Poems By William Bell Scott. Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc. Illustrated by Seventeen Etchings by the Author and L. Alma Tadema |
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| STUDIES FROM NATURE. |
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 | Poems |  |
111
STUDIES FROM NATURE.
113
SUNDAY MORNING ALONE.
Morning and noon and evening, week by week
And month by month and year by year, return,
The never-ending harmonies of this world,
Without an end or pause. The mill-stream flows
Continuous; the industrious wheel turns round;
The heavy stones grind on, yet all that flows
Into the watchful hopper-sack's no more
Than needful for each day's void kneading-trough.
The garments cast last night next morn we don,
And still, for gains to spend, our lives burn down,
Until the vintage-time of life's year comes;
For still some guest, unanswered and unbid,
In our soul's prison waits with lidless eyes
Turned we know not wherefore towards the Future.
And month by month and year by year, return,
The never-ending harmonies of this world,
Without an end or pause. The mill-stream flows
Continuous; the industrious wheel turns round;
The heavy stones grind on, yet all that flows
Into the watchful hopper-sack's no more
Than needful for each day's void kneading-trough.
The garments cast last night next morn we don,
And still, for gains to spend, our lives burn down,
Until the vintage-time of life's year comes;
For still some guest, unanswered and unbid,
In our soul's prison waits with lidless eyes
Turned we know not wherefore towards the Future.
Here sit I now this bright noonday with hands
And thoughts all free and unclaimed, like some fool
On whom hath fallen good fortune; and behold!
The Conscience questions and almost disowns
Right to this freedom and this idleness.
Why is the wheel still now? it asks,—the stream,
Why sleeps it locked and limpid in the sun?
For custom's yoke so marks the neck it clothes,
Its absence becomes irksome, and the Law,
Blessed or accursed we say not, seems for man
A thunder-call to Action;—seems indeed,
As much else seems, but is not. Let us rest,
Now and then rest, and make Time wait on us—
Holily rest, the flowers o' the field and we,
Being again twin-brothers as of old
'Neath Eden's cedar shades.
And thoughts all free and unclaimed, like some fool
On whom hath fallen good fortune; and behold!
The Conscience questions and almost disowns
Right to this freedom and this idleness.
Why is the wheel still now? it asks,—the stream,
114
For custom's yoke so marks the neck it clothes,
Its absence becomes irksome, and the Law,
Blessed or accursed we say not, seems for man
A thunder-call to Action;—seems indeed,
As much else seems, but is not. Let us rest,
Now and then rest, and make Time wait on us—
Holily rest, the flowers o' the field and we,
Being again twin-brothers as of old
'Neath Eden's cedar shades.
This sabbath morn
The wan sun coldly shines, yet fields and roads,
The young math springing through the hard black soil,
The market-cart half shedded, and the stack
Of hay now cut short like the poor man's bread,
Cheerily glisten. In this small dull room
Steadily beats the red fire, while the dog
Winks listlessly before it; winks and dreams,
And suddenly looks round him like churched boys
Ashamed to nod. Upon this window-sill
The sparrows light for crumbs laid duly there;
Upon the topmost withy of that hedge,
Leafless and sharp as wire-work, whistling clear,
A half-hour since a blackbird perched: I turned,
Startled by song, too sudden turned! Within
The village church the household every one
Have shut themselves, and I alone remain
Idle and free.
The wan sun coldly shines, yet fields and roads,
The young math springing through the hard black soil,
The market-cart half shedded, and the stack
Of hay now cut short like the poor man's bread,
Cheerily glisten. In this small dull room
Steadily beats the red fire, while the dog
Winks listlessly before it; winks and dreams,
And suddenly looks round him like churched boys
Ashamed to nod. Upon this window-sill
The sparrows light for crumbs laid duly there;
Upon the topmost withy of that hedge,
Leafless and sharp as wire-work, whistling clear,
A half-hour since a blackbird perched: I turned,
Startled by song, too sudden turned! Within
The village church the household every one
Have shut themselves, and I alone remain
Idle and free.
115
The house clock throbs, still throbs,
Heard or unheard it throbs. 'Tween soul and sense,
Peace like Death's angel comes: fresh powers awake,
Freed from the straining tendons of the world.
As one whose master sleeps, may dare to think
Of liberty and thereof sing, this new
Interior life Itself sees without wonder,
And hears its own thoughts whispering thus, ‘Behold!
Eternity's sonorous shores, and I
Am here.’ The present is withdrawn, the Real
Is round us inexpressibly: it seems
That the breath ceases and the heart stands still,
Or as in trance we were removed from them,
And thereupon the Soul's white eyes unclose
Upon the sunless ether.
Heard or unheard it throbs. 'Tween soul and sense,
Peace like Death's angel comes: fresh powers awake,
Freed from the straining tendons of the world.
As one whose master sleeps, may dare to think
Of liberty and thereof sing, this new
Interior life Itself sees without wonder,
And hears its own thoughts whispering thus, ‘Behold!
Eternity's sonorous shores, and I
Am here.’ The present is withdrawn, the Real
Is round us inexpressibly: it seems
That the breath ceases and the heart stands still,
Or as in trance we were removed from them,
And thereupon the Soul's white eyes unclose
Upon the sunless ether.
Such a glimpse
Of immaterial things men oft-times feel
In silence, mental stillness, nerve-repose,
And conscience undisturbed. It flows and ebbs,
Ebbs utterly away. Could we but press
Right through these crypts unlit of Consciousness,
Seek out the sanctum whose ineffable flame
Cannot by mortal eyes be borne, and rend
The sensuous veils that shelter us from God!
Could we but press
The adventure through soul instincts such as these,
Both eye and ear, it might be, would wake up
To an unspeakable energy, and heaven
Open as to the dying!
But yet why,
Thus hastening sunwards, drop the priceless threads
Our dear earth-born Arachne weaves for us?
One great tent-curtain all enfolds; this world
All other worlds, this life all other lives,
Like echoes answer each to each. The stars
Are seen but in the dark, Force hides herself
In the inert on all sides; nor can we
Breathe but while death conspires; and only here,
Here where black earth bears heartsease, human eyes
Converse, and passions cling with burning lips,
Dying together; here where autumn suns
Bronze the bread-yielding sheaves and leaves of trees
Drop to the evening breezes, while the brows
Of the strong reapers melt, or their hands chill,
Bearing the moonlit scythe or sickle home.
Of immaterial things men oft-times feel
In silence, mental stillness, nerve-repose,
And conscience undisturbed. It flows and ebbs,
Ebbs utterly away. Could we but press
Right through these crypts unlit of Consciousness,
Seek out the sanctum whose ineffable flame
Cannot by mortal eyes be borne, and rend
The sensuous veils that shelter us from God!
Could we but press
The adventure through soul instincts such as these,
Both eye and ear, it might be, would wake up
116
Open as to the dying!
But yet why,
Thus hastening sunwards, drop the priceless threads
Our dear earth-born Arachne weaves for us?
One great tent-curtain all enfolds; this world
All other worlds, this life all other lives,
Like echoes answer each to each. The stars
Are seen but in the dark, Force hides herself
In the inert on all sides; nor can we
Breathe but while death conspires; and only here,
Here where black earth bears heartsease, human eyes
Converse, and passions cling with burning lips,
Dying together; here where autumn suns
Bronze the bread-yielding sheaves and leaves of trees
Drop to the evening breezes, while the brows
Of the strong reapers melt, or their hands chill,
Bearing the moonlit scythe or sickle home.
All things are types and symbols: earth and heaven
Each other interpenetrate: all creeds
And churches crowning the hill-tops of time,—
Pillars of fire by night, of cloud by day,
Are but attempts to touch the symbolized.
Each other interpenetrate: all creeds
And churches crowning the hill-tops of time,—
Pillars of fire by night, of cloud by day,
Are but attempts to touch the symbolized.
But now the village tongue hath been let loose,
The village church resigns its worshippers:
Staid ancient couples maunder past; they skirt
The well-known fields by pathways; now and then
Men call and latches clink, and childhood's din
Rings here and there. The winking dog starts up,
And by the door stands with fixed eyes and ears;
Approaching steps are heard; the tingling rain
Of female voices o'er the threshold falls!
—Ah, there you sit; just as, three hours ago,
We left you. The old vicar preached, good soul!
Corinthians, fifteenth, fifty-first, that grand
Wonderful verse—‘Behold, a mystery!
We shall not all sleep, we shall all be changed.’
A sparrow had got in; from roof to roof
It flew—oh, fifty times. The quire to-day
Really did well, it did one good to hear,
And like the text the singers sang, ‘Behold,
We shall not all sleep, we shall all be changed.’
