University of Virginia Library

Beneath thick boughs of emerald green
Turn'd by the sunlight's golden ray
To curtains of transparent sheen,
They had roam'd, for half a summer's day:
Now resting in the dappled shade
By silvern fount or bubbling well,
Now passing thro' some open glade
Where the spent shafts of splendour fell;
But ever as they wander'd on
The man look'd dark as one who dreams,
With inward-looking eyes that shone
To restless melancholy gleams;
And all her loving arts were vain
To stir the shadow of this pain;
On passive lips as chill as clay
Her kisses fell; her warm hand lay
Fluttering in a hand of stone;
No look of love, no tender tone,
Answer'd the sweetness of her own;
Till suddenly the umbrage deep
Of those great woodlands still as sleep
Parted, and grassy heights were gained
Sloping to great crags crimson-stain'd,
And 'tween the crags, that heavenward rose
Crown'd with one solitary palm,
The Ocean!—troublous in repose,
Murmurous in folds of summer calm!

Then his eye brighten'd, and with fleet
Footsteps he hasten'd on until,
Where the high cliffs and clouds did meet,
The white surge far beneath his feet,
He paused, and gladdening drank his fill
Of some new rapture. Blithe and bright,
To see his gloom had passed away,
She join'd him on the lonely height,
And, happy as a child at play,
Ran gathering ferns and flowers that grew
Above the chasm's purple blue
Between her and the rocky shore;—
She scarce could hear so far away
The breaking billows' ceaseless roar,
But saw the line of snow-white spray
Frozen by distance. Then she turn'd,
And lo! his face no longer yearn'd
Fondly to hers, but eagerly
Bent to the far-off shoreless Sea!
And ah! the hunger and the thirst
Of sleepless wanderers tempest-nurst,
The look which wives and mothers fear
I' the eyes of those they hold so dear,
The rapture which is Love's despair,
The unrest of Ocean, all were there,
Mirror'd in that bright restless gaze
Which swept the wondrous watery ways!

She spoke—he smiled!—and she could read
In that strange smile the doom of Love!
No more her own, in dream or deed,
Lifted in some wild air above
Her hopes and dreams, he felt again
The power, the passion, and the pain
Of that Revolt, that mad Surmise,
The sleepless Waters symbolise!
But then he looked at her and smiled
Again,—and now it seemed once more
The smile of Love, tho' wan and wild,
Not soft and sunny as before;
And gazing back thro' tender tears
She drank the smile, and softly scan'd
Her lover's face, while on her ears
Fell words she could not understand.

‘Close to me, close!’ he cried aloud,
‘Would that this hour, my child, we twain
Might mingle, drifting like one cloud
Over the melancholy Main!
Would that the cup thy love hath brought
Might quench the thirst of my despair!
Would that my spirit fever-fraught
Might kneel with thine in peaceful prayer!
But no, the golden Dream is done
(O God, how sweet! O God, how fair!)
Thy life grows here beneath the sun,
Mine is among the Storms, out there!
God bless thee, child—if God there be,
His benediction must be thine—
But voices yonder from the Sea,
Voices of Souls as lost as mine,
Still call aloud that He I name
Hath still no power to calm or tame
The spirit who denies and spurns
The peace for which thy nature yearns.
The storm-cloud touches with its shower
The flower that blossoms sweet and low—
But the cloud blends not with the flower,
Nor rests in peace where flowers may grow.
My child, my child! Would I had been
Pure like thyself and purely true,
Sure of my dower of Light serene,
Sure of the earth from which I grew—
But no! no rest, no joy, contents
The outcast Soul, the sleepless Will—
And what the cruel Elements
Have mixed in wrath, no Love can still!’

