Complete works (1925-27) :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘The unfriendly elements
Forgot thee utterly—
Where, for a monument upon thy bones,
And e'er-remaining lamps, the belching whale
And humming water must o'erwhelm thy corpse;
Lying with simple shells.’
—Pericles [III. i.].

I

As one who having dreamed all night of death
Puts out a hand to feel the sleeping face
Next his, and wonders that the lips have breath—
So we, for years not touching on their trace,
Marvelled at news of those we counted dead,
‘For now the strong snows in some iron place
Have covered them; their end shall not be said
Till all the hidden parts of time be plain
And all the writing of all years be read.’
So men spake sadly; and their speech was vain,
For here the end stands clear, and men at ease
May gather the sharp fruit of that past pain
Out in some barren creek of the cold seas
Where the slow shapes of the grey water-weed
Freeze midway as the languid inlets freeze.

II

This is the end. There is no nobler word
In the large writing and scored marge of time
Than such endurance is. Ear hath not heard
Nor hath eye seen in the world's bounded clime

The patience of their life, as the sharp years
And the slow months wrought out their rounded rhyme
No man made count of those keen hopes and fears
Which were such labour to them, it may be;
That strong sweet will whereto pain ministers
And sharpest time doth service patiently.
Wrought without praise or failed without a name,
Those gulfs and inlets of the channelled sea
Hide half the witness that should fill with fame
Our common air in England, and the breath
That speech of them should kindle to keen flame
Flags in the midway record of their death.

III

Is this the end? is praise so light a thing
As rumour unto rumour tendereth
And time wears out of care and thanks-giving?
Then praise and shame have narrow difference,
If either fly with so displumèd wing
That chance and time and this imprisoned sense
Can maim or measure the spanned flight of it
By the ruled blanks of their experience,
Then only Fortune hath the scroll and writ
Of all good deeds our memory lives upon;
And the slack judgment of her barren wit
Appoints the award of all things that are done.

IV

The perfect choice and rarest of all good
Abides not in broad air or public sun;
Being spoken of, it is not understood;
Being shown, it has no beauty to be loved;
And the slow pulse of each man's daily blood

For joy thereat is not more quickly moved;
Itself has knowledge of itself, and is
By its own witness measured and approved;
Yea, even well pleasèd to be otherwise;
Nor wear the raiment of a good repute
Nor have the record of large memories.
Close leaves combine above the covered fruit;
Earth, that gives much, holds back her costliest;
And in blind night sap comes into the root;
Things known are good but hidden things are best.
Therefore, albeit we know good deeds of these,
Let no man deem he knows their worthiest.
He who hath found the measure of the seas,
And the wind's ways hath ruled and limited,
And knows the print of their wild passages,
The same may speak the praise of these men dead.
And having heard him we may surely know
There is no more to say than he hath said
And as his witness is the thing was so.

V

What praise shall England give these men her friends?
For while the bays and the large channels flow
In the broad sea between the iron ends
Of the poised world where no safe sail may be,
And for white miles the hard ice never blends
With the chill washing edges of dull sea—
And while to praise her green and girdled land
Shall be the same as to praise Liberty—
So long the record of these men shall stand,
Because they chose not life but rather death,
Each side being weighed with a most equal hand,
Because the gift they had of English breath
They did give back to England for her sake

Like those dead seamen of Elizabeth
And those who wrought with Nelson or with Blake
To do great England service their lives long—
High honour shall they have; their deeds shall make
Their spoken names sound sweeter than all song.
This England hath not made a better man,
More steadfast, or more wholly pure of wrong
Since the large book of English praise began.
For out of his great heart and reverence,
And finding love too large for life to span,
He gave up life, that she might gather thence
The increase of the seasons and their praise.
Therefore his name shall be her evidence,
And wheresoever tongue or thought gainsays
Our land the witness of her ancient worth,
She may make answer to the later days
That she was chosen also for this birth,
And take all honour to herself and laud,
Because such men are made out of her earth.
Yea, wheresoever her report is broad,
This new thing also shall be said of her
That hearing it, hate may not stand unawed—
That Franklin was her friend and minister;
So shall the alien tongue forego its blame,
And for his love shall hold her lovelier
And for his worth more worthy; so his fame
Shall be the shield and strength of her defence,
Since where he was can be not any shame.

VI

These things that are and shall abide from hence
It may be that he sees them now, being dead.
And it may be that when the smitten sense
Began to pause, and pain was quieted,

And labour almost kissed the lips of peace,
And sound and sight of usual things had fled
From the most patient face of his decease,
He saw them also then; we cannot say;
But surely when the painèd breath found ease
And put the heaviness of life away,
Such things as these were not estranged from him;
The soul, grown too rebellious to stay
This shameful body where all things are dim,
Abode awhile in them and was made glad
In its blind pause upon the middle rim
Between the new life and the life it had,
This noble England that must hold him dear
Always, and always in his name keep sad
Her histories, and embalm with costly fear
And with rare hope and with a royal pride
Her memories of him that honoured her,
Was this not worth the pain wherein he died?
And in that lordly praise and large account
Was not his ample spirit satisfied?
He who slakes thirst at some uncleaner fount
Shall thirst again; but he shall win full ease
Who finds pure wells far up the painful mount.

VII

For the laborious time went hard with these
Among the thousand colours and gaunt shapes
Of the strong ice cloven with breach of seas,
Where the waste sullen shadow of steep capes
Narrows across the cloudy-coloured brine
And by strong jets the angered foam escapes,
And a sad touch of sun scores the sea-line
Right at the middle motion of the noon
And then fades sharply back, and the cliffs shine

Fierce with keen snows against a kindled moon
In the hard purple of the bitter sky,
And thro' some rift as tho' an axe had hewn
Two spars of crag athwart alternately
Flares the loose light of that large Boreal day
Down half the sudden heaven, and with a cry
Sick sleep is shaken from the soul away,
And men leap up to see and have delight
For the sharp flame and strength of its white ray
From east to west burning upon the night;
And cliff and berg take fire from it, and stand
Like things distinct in customary sight,
And all the northern foam and frost, and all
The wild ice lying large to either hand;
And like the broken stones of some strange wall
Built to be girdle to the utmost earth,
Brow-bound with snows and made imperial,
Lean crags with coloured ice for crown and girth
Stand midway with those iron seas in face
Far up the straitened shallows of the firth.

VIII

So winter-bound in such disastrous place,
Doubtless the time seemed heavier and more hard
Than elsewhere in all scope and range of space;
Doubtless the backward thought and broad regard
Was bitter to their souls, remembering
How in soft England the warm lands were starred
With gracious flowers in the green front of spring,
And all the branches' tender over-growth,
Where the quick birds took sudden heart to sing;
And how the meadows in their sweet May sloth
Grew thick with grass as soft as song or sleep;
So, looking back, their hearts grew sere and loath

And their chafed pulses felt the blood to creep
More vexed and painfully; yea, and this too
Possessed perchance their eyes with thirst to weep
More than green fields or the May weather's blue—
Mere recollection of all dearer things.
Slight words they used to say, slight work to do,
When every day was more than many springs,
And the strong April moved at heart, and made
Sweet mock at fortune and the seat of kings;
The naked sea and the bare lengths of land
And all the years that fade and grow and fade
Were pleasant years for them to live upon,
And time's gold raiment was not rent nor frayed;
But now they know not if such things be done,
Nor how the old ways and old places fare,
Nor whether there be change in the glad sun,
Defect and loss in all the fragrant air;
New feet are in the waymarks of their feet;
The bitter savour of remembered sweet
No doubt did touch their lips in some sharp guise;
No doubt the pain of thought and fever-heat
Put passion in the patience of their eyes—

IX

Yet in the edge and keenest nerve of pain
For such no comfort ever wholly dies,
And as hurt patience healed and grew again,
This knowledge came, that neither land nor life
Nor all soft things whereof the will is fain
Nor love of friends nor wedded faith of wife
Nor all of these nor any among these
Make a man's best, but rather loss and strife,
Failure, endurance, and high scorn of ease;
Love strong as death and valour strong as love,

Therefore among the winter-wasted seas,
No flaw being found upon them to reprove,—
These whom God's grace, calling them one by one,
In unknown ways did patiently remove
To have new heaven and earth, new air and sun,—
These chose the best; therefore their name shall be
Part of all noble things that shall be done,
Part of the royal record of the sea.

QUEEN YSEULT

Canto 1
Of the birth of Sir Tristram, and how he voyaged into Ireland

In the noble days were shown
Deeds of good knights many one,
Many worthy wars were done.

It was time of scath and scorn
When at breaking of the morn
Tristram the good knight was born.

He was fair and well to see
As his mother's child might be:
Many happy wars had he;

Slew Moronde the knight alone,
Whence was all the ill begun
That on Blancheflour was done.

For long since Queen Blancheflour
Took a knight to paramour,
Who had served her well of yore.

And across the waters dim
And by many a river's rim
Went Queen Blancheflour with him.

Many a bitter path she went,
Many a stone her feet had rent,
But her heart was well content.

‘Lo!’ she said, ‘I lady free
Took this man for lord of me
Where the crowned saints might see.

‘And I will not bid him go,
Not for joyance nor for woe,
Till my very love he know.’

When he kissed her as they went,
All her heart was well content,
For the love that she him meant.

Now this knight was called Roland,
And he had within his hand
Ermonie the happy land.

So five months in Ermonie
Dwelt they in their pleasure free;
For they knew not what should be.

Then came Moronde with his men,
Warring with her lord again.
All her heart was bitter then.

But she said: ‘If this be so,
Tho' I die, he shall not know.’
And she kissed and bade him go;

And he wept and went from her.
Then was all the land astir
With a trouble in the air.

When Roland the knight was gone,
Praise of men his warriors won
Warring well before the sun.

But Moronde the evil knight
Smote him falsely in the fight,
Slew him basely out of sight.

Then was weeping long and sore:
For the great love they him bore
All men wept but Blancheflour.

But she took her golden ring
And a fair sword of the king
Wrought with many a carven thing.

With no crown about her head,
Thinking wild thoughts of the dead,
Evermore she fled and fled.

Far within the forest fair,
A great anguish came on her
Till a strong manchild she bare.

And she fain had suckled him,
There beneath the lindens dim,
Round a fountain's weedy brim.

But too soon came death to take
All her beauty for his sake;
And ere death she moaned and spake.

‘Ah, fair child,’ the lady said,
‘For this anguish that it had
All thy mother's heart is dead.

‘Sweet, I would not live to see
Any sorrow rest on thee,
Better thou hadst died with me.

‘Only thou art still too fair
For that smile I cannot bear
In such eyes as Roland's were.

‘Now, fair child, mine own wert thou
(And she kissed the small soft brow)
But for death that takes me now.

‘And a bitter birth is thine;
But no man can stain thy line
With a shame that was not mine.

‘Thou art pure and princely born;
Fairer name was never worn,
Past the touch of any scorn.

‘Now thy grief has come on me,
As I prayed that it might be
Lest some woe should rest on thee.’

Wept the low voice musical;
‘Now that mine has given thee all,
Better love thy love befall.

‘Purer prayers be round thy sleep,
Truer tears than these that drip
On thy tender cheek and lip.

‘Now, dear child, of all on earth
Thou art yet the fairest birth
For the pain thy life was worth.

‘Sweetest name and sweetest heart,
Now I see thee as thou art
I have had the better part.

‘For the grief my love has had,
May the sweet saints keep thee glad
Tho' thy birth were strange and sad.

‘Now, dear child’ (her thin voice strove
Thro' the drawn dry sobs to move),
‘Leave I thee to Christ's own love.’

So she died in that dark place,
With the anguish in her face;
Mary took her into grace.

On the robe was sown her name,
Where a fine thread white as flame
Thro' the coloured samite came.

For on skirt and hem between
Wrought she letters white and green
‘This is Blancheflour the Queen.’

There men found her as they sped,
Very beautiful and dead,
In the lilies white and red.

And beside her lying there,
Found a manchild strong and fair
Lain among the lilies bare.

And they thought it were ill fate,
If the child, for fear or hate,
They should leave in evil state.

So they took him lying there,
Playing with the lady's hair,
For his face was very fair.

And so tenderly he played,
Half asmile and half afraid,
With her lips and hair, I said,

That the strong men for his sake
Could have wept for dear heartache
At the murmurs he did make.

And the strongest lightly stept
Forth to where the mother slept;
Stooping over her, he wept.

Lightly bowed above the child
The large face whose might was mild
With black-bearded lips that smiled.

Then he took it of his grace,
Bowed him where she lay in place,
Put to hers the little face.

Then they softly buried her
Where the greenest leaves did stir,
With some white flowers in her hair.

And for the sweet look he had,
Weeping not but very sad,
Tristram by his name they bade.

‘For he looks upon her so,
Pity where he should not grow
All the piteous thing to know.’

And they took the sword and ring
That were of Roland the king,
Wrought with many a carven thing.

So they bred him as they knew;
And a noble child he grew,
Like a tree in sun and dew.

Ere he was ten summers old
All the sorrow they him told,
Showed the sword and ring of gold.

Kissed the boy both sword and ring;
‘As my father was a king,
I will wreak this bitter thing.’

Kissed the boy both ring and sword;
‘As my mother to her lord,
Fast I cling to this my word.’

So he grew in might and grace,
With her look about his face:
All men saw his royal race.

But when twenty years were done
At the rising of the sun
Tristram from his place was gone.

Forth with warriors is he bound
Over many a change of ground,
To have wreak of Sir Moronde.

When he came to Ermonie,
Bare upon the earth bowed he,
Kissed the earth with kisses three.

To the city men him bring,
Where the herald stood to sing
‘Largesse of Moronde the king!’

To the king came Tristram then,
To Moronde the evil man,
Treading softly as he can.

Spake he loftily in place:
A great light was on his face:
‘Listen, king, of thy free grace.

‘I am Tristram, Roland's son;
By thy might my lands were won,
All my lovers were undone.

‘Died by thee Queen Blancheflour,
Mother mine in bitter hour,
That was white as any flower.

‘Tho' they died not well aright,
Yet, for thou art belted knight,
King Moronde, I bid thee fight.’

A great laughter laughed they all,
Drinking wine about the hall,
Standing by the outer wall.

But the pale king leapt apace,
Caught his staff that lay in place
And smote Tristram on the face.

Tristram stood back paces two,
All his face was reddened so
Round the deep mark of the blow.

Large and bright the king's eyes grew:
As knight Roland's sword he drew,
Fiercely like a pard he flew.

And above the staring eyes
Smote Moronde the king flatwise,
That men saw the dear blood rise.

At the second time he smote,
All the carven blade, I wot,
With the blood was blurred and hot.

At the third stroke that he gave,
Deep the carven steel he drave,
Thro' King Moronde's heart it clave.

Well I ween his wound was great
As he sank across the seat,
Slain for Blancheflour the sweet.

Then spake Tristram, praising God;
In his father's place he stood
Wiping clean the smears of blood,

That the sword, while he did pray,
At the throne's foot he might lay;
Christ save all good knights, I say.

Then spake all men in his praise,
Speaking words of the old days,
Sweeter words than sweetest lays.

Said one, ‘Lo the dead queen's hair
And her brows so straight and fair;
So the lips of Roland were.’

For all praised him as he stood,
That such things none other could
Than the son of kingly blood.

Round he looked with quiet eyes;
‘When ye saw King Moronde rise,
None beheld me on this wise.’

At such words as he did say,
Bare an old man knelt to pray;
‘Christ be with us all to-day.

‘This is Tristram the good lord;
Knightly hath he held his word,
Warring with his father's sword.’

Then one brought the diadem,
Clear and golden like pure flame;
And his thanks did grace to them.

Next in courteous wise he bade
That fair honour should be had
Of the dear queen that was dead.

So in her great sorrow's praise
A fair tomb he bade them raise
For a wonder to the days.

And between its roof and floor
Wrote he two words and no more,
Wrote Roland and Blancheflour.

That was carven sharp in gold,
For a great praise to behold,
Where the queen lay straight and cold,

All was graven deep and fine,
In and out, and line with line,
That all men might see it shine.

So far off it sprang and shone,
Ere ten paces one had gone,
Showing all the sorrow done.

And the pillars, that upbore
The large roof for evermore,
In wrought flowers her sweet name wore:

Points of stone carved gently all,
Wrought in cusp and capital,
Climbing still to creep and fall.

And in many a tender nook,
Traced soft as running brook,
Shone her face's quiet look.

And above they wrought to lie
King Roland all white on high,
With the lady carven by.

Very patient was her face,
Stooping from its maiden place
Into strange new mother-grace.

Parted lips and closing eyes,
All the quiet of the skies
Fills her beauty where she lies.

On her hair the forest crown
Lets the sliding tresses down,
Touched ere dark with golden brown;

Both with carven hands uplift,
Praying softly as at shrift,
So it stood a kingly gift.

And when all was graven fair
Tristram came, and standing there
Kissed his mother's tender hair.

Then he bade them take for King
His true father in each thing,
Him who saved the sword and ring.

So they hearkened to his word,
And they took to be their lord
Him who kept the ring and sword.

Then by many painful ways,
With a noble thought in chase,
Tristram journeyed many days.

Towards the Cornwall king he bore,
Since an oath of love he swore
For the name of Blancheflour,

That King Mark, her brother true,
He would honour as he knew;
This was he I tell to you.

When he stood in Cornwall there,
Mark beheld him standing bare,
And he knew his sister's hair.

All these things to Mark he told,
To the king so lean and cold,
And he showed her ring of gold.

Then wept all the valiant men,
Wept King Mark upon him then,
Thinking what a grief had been.

Then was Tristram belted knight,
For his happy hand in fight.
Then spake Mark in all men's sight:

‘For the love my sister won,
I will honour as I can
This her son, the loved man.

‘And this praise I give him here:
He shall go to bring anear
My new bride with noble cheer.

‘For strange things are said in place
Of the wonder of her face
And her tender woman's grace.’

Spake the king so lean and cold:
‘She hath name of honour old,
Yseult queen, the hair of gold.

‘All her limbs are fair and strong,
And her face is straight and long,
And her talk is as a song.

‘And faint lines of colour stripe
(As spilt wine that one should wipe)
All her golden hair corn-ripe;

‘Drawn like red gold ears that stand
In the yellow summer land;
Arrow-straight her perfect hand,

‘And her eyes like river-lakes
Where a gloomy glory shakes
Which the happy sunset makes.

‘Her shall Tristram go to bring,
With a gift of some rich thing
Fit to free a prisoned king.’

As Sir Mark said, it was done;
And ere set the morrow's sun,
Tristram the good knight was gone.

Forth to Ireland bade he come,
Forth across the grey sea-foam,
All to bring Queen Yseult home.

Canto 2
Of Queen Yseult, and of the voyage to Cornwall

Day by day and year by year
In the quiet chambers here
Grew the lady white and dear.

Day by day and week by week
Grew the glory of her cheek
Till it seemed to breathe and speak.

Day by day and night by night
Grew she in her mother's sight,
Maiden Yseult dear and white.

Ever as her face grew fair
In a light of growing hair
Grew the tresses bright and bare.

For no crown the maiden had,
But with tresses golden-glad
Was her perfect body clad.

And no gems the maiden wore
But the bright hair evermore
All her warm white limbs before.

Ah, dear saints, to see her face
Many would have died in place,
She was wonderful for grace.

Wept for love her mother fair,
Wept for utter love of her,
Kissing soft her maiden hair.

Many maidens have men seen,
But on earth has never been
Any maiden like the queen.

So did all her love endure
In a life most sweet and sure,
Very beautiful and pure.

For her mother and the king
Sang she many a maiden thing,
Standing at their feet to sing.

Unto her came Tristram then,
Sailing straight with many men
For King Mark her love to win.

And most royal gifts he bare,
Robes for any queen to wear,
And great jewels for her hair.

And he brought a royal ring
Such as noble knight should bring,
Wedding her for Mark the king.

Very courteously he spake,
That for holy honour's sake
Maiden Yseult should him take.

So the king bade send for her;
And she came before them there,
Clothed upon with golden hair.

And Sir Tristram for her sight
Praisèd all the saints aright
As men would for happy fight.

And he would have died in place
But for love and knightly grace
That he saw that maiden face.

And he knelt with heart aflame,
Took her robe in sight of them,
Kissed the skirt and kissed the hem.

Ah, dear saints, how well it were,
Thought he, to die knightly there
For that lady's golden hair.

And he thought it very good
He should perish where she stood
Crowned upon with maidenhood.

And his whole heart for her sake
With a large delight did ache
Till it seemed to burn and break.

And he thought it well and meet,
Lain before that lady sweet,
To be trodden by her feet.

And so loved he her least tress,
That his heart strange thoughts did bless
Of its deep unworthiness.

For no nearer would he be
Her he lovèd loyally
With a bright humility.

And he thought him, loving her,
Of sweet words he used to hear,
Lancelot and Guinevere.

And what love some men might see,
So in under-breath spake he,
‘Now I know what things they be.’

Then the king spake gravely all,
And his large voice in the hall
Ever seemed to grow and fall.

Then the queen spake softlier,
And it seemèd him to bear
A new trouble in the air.

Answered Yseult maidenwise;
Great hot tears grew thro' his eyes,
That he could not speak or rise.

Knowing not what words she said
Seemed to beat upon his head
Noise that vex't him, being dead.

But he spake in courteous wise
So that all the knights did rise
With a light in their grave eyes.

And the king with straight grey hairs
Laid Sir Tristram's hand in hers
As the bridal manner bears.

And her mother that had skill
In all herbs that sain or heal
Arrow-wound or fever ill,

Gave a secret drink of might
That she bade her maiden bright
Drink upon the bridal night.

‘For it is a mighty thing,
And great love to both shall bring
If thou drink with Mark the king.’

So was Yseult brought to ship,
There she kissed her mother's lip
And sat softly down to weep.

Forth to Cornwall back they come,
Over all the grey salt foam
Brought they maiden Yseult home.

So came Yseult from her own;
Wept the grave king on his throne,
And her mother wept alone.

Now the days grew bright and long,
And her voice the men among
Warmed their spirits like a song.

And the men at oar that rowed,
Seeing Yseult where she trode
For her dear face praisèd God.

For they said, ‘Was never man
Since the world's great hap began
Such a lady to him wan.’

So they spake between their oars,
Rowing level by green shores,
Sloped about with great grey moors.

And when days were full of spring
Tristram prayed her well to sing
In their ears some happy thing.

So the lady sang to them,
And all faces grew aflame,
And on all great glory came.

So the lady sang alway,
And the men rose up to pray,
For her face shone bright as day.

So her song the lady kept,
And their souls to Godwards leapt,
And with pride the meanest wept.

When Queen Yseult's song had end,
All they bowed with head and hand,
Speaking soft in whispers bland.

But with all the summer heat
That about them burned and beat
Sore athirst was Yseult sweet.

For she sang so loud and long
To the rowers rowing strong
That she thirsted in her song.

Then bade Tristram bring her wine
In her chalice carven fine,
Rich with many a tender line.

So the chaliced wine was brought,
And the drink of power that wrought
Change in face and change in thought.

And the wine was fierce and sweet,
But the lady, drinking it,
Shuddered to her hands and feet.

But the drink her mother gave
In the carven chalice brave
Like warm gold did float and wave.

And Sir Tristram, courteous-wise,
With a smile about his eyes
Pledged the queen in knightly guise.

As they drank in love and truth,
Lo, there grew in heart and mouth
As a hot and bitter drouth.

Then he bent towards her there,
And he knew that she was fair,
And he stooped and kissed her hair.

And Queen Yseult, painèd sore
For the love that him she bore,
As she kissed him, trembled more.

At their hearts it stirred and crept,
Round their hearts it grew and leapt,
Till they kissed again and wept.

So was their great love begun,
Sitting silent in the sun,
Such a little thing was done.

And Queen Yseult, weeping still,
Tristram had to do his will
That his list she should fulfil.

Tristram had her body fair,
And her golden corn-ripe hair,
And her golden ring to wear.

So he took the golden ring
That was of Sir Mark the king,
As to serve her in each thing.

And his mother's Yseult had
To keep wisely as he bade;
So they sware it, low and glad.

So they slept the night long there,
And above their faces bare
Flowed and glowed the golden hair.

So to Cornwall did they come
All across the flowing foam,
So was brought Queen Yseult home.

So King Mark his bride hath got
That he little knew, I wot,
When his heart with wine was hot.

And men said, ‘Great pity is
He such queen should ever kiss,
Little were his need, I wis.’

But they knew not what had been,
And with smiles and moans between
On Sir Tristram looked the Queen.

So they brought her by his hold
To the king so lean and cold,
Yseult queen, the hair of gold.

Canto 3
How Sir Tristram and Queen Yseult loved each other by the space of three years

All that night and all thro' day
Many minstrels bade men play
That the king's great praise they say.

So they sang in court and hall,
But it only grieved them all
Such a bride should him befall.

For none wist what had been done,
Yseult's maidens all but one
Said their queen a bride were gone.

Many days this love grew old,
While abode the hair of gold
By the king so lean and cold.

And such love their love did bless
They had much of happiness
And their hope grew never less.

And at morning when she leant
From her lattice in content
Over him her face was bent.

And on kingly summer eves
When much light is in the leaves,
Had they joy of all that lives.

Sometimes in the garden place,
When much light was in her face,
Would he sing of her great grace.

So she leant to hear his song,
Heard him in the leaves among
Singing in the sweet French tongue.

‘This was love that Yseult wan,
That to any maid or man
Spake she courteous as she can.

‘This was praise that Yseult had,
That her happiness made glad
Man or maiden that was sad.

‘Now this Yseult ever knew
That such love about her grew
As kept all men pure like dew.

‘And this Yseult had but one
To love well beneath the sun
Till her very love were done.’

And he praised her as he can
For the love that him began
That she loved none other man.

And he praised her without fear,
Like a songbird singing clear,
Lady Yseult white and dear.

Singing where he saw her stand,
‘Is none like her in the land,
Golden hair and arrow hand.’

And such praises would he sing,
Harping high before the king,
And of many a happy thing.

And men praised him by his name,
But her brows were all aflame
That she from the banquet came.

And she walked alone and said,
‘Of such knight was never read.’
So that summer they were glad.

But when snows were thick about
Yseult sent for Tristram out
Soft dry leaves of melilote.

That was for a sign to stand
That he came to take her hand
In the happy garden land.

For he sent her words to see,
‘Yseult, of thy courtesy,
Have now pity as of me,

‘For my love is barren here.’
To him came an answer clear
Of the lady white and dear.

So that when his love had got
Those dry leaves of melilote,
He the pain remembered not.

But he saw not where to go,
Lest his feet some man should know,
For the ways were marred with snow.

So his bitter doubt he wrote,
And she sent him for his doubt
The same leaves of melilote.

And he marvelled; but he said,
‘Tho' I die, her rede be read.’
And for help of Love he prayed.

And it seemèd well to go
By the court where slept he now,
Right against her in the snow.

And at night she came and spake,
‘Tristram, as for love's true sake,
All my pleasure bid me take.’

And he sware her will to do,
And she smiled that it was so;
‘I shall hear thee thro' the snow.’

A great wonder took him there,
For her face was very fair
Under all her gathered hair.

And more near and soft she stept,
And both arms about him crept,
That for bitter love he wept.

All his heart was drawn in two
That he wist not what to do;
And she kissed him, thinking so.

Then she raised him tenderly,
Bore him lightly as might be,
That was wonderful to see.

So they passed by trail and track,
Slowly, in the night all black,
And she bore him on her back.

As they twain went on along,
Such great love had made her strong,
All her heart was full of song.

Pausing, she breathed sharply there;
And about her, bowed and bare,
Flashed and fell the golden hair.

Pausing, round her body sweet
Rolled the ripe hair to her feet;
Forth she bare him as was meet.

Thro' the court all white and wide
Straight across from side to side
Bare she him in patient pride.

She was hurt with snow and stone,
Came no sob nor any moan
That with bare feet had she gone.

And when all her pain was great,
Smiling in such evil state
Did she walk beneath his weight.

And his heart yearned sharp for her,
And he would not breathe or stir
For a pain of bitter fear.

Till she stood on the strewn floor
Right within the chamber door,
With the weight of love she bore.

When he stood beside her there
Smiling, she drew back the hair
From her throat and bosom fair.

All her neck was strained and red;
Then soft words to him she said,
Leaning on his face her head.

And his kisses on her hair
And her throat and shoulders bare
Fierce and bitter kisses were.

Then he wept for anger sweet,
Flung him down to touch her feet
And to kiss them as was meet.

And above him while she stood,
Stains upon her red as blood;
Then she kissed him as he would.

So great love that time had they;
And would God that I could say
All their love by year and day.

Now three years this thing had been,
And no wrath was them between,
For the love he bare the queen.

Till a knight they loved of old
To Sir Mark this marvel told,
To the king so lean and cold.

A great shadow took his face,
Somewhat low he spake in place
And flushed red in little space.

Then his hands began to stir,
Plucking at his face and hair,
Shameful things he spake of her.

Sware he by his fathers dead
(Then his thin face was not red),
‘She shall bear the steel,’ he said.

So he bade to wreak his thought
She should bear the white steel hot;
But the nobles hearkened not.

Then most shameful things he spake
That the nobles for his sake
Seemèd not their sense to take.

And she spake where men might see,
‘Thou, Sir Mark, that shamest me,
None I gave my hand but thee.

‘And if other ever were
(And a great scorn made her fair)
It was he that standeth there.’

Then great laughter laughèd all,
For against the outer wall
Evil-clad he stood in hall.

And the men for very shame
Spake her quit of ill defame,
And Sir Mark bade praise her name.

But for love he bare her so
Softly bade she Tristram go;
Thence to both was wail and woe.

So he went from her apace;
And she dwelt by Mark in place
With a trouble in her face.

Canto 4
How Sir Tristram came to Brittany

So much grief for him was made,
All the land was changed and sad,
But Queen Yseult nothing said.

Then came Tristram the good knight
From his lady's noble sight,
All athirst for toil and fight.

So he went by many ways
Thro' strange lands by many days,
And in wars he won him praise.

Then for love of Lancelot
And the praise his love had got
Came the knight to Camelot.

There beheld he Guinevere,
All her face like light was clear,
That men shook for loving fear.

And more smooth than steel or glass
All her happy forehead was,
Thro' her eyes some dream did pass.

And he thought of Yseult now,
‘For this lady's eyes and brow
She might stand with her, I trow.’

But the king and Lancelot
For the great praise he had got
Did him welcome as they mote.

So long time he dwelt with them,
In his fight was found no blame
That he won a noble name.

All men for his sake were glad,
But in thought he ever had
The gold hair that Yseult clad.

And he thirsted for one tress,
Praising her in humbleness.
Men him called of Lyonesse,

For that so his birth had been.
And when many months were seen
Took he farewell of the queen.

Farewell of the king he took,
And set sail with heavy look,
For this time he could not brook.

All his heart so weary was
And so worn with love, alas!
With great love in bitter case,

That he thirsted thence to be,
So they sailed the blowing sea
Till they came to Brittany.

He was shent in evil plight,
As one soiled with storm and fight,
Yet he stood a perfect knight.

For his face was fair and strong,
And his body straight along,
And his deep speech like a song,

And his eyes were clear and sad
As the bitter love they had,
Men for him great marvel made.

And they told him how their lord
Died in war with hand on sword,
Died and held his knightly word.

So his daughter had their land,
Yseult of the white snow-hand,
Pale and still they saw him stand.

Then as one in pain he stirred,
Speaking low some loving word
In a voice that no man heard.

And a great smile overtook
All the trouble of his look,
And he neither breathed nor spoke.

When he came by her in place,
He beheld her small sweet face
And pure eyes of patient grace.

All her face was hushed and dim
As her courcet's pearlèd rim
With a maiden fear of him.

And in courteous wise she bade
That fair honour should be had
Of the knight so pale and sad.

So he dwelt beside her long,
In his heart he would no wrong,
But she drew it like a song;

Some dim song at waking heard
When the tender gloom is stirr'd
With the joy of some sweet bird.

So he gladly dwelt by her
In the grey great castle there,
And she grew a lady fair.

And she mused of him alone,
Musing when the day was done
By the ranges of black stone,

Till her eyes grew strange and deep,
And it seemed they could not sleep
Tho' men saw she did not weep.

And all men that saw her loved
For her quiet eyes approved
All her changes when she moved;

And each day by her he came
For the love of her sweet name
And her love who bare the same.

And as days were come and gone,
With no laughter and no moan,
Love grew up ere doubt was done.

Deep in her sweet soul she kept
All the tender pain that slept
So far down, she never wept.

But in all her heart she said,
‘If such care for me he had,
Certes I were dear and glad.’

And it fell one gentle day
In the greenest week of May,
That her sorrow went away.

For the day was nearly done,
And among the woods alone
Was Sir Tristram softly gone.

All about the woods were green,
Walked he in the leaves between,
Thinking sweetly of the queen.

What great love he won of her,
And he thirsted for her here,
Arrow hand and golden hair.

Her old praises did he sing,
Hidden in the happy spring
Sang he many a bitter thing.

And the leaves about him shook,
For great weeping overtook
All his voice and quiet look.

And the snow-hand of her grace
Sought him in the garden place,
With a doubt in her sweet face.

And she heard his singing low,
Clear glad words she seemed to know,
And she loved him, singing so.

‘This was praise that Yseult wan,
That to any maid or man
Spake she courteous as she can.

‘This was praise that Yseult had,
That her happiness made glad
Man or maiden that was sad.’

And hereat the sorrow broke
Thro' the happy words he spoke,
And the quick tears marred his look.

But the lady whiter grew,
White as fear and pale as dew,
So his voice her spirit drew.

For she fain would comfort him,
And she shook in heart and limb,
And her eyes were hot and dim.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘our love is so
That he will not speak of woe,
And I dare not come to know.

‘For I would not any change
Came to make this old life strange,
Or throw love beyond its range.

‘Yet indeed he sang my name.’
And a slow blush overcame
Her bowed face with maiden flame.

‘And he spake sweet things of me
For pure love and courtesy
Where none else had cared to see.

‘I that am but simple maid
Shall he give me love,’ she said,
‘With men's praise to crown his head?

‘Yet I ween he sang my name,’
And again the glorious shame
All her sweet face overcame.

Then he met her, grave and mild,
And the maiden lips that smiled
Trembled as a chidden child.

And his heart went up for her,
Till each thought that harboured there
Rose as pure as any prayer.

And he wist that it were well
In her quiet love to dwell;
So their marriage-time befell.

For in love to her he spake
And was troubled for her sake,
And the grief her love might make.

And in quiet maiden wise,
While a light fled thro' her eyes
Faster than a shadow flies,

Spake she to him, very low,
Then a fear did overflow
All her heart lest he should know.

But the knight her soft love knew,
And her spirit sweet and true
Where the love lay light as dew.

And such grave pure speech he made
That to listen bowed her head
With still joy of that was said.

And the maiden love snow-pure
In her heart should well endure,
Like a fair tree planted sure.

For she loved him as the light,
And was fairest in his sight
As a lake the noon keeps bright.

So their day of love was glad,
And his face nor proud nor sad,
So his maiden bride he had.

And great joy was thro' the land
When in love the twain should stand,
Tristram and the sweet snow-hand.

Then much grief for him was made,
All the land was changed and sad,
But the cold king's heart was glad.

So came Tristram the good knight
From his lady's noble sight,
All athirst for toil and fight.

And great praise he won him there,
So that all men spake him fair
For the wondrous name he bare.

And when Yseult heard them speak
Died the pain that kept her weak,
Died the sorrow from her cheek.

Forth to Camelot he came,
Riding silent as in shame
Thro' the noises of his fame.

When was made his welcome there,
He beheld Queen Guinevere,
All her face like light was clear.

Thro' her eyes a dream did pass,
And more smooth than steel or glass
All her happy forehead was.

So he thought, ‘For eyes and brow
She might stand by Yseult now,
Yet were mine as fair, I trow.’

All men for his sake were glad,
But in thought he ever had
The gold hair that Yseult clad.

And he thirsted for her eyes
As a bird that bleeds and flies
For the fountain where it dies.

And he yearned to touch her hand,
As a river drawn thro' sand
Thirsts to reach the smooth green land.

And he pined to kiss her mouth,
As a rose in dewless drouth
For the warm rains of the south.

So for thirst of her sweet look
And the hair that shone and shook,
Night or day he could not brook.

Ere a leaf had left its tree,
Sailed he all the blowing sea
Till he came to Brittany.

Canto 5
Of the bridal night of Sir Tristram and the Lady Yseult aux Blanches Mains

So at night the maidens came;
And they called her by her name,
And she followed without shame.

And the singing-maidens there
Led the bride with tresses bare,
Singing bridal songs of her.

Purple flowers, blue and red,
On the rushes round the bed
Strewed they for her feet to tread.

But about the bed they set
Large white blossoms, white and wet,
Crowns the fairest they could get.

Her blue robe along the hem
Coloured like a lily's stem,
She put off and gave to them.

And she bade the fairest girl
All her soft hair comb and curl
With a comb of jet and pearl.

By the mirrored steel she stood,
Thinking gently as she could
Sweet new thoughts of womanhood.

In his eyes that she would please
Will she seem the queen of these,
With the hair swept round her knees?

Then the tallest maiden came,
Called her softly by her name;
And she lay down without shame.

Then came Tristram softly in;
Long he stood without, I ween,
Thinking old thoughts of the queen.

Sweet old thoughts he could not say,
How in other times he lay
By Queen Yseult till the day.

Softly to the bed he came;
But between the taper's flame
A fair face looked out at them.

He lay down and dreamed: but she
Lay and looked towards the sea;
And a bitter dream dreamt he.

But he stood away and said:
‘Lo, an evil rede were read
If I had her maidenhead.

‘One that I love more than her
Dwells across the water fair,
Yseult of the golden hair.

‘And for love that she has worn
Men will smite her face with scorn,
Shame that such a queen were born!

‘Lo, to both much ill were done,
For this Yseult, loving one,
Loves but him below the sun.

‘And great shame will overtake
All her beauty for my sake
If her maidenhood I break.

‘And this thing shall never be
That for maiden love of me
Men should shame her as they see.

‘For some men will say, “Behold,
Yseult queen, the hair of gold
Was his paramour of old.”

‘And for love I loved before
Shall they call her paramour.’
So he musèd long and sore.

And the maiden in his sight
Lay beside him, very bright,
Like a sleeper, straight and white.

Then he thought him, lying there,
Of Queen Yseult's golden hair
And the brows of Guinevere.

Spake the snow-hand maidenly,
‘Tristram, for thy courtesy
Think thou no scorn to kiss me.’

A great tremble took his heart,
Many memories made him start,
Listening as he lay apart.

Sidelong to him crept she close,
Pale as any winter rose
When the air is grey with snows.

For she heard him start and stir,
And drew ever near and near
Lest his heart were wrath with her.

But his eyes grew very dim,
And a tremble went thro' him,
Shuddering over heart and limb.

For pure love of her he wept
As in fear she crept and crept
Slowly, lest perchance he slept.

Soft as lighteth bird on bough
Thrice he kissed her, breathing low,
Kissed her mouth and maiden brow.

And in under breath said he
When his face she could not see,
‘Christ look over her and me.’

Low sweet words of love she said
With her face against his head
On the pillows of the bed.

Then a pleasure bright and mild
Smoothed her sweet face, and she smiled,
Sleeping as a maiden child.

And his hands for love of her
From the throat and shoulders bare
Parted off the ruffling hair.

Then he kissed her hair and head
For the sweet words she had said;
And in kissing her he prayed.

Praying in his heart he spake,
That for Mary's maiden sake
Christ would keep his faith awake.

And the sweet saints knew aright
That he bore him well in fight,
Warring ever in their sight.

And the Mother pitied him,
For he shook in heart and limb,
Lying in the chamber dim.

And he bowed his body fair
Down athwart the window there,
Weeping for the golden hair.

It was wonderful to see
That he wept so bitterly
With his face to the blown sea.

As he turned and softly stept,
Lest perchance she had not slept,
Bitterly he wept and wept.

She lay out before him there,
All her body white and bare
Overswept with waves of hair.

There she rested, breathing low,
Purer than the naked snow,
Beautiful to see and know.

In her sleep she spake and prayed;
And for those dear words she said,
He came softly to the bed.

And in love he would not hide,
Praying between pain and pride,
Laid him softly at her side.

So from evening till the day
At her side in love he lay;
Slept no child as pure as they.

So her love had all it would,
All night sleeping as she could,
Sleeping in her maidenhood.

Canto 6
How Queen Yseult kept her ring

Days are come and days are gone
Over Cornwall many a one,
Since her ordeal was done.

Mark was tender with his fear,
Lest some worse thing he should hear,
And bade all men honour her.

So Queen Yseult's days were fair,
And her maidens, waiting bare,
Combed and crowned the golden hair.

But King Mark would keep apart,
Lest her eyes should make him start,
Full of envy was his heart.

And his face grew long and lean
And his lips more pale, I ween,
Hiding harsh words of the queen.

And in bitter speech he said,
When much wine had filled his head,
A bad prayer that she were dead.

So the court began to stir,
And the maidens gathered near,
Whispered secret things of her.

And most bitter pain she had,
Painèd thro' her speeches glad,
Till her heart grew faint or mad.

In the pleasure that she made
At the revels the king bade,
Wild and wandering words she said.

And at night when all the room
Spread about her black and dumb,
She lay gazing thro' the gloom.

All old comfort she forgot,
And her throat and lips grew hot,
And her large eyes moistened not.

Then she thought the grave were cold,
And spake soft her name of old,
‘Yseult, queen, the hair of gold.’

And she wept for that one thing,
For she looked upon the king,
And drew forth her golden ring.

Slept King Mark upon the bed,
Thick hot wine had filled his head,
Some fierce word in sleep he said.

She had thought long since to hear
Speech of Tristram spoken clear,
That his life was kept for her.

And when any knight came nigh
To her place for courtesy,
Saw she Tristram standing by.

And when songs of her were sung,
Heard his voice the leaves among
Singing in the sweet French tongue.

And when harpers harped anew,
Very pale and faint she grew
Like a lily dead in dew.

So she held him dead and lain
Out beyond the water-plain,
Naked under sun and rain.

In the dark she rose to weep,
‘Long wet tendrils clasp and creep
Where the good knight lies asleep.’

No one heard the words she said
On the pillows of the bed,
Praise and prayer for Tristram dead.

No one saw her girdle slip,
Saw her loosen it to weep,
Thinking how he touched her lip.

Heavily her robe sank white,
Heavily her hair sank bright,
Rustling down in the dead night.

And her breast was loosened so
From the hunger of its woe,
When the samite rustled low.

Clothèd queenlike sate she there,
Sate she in the moonlight bare,
Golden light and golden hair.

To much evil was she brought,
Very bitter things she thought
Tho' her quiet lips said naught.

And the sweet saints pitied her
As they saw the weeping hair,
And the face so very fair.

At her side no queen might stand,
Was none like her in the land,
Golden hair and arrow hand.

Then she prayed, if any heard,
And the air about her stirr'd
As the motions of a bird.

And she thought an angel came,
Poised his wings of painted flame,
And spoke bitterly her name.

For she bowed before his look,
And her heart such trembling took,
That her limbs with weeping shook.

Then she rose and did not pray,
Far off sounds she heard at play
Blown about a windy bay.

Down athwart the window bright
Leant she into the dead light,
Wept for Tristram the good knight.

The deep sky and sharp grey crag,
Black with many a jut and jag,
The pale stream where stirred the flag,

All the long white lines of sea,
All the long white slope of lea,
In the moonlight watchèd she.

Then again she sank to weep,
In the rushes rustling deep,
Flung a white and golden heap,

And she thought, ‘The world is wide,
Somewhere I might flee and hide,
So the king should ease his pride.

‘And thereafter will he know
All the chance of this our woe,
And repent him, hearing so.

‘He will say in all men's sight
That this Yseult had not right,
Who took Tristram for her knight.

‘If King Mark should weep,’ said she,
Thinking what a woe might be,
‘Shall not all men pity me?

‘For none ever,’ soft she said,
‘Any truer woman had
Than this Tristram that is dead.

‘All things had my lord of me,
Love and help and mercy free,
And my thought his thought to be.’

So her heart was comforted
Of the bitter pain it had,
As she lay down on the bed.

And the saints sent sleep to her,
In the moonlight very fair,
Golden light and golden hair.

She remembered that old night
When across the courts all white
Bare she Tristram the good knight.

And she smiled with pride anon,
As came to her one by one
All the mercies she had done.

How for very love she bore
Things no woman knew before,
And would bear for evermore.

And a dumb great smile smiled she,
And it deepened still to see,
Till she laughed low laughters three.

And she said, ‘This love put by
(In a holy voice and high)
Shall not perish tho' I die.

‘And when men shall praise him dead
(Both her cheeks flushed royal-red)
All my story shall be said.

‘For I shall not blush to know
(And she rose up, speaking so)
That men speak of this my woe.

‘For that I love Tristram well
(And her voice rang like a bell)
Is no shame for them to tell.

‘Since indeed no shame it were
(Said she, shaking back her hair)
That one loved him thrice as fair.

‘For such knight was never seen
(Spake most loftily the Queen)
Since a noble man has been.

‘For the wars he warred of old
(Straight she drew the hair of gold)
In all people will be told.

‘So by Tristram the good knight
(All her face was full of light)
Shall I stand in all men's sight.

‘Hair and eyes and smile and speech
(Soft she wove it, plait and pleach)
Gave I to Sir Tristram each.

‘Men would praise me oft in place
(Wondrous was her lighted face)
For my smile and spoken grace.

‘Many singers sang of me
(Stately stood she, as a tree)
For pure heart and courtesy.

‘Thought and grace and loving heart
(She looked up with lips apart)
All I gave to be his part.

‘Now there is no more to say
(Said she softly as one may)
Tho' I die for him ere day.’

And she knew the measures bland,
‘Is none like her in the land,
Golden hair and arrow hand.’

All day long the eager light
Was a trouble in her sight,
And the festal lamps by night.

Then the king soft speeches made,
Half in hate and half afraid,
And she loathed the words he said,

Tho' she hearkened not a whit;
And a sorrow vexed her wit,
Ever turning over it.

And her pride was made most weak,
And a shadow blind and meek
Took her brows and altered cheek.

And old thoughts about her came
When the dais was all aflame
With large lights, each day the same.

And she wist not what to say
Could not move her lips to pray
For the heart that beat alway.

And she paused before her glass,
For so tight the girdle was
By her breast, she could not pass.

And she thought, ‘If he should come
Back across the grey salt foam
I were altered in his doom.

‘Nay,’ she said, ‘for love were there,
And the corn-ripe golden hair,
Tho' the face should be less fair.’

Then she smiled, and faintlier
Came the silken courtly stir;
But the king's eyes hated her.

And their straight cold look she knew,
And again more faint she grew
Than a lily dead in dew.

So she saw days go and come,
And at night in the old room
Lay she gazing thro' the gloom.

LANCELOT

LANCELOT

Very long and hot it was,
The dry light on the dry grass,
The set noon on lakes of glass,
All that summer time;
And the great woods burnt and brown,
With dry tendrils dropping down,
And the sky's white rampart thrown
On the bare wall of a town,
Round breadths of oak and lime.
Thro' the woods I rode and rode,
No prayer of mine clomb up to God;
Sharp leaves crackled on the road
Where my horse the heaviest trode,
Over leaves and grass.
Thro' the sad boughs rent on high
Naked burnt the great blind sky;
Yet I did not pray to die,
For no pain that was.
Here and there some colour was
Hidden in the muffled grass,
Some late flower that one might pass,
Or else a brown, smooth beech-mast was,
Or carven acorn cup.
And birds sang, and could not long,
For a trouble in their song:
All things there did suffer wrong,
All but I who rode along.

Now I grow so tired of this,
I would give much gold to kiss
One leaf of those primroses
That grow here when the green spring is
Whereof their life is made.
Under moon and under star
I have ridden fast and far
Where the deep leaves thickest are
In the huddled shade.

I cannot see what I shall do.

Now the day drops angrily,
Leaves a red stain on the sea,
And fierce light on field and tree,
Red as any brand.
A great slumber takes me round
In this place of sleepy sound;
Surely now the gift is found
And ready to my hand.
For there is left me nothing new
And none rides with me riding through
These brown wood walks so straight and few
For many nights and days.
And men say that I shall not win,
Tho' the chosen for all my sin;
The sleepy beams crawl out and in
Under the branches rare and thin
Where thro' I ride always.

(He sleeps.)

THE ANGEL
Lo, the air begins to move
Like a heart that beats with love
All about thee and above,

For the hope it whispers of
But a little while.
A great love has healed his heart,
The shut eyelids move and start,
The shut lips are breathed apart
In a sleepy smile.

LANCELOT
Ah! dear Christ, this thing I see
Is too wonderful for me,
If I think indeed to be
In Thy very grace.
Clear flame shivers all about,
But the bright ark alters not,
Borne upright where angels doubt;
The blessed maiden looketh out
White, with barèd face and throat
Leaned into the dark.
On her hair's faint light and shade
A large aureole is laid,
All about the tresses weighed.

THE ANGEL
This is what thou wert to find.
Lo, the thin flames blown behind
Tremble in the blowing wind
As loose hair that girls unbind
In a woody place.

LANCELOT

Ah, sweet Lord that art my Lord,
Thy light is sharp as any sword;

My heart is strainèd as a cord
That a child may break.
Evenwise each side her head
So they stand, the blessed maid,
The angels and the ark.

It were strange if I should see
Sweet new things for love of Thee;
For such hope was not to be;
Yet hast Thou had ruth on me
For my sorrow's sake.
I tremble, but I cannot weep,
I fear so much I am asleep;
Round the faces ranged and steep
A thin splendour seems to creep
Thro' the night so dear and deep,
Seems to stir as leaves that dip
In a lilied lake.

Ah, sweet Lord that died on rood,
Of old time Thy word hath stood
And we saw it very good;
Yet is this Thy happy blood
I was not to see.

THE ANGEL
Where she standeth in the night
Clasped about with solemn light,
Clothed upon with samite bright,
The blessed maiden very white,
This is all the happy sight
That I may bring for thee.

LANCELOT
Over me the glory smites,
Sharp and level as the lights
Spear-shap'd on solemn winter nights
That strike from shade to shade;
Only all the inner place
(Ah, my Lord, is this Thy grace?)
Shineth as a happy face
In a clear and golden space
That itself hath made.
Is this love that I may win,
Love of mine for all my sin?
The straight flames flicker out and in,
Tho' they never fade.
But the light of that strange place
(Lord, I thank Thee for Thy grace!)
Thro' the lights of moving space
Trembles like a living face
Whereon some pain is laid.

THE ANGEL
Turn thine eyes against the light,
Where the spearèd splendours smite
Round the ark, most close and white;
This is given me to-night
For the love of thee.

LANCELOT
All the wonder shown above
(Lord, I praise Thee for Thy love!)
Thro' the lights that mix and move

Like blown feathers of a dove
Stirreth, strange to see;
And midway the solemn place
(As my soul were full of grace)
Leaning hither, the clear Face
Seemeth to bless me.

THE ANGEL
Points of sharp light star the ground;
Thro' the wind is blown a sound
As of singing voices round
Over the dark land.
Christ the Lord is fair and crowned,
Whose pure blood, in bitter swound,
Droppèd from the holy wound;
Surely now the gift is found
And ready to thy hand.

LANCELOT
Lo, between me and the light
Grows a shadow on my sight,
A soft shade to left and right,
Branchèd as a tree.
Green the leaves that stir between,
And the buds are lithe and green,
And against it seems to lean
One in stature as the Queen
That I prayed to see.
Ah, what evil thing is this?
For she hath no lips to kiss,
And no brows of balm and bliss
Bended over me.

For between me and the shine
Grows a face that is not mine,
On each curve and tender line
And each tress drawn straight and fine
As it used to be.

THE ANGEL
This is Guenevere the Queen.

LANCELOT

For the face that comes between
Is like one that I have seen
In the days that were.
Nay, this new thing shall not be.
Is it her own face I see
Thro' the smooth leaves of the tree,
Sad and very fair?
All the wonder that I see
Fades and flutters over me
Till I know not what things be
As I seemed to know.
But I see so fair she is,
I repent me not in this;
And to kiss her but one kiss
I would count it for my bliss
To be troubled so,
For she leans against it straight,
Leans against it all her weight,
All her shapeliness and state;
And the apples golden-great
Shine about her there.
Light creeps round her as she stands,
Round her face and round her hands,
Fainter light than dying brands

When day fills the eastern lands
And the moon is low.
And her eyes in some old dream
Woven thro' with shade and gleam
Stare against me till I seem
To be hidden in a dream,
To be drowned in a deep stream
Of her dropping hair.
That is Guenevere the Queen.
Now I know not what they mean,
Those close leaves that grow so green,
Those large fruits that burn between,
Each a laugh new lit.
Now I know not what they were,
The light fires that trembled there
Sharp and thin in the soft air,
Nor the faces dumb and fair,
Nor the happy singing near;
But I seem to see her hair
And the light on it.
Day by day and hour by hour
Grew her white face like a flower,
Palest where the day grew lower
On the fiery sea.
Always sate I, watching her,
By her carven gilded chair,
Full of wonder and great fear
If one long lock of her hair
In the soft wind sink or stir,
Fallen to her knee.
All about her face and head
The flat sunset overspread
Like an aureole of red,
Stained as drops from wounds that bled
In some bitter fight.

All the tender shapen head
Dimly blurred with golden red,
And the thin face, as I said,
Drawn and white as snows wind-shed
On the green place of the dead
In a windy night.
Coloured flakes of stormy fire
Clomb the rent clouds high and higher,
And the wind like a great lyre
Sounded vague and loud.
And the sunset lines that flee
On the flats of fiery sea
Far below us, her and me,
Were as golden red to see
As the heaped hair on her knee
Or as the coloured cloud.
So we sat in love and fear,
And no faces came anear,
And no voices touched our ear
But of angels singing clear
Out of all the sunset drear
Round us and above.
And she listened; and a light
Shivered upward in my sight
Thro' her set face, sad and white;
Till I hid mine eyes for fright
And for very love.
Drear and void the sunset was
On stained flats of fire and glass
Where she saw the angels pass
That I could not see:
For none eyes but hers might pierce
Thro' the colours vague and fierce
That a sunset weaves and wears;
Downward slipt the long thin tears

As she turned and sang this verse
That she made for me.

‘Eastward under skies that dip
As to touch the water's lip,
Pass, my ship, with sails that drip
Not with dew, nor with rain.
Thro' the morning float and pass
From the shores of flower and grass,
Thro' a space of golden glass
Stained with a blood-red stain.
Evil ship on evil sea,
Bear him back again to me
Till I see what secrets be
Hidden in all this pain.’

