soft stains.
The organ groan'd, and greaten'd, and grew bold,
Blowing abroad melodious hurricanes.
And, bathed in bliss, while that long music peal'd,
I, looking sideways, near a little shrine
Saw, silent in a dim sweet light divine,
Irene, with claspt hands and cold lips seal'd.

VI

As one that, musing on some mountain height,
Above the breeze that breaks from vineyard walls,
Seized by the impulse of a swift delight,
Bows earthward, feels the hilltop heave, and falls,
I sank beside her. All things seem'd to expand
And reel. A wind of music swept the air.
And, when it ceased in heaven, I was aware
That, thro' a rapture, I had toucht her hand.

A VISION OF THE EVENING.

I

Is it a vision? Or Irene, lone,
With loosen'd bodice, by the lattice, where
Night's overflowing beauty with her own
Is mingled in the dimly glowing air
Of that rich treasure-chamber which enshrines
Her sleeping breath, her unrobed loveliness,
All of her the long daylight doth but guess,
Her dreams, and musings,—loves most hidden mines!

II

One taper twinkles in the gorgeous room
Mimick'd by many a ghostly looking glass.
White moonlight, creeping thro' rich-coloured gloom
Doth all along the dreamy chamber pass,
As tho' it were a little faint with fear
(Being new come into this quiet place
In such a quiet way) at the strange grace
Of that lone lady, and what else is here:—

III

Heapt blooms—narcissus, iris purple-crown'd;
Blue airy larkspur; basil; hyacinths
Flooding faint fragrance, richly curl'd all round,
Corinthian cool columnar flowers on plinths;

And crumpled pinks, creamwhite and crimson ones;
Large amber lillies; and the regal rose
That for the breast of queens full scornful blows;
All pinnacled in bossy urns of bronze.

IV

Tables of inwrought stone,—true Florentine;
Olympian circles throng'd with Mercuries,
Minervas, jewell'd Junos, dug i' the green
Of ruin'd Rome; and Juno's own deep eyes
Vivid on peacock plumes Sidonian:
A ribbon'd lute, young Music's cradle; books
Vellum'd and claspt: and, with bewilder'd looks
Madonna, babe on bosom, smiling wan.

V

From scented lawns, and thickets dark beneath,
The eddying music of the nightingale
Thrills thro' the open'd lattice, on the breath
Of many a balmy, dim blue, glimmering vale.
The howlet's sullen watch with fitful cheer
Flutters dark silence in the drowsy grove.
An infant breeze from the elf-land of Love,
Lured by the dewy hour, creeps lisping near.

VI

And now is all the night her own, to make it
Or grave, or gay, with throngs of waking dreams.
Now grows her heart so ripe, a sigh might shake it
To showers of fruit all golden as beseems
Hesperian growth. Why not, or nights like this,
Should Daphne out from yon green laurel slip?
A Dryad from each ilex, with white hip
Quiver'd and thong'd to hunt with Artemis?

VII

Tonight, what wonder were it, while such shadows
Are dancing with such lights on moony mountains,
Such star-flies straying thro' low emerald meadows,
Such laughters leaping out of upland fountains,
If some wisht face should from the window greet her,
Whose eyes shall be more starry than the night's,
Whose voice a well of liquid love-delights,
And to the distance sighingly entreat her?

THOUGHTS AT SUNRISE.

The lark leaves the earth,
With the dew on his breast.
And my love's at the birth,
And my life's at the best.
What bliss shall I bid the beam bring thee
Today, love?
What care shall I bid the breeze fling thee
Away, love?
What song shall I bid the bird sing thee,
O say, love?
For the beam, and the breeze,
And the birds—all of these
(Because thou hast loved me) my bidding obey, love.
Now the lark's in the light,
And the dew on the bough.
And my heart's at the height
Of the day that dawns now.

THOUGHTS AT SUNSET.

I.

Just at sunset I would be
In a bowery island. Tree
Interlacing tree shall strew
Sighs and shadows over me;
Whom some Odysseian crew
(Far too foolish, or too wise,
Here in happy bowers to be
Woo'd away from labour due
To their chieftain's stern emprise)
Putting forth in haste to sea,
Half an hour before moon rise,
Left behind them, fancy-free,
Careless of their shouts and cries,
Mine own pleasure to pursue
Thro' the warm isle's witcheries.
And, if anywhere the breeze
Shall have stirr'd those island trees,
I, forthwith, may haply view
(Lying, lull'd by leafy sighs,
Underneath in grassy ease)
Who knows what of strange and new?
Some white naiad's wistful eyes?
Or a woodnymph's rosy knees?
Or a faun's hoof peeping thro'?
These, or stranger things than these!

II.

Nay! already Fancy, tired
Of her isle too soon desired,
Lightly borne on laughing wind
Leaves the lazy land behind.
For the seaborn airs that sigh
All about the rosy sky
Seem, in wishful tones, to say
‘Rise, O rise, and haste away!’
Seen from sea is sunset best.
Forth into the boundless west,
Ere yon sinking sun be set!
Where the seas and skies are met,
And the lights are loveliest
Round the deathbed of the day,
Find me on the breezy deck
Of some fleet felucca,—nest
Of old seabirds, born for prey,
Who these shallow seas infest.
Fancy me brown-faced as they,
With hawk eyes that watch one speck
'Twixt the crimson and the yellow;
Which shall be a little fleck
Of cloud, or gull with outstretcht neck,
To Spezia bound from Cape Circello.
With a sea-song in mine ears
Of the bronzen buccaniers,
While the night is waxing mellow,
And the helmsman slackly steers—
Leaning, talking, to his fellow,
Who hath oaths for all he hears;
Each thief swarthier than Othello!

III.

Ah, but wander where she will,
Here is Fancy's birthplace still;
And, tho' far and wide she roam,
Long she may not leave her home.
Dear, I have not any want
Deeper than to be with you,
When the low beam, falling slant,
Stains the heaven with rosy hue,
And, with shuddering pleasure, pant
The awaken'd woodlands blue;
And about his leafy haunt,
While the stars are faint and few,
The tumultuous firefly flashes;
And such languor softens thro'
The deep lights 'neath those long lashes
As the heart, it steals into,
First inspires, and then abashes.
Just to touch your hand—one touch,
The lightest,—more would be too much;
Just to watch you leaning o'er
That wandering window-rose . . . . no more!

ONE NIGHT.

I

A falling star, that stream'd across
The intricate and twinkling dark,
Vanish'd, yet left no sense of loss
Throughout the wide etherial arc

II

Of those serene and solemn skies
That round the dusky prospect rose,
And seem'd to rise, and still to rise,
Thro' regions of unreach'd repose.

III

Far on the windless mountain range
One crimson sparklet died. The blue
Flush'd with a brilliance faint and strange,
The ghost of daylight,—dying too!

IV

Each rose was droopt. Each florid urn
Shone dim, where now, in filmy flight,
Blind bats began to wheel, and turn,
And search the darken'd air for sight;

V

While, hand in hand, our looks alight
With thoughts our faint lips left untold,
We sat, in that delicious night,
On that dim terrace, green and old.

VI

Deep down, far off, the city lay,
When forth from all its spires was swept
A music o'er our souls; and they
To music's midmost meanings leapt;

VII

And, crushing some delirious cry
Against each other's lips, we clung
Together silent, while the sky
Throbbing with sound above us hung.

VIII

For, borne from bells on music soft,
That solemn hour went forth through heaven,
To stir the starry airs aloft,
And thrill the purple pulse of even.

IX

O happy hush of heart to heart!
O moment molten through with bliss!
O Love, delaying long to part
That first, fast, individual kiss!

X

Did the earth tremble underneath?
Did some strong star flash thro' the skies?
Or was it thy delicious breath,
And was it thy divinest eyes,

XI

That made me feel the tides of sense
O'er life's low levels rise with might,
And pour my being down the immense
Shore of some sudden Infinite?

XII

“Oh, have I found thee, my soul's soul?
My chosen forth from time and space!
And did we then break earth's controul?
And have I seen thee face to face?

XIII

“Close, closer to this bursting breast,
Closer thy long'd-for arms enfold!
I need such warmth, for else the rest
Of life will freeze me dead with cold.

XIV

“Long was the search, the effort long,
Ere I compell'd thee from thy sphere,
I know not by what mystic song,
I know not with what nightly tear:

XV

“But thou art here, beneath whose eyes
My passion falters, even as some
Pale wizard's taper sinks, and dies,
When to his spell a spirit is come.

XVI

“What hath life been? What will it be?
How have I lived without thee? How
Is life both lost and found in thee?
Feel'st thou Forever in this Now?

XVII

“All in a moment! a whole world,
With all its wonders strange and far,
In one fierce point of glory furl'd;
—A universe within a star!

XVIII

“Born for one bliss that could not fail,
How should faith flinch, or patience tire?
I knew that time could not prevail
Against my soul's intense desire,

XIX

“Nor shut these famisht eyes in night,
Of thee unsolaced. In which faith
Doubtless it must have been most light
To bear with life, and laugh at death:

XX

“But now, life hath so much to lose!
And death so much to take! the heats
Of love's least costly moments use
And burn life's essence out in sweets.

XXI

“Mere antechamber was the past
To the crown'd presence of this hour:
But, having seen his Queen at last,
In all her beauty, all her power,

XXII

“What merest Page would turn again
Content to hum the careless rhyme,
Or trifle with the courtier train,
That whiled, perchance, a previous time?

XXIII

“So the old life is lost, I know!
The new? 'tis thine, not mine. Mine own,
If thou should'st leave me lonely now,
I must be hopelessly alone.

XXIV

“As one idea, half divined,
Labours and frets within the brain
Of some sad artist, and the mind
Is vassal to imperious pain,

XXV

“For toil by day, for tears by night,
Till, in the sphere of vision brought,
Rises the beautiful, the bright,
Predestined, and relentless Thought,

XXVI

“So, clothed in the desire of years,
This love doth to its destined seat
Rise, glowing, through the light of tears,
Supreme, triumphant, and complete!

XXVII

“Ah, dearest! yet the artist's thought
Once freed, in form, from forth his soul,
By chance and time is seized, and caught
Beyond the artist's own controul,

XXVIII

“To fare, he knows not how, for ill
Or well,—be shatter'd, or stand fast.
And this freed love, that doth fulfil
In thy bright presence my pale past,

XXIX

“How shall it fare, for weal or woe?
Already is it pass'd away
How far beyond the yes or no
That once was in my power to say!

XXX

“'Tis mine no longer. It's am I.
And it, and I, sweet-heart, are thine.
But thou thyself? . . . . dear Destiny,
Swear, swear again, that thou art mine!

XXXI

“Swear, twice and thrice, no future hour
Shall ever blight what this hath blest!
Nay, I possess thee by the power
Whereby I am, myself, possest.

XXXII

“And, come what may, and pass what must,
Why we were born, at last, we know.
Spirit to spirit! let the dust
Do with the dust what dust can do.

XXXIII

“Why heed it? Our two souls 'tis sure
Now understand the one thing best.
This is not earth's: this must endure:
Be earth's spite wreak'd upon the rest!

XXXIV

“These eyes thine own may cease to light,
These lips from thine harsh fate may sever.
Oh, looks and lips may disunite,
But ever love is love forever!”

LOVE FANCIES.

I. (Morning.)

Since we parted yester eve,
I do love thee, love, believe,
Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer,
One dream deeper, one night stronger,
One sun surer,—thus much more
Than I loved thee, love, before.

II. (Noon.)

Is it you . . . . . or a garden of flowers,
Blooming, blooming, breathing, breathing,
Budding, budding; whence sweet Hours
Their delighted brows are wreathing?
Is it I . . . . . or a nest of song-birds,
Chirping, chirping all together?
To the old birds pipe the young birds,
‘Fly, fly! it is summer weather!’

III. (Afternoon.)

O leave me, love, that quiet hand,
Safe nestled in my folded palm,
Till all my soul doth understand
That Love's most perfect crown is Calm!

I think that, by and by, all things
Which were perplext a while ago,
And life's long vain conjecturings,
Will peaceful, plain, and simple grow.
Already, round about me, some
August and solemn gladness seems
Reposing in a dewy dome
Of twilight, o'er a land of dreams
Silent, and soft, and infinite.
The hush of old warm woods that lie
Low in the lap of evening, bright
And bathed in vast tranquility!

TO IRENE.

As, in lone faërylands, 'twixt coral shelf
And beryl shaft, to deck the moonlit cave
Where haply dwells some beautiful Queen-Elf,
Laden with light and music, a spent wave
Strews its unvalued sea-wealth (pearl and gem
Sent up in homage from the Deep, her slave!)
Then sinks back, sighing, into the salt sea;
So, from my life's love-laden deeps, to thee
I pour these poems. Do not thou contemn
Gifts offer'd to thee only. Let them have
All they were born for,—not the more or less
Of aught that grudging huxters ever gave
For such sea-treasures with a greedy guess
At this or that pearl's price in weigh'd-out pelf,
—But place in the imperial diadem
Of thine own fay-born beauty's queenliness.
More worth is in them than mere words express.
Such pearl-buds, torn from buried branch and stem
Of life's deep-hidden growths, attest love's stress.
Look down, and see in my sad silent self,
Beneath all words, where love lies fathomless;
And so, dear love, for love's sake value them.
Love's words are weak, but not love's silences.

AN EVENING IN TUSCANY.

Close, O close and clasp, the pages
Of that too-long-pamper'd book!
Leave all poets of past ages,
You, my living poem! Look,
Down the summer-colour'd weather
The sweet day begins to sink!
And the thought that we're together
Is the sole thought I can think.
Cool the breeze mounts, like this Chianti
Which I drain down to the sun.
So away with your green Dante!
Turn the page—where we begun—
At the last news of Ulysses—
A grand image, fit to close
Such great golden eves as this is,
Full of splendour and repose!
And look down now, o'er the city
Sleeping soft among the hills—
Our dear Florence! That great Pitti
With its steady shadow fills
Half the town up: its unwinking
Cold white windows, as they glare
Down the long streets, set one thinking
Of the old Dukes who lived there;

For one knows them, those strange men, so—
Subtle brains, and iron thews!
There, the gardens of Lorenzo—
The long cypress avenues—
Creep up slow the stately hill side
Where the merry loungers are.
But far more I love this still side—
The blue plain you see so far!
Where the shore of bright white villas
Leaves off faint: the purple breadths
Of the olives and the willows:
And the gold-rimm'd mountain-widths:
All transfused in slumbrous glory
To one burning point—the sun!
But up here—slow, cold, and hoary,
Reach the olives, one by one:
And the land looks fresh: the yellow
Arbute-berries, here and there,
Growing slowly ripe and mellow
Through a flush of rosy hair.
For the Tramontana last week
Was about. 'Tis scarce three weeks
Since the snow lay, one white vast streak,
Upon those old purple peaks.
So to-day among the grasses
One may pick up tens and twelves
Of young olives, as one passes,
Blown about, and by themselves
Blackening sullen-ripe. The corn too
Grows each day from green to golden.
The large-eyed windflowers forlorn too
Blow among it, unbeholden.

Bind these bounteous curls from falling,
O my beautiful, my own!
'Tis for you the cuckoo's calling.
Hark! that plaintive mellow moan
Up the hillside, floating nearer,
Past the two white convent towers,
Where the air is cooler, clearer,
Round our calm and pleasant bowers.—
Oh, that night of purple weather!
(Just before the moon had set)
You remember how together
We walk'd home?—the grass was wet—
The long grass in the Poderé—
With the balmy dew among it:
And that nightingale—his airy
Song—how joyously he sung it!
All the fig-trees had grown heavy
With the young figs white and woolly:
And the fireflies, bevy on bevy
Of soft sparkles, pouring fully
Their warm life through trance on trances
Of thick citron-shades behind,
Rose, like swarms of loving fancies
Through some rich and pensive mind.
So we reach'd the Logia. Leaning
Faint, we sat there in the shade.
Neither spake. The night's deep meaning
Fill'd the silence up unsaid.
Hoarsely through the cypress-alley
A civetta out of tune
Tried his voice by fits. The valley
Lay all dark below the moon.

Until into song you burst out—
That old song I made for you
When we found our rose—the first out
Last sweet Spring-time in the dew.
Well! . . . if things had gone less wildly—
Had I settled down before
There, in England—labour'd mildly—
And been patient—and learn'd more
Of how men should live in London—
Been less happy—or more wise—
Left no great works tried and undone—
Never look'd in your soft eyes—
I . . . but what's the use of thinking?
Hark! our nightingale—he sings—
Now a rising note—now sinking
Back in little broken rings
Of warm song, that spread and eddy—
Now he picks up heart—and draws
His great music, slow and steady,
To a silver-centred pause!

THE UTMOST.

Some clerks aver that, as the tree doth fall,
Even for ever so the tree shall lie,
And that death's act doth make perpetual
The last state of the souls of men that die.
If this be so,—if this, indeed, were sure,
Then not a moment longer would I live;
Who, being now as I would fain endure,
If man's last state doth his last hour survive,
Should be among the blessèd souls. I fear
Life's many changes, not death's changelessness.
So perfect is this moment's passing cheer,
I needs must tremble lest it pass to less.
Thus but in fickle love of life I live,
Lest fickle life me of my love deprive.

LOVE AND TIME.

I

Because old Time's a rover,
Need young Love change his home?
Ah, now that summer's over,
Old Time, and winter come,
Teach young Love to discover,
Wheree'er thou roamest, some
New ways whereby to love her,
If Love with thee must roam!

II

Old Time, why wilt thou never
Let young Love be? Ah why,
Because thou art for ever
Unkindly fleeting by,
Must Love, too, share thy treasons
And play me false, like thee?
Change thou thy suns and seasons,
But leave my love to me!

THE SUBJECT'S APPEAL.

I

Dear despot of thy little state,
This busy many-thoughted Me,
Which thy sole will doth regulate,
Since, 'twixt thy loyal folk and thee,

II

(Thy loyal folk,—each feeling, thought,
And fancy,—all the sentient train
That, in me, owns thy sway) there's nought
Which may thy sovran power restrain,

III

Be in the uses of thy power
Gentle, as noble monarchs are;
Nor vary with the varying hour,
But, bright and constant as a star,

IV

Sit in the system of my soul,
And there, unmoved, the motions all
Of what thou mak'st my heaven controul.
Dear, though I be indeed thy thrall,

V

And such a grace have kings, though bad,
That even rebels, boldest grown
By wrongs that make man's patience mad,
Do fear to strike against the Crown,

VI

Yet happy folk makes happy king:
And worthiest is that monarch's might
Whom freely freemen love, that cling
In loyal trust to legal right.

CLOUDY WEATHER.

I.

On the cold hill, under the sky,
Here to day, in the cloudy weather,
The wind, as he pass'd me by,
Laugh'd ‘They two are walking together,
Merry, and I know why,
For I met them as I came hither.’

II.

The swallows were swinging themselves
In the leaden-gray air aloft;
Flitting by tens and twelves,
And returning oft and oft,
Like the restless thoughts in me
That went, and came, and went,
Not letting me even be
Alone with my discontent.

III.

The hard-vext weary vane
Rattled, and moan'd, and was still,
In the convent over the plain,
By the side of the windy hill.
It was sad to hear it complain
So fretful, and weak, and shrill,
Again, and again, and in vain,
While the wind was changing his will.

IV.

I thought of our walks last summer
By the convent-walls so green;
Of the rose-kiss gather'd from her,
Those blossomy walls between,
I thought (as we wander'd on,
Too happy at heart to speak)
How the daylight left us alone,
And left his last light on her cheek.

V.

The plain was as cold and gray
(With its villas like glimmering shells)
As some north-ocean bay.
All dumb in the church were the bells.
In the mist, half a league away,
Shone the house on the hill where she dwells.

VI.

There was not a lizard or spider
To be seen on the broken walls.
The ruts, with the rain, had grown wider,
And blacker since last night's falls.
O'er the universal dulness
There broke not a single beam.
I thought how my love at its fulness
Had changed like a change in a dream.

VII.

The olives were shedding fast
About me to left and right,
In the lap of the scornful blast
Black berries and leaflets white.

I thought “Of the seed I have cast,
Not a fruit will be spared by the blight.”
And the ghosts of my hopes swept past,
By a cold word put to flight.

VIII.

How many precious seeds,
Yet bearing nor beauty nor worth!
The smoke of the burning weeds
Came up with the steam of the earth,
From the red wet ledges of soil,
And the sere vines, row over row,—
And the vineyard-men at their toil
Who sang in the vineyard below.

IX.

I thought ‘Can I live without her,
Whatever she do or say?’
I thought ‘Can I dare to doubt her,
Now when I have given away
My whole self, body and spirit,
To keep or to cast aside,
To dower or disinherit,
And use as she may decide?’

X.

But ‘Her voice,’ I groan'd, ‘grows colder,
And her fair face colder still.’
And ‘Oh,’ I thought ‘if I behold her,
Walking there with him under the hill!’

THE STORM.

I

Both hollow and hill were as dumb as death,
While the heavens were moodily changing form.
And the hush that is herald of creeping storm
Had made heavy the crouch'd land's breath.

II

At the wide-flung casement she stood, full height,
With her glittering hair tumbled over her back.
And, against the black sky's supernatural black,
Shone her white neck, scornfully white.

III

I could catch not a gleam of her anger'd eyes,
(She was sullenly watching the storm-cloud roll)
But I felt they were drawing down into her soul
The thunder that darken'd the skies.

IV

“And so do we part, then, forever?” I said.
“O speak only one word, and I pardon the rest!”
For sole answer, her white scarf over her breast
She tighten'd, not turning her head.

V

“Ah, must sweet love cruelly play with pain?
Or” I groan'd, “are those blue eyes such deserts of blindness
That, O woman, your heart hath no heed of unkindness
To the man on whose breast it hath lain?”

VI

Then alive leapt the lightening. She turn'd, in its glare,
And the tempest had clothed her with terror: it clung
To the folds of her vaporous garments, and hung
In the heaps of her heavy wild hair.

VII

One word broke the silence: but one: and it fell
With the weight of a mountain upon me. Next moment
All was bellowing thunder, and she from my comment
Was gone ere it ceased. Who can tell

VIII

How I got to my home in the horrible hills,
Thro' black swimmings of storm and burst seams of blue rain?
Sick, I lean'd from the lattice, and dizzy with pain.
And listen'd,—and heard the loud rills,

IX

And look'd,—and beheld the red moon low in air.
Then my heart leapt . . . . I felt, and foreknew, it, before
I heard her light hand on the latch of the door!
When it open'd at last,—she was there!

X

Childlike, and wistful, and sorrowful-eyed,
With the rain in her hair, and the tears on her cheek,
Down she knelt—all her fair forehead fallen and meek
In the light of the moon—at my side.

XI

And she call'd me by every caressing old name
She of old had invented and chosen for me,
While she crouch'd at my feet, with her cheek on my knee,
Like a wild thing grown suddenly tame.

XII

'Twas no vision! This morning, the earth, prest beneath
Her light foot keeps the print. 'Twas no vision last night!
For the lily she dropp'd, as she went, is yet white
With the dew on its delicate sheath!—

SONG.

[As the one star that, left by the morning]

I

As the one star that, left by the morning,
Is more noticed than all night's host,
As the late lone rose of October,
For its rareness regarded the most,
As the least of the leaves in December
That is loved as the last on the tree,
So sweetest of all to remember
Is thy love's latest promise to me.

II

We must love, and unlove, and, it may be,
Live into, and out of anon,
Lovetimes no few in a lifetime,
Ere lifetime and lovetime be one.
For to love it is hard, and 'tis harder
Perchance to be loved again.
But if living be not loving,
Then living is all in vain.

III

To the tears I have shed, and regret not,
What matters a few more tears?
Why should love, that is present forever,
Be afraid of the absence of years?
When the snow's at the door, and the ember
Is dim, and I far o'er the sea,
Remember, beloved, O remember
That my love's latest trust was in thee!

DUTY.

How like a trumpet from the sentinel
Angel, that standeth in the morning star,
Empanoplied and plumed, as angels are
Whom God doth charge to watch that all be well,
Cometh to me thy call, O terrible,
That, girt, and crown'd, and sworded for Heaven's war,
Standest supreme above the confused jar
Of shock'd antagonisms, and the yell
Of trampled pain! Thou of the solemn eyes,
Firm-fronted Duty, on whose high command
My heart waits awed, stretch forth thy harness'd hand,
And with a louder summons bid arise
My soul to battle. Hark, the muster-roll!
Thy name is call'd. Forth, thou poor conscript soul!

SACRIFICE.

Unto my soul I said . . ‘Make now complete
Thy sacrifice by silence. Undeterr'd,
Strike down this beggar heart, that would be heard,
And stops men's pity in the public street;
A mendicant for miserable meat!
Nor pay thy vassal, Pain, with any word,
Lest so the deed thou doest should be slurr'd
By shameful recompense, and all unsweet.
Uncover not the faces of thy dead.
Slay thy condemnèd self, and hide the knife.
And even as death, compassionating life,
With gracious verdure doth the graves o'erspread,
So hide beneath a smiling face the whole
Of thine unutter'd misery, O my soul!’

THE FIRST FAREWELL.

I

I may not kiss away the tears that still
Hang on the lids which those loved eyes enshrine.
I may not weep away the tears that fill
These aching eyes of mine.

II

Sleep on, sad soul, shelter'd from love and pain!
Or haply shelter love from pain with thee
In thy sweet dreams. When we two meet again,
'Tis but in dreams 'twill be.

THE LAST WISH.

Since all that I can ever do for thee
Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be:
That thou may'st never guess nor ever see
The all-endured this nothing-done costs me.

A LOVE LETTER.

I

My love,—my chosen,—but not mine! I send
My whole heart to thee in these words I write;
So let the blotted lines, my soul's sad friend,
Lie upon thine, and there be blest, at night.

II

This blossom bruised whose purple blood will stain
The page now wet with the hot tears that fall—
(Indeed, indeed, I struggle to restrain
The weight of woe that breaks thus, spite of all!)

III

I pluck'd it from the branch you used to praise,
The branch that hides the wall. I tend your flowers.
I keep the paths we paced in happier days.
How long ago they seem, those pleasant hours!

IV

The white laburnum's out. Your judas-tree
Begins to shed those crimson buds of his.
The nightingales sing—ah, too joyously!
Who says those birds are sad? I think there is

V

That in the books we read, which deeper wrings
My heart, so they lie dusty on the shelf.
Alas! I meant to speak of other things
Less sad. In vain! they bring me to myself.

VI

I know your patience. And I would not cast
New shade on days so dark as yours are grown,
By weak and wild repining for the past,
Nor vex sad memory with a bootless moan.

VII

For hard enough the daily cross you bear,
Without that deeper pain reflection brings;
And all too sore the fretful household care,
Free of the contrast of remember'd things.

VIII

But ah! it little profits, that we thrust
From all that's said, what both must feel, unnamed.
Better to face it boldly, as we must,
Than feel it in the silence, and be shamed.

IX

Irene, I have loved you, as men love
Light, music, odour, beauty, love itself;—
Whatever is apart from, and above,
Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf.

X

And I had been content, without one thought
Our guardian angels could have blush'd to know,
So to have lived and died, demanding nought
Save, living dying, to have loved you so.

XI

My youth was orphan'd, and my age will be
Childless. I have no sister. None, to steal
One stray thought from the lifelong thoughts of thee,
Which are the fountains of whate'er I feel.

XII

My wildest wish was vassal to thy will:
My haughtiest hope, a pensioner on thy smile,
Which did with light my barren being fill,
As moonlight glorifies some desert isle.

XIII

I never thought to know what I have known,—
The ecstacy, of being loved by you:
I never thought within my heart to own
One wish so blest that you should share it too:

XIV

Nor ever did I deem, contemplating
The many sorrows in this place of pain,
So strange a sorrow to my life could cling,
As, being thus loved, to be beloved in vain.

XV

But now we know the best, the worst. We have
Interr'd, and prematurely, and unknown,
Our youth, our hearts, our hopes, in one small grave,
Whence we must wander, widow'd, to our own.

XVI

And if we comfort not each other, what
Shall comfort us in the dark days to come?
Not the light laughter of the world, and not
The faces and the firelight of fond home.

XVII

And so I write to you; and write, and write,
For the mere sake of writing to you, dear.
What can I tell you that you know not? Night
Is deepening through the rosy atmosphere

XVIII

About the lonely casement of this room,
Which you have left familiar with the grace
That grows where you have been. And on the gloom
I almost fancy I can see your face:

XIX

Not pale with pain, and tears restrain'd for me,
As when I last beheld it; but as first,
A dream of rapture and of poesy,
Upon my youth, like dawn on dark, it burst.

XX

Perchance I shall not ever see again
That face. I know that I shall never see
Its radiant beauty as I saw it then,
Save by this lonely lamp of memory,

XXI

With childhood's starry graces lingering yet
I' the rosy orient of young womanhood,
And eyes like woodland violets sunny-wet,
And lips that left their meaning in my blood.