The village church resigns its worshippers:
Staid ancient couples maunder past; they skirt
117
Men call and latches clink, and childhood's din
Rings here and there. The winking dog starts up,
And by the door stands with fixed eyes and ears;
Approaching steps are heard; the tingling rain
Of female voices o'er the threshold falls!
—Ah, there you sit; just as, three hours ago,
We left you. The old vicar preached, good soul!
Corinthians, fifteenth, fifty-first, that grand
Wonderful verse—‘Behold, a mystery!
We shall not all sleep, we shall all be changed.’
A sparrow had got in; from roof to roof
It flew—oh, fifty times. The quire to-day
Really did well, it did one good to hear,
And like the text the singers sang, ‘Behold,
We shall not all sleep, we shall all be changed.’
118
GREEN CHERRIES.
The season had been late: Spring, lagging long,—
Not like the rosy-cheeked lithe Columbine
We see her pictured, but with frost-filled hair,
And sad scared eyes, had cowered beneath the eaves
From the sharp-biting blasts and drifting rains.
Yet in the heart of nature the great change
Had been effected, and one morn in June
Suddenly all the clouds were carol filled,
Every road dried and freckled with sunshine,
Every flower full-blown, both by hedge and garth,
Every tree heavy. So I said, This day
Is the true May-day, and I straight went forth
The nighest way unto the loneliest fields.
Two hours or so it might be from the town,
Before a thriving friend's well-built gateway,
I found myself, and entered, though I knew
That he would not be there; unfortunate
Son of dame Fortune he, who sits all day
With wits repressed and sharp pen, gain and loss
His nether lip developing.
Not like the rosy-cheeked lithe Columbine
We see her pictured, but with frost-filled hair,
And sad scared eyes, had cowered beneath the eaves
From the sharp-biting blasts and drifting rains.
Yet in the heart of nature the great change
Had been effected, and one morn in June
Suddenly all the clouds were carol filled,
Every road dried and freckled with sunshine,
Every flower full-blown, both by hedge and garth,
Every tree heavy. So I said, This day
Is the true May-day, and I straight went forth
The nighest way unto the loneliest fields.
Two hours or so it might be from the town,
Before a thriving friend's well-built gateway,
I found myself, and entered, though I knew
That he would not be there; unfortunate
Son of dame Fortune he, who sits all day
With wits repressed and sharp pen, gain and loss
His nether lip developing.
119
I swung
The gate and entered. All along the edge
Of the bright gravel fallen lilac blooms
Or young leaf-sheaths were scattered, and small groups
Of coming toadstools showed where showers had lain.
Under the wavering shades of trees I turned,
Skirting the garden's boxwood bordered ways,
Its rhododendrons bursting into flower,
Flaming beneath the sunshine, and at length
Rested upon an orchard arbour seat.
The gate and entered. All along the edge
Of the bright gravel fallen lilac blooms
Or young leaf-sheaths were scattered, and small groups
Of coming toadstools showed where showers had lain.
Under the wavering shades of trees I turned,
Skirting the garden's boxwood bordered ways,
Its rhododendrons bursting into flower,
Flaming beneath the sunshine, and at length
Rested upon an orchard arbour seat.
All over bench and table, ground and sward,
The young green cherries lay, yet overhead,
Glittering like beads, they still seemed thick as leaves
Upon the boughs. And young green apples too,
Scattered by prodigal winds, peeped here and there,
Among the clover. Through the black boughs shone
Clouds of a white heat, in the cold blue depths
Poised steadily, and all about them rang
Those songs of skylarks. Other sounds were there:
The click mistimed of hedge-shears; the brave bee
Passing with trumpet gladness; and the leaves
Waving against each other. Soon this way
Along the further hedge-tops came the shears;
Two wielding arms assiduous and a face
The prickly screen disclosed. Far down the line
By slow degrees went shears and arms, while I
Marked the still toppling twigs, until at length
They passed beyond the fruit-trees, and I turned
To other themes. Above the flowering beds
Of jonquil and chill iris rose the house,—
There is the window of my host's small room,
There Harriet's, vacant now, with casements thrown
Wide open, their white curtains driven about;—
And see, within that other tightly closed,
The old dame sits intent on stocking wires.
I sat there; on the seat beside me lay
A cluster of three cherries on one stalk.
The young green cherries lay, yet overhead,
Glittering like beads, they still seemed thick as leaves
Upon the boughs. And young green apples too,
Scattered by prodigal winds, peeped here and there,
Among the clover. Through the black boughs shone
Clouds of a white heat, in the cold blue depths
Poised steadily, and all about them rang
Those songs of skylarks. Other sounds were there:
The click mistimed of hedge-shears; the brave bee
Passing with trumpet gladness; and the leaves
Waving against each other. Soon this way
Along the further hedge-tops came the shears;
Two wielding arms assiduous and a face
The prickly screen disclosed. Far down the line
By slow degrees went shears and arms, while I
120
They passed beyond the fruit-trees, and I turned
To other themes. Above the flowering beds
Of jonquil and chill iris rose the house,—
There is the window of my host's small room,
There Harriet's, vacant now, with casements thrown
Wide open, their white curtains driven about;—
And see, within that other tightly closed,
The old dame sits intent on stocking wires.
I sat there; on the seat beside me lay
A cluster of three cherries on one stalk.
A casual passing picture! strange it bides
Perennial with me yet! This little sprig
Of three green cherries, what may it concern
The universal heart? Why all along
The road of life do I remember still
The three green cherries there?
Perennial with me yet! This little sprig
Of three green cherries, what may it concern
The universal heart? Why all along
The road of life do I remember still
The three green cherries there?
And yet the eye
Sees only what the mind perceives. The heart
Hath its supreme perceptions. We retain
Deepest impressions from most trivial things;
They are the daily food by which we grow;
Some future poet shall find fit airs for them
And touch the nerve of life. For yet shall come
The Poet, such an one as hath not yet
Entered his sickle in those great corn-fields
Whence comes the spiritual bread. Not battle deaths,
Nor mere adventures, nor rank passions moved
By vulgar things shall he sing; nor shall prate
With vague loose phrase of Nature: he shall see
The inexorable step-dame as she is,—
A teacher blind, whose task-work and closed door,
Body and soul, we strive against! O world!
The Poet of the future, welcome him!
When he appears.
Sees only what the mind perceives. The heart
Hath its supreme perceptions. We retain
Deepest impressions from most trivial things;
They are the daily food by which we grow;
Some future poet shall find fit airs for them
And touch the nerve of life. For yet shall come
The Poet, such an one as hath not yet
Entered his sickle in those great corn-fields
121
Nor mere adventures, nor rank passions moved
By vulgar things shall he sing; nor shall prate
With vague loose phrase of Nature: he shall see
The inexorable step-dame as she is,—
A teacher blind, whose task-work and closed door,
Body and soul, we strive against! O world!
The Poet of the future, welcome him!
When he appears.
I left my reverie
Within the arbour, threw the green fruit back,
Crossed the scythed lawn and threshold, for the door
Stood hospitably open; none I met,
Nor had I any errand maid or man
Could answer: on the well-known table stood
Bread cut in shives and wine. Then I put off
My hat before this sacrament and ate,
And called aloud that I might even perforce
Be courteous and give thanks; but no one came.
So thence departing, said I, ‘Every home
Is thus enchanted justly understood,’
And fared right on for many miles that day,
Picking up thoughts like wild-flowers by the path;
Some of them coarse and prickly, some sweet-breathed,
But none of them were homeward borne save those,
Now half expressed, I have writ here for thee!
Within the arbour, threw the green fruit back,
Crossed the scythed lawn and threshold, for the door
Stood hospitably open; none I met,
Nor had I any errand maid or man
Could answer: on the well-known table stood
Bread cut in shives and wine. Then I put off
My hat before this sacrament and ate,
And called aloud that I might even perforce
Be courteous and give thanks; but no one came.
So thence departing, said I, ‘Every home
Is thus enchanted justly understood,’
And fared right on for many miles that day,
Picking up thoughts like wild-flowers by the path;
Some of them coarse and prickly, some sweet-breathed,
But none of them were homeward borne save those,
Now half expressed, I have writ here for thee!
122
YOUTH AND AGE.
Our night repast was ended: quietnessReturned again: the boys were in their books;
The old man slept, and by him slept his dog:
My thoughts were in the dream-land of to-morrow:
A knock is heard, anon the maid brings in
A black-sealed letter that some over-worked
Late messenger leaves. Each one looks round and scans,
But lifts it not, and I at last am told
To read it. ‘Died here at his house this day’—
Some well-known name not needful here to print,
Follows at length. Soon all return again
To their first stillness, but the old man coughs,
And cries, ‘Ah, he was always like the grave,
And still he was but young!’ while those who stand
On life's green threshold smile within themselves,
Thinking how very old he was to them,
And what long years, what memorable deeds,
Are theirs in prospect! Little care have they
What old man dies, what child is born, indeed;
Their day is coming, and their sun shall shine!