Then she spake not, neither stirred,
But I shook for that one word
With the pain of that I heard
That she spake of me.
For the ship that seemed to pass
Thro' the sea of fiery glass,
That strange ship mine own soul was
And my life the sea.
And the sin that I had done
In the fierce time that was gone
When I slew her knight alone
Face to face with the red sun
Setting in the west.
And my soul began to see
All the ill she had of me
When I bore her to the sea
From her place of rest.
Yet I loved her long and well;
Yea, my tongue would tire to tell

All the love that her befell,
And the slow speech faint and fail
Ere the love was told.
Now she dwelleth by me here,
In my castle builded fair;
But no crown of mine will wear
That I thought to keep for her,
And on her beloved hair
Lay the royal gold.
And her face grows grey and long
And harsh breaths come thro' her song
And her heart is worn with wrong,
As is plain to see.
Should I die, no help it were
Now men say she is not fair,
For the pain she seems to wear
In grey cheeks and waning hair;
All my love avails not her,
And she loves not me.
Vain was the prayer I prayed alway,
Where in evil case I lay,
That she might love me one day
As the manner is;
Vain the prayer that I have prayed,
That, lying between light and shade,
I that loved her as I said,
I that never kissed a maid,
I might have her kiss.

THE DEATH OF RUDEL

Lift me a little on my bed,
All this day about my head
Sudden sounds have fled and fled
As the waters flee.

I look into the sunset red,
I put both hands behind my head
To hear if anything be said,
I lie as one that long is dead;
I pray you, lift me on this bed
That I may hear and see.

So now, you feel my time hath ran,
Men will praise me as they can
For the honour that I wan,
‘This Rudel was a famous man,’
For kings have praisèd me.

I ask you what avail is this?
Better for a man it is
To have had of her one kiss
That in life and love was his,
Than to have all praise.

Tell me, wherein shall this avail?
For, see, my hands are lean and pale,
And at my heart the warm veins fail,
And I have had my days.

And this life of mine has gone
Thro' its times of mirth and moan,
And kiss of maiden had I none,
Tho' I never loved but one
All this life of mine.

Help of love have I not had,
And sometimes my heart grew mad,
That all other men were glad
While I went so white and sad
At the revels the king bade
Where they drank their wine.

All night long and day by day
While on this ill bed I lay,
Thro' the bloom and balm of May
The same noise have I heard.

The dull waters slipping slow,
The wan waters lapping low,
And no pleasant breath would blow,
And no song would help me so
As one spoken word.

All this pain avails me not,
Heart and head are weak and hot,
The hope is withered from my thought,
The love is plucked out of my lot
As feathers from a bird.

At Tripoli

The sharp cords slacken, the keel sways,
I hear the fretted shingle graze,
A rippling anger stirs and frays
Along the golden water-ways;
We should be close on land.

Ah! Christ, that yet for all my pain
In this heart and beating brain
(Lest men say my love were vain),
I might but touch her hand.

I am so tired, I cannot see
The black masts corded over me,
And past my head strange noises flee,
Noises flee and fade.

In the light and in the gloom
I feel new faces go and come,
Saddened all, and tender some
As face of any maid.

Ah! the rustle of her feet,
Ah! the murmur faint and sweet,
Thro' the blowing snows that fleet
Round and over me.

This is she that I would have;
Lo, the eyes so great and grave,
And the lips of power to save,
That I came to see.

I praise God that I shall die,
From thin lips a thin glad cry
Brake as I beheld her nigh,
To praise God for this.

Ah! she never saw me yet,
But her pearl-white lids seem wet;
Will she love me or forget
As the manner is?

Her gold hair, heavy and sweet,
Clothes her straight from face to feet,
As she stoops the tresses stroops meet.
Ah, dear Lord, I prayed for it,
I have had her kiss.

(He dies.)

BALLAD

It was when cocks began to crow
And the dawn lay white and low.

The mother slept upon the bed,
The child slept on her bosom dead.

When the floor was grey with light,
She looked into the dawn all white.

A bird sang at the window-sill
And of its song was never still.

As she heard him singing sweet,
Fear crept down her to the feet.

She looked against the morning red,
And knew that the white child was dead.

She looked against the morning bird,
It sang, she spake not any word.

She cursed it in her heart and wept,
And very still the white child slept.

‘O sister, sing me some old word,
For I would not hear the singing bird.’

‘O what is this pain about your face?
And what shall I sing in the dead child's place?’

‘Fear not here to sing my song,
For the child shall feel no wrong.’

Then the maiden's singing shrill
All the frore grey dawn did fill.

‘What thing is this? I hear no word
But ever the same song of the bird.

‘Thou dost not well to use me so,
Thy song is very dull and low.’

‘O sister, the song is new and sweet,
It is the dead child singing it.’

The white bird from the sill was gone,
The white face shone in the straight sun.

Ere the sweet new song was done,
On two dead faces came the sun.

Ere the song was ended meet,
The mother's voice was mixed in it.

Under the drawn threads of the shroud
Came two voices that sang loud.

The girls that carried out the bier
Felt their set hands loosen with fear.

Under the grass for two days long
There sang all day a sweet new song.

In a green place both lie dead,
The child sleeps at the grave's head.

SECOND LOVE

O what have you done with your brave brown horse.
Tell me for the love of me?
Red beaks are muffled in his corse,
And no more praise shall he have of me.

O what have ye done with your small white bird
That sang so on the hand of me?
It shall not sing ye any word,
It feeds not on the land of me.

O what have ye done with your thin gold ring
That I bade ye keep for me?
I would not keep me anything,
That eyes of none should weep for me.

O what have ye done with your straight bright sword,
That shone so for the gold of it?
It slipped in the water of the ford,
Where my right hand left hold of it.

O what have ye done with your fair new bride,
For the praise she had of ye?
I would be lying at her side,
And O but she were glad of me!

O what have ye done with the soft warm hair
She cut from off the head of her?
I laid it on her bosom bare,
And no more shall be said of her.

And what have ye done with the scented glove
I gave ye for the scent of it?
I gave it to my fair new love,
And she kist the thin white rent of it.

And what have ye done with the flask of wine
I kept for ye to drink of it?
I gave her of the sweet hot wine,
That makes me cold to think of it.

THE QUEEN'S TRAGEDY

I do not think that God has cared for us.
I said that, seeing when they took my lord
And got about him with their wicked hands,
Their long brown fingers clenched about his hair,
And smote and slew him. Do not touch me, girls;
I did not bid you swarm all round my bed
With faces heaped on faces; for indeed
I am not very patient with my heart,
And I may strike you if you trouble me.

Now sometimes, if my lord would come to me
Out of the hot black ceremonial troop
Wherethro' I see him riding in my dreams,
I would not kiss him on the buried mouth;
For, verily, I tell you as things be,
There have been worms about it. See my lips,
Shall they kiss where the worms have been? for once
He said, ‘Those lips have caught the shadowed crown
Of petals stained with sunlight in their dew,
So the dear smile clings at them, comes and goes,
And makes me faint with wonder of her smile.’

I pray you very humbly of my love,
Let not the fair light hurt me; so it comes
And crawls about me, sliding out and in,
Till one must weep or curse, and I would rest.
I do not love the sky nor light that grows
Up in the morning, slow as if a prayer

Began to alter in the dying voice,
And trembled and clomb higher in the throat.
That is the sky's prayer, prayed in psalms of light;
And prayer is vain. Moreover I have prayed
And seen no face of God nor any saint,
And have not peace; so I hate light, for there
Sits God with all His saints and laugh at me,
They mock me in the sun and in the moon,
They mock me in the rainfall and the stars.

Dear Christ, if they had only strangled him,
If they had only stabbed him where he slept,
His hands in mine, his face against the lamp,
The lamp that made thin patterns on the wall,
I think I could have lived then, certainly.
I had been very patient, and Thou, Lord,
Hadst wondered for my patience and come down
To help me, putting Thy calm hands in mine
Even where his lay, and spoken blessed words,
And loosened all my heart to make me die.
I know not why men call Thee merciful;
For this was not. And now Thou seest me here,
I wonder in Thy light and in Thy shade,
I scorn to all Thy servants as they pass,
And how should this not be? for I have heard
That with strong hands they plucked him by the hair,
And trod on him, and smote upon his mouth,
And cut with a great axe of smooth white steel
Thro' his white throat, and rent away the head
To nail it up against their city walls.
All this I heard or seem myself to see
Till mine eyes ache, and a slow pain puts out
A cold hand in the hollow of my heart
To feel for pasture; and my throat grows thick,
And a deep anger sobs into my voice,

And my hands shut and open. O my God,
I am no girl that has not borne much pain
And will grow past her sorrow as a tree
Past the green withes one plaits about its base;
I have lived and wrought my work, and I am here
Cast down into the darkness of Thy hate,
With noises blown about me in the dark,
And great seas beating round and over me.

For now, thro' all the miserable nights
That grow between me and that face of thine,
Strange things creep round me lying in this bed,
Lean fingers touch my forehead and my lips,
Damp touches taint me to the core of sense,
And I am left as a polluted thing
Men spit on, lying bruised along the road,
And hidden in her weeping hair, and wet
With mire and blood; even such am I; for now,
If one should come and smite me on the cheek,
If one should come and spit into my mouth,
I do not think that God would take revenge.

What now? Why should you catch my hands in yours?
What would these girls? You will not let me come
And pluck this hair out that he used to kiss,
To kiss all over till it seemed to creep
And tingle with the trembling of his lips.
Now all the colour is gone out of it,
And all the glory gone out of my face
As paint one washes off a broken mask.
I must kneel too, then! I must put my hands
As in a prayer one puts them up to God,
To pray you of your pity let me sleep!
For look, I cannot sleep for all this pain,

And till I sleep I shall be sick at heart
And weaker than the snapped stem of a rose.
Nay but by God I will not pray at all,
Nor weep to you because you love me not.
I will have men to come and bind your hands,
And bruise you with most heavy chains of steel,
And drive a thick bolt in over your heads,
So ye shall lie on naked floors and writhe
With foul damp touches crawling over you,
With great worms feeding up and down your limbs.
And I shall laugh and look across the grate
And see you heaped about the wet red mire,
Face downwards in a huddle of live slime,
And you will writhe with miserable limbs
And turn to see me laughing in the sun.

Ah, girls, when he is come to me again
I shall put on my crownet, and a robe
Ashine from hem to hem and skirt by skirt
With twisted gold in threads, and overthwart
With light of many jewels, emerald
And hyacinth and the white flame of pearls,
And seek him as the evening seeks a star,
And find him as the midnight finds the moon.
I shall put on my crown and go to him,
And he will take me round with both his arms,
And kiss me. But for love I think of him
I shall not answer save with eyes and face,
Lit from the marvel of his face and eyes,
And he will smile and bow himself and say,
‘Look, sweet, there are my hands I put on yours,
This is my hair that stoops to brush your neck
As I stoop down to kiss you on the mouth.’
Then I shall weep and say some foolish thing
Because I shudder still thro' all my blood

From his great kiss; and he will say—by Christ
I will not have you know what he will say.
But I shall laugh and gather close to him,
My face and all my body and my hair
Bowed over him as rain when a cloud stoops,
Closer than dew clings round a dying flower.
Then shall I loose my hands and cry and say,
‘Ah, Love, what is this line upon your throat?’
And he will tremble and grow lean and pale.
(I shall feel sick with fear of his cold face)
And he will slip between my arms and go.
Then shall I bruise my arms against the ground,
And crush my bosom harder on the stone,
And beat my bare face on the floor and die.
Yea, now would I so beat my lips and bruise
And break myself against the bitter stone,
And drag my cheeks and hair upon the ground,
And mar my flesh with blows if I were free.

For I begin to think the word of death
Is a lewd jape, a thin and blind report
Made to deceive men of their wretchedness;
But so will I be not deceived of mine,
Because I love it. O my God, O God,
I knew them, when they spake and had no heart,
Sat talking of a child to make me mad;
For it was never writ of any man
That he had pain like mine and was not mad.
Yea, I was present, O dear Lord—indeed
Said nothing, only gazed into my hair,
And wept because they hurt me with their words;
Because I knew the trouble, and the change
Of shadow and of colour round the brow,
And round the eyes and the warm little mouth
That is cold now and has not earth on it,

And all the rainy place is cold for it,
In the soft, narrow grave where I would be!
Nathless, I thought that till God shut me up
I might have lived without remembering it.
But now the bitter sweetness stings me thro'
As sharp wine stings and curdles all one's mouth,
Runs thro' me in a trembling of the blood,
And the small hands that wandered on my face
With sweet and doubtful touches, and the feet
Thrust out that could not stand or run at all,
And the grave eyes so full and passionate
That never child but mine had such a face.
O dearest Mother whose eyes long ago
Christ kissed in heaven, made pure of any tear,
I pray thee, Mother, help me for my pain,
Who am but sinful woman and too weak.
To think how the small face would stare in mine
With finger-clasp of sweet imperial hands,
And tender tremble of beseeching lips—
The child, the child, O pity, O my child!

Lo now, you see me that I am not mad.
For how should one remember this and live?
If it were possible one might go mad,
I would kneel always on my barèd knees
Under the lamp until my heart were sick,
With steady swim of incense even-wise,
Along the dense air in and out the lamps
Until my blood grew thick and my hands loose
And my head heavily smote upon the stone.
Also at night when you that are no queens
As God knows, all you miserable girls
Sleep with your foolish faces pillowed up
In soft hot rooms made quiet with your breath,
I would kneel naked there in all the light

And pray till both my lips were worn, and all
This lean flesh wasted from me, till some man
Found me some white and bitter time of dawn
With thin hands praying and set lips of prayer
And loose limbs on the floor, naked and dead;
And over me the insolent cold sun,
And gaunt white flames a-shiver on the lamps;
And round me all the carven church-work, saints
Painted about the windows marvellous,
And lean stone faces with intolerant lips,
And brows drawn back for eyes to stare me blind.
God help me! Look, I am not mad at all;
Tho' all these nights, lying along my bed,
Flung out at level with these heavy limbs,
I see the shadows of the muffled walls
Alter about me, crawl and turn and shift,
Changed just to mock me; and men's voices cry
Sharper than scorn, and the noise thrills my hair,
So close it tingles as they seem to say
‘A queen, a queen!’ As then a laughter grows
About my heart and makes me hot, I know
That many would go mad for less than I
To have such laughter tighten in one's throat,
And choke one till it made him deaf and blind.
For I have come to hear I was a queen,
Might not another die so? Then I take
My hair and pull it closer on the face
And lie and weep through it great tears like these.
I pray you do not let me bleed to death.
I will be patient and not weep at all
If you will help me. Look, I do not weep
Tho' there are women weeping for less pain.
I pray you help me lest I bleed to death.
My heart is full of weeping, and both eyes
Stained thro' with some red sight of agony,

And a slow pain eats thro' me, limb by limb,
As fire eats wood; now, if I can pray loud,
Now God must hear me. Ah, but I am filled
With some obscure pollution which devours
My flesh and blood and breath; and so I lie
Deeper within my grave than any sleep
In some green place under the dropping dews.