XXII

I will not say to you what every day
Unworthy preachers preach to worthless love.
‘Dance the graves bare, if pipe and tabor play,
And call faith folly, if the world approve!’

XXIII

I will not cant that commonplace of friends,
Which never yet hath dried one mourner's tears,
Nor say that grief's slow wisdom makes amends
For aching hearts and desolated years;

XXIV

For who would barter all he hopes in life,
To be a little wiser than his kind?
Who arm his spirit for continued strife,
When all he cared to keep is left behind?

XXV

But this, this only . . . Love in blackest woe,
Still lovelier than all loveless happiness,
Hath brilliancies of joy they never know,
Who never knew the depth of love's distress.

XXVI

My messenger (a man by danger tried)
Waits in the courts below; and ere our star
Upon the forehead of the dawn hath died,
Heart of my heart! this letter will be far

XXVII

Athwart the mountain, and the mist, to you.
I know each robber hamlet. I know all
This mountain people. I have friends, both true
And trusted, sworn to aid whate'er befall.

XXVIII

I have a bark upon the gulf. And I,
If to my pain I yielded in this hour,
Might say . . . ‘Sweet fellow-sufferer, let us fly!
‘I know a little isle which doth embower

XXIX

‘A home where exiled angels might forbear
Awhile to mourn for Paradise.’ . . . But no!
Never, how dark soe'er my fate, and drear,
Shalt thou reproach me for that only woe

XXX

Which neither love can soothe, nor pride controul;
Which dwells where duty dies: and haunts the void
Of life's abandon'd purpose in the soul;
The accusing ghost of what itself destroy'd.

XXXI

Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet
Never farewell,—if farewell mean to fare
Alone and disunited. Love hath set
Our days, in music, to the self-same air;

XXXII

And I shall feel, wherever we may be,
Even though in absence and an alien clime,
The shadow of the sunniness of thee,
Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time.

XXXIII

Farewell! The dawn is rising, and the light
Is making, in the east, a faint endeavour
To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good night.
Thine own, and only thine, my love, for ever!

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II.

ABSENCE.

“Vado ben spesso cangiando loco
Ma no so mai cangiar desio.”
Salvator Rosa.

THE MESSAGE.

Because she hath the sweetest eyes,
The bluest, truest,—and more wise
Than woodland violets wild in wood
To make wholesome the earth, and good;
Because she hath such glad gold hair
That nothing in the laughing air
Of the lusty May, at morn,
When all that's bright and glad is born,
Ever was so glad and bright;
And, therewith, a hand more white
And warm than is the warmèd coat
Of whiteness round a meek dove's throat,
Yet withal so calm, so pure,
No ill passion may endure
That serenest hand's chaste touch;
And because my love is such
That I do not dare to speak,
Of the changes on her cheek,
Which the sunrise and sunset
Of her luminous thoughts beget,
Nor of her rose-sweet mouth, that is
Too sweet to kiss, or not to kiss,

'Tis aye so sweet and savorous;
And because (to comfort us
For what throbbings of sweet pain
Come, and go, and come again,
Till the wishful sense be full,
Gazing on aught so beautiful)
Such innocent wise ways she knoweth,
And so good is all she doeth,—
All she is,—so simple, fair,
Joyous, just, and debonair,
That there is none so ignorant
Of worship, nor with soul so scant
Of visitations from above,
But, seeing her, he needs must love,
And purely love, her,—and for this,
Love better everything that is;—

Therefore now, my Songs, will I
That ye into her presence hie,
Flying over land and sea,
Many an one, that sever me
From the sweet thing that hath the sleeping
Joy of my shut heart in keeping.
But, that when ye hence be gone
Into the bounteous region
Of that bright land over sea
Wherein so many sweet things be,
Where my Lady aye doth dwell,
Ye her dwelling dear may tell,
Nor its special sweetness miss
In midst of many sweetnesses;
Yet awhile, my Songs, delay
Till I have told ye, as I may,

All the fairness of the place
That is familiar with the grace
And glory of my Lady's face.

And (so shall ye know that she
Dwelleth in loftier light than we,
As intimate with skyey things
As are creatures that have wings)
Being come to mountains seven,
Note that one that's nighest heaven:
Thereon lieth against the sun
A place of pleasaunce, all o'er-run
With whisperous shade, and blossoming
Of divers trees, wherein do sing
The little birds, and all together,
All day long in happy weather.
And well I ween that since the birth
Of Adam's firstborn, not on earth
Hath ever been such sweet singing
Of bird on bough, as here doth bring
Into a large and leafy ease
His sense that strayeth among the trees,
Where mingled is full many a note
Of golden-finch and speckle-throat.
Even the hoarse-chested starling
Here, where creepeth never a snarling
Gust to vex his heart, all day
Learneth a more melodious lay
Than that whereby this bird is known,
Which, otherwhere, with chiding tone,
What time the fretful Spring doth heave
The frozen North, to winds, that grieve

Round about the grave of March,
He chaunteth from the cloudy larch:
The linnet loud, and throstle eke,
And the blackbird of golden beak,
With perpetual madrigals
Do melodize the warm green walls
Of those blossom-crownèd groves,
In whose cool hearts the cooing doves
Make murmurings innumerable,
Of sound as sweet as when a well
With noise of bubbled water leapeth
At a green couch where Silence sleepeth:
Nor less, the long-voiced nightingale
Doth, deep down in bloomy vale
Delicious, pour at full noonlight
The song he hath rehearsed o'er-night;
And many other birds be there
Of most sweet voice, and plumage rare,
And names that I not know. Of trees
That spring therein such plenty is
That I to tell them over all
Encumber'd am. Both maple tall
There showeth his silver-mottled bark;
And beeches, colour'd like the dark
Red wine o' the South; and laurels green,
Sunny and smooth, that make rich screen
Round mossy places, where all day
Red squirrels and gray conies play,
Munching brown nuts and such wild fare
As tumbleth from the branches there.
And, for moisture of sweet showers,
All the grass is thick with flowers;

Primrose pure, that cometh alone;
Daisies quaint, with savour none,
But golden eyes of great delight,
That all men love, they be so bright;
And, cold in grassy cloister set,
Many a maiden violet;
The bramble flower, the scarlet hepe,
Hangeth above in sunny sleep;
And all around be knots and rows
Of tufted thyme, and lips of cows;
Whose sweet savour goeth about
The jocund bowers, in and out,
And dieth over all the place;
So that there is not any space
Of sun or shade, but haunted is
With ghosts of many sweetnesses.
There, dreading no intrusive stroke
Of lifted axe, the lusty oak
Broad his branches brown doth fling,
And reigneth, “every inch a king:”
Him also of that other kind
In great plenty shall ye find,
That while the great year goeth around
Sheddeth never his leaves to ground,
But in himself his summer hath,
And oweth not, nor borroweth,
As (though but rare) there be some wise
Good men, that to themselves suffice;
But in northern land we see
Full few, and they but stunted be,
Of this goodly kind of tree.
The ever-trembling birch, through all
Her hoary lights ethereal,

Doth twinkle there, twixt green and gray;
And of fruit-trees is great array:
The apple and the pear tree both,
Smother'd o'er in creamy froth
Of bubbled blossoms; the green sig,
With leathern leaves, and horny twig,
And gluey globes; the juniper,
That smelleth sweet in midsummer;
Nor peach-tree, there, nor apricot,
Needeth either nail or knot;
Nor there from churlish weathers wince
The orange, lemon, plum, and quince;
But under these, by grassy slopes,
Hangeth the vine her leafy ropes;
Wild Proteus she, o' the wanton wood,
That ever shifteth her merry mood,
And, aye in luxury of change,
Loveth to revel, and dance, and range,
In leaves, not hers, she sleeteth through,
Hiding her large grape-bunches blue;
And here, o'er haunts he maketh brown
With droppings from his scented crown,
Standeth the stately sycamore,
Lifting airy terrace o'er
Airy terrace;—such of yore
Dusky masons, deftly skill'd
Mighty stones to pile and build,
Up-hung in sumptuous Babylon,
For silken kings at set of sun
To dally with dark girls; but these
Are humm'd about by honey bees,
And cicale all day long
Creek the chamber'd shades among.

Far away, down hills that seem
Liquid (for the light doth stream
Through and through them) like that vail
Of lucid mist Morn spreadeth pale
O'er Summer's sallow forehead, found
Somewhere asleep on upland ground
Under the shade of heavy woods,
Imaginary multitudes
Of melancholy olives waste
Their wanness, smiling half effaced
In a smooth sea of slumbrous glory;
But high on inland promontory
Blandly the broad-headed pine,
Basking in the blue divine,
Drowseth, drench'd with sunny sky:
And, while the blue needle-fly
Nimbly pricketh in and out
The leaf-broider'd lawns about,
(As busy she as highborn dame
In shining silk, at tambour frame),
The pomegranate, flowering flame,
Burneth lone in cool retreats,
Hidden from those gorgeous heats
Where summer smouldereth into sweets.
Now, when ye have this goodly wood
All roamèd through, in gamesome mood,
At morning tide, and thereon spent
Large wealth of love and wonderment,
In honour due of such full cheer
And lustihood as laugheth here
The well-bower'd grass about,
That windeth in, and windeth out,

Under those bright ribandings
The red-budded bramble flings
From branch to branch, still straying on
Softly, ye shall be ware anon
Of a fair garden, glad and great,
Where my Lady, in high state
Of beauty, doth twixt eve and noon,
Under a spiritual moon,
Visit full oft her vassal flowers
In silent and sweet-scented hours,
When quiet vast is everywhere,
About the blue benignant air
And the cool grass, a deep immense
Gladness, an undisturbèd sense
Of goodness in the gather'd calm
Of old green woodlands bathed in balm,
And bounteous silence. . . . O my love,
How softly do the sweet hours move
About thy peaceful perfectness!
O hasten, little Songs! O press
To meet my Lady, ye that be
Her children, if she knew! . . . But she
Still lingereth, and the silver dawn
Is silent on the unfooted lawn.
Here all day doth couch and sport
Trim Flora, with her florid court:
Roses that be illuminèd
With royal colour rich and red;
Some, with bosoms open wide,
Where the brown bee, undenied,
Drinketh deep of honey drops;
Others, whose enamell'd knops

Prettily do peep between
Their half-bursten cradles green;
Lordly lilies, pale and proud;
And of all flowers a great crowd;
Whose rare-colour'd kirtles show
More hues than of the rainy bow.
In sweet warmth and lucid air
Nod they all and whisper, where
Lightly along each leafy lane
Zephyrus, with his tripping train,
Cometh at cool of even hour
To greet in all her pomp and power
Queen Flora, when in mansions damp
Of the dim moss his spousal lamp
Aloof the enamour'd glow-worm doth
Softly kindle; while the moth
Flitteth; and, at elfin rites,
Sprucely dance the little Sprites
Under the young moon all alone,
Round about King Oberon.
But ye this pleasaunce fair shall reach
Ere yet from off the slanted peach
The drops of silver dew be slipp'd,
Or night-born buds be open-lipp'd.
There shall ye find, in lustrous shade
Of laurels cool, an old well-head
That whelmeth up from under-ground,
And falleth with a tinkling sound
In a broad basin, builded there,
All rose-porphyry, smooth and fair.
The water is ever fresh and new,
As that Narcissus gazed into,

When, for love of his sweet self,
He fainted from the flowery shelf,
Leaving Echo all that pain;
So that now there doth remain
Of him that was so fair and sweet
Only in some green retreat
A purple flower seldom found,
And of her a hollow sound
In hollow places. There shall ye
Pause as ye pass, and sing . . “To thee,
Water, our Master bade us say
Glad be thy heart, and pure alway;
May thy full urn never fail;
Thee nor sun nor frost assail,
Nor wild winter's wind molest thee;
Never newt nor est infest thee;
Taint nor trouble touch thee never;
Heaven above thee smile for ever;
Earth around thee ever bear
Beauteous buds and blossoms rare;
Far from thee be all foul things,
Slaves to thee be all sweet springs,
Because thou, of thy kindness, hast
Shown, in blissful summers past,
To fondest eyes have ever been,
Sweetest face was ever seen:
Therefore be blest for evermore.”
But if, my Songs, ye would explore
This pleasaunce all, there be therein
Delights so many, day would win
His under-goal ere ye were forth
Of your much musing on the worth

That is therein, and wondrous grace:
Therefore, ere the sun down-pace,
Must ye onward, where is spread
A fair terrace; and overhead
Thick trellis of the trembling vine,
That with leaves doth loop and twine
Aëry casements, whence the glance
Of whoso there, as in a trance,
Walketh about the whisperous shade
Under that vaulted verdure laid,
Seëth far down, and far away,
Tower'd cities, throng'd and gay,
Blowing woodlands, bright blue streams
Sparkling outward, yellow gleams
Of wavèd corn, and sun-burnt swells
Of pasture, soothed with sounds of bells
Sprinkled in air, of various tone,
From little hill-side chapels lone,
And peaceful flocks that stray and pass
Down endless lengths of lowland grass.
And, certes, I will boldly say
Of this fair place, let mock who may,
That of joy the quintessence
Hath never slept about the sense
Of mortal man that is to die
With fullness sweet as that which I
Deep in my solaced heart have known,
Whilhom walking, not alone,
Here in summer morns and eves,
When shadowy showers of flittering leaves
Fell, shaken thick from many a rout
Of little birds that fast flew out

Above us; interruption sweet
To converse, felt the more complete
For the interposèd pauses
Born of all such innocent causes.

High on the happy lawn above
Standeth the dwelling of my love.
Fair white all the mansion seemeth,
Save where in green shadow dreameth
The broad blossom-buttress'd roof,
Or where the many-colour'd woof
Of honeysuckle and creeping flowers,
Visibly from vernal showers
Winning length, hath broider'd all
With braided buds the southern wall.
Therein many windows be;
And every window fair to see,
O'er-canopied with hangings bright,
For shelter fresh from summer light.
And underneath, in urns and pots,
Sweet-smelling basil, and red knots
Of roses ripe; for every casement
Is balconied about at basement,
A space where three or four may sit
At interchange of song or wit,
In the low amber evening hours,
Overlooking lawns and flowers.

In the hall, which is beneath,
A fountain springeth and echoeth,
Blown by a sad-looking Nymph,
Ravisht from her native lymph

And mossy grot, in days of old;
And in marble mute and cold
Here for ever must she dwell
Uncompanion'd, by the spell
Of a stern old sculptor caught;
For, aye since then, the hand that wrought
This stony charm her limbs upon
May not undo it. Years are gone,
And still about her doth she stare,
Amazed however she came there.