Even as a child who tries to guess
The words she little understands,
But kindles into happiness
Thro' smile of eyes and clasp of hands,
She listened! then her lips to his
Were sealèd in a heavenly kiss,
And running from his side again
She gathered flowers and brought them to him,
And as he took them, piteous pain,
Scornful yet wistful, trembled thro' him.
As some bright bird of Paradise,
Or some fair fawn-like pard, seem'd she,
An earthly thing with elfin eyes,
Scarce humanised, yet fond and free;
And lo, he loved her,—as men love
Earth and the flowers that blossom thence,
The beasts and birds of wood and grove,
All happy things that live and move
Like apparitions round the sense;
But deep within his troubled breast
An alien love, a vague unrest,
Stirr'd to a sense of vaster things,
Great doubts and dreams, divine desire,—
An eagle's thirst to unfold its wings,
Upward to fly in circling rings,
And front the blinding solar fire!

High o'er the utmost crag there grew
The palm-tree, rooted in the rock,
Bent by each ocean-blast that blew,
But firm amidst the tempest's shock.
And round its roots, beneath its shade,
Flowers like our wind-flower clustering crept,—
Thither, swift-footed, unafraid,
Laughing, the little Maiden leapt;
Till down beneath her fairy feet
She saw the distant surges beat,—
Great birds that look'd like butterflies
Hovering white o'er ridgèd waves,
While trumpet-calls and thunder-cries
Rose from the distant chasms and caves;—
Then as she gained the lonely tree,
And stooped among the flowers, the sound
Of air and water suddenly
Thunder'd like earthquake all around!
Fearless and happy, white and fair,
She paused in pretty wonder there,
Then looking back beheld her lover
Beckoning with face as pale as death.
‘Come back, come back!’ he cried, while over
The gulf she hung with bated breath—
Then smiling back to him who yearn'd
Beyond her, merrily she turn'd,
And kneeling o'er the chasm hung
To pluck one fair white flower that clung
Beneath her o'er the chasm's gloom,
With light quick finger touch'd the bloom,
And then . . .

Great God, who gav'st us sight,
Yet see'st us grope with close-shut eyes,
Blind to the blessings of the Light,
Dead to the Love that deifies!
Unto how many men each hour
Frail little fingers seek to bring
Some gentle gift of love, some flower
That is the Soul's best offering?
Some happiness which we despise,
Some boon we toss aside for ever,—
And only that our selfish eyes
May smile one moment on the giver!
How many of us count or treasure
The little lives that perish thus,
To garner us a moment's pleasure,
A moment's space to comfort us?
Blind, ever blind, we front the sun
And cannot see the angels near us,
Forget the tender duties done
By willing slaves, to help and cheer us!
Earth and its fulness, all the fair
Creations of this heaven and air,
All lives which die that we may live,
All gifts of service, we pass by,
All blessings Love hath power to give
We scorn, O God, or we deny!
Is there a man beneath the sun,
Tho' poor and basest of the base,
For whom such duty is not done
To pleasure him a little space?
A singing bird, a faithful hound,
A loving woman, or a child,
Contented with our voice's sound,
Patient in death if we have smiled,
These, these, O God, are daily sent
To give thine outcasts sacrament,
And in so giving themselves attain
Thy sacred privilege of pain!
Yet still our eyes turn sunward blindly,
And blindly still our souls contemn
The loving hands that touch us kindly,
The lips that kiss our raiment's hem;
And we forget or turn away
From flowers that blossom on our way:
Blind to the gentle ministration
Of tutelary angels near,
We find too late that our salvation
Lies near, not far;—not there, but here!. . .

Even then, as with her little hand
She grasped the flower and sought to rise,
The crag's edge crumbled into sand,
And fluttering from her lover's eyes
She vanished!—With a shriek of dread
He gained the crag, and pausing there,
The great rocks trembling 'neath his tread,
Gazed down—and down—thro' voids of air,
And saw beneath him, thro' the snow
Of flying foam that rose below,
A still white form stretch'd silently
On those cold rocks that fringed the Sea!
What next did pass, he knew not. When
His blinded soul grew clear again,
He stood beneath the craggy height
Close to the surges flashing white,
And, dazzled by the foam and spray,
Bent o'er that bruised and bleeding Form;—
Crush'd on the cruel shore it lay,
Silent and still, yet soft and warm;
And as he knelt with tender cries
Lifting her gently to his breast,
She stir'd and moan'd,—then, opening eyes,
With one last smile serene and blest,
Brighten'd to see her Master bow
Above her, gladly drank his breath,
With fluttering fingers smooth'd his brow,
Kiss'd him, and closed her eyes in death!