I have seen many things and done much ill,
And lived a broken life filled full of change
Ere this; for never any woman lived
Such life out since I grew a child too sad
For holiday or playtime of the rest.
In that lean castle by the thin white stream
Shackled with pallid nets of river-weed,
I grew there with no help of the warm sun,
Nor light of tender faces one might love.
And then I grew a woman and a queen,
Filled as one fills a vessel with hot wine
Up to the carven lips of gold, so filled
By a great love that held me body and soul,
That made me white and cruel, cold, and thin,
And yet I tell you that I was beloved.
Yea verily, no woman hath more love
Of any man that holds her in his hands
And kisses her till she grow faint for pain,
Than I had of my lord when I was queen.
For now I flush and shudder as the sea
Under a red and creeping light of dawn,
Remembering the kisses and the words
That each kiss ended on the lips, and all
The gazing that consumes me flesh and soul.
So may I find him somewhere when I die,
Climb somehow to him over toothèd stones
That steam and drip with blood of both my feet;

Climb to him, weeping eyes and laughing lips
Under a huddled rain of hair, and say,
‘O Love, I know this was thy blazon once,
When all men praised me for my knight, even me;
White wings against a floor of smooth red gold;
And this, dear, was that poor blue scarf of mine,
Long since I drew so close over thy wound
That bled and drenched it thro' the colour, stained
And stained thro' all the golden woof of it.
And this, Love, is that very face you had
When I would weep for anger or some grief
Till your laugh spoilt the kiss I had of you.’

Ah, dearest Lord, if such a thing might be,
What I would give you of my love, O Lord!
I would have painters to paint you wall by wall
Even to the dark aisle-chapels, out of sight,
White angels very glorious, and Thy saints
Crowned in a great smooth splendour of white light
And clothed upon with colour, wonderful,
And Virgins with brows overbent for weight
Of their large aureoles, and calm claspt hands
Lain evenwise about the child that sleeps,
Painted, O Lord, as fair as mine own child's,
As marvellous with hair and mouth and eyes.
Yea, such things blazoned in and out the walls
As should rejoice Thee for my service, Lord,
And make men praise Thee for this work of mine.
And altars carven in rough golden frames,
And candles of pure flame, wool-white and smooth,
And such sharp incense as the Arab grates
From the tree's costliest heart, and myrrh to burn
Before Thee in the golden holiness,
And all from roof to floor diverse and strange
With royal gloom and light, and over-full

With songs and odours blown thro' wealthiest air;
A glorious church to stand up in Thy sight
And praise Thee before all the nations, Lord!
Only I pray Thee let me see his face.

Know not even these that huddle there agape
With meaningless white faces, know they not
That God is pleased with service? So at last
When all this work is finished I shall come
And kiss him on the forehead and the mouth,
And on the smooth imperial white throat
Set large and stately without any scar.

Indeed I know not how I seem to live,
Sometimes I feel more light than any bird
That dips between the leaves thro' golden shade
And thro' white sunshine; otherwhiles I think
That all the years are gathering up in rain
Like clouds the wind brings oversea from France;
It is the south wind shakes our blossoms, look!

Moreover, love, I pray you kiss me close
On mouth and brow, because you see my rose
Has withered for the kisses of the rain.
And I will sing to sweeten my red mouth,
And plait my hair till all the lines be smooth,
And speak as sweetly till I sing again.
For so you praised me singing long ago,
And I remember as the seasons blow
From summer into summer, and I make
My recollection sweeter for regret
Than the dead odour of a violet,
I pray you love me for that summer's sake.

Oxford, 1859.

UNDERGRADUATE SONNETS

I

[When I behold the summer's glory paint]

When I behold the summer's glory paint
The winter-wrinkled cheek of earth with pride,
And overcome with sweet the bitter taint
That angry seasons laid by spring's fair side:
And all the sullen-working clouds supprest
That sat upon the green head of the year,
The tender May with humorous flaws opprest
Lift up again her sweet enamour'd cheer;
Their sight would pour a balm about my pain,
And hush the cry that rends my parted soul,
But that in all things fair I see too plain
Some lurking treason doth bewitch the whole,
And thought doth tell me that thy absence takes
The golden gloss from all the Summer wakes.

II

[Deep passions rock my weariness asleep]

Deep passions rock my weariness asleep,
Forgetting that my rest doth rest with thee:
And from the abysm of old delirious deep
The hideous face of grief glares out on me:
And I am wearier of my false rest
Than of true labour working all my life:
But wouldst thou lend the harbourage of thy breast
To my woe-wearied thought, this sleepy strife
Should have a waking and a fineless end;
For thine it is love, to dispose of me;
Show thou to me true traitor or false friend,
I can but put the show of praise on thee;
I can but swear thy seeming sanctity,
Thy feigning truth, pure love thy cruelty.

III

[How canst thou tax my faith of windy change]

How canst thou tax my faith of windy change,
Whose heart is knitted to thy tyrant breast?
Thou in whose broad unmeasur'd scope of range
The thought is lost that reckons its unrest!
O false and fair, dishonour'd in thy pride,
What glory is it that will crown thee now?
Speake of a trustless hope, a fancy wide
And wandering as the air, whose noble brow
Is written on and markt with lines of shame,
Is it not thine? And when the saddest tune
Doth soothe the winds with music, and her flame
Pales in the wan cheeke of the weary man,
And night's weake fires are quencht, who then but I
Can plaine of truth, when by thy sin I die?

IV

[To you, false witnesses of time beguil'd]

To you, false witnesses of time beguil'd
And periur'd brokers of my follies past,
When expectation's discontented child,
Despair, did mocke the carefull season's wast,
I do bequeath this last and perfect truth;
Your wandering lines are forged and lying tales;
Her whom ye prais'd for love and glorious youth,
To mocke with idle flattery naught avails;
She is not fair nor true nor lov'd nor worth
The emptie cost of this expended wrath;
A falser never rob'd the dullard earth
In glory, nor did light her darkling path;
Nor fair nor true nor lov'd nor clear ye prove her,
And I believe your warrant; but I love her.

V

[I love thee; though my verse revolt and swear]

I love thee; though my verse revolt and swear
Thou art not worthy, I must love thee still;
Some cruell planet full of wrath and feare
Lowr'd on my birth, grim herald to this ill;
I hate thy falsehood that is part of thee,
I love the beauty that doth overpaint it;
I love the brightness there, and will not see
For its rich sweetness what a curse doth taint it.
Yet shall thy name live ripen'd in my song,
And when thy limbs are dust, thy fault forgotten,
My constant faith shall pale thee from the throng,
Thy praise shall bloom, when envy's blame is rotten
The one shall live in glory, and to thee
Lend of its praise; the other die with me.

VI

[O thou, fair honour of all gentle vowes]

O thou, fair honour of all gentle vowes,
Dear queen to whom all love brings sacrifice,
Why dost thou cloude the glory of those eies,
And furrow the clear ivory of thy brows?
Dost thou not see, or art thou slow to feel,
How much more worthy is a perfect name
Than beauty touch'd with show of cankering shame?
How Time's unmerciful hand doth gently steal
The glory of thy memories away,
Leaving thy deeds bare to the naked day?
Ere it be late, let thy true beautie veil
The borrow'd falsehood of those envious tongues;
Ere thy rich eie be dim, thy full cheeke pale,
Redeem thy beauty from enduring wrongs.

VII

[Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee]

Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee,
But to approve her blindness? Dost not shame,
O false and beautiful, to build thy fame
Upon the ruines of dead misery?
Thy sin hath slain my soul; yet not alone
Its rank transgression in so base a choice
As bares thy honour to the public voice
Doth wound me, as that thy fault is mine own.
Was there no way to kill thy lover's soul,
Than dainty poison hidden in a kiss?
Thou didst with honey touch the murderous bowl,
To speed me hence in a false slaughterous bliss.
Was there no way, O flatterer, to destroy,
But by the new-strewn flower of seeming joy?

THE CUP OF GOD'S WRATH

I

Drink deep and spare not: it is great and wide;
The corners of it are made thick with gold;
The wine of it was trodden out of old
In the wine-press of Egypt, where man's pride
Was in his purple raiment sewn and dyed,
And he grew lusty in God's sight, and bold.
The grapes of it were never bought or sold.
God's anger hath made red its throat and side;
Choice of quaint spices hath he mixed therein,
And poisoned honey of a bitter juice,
Under that heavy lid where it hath been
Covered like oil within a little cruise:
What man hath will to wet his lips between,
The wine is poured and trodden for his use.

II

As one mows down to burn dead grass and weeds
Wherein the corn was choked and overgrown,
So in Time's hand hath Change the sickle mown
An overgrowth of evil days and deeds;
And, as in meadows where the strong flame feeds,
The land is waste and eaten to the bone
In fields of dust with ashes overblown
To where the river trembles in its reeds,

So are the churches and broad halls burnt up;
The priests and princes gathered into sheaves
And bound for burning; such a fire begins
The melting of gold pieces and gold sins,
Ill treasure-traffic, the market-place of thieves,
For whose sake God shall pour out all his cup.

Oxford.

THE DREAM BY THE RIVER

Sweet river flowing south,
I take of thy lily leaves
To bind in snowy sheaves
Out of the dry noon's drouth.
Thy water slippeth sweet
Over my dipping feet,
Sweet from the warm touch of my lady's mouth
Over the quivering brink
Last noon she leant to drink
When winds were dry about the bitter south,
Seeming to blow, and sink, and grow, and sink,
Faint as the drenched dead petals lift and blink.

I dip my face and hair
All burnt and bare
Into the water where she leant to drink,—
I smile to think.

Dipping feet and dripping hair,
Through the curls and over the feet
Slips and slides the water fleet
Down its channels sharp and rare.
Mine arms are soiled with a brown stain,
No stain of rust;
My limbs are thin with fever-pain,
My bare feet rough with dust.

I have come out to rest my heart and think
On the white water's brink.
Thin threads and webs of tortured gold
That these tender shallows fold,

Little reeds that curl and dip
As any ripple takes them,
Beams that break and shades that slip
When the sun awakes them,—
It was here I kissed her lip,
Kissed her brows up out of sleep.

It was here I slew him,—
Before the great pain came on me;
Here my stroke went thro' him,
Straight and sharp that all might see
The red thin bloodthreads creep.
Then all my pleasures seem,
As these faint weeds in the set stream,
Drawn steady down a dream,—

Full of murmurs and of lights,
Strange new sounds and sweet new sights;
And after many things
Came a sharp noise of wings,
A hiss of cloven air,
And clink of chainmail rings
And stir of battle there.
And then two faces side by side,
And one face very fair.

Past and past the waters glide,
And I bathe my hands and hair.
Lo, my hands stain not the stream.
Did I not say this was a dream?
Face nor hands are hard and red,
And soft leaves drop all round my head,
And soft weeds round my dipping feet
Stir and change and gleam.
I rest! My rest is very sweet.

100

SOUTHWARDS

This is the song that I sung of her
Out of my heart where she sits and smiles;
All over her face grew a soft, slow stir
As a tide-wind makes on the sea for miles.

She has more love than the first white rose
That comes to comfort the thin, weak air;
Her eyes have a smile they would not lose
Though all the world should be wroth with her.

She has more life than the swallow has
When it flickers and wheels in the sharpening morn;
Her eyes are like violets muffled in grass
When the lids draw down and dream of scorn.

She has a mouth that a flower would kiss
If she stooped with her slow smile over it.
There is no man that can call it his,
Nor say if the touch of it be sweet.

She has a head that is shapen smooth,
Carved as the marble a workman smites;
And, oh, that smile that grows up from the mouth,
I lie and dream of it long nights.

For first the lips begin to move,
And then a light to trouble the cheeks;
And then the eyes take it for their love,
And all the face is a smile that speaks.

101

And all the face is a song and sings,
And one's eyes at watch miss never a word;
And each line means so many things,
One thinks not how the first line stirred.

And this is the face that my lady has,
And I know not how she seems so fair;
For her brows are only smooth as glass,
And mere sun's gold lies over her hair.

No man has ever kissed her mouth,
Kissed her eyes 'till the lids drew down.
She sits and looks towards the south,
And her low song is never done.

If I might touch her long pale hand
That lies so straight upon her knee,
I would give all my lordly land,
And all the days that I shall see.

If I might kiss her on the eyes,
On the lids so white and long,
On the smooth brow that overlies,
I would give all my praise of song.

If I might kiss her on the mouth,
Standing with her as the June day set,
Where her chamber looks to the golden south,
I would die ere the grass were wet.

This is my lady I sing so for,
She sits in her chamber looking south;
And she looks out by window and door,
And no one comes to kiss her mouth.

102

And I can only sing of her;
And if new faces about her came,
I could strike but once for her dear gold hair,
And die there without any fame.

And my blood would glow about her feet,
Running about her warm and wet;
And she would sit in the window-seat,
And think of me as the June day set.

And then were I much happier,
For all my song is gone away;
And I cannot breathe for the thought of her
That is about me all the day.

And now am I better than I was once,
For once I did not care for her;
And once I thought that the warm June suns
Were coloured warmer than her hair.

So now I know that I was mad,
And there is nothing in me good;
And no man's praising makes me glad
As to hear him praise my lady would.

Once I sang better songs than this
You trouble with your frowning smiles;
I knew not then how the green shore's kiss
Sweetens the bitter sea for miles.

I knew not what this woman was,
Nor what the birds and summers mean;
Nor why the violets hide in grass,
Nor why the dear deep leaves are green.