123
AN ARTIST'S BIRTHPLACE.
This is the stateman's country: every man
Hath his own steading, his own field, his garth,
And share of common and of moss, wherefrom
He cuts his winter's fuel, building up
The russet stack above his gable thatch.
Look through that straggling unpruned hedge, you'll see
One of those sinewy Saxons, such an one,
From sire to son, perhaps, hath till'd that mould,
For these five hundred years; that rough-hewn block
Of timber plays the part of harrow here.
Hath his own steading, his own field, his garth,
And share of common and of moss, wherefrom
He cuts his winter's fuel, building up
The russet stack above his gable thatch.
Look through that straggling unpruned hedge, you'll see
One of those sinewy Saxons, such an one,
From sire to son, perhaps, hath till'd that mould,
For these five hundred years; that rough-hewn block
Of timber plays the part of harrow here.
And now we reach the turn I told you of,
Close to our journey's end. The violets
Are just as thick as ever, and beneath
The rooty sand-bank those white embers show
A gipsy's bivouac has but late been here.
And there is this old village, with its wide
Irregular path, its rattling streamlet bridged
Before each cottage with loose planks or stones,
And all the geese and ducks that have no fear
Of strangers, the wide smith's shop, and the church
Whose grey stone roof is within reach of hand.
A fit place for an artist to be reared;
Not a great Master whose vast unshared toils,
Add to the riches of the world, rebuild
God's house, and clothe with Prophets walls and roof,
Defending cities as a pastime—such
We have not! but the homelier heartier hand
That gives us English landscapes year by year.
There is his small ancestral home, so gay,
With rosery and green wicket. We last met
In London: I've heard since he had returned
Homeward less sound in health than when he reached
That athlete's theatre, well termed the grave
Of little reputations. Fresh again
Let's hope to find him.
Close to our journey's end. The violets
Are just as thick as ever, and beneath
The rooty sand-bank those white embers show
A gipsy's bivouac has but late been here.
And there is this old village, with its wide
Irregular path, its rattling streamlet bridged
124
And all the geese and ducks that have no fear
Of strangers, the wide smith's shop, and the church
Whose grey stone roof is within reach of hand.
A fit place for an artist to be reared;
Not a great Master whose vast unshared toils,
Add to the riches of the world, rebuild
God's house, and clothe with Prophets walls and roof,
Defending cities as a pastime—such
We have not! but the homelier heartier hand
That gives us English landscapes year by year.
There is his small ancestral home, so gay,
With rosery and green wicket. We last met
In London: I've heard since he had returned
Homeward less sound in health than when he reached
That athlete's theatre, well termed the grave
Of little reputations. Fresh again
Let's hope to find him.
Thus conversing stept
Two travellers downward. The descending road
Rough with loose pebbles left by floods of late:
Straight through the wicket passed they, and in front
The pent-roofed door stood knocking: all was still:
Through the low parlour window books were seen
Upon the little settle, and some pots
With flowers, a birdcage hung too without song
Close to the window; round them noontide glowed
So gladsomely, the leaves were every one
Glistening and quivering, and the hosts of gnats
Spun in the shadows; but within seemed dark
And dead. A quick light foot is heard, and there,
Before them stood a maiden in the sun
That fell upon her chestnut hair like fire.
Two travellers downward. The descending road
Rough with loose pebbles left by floods of late:
Straight through the wicket passed they, and in front
The pent-roofed door stood knocking: all was still:
Through the low parlour window books were seen
Upon the little settle, and some pots
With flowers, a birdcage hung too without song
Close to the window; round them noontide glowed
So gladsomely, the leaves were every one
125
Spun in the shadows; but within seemed dark
And dead. A quick light foot is heard, and there,
Before them stood a maiden in the sun
That fell upon her chestnut hair like fire.
How winsome fair she was 'tis hard to tell!
For she was strong and straight, like a young elm,
And without fear, although she halted there
Answering with coy eyes scarce turned to us,
Yet not embarrassed, while she told the tale
Of the sick man. Then felt the strangers free
To look upon her: her tall neck was tinged
With brown and bore her small head easily
Like that of a giraffe; her saffron jupe,
Girt loosely round her long waist, fell in folds
From her high bosom,—but, as hath been said,
How winsome fair she was 'twas hard to tell—
Untaught and strong, and conscious of no charm;
I might describe her from the head succinct,
Even to the high-arched instep of her foot,
And all in vain: the soul sincere, the full
Yet homely harmony she bore with her,
Movèd me like the first sight of the sea,
And made me think of old queens, Guenevere,
Or maid Rowena with her ‘waes-hail,’ or
Aslauga whom the Sea-king chanced upon,
Keeping her sheep beside Norse waves, the while
She combed her hair out mirror'd in the stream.
For she was strong and straight, like a young elm,
And without fear, although she halted there
Answering with coy eyes scarce turned to us,
Yet not embarrassed, while she told the tale
Of the sick man. Then felt the strangers free
To look upon her: her tall neck was tinged
With brown and bore her small head easily
Like that of a giraffe; her saffron jupe,
Girt loosely round her long waist, fell in folds
From her high bosom,—but, as hath been said,
How winsome fair she was 'twas hard to tell—
Untaught and strong, and conscious of no charm;
I might describe her from the head succinct,
Even to the high-arched instep of her foot,
And all in vain: the soul sincere, the full
Yet homely harmony she bore with her,
Movèd me like the first sight of the sea,
And made me think of old queens, Guenevere,
Or maid Rowena with her ‘waes-hail,’ or
Aslauga whom the Sea-king chanced upon,
126
She combed her hair out mirror'd in the stream.
The artist was not there to welcome them,
That much was plain; and, more, the life of home
Was not for him; Elspeth, the crazed beldame
O' the village, shouted and sang by sometimes,
And that he could not bear. This and much else,
At the hedge ale-house, while the friends regaled
By the wide chimney where the brown turf burned,
And daylight glinted down, they heard. But still
As of the damsel thought they most, one cried—
‘I could have ta'en her head between my hands
And kissed her,—she's so wise and frank and kind,
I'm sure she never would have thought it strange.’
That much was plain; and, more, the life of home
Was not for him; Elspeth, the crazed beldame
O' the village, shouted and sang by sometimes,
And that he could not bear. This and much else,
At the hedge ale-house, while the friends regaled
By the wide chimney where the brown turf burned,
And daylight glinted down, they heard. But still
As of the damsel thought they most, one cried—
‘I could have ta'en her head between my hands
And kissed her,—she's so wise and frank and kind,
I'm sure she never would have thought it strange.’
127
MORNING SLEEP.
Another day hath dawned
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Meanwhile, through the oblivion of the night
The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;
And now the gradual sun begins to throw
Its slanting glory on the heads of trees,
And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,
And shakes its dewy wings.
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
Meanwhile, through the oblivion of the night
The ponderous world its old course hath fulfilled;
And now the gradual sun begins to throw
Its slanting glory on the heads of trees,
And every bird stirs in its nest revealed,
And shakes its dewy wings.
A blessed gift
Unto the weary hath been mine to-night—
Slumber unbroken: now it floats away;
But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
The head thus comfortably posed, the eyes
In a continual dawning, mingling lights
And darks with vagrant fantasies, one hour,
Yet for another hour? I will not break
The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
I see the forms of immortalities.
Verily, soon enough the labouring day,
With its necessitous unmusical calls,
Will force the indolent conscience into life.
Unto the weary hath been mine to-night—
Slumber unbroken: now it floats away;
But whether 'twere not best to woo it still,
The head thus comfortably posed, the eyes
In a continual dawning, mingling lights
And darks with vagrant fantasies, one hour,
Yet for another hour? I will not break
The shining woof; I will not rudely leap
Out of this golden atmosphere, through which
I see the forms of immortalities.
Verily, soon enough the labouring day,
128
Will force the indolent conscience into life.
The tiresome moth upon the window-panes
Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr
The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without
Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze
Toward the light blowing. To an Eastern vale
That light may now be waning, and across
The tall reeds by the Ganges lotus-paved,
Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.
The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,
All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,
Burning like molten gold. A red canoe
Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound
Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids
Whose zoneless bosoms swell on the rich air;
A lamp is in each hand, each lamp a boat
To take the chance, or sink or swim, such rite
Of love-portent they try, and such may see
Ibis or emu from their cocoa nooks,
What time the granite sentinels that watch
The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first
Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend
Their august lineaments; what time Haroun
Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew
He was the Caliph who knocked soberly
By Giafar's hand at their gates, shut betimes;
What time Prince Assad sat on the high hill
'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying
For his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,
Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave
And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,
And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let
Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness
Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time
And bodily weight are for the wakeful only,
Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,
Floating poised happily in mid-air, bathed
In a sustaining halo, soft and warm,
Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven
Its own wide home alike; earth far below
Fading still further, further; towers and towns
Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged,
And tedious travellers within iron cars;
Its rivers, and its fields with labouring hinds,
To whose raised eyes, as, stretched upon the sward,
They may enjoy some intervals of rest,
That little cloud appears scarce worth a thought.