But ye, since ye be free to rove
This mansion through, to floors above
Up the majestic marble stair
Pass with still steps, unseen, to where
Soon shall ye find, in sequel long,
Twelve great chambers: some be hung
With arras quaint, that doth portray
Hounds that hold the hart at bay
In good green wood, and hunters bold,
And dames aclad in green and gold;
And evermore their horns be wound,
And evermore there cometh no sound:
Others in glowing fresco tell
Great Cæsar's tale, and how he fell
Pierced through and through; with many a story
Of ancient kings that be in glory,
And high-renownèd heroes old;
Sir Tristram, with his harp of gold,
That rashly drain'd the philtre brew'd
By the witch Queen for fair Isoud;
Roland in Roncevallès slain;
And bold Sir Ogier the Dane;

Huon of Bordeaux, love's true star;
Saladin with his scimitar;
The Red-beard Kaiser, sleeping still
Hid in the heart of Salzburg Hill;
David that danceth round the ark;
And Charlemagne; ye there may mark.

But, O my Songs, more softly now,
More softly move! Breathe low, breathe low!
For, by my heart's most tender fear,
I know that ye must now be near
The place where, nesting meek and warm,
Rosy cheek on snowy arm,
With loos'd hair and lidded eye
Dreaming doth my Lady lie:
And all around the restful air
Is silent, sweet, and pure, as where
Fond hands some holy taper trim,
Peaceful in sacred precincts dim.
Now, that my spirit, though far away
From her loved beauty, night and day
Ever in unreleasèd pine
Seeking, on many a musèd line,
To flow toward her, purely may
Her pureness praise,—humbly I pray
Of all good things that wait upon
The mind that maketh devotion
To what is fair (since such do lean
O'er mortal spirits oft unseen
Out of the deep and starry night,
Or steal on beams of morning light,
Or breath of buds, or sound of song
Remember'd, to keep safe from wrong,

And wretchedness, and self-mistrust,
Whatever warreth in this dust
Against oblivion), that their grace
May from my spirit purge and chase
All that is in it not sweet and pure;
So may I look with insight sure
Into myself, and favour find
To make a mirror within my mind,
Whereon, unsoil'd of any taint
Of sinful thought, my most sweet saint
Her fairness may from far let fall
In a deep peace perpetual.

The memory of her is mellow light
In darkness, mingling something bright
With all things; like a summer night.

The presence of her is young sunrise,
That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise,
Glorifieth, the earth and skies:

Her spirit is tender and bright as dew
Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few:
Her heart is harmless, simple, and true,

And blithe, and sweet, as bird in bower,
That singeth alone from hour to hour:
Her face is fair as April flower:

Her voice is fresh as bubbling bound
Of silver stream, in land new found,
That maketh ever a pleasant sound

To the soul of a thirsty traveller:
Her laugh is light as grasshopper:
Her breath is sweet as midsummer:

Her hair is a marvellous living thing
With a will of its own: the little locks fling
Showers of brown gold, gambolling

Over the ever-fleeting shade
About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd,
With delicate odours underlaid:

Like calm midsummer cloud, nor less
Clothed with sweet light and silentness,
She in her gracious movement is:

Noble withal, and free from fear
As heart of eagle, and high, and near
To heaven in all her ways: of cheer

Gentle, and meek, from harshness free
As heart of dove: nor chideth she
Things ill, but knoweth not that they be:

All clear as waters clean that run
Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun,
Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none:

But in my Lady's perfect nature
All is sincere, and of sweet feature.
This earth hath none such other creature.

Rise, little Songs, on nimble wing!
Arise! arise! as larks do sing
Lost in that heaven of light they love,
So rise, so lose yourselves above
My darkness, in the perfect light
Of her that is so pure and bright!
Rise, little Songs! with lusty cheer
Rise up to greet my Lady dear.
Be bold, and say to her with pride,—
“We are the souls of loves that died;
Whose sweetness is hope sorrow-fed,
Whose tendernesses tears unshed;
And we are essences that rise
From passions burn'd in sacrifice;
The youngest and bright-eyèd heirs
Of blind unbeautiful despairs;
Voiced resignations, once dumb wrongs.”
Then, if she smile on you, my Songs,
Say, as I bid you, word for word,
“Lady of him that is our lord,
We from his heart, where we were born,
Shelter'd, and shut from shame and scorn,
Now at his bidding (well-a-day
For him, and us!) being fled away,
Never again may there abide,
Never return, and, undenied,
Creep in, and fold our wings, and rest
At peace in our abandon'd nest.
Wherefore, dear mistress, prithee take
(By true love sent, for true love's sake)
To thy sweet heart, and spirit pure,
Us, that must else but ill endure

The scorns of time, and haply fare
Homeless as birds in winter are.”

But if that, on your way to greet
My gracious Lady, ye should meet
Haply elsewhere with other folk
Who may ask ye in scorn or joke,—
“Pray you now, little Songs, declare
Who is that lady so sweet and fair,
Whereof this singer that sent you sings,
As certainly sweeter than all sweet things?”
See that ye answer not, Songs, but deep
In your secretest hearts my secret keep;
Lest the world, that loveth me not, should tell
The name of the Lady I love so well.

A FOOTSTEP.

Within my mind there is a garden: part
Sprung from the greenest stray-aways of Spring
In a dewy time: part by long labouring
Of toilful Love, and many a culturing art
Learn'd of skill'd Grief in patientness of heart,
Nor without weariness, wrought. Deep-blossoming
Growths of long-planted pain cold shadow fling,
Sun-proof to every casual golden dart,
Over one aspect of this haunt. Elsewhere
Full sunlight sleeps for ever. Many a day
I lose myself about this quiet place,
Following one footstep ever the same way.
Dear, 'tis thy ghostly footstep that I trace,
But thee thyself I find not here nor there.

DIVIDED LIVES.

O lives beloved, wherein mine once did live,
Thinking your thoughts, and walking in your ways,
On your dear presence pasturing all my days,
In pleasantness, and peace; whose moods did give
The measure to mine own! how vainly strive
Poor Fancy's fingers, numb'd by time, to raise
This vail of woven years, that from my gaze
To hide what now you are doth still contrive!
Dear lives, I marvel if to you yet clings
Of mine some colour; and my heart then feels
Much like the ghost of one who died too young
To be remember'd well, that sometimes steals
A family of unsad friends among
Sighing, and hears them talk of other things.

SEA-SIDE ELEGIACS.

Ever my heart beateth high and the blood in me danceth delighted,
When, in the wind on the wharf, keen from the edge of the land,
Watching the white-wingèd black-bodied ships, as they rise uninvited
Over the violet-dark wall o' the waters, I stand.
Wondrous with life that is in them, aware of the waters and weathers,
They to the populous port pass with a will of their own.
Merrily singeth the mariner there, as the cable he tethers
Tight to the huge iron ring, hung in the green glewy stone.
Swept with the spray is the pavement above; and the sea-wind is salt there.
Down on the causeys all day, humming, the merchants unlade
Marvellous merchandise, while the sea-engines of burthen, at halt there,
Shoulder each other, and loll, lazy in shine or in shade.
O for the wing o' the grey sea-eagle, that far away inland
Croucheth in cave or in creek, waiting the wind on the height!
When night cometh, the great north-wind, blowing bleak over Finland,
Leapeth, and, lifting aloft, beareth him into the night.
O for the wing o' the bird! and O for the wind o' the ocean!
O for the far-away lands! O for the faces unfound!
Would I were hence! for my spirit is fill'd with a mighty emotion.
Why must the spirit, though wing'd, thus to the body be bound?

Ah, but my heart sinketh low, and the rapturous vein is arrested,
When, at the mid o' the night, high on the shadowy land,
Mournfully watching the ghost-white waves, livid-lipp'd, hollow-breasted,
Sob over shingle and shell, here with my sorrow I stand.
Weary of woe that is in them, fatigued by the violent weathers,
Feebly they tumble and toss, sadly they murmur and moan,
Coldly the moon looketh down through the wan-rolling vapour she gathers
Silently, cloud after cloud, round her companionless throne.
Dark up above is the wharf; and the harbour. The night-wind alone there
Goeth about in the night, humming a horrible song.
Black misshapen bulks, coil'd cumbrous things, overthrown there,
Seem as, in sullen dismay, silently suffering wrong.
O for the wing o' the grey sea-eagle, roamer of heaven!
Him doth the wind o' the night bear through the night on its breast,
Over the howling ocean, and unto his ancient haven,
Far in the land that he loves finding the realms of his rest.
O for the wing o' the bird! and O for the wind o' the ocean!
O for the lands that are left! O for the faces of eld!
Would I were hence! for my spirit is fill'd with a mournful emotion.
Why must the spirit, though wing'd, still by the body be held?

THE SHORE.

Can it be women that walk in the sea-mist, under the cliffs there
Which the unsatisfied surge sucks with importunate lip?
There, where out from the sand-chok'd anchors, on to the skiffs there,
Twinkle the slippery ropes, swinging adip and adrip?
All the place in a lurid, glimmering, emerald glory,
Glares like a Titan world come back under heaven again:
Yonder, aloof are the steeps of the sea-kings, famous in story;
But who are they on the beach? they are neither women nor men.
Who knows, are they the land's, or the water's, living creatures?
Born of the boiling sea? nurst in the seething storms?
With their woman's hair dishevell'd over their stern male features,
Striding, bare to the knee; magnified maritime forms!
They may be the mothers and wives, they may be the sisters and daughters
Of men on the dark mid-seas, alone in those black coil'd hulls,
That toil 'neath yon white cloud, whence the moon will rise o'er the waters
To-night, with her face on fire, if the wind in the evening lulls.
But they may be merely visions, such as only sick men witness,
(Sitting as I sit here, fill'd with a wild regret,)
Framed from the sea's misshapen spume with a horrible fitness
To the winds in which they walk, and the surges by which they are wet:—

Salamanders, seawolves, witches warlocks; marine monsters
Which the dying seaman beholds, when the rats are swimming away,
And an Indian wind 'gins hiss from an unknown isle, and alone stirs
The broken cloud which burns on the verge of the dead, red day.
I know not. All in my mind is confused; nor can I dissever
The mould of the visible world from the shape of my thoughts in me.
The Inward and Outward are fused: and, through them, murmur for ever
The sorrow whose sound is the wind, and the roar of the limitless sea.

THE PEDLAR.

I

There was a man, whom you might see
At nightfall, with a pedlar's pack,
Or was it an iron chest, that he
Had bound upon his back?

II

He pass'd the tinkling camels, pass'd
The wayside wells, the glimmering grates
Of garden walls, the palm-trees mass'd
Round Bagdadt's murmurous gates.

III

The merchants from Bassora stared
And of his wares would question him,
But, without answer, on he fared
Into the evening dim.

IV

His cheek was worn, his back bent double
Beneath the iron chest it bore,
And in his walk there was the trouble
Of one whose feet are sore.

V

You wonder'd if he ever had
A settled home, a wife, a child.
You marvell'd if a face so sad
At any time had smiled.

VI

To him the pitying housewife oft
Flung alms, but he limp'd heedless by;
The children pelted him and scoff'd,
Yet fear'd,—they knew not why.

VII

Thro' the dark doorway of the maid
Loose from her lingering lover ran,
And, with a frighten'd whisper, said
‘There walks the haunted man!’

VIII

The traveller hail'd him oft ‘Goodnight!
The town is far, the road is lone.
God speed!’ Already out of sight
The wayfarer was gone.

IX

But when the night was late and still,
And only thro' the darkness crept
The hungry wild beast from the hill,
He laid him down, and slept.

X

His head on that strong box he laid;
And there, beneath the star-clear skies,
Or in the jungle's giant shade,
There rose before his eyes.

XI

A lovely dream, a vision fair,
Of some far off forgotten land,
And a white girl with golden hair
And wild flowers in her hand.

XII

He sprang to clasp her. ‘Ah, once more
‘Return, beloved, and bring with thee
The glory and the grace of yore,
And all that was to be!’

XIII

Ere she could answer, o'er his back
There fell a sharp and sudden stroke,
And, smarting sore, the wretch, alack,
Most wretchedly awoke.

XIV

There comes from out that iron chest
A hideous hag, a hateful crone.
With lifted crutch, and scurvey jest,
She beats him to the bone.

XV

‘Thou lazy scatterling! come, budge,
And carry me again!’ she says.
‘Not half the journey's over. Trudge!’
He groans, but he obeys.

XVI

Oft in the sea he sought to fling
That iron chest. But witches swim;
And wave and wind were sure to bring
The old hag back to him,

XVII

Who all the more. . . . . But, O my love,
Thou know'st the rest! Thou know'st it all.
Return! return! where e'er I rove,
And whatsoe'er befall,

XVIII

I heed not, if thou still. . . . Behold,
With surly crutch uplifted high
The angry hag begins to scold!
Ah, yet we might. . . . . Good-bye!

100

THE VAMPIRE.

I.

I found a corpse, with glittering hair,
Of a woman whose face, tho' dead,
The white death in it had left still fair,
Too fair for an earthy bed!
So I loosen'd each fold of her bright curls, roll'd
From forehead to foot in a gush of red gold,
And kiss'd her lips till her lips were red,
And warm and light on her eyelids white
I breath'd, and press'd unto mine her breast,
Till the blue eyes oped, and the breast grew warm.
And this woman, behold! arose up bold,
And, lifelike lifting a wilful arm,
With steady feet from the winding sheet
Stepp'd forth to a mutter'd charm.

II.

And now beside me, whatever betide me,
This woman is, night and day.
For she cleaves to me so, that, wherever I go
She is with me the whole of the way.
And her eyes are so bright in the dead of the night.
That they keep me awake with dread;
While my lifeblood pales in my veins, and fails,
Because her red lips are so red

101

That I fear 'tis my heart she must eat for her food;
And it makes my whole flesh creep
To think she is drinking and draining my blood,
Unawares, if I chance to sleep.

III.

It were better for me, ere I came nigh her,—
This corpse,—ere I look'd upon her,—
Had they burn'd my body in penal fire
With a sorcerer's dishonour.
For, when the Devil hath made his lair
In the living eyes of a dear dead woman,
(To bind a man's strength by her golden hair,
And break his heart, if his heart be human)
Is there any penance, or any prayer,
That may save the sinner whose soul he tries
To catch in the curse of the constant stare
Of those heartbreaking bewildering eyes,—
Comfortless, cavernous glowworms that glare
From the gaping grave where a dead hope lies?
It is more than the soul of a man may bear.
For the misery worst of all miseries
Is Desire eternally feeding Despair
On the flesh, or the blood, that forever supplies
Life more than enough to keep fresh in repair
The death ever dying, which yet never dies.