103

And this was all that I had to say,
But there is somewhat left untold;
For no man knows one still green day
That any hands touched her hair's warm gold.

She was asleep on the window seat,
Both hands lay out along her knees;
Over them swept the warm hair sweet,
And the dear head bent over these.

She sat in the window looking south,
I did not mean to speak to her;
I did not mean to kiss her mouth,
Only I stooped and felt her hair.

And since that day, and every day,
I think how tenderly it stirred;
The sunbeams filled it as it lay,
Then I went out and spake no word.

104

JOYEUSE GARDE

The sun was heavy; no more shade at all
Than you might cover with a hollow cup
There was in the south chamber; wall by wall,
Slowly the hot noon filled the castle up.
One hand among the rushes, one let play
Where the loose gold began to swerve and droop
From his fair mantle to the floor, she lay;
Her face held up a little, for delight
To feel his eyes upon it, one would say.
Her grave shut lips were glad to be in sight
Of Tristram's kisses; she had often turned
Against her shifted pillows in the night
To lessen the sore pain wherein they burned
For want of Tristram; her great eyes had grown
Less keen and sudden, and a hunger yearned
Her sick face through, these wretched years agone.
Her eyes said ‘Tristram’ now, but her lips held
The joy too close for any smile or moan
To move them; she was patiently fulfilled
With a slow pleasure that slid everwise
Even into hands and feet, but could not build
The house of its abiding in her eyes,
Nor measure any music by her speech.
Between the sunlight came a noise of flies
To pain sleep from her, thick from peach to peach
Upon the bare wall's hot red level, close
Among the leaves too high for her to reach.
So she drew in and set her feet, and rose

105

Saying ‘Too late to sleep; I pray you speak
To save me from the noises, lest I lose
Some minute of this season; I am weak
And cannot answer if you help me not,
When the shame catches on my brow and cheek.’
For in the speaking all her face grew hot,
And her mouth altered with some pain, I deem
Because her word had stung like a bad thought
That makes us recollect some bitter dream.
She bowed to let him kiss her, and went on:
‘All things are changed so, will this day not seem
Most sad and evil when I sit alone
Outside your eyes? will it not vex my prayer
To think of laughter that is twin to moan,
And happy words that make not holier?
Nathless I had good will to say one thing,
Though it seems pleasant in the late warm air
To ride alone and see the last of spring.
I cannot lose you, Tristram; (a weak smile
Moved her lips and went out) men say the king
Hath set keen spies about for many a mile,
Quick hands to get them gold, sharp eyes to see
Where your way swerves across them. This long while
Hath Mark grown older with his hate of me,
And now his hand for lust to smite at us
Plucks the white hairs inside his beard that he
This year made thicker. Seeing this he does
I pray you note that we may meet with him
At riding through the branches growth, and then
Our wine grow bitter at the golden rim
And taste of blood and tears, not sweet to drink
As this new honey wherein juices swim
Of fair red vintage.’

Her voice done, I think
He had no heart to answer; yet some time

106

The noon outside them seem to throb and sink,
Wrought in the quiet to a rounded rhyme.
Then ‘certes,’ said he, ‘this were harm to both
If spears grew thick between the beech and lime,
Or amid reeds that let the river south,
Yet so I think you might get help of me.
Had I not heart to smile, when Iseult's mouth
Kissed Palomydes under a thick tree?
For I remember, as the wind sets low,
How all that peril ended quietly
In a green place where heavy sunflowers blow.’

107

A LAY OF LILIES

There be five lilies growing on a hill;
There be five maidens dwelling under it.
Square sets the grey gaunt castle where they dwell,
And thro' dead grass the moths at evening flit
About and under it.

The girls are like the lilies, very white.
The first is fairest for her pale hair's gold,
One for her cheeks, one for her eyes' delight,
One for her smile round which the dimples fold,
One for her warm lips' mould.

Five lilies blow about the blowing hill,
And the five maidens walk by three and two
Each morning from the grey place where they dwell,
To feel the wind wherein those lilies blow.
All this is years ago.

And the first every morning that she came
Put her pure lips upon the petals pure,
And her hair on the sceptre's golden flame
Which standeth like a planted spear secure
Straight in the petals pure.

The second every time would stoop and take
One leaf; so day by day the lily sank
From the stalk bare as winter for her sake;
And day by day the torn petals shrank
Till all the lily sank.

108

The third would only stoop herself to smell
The faint sweet smell among the tender leaves,
And her heart gladdened if the sun shone well,
For then she stooping with her purfled sleeves;
Brushed the dim-scented leaves.

The fourth would lay herself to sleep beside
Her flower, when the noon was very hot,
For then she felt the even shadow slide
Across her lids, and sleeping so forgot
All things that pleased her not.

The fifth would sit upon the plaited moss
Each morning, when the soft light slanted there,
And sweet rays came her level brows across,
And twilight on the lustre of her hair
As she sat meekly there.

Tender and beautiful each maiden was,
And quiet smiles grew always at the heart
As they went duly through the thick wet grass
To learn the lilies how they shone apart,
Each from its golden heart.

But never any face of man came near
To the grey windy castle by the hill;
So had they never joy of love nor fear
For all their love the lilies did fulfil
The wind and grass and hill.

And the spring came, whispering her thoughts of green
To all the folded hollows in the wood;
And leaves began to stir and talk between
The lean black rents where broken branches stood
There spikes of iron wood.

109

And for the secret that those lilies had
They altered not the whole white winter long;
But one day when the primroses were glad,
And the low leaves were shaken into song,
A new death-note was rung.

In spring one girl was buried; it was June
When one was hidden, face and hands and feet,
With a cold grave-sheet from the sun and moon;
In August when the red corn's gold was sweet,
A third was clad in it.

And when the tall ears gathered warm and ripe
For August, full of low whispers in the sun,
And green was stained with red or golden stripe
Thro' the flushed leaves whose pale warm spring was gone,
Another life was done.

Winds rose about the doubtful woods, and smote
Late autumn into angry music; strain
Heard after strain in the long dark afloat.
Beneath in shifting lights of marsh and fen
Glimmered the dim waste plain.

Through the stained window on dead cheek and mouth
Came a dull light. She saw not, neither heard
In her dark chamber fronting the dark south;
And her long folded vesture no more stirred
Than feet of a dead bird.

In the midwinter died the last of these.
She slept all huddled from the windy cold;
Up to the cold chin gathered the cold knees,
And over her straight vesture's flow and fold
Lay hair of coloured gold.

110

They found her in the morning still, asleep;
A bitter smile drew up the painful face
And over it cold wrinkles seemed to creep
As she lay dead in that forsaken place,
With lean unhappy face.

So was she buried out of the warm sun,
And the last lily that midwinter died
The day whereon her maiden life was done.
No flowers grow where they lie side by side
As one by one they died.

But grasses very thick and clover-shoots
Without the sharp, pink spears of bloom they had,
And herbs a wind makes tremble to the roots.
Their death and unbeloved life were sad:
God make them very glad.

111

ECHO

In the dusk of starlit hours
Thro' the woodland's dewy maze
Scattering music, scattering flowers
Down the glimmering forest ways,
O'er the smooth moss-paven level,
Past the mountain's windy brow,
Come the Nymphs in crowded revel,
Calling, Echo, Echo! where art thou?

By the far and misty glimmer
Of these pale Lethean lakes,
Whose dusk waves in twilight shimmer
When the faint Sun on them breaks,
Where no sorrowing thoughts appal thee,
Hast thou sought a place of sleep
Heeding not how loud we call thee—
Echo, Echo!—thro' the woodlands deep?

We have sought thee till the Hours,
Slowly darkening to the west,
Left thee turning funeral flowers
In some haunt of dreary rest,
Where the cloud of dewy tresses
On thy wan and downcast brow
Like a weight of sorrow presses;
Call aloud, Echo! Echo! where art thou?

112

In the soft green summer-meadows
Where the silent streams are flowing,
In the happy woodland shadows
Where the softest winds are blowing,
Where amid their heapèd flowers
Children call thee soft and low,
In the hush of golden hours
Singing, Echo, Echo! where art thou?

When the wind-vext earth returneth
To the light of stormless days,
And the wide noon-splendour burneth
On the lustrous ocean-ways,
Still thou sittest weeping lowly
In the dim heart of the brakes,
In the silence wide and holy—
Echo, Echo!—which the deep wood makes.

Echo, Echo! we are weary
And the forest-path is long,
And the brightest glades are dreary
If unwaken'd by thy song.
Hark! her voice afar is singing—
O our sister, where art thou?
All the joyous words are ringing;
Be with us, Echo! Echo! hear us now.

Oxford.

113

DIES IRÆ

Day of wrath, the years are keeping,
When the world shall rise from sleeping,
With a clamour of great weeping!

Earth shall fear and tremble greatly
To behold the advent stately
Of the Judge that judgeth straitly.

And the trumpet's fierce impatience
Scatter strange reverberations
Thro' the graves of buried nations.

Death and Nature will stand stricken
When the hollow bones shall quicken
And the air with weeping thicken.

When the Creature, sorrow-smitten,
Rises where the Judge is sitting
And beholds the doom-book written.

For, that so his wrath be slakèd,
All things sleeping shall be wakèd,
All things hidden shall be naked.

When the just are troubled for thee,
Who shall plead for me before thee,
Who shall stand up to implore thee?

Lest my great sin overthrow me,
Let thy mercy, quickened thro' me,
As a fountain overflow me!

114

For my sake thy soul was movèd;
For my sake thy name reprovèd,
Lose me not whom thou hast lovèd!

Yea, when shame and pain were sorest,
For my love the cross thou borest,
For my love the thorn-plait worest.

By that pain that overbore thee,
By those tears thou weepest for me,
Leave me strength to stand before thee.

For the heart within me yearneth,
And for sin my whole face burneth;
Spare me when thy day returneth.

By the Magdalen forgiven,
By the thief made pure for heaven,
Even to me thy hope was given.

Tho' great shame be heavy on me,
Grant thou, Lord, whose mercy won me,
That hell take not hold upon me.

Thou whom I have lovèd solely,
Thou whom I have lovèd wholly,
Leave me place among the holy!

When thy sharp wrath burns like fire,
With the chosen of thy desire,
Call me to the crownèd choir!

Prayer, like flame with ashes blending,
From my crushed heart burns ascending;
Have thou care for my last ending.

115

ODE TO MAZZINI

I

A voice comes from the far unsleeping years,
An echo from the rayless verge of time,
Harsh, with the gathered weight of kingly crime,
Whose soul is stained with blood and bloodlike tears,
And hearts made hard and blind with endless pain,
And eyes too dim to bear
The light of the free air,
And hands no longer restless in the wonted chain,
And valiant lives worn out
By silence and the doubt
That comes with hope found weaponless and vain;
All these cry out to thee,
As thou to Liberty,
All, looking up to thee, take heart and life again.

II

Too long the world has waited. Year on year
Has died in voiceless fear
Since tyranny began the silent ill,
And Slaughter satiates yet her ravenous will.
Surely the time is near—
The dawn grows wide and clear;
And fiercer beams than pave the steps of day
Pierce all the brightening air
And in some nightly lair
The keen white lightning hungers for his prey,
Against his chain the growing thunder yearns
With hot swift pulses all the silence burns,
And the earth hears, and maddens with delay.

116

III

Dost thou not hear, thro' the hushed heart of night,
The voices wailing for thy help, thy sight,
The souls, that call their lord?
‘We want the voice, the sword,
We want the hand to strike, the love to share
The weight we cannot bear;
The soul to point our way, the heart to do and dare.
We want the unblinded eye,
The spirit pure and high,
And consecrated by enduring care:
For now we dare not meet
The memories of the past;
They wound us with their glories bright and fleet,
The fame that would not last,
The hopes that were too sweet;
A voice of lamentation
Shakes the high places of the thronèd nation,
The crownless nation sitting wan and bare
Upon the royal seat.’

IV

Too long the world has waited. Day by day
The noiseless feet of murder pass and stain
Palace and prison, street and loveliest plain,
And the slow life of freedom bleeds away.

117

Still bleached in sun and rain,
Lie the forgotten slain
On bleak slopes of the dismal mountain-range.
Still the wide eagle-wings
Brood o'er the sleep of Kings,
Whose purples shake not in the wind of change.
Still our lost land is beautiful in vain,
Where priests and kings defile with blood and lies
The glory of the inviolable skies;
Still from that loathsome lair
Where crawls the sickening air,
Heavy with poison, stagnant as despair,
Where soul and body moulder in one chain
Of inward-living pain:
From wasted lives, and hopes proved unavailing;
In utterance harsh and strange,
With many a fitful change,
In laughter and in tears,
In triumph and in fears,
The voice of earth goes heavenward for revenge:
And all the children of her dying year
Fill up the unbroken strains
From priestly tongues that scathe with lies and vailing
The Bourbons' murderous dotard, sick of blood,
To the ‘How-long’ of stricken spirits, wailing
Before the throne of God.

118

V

Austria! The voice is deepening in thine ears
And art thou still asleep,
Drunken with blood and tears!
A murderer's rest should hardly be so deep
Till comes the calm unbroken by the years,
And those, whose life crawls on thro' dying shame,
A thing made up of lies and fears, more vile
Than aught that lives and bears a hateful name,
For the crowned serpent, skilled in many a wile,
Charmed with the venomous honey of its guile
The guards until they slept,
And only fawned and crept
Till Fortune gave it leave to sting and smile!
Have not the winds of Heaven and the free waves
A voice to bear the curses of thy slaves
And the loud hatred of the world! O thou
Upon whose shameless brow
The crown is as a brand,
The sceptre trembles in thy trothless hand;
Shrinks not thy soul before the shame it braves,
The gathered anger of a patient land,
The loathing scorn that hardly bears to name thee?
By all the lies that cannot shame thee,
By all the memories thou must bear
In hushed unspeakable despair;
By the Past that follows thee,
By the Future that shall be
We curse thee by the freedom living still,
We curse thee by the hopes thou canst not kill,
We curse thee in the name of the wronged earth
That gave thy treasons birth.