There is an old and memorable tale
Of some sound sleeper being borne away
By banded faeries in the mottled hour,
Before the cock-crow, through unknown weird woods
And nameless forests, where the boughs and roots
Opened before him, closed behind; thenceforth
A wise man lived he all unchanged by years.
Perchance again these fairies may return,
And evermore shall I remain as now—
A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!—
Wandering no more, there are no faeries now;
I hear domestic voices on the stair!
Hath ceased to flap, or traverse with blind whirr
The room's dusk corners; and the leaves without
Vibrate upon their thin stems with the breeze
Toward the light blowing. To an Eastern vale
That light may now be waning, and across
The tall reeds by the Ganges lotus-paved,
Lengthening the shadows of the banyan-tree.
The rice-fields are all silent in the glow,
All silent the deep heaven without a cloud,
Burning like molten gold. A red canoe
Crosses with fan-like paddles and the sound
Of feminine song, freighted with great-eyed maids
Whose zoneless bosoms swell on the rich air;
A lamp is in each hand, each lamp a boat
To take the chance, or sink or swim, such rite
Of love-portent they try, and such may see
Ibis or emu from their cocoa nooks,
What time the granite sentinels that watch
The mouths of cavern-temples hail the first
Faint star, and feel the gradual darkness blend
Their august lineaments; what time Haroun
Perambulated Bagdat, and none knew
He was the Caliph who knocked soberly
By Giafar's hand at their gates, shut betimes;
129
'Neath the pomegranate-tree, long wearying
For his lost brother's step;—what time, as now,
Along our English sky, flame-furrows cleave
And break the quiet of the cold blue clouds,
And the first rays look in upon our roofs.
Let the day come or go; there is no let
Or hindrance to the indolent wilfulness
Of fantasy and dream-land. Place and time
And bodily weight are for the wakeful only,
Now they exist not: life is like that cloud,
Floating poised happily in mid-air, bathed
In a sustaining halo, soft and warm,
Voyaging on, though to no bourne; all heaven
Its own wide home alike; earth far below
Fading still further, further; towers and towns
Smoking with life, its roads with traffic thronged,
And tedious travellers within iron cars;
Its rivers, and its fields with labouring hinds,
To whose raised eyes, as, stretched upon the sward,
They may enjoy some intervals of rest,
That little cloud appears scarce worth a thought.
There is an old and memorable tale
Of some sound sleeper being borne away
By banded faeries in the mottled hour,
Before the cock-crow, through unknown weird woods
And nameless forests, where the boughs and roots
Opened before him, closed behind; thenceforth
130
Perchance again these fairies may return,
And evermore shall I remain as now—
A dreamer half awake, a wandering cloud!—
Wandering no more, there are no faeries now;
I hear domestic voices on the stair!
131
MONODY.
Eternity is silent and serene,
As the illimitable depth of heaven
That presses round the earth on winter nights.
Man comes and goes like the successive clouds
Over the moon, that come from the obscure,
And are found only in the white queen's path,—
One instant seen, then gone for evermore.
As the illimitable depth of heaven
That presses round the earth on winter nights.
Man comes and goes like the successive clouds
132
And are found only in the white queen's path,—
One instant seen, then gone for evermore.
He died—but while he lived, some laurelled muse
Was ever his close friend: to me he came
As a disciple, what I could I gave,
But he was richer: honey of the heart
Was ever in his gift, and curious spells
Of richest fantasy were his, and life
Was all before him luminous in its hopes.
How have they vanished! but few weeks are gone
Since here, at this same hour, his pleasant eyes
Were raised to mine, the while he rhymed again
The verses made that morn: alas! the web
Of gossamer hath drifted with the dew
And disappeared before the fervid noon.
With sad resolve I looked upon his face
When the white sheet was round him. At his head
His mother placed a light. My tears might well
Excuse hers—heart-sick mother! How those lips
Were shrunk, the nostrils closed, the candid eyes
Shut up within their caves! I knew him not.
It was no more the wild inspired young soul;—
Draw the sheet gently over him again—
Alas! he is more dreadful than before.
He is gone truly: some few rhythmic staves,
A broken pen, is all remains of him.
Strange thought comes o'er us when we trace the lines
Writ by a hand that now is dust: we scarce
Believe but that some monstrous trick were played,
And it was not so,—only seemed to be!
Had he but lived,—oh, had a kind star smiled
Upon his couch and made him well! But, no;
'Tis childish to cry thus: the grasshopper
Chirps in the turf, the dew is on the blades,
The worm beneath, the butterfly above,
And the great sun shines brightly all the same,—
We are so little in the sum of things!
Was ever his close friend: to me he came
As a disciple, what I could I gave,
But he was richer: honey of the heart
Was ever in his gift, and curious spells
Of richest fantasy were his, and life
Was all before him luminous in its hopes.
How have they vanished! but few weeks are gone
Since here, at this same hour, his pleasant eyes
Were raised to mine, the while he rhymed again
The verses made that morn: alas! the web
Of gossamer hath drifted with the dew
And disappeared before the fervid noon.
With sad resolve I looked upon his face
When the white sheet was round him. At his head
His mother placed a light. My tears might well
Excuse hers—heart-sick mother! How those lips
Were shrunk, the nostrils closed, the candid eyes
Shut up within their caves! I knew him not.
It was no more the wild inspired young soul;—
Draw the sheet gently over him again—
Alas! he is more dreadful than before.
He is gone truly: some few rhythmic staves,
A broken pen, is all remains of him.
133
Writ by a hand that now is dust: we scarce
Believe but that some monstrous trick were played,
And it was not so,—only seemed to be!
Had he but lived,—oh, had a kind star smiled
Upon his couch and made him well! But, no;
'Tis childish to cry thus: the grasshopper
Chirps in the turf, the dew is on the blades,
The worm beneath, the butterfly above,
And the great sun shines brightly all the same,—
We are so little in the sum of things!
Yes, it is better! penury's pinching hand
Had claimèd, even as it was, his transient span.
'Tis well, for he was born to fight strong foes:
'Tis well, the smoking flax is gone to dust,
The sacrifice is made, the pains are past,—
The white sheet covers him for evermore.
Had claimèd, even as it was, his transient span.
'Tis well, for he was born to fight strong foes:
'Tis well, the smoking flax is gone to dust,
The sacrifice is made, the pains are past,—
The white sheet covers him for evermore.
134
THE DUKE'S FUNERAL.
November 18, 1852.
So, so, now let the great dead quietly
Go to his mighty tomb,—go join the dust
Of better and worse men: give not the dead
What the dead valued not: those cannon-tongues
Speak out more fitly, poets, than do thine.
Leave ye this statesman-soldier unto Time,
Who passes on the night-winds of God's law,
Leaving the heroes stript for history's page,
Cleansing the grave. Your polished lays, 'twould seem,
Refreshen no man's throat, and he who lies
Upon that cumbrous wain of bronze, unblessed
By Christian symbol or cartouche of death,
Would but have asked you what you meant, have given
Short audience, and hoped you then would go!
There is false inspiration in the theme,
It puts the lamp out: for myself, I fain
Would have constrained a sonnet; but not one
Of all the fourteen twigs would bear green leaves,
Much less fair flowers, ripe truit. Still was he one
Of England's truest sons, and what he ought
That did he worthily, and with strong will.
By trade a warrior he; and, like a lord
Of cotton and consols, by wariest games,
Venturing boldly when the market turns,
Never despairing through stark bankruptcy,
Increases on all sides until his name
Is in kings' mouths, and by his bonds are held
The necks of nations, so succeeded he.
Genius beside him seemed a madman; Truth
Was but contingent, relative to him;
And heroism but a boyish phrase.
This thing he had to do, and this did he,
Depending both on sword and protocol,
On blood and red-tape. Earth to him was but
Leagues for a march, towns cannon'd walls, and men
So many items to be match'd by others,
Harder, steadier; both to serve, to die,
For those ordained to rule. To him the priest
And constable were equals; and our isle—
For he was patriotic—furnished him
Motive at once and commissariat, ruled
His thought and action. Duty was his god,
The Statesman's duty, duty to confirm
The anointed cincture round the brow of kings,
The people in their level, and the plough
Straight in the furrow. Wherefore then should flowers
Be strewn upon his bier, or chant be sung
By poet, requiem or organ-prayer
Be uttered? Let the drums beat and the boom
Of sulphurous cannon o'er the house tops roll:
Let him be lapt in costliest panoply,
Painted all over with new heraldries.
