Poems Real and Ideal :: :: University of Virginia Library

Through all my former life as in a dream
I passed.—I saw the Dover cliffs again,
Where the bright “clouded yellows” used to gleam
And “azure blues” in many a leafy lane.
Yet o'er the cliffs when sunset grim and red
Flamed, I beheld the faces of the dead.

II

Keswick I tried. The birch and oak were there;
And blue and tranquil Derwentwater shone:
O'er the high hills the floating clouds were fair;

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The moon hung o'er the green glens, sweet and wan.
Yet when the golden day had waned and fled,
There also I was haunted by the dead.

III

I went to Paris. The dear city white
Was beautiful as ever: by the Seine
I wandered, when the sacred starlit night
Folded the city in soft peace again.
But here too fluttered round about my head
Dim pinions of the innumerable dead.

IV

Nor only my dead. O'er the river wide
I seemed a silent breathless host to see:
They swept with awful starry gaze, flame-eyed,
Around, above, on every side of me.
I heard a voice that from the blue air said,
“Behold! each live soul hath an host of dead”.

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V

And through the host one pale majestic face,
Crowned like a leader of all men, I saw.
A ghostly army at his heels did race:
He and his phantom-soldiers smote with awe
My spirit:—a gigantic host he led,
And yet each warrior of the host was dead.

VI

Dim bearskins I could see, and helmets bright
Over the Seine: and he amid them all
Shone with that clear-cut face so deadly-white,—
He led the old Guard now without bugle-call.
O'er Paris he and they, an army dread,
Floated: Napoleon and Napoleon's dead.

VII

I sought Geneva. Blue and clear the lake
Gleamed, and afar Mont Blanc was touched to rose:

370

Still doth the sunsets' fire the mountains take,
Breaking their sombre measureless repose.
Then all grew dark and darker,—and instead
Of stars I saw the star-eyes of the dead.

VIII

I sought Lausanne: and round about the place
Still the old orchards full of quiet charm;
Still mountain streamlets run their foaming race,
And still the mountains fold with dusky arm
The glittering water. From each orchard-shed
A grey ghost peeped: some well-loved friend long dead.

IX

And then to England my sad spirit came,
To Whitby: and the old white waves were there,
And blue far waters, and the sun's fierce flame,

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And ferns and green woods,—and a woman fair.
Sweeter than words the scent her loose locks shed!
And yet here too I communed with the dead.

X

I went to Oxford. Still the fields were green,
And still the yellow marigold most bright
Clustered along the frequent dykes was seen,
And still the Isis laughed with ripples light.
But ah, the old days! For ever each had sped.
Old days, old faces . . . all my friends were dead.

XI

Again I saw the green rough Cornish waves
Pour giant masses on the rocky shore;
Still in the hollow cliff-side granite caves
The maiden-hair lurks hidden as of yore:
The brown streams as of old the moorland fed.
Yes. But here too I met the cloud of dead.

372

XII

I sought the streets of Edinburgh. There
Frowned the old castle; all was still the same:
Still the same mountains,—mossy rocks and bare:
Towards Holyrood one quiet night I came,
When lo! the august inevitable tread
About my path of legions of pale dead.

XIII

And midmost these shone Mary, with the eyes
That held the hearts of lovers magic-bound:
And after her through haunted heights of skies
Swept hosts of followers, gliding without sound
Along the airs,—and in their looks I read
That these were shadows, shadows of the dead.

XIV

Darnley was there and Bothwell: Chastelard,
And pallid Rizzio; and a thousand more.

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The guarded gates of Holyrood were barred,
Yet through the gates their grisly hosts did pour.
The sentry's living eyes were dull as lead:
He saw not Mary; no, nor Mary's dead.

XV

Next Balcombe. Quiet undergrowth of firs,
And yellow sunsets, and the smell of pines,
And purple heather on the green hill-spurs,
And red fruit of the withering eglantines.
Yes, all was as of old. Yet my heart bled.
Here too I heard soft whispers of the dead.

XVI

Then London. There I wait:—till I too pass
Beyond all flowers and songs to that dim room
Where never summer scent of rose or grass

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Mingles with the dull omnipresent gloom;
Till I too join with sombre wings outspread,
Their last recruit, the army of the dead.

April, 1882.