102

A REPROACH.

I.

Fierce the sea is, and fickle if fair.
So they say of it. So let it be!
But did ever the landsman's languor check
The seaman's pride in his dancing deck?
Or did ever the helmsman, whose home is there,
In place of his own true hand and eye
Trust the ploughman's skill, when the sea ran high,
And submit to a landsman's usurpature?
No! for the seaman loveth the sea,
And knoweth its nature.

II.

Peril there is on the mountain peak,
When headlong tumble the turbulent rills.
But did ever the lowland shepherd's fear
Daunt the heart of the mountaineer?
Or did ever the hillborn hunter seek,
When the snowdrift, sweeping the mountain side,
Flew fast and fierce, for a lowland guide
To track the path of a mountain creature?
No! for the huntsman loveth the hills,
And knoweth their nature.

103

III.

Then to whom shall the sailor for counsel go,
Thro' the violent waters his bark to steer?
Or what thro' the ice and the falling snow
May guide the foot of the mountaineer?
Hath the huntsman heed of the pastoral quills
Which the shepherd pipes to his flocks on the lea?
Or the seaman faith in the fear that fills
The babbling landsman's prate? Not he!
For the heighths and the depths have their ways and wills,
Which they must learn who their lords would be.
And the highlander studies and trusts the hills,
As the mariner studies and trusts the sea.

IV.

But, O my love, I am thine in vain,
If thou trustest me not! and oh why hast thou ta'en
Counsel, not of my nature nor thine,
How a woman should deal with this heart of mine?
The seaman the sea doth trust,
And the huntsman the hills. But thou,
Thou, that hast known me, do'st
Trust those that I scorn to know
For the knowledge of me;
Who have been thine own
In vain, if by thee
I be still unknown.

104

A REMONSTRANCE.

I

Deem, if thou wilt, that I am all, and worse
Than all, they bid thee deem that I must be.
But, ah! wilt thou desert love's universe,
Deserting me?

II

Not for my sake, be mine unworth forgiven,
But for thine own. Since I, despite my dearth
Of all that made thee, what thou art, my Heaven,
Am still thine Earth;

III

Still thy love's only habitable star;
Whose element engender'd, and embosoms
All thoughts, all feelings, all desires, which are
Love's roots and blossoms.

IV

Who will hold dear the ashes of the days
Burn'd out on altars deem'd no more divine?
Rests there of thy soul's wealth enough to raise
A new god's shrine?

V

Who will forgive thy cheek its faded bloom,
Save he whose kisses that blanch'd rose hath fed?
Thine eyes, the stain of tears—save he for whom
Those tears were shed?

105

VI

Despite the blemisht beauty of thy brow,
Thou would'st be lovely couldst thou love again;
For love renews the beautiful. But thou
Hast only pain.

VII

How wilt thou bear from pity to implore
What once thy power from rapture could command?
How wilt thou stretch—who wast a Queen of yore—
A suppliant's hand?—

VIII

Even of thy pride be poor enough to ask
Love's purchased shelter, charitably chill,
Yet hast thou strength to recommence the task
Of pardoning still?

IX

For who will prize in thee love's loss of all
Love hath to give save pardon for love wrong'd,
Unless that pardon be, whate'er befall
Love's pride, prolong'd?

X

And thou—to whom demanding all that I
Can claim no more, wilt thou henceforth extend
Forgiveness on forgiveness, with that sigh
Which shuns the end?

XI

Where wilt thou find the unworthier lips than mine,
To plead for pardon with a prayer more lowly?
To whom else, pardoning much, become divine
By pardoning wholly?—

106

XII

Ah, if thy heart can pardon yet, why yet
Should not its latest pardon be for me?
And, if thou wilt not pardon, canst thou set
The future free

XIII

From the unpardon'd past, and so forget me?
If not,—forgive me for thine own sad sake;
Else, having left me, thou would'st still regret me,
And still would'st take

XIV

Revenge for that regret on thine own bosom,
Revenge on others for the failure, found
In them, to rear transplanted love to blossom
On blighted ground.

XV

As lion, tho' by lion wounded, still
Doth miss the boisterous pastime of his kind,
Or wild sea-eagle, tho' with broken quill,
Clipt, and confined,

XVI

And fed on dainty fare among the doves,
Doth miss the stormy sea-wind and the brine,
So would'st thou miss, amid all worthier loves,
The unworth of mine.

XVII

Then, if the flush of love's first faith be wan,
And thou wilt love again, again love me,
For what I am—no Saint, but still a man
That worships thee.—

107

ONE MORNING.

I

“ Swear twice, and thrice, no future hour
Shall ever blight what this hath blest!
Nay, I possess thee by the power
Whereby I am, myself, possest!”

II

Words like to those were said (—or dream'd?—)
How long since! on a night divine,
By lips from which such rapture stream'd,
I cannot think those lips were mine.

III

The dawn creeps, dripping, up the roofs,
All sallow from a night of rain.
The sound of feet, and wheels, and hoofs
In the choked street begins again.

IV

The same dull toil—no end, no aim!
The same vile babble in mine ears:
The same unmeaning smiles: the same
Most miserable dearth of tears:

V

The same sick gaze on the same lack
Of lustre in the level grey:
It seems like yesterday come back
With nothing new, and not today.

108

VI

But, now and then, her name will fall
From careless lips, with little praise,
On life's parcht surface, shattering all
The dry indifference of my days.

VII

The chatterers chatter here and there:
They chatter of they know not what:
They lie, and leer, and sneer, and stare,
Inquire of this, and hint of that.

VIII

On her fair fame, and mine, the spite
Of fools is fed. They know not, they,
(No more than insects when they bite)
The nature of their noble prey.

IX

This curse ensues, when life from life
Hath been disjoin'd,—that things which breed
And buzz in broken rifts their rise
And reeking eggs, 'twixt dust and weed,

X

Hatch in the hollow fractures fast;
And so defile their delicate
Fine fibrous joints that these at last
Can fit and fix no more.
Such fate

XI

Is ours, unless thou sweep from thine,
As I from my life hourly sweep,
The sickening swarm and strangling twine
Of weeds that cling and worms that creep,

109

XII

O thou, so distant and so dear
Half of us One!
But, ah! the worst
Is that I know she cannot hear.
This warning cry. And lips that thirst

XIII

Drink aught that's pour'd: and souls o'erstrung
Are credulous of cause for pain:
And she is left alone among
My slanderers: and a Lie will gain

XIV

The goal, altho' from land to land,
To get there, round the world it run,
White Truth, half-waked, with drowsy hand
Her travelling trim is buckling on.

XV

I know how tender friends of ours
Have sown, 'twixt crafty gape and glance,
The seeds of scandal's choicest flowers,
That seem, like weeds, to spring from chance.

XVI

That small, small, imperceptible
Small talk! that cuts like powder'd glass
Ground in Tophana,—who can tell
Where lurks the power the poison has?

XVII

All treachery could devise hath wrought
Against us—letters robb'd and read,
Snares hid in smiles, betrayal bought,
And lies imputed to the dead.

110

XVIII

And here, where Slander's spawn is spilt,
And gabbling Gossip clucks above
Her fetid eggs, it feels like guilt,
To know that, far away, my love

XIX

Her heart on every heartless hour
Is haply bruising for my sake,
While numb, and dumb, and void of power,
My life sleeps, like a winter snake.

XX

I will arise, and go to her,
And save her, in her own despite.
For in my breast begins to stir
A pulse of its old power and might.

XXI

I may be worse than friends would prove.
Who knows the worst of any man?
But, whatsoe'er it be, my love
Is not what they conceive, or can.

XXII

Nor can they so have slander'd me
But what, I think, if I should call,
And stretch my arms to her, that she
Would rush to meet me, 'spite of all.

111

SORCERY.

I.

You're a Princess of the water:
I'm a Genius of the air.
We have both been metamorphosed,
But our spirits still are fair.
For a deed, untold, unwritten,
That was done an age ago,
I have lost my wings, and wander
In the wilderness below.
For a wizard's wicked pleasure,
In a palace by the sea,
You were changed to a white panther,
Till the time for meeting me.
No white lamb are you, my panther,
And no shepherd swain am I!
Did you hear the wild horn blowing,
When I heard the wild beast cry?
You have lain, with lynx and lion,
In the jungle and the fen.
I have roam'd the wild with robbers,
Pariahs, outlaws, ruin'd men.
The black elephants of Delhi
Are the wisest of their kind,
And the libbards of Sumatra
Have a hundred eyes behind:

112

But they guess'd not, they divined not,
They believed me of the earth,
When I moved among them, mourning
For the region of my birth,
Till I found you in the moonlight.
Then, at once, I knew it all!
You were coil'd in sullen slumber,
But you started at my call.
To my lips your name came leaping
When you open'd your wild eyes.
At my feet you fawn'd, you knew me
In despite of all disguise.
Sure I am why in your slumber
You were moaning! 'Twas for me,
And a dream of harpers harping
From a palace by the sea.
Thro' the wilderness together
We must wander everywhere,
Till we find the magic berry
That shall make us what we were.
Then your crown shall you recover,
And my wings shall I regain,
And we two shall then reenter
Our inherited domain.
'Tis a fruit of bitter savour,
By few pilgrims sought or found:
And the palm whence we must pluck it
Grows on far enchanted ground.
Bitter is it, yet benignant,
Since of power to cleanse and cure;
Like the godhood of the Ganges
Purifying things impure.

113

By its virtue, if we find it,
Shall our forms again be fair:
Yours, with beauty of the water,
Mine, with beauty of the air.
All the ways are wild before us,
And the night is in the skies,
And the dæmons of the desert
Are against us. Yet arise!

END OF BOOK II.

115

BOOK III.

THE LAST TIME.

“Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual inganno
Mi reconduce disarmato al campo
Là 've sempre son vinto?”
Petrarca, Sonnet CLXVI.

120

EARTH'S HAVINGS.

(Song.)

Weary the cloud falleth out of the sky,
Dreary the leaf lieth low.
All things must come to the earth by and by,
Out of which all things grow.

Let the wild wind laugh and whistle
Aloof in the lonesome wood:
In our garden let the thistle
Start where the rosetree stood:
Let the rotting moss fall rotten
With the raindrops from the eaves:
Let the dead past lie forgotten
In his grave with the yellow leaves.

Weary the cloud falleth out of the sky,
Dreary the leaf lieth low.
All things must come to the earth by and by,
Out of which all things grow.

And again the hawthorn pale
Shall blossom sweet i' the Spring:
And again the nightingale
In the deep blue nights shall sing:

121

And seas of the wind shall wave
In the light of the golden grain:
But the love that is gone to his grave
Shall never return again.

Weary the cloud falleth out of the sky,
Dreary the leaf lieth low.
All things must come to the earth by and by,
Out of which all things grow.

122

FUTILITY.

I

Let us not be dissatisfied
With Nature. She is in her right.
We are ourselves, and nought beside.
As, on a clear spring night,

II

The cold encumbrance of the snow
Drops from the bosom of the hills,
So all my life from thine lets go,
And all its weight of ills

III

Drops from thee. Set thy smooth smile free,
Assert thy youth, bloom forth unblamed
Beyond me! Whatsoe'er we be,
Why should we be ashamed?

IV

That which we are, we are. 'Twere vain
To plant with toil what may not blow.
The cloud will break and bring the rain,
Whether we reap, or sow.

V

All finds its place. We shall not miss
Life's meaning, whatsoe'er it mean.
If this were that, or that were this,
What hath been had not been.

123

VI

Let all be as it is, dear love.
There is no better thing than sleep.
They only fall, that strive to move,
Or lose, that care to keep.

VII

Let go what will not stay. What then?
Seed-time, and harvest,—soon, the snow!
Above the graves of buried men
The grass hath leave to grow.

124

THE CANTICLE OF LOVE.

I

I heard an angel in the midnight sky,
That made sweet singing to a golden lute.
The pole star, and the planets seven, and I
To his sweet singing did give audience mute;
Which, heard, made all things else to seem most sweet,
Such rapture was in those divine lute strings!
Such rapture, that Heaven's seraphs, about his feet,
Thrill'd to the bright ends of their burning wings.
‘The song he singeth,’ sigh'd those seraphs fair,
‘Is Love.’ But I have heard that song elsewhere.

II

For when I last was in the nethermost Hell,
There, on a sulphurous headland wild, I heard
A spirit pale that, to a hollow shell,
The selfsame song was singing, word for word;
Which then so sadly sounded, its sad sound
Hell's aching heart did heave to deeper pain,
While fiends, with foreheads scarr'd, that crouch'd around
Drooping dark wings, made murmur . . . ‘Vain, ah, vain!’
Yet, moan'd those fiends ‘The song he singeth there
Is Love!’ But he that sung it was Despair.—

125

THE LAST FAREWELL.

I

Away! away! in those wild eyes
Repress the tears whose right is o'er
To flow for me. Wrung hands, and sighs,
And self-rebukes can not restore
What is no more.

II

Vain are all words, all weepings vain!
We met too soon: we part too late.
Still wear, as best thou canst, the chain
Thine own hands forged about thy fate,
Who could'st not wait.

III

Be happy! Haunt where music plays,
And find no pain in music's tone.
Be fair! Nor blush when others praise
That beauty, scarcely now thine own.
What's done is done.

IV

Take, if thou can'st, from off thy youth
The mark of mine, which burns there yet.
Take from that unremembering mouth
The seal which there mine own hath set.
And so, forget,

126

V

Tho' unforgot! It is thy doom
To bear henceforth the heavy weight
Of my forgiveness to the tomb.
I cannot save thee from thy fate;
Nor reinstate

VI

Thy ruin'd pride, till in my grave
Love's broken bond shall buried be.
And I, that would have died to save
Thy heart's lost freedom, may not free
This load from thee.

VII

Farewell, till life's mistake is over!
When downward doth thy Genius turn
His wasted torch, and half uncover
The date upon the funeral urn,
I will return.

VIII

Then in the dark, the doubt, the fear,
Amid the Spirits come to take thee,
Shall mine to thine again be near,
And life's forgiveness mine shall make thee,
When death doth wake thee.

127

THE LAST ASSURANCE.

I

Fear me no more. The last wild words are spoken.
What heart have I, who worship'd once, to blame, thee?
Never shall word or deed of mine betoken
The bond 'twixt thee and me which thou hast broken.
In the lone years to come my lips shall name thee
Never, child, never!