Give him for mourners all those youths who lived
Rejoicing in the smiles of Regent George;
All honourable men, without faith, hope,
Or charity, who generously strewed
The ring and cockpit with unpaid champagne;
All handsome cavaliers, with well-hid sores;—
Give him for mourners all the timorous souls
Who see no providence in coming years;
And give him all the enemies of France;
And those who reverence power; and, more than all,
Erect and foremost in this world-array,
Men of firm hearts and regulated powers,
Who call not unto Hercules, but set
Their sinewy shoulders to the staggering wheels,
And say, ‘Thus as we will it shall it be.’
Go to his mighty tomb,—go join the dust
Of better and worse men: give not the dead
What the dead valued not: those cannon-tongues
Speak out more fitly, poets, than do thine.
Leave ye this statesman-soldier unto Time,
Who passes on the night-winds of God's law,
Leaving the heroes stript for history's page,
Cleansing the grave. Your polished lays, 'twould seem,
Refreshen no man's throat, and he who lies
Upon that cumbrous wain of bronze, unblessed
By Christian symbol or cartouche of death,
Would but have asked you what you meant, have given
Short audience, and hoped you then would go!
There is false inspiration in the theme,
It puts the lamp out: for myself, I fain
Would have constrained a sonnet; but not one
Of all the fourteen twigs would bear green leaves,
Much less fair flowers, ripe truit. Still was he one
135
That did he worthily, and with strong will.
By trade a warrior he; and, like a lord
Of cotton and consols, by wariest games,
Venturing boldly when the market turns,
Never despairing through stark bankruptcy,
Increases on all sides until his name
Is in kings' mouths, and by his bonds are held
The necks of nations, so succeeded he.
Genius beside him seemed a madman; Truth
Was but contingent, relative to him;
And heroism but a boyish phrase.
This thing he had to do, and this did he,
Depending both on sword and protocol,
On blood and red-tape. Earth to him was but
Leagues for a march, towns cannon'd walls, and men
So many items to be match'd by others,
Harder, steadier; both to serve, to die,
For those ordained to rule. To him the priest
And constable were equals; and our isle—
For he was patriotic—furnished him
Motive at once and commissariat, ruled
His thought and action. Duty was his god,
The Statesman's duty, duty to confirm
The anointed cincture round the brow of kings,
The people in their level, and the plough
Straight in the furrow. Wherefore then should flowers
Be strewn upon his bier, or chant be sung
136
Be uttered? Let the drums beat and the boom
Of sulphurous cannon o'er the house tops roll:
Let him be lapt in costliest panoply,
Painted all over with new heraldries.
Give him for mourners all those youths who lived
Rejoicing in the smiles of Regent George;
All honourable men, without faith, hope,
Or charity, who generously strewed
The ring and cockpit with unpaid champagne;
All handsome cavaliers, with well-hid sores;—
Give him for mourners all the timorous souls
Who see no providence in coming years;
And give him all the enemies of France;
And those who reverence power; and, more than all,
Erect and foremost in this world-array,
Men of firm hearts and regulated powers,
Who call not unto Hercules, but set
Their sinewy shoulders to the staggering wheels,
And say, ‘Thus as we will it shall it be.’
The day was won! proud, jubilant, redeemed,
Their thrones again set firm, as one may hope,
All coached or centaur-wise like men of war,
The princes reappeared: and France, perforce,
Worn out with dear-bought glory, welcomed them,
Lighting her topmost windows. Sluggish Seine
Hissed with the falling stars, night burst a-flame
With sputtering splendour over bridge and quay;
And in the new-gilt Tuileries once again,
Propped on her swollen feet, stood Right Divine.
The sharp thin nostril of the high-born swelled,
The diplomat rewoke all clothed in smiles,
Tuftless attachés like stunned oxen stared
At Hapsburgh, Bourbon, Guelph, and Romanoff;
Europe was saved! Once more, as in old times,
The privileged worthies of the world could follow
Each his vocation,—Metternich trepan
Unwary guests as customers for wine;
Talleyrand titillate his black brain with talk
Of omelets,—good innocent old man.
Their thrones again set firm, as one may hope,
All coached or centaur-wise like men of war,
The princes reappeared: and France, perforce,
Worn out with dear-bought glory, welcomed them,
Lighting her topmost windows. Sluggish Seine
Hissed with the falling stars, night burst a-flame
137
And in the new-gilt Tuileries once again,
Propped on her swollen feet, stood Right Divine.
The sharp thin nostril of the high-born swelled,
The diplomat rewoke all clothed in smiles,
Tuftless attachés like stunned oxen stared
At Hapsburgh, Bourbon, Guelph, and Romanoff;
Europe was saved! Once more, as in old times,
The privileged worthies of the world could follow
Each his vocation,—Metternich trepan
Unwary guests as customers for wine;
Talleyrand titillate his black brain with talk
Of omelets,—good innocent old man.
But these are gone like last year's pantomime,
And Eurpoe is again saved,—France again;
A new Napoleon, its last saviour, sweeps
These old things out like cobwebs, sabreing both
Legitimist and red-republican.
So wags the world, so history fills her stage,
And he who with this mighty pomp beneath
A nation's eyes goes tombward, leaves no mark!
And Eurpoe is again saved,—France again;
A new Napoleon, its last saviour, sweeps
These old things out like cobwebs, sabreing both
Legitimist and red-republican.
So wags the world, so history fills her stage,
And he who with this mighty pomp beneath
A nation's eyes goes tombward, leaves no mark!
138
MIDNIGHT.
1832 (revised).
The lamp within winks yellow and old,
The moon without stares blank and cold,
Chequering all the boarded floor
With frosted squares so chill and hoar,
And dark lines from the casement sent,—
The lamp-light, over the table spent,
Makes every corner of the room
Hide itself in hollow gloom;
Here and there shapes looming out,
Bench or armour, clothes or mask,
Mannikin in feathered casque,
Like dwarfs and goblins all about,—
Heads and elbows, eyes and wings,
Mere misshapen hints of things.
Close we now our book and lay
Reluctant still the pen away,
Lifting it sometimes again
If any laggard thought constrain;
Laggard or roving, home too late,
Knocking at the bolted gate.
Turn the chair and fold the fingers,
Coax the little fire that lingers,
Coax it to a tingling glow,
While the snell wind's northern game
Is played out with the window frame,
And through the key-hole sad and low.
Let's have a cheerier parting word,
Set the flask upon the board,
Get the old kanaster out,
And make the blue whiffs curl about.
Let's try, the day's work ended now,
To see Atlantes from the prow
Of fancy's fearless barque shot far
Beyond the breaker's plash and roar,
Drifting without toil of oar,
Sail or ballast, helm or star.
Watching, lonely, half asleep,
All round us becomes faint and rare,
Like lighted ships in a misty air.
Is that the bleating of far-off sheep?
—Is that a child at the window-pane,
Or merely sighing gusts of rain?
By nature still we fear the dark,
One's own shadow is strange and stark,
And seems to move, though we keep still—
And though we laugh each morning duly,
We know so very little truly,
That we fear against our will!
I remember long ago
Waking at midnight, when the snow
Was on the ground, and hearing far
Away the sound of a guitar,
And creeping darkly out of bed,
I saw pass in the street below,
Singing a sad song lovely and low,
A lady in red with yard-long hair,
A crown of leaves only on her head,
Splendidly clothed, but her feet were bare.
So passed she singing; I heard her far
Into the night with her small guitar;
And when I crept again to bed
It seemed as if some one had said,—
‘That is your Life from street to street,
Passing unheard with shoeless feet,
Over the well-trod snow.’
They tell me, with a smile or stare,
That twenty years can have no care,
Nor can it have a ‘long ago.’
But well I know the past alone
Is safely done with, sealed and gone,
And at threescore most certainly
We shall be lighter and more free!
The moon without stares blank and cold,
Chequering all the boarded floor
With frosted squares so chill and hoar,
And dark lines from the casement sent,—
The lamp-light, over the table spent,
Makes every corner of the room
Hide itself in hollow gloom;
Here and there shapes looming out,
Bench or armour, clothes or mask,
Mannikin in feathered casque,
Like dwarfs and goblins all about,—
Heads and elbows, eyes and wings,
Mere misshapen hints of things.
Close we now our book and lay
Reluctant still the pen away,
Lifting it sometimes again
If any laggard thought constrain;
Laggard or roving, home too late,
Knocking at the bolted gate.
139
Coax the little fire that lingers,
Coax it to a tingling glow,
While the snell wind's northern game
Is played out with the window frame,
And through the key-hole sad and low.
Let's have a cheerier parting word,
Set the flask upon the board,
Get the old kanaster out,
And make the blue whiffs curl about.
