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71

A SPIRIT

A spirit wandered through the earth, and found
No rest from pain:—
He longed to widen outward without bound
Or check or chain!
He longed to be as God,—with Godlike soul
To dare and do;
To touch some passionate and Godlike goal
Untouched and new.
He longed to bind around his brow the flowers
Of all sweet songs
And all the pleasures of soft moonlit hours,
And sunlit throngs

72

Of ardent dreams. One life was not enough:
More he must know.
Calm seas are sweet; but sweeter are the rough
Great tides that grow!
Blue waves are lovely; but the iron-grey
Tumultuous tides
That lash the granite of the deadly bay
And smite its sides,
These have a kinglier charm for kingly souls:
The plunging seas
When over them the North wind's chariot rolls
Delight all these.
And so all uncontent with sunlit lands
This spirit must seek
Rapture where tossing waves with grey salt hands
Search many a creek.
The laurel-crown that God upon white brow
For ever wears,
This he had envy of; and of the bow
Apollo bears.

73

Him nought but being God, or being part
Of God, would e'er
Content: for limitless was his wide heart,
Like chainless air.
And not one soul of woman could content
Nor prison him.
They held!—Then suddenly the walls were rent
And, free of limb,
He darted forth,—and o'er all history's bowers
Would linger long:
He touched fair Rosamond with lips like flowers
And flowerlike song.
And deep within the Scotch queen's ardent eyes
He gazed, and deep
Within the eyes of Helen; and his sighs
Smote Venus' sleep.
Yet he was not content:—is God content?
Can ever he
By whom all suns and clouds and storms are sent
And all blue sea

74

And all grey storm-struck waters, and all sweet
Triumphant air
Of summer when the breaths of roses meet
And laughter rare
Of tall white shining lilies rings around
The garden's hem;—
Can God who moulds and sends these things be bound
By bonds of them?
Is God who sways all far-off starry bowers
With one content?
Is his soul satiate with one planet's flowers
And tired and spent?
Nay! rather through wild maze of star on star
God wanders long:—
And so this spirit, fatigueless, wandered far,
Crowned with his song.
God twines his hand in the strange fiery hair
Of stars unseen
And robes him with unknown and virgin air:—
This spirit hath been

75

Along the unknown and awful road with God
Where planets wait,—
And he the sun's gold morning-path hath trod,
And through the gate
Of sunset hath he passed. Some singers long
To be inspired
By dead great poets, and to catch their song:
But he desired
To widen day by day and night by night
His own soul far
Beyond the reach of rays of previous light,
Be it sun or star.
Had others nobly sung? Then he would sing,
But not as they:
Not with another's,—with its own bright wing
Athwart the spray
The glimmering sea-bird glides: the English seas
Are still the same
As when, soft-tongued as the soft English breeze,
Our Shelley came,

76

And never hath the red rose dropped one tint
Of perfect bloom
For sorrow at death of Keats, or given one hint
Of added gloom.
No. New for singer new the morning shines
Down hill and vale,
And the red sunrise through the pillared pines
Flames an All-hail!
What was the past? Like God he would begin
Creation now,
And wind all leaves of love his heart might win
Round untouched brow;
And sweep into his stores all blossoms pale
And blossoms bright;
And sing as though he first of all cried “Hail,
Thou first morn's light!”
And sing as though the flowers of Eden shone
Before his gaze,
And Eve's white figure wandered through the wan
Soft twilight ways—

77

And sing as though four red lips never yet
Had fastened fast:—
For him the grass with dewy dawn was wet;
There was no past.
The golden future gleamed before his sight,
And woman there,
With pure eyes like the matchless morning light,
But far more fair,
Stood waiting,—and his being's task was still
To follow through
All lives her form, and mould her to his will
With passion true.
For he who knoweth woman knoweth God:
Who knoweth a rose
The inmost Holy of holies' floors hath trod
And found repose.
God in his heaven of heavens was restless till
He fashioned her,
And on her form put forth his utmost skill
And tenderest care.

78

But when he saw her stand alive and white,
His great heart leapt
With sudden joy: he marvelled at the sight,—
And then he wept.
For she was fairer than God's utmost dreams,
Though these be fair:
And still with the eternal magic gleams
Her soft thick hair:
And still her eyes have more than mortal power
All hearts to draw,
And still her lips are like a living flower,
Full of sweet awe.
In each new city of earth this spirit found
A life new-born:
With fillets of fresh flowers his head was crowned
At every morn.
Death he knew not of,—nor the thought of death:
For soft lips made
His heart eternal with their tender breath
And loving aid.

79

Each morning through the waves of being he
Could plunge anew
And bathe wide soul-limbs in the tameless sea,—
And round him grew
A host of recollections starry-eyed,
Like living things
Through leafage on a summer night descried
With mothlike wings.
So his life deepened, and became no more
A thing of earth,
But a tide rippling on some heavenly shore
With silvery mirth.
And he could widen into life divine
With strange delight:—
As when one leaves green larch and beech and pine
And lilies white
And flowers of all the valleys and the hills
And maiden-hair
And silvery tossing laughing reckless rills
And mountain air

80

And forests where the fairies dance in rings
And smooth soft dales
And trunks whereto the golden lichen clings
And daisied vales:
As when one leaves all these, and with divine
Deep joy past speech
Sees the long white unsearchable foam-line
Fringe the far beach,—
And, after, steering outward, hears the song
Of the sea-breeze
And thanks God for the absence of the throng
Of stifling trees!
Those close-branched choking trees and woods ashore:
Yes, all their flowers
Were never half so sweet as these dim hoar
Waste foam-bell showers!
The houseless plain receives us, and we sail
For ever on,
Till night at the first trembling kiss grows pale
Of morning wan.

81

Flower-scents to him were rapture, bringing dreams
No word could tell:—
Where for wild miles the gold furze-blossom gleams
And its rich smell
Fills all the air, he wandered, with delight
Supreme: a rose
By its mere scent could charm the summer night
To strange repose;
And the red honeysuckle 'mid its peers,
That wafted him
A scented lovely kiss, made sacred tears
Rise and o'erbrim.
And all the gods of every land shone real
Before his gaze;
Each nation's fairest dream and highest ideal
He crowned with lays.
White Venus lightly stepped our reeds between,
And Pan was there,
And all old goddesses, bright queen on queen,
Living and fair.

82

And for each soul,—yea, every living thing,—
Justice he sought.
Prometheus-like he stood before heaven's king
And feared not aught.
For every petal of each flower he claimed
Justice entire,
And for each pale heart stricken and ashamed,
Each bud, each briar.
He saw and said that till all souls are white
And all at peace
God's robes and hands are red and marred of might,—
Till all sighs cease.
For with creation God its king is one;
And the king weeps
At death of butterfly, and lapse of sun,
And war's rank heaps:
For this is greatness—not to miss the small,
Beholding great
Events and creatures,—but to hold them all,
One equal Fate.

83

So nothing can escape God's endless hand;
No red sea-flower,
Nor heart of man or woman, nor rent land,
Nor ravished bower.
August, 1882.