II

And, if unprized applause, or scorn'd aspersion
Should waft mine own name to thine ears again,
Know I have triumph'd,—not by thine exertion,
Or fail'd,—but not from thy forgiven desertion.
For every link is lost between us twain,
Forever, child, forever!

128

THE DESERTED PALACE.

I

Broken are the Palace windows,
Rotting is the Palace floor.
And the damp wind thro' the arras
Sighs, and swings the creaking door.
But it only starts the white owl
Perch'd upon a monarch's throne,
And the hungry rat that's gnawing
Harpstrings tuneless every one.

II

Dare you linger here at nightfall,
When the hornèd owls do shout,
And the bat, the newt, the viper,
And the dead men's ghosts come out?
Peep not, curious fool! nor enter
Here where nobler things have been.
Lest you find a Phantom, sitting
Throned where sat, long since, a Queen.

129

THE BURIED HEART.

This heart, you would not have,
I laid up in a grave
Of song: with love enwound it,
And set wild fancies blowing round it.

Then I to others gave it;
Because you would not have it.

‘See you keep it well,’ I said,
‘This heart's sleeping—is not dead—
But will wake some future day.
Keep and guard it while you may.’

All great Sorrows,—sceptred some,
With gold crowns upon their heads,
Others that bare-footed roam,
Sadly telling cypress beads,
Pilgrims with no settled home,
Poorly clad in Palmer's weeds,
These from dismal dongeons come,
Faint and wan for want of food,
Those by many a bitter dart
From lost battlefields pursued,

130

—Each one clad in his own mood,
Each one claiming his own part,—
A forlorn and famisht brood,—
Came to take my heart.

Then, in holy ground they set it,
With melodious weepings wet it,
And revered it, as they found it,
With wild fancies blowing round it.

And this heart (you would not have)
Being not dead, though in the grave,
Work'd miracles and marvels strange,
And heal'd many maladies:
Giving sight to seal'd-up eyes,
And legs to lame men sick for change.

The fame of it grew great and greater.
Then did you bethink you, later,
‘How hath this heart, I would not take,
—This weak heart, a child might break—
Such glory gotten? Me he gave it:
Mine this heart, and I will have it.’

Ah, too late! For crowds exclaim'd
‘Ours 'tis now: and hath been claim'd.
Moreover, where it lies, the spot
Is holy ground: so enter not.
None but men of mournful mind—
Men to darken'd days resign'd;
Equal scorn of Saint and Devil;
Poor and outcast; halt and blind;

131

Exiles from Life's golden revel;
Gnawing at the bitter rind
Of old griefs; or else, confined
In proud cares, to serve and grind—
May enter: whom this heart shall cure.
But go thou by: thou art not poor:
Nor defrauded of thy lot.
Bless thyself: but enter not!’

HOW THESE SONGS WERE MADE.

I

I sat low down, at midnight, in a vale
Mysterious with the silence of blue pines:
White-cloven by a snaky river-tail,
Uncoil'd from tangled wefts of silver twines.

II

Out of a crumbling castle, on a spike
Of splinter'd rock, a mile of changeless shade
Gorged half the landscape. Down a dismal dyke
Of black hills the sluiced moonbeams stream'd, and staid.

III

I pluck'd blue mugwort, livid mandrakes, balls
Of blossom'd nightshade, heads of hemlock, long
White grasses, grown by mountain pedestals,
To make ingredients fit, for many a song

132

IV

Of fragrant sadness,—to embalm the Past—
The corpse-cold Past—that it should not decay;
But in dark vaults of Memory, to the last,
Endure unchanged: for in some future day

V

I will bring my new love to look at it
(Laying aside her gay robes for a moment)
That, seeing what love came to, she may sit
Silent awhile, and muse, but make no comment.

END OF BOOK III.

133

BOOK IV.

EXILE.

“Nessun maggior dolore
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.”
Dante, l'Inferno, Canto V.

135

ON THE SEA.

Come! breathe thou soft, or blow thou bold,
Thy coming be it kind or cold,
Thou soul of the heedless ocean wind,—
Little I rede, and little I reck,
Tho' the mast be snapp'd, and the dripping deck
Swept bare of whatever the billow can find,
If only thou wilt but blow from me,
And bury in yonder boiling sea,
This weight on my heart and mind!—

Welcome, you blasts that round me roar!
Welcome you hissing heaps of wave,
Whose heavy heads and shoulders hoar
Are now a mountain, and now a cave,
And now a foam-fleckt slumbrous floor
Of seething scum! True hearts, and brave,
Courage! The broad sea darkens before,
And the black storm follows us fast behind.
The day is dead in his dismal grave.
His dirge is chaunted by wave and wind.
We are rid at last of the hated shore,
Out of the reach of coward and slave,
And free of all bonds that bind.

136

Comrades, the night is long.
I will sing you an ancient song
Of a tale that was told
In the days of old,
Of a Baron brave and strong,
‘Who left his castled home,
When the cross was raised in Rome,
And swore on his sword
To fight for the Lord,
And the banners of Christendom.
To die or to overcome!
In hauberk of mail, and helmet of steel,
And armour of proof from head to heel,
Oh, where the foe that shall make him reel?
True knight on whose crest the cross doth shine!
They buckled his harness, brought him his steed—
A stallion black of the land's best breed—
Belted his spurs, and bade him God-speed
'Mid the Paynim in Palestine.
But the wife that he loved, when she pour'd him up
A last deep health in her golden cup,
Put poison into the wine.

‘So he rode till the land he loved grew dim,
And that poison began to work in him,—
Blithely chaunting his battle hymn;
And proudly tossing his noble crest;
Glad of the deeds to be done in the east,
And glad of the glory he goeth to win:
With his young wife's pictured beauty prest
To its treasured place on his harness'd breast,
And her poison'd wine within.

137

‘Alas! poor knight, poor knight!
For he carries the foe he cannot fight
In his own true breast shut up.
He hath pledged his life
To a faithless wife,
In the wine of a poison'd cup!’

Comrade, thy hand in mine!
While all is dark on the brine,
Pour me, no stinted flow
Of that fullhearted wine
Whose purple grape was aglow,
Ere my sire was born, or thine,
With a thousand fancies fine.
My friend, I care not now
If the wild night-wind should blow
Our bark beyond the poles:—
To drift thro' fire or snow,
Out of reach of all we know—
Cold heart, and narrow brow,
Smooth faces, sordid souls!
Lost, like some pale crew
Of Ophir's trading galleys,
On a witch's island! who
Wander the tamarisk alleys,
Where the heaven is blue,
And the soft sea too,
That murmurs among the valleys.

‘Perisht with all on board!’
So runs the vagrant fame—
Thy wife weds another lord,
My kinsmen forget my name,

138

While we wander out of sight,
Till the beard on the chin is white,
And scant are the curls on the head.
One dreams on poppy flowers,
Strewn for the bridal bed
Of some young witch: with showers
Of milkwhite manna, shed
Thro' dim enchanted bowers,
His drowsy lips are fed.
With ruin'd gods one dwells,
In caverns among the fells,
Where the lion and lynx lie dead,
And a single shadow tells
The reason why,—outspread
By the upas, dark and dread,
O'er the horrible silence of sultry dells
In Elephanta, the Red.

139

VENICE.

The sylphs and ondines
And the seakings and queens
Once, on the waves built a wonderful a city,
As lovely as seems
To some bard, in his dreams,
The soul of his sweetest love-ditty.
Long ago! long ago! ah, that was long ago!—
Thick, as on chalices
Kings keep for treasure,
Jewel-born lustres,
Temples and palaces,
Places of pleasure,
Glitter'd in clustres;
Night broke out shining
With splendour and festival
O'er the meandering murmurous streets,
Seawaves went pining
With love thro' the musical
Multiform bridges and marble retreats
Of this city of wonder, where dwelt the ondines
Long ago, and the sylphs, and the seakings and queens.
Ah, that was long ago!—
But the sylphs and ondines,
And the seakings and queens
Are fled under the waves.

140

And I glide, unespied,
Down the glimmering tide,
('Mid forms silently passing, as silent as any!)
Here in the waves
Of this city of graves
To bury my heart,—one grave more to the many!—

141

RINALDO RINALDI.

I.

It is midnight, and moonlight, and music
Abroad on the odorous air.
Out of diamonded darknesses flashing,
The oars of the fleet gondolier
Flit over the somnolent water,
And pause by the porphyry pier,
In the light on the wave that is washing
The weed-strewn slippery stair;
Whereby to the rose-redden'd terrace
Many a gay cavalier
Leads many a laughing lady,
Under luminous lattices there.
Like the upthrust stems, bright-budded,
Of some wonderful water-plant,
Or a cluster of turban'd toadstools,
By the pier of the palace slant
All manner of brilliant-banded
Purple and scarlet poles;
And the gondolas tether'd to them
Glitter in gorgeous shoals.
'Tis a terrace paven mosaic,
And mantled with myrtle and rose;
Round an ancient Venetian palace
All vivid with glory that flows

142

From lamplets of complicate colour,
In clustres, and crescents, and rows;
Whose splendour is spray'd by the jewels
That sparkle on coronall'd brows.
To the moon of the midsummer weather,
That low in the warm air hovers,
From the lamplit garden-grove
The nightingales warble together,
Delighting the souls of young lovers
In many a wanton alcove.
It is night in the city of pleasure,
Sweet night in the season of love;
And as, sway'd by a musical measure,
The jubilant multitudes move,
Love throbs in the nightingales' throats,
That warble what words cannot tell;
Love beams from the beautiful moon;
Love swims in the languerous glances
Of the dancers adown the dim dances;
And thrills in the tremulous notes
That rise into rapture, and swell
From viol, and flute, and bassoon.

II.

The terminal tree on the terrace
Is a sable cypress tree;
And the statue that gleams beneath it
Mnemosyne's statue must be.
To the palace a guest unbidden
Doth a black-stoled gondola bear,
And the count Rinaldo Rinaldi
Hath mounted the marble stair.
In camlet cloak (not merrily

143

Mantled, befitting a feast)
And doublet of sad-colour'd quilt,
Steel giaco, and dark plume, drest,
Slowly he walk'd, and warily,
Unlike a greeted guest,
Grasping his good sword's hilt,
And hiding the mail on his breast,
And gazing before him drearily,
—Eagerly, and yet wearily,
Like one who, with bosom opprest
Either by grief or guilt,
Seeth, before him, the crest
Of a city for refuge built,
And yearneth and sigheth for rest,
Yet knoweth his wish is unblest,
And, foreseeing his blood will be spilt,
Is resolved to die fighting at least.

III.

There rustled a robe in the roses,
Unheard by the revellers there;
For the sound of the mighty music
Was strong on the midnight air.
There rustled a robe, no louder
Than if a light bird it were;
And, under the sable shadow
Of the terminal cypress tree,
By the image that, gleaming thro' it,
Mnemosyne's image must be,
The lady Irene Riario
Lean'd from the terrace her fair
Face, with the midsummer moonlight
Clear on her coronall'd hair.

144

The revel ripens and ripples:
The minstrels urge it and rouse.
The music is sounding, the dancers bounding,
Silken mummers and masks surrounding
The radiant resonant house.
“Siora,” the Count said unto her,
“The shafts of ill fortune pursue me.
Growing older, it ever grows newer,
The grief of the olden time;
And the foes that have sworn to undo me
Have chased me from clime to clime.
False foemen! never my falchion
Could they shatter in open fight;
But they dug their pits in the darkness,
And they spread their snares on the night:
My heart they have well-nigh broken,
And my life they have broken quite.
Yet dying men have arisen
'Neath the stroke of the slayer's knife,
And slaves from the chain and the prison
Have rush'd, and reconquer'd life,
In the heat of a hope rekindled
By the steel-cold stab of despair;
For mighty in misery even
Is man's worship of one thing fair.
To others be all that you are, love.
—A lady more lovely than most;
To me be the one spared star, love,
That lights to his haven the lost:
A shrine that, for tender devotion,
In the desert wan marriners deck
With the garments yet dripping from ocean
And the last jewel saved from the wreck!”

145

IV.

What the lady Irene Riario
(By Mnemosyne's statue, that shone
Thro' the shade of the cypress tree)
To the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi
Replied then, it never was known,
And known now it never will be.
But the moon is set; and the dawning
Of day, in the starless heaven,
Over the dead night hovers,
Like the dead night's ghost unshriven;
From the lattices no light gleams;
From the porch, with its purple awning,
From the garden's myrtle covers,
From the pier where the water, driven
'Twixt the slant poles, blushes and gleams,
The minstrels, and maskers, and mummers
Are gone like the leaves of lost summers;
The dancing dames, and even
The last of the lingering lovers,
Have flitted away; and it seems
As tho' that revel had only been
The brief fantastic pageant seen
By a sick man, whom some morphian cup,
For fever-wasted lips fill'd up,
Hath mock'd with gorgeous dreams.

V.

Alone, Rinaldo Rinaldi
Stood in the sable shade
Over Mnemosyne's image
By that terminal cypress made.
Silent and dark was the garden;

146

Silent, beneath, and bare,
The sad wide street of wan water,
With but one black gondola there.
The heavens were changing above him:
The dawn came chill on the air,
And, darkening the cypress darker,
Whiten'd the wakeful skies.
He drew from his bosom a kerchief.
“Would,” he sigh'd, “that her face were less fair!”
And, folding the kerchief, he cover'd
Mnemosyne's marble eyes.—

147

THE PORTRAIT.

The man who told this tale is not
Either you, or I, good friend;
Who may therefore, glad of our better lot,
Hear his story told to the end.

I

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught
Thro' the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.
I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

II

A night of tears! for the gusty rain
Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;
And the moon look'd forth, as tho' in pain,
With her face all white and wet:

III

Nobody with me, my watch to keep,
But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:
And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.

IV

Nobody else, in the country place
All round, that knew of my loss beside,
But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,
Who confess'd her when she died.

148

V

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,
And my grief had moved him beyond controul;
For his lip grew white, as I could observe,
When he speeded her parting soul.

VI

I sat by the dreary hearth alone:
I thought of the pleasant days of yore:
I said “the staff of my life is gone:
The woman I love is no more.

VII

“Gem-clasp'd, on her bosom my portrait lies,
Which next to her heart she used to wear—
It is steep'd in the light of her loving eyes,
And the sweets of her bosom and hair.”

VIII

And I said—“the thing is precious to me:
They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away.”

IX

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creak'd for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.