Let's try, the day's work ended now,
To see Atlantes from the prow
Of fancy's fearless barque shot far
Beyond the breaker's plash and roar,
Drifting without toil of oar,
Sail or ballast, helm or star.
Watching, lonely, half asleep,
All round us becomes faint and rare,
Like lighted ships in a misty air.
Is that the bleating of far-off sheep?
—Is that a child at the window-pane,
Or merely sighing gusts of rain?
By nature still we fear the dark,
One's own shadow is strange and stark,
And seems to move, though we keep still—
And though we laugh each morning duly,
We know so very little truly,
That we fear against our will!
140
Waking at midnight, when the snow
Was on the ground, and hearing far
Away the sound of a guitar,
And creeping darkly out of bed,
I saw pass in the street below,
Singing a sad song lovely and low,
A lady in red with yard-long hair,
A crown of leaves only on her head,
Splendidly clothed, but her feet were bare.
So passed she singing; I heard her far
Into the night with her small guitar;
And when I crept again to bed
It seemed as if some one had said,—
‘That is your Life from street to street,
Passing unheard with shoeless feet,
Over the well-trod snow.’
They tell me, with a smile or stare,
That twenty years can have no care,
Nor can it have a ‘long ago.’
But well I know the past alone
Is safely done with, sealed and gone,
And at threescore most certainly
We shall be lighter and more free!
Alack a day! I'm wandering still
By the wells o' Weary, the woods of Will,
Hand in hand with cheerless themes
Worse than dreams.
So then to bed. The wind sings loud,
The sharp moon presses against the cloud,
And cuts its through: anon she seems
Set in a ruff and her great white face
Looks silly and sad from the void blue space;
Vanward again the cloud-ridge streams,
And we find her out only at intervals,
As a drowning man looks up and calls,
While here and there a star outpeeps,
Cheerily a moment seen,
Anon the wrack drives in between,
And like Time's beard all oversweeps.
To my dying lamp I turn,
Turn I to my chamber door:
The embers now no longer burn,
The casement-chequers have left the floor,
Only my shadow so black and tall,
Steps with me from wall to wall!
By the wells o' Weary, the woods of Will,
141
Worse than dreams.
So then to bed. The wind sings loud,
The sharp moon presses against the cloud,
And cuts its through: anon she seems
Set in a ruff and her great white face
Looks silly and sad from the void blue space;
Vanward again the cloud-ridge streams,
And we find her out only at intervals,
As a drowning man looks up and calls,
While here and there a star outpeeps,
Cheerily a moment seen,
Anon the wrack drives in between,
And like Time's beard all oversweeps.
To my dying lamp I turn,
Turn I to my chamber door:
The embers now no longer burn,
The casement-chequers have left the floor,
Only my shadow so black and tall,
Steps with me from wall to wall!
142
THE SEA-SHORE.
Two Pictures.
I.MIST.
Muffled and rime-laden, sombre and sad,
In a limbo 'tween night and day,
As if on an island we stand whose bounds
Are shadowed and charmed away.
In a limbo 'tween night and day,
As if on an island we stand whose bounds
Are shadowed and charmed away.
We wander as in some other old world,
Foot-printing the smooth brown sands,
The snaky weeds shrieking beneath the heel
That slides from their cellular bands.
Foot-printing the smooth brown sands,
The snaky weeds shrieking beneath the heel
That slides from their cellular bands.
Flakes of foam are blown from the ebb,
White runners along the beach,
Where yesterday's margin of crab's green claws
And stubble and starfish bleach.
White runners along the beach,
Where yesterday's margin of crab's green claws
And stubble and starfish bleach.
A filmy ship looms now and then
From the point where the keen winds blow,
Ghostlike it hangs in the air, then fades
Where the unknown keen winds go.
From the point where the keen winds blow,
Ghostlike it hangs in the air, then fades
Where the unknown keen winds go.
143
Wave after wave for ten thousand years
Has furrowed the brown sand here,
Wave after wave under clouds and stars
Has cried in the dead shore's ear.
Has furrowed the brown sand here,
Wave after wave under clouds and stars
Has cried in the dead shore's ear.
When Jesus was lifted on Calvary,
And saints long buried arose,
Through the black three hours the waves broke here,
Continuous as do those!
And saints long buried arose,
Through the black three hours the waves broke here,
Continuous as do those!
Overhead shoots a querulous cry,—
A sea-mew with long white breast
Down on the water sweeps out and away,
Pursuing its hungry quest.
A sea-mew with long white breast
Down on the water sweeps out and away,
Pursuing its hungry quest.
Old man, what find ye among the black pools?
Among the sea-hair what gain?
The fisherman lifts up his basket of bait,
The wind and waves only remain.
Among the sea-hair what gain?
The fisherman lifts up his basket of bait,
The wind and waves only remain.
II.SUNSHINE.
Through the wide-opened window shines this morn
The sun with a steady breeze,
The cottage smoke slants and hurries about,
Golden against the blue seas.
The sun with a steady breeze,
The cottage smoke slants and hurries about,
Golden against the blue seas.
144
Imperiously the breakers shout,
Imperiously they call,
With dazzling crests and curved prows,
Over each other they fall.
Imperiously they call,
With dazzling crests and curved prows,
Over each other they fall.
The yellow flat glitters beneath the shine
Like a flooring of priceless ware,
Dimpled and dotted by showers and ridged
Like a never-ascending stair.
Like a flooring of priceless ware,
Dimpled and dotted by showers and ridged
Like a never-ascending stair.
Our shadows outstepping before us go,
Drawn out by the level disc,
Each wet pebble, opal or ruby or green,
Casts a shade like an obelisk.
Drawn out by the level disc,
Each wet pebble, opal or ruby or green,
Casts a shade like an obelisk.
Merrily dancing and leaping alway,
Hither, and everywhere;
The white young sbrimps are merry as bees
In a clover-field's warm air.
Hither, and everywhere;
The white young sbrimps are merry as bees
In a clover-field's warm air.
Dogs bark and children's voices ring;
From the shelving rocks they see,
The sunlit sail of the fisherman's boat
Bearing home from the generous sea.
From the shelving rocks they see,
The sunlit sail of the fisherman's boat
Bearing home from the generous sea.
From the high house-door peers the dame,
With her broad hand shading her eyes,
Grimly she smiles as she shoulders her creel,
And down the rough pathway hies!
With her broad hand shading her eyes,
Grimly she smiles as she shoulders her creel,
And down the rough pathway hies!
145
REQUIEM.
The winds are wandering through the long night,
Hushing and moaning round chimney and roof;
The ashes fall white from the dull fire-light,
The great shadows dance on the walls aloof,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
Hushing and moaning round chimney and roof;
The ashes fall white from the dull fire-light,
The great shadows dance on the walls aloof,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
Fitfully crumble the embers away;
Abroad over all flies the roaring wind;
And the rain-clouds, through the obscurity,
Hurry along the moon, silently kind,
Like an opened window in heaven.
Abroad over all flies the roaring wind;
And the rain-clouds, through the obscurity,
Hurry along the moon, silently kind,
Like an opened window in heaven.
The pitiless Norns are visible now
Between the dim gateways of gold and horn;
For the nimbus of death is over his brow,
And his cunning right hand lies feeble and worn,
Never again to be strong.
Between the dim gateways of gold and horn;
For the nimbus of death is over his brow,
And his cunning right hand lies feeble and worn,
Never again to be strong.
146
Go back, go back! would the spirit fain say,
To the in-pressing darkness and walls of stone;
For the eye of hope is as wide as day
Through the impending infinity;
His short day's work is but half done,
And still young the manifold heart.
To the in-pressing darkness and walls of stone;
For the eye of hope is as wide as day
Through the impending infinity;
His short day's work is but half done,
And still young the manifold heart.
Come back, come back! doth the world demand;
Come to the harvest, thou sower of seed!
And the kindred labourers on the strand
Of this dear human region plead,
‘Go not! of thee we have wondrous need,’
And hail him with lifted arms.
Come to the harvest, thou sower of seed!
And the kindred labourers on the strand
Of this dear human region plead,
‘Go not! of thee we have wondrous need,’
And hail him with lifted arms.
The black angel hears not; the ages dead
And the ages to come are one family,
Under the All-Father's mantle hid;
Gains, even of art and of poetry,
Are but chaff from the garner of time.
And the ages to come are one family,
Under the All-Father's mantle hid;
Gains, even of art and of poetry,
Are but chaff from the garner of time.