119

VI

Out of a court alive with creeping things
A stench has risen to thicken and pollute
The inviolate air of heaven that clad of yore
Our Italy with light, because these Kings
Gather like wasps about the tainted fruit,
And eat their venomous way into its core,
And soil with hateful hands its golden hue;
Till on the dead branch clings
A festering horror blown with poison-dew;
Then laugh ‘So Freedom loses her last name
And Italy is shamèd with our shame!’
For blindness holds them still
And lust of craving will:
A mist is on their souls who cannot see
The ominous light, nor hear the fateful sounds;
Who know not of the glory that shall be,
And was, ere Austria loosed her winged hounds
These double-beak'd and bloody-plumaged things,
Whose shadow is the hiding-place of kings.

VII

Behold, even they whose shade is black around,
Whose names makes dumb the nations in their hate,
Tremble to other tyrants; Naples bows
Aghast, and Austria cowers like a scourged hound
Before the priestly hunters: 'tis their fate,
Whose fear is as a brand-mark on men's brows,
Themselves to shrink beneath a fiercer dread;
The might of ancient error
Round royal spirits folds its shroud of terror,
And at a name the imperial soul is dead.

120

Rome! as from thee the primal curse came forth
So comes the retribution:
As the flushed murderers of the ravening north
Crouch for thine absolution.
Exalt thyself, that love or fear of thee
Hath shamed thine Austrian bondsmen, and their shame
Avenges the vext spirits of the free,
Repays the trustless lips, the bloody hands,
And all the sin that makes the Austrian name
A bye-word among liars—fit to be
Thy herald, Rome, among the wasted lands!

VIII

For wheresoe'er thou lookest, death is there,
And a slow curse that stains the sacred air:
Such as must hound Italia till she learn
Whereon to lean the weight of reverent trust,
Learn to see God within her, and not bare
Her glories to the ravenous eyes of lust;
Vain of dishonour that proclaims her fair.
Such insolence of listless pride must earn
The scourge of Austria—till mischance in turn
Defile her eagles with fresh blood and dust.
For tho' the faint heart burn
In silence: yet a sullen flame is there
Which yet may leap into the sunless air
And gather in the embrace of its wide wings
The shining spoil of kings.

IX

But now the curse lies heavy. Where art thou,
Our Italy, among all these laid low

121

Too powerless or too desperate to speak—
Thou, robed in purple for a priestly show,
Thou, buffeted and stricken, blind and weak!
Doth not remembrance light thine utter woe?
Thine eyes beyond this Calvary look, altho'
Brute-handed Austria smite thee on the cheek
And her thorns pierce thy forehead, white and meek;
In lurid mist half-strangled sunbeams pine,
Yet purer than the flame of tainted altars;
And tho' thy weak hope falters,
It clings not to the desecrated shrine.
Tho' thy blank eyes look wanly thro' dull tears,
And thy weak soul is heavy with blind fears,
Yet art thou greater than thy sorrow is,
Yet is thy spirit nobler than of yore,
Knowing the keys thy reverence used to kiss
Were forged for emperors to bow down before,
Not for free men to worship: So that Faith,
Blind portress of the gate which opens death,
Shall never prate of Freedom any more;
For on a priest's tongue such a word is strange,
And when they laud who did but now revile,
Shall we believe? Rome's lying lips defile
The graves of heroes, giving us in change
Enough of Saints and Bourbons. Dare ye now
Receive her who speaks pleasant words and bland
And stretches out the blessing of her hand
While the pure blood of freemen stains her brow?
O dream not of such reconcilement! Be
At least in spirit free
When the great sunrise floods your glorious land.

122

X

For yet the dawn is lingering white and far,
And dim its guiding star;
There is a sorrow in the speechless air,
And in the sunlight a dull painful glare;
The winds, that fold around
That soft enchanted ground
Their wings of music, sadden into song;
The holy stars await
Some dawn of glimmering fate
In silence—but the time of pain seems long,
But here no comfort stills
This sorrow that o'erclouds the purple hills.

XI

The sun is bright, and fair the foamless sea;
The winds are loud with light and liberty:
But when shall these be free?
These hearts that beat thro' stifled pain, these eyes
Strained thro' dim prison-air toward the free skies:
When shall their light arise?

XII

Thou! whose best name on earth
Is Love—whose fairest birth
The freedom of the fair world thou hast made;
Whose light in Heaven is life,
Whose rest above our strife—
Whose bright sky overvaults earth's barren shade;
Who hearest all ere this weak prayer can rise,
Before whose viewless eyes
Unrolled and far the starry future lies;

123

Behold what men have done,
What is beneath thy sun—
What stains the sceptred hand, sin lifts to thee
In prayer-like mockery—
What binds the heart Thou madest to be free.
Since we are blind, give light—
Since we are feeble, smite—
How long shall man be scornful in thy sight,
‘Fear not—He cares not, or He does not see?’

XIII

We keep our trust tho' all things fail us—
Tho' Time nor baffled Hope avail us,
We keep our faith—God liveth and is love.
Not one groan rises there
Tho' choked in dungeon air
But He has heard it though no thunders move—
And though no help is here,
No royal oath, no Austrian lie,
But echoes in the listening sky;
We know not, yet perchance His wide reply is near.
Ah, let no sloth delay,
No discord mar its way,
Keep wide the entrance for that Hope divine;
Truth never wanted swords,
Since with his swordlike words
Savonarola smote the Florentine.
Even here she is not weaponless, but waits
Silent at the palace gates,
Her wide eyes kindling eastward to the far sunshine.
When out of Naples came a tortured voice:
Whereat the whole earth shuddered, and forbade
The murderous smile on lying lips to fade;
The murderous heart in silence to rejoice;

124

She also smiled—no royal smile—as knowing
Some stains of sloth washed by the blood then flowing;
Their lives went out in darkness—not in vain;
Earth cannot hear, and sink to bloodless rest again.
And if indeed her waking strength shall prove
Worthy the dreams that passing lit her sleep,
Who then shall lift such eyes of triumph, who
Respond with echoes of a louder love
Than Cromwell's England? let fresh praise renew
The wan brow's withered laurels with its dew,
And one triumphal peace the crownèd earth shall keep.

XIV

As one who dreaming on some cloud-white peak
Hears the loud wind sail past him far and free,
And the faint music of the misty sea,
Listening till all his life reels blind and weak;
So discrownèd Italy
With the world's hope in her hands
Ever yearning to get free,
Silent between the past and future stands.
Dim grows the past, and dull,
All that was beautiful,
As scattered stars drawn down the moonless night:
And the blind eyes of Scorn
Are smitten by strange morn,
And many-thronèd treason wastes before its might:
And every sunless cave
And time-forgotten grave
Is pierced with one intolerable light.
Not one can Falsehood save
Of all the crowns she gave,
But the dead years renew their old delight.

125

The worshipped evil wanes
Through all its godless fanes,
And falters from its long imperial height,
As the last altar-flame
Dies with a glorious nation's dying shame.

XV

And when that final triumph-time shall be,
Whose memory shall be kept
First of the souls that slept
In death ere light was on their Italy?
Or which of men more dear than thee
To equal-thoughted liberty,
Whom here on earth such reverence meets.
Such love from Heaven's pure children greets
As few dare win among the free!
Such honour ever follows thee
In peril, banishment, and blame,
And all the loud blind world calls shame,
Lives, and shall live, thy glorious name,
Tho' death, that scorns the robèd slave,
Embrace thee, and a chainless grave.
While thou livest, there is one
Free in soul beneath the sun:
And thine out-laboured heart shall be
In death more honoured—not more free.

XVI

And men despond around thee; and thy name
The tyrant smiles at, and his priests look pale;
And weariness of empty-throated fame,
And men who live and fear all things but shame,

126

Comes on thee; and the weight of aimless years
Whose light is dim with tears:
And hope dies out like a forgotten tale.
O brother, crownèd among men—O chief
In glory as in grief!
O throned by sorrow over time and fate
And the blind strength of hate!
From soul to answering soul
The thunder-echoes roll,
And truth grows out of suffering still and great.
To have done well is victory—to be true
Is truest guerdon, though blind hands undo
The work begun too late.
God gives to each man power by toil to earn
An undishonoured grave:
The praise that lives on every name in turn
He leaves the laurelled slave.
We die, but freedom dies not like the power
That changes with the many-sided hour.
Though trampled under the brute hoofs of crime,
She sees thro' tears and blood,
Above the stars and in the night of time,
The sleepless watch of God;
Past fear and pain and errors wide and strange
The veil'd years leading wingless-footed Change;
Endure, and they shall give
Truth and the law whereby men work and live.

XVII

From Ischia to the loneliest Apennine
Time's awful voice is blown;
And from her clouded throne
Freedom looks out and knows herself divine.

127

From walls that keep in shame
Poerio's martyr-name,
From wild rocks foul with children's blood, it rings;
Their murderers gaze aghast
Through all the hideous past,
And fate is heavy on the souls of kings.
No more their hateful sway
Pollutes the equal day,
Nor stricken truth pales under its wide wings,
Even when the awakened people speaks in wrath,
Wrong shall not answer wrong with blind impatience;
The bloody slime upon that royal path
Makes slippery standing for the feet of nations.
Our freedom's bridal robe no wrong shall stain,
No lie shall taint her speech:
But equal knowledge shall be born of pain,
And wisdom shaping each.
True leaders shall be with us, nobler laws
Shall guide us calmly to the final Cause:
And thou, earth's crownless queen,
No more shalt wail unseen,
But front the weary ages without pain:
Time shall bring back for thee
The hopes that lead the free,
And thy name fill the charmèd world again.
The shame that stains thy brow
Shall not for ever mark thee to fresh fears:
For in the far light of the buried years
Shines the undarkened future that shall be
A dawn o'er sunless ages. Hearest thou,
Italia? tho' deaf sloth hath sealed thine ears,
The world has heard thy children—and God hears.

128

LINES

[I thought it would be pain to see]

I thought it would be pain to see
Her face grow thin for love of me,
Her lips shut closer and turn grey
If words of anger came that way
From men that spake harsh things of me.

I knew it would be strange to hear
In talk or song that voice of her
That shook me sleeping as awake,
Changed with new music for my sake
If I came face to face with her.

I thought it would be sweet to know
At night, when wind lets the foam blow
From grass to sand and rock to weed
In bitter flakes that fall like seed,
She with shut eyelids feels it blow.

I knew it would be sweet to hold
And strain between my hands the gold
Of her long hair in heavy bands;
This one tress left between my hands
Seems now too pale to look like gold.

129

ODE TO THE NIGHT

Goddess dark bosomed, from thy mystic cave
Sounds strange and sad we hear,
Unfit for mortal ear!
Ever and ever do the bleak winds rave
About thy throne, in fits and gusty flaws:
Save when thou sittest in thy musing mood
With calm eyes full of meditation grave,
And from grey memory's secret hoarded stores
Callest strange thoughts to ponder on:
Beneath thee lies the circling ocean flood,
Above thy head is vaulted the deep sky;
But thou art still alone—
There is a mystery in thine eye!
What spirits dost thou commune with, strange queen?
Do the unblinded stars in whispers airy
Murmur unknown things in thine ear divine?
Or do the spirits, that in their cloudy shrine
Write fearful warning on the sky serene
In letters of red lightning, tell thee all
The mysteries of mysteries? In the starry
Hollow of thine eternal throne,
Where thou dost sit in lone divinity,
Thou hearest them one to another call;
And fraught with musing all alone
Thy curvèd brows are bent with thought
Whose treasures were by those strange spirits brought
From the inner radiance of the inner sky.

130

O ancient mother of the holy moon,
Whose veilèd brows are only bare
To kiss thy daughter the chill air,
Wert thou in some deep cavern never lighten'd
Nor seen of day, but deepening down
From depth to airy depth, in chaos lorn
Fram'd out of silence, so that when the morn
Kissed all things else and made them laugh with light,
Thou only wast not brighten'd,
But crowned with thine own darkness, mystic night!

131

MEMORIES

I know not if the word she said to me
Were false or true; I know not if she meant
More than my sense could see.
Perchance in scorn of mine obscure intent
She answered, with no care for pain to be.

Now pain is come indeed; and many a year,
Like a blown flake of snow, has sunk between
These memories and her.
No leaf hath motion now that then was green,
And sorrow hath forgotten her last tear.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I

THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

QUEEN YSEULT

Canto 1 Of the birth of Sir Tristram, and how he voyaged into Ireland

Canto 2 Of Queen Yseult, and of the voyage to Cornwall

Canto 3 How Sir Tristram and Queen Yseult loved each other by the space of three years

Canto 4 How Sir Tristram came to Brittany

Canto 5 Of the bridal night of Sir Tristram and the Lady Yseult aux Blanches Mains

Canto 6 How Queen Yseult kept her ring

LANCELOT

THE DEATH OF RUDEL

BALLAD

SECOND LOVE

THE QUEEN'S TRAGEDY

UNDERGRADUATE SONNETS

I

[When I behold the summer's glory paint]

II

[Deep passions rock my weariness asleep]

III

[How canst thou tax my faith of windy change]

IV

[To you, false witnesses of time beguil'd]

V

[I love thee; though my verse revolt and swear]

VI

[O thou, fair honour of all gentle vowes]

VII

[Ah, wherefore does my pity counsel thee]

THE CUP OF GOD'S WRATH

I

II

THE DREAM BY THE RIVER

SOUTHWARDS

JOYEUSE GARDE

A LAY OF LILIES

ECHO

DIES IRÆ

ODE TO MAZZINI

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

LINES

[I thought it would be pain to see]

ODE TO THE NIGHT

MEMORIES

Canto 1
Of the birth of Sir Tristram, and how he voyaged into Ireland

Canto 2
Of Queen Yseult, and of the voyage to Cornwall

Canto 3
How Sir Tristram and Queen Yseult loved each other by the space of three years

Canto 4
How Sir Tristram came to Brittany

Canto 5
Of the bridal night of Sir Tristram and the Lady Yseult aux Blanches Mains

Canto 6
How Queen Yseult kept her ring