X

The moon shone over her winding sheet.
There, stark she lay on her carven bed:
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
And seven about her head.

149

XI

As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath;
I turn'd, as I drew the curtains apart:
I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

XII

I thought, at first, as my touch fell there,
It had warm'd that heart to life, with love;
For the thing I touch'd was warm, I swear,
And I could feel it move.

XIII

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow
O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side:
And at once the sweat broke over my brow,
“Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried.

XIV

Opposite me, by the tapers' light,
The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
And neither of us moved.

XV

“What do you here, my friend?” . . . The man
Look'd first at me, and then at the dead.
“There is a portrait here. . .” he began;
“There is. It is mine,” I said.

XVI

Said the friend of my bosom, “yours, no doubt,
The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
And placed mine there, I know.”

150

XVII

“This woman, she loved me well,” said I.
“A month ago,” said my friend to me:
“And in your throat,” I groan'd, “you lie!”
He answer'd. . . “let us see.”

XVIII

“Enough!” I return'd, “let the dead decide:
And whose soever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraign'd by Love.”

XIX

We found the portrait there, in its place:
We open'd it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was—neither his nor mine.

XX

“One nail drives out another, at least!
The portrait is not ours,” I cried,
“But our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
Who confess'd her when she died.”

151

THE CASTLE OF KING MACBETH.

I

This is the castle of King Macbeth.
And here he feasts, when the daylight wanes,
And the moon is abroad o'er the blasted heath,
His earls and thanes.

II

A hundred harpers, with harps of gold,
Harp thorough the night high festival:
And the revelling music thereof is roll'd
From hall to hall,

III

While the wassailers shout till the rafters rock
O'er the ringing board: and their shout is borne
To the courts outside where the crowing cock
Is waked ere morn.

IV

But there is one room of that castle old,
In a cobwebb'd turret,—a dismal room,
For in it a corpse sits crown'd and cold.
There are four know whom.

V

One of those four the king must be:
But the secret is his, and he keepeth it well.
The others that know are the witches three:
But they are in hell.

152

MYSTERY.

I.

The hour was one of mystery,
When we were sailing, she and I,
Down the dark, the silent, stream.
The stars above were dim with love;
And the wandering airs beneath
Did from odorous woodlands breathe
Faint as when light whispers move
Fresh-kist lips, whose sighs betray
Whither wishful fancies stray
Thro' a slumbering maiden's dream;
While round and round the night we wound,
Till we came, at last, to the Isle of Fays.
And all the while from the faëry isle
That music, that music of other days!

II.

It was the mellow midst of June.
And the sudden silent moon
Rising (as our bark we left
On the bank) from out a cleft
In a piney mountain, beam'd
First red, then wondrous white.
A goblin glory gleam'd
From the Palace; and, with that light,
The sound of the viols stream'd
Thro' the casements over the night.

153

We saw the dancers pass
At the casements, two by two.
The dew was in the grass,
And the glow-worm in the dew.

III.

We came to the Palace. We mounted the stair.
The great hall-doors wide open were.
And all the dancers that danced in that hall
Greeted us to the festival.
Only, each noble cavalier
Had his throat red-lined from ear to ear:
'Twas a collar of merit, I have heard,
Which a queen upon each had once conferr'd:
And each of the lovely ladies there,
With subtle eyes and floating hair,
Whenever she laugh'd, or smiled, let slip
What seem'd to me the shadowy tip
Of a little mouse's tail, that stirr'd
In the dimpling warmth of a wanton lip.
A mist of magical splendour lay
Along the opiate air; and, thro'
The rosy light of the languerous haze,
Forth from the deep-toned orchestra
Came flowing, heavy with sounds I knew,
That music of other days.

IV.

My arm enlaced her winsome waist,
And down the dance we two,
Wound in one, with locks undone
And mingled footsteps, flew.
But, in the midst of the melody,
Low at mine ear I heard her sigh,

154

And paler her bright cheek grew.
“What aileth thee?” Low moan made she,
“The roof will fall tonight on this hall!
Already the rafters are reeling above.
But the outside air is quiet and fair.
Lead me into the grove.”

V.

We wander'd into the grove. We found
A bower by woodbine woven round.
The music made a mellower sound.
Her long hair gamboll'd glittering
Over her scarlet, green, and violet vesture
In a cataract of amber light;
And the moon's magnificence did cling
Close about her, like a glorious clothing.
All at once, a sudden snowy gesture
Of her white hand flash'd upon my sight,
Much against my will, the golden ring;
Which, meanwhile, I had forgotten quite;
Else, it might have mingled love with loathing.

VI.

Then I said “O beauty bounteous fair!
“The abundant brightness of thine hair.
Never seem'd more bountifully bright.
The moon is fair, and the sweet air
Is sighing with excess of fond delight.
Here let us, therefore, stay, till the star of the dawning day
Gives warning to the watchers of the night
That the world is aware, and they
Who have secrets to hide from a world grown grey
Must hasten out of sight.”

155

VII.

“That may not be,” she answer'd me,
“For I was lately wed
With this gold ring to an Ogre King.
My husband is old,” she said,
“Old and grey; therefore all day
My little harp I softly play,
Playing to him, till his eyes wax dim,
And he calls for his posset cup.
But into the brewage I pour
A juice which he drinks thirstily up
And sleeps till the night is o'er.
Then, finger on lip, away I slip,
And down the hills till I reach the stream.
I call to thee clear till the boat appear,
And we sail together thro' dark and dream.
But, if he should wake and not find me,
Over brook, thoro' brake, and by turret and tree,
He will follow me fast, and find us at last,
Bursting into the woodbine bower.
For, tho' woven well, neither charm nor spell
In the presence of him hath power.
The shy fays and elves can take care of themselves:
For the island is theirs, and they know
That, for their sweet sakes, the forests and brakes
Will hide them from every foe:
And little heed of what may befall
Have the knights who are dancing in yonder hall,
For, with or without their heads,—(they all
Carry them loose, and carry them so
Never for use, but only for show,
Since what heads they had once they have lost long ago)
Each, as fast as he may, well to horse and away

156

Over brook and bramble and stone;
And each dame of the house
Hath a little dun mouse
That will whisper her when to be gone,
(For never yet was there any device
Crafty enough to catch those little mice;
They have play'd their pranks so oft ere now
That they are wary, and full well know
How to look after their own)
But we, ah love, in the trampled grove
We shall be left alone,
Follow'd and found by the fate we fled,
Trapp'd and caught by the curse we dread,
And by our own doing undone!”

V.

I stood up in the strong moonshine,
And both her hands I held in mine.
I held them fast, she could not stir,
And bitterly I cried to her
“Look in my face. My cheek is white,
My back is bow'd, before the time,
From plucking magic herbs by night,
And weaving many a wizard rhyme,
And all for thee! yet all in vain
The wizard's wondrous art is mine,
Tho' over subtle spirits I reign,
And starry genii half divine,
If one brute fact in flesh and blood,—
All body with no soul,—hath power,
Even in the haunted solitude
Of this elf-builded woodbine bower,
To bar my will, and blast my bliss,

157

And make thee, what thou would'st not be,
—Not mine whom thou hast sought, but his
From whom my spells have rescued thee.”
I loosed her hands. She did not stir.
The moonlight flow'd 'twixt me and her,
And, where the moonlight bathed the ground,
A lute, with loveknots gaily bound,
Left in the woodbine bower I found.
I seized the lute, and struck the chords:
With music wild I mix'd wild words:
Down at her feet my limbs I flung,
And, looking under her eyelids, sung
“Sigh no more! try no more
So to fight with fate, sweet!
Error went too fast before,
Caution comes too late, sweet.
Grief is making up her store:
We may let her wait, sweet.
Sigh no more! I no more
May avert, nor thou restore
What's to come and what is o'er,
Be it love or hate, sweet.”

IX.

Like the slow soft settling down
Over earth and over heaven
Of a southern summer even,
Dark, with trembling starlight strown,
Slowly, slowly over me
Warm delicious darkness grew;
Not unlit,—for I could see
Eyes love-languid beaming thro'
That sweet darkness. Then I threw

158

Mine arms (to slake a spirit's drowth)
All around it, and down-drew
Brows, and breast, and breathing mouth,
Till their mingled sweetness stoop'd,
Pausing on me, and we droop'd
And sunk together,—drooping sinking
Whither? Ah, there was no thinking
Then, and now there is no knowing
Whither! but by sweet swift ways
Downward ever; and all the while
Round about us, flowing, flowing,
From the flutes and lutes of the elves and fays,
Out of the midst of the moonlit isle
That music of other days!

X.

Oh, if it were but a dream of the night,
A dream that I dream'd in sleep,
Then why is my cheek so woeful white,
And this wound in my heart so deep?
And, if it were but a dream, it broke
Too soon, albeit too late I awoke,
Waked by the smart of a sudden stroke
Which hath stunn'd me so, and stupified,
That I cannot remember, nor ever shall,
What was the close of that festival,
Nor when from out of their wizard hall
Fled the knights and the dames and the dancers all.
One thing only methinks I know,
And that is the weight of an Ogre's blow.
Yet still at times I seem to hear
Chaunted, perchance, by elves and fays,

159

But mixt with the moan of a dismal tide
That washes an island desert and drear
Where a house hath fallen, and some one hath died,
Faintly, fitfully floating near
Along the lonesome and leafless ways,
That maddening music of other days.

160

GOING BACK AGAIN.

I

I dream'd that I walk'd in Italy,
When the day was going down,
By a water that silently wander'd by
Thro' an old dim-lighted town,

II

Till I came to a palace fair to see.
Wide open the windows were.
My love at a window sat; and she
Beckon'd me up the stair.

III

I roam'd thro' many a corridor,
And many a chamber of state:
Dim and silent was every floor
And the day was growing late.

IV

When I came to the little rose-colour'd room
From the curtains outflew a bat.
The window was open: and in the gloom
My love at the window sat.

V

She sat with her guitar on her knee,
But she was not singing a note,
For some one had drawn (ah, who could it be?)
A knife across her throat.

161

TWO OUT OF THE CROWD.

I

One circle of all its golden hours
The flitting hand of the time-piece there,
In its close white bower of china flowers,
Hath rounded unaware:

II

While the firelight, flung from the flickering wall
On the large and limpid mirror behind,
Hath redden'd and darken'd down o'er all,
As the fire itself declined.

III

Something of pleasure, and something of pain
There lived in that sinking light. What is it?
Faces I never shall look at again,
In places you never will visit,

IV

Reveal'd themselves from each faltering ember,
While, under a palely-wavering flame,
Half of the years life aches to remember
Reappear'd, and died as they came.

V

To its dark Forever an hour hath gone
Since either you or I have spoken:
Each of us might have been sitting alone
In a silence so unbroken.

162

VI

I never shall know what made me look up
(In this cushion'd chair so soft and deep,
By the table where, over the empty cup,
I was leaning, half asleep)

VII

To catch a gleam on the picture up there
Of the saint in the wilderness under the oak;
And a light on the brow of the bronze Voltaire,
Like the ghost of a cynical joke;

VIII

To mark, in each violet, velvet fold
Of the curtains that fall twixt room and room,
The drowsy flush of the red light roll'd
Thro' their drapery's glowing gloom.

IX

O'er the Rembrandt there—the Caracci here—
Flutter warmly the ruddy and wavering hues;
And St. Anthony over his book has a leer
At the little French beauty by Greuze.

X

There—the Leda, weigh'd over her white swan's back,
By the weight of her passionate kiss, ere it falls;
On the ebony cabinet, glittering black
Thro' its ivory cups and balls:

XI

Your scissors and thimble, and work laid away,
With its silks, in the scented rose-wood box;
The journals, that tell truth every day,
And that novel of Paul de Kock's:

163

XII

The flowers in the vase, with their bells shut close
In a dream of the far green fields where they grew;
The cards of the visiting people and shows
In that bowl with the sea-green hue.

XIII

Your shawl, with a queenly droop of its own,
Hanging over the arm of the crimson chair:
And, last—yourself, as silent as stone,
In a glow of the firelight there!

XIV

I thought you were reading all this time.
And was it some wonderful page of your book
Telling of love, with its glory and crime,
That has left you that sorrowful look?

XV

For a tear from those dark, deep, humid orbs,
'Neath their lashes, so long, and soft, and sleek,
All the light in your lustrous eyes absorbs,
As it trembles over your cheek.

XVI

Were you thinking how we, sitting side by side,
Might be dreaming miles and miles apart?
Or if lips could meet over a gulf so wide
As separates heart from heart?

XVII

Ah, well! when time is flown, how it fled
It is better neither to ask nor tell.
Leave the dead moments to bury their dead.
Let us kiss and break the spell!

164

XVIII

Come, arm in arm, to the window here;
Draw by the thick curtain, and see how, to night,
In the clear and frosty atmosphere,
The lamps are burning bright.

XIX

All night, and for ever, in yon great town,
The heaving Boulevart flares and roars;
And the streaming Life, flows up and down
From its hundred open doors.

XX

It is scarcely so cold, but I and you,
With never a friend to find us out,
May stare at the shops for a moment or two,
And wander a while about.

XXI

For when in the crowd we have taken our place,
(—Just two more lives to the mighty street there!)
Knowing no single form or face
Of the men and women we meet there,—

XXII

Knowing, and known of, none in the whole
Of that crowd all round, but our two selves only,
We shall grow nearer, soul to soul,
Until we feel less lonely.

XXIII

Here are your bonnet and gloves, dear. There—
How stately you look in that long rich shawl!
Put back your beautiful golden hair,
That never a curl may fall.

165

XXIV

Stand in the firelight . . . so, . . . as you were—
Oh my heart, how fearfully like her she seem'd!
Hide me up from my own despair,
And the ghost of a dream I dream'd!

166

BLUEBEARD.

I

Fair in the love of Fatima
(A maiden like an evening star)
Lay hid this stain'd and crookèd life,
As in its sheath my scimitar:

II

For fair with flowrets damascene
The sheath is traced and twined about,
But on the blade are blood-spots black
That time and rust will not wear out.

III

Beneath the hot pomegranate boughs
At sunset here alone we sat.
To call back something from that hour,
I'd give away my Caliphat.

IV

“—Am I not fair?”
“As evening air,”
I answer'd.
“Fresh?”
“As April's sky.”
“Whate'er I be,” she whisper'd me,
“I love thee, and all thine am I.

167

V

“Be satisfied.”
“Alas!” I sigh'd.
And “wherefore do'st thou sigh?” she said.
“Because I trace in thy fair face
“The likeness of a face that's dead.”