How still it was! the clouds above
Paused quietly and did not move—
The waves lay down like lambs—the sound
Of crags and waves was hushed all round.
‘O God, my God!’ the Outcast said,
Kissing the lips still warm and red,
While the frail form hung lax and dead.
And lo! there stole upon his ear,
Low as his own heart's beat, yet clear,
A murmur faint as Sabbath bells
Heard far away 'mid forest dells
Buried in leaves and haze, so still
And soft it only seems the thrill
Of silence thro' the summer air—
A sigh of rapture and of prayer!

And lo! his dark face seaward turn'd,
As in a vision he discerned,
Thro' thickly flowing tears, a Form
In saffron robes and golden hair,
Walking with rosy feet all bare
The Waters slumbering after storm!
A Maiden Shape, her sad blue eyes
Soft with the peace of Paradise,
She walked the waves; in her white hand
Pure lilies of the Heavenly Land
Hung alabaster white, and all
The billows 'neath her light footfall
Heaved glassy still, and round her head
An aureole burnt of golden flame,
As nearer yet, with radiant tread,
Fixing her eyes on his, she came.
Then as she paused upon the Sea
Gazing upon him silently
With looks insufferably bright
And gentle brows beatified,
He knew our Lady of the Light,
Mary Madonna, heavenly-eyed!

He look'd—he listen'd.

‘Speak!’ she said,
‘By Him who judgeth quick and dead,
Art thou content for evermore
Here on the lotus leaf to rest?
Speak! and thy wanderings are o'er,
And sleep is thine—if sleep be best!
Speak!—and this fluttering flower of flesh
Shall lift its head and bloom afresh,
Guide and companion unto thee
Thro' Eden for Eternity;—
She loves thee, as the birds and flowers
Love, and all things of sun and shore.
Speak!—and the sunshine and the showers
Shall lap thee deep in these bright bowers
For ever and for evermore.’
He answer'd, heavy-eyed and pale,
‘Madonna! let me journey on!
Better the surges and the gale,
Better to sail and sail and sail
Before thy wind, Euroclydon.
Here have I found delight and joy,
Here hath my spirit been renew'd,
Yea, with the mad thirst of a boy,
All Adam burning in my blood,
I have drunken of the brimming cup
Nature for ever holdeth up.
Nay more, the primal sympathy,
The first sweet force which stirs thro' all,
Hath quicken'd gentler thoughts in me
Than yonder where the Tempests call—
Deep pity kindles in my heart
For all glad things beneath the Blue,
For her, the brightest and the best,
This life of sunlight and of dew;
And yet . . . and yet . . . tho' I can weep
Above her, since she loved me so,
I would not wake her from her sleep
To share my happiness or woe!
Poor child, she knew no thought of pain!
A blossom, born to bloom and kiss,
She open'd, then stole back again
To Nature's elemental bliss!
Here let her dwell, till Time is done,
With all such creatures of the sun—
Here let her still remain, a part
Of Nature's warmly beating heart;—
Here, blest and blessing, wrapt up warm
In kindling dust, her place shall be,
While I return to face the storm
Out yonder on the sunless Sea!’

Ev'n as he spake, the air grew dark,
Some veil of awe shut out the day,
And voices from the Phantom Barque
Cried, ‘Hillo! hillo! come away!’
Then, while Our Lady's form grew dim
And vanish'd, with sad eyes on him,
He saw beyond the line of surge
Breaking upon the lonely strand,
The shadow of the Ship emerge
And hover darkly close to land.
And woeful voices of the Sea
Call'd to his sould tumultuously,
As kneeling by the Maiden's form
He kissed the lips that yet were warm,
And in the cold still ear that lay
Frail as a little ocean-shell,
Once warm with life, then wash'd away,
Whisper'd his passionate ‘farewell!’
Then, moaning like a death-struck bird,
Sprang to his feet, and while he heard
The flapping sail, the whistling shroud,
The murmuring voices, fill the gloom,
‘I come! I come!’ he cried aloud,
And totter'd to the Ship of Doom.