The blast is wandering through the long night;
Within the dark curtains the straight limbs lie;
Faintly flickers the last fire-light;
But hark, the cock crows! for morning is nigh,
Silently lifting the cold wet sky,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
Within the dark curtains the straight limbs lie;
Faintly flickers the last fire-light;
But hark, the cock crows! for morning is nigh,
Silently lifting the cold wet sky,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
147
BEDE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
[_]
BEING A MONOLOGUE OF THAT INDUSTRIOUS SCHOLAR, RESUSCITATED AT THE CALL OF CARDINAL WISEMAN, IN HIS DISCOURSE ON THE OPENING OF HARTLEPOOL R. C. CHURCH, AUGUST 1851.
I
Ah, holy Christ! who calls me now,Straining the skin back over this brow—
Drawing and cording together the bones
With strings of nerve among sand and stones?
Ah, holy Christ! the cups of joints
Some piercing ichor now anoints;
And, conjured from far parts, I feel,
Working hither like screws of steel,
Fragments of hands and toes. Again
The body of death, with its care and pain,
Receives me, and I strive to rise,
To open ears and open eyes.
I'm no more passive in God's hand,
Lying straight in heaven-land.
148
That I the blind life-senses draw
Again upon me,—the lusts of the flesh,
The lusts of the eye, and the weary mesh
Of cogitating, learning, preaching,—
Shed more unction on my teaching,
Make me diligent; not slow,
Like Alfin, who could hear no crow
Of morning cock, but started up
At the first clang of the cook's tin cup.
Oh, this wretched body of death!
I clutch about me scant of breath;—
That foot still swollen too;—there's no lamp
To find the balsam:—foul and damp
Is all about me; certainly
Shrivelled will all the parchment be.
But from that last dear task I'm free:
Finished the Gospel was, clear writ
In linguam vulgi ere the fit
Came over me, and on the floor
I swooned away—unlatch the door,
Or I shall die outright! Oh, God—
I stand sun-smitten on the sod!
Kyrie eleison!
149
II
Where then is Jarrow, where the braveStone church with its belfry o'er the nave?
Or the clositer all of smooth wrought stone
Outside? Some weird hath overthrown
The land; I'm not myself,—that stream
Is not the Tyne! the wild Dane's gleam
Of sword and fire must have shone here
If this be Jarrow, this the dear
Candida casa, with broad roof-fall,
And two glass windows painted small
And beautiful. Alas, for all
The brethren! for old Ulph who fought
Hard with the psalter, yet could not
Learn to read; and Wulf who made
My bed, good man! and for long years laid
My needfuls ready for me, so
That I might all my cares bestow
On making books. Alas and woe,
For all the books! the penitential
Reading book, missal so essential,
Singing book, numeral; all gone—
Bare as a pagan I stand alone!
This very day may be Easter tide
And I not know it: let me hide
150
Count of days, yule, pentecost,—
And fear I am no Christian ghost,
Not Bede, not Bede.
But now I wake: behold the sky
Blue as it ever was; blue, and as high:
And great clouds lying all along the land
Far back, and waves upon the strand
Coming and going still. Everywhere
Are life-sounds filling the milk-warm air;
The spider's warps are hung out on each bough,
Clear dew-pools light the hollows of large blades;
Surely the year is ripe to Autumn now,—
An autumn seared o'er with the self-same shades
Once knew I in the body; and the sod
Feels to the foot the same, each clod
Troubling these poor toes torn by flints
And thorns, that oft-times left their prints
Sea-filled on sands or in the marsh frozen black,
Between Wearmouth and Jarrow, hastening back
From Benedict to Ceolfred through the slack.
III
A thousand years, oh Father, in Thy sightAre as one day, one day without a night:
The outward stream of things for ever flows;
Whatever lived or grew still lives and grows;
151
And I am here to sing the antiphone.
But what is man before Thee and his ways;
Yea, even the sanctuary and the shrine
By which he clings and where-before he prays,
Thereby to find some pass to the divine!
For here I fall back through a yeast of years,
The expected day of Doom through all my tears
I've seen not: Father Peter in the porch
Of God's house nor the penitential scorch
Have blessed me; but I shiver as of old,
Weak and half blind and cold.
The great salt sea doth answer me alone,
Like Tophet against heaven, its undertone
Maintaining evermore against the song
Of earth: the white foam blows along
These unchanged sands. Ah, now I see
The Tyne-mouth rock, and memory turns to me
Now shall I find out Jarrow, and again
Take up the inkhorn and that history
Begun long since: how shall I gain
Tidings of all the change gone by
While I have slept?—but patience wears
The hardest stone through, toils and cares
For learning's sake are treasury stairs.
On I fare,—
Utterly new things every where.
Lo! this must be Jerusalem,
Or Rome whose sacred bulwarks stem
The Tiber's waves; among the cities this
Must be the queen o' the world, to kiss
Whose dust kings come, and I am thought
Worthy to be miraculously brought
Across the world to witness it,
And to record the same. Here, as I sit,
Long ships come sailing past on wheels,
Burning internally, with towers that smoke
Furl out behind them; hundreds of great keels
Masted and banner'd broad moles choke
With merchandise untold; among
Those tall glass-windowed houses throng
Fair women, each more costly in her gear
Than Benedict himself, whose mass-cloths dear
To us from Rome came: on both hands
Booths with raiments from all strands,
Perfumes and spices, fruits and luxuries
Unknown to me, splendours that blind the eyes,
And make the heart ache with too much. Anon
Ravishing music from the pavement-stone
Springs up, but no musician I discern—
Only a shrine-like hutch dragged by three hounds
And a man grinding:—wonderous quern,
From whence such wealth of goodliest sounds
Are brought so fast! Oh, would our quair
Had known such help! or is't the snare
Of Satan,—ear-delusion, vain
As goblin-gold whose only gain
Is a dry leaf? Now I wander o'er
A wilderness of smiths, with store
Of reeking furnaces, and cells made bright
By magic flames from brazen bars as white
As sunshine: faces mild, horned hands,
Have these men! Lo, through smoke-clouds black
Behemoth comes,—alack, alack!
With red eyes glaring in the gloom,
And many nostrils snorting spume;
Behind it chariots numberless,
Windowed and gilt and bound with brass;
Swift as a storm, they pant and blow
Along their iron way; now slow,—
And docile they turn round; they pause,
And from each chariot's ample jaws
Wells out a stream of folk. Can these
Be children of the 'Cursed one,
And this the land of Babylon
Apocalyptic, mirth and ease,
Gold and fine linen, mead and wine,
The only goods? I see no sign
Of faithful souls, of holy shrine,
Of learning, the priest's divining rod,
And yet the folk seem blessed by God.
Like Tophet against heaven, its undertone
Maintaining evermore against the song
Of earth: the white foam blows along
These unchanged sands. Ah, now I see
The Tyne-mouth rock, and memory turns to me
Now shall I find out Jarrow, and again
Take up the inkhorn and that history
Begun long since: how shall I gain
Tidings of all the change gone by
While I have slept?—but patience wears
The hardest stone through, toils and cares
For learning's sake are treasury stairs.
On I fare,—
Utterly new things every where.
152
Or Rome whose sacred bulwarks stem
The Tiber's waves; among the cities this
Must be the queen o' the world, to kiss
Whose dust kings come, and I am thought
Worthy to be miraculously brought
Across the world to witness it,
And to record the same. Here, as I sit,
Long ships come sailing past on wheels,
Burning internally, with towers that smoke
Furl out behind them; hundreds of great keels
Masted and banner'd broad moles choke
With merchandise untold; among
Those tall glass-windowed houses throng
Fair women, each more costly in her gear
Than Benedict himself, whose mass-cloths dear
To us from Rome came: on both hands
Booths with raiments from all strands,
Perfumes and spices, fruits and luxuries
Unknown to me, splendours that blind the eyes,
And make the heart ache with too much. Anon
Ravishing music from the pavement-stone
Springs up, but no musician I discern—
Only a shrine-like hutch dragged by three hounds
And a man grinding:—wonderous quern,
From whence such wealth of goodliest sounds
Are brought so fast! Oh, would our quair
Had known such help! or is't the snare
153
As goblin-gold whose only gain
Is a dry leaf? Now I wander o'er
A wilderness of smiths, with store
Of reeking furnaces, and cells made bright
By magic flames from brazen bars as white
As sunshine: faces mild, horned hands,
Have these men! Lo, through smoke-clouds black
Behemoth comes,—alack, alack!
With red eyes glaring in the gloom,
And many nostrils snorting spume;
Behind it chariots numberless,
Windowed and gilt and bound with brass;
Swift as a storm, they pant and blow
Along their iron way; now slow,—
And docile they turn round; they pause,
And from each chariot's ample jaws
Wells out a stream of folk. Can these
Be children of the 'Cursed one,
And this the land of Babylon
Apocalyptic, mirth and ease,
Gold and fine linen, mead and wine,
The only goods? I see no sign
Of faithful souls, of holy shrine,
Of learning, the priest's divining rod,
And yet the folk seem blessed by God.
But I am wrong! right fortunate
Hath been my sleep so long and late,
And now my waking when the land
Seems filled with power, when soul and hand
Work equally, when God's ferule
Seems placed within man's grasp, to school
All nature, and with chains anneal'd
By knowledge bind the world.—Around,
From pillared vault unto the ground,
Treasuries of fair books arise
Before these greedy grave-cleansed eyes.
Books great and small, an ampler host
Than pope or patriarch could boast
In the old time when Jarrow wall
Rose as we thought so fair and tall,
And I, while daylight lasted, wore
These fingers, adding to our store
Some five or six. Sure now I see
Learning, the priest's divining rod,
Hath done the work, and, under God,
Brought angels down to help and guide,
Wrought miracles on wind and tide,
Or else by necromantic lore
Man hath multiplied his store,
And, now forsaken and alone,
Neither God nor saint doth own.
Learning, the priest's rod no more,
Is the common staff in every hand,—
Evil, the tree of knowledge bore,
And now bears good, by which men stand
Kings over nature.
Hath been my sleep so long and late,
154
Seems filled with power, when soul and hand
Work equally, when God's ferule
Seems placed within man's grasp, to school
All nature, and with chains anneal'd
By knowledge bind the world.—Around,
From pillared vault unto the ground,
Treasuries of fair books arise
Before these greedy grave-cleansed eyes.
Books great and small, an ampler host
Than pope or patriarch could boast
In the old time when Jarrow wall
Rose as we thought so fair and tall,
And I, while daylight lasted, wore
These fingers, adding to our store
Some five or six. Sure now I see
Learning, the priest's divining rod,
Hath done the work, and, under God,
Brought angels down to help and guide,
Wrought miracles on wind and tide,
Or else by necromantic lore
Man hath multiplied his store,
And, now forsaken and alone,
Neither God nor saint doth own.
Learning, the priest's rod no more,
Is the common staff in every hand,—
Evil, the tree of knowledge bore,
155
Kings over nature.
History
Is here too, sending present day
Back on the past: each ancient scribe
Glozed and sifted by the tribe
Of scholiasts; for the flow of years,
With all their dusty blank arrears,
Have changèd not humanity,
Nor any law man liveth by.
Ah, now I see my own poor name,
My own books, saved from out the flame
That tower and town wreck'd, graven fair,
Fairly and excellently there;
Now no transcriber's fingers soil
The sheepskin or the Latin spoil!
And here I learn what time hath done
Since my life ceased before the sun:
How the Pagan's steel-scaled arm
Strikes the land with deadly harm;
And Cuthbert's corse with weary hand
Translate they to the Irish strand;
How soon again the Cross prevails,
And the ship of the Church puts out her sails,
Gladdening the prosperous centuries:—
But read I right? the people cries
Against her; she no more gives alms
Of spiritual love-milk, but with shalms
And pipings drinks the secular wine:—
Read I right? now clerk and lay
Each other in God's name burn and slay,
While o'er those foul fires rises still
A light as of the judgment-day,—
As of God's face behind a hill,
Before which all else wanes away;
‘Freedom of faith for every man,
For God alone can bless or ban;
Right of private judgment.’ Nay,
Were these not always just? again—
‘Reason, this life's law, we'll maintain
To be the law likewise between
Man and his Maker: by the seen
Measure we the unseen’—These
Are terrible words; may Christ appease
Such questions: yet all round I see
The latest still is wisest in all gifts
Experience brings amidst our strife.
Surely the perilous hill of Science lifts
Us up above the ills of life:
Surely by Excellence in my old dim day,
And by its light the Church held sway,
And certes if the clerk fall off
Behind the laic, he becomes a scoff.
Surely God's word is not as ours to hold
One meaning only, soon effete and cold;
But, shining with a heaven-lit flame,
It must illuminate all times the same.
Is here too, sending present day
Back on the past: each ancient scribe
Glozed and sifted by the tribe
Of scholiasts; for the flow of years,
With all their dusty blank arrears,
Have changèd not humanity,
Nor any law man liveth by.
Ah, now I see my own poor name,
My own books, saved from out the flame
That tower and town wreck'd, graven fair,
Fairly and excellently there;
Now no transcriber's fingers soil
The sheepskin or the Latin spoil!
And here I learn what time hath done
Since my life ceased before the sun:
How the Pagan's steel-scaled arm
Strikes the land with deadly harm;
And Cuthbert's corse with weary hand
Translate they to the Irish strand;
How soon again the Cross prevails,
And the ship of the Church puts out her sails,
Gladdening the prosperous centuries:—
But read I right? the people cries
156
Of spiritual love-milk, but with shalms
And pipings drinks the secular wine:—
Read I right? now clerk and lay
Each other in God's name burn and slay,
While o'er those foul fires rises still
A light as of the judgment-day,—
As of God's face behind a hill,
Before which all else wanes away;
‘Freedom of faith for every man,
For God alone can bless or ban;
Right of private judgment.’ Nay,
Were these not always just? again—
‘Reason, this life's law, we'll maintain
To be the law likewise between
Man and his Maker: by the seen
Measure we the unseen’—These
Are terrible words; may Christ appease
Such questions: yet all round I see
The latest still is wisest in all gifts
Experience brings amidst our strife.
Surely the perilous hill of Science lifts
Us up above the ills of life:
Surely by Excellence in my old dim day,
And by its light the Church held sway,
And certes if the clerk fall off
Behind the laic, he becomes a scoff.
Surely God's word is not as ours to hold
One meaning only, soon effete and cold;
157
It must illuminate all times the same.
Sweet sounds of bells! oh, dearly loved,—
Reproaching me that I have roved
Into the dangers of strange Liberty,
With duties self-sustained so dread and high.
Let me be guided, goodly sounds of bells!
Back like a child to these green wells
Whereat its mother, its young heart yet calm,
Taught it to drink from hollowed palm.
Saintly sound! I cheerfully,
With all these princely people follow thee
Up those wide stretching steps. Beneath
This carven porch I hold my breath
In wonder less than thankfulness
That I once more my God confess.
The gathered thousands, each and all
Hold our Lord's Book graven small
In their right hands; and all can read!
Let me rejoice that thus the seed
I tried to sow hath borne so well,
Despite the powers of earth and hell.
Each man a clerk, perhaps a priest,—
I enter to the sacred feast—
I strive to enter, strive in vain:
Some hidden girths my limbs restrain!
Ah! Holy Christ, I faint and quail,
As if under the wind of an iron flail.
Holy Jesu, he calls again,
Renewing that resurrection pain,
Dispersing my so late-found gain,
Yoking me round with a strangling chain,
Dragging me to him when I would fain
Rise and press on ward: against my will,
As a staff in an old man's hand am I
Thrust about ingloriously,
Perinde cadaver!—recross I the hill,
Back to the sea-shore forced to fly;—
Cardinal, master! there he stands,
With rosy face and large red hands,
Clad all in scarlet!—Woe's me! how
Can I go back to my old cell now!
Man clad in scarlet, who art thou?
The whiff of death comes out of thee,
And the poor ancient childish past
Returns around me like the sea,
Drowning my new brave Life: I'm cast
Mistily sinking—oh, my God!
Lay me again beneath the sod.
Reproaching me that I have roved
Into the dangers of strange Liberty,
With duties self-sustained so dread and high.
Let me be guided, goodly sounds of bells!
Back like a child to these green wells
Whereat its mother, its young heart yet calm,
Taught it to drink from hollowed palm.
Saintly sound! I cheerfully,
With all these princely people follow thee
Up those wide stretching steps. Beneath
This carven porch I hold my breath
In wonder less than thankfulness
That I once more my God confess.
The gathered thousands, each and all
Hold our Lord's Book graven small
In their right hands; and all can read!
Let me rejoice that thus the seed
I tried to sow hath borne so well,
Despite the powers of earth and hell.
Each man a clerk, perhaps a priest,—
I enter to the sacred feast—
I strive to enter, strive in vain:
Some hidden girths my limbs restrain!
158
As if under the wind of an iron flail.
Holy Jesu, he calls again,
Renewing that resurrection pain,
Dispersing my so late-found gain,
Yoking me round with a strangling chain,
Dragging me to him when I would fain
Rise and press on ward: against my will,
As a staff in an old man's hand am I
Thrust about ingloriously,
Perinde cadaver!—recross I the hill,
Back to the sea-shore forced to fly;—
Cardinal, master! there he stands,
With rosy face and large red hands,
Clad all in scarlet!—Woe's me! how
Can I go back to my old cell now!
Man clad in scarlet, who art thou?
The whiff of death comes out of thee,
And the poor ancient childish past
Returns around me like the sea,
Drowning my new brave Life: I'm cast
Mistily sinking—oh, my God!
Lay me again beneath the sod.
| Poems | |