VI

Rash question, rash reply!
The rest
Is writ in tears where all who read
Revile my name. Ah Fatima,
Why did'st thou seek to know my dead?

VII

Large realms were thine, with one reserve:
Full many a chamber, many a hall,
Thy wandering thought was free to rove:
I gave thee up the keys of all.

VIII

One only key I warn'd thee, spare
To use; because it opes a door
That's shut for thy sake and for mine,
But, open'd once, will shut no more:

IX

And thou that door hast oped, and thou
Hast gazed upon the dead, and I
That most thy fault, rash child, deplore,
Must needs inflict its penalty!

168

FATIMA.

I

A year ago, thy cheek was bright
As oleander buds that break
The dark of yonder dells by night
Above the lamplit lake.

II

Pale as a snow drop in Cashmere
Thy face to night, fair infant, seems.
Ah, wretched child! what do'st thou hear
When I talk in my dreams?—

169

RESURRECTION.

I

At Paris it was, at the Opera there;—
And she look'd like a Queen of old time that night,
With the wreathèd pearls in her raven hair,
And her breast with the diamond bright.

II

Side by side in our box we sat,
Together, my bride-betroth'd and I:
My gaze was fix'd on my opera-hat,
And hers on the stage hard by:

III

And both were silent, and both were sad.
Queenly she lean'd on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;
So confident of her charm!

IV

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest, and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

V

That narrow gate to the kingdom of heaven,
He was not too portly, I trust, to pass.
I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

170

VI

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,
As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over mine eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

VII

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood, 'neath the cypress trees, together,
In that lost land, in her own soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather,

VIII

By the broken wall, on the brown grass plot;
And her warm white neck in its golden chain:
And her full, soft hair, wound into a knot,
And falling loose again:

IX

And the jasmin-flower in her fair young breast,
(O the faint sweet smell of that jasmin-flower!)
And the last bird singing alone to his nest,
And the first star over the tower.

X

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,
And the letter that brought me back my ring.
And it all seem'd then—in the waste of life—
Such a very little thing!

XI

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over.
And I thought . . . ‘were she only living still,
How I could forgive her, and love her!’

171

XII

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower,
Which she used to wear in her breast.

XIII

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet
Where a mummy is half unroll'd.

XIV

And I turn'd and look'd. She was sitting there
In a dim box over the stage; and drest
In the dress that I knew,—with that full soft hair,
And that jasmin in her breast.

XV

She was there, and I was here:
And the glittering horseshoe curved between:
And from here to there, and from tier to tier,
—From my bride that was to have been,

XVI

To my early love, with her eyes down-cast,
And over her blush-rose face the shade,
(In short, from the Future back to the Past)
There was but a step to be made.

XVII

To my early love from my future bride
One moment I look'd. Then I stole to the door,
And traversed the passage, and down at her side
I was sitting, a moment more.

172

XVIII

My thinking of her, or the music's strain,
Or something that never will be exprest.
Had brought her back from the grave again
And brought her back to my breast.

XIX

She is not dead, and she is not wed!
But she loves me now, and she loved me then!
And the very first word that her sweet lips said,
My heart grew youthful again.

XX

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still,
And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass,
She may marry whomever she will.

XXI

But I will marry my own first love,
With her blush-rose face: for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.

XXII

The world is fill'd with folly and sin,
And love must cling where it can, I say:
For Beauty is easy enough to win;
But one isn't loved every day.

XXIII

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back, and be forgiven.

173

THE CHESS-BOARD.

Irene, do you yet remember,
Ere we were grown so sadly wise,
Those evenings in the bleak December,
Curtain'd warm from the snowy weather,
When you and I play'd chess together,
Checkmated by each other's eyes?
Ah, still I see your soft white hand
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight.
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand:
The double Castles guard the wings:
The Bishop, bent on distant things,
Moves, sidling, through the fight.
Our fingers touch: our glances meet,
And falter; falls your golden hair
Against my cheek; your bosom sweet
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen
Rides slow her soldiery all between,
And checks me unaware.
Ah me! the little battle's done,
Disperst is all its chivalry;
Full many a move, since then, have we
'Mid Life's perplexing chequers made,
And many a game with Fortune play'd,—
What is it we have won?
This, this at least—if this alone;—

174

That never, never, never more,
As in those old still nights of yore,
(Ere we were grown so sadly wise)
Can you and I shut out the skies,
Shut out the world, and wintry weather,
And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes,
Play chess, as then we play'd, together!

175

HOME-SICKNESS.

I, often lying lonely, over seas,
At ope of day, soft-couch'd in foreign land,
Dream a green dream of England; when young trees
Make murmur, and the amber-stripèd bees
To search the woodbine through, a busy band,
Come floating at the casement, while new-tann'd
And tedded hay sends fresh on morning breeze
Incense of sunny fields, through curtains fann'd
With invitations faint to Far-away.
So dreaming, half-awake, at ope of day,
Dream I of daisy greens, and village pales,
And the white winking of the warmèd may
In blossomy hedge, and brown oak-leavèd dales,
And little children dear, at dewy play,
Till all my heart grows young and glad as they;
And sweet thoughts come and go, like scented gales,
Through an open window when the month is gay.

But often, wandering lonely, over seas,
At shut of day, in unfamiliar land,
What time the serious light is on the leas,
To me there comes a sighing after ease
Much wanted, and an aching wish to stand
Knee-deep in English grass, and have at hand
A little churchyard cool, with native trees,
And grassy mounds thick-laced with ozier band,

176

Wherein to rest at last, nor further stray.
So, sad of heart, muse I, at shut of day,
On safe and quiet England; till thought ails
With inward groanings deep, for meadows gray,
Gray copses cool with twilight, shady dales,
Home-gardens, full of rest, where never may
Come loud intrusion; and, what chiefly fails
My sick desire, old friendships fled away.
I am much vext with loss. Kind Memory, lay
My head upon thy lap, and tell me tales
Of the good old time, when all was pure and gay!

177

FATA MORGANA.

I

When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with,
Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain,
We drowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun with,
And their tender light returns to us again.

II

I have cast away the tangle and the torment
Of the cords that bound my life up in a mesh:
And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dormant
'Neath their pressure; and the old wounds bleed afresh.

III

I am touch'd again with shades of early sadness,
Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my hair:
I am thrill'd again with breaths of boyish gladness,
Like the scent of some last primrose on the air.

IV

And again she comes, with all her silent graces,
The lost woman of my youth, yet unpossest:
And her cold face so unlike the other faces
Of the women whose dead lips I since have prest.

178

V

The motion and the fragrance of her garments
Seem about me, all the day long, in the room:
And her face, with its bewildering old endearments,
Comes at night, between the curtains, in the gloom.

VI

When vain dreams are stirr'd with sighing, near the morning,
To my own her phantom lips I feel approach:
And her smile, at eve, breaks o'er me without warning
From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach.

VII

When Life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint there
Of the orient, in the freshness of the grass,
(Ah what feet since then have trodden out the print there!)
Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall, and pass.

VIII

They fell lightly, as the dew falls, 'mid ungather'd
Meadow-flowers; and lightly linger'd with the dew.
But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and wither'd,
And the traces of those steps have faded too.

IX

Other footsteps fall about me—faint, uncertain,
In the shadow of the world, as it recedes:
Other forms peer thro' the half-uplifted curtain
Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds.

179

X

What is gone is gone for ever. And new fashions
May replace old forms which nothing can restore:
But I turn from sighing back departed passions
With that pining at the bosom as of yore.

XI

I remember to have murmur'd, morn and even,
“Though the Earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face,
Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in Heaven,
For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space:

XII

“Where it listeth, there it bloweth; all existence
Is its region; and it houseth, where it will.
I shall feel her through immeasurable distance,
And grow nearer, and be gather'd to her, still.

XIII

“If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses,
Brows, and breast, and lips, and language of sweet strains,
I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses,
And that portion of myself which she retains.”

XIV

But my being is confused with new experience,
And changed to something other than it was;
And the Future with the Past is set at variance;
And Life falters 'neath the burthens which it has.

180

XV

Famisht hopes press fast behind me, weakly wailing:
Faint before me fleets the good I have not done:
And my search for her may still be unavailing
'Mid the spirits that are pass'd beyond the sun.

181

CONSOLATION.

When I perceive how slight and poor appears
(Though with sad care and strong compulsion brought
Down rangèd rhymes with strenuous search of thought)
The express'd result of my most passionate years;
Remembering, too, from what divinest spheres
Stoop'd many a starry visitant, and taught
My spirit at her toils,—how round her wrought
Strong Raptures, Sorrows, Splendours rich in tears,
My whole heart fails me. Then an inward voice
Replies, ‘Possess thyself, and be content.
Life's best is bound not by the utterance
Of any word, nor may in sound be spent,
To win back echoes out of hollow chance.
What thou hast felt is thine. If much, rejoice.’

182

A CONFESSION AND APOLOGY.

'Tis time that I should loose from life at last
This heart's unworthy longing for the past,
Ere life be turn'd to loathing.
For love,—at least, this love, of one for one,—
Is, at the best, not all beneath the sun,
And, at the worst, 'tis nothing.

Not that, of all the past, I would forget
One pleasure, or one pain. I cherish yet,
And would dishonour never,
All I have felt. But, cherisht tho' it be,
'Tis time my past should set my future free
For life's renew'd endeavour.

Not much I reverence that remorse which flies
To desert caves, and bids its dupes despise
Themselves, on whom it preys;
Wasting the worth of life on worthless pain,
To make the future, as the past was, vain,
By endless self-dispraise:

183

As tho', forsooth, because a man is not
His self-made god, he needs must curse his lot
With self-contempt! as tho'
Some squalid maniac, that with lifelong moan
Insults man's flesh and blood, with these hath done
The best that man can do!

Nor am I keen to urge that common claim
On this world, or another,—here, for fame,
Which only grows on graves,—
Or, there, for so much, purchasable here
By earth's joy stinted, of celestial cheer;
The stimulant of slaves!

Not for reward,—not for release from pain,—
But with a man's imperative disdain
Of all that wastes man's nature,
Rise, O my soul, and reach to loftier things,
Untrammell'd by this florid weed that clings,
Stunting a spirit's stature!

I was not born to sit, with shrowded head,
Piping shrill ditties to the unburied dead,
While life's arm'd host sweeps by.
I hear the clarion call, the warsteed neigh,
The banner fluttering in the wind's free play,
The brave man's battle-cry:

184

And I am conscious that where all things strive
'Tis shameful to sit still. I would not live
Content with a life lost
In chasing mine own fancies thro' void air,
Or decking forth in forms and phrases fair
The miserable ghost

Of personal joy or pain. The ages roll
Forward; and, forward with them, draw my soul
Into time's infinite sea.
And to be glad, or sad, I care no more:
But to have done, and to have been, before
I cease to do and be.

From the minutest struggle to excell
Of things whose momentary myriads dwell
In drops of dew confined,
To spirits standing on life's upmost stair,
Whose utterances alter worlds, and are
The makers of mankind,

All things cry shame on lips that squander speech
In words which,—if not deeds,—are worthless each.
Not here are such words wanted,
Where all bestirs itself,—where dumb things do
By nobly silent action speak, and go
Forth to their fates undaunted.

185

Shame on the wretch who, born a man, foregoes
Man's troublous birthright for a brute's repose!
Shame on the eyes that see
This mighty universe, yet see not there
Something of difficult worth a man may dare
Boldly to do and be!

Yet is there nought for shame in any thing
Once dear and beautiful. The shrivell'd wing,
Scathed by what seem'd a star
And proved, alas, no star, but withering fire,
Is worthier than the wingless worm's desire
For nothing fair or far.

Rather the ground that's deep enough for graves,
Rather the stream that's strong enough for waves,
Than the loose sandy drift
Whose shifting surface cherishes no seed
Either of any flower or any weed,
Which ever way it shift,

Or stagnant shallow which the storms despise
Nought finding there to prey upon, I prize.
Why should man's spirit shrink
From feeling to the utmost,—be it pain
Or pleasure,—all 'twas form'd, nor form'd in vain,
To feel with force? I think

186

That never to have aim'd and miss'd, is not
To have achieved. I hold the loftier lot
To ennoble, not escape,
Life's sorrows and love's pangs. I count a man,
Tho' sick to death, for something nobler than
A healthy dog or ape.

I deem that nothing suffer'd or enjoy'd
By a man's soul deserves to be destroy'd,
But rather to be made
Means of a soul's encreased capacity
Either to suffer,—and to gain thereby
A more exalted grade

Among the spirits purified by pain,
Or to enjoy,—and thereby to attain
That lovelier influence
Reserved for spirits that, 'mid the general moan
Of human griefs, praise God with clearest tone
Of joyous trust intense.

And, for this reason, I would yet keep fair
And fresh the memory of all things that were
Sweet in their place and season.
And I forgive my life its failures too,
Since failures old, to guide endeavours new,
Are good for the same reason.

187

REQUIESCAT.

I sought to build a deathless monument
To my dead love. Therein I meant to place
All precious things, and rare: as Nature blent
All single sweetnesses in one sweet face.
I could not build it worthy her mute merit,
Nor worthy her white brows and holy eyes,
Nor worthy of her perfect and pure spirit,
Nor of my own immortal memories.
But, as some rapt artificer of old,
To enshrine the ashes of a virgin saint,
Might scheme to work with ivory, and fine gold,
And carven gems, and legended and quaint
Seraphic heraldries; searching far lands,
Orient and occident, for all things rare,
To consecrate the toil of reverent hands,
And make his labour, like her virtue, fair;
Knowing no beauty beautiful as she,
And all his labour void, but to beguile
A sacred sorrow; so I work'd. Ah, see
Here are the fragments of my shatter'd pile!
I keep them, and the flowers that sprang between
Their broken workmanship—the flowers and weeds!
Sleep soft among the violets, O my Queen—
Lie calm among my ruin'd thoughts and deeds.

188

END OF WANDERER.

University of Virginia Library

THE WANDERER.

A REVISED COLLECTION OF POEMS WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH.

BOOK I.

THE FIRST TIME.

DEDICATION.

(To J. F.)

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VII

VIII

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XII

XIII

XIV

PROLOGUE.

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VII

VIII

IX

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XI

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XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

THE MAGIC LAND.

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DESIRE.

FATALITY.

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IV

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TRANCE.

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IV

A VISION OF THE MORNING.

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VI

A VISION OF THE EVENING.

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IV

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VII

THOUGHTS AT SUNRISE.

THOUGHTS AT SUNSET.

I.

II.

III.

ONE NIGHT.

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IV