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

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.

University of Virginia Library

BOOK I.

THE FIRST TIME.

DEDICATION.

(To J. F.)

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

PROLOGUE.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

THE MAGIC LAND.

I

II

III

DESIRE.

FATALITY.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

TRANCE.

I

II

III

IV

A VISION OF THE MORNING.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

A VISION OF THE EVENING.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

THOUGHTS AT SUNRISE.

THOUGHTS AT SUNSET.

I.

II.

III.

ONE NIGHT.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI