The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Complete Poems of Christina Rossetti

A variorum edition: Edited, with textual notes and introductions, by R. W. Crump

Rossetti, Christina Georgina (1830-1894)

VOLUME I

II.

VOLUME II

III.

VOLUME III

I Separately Published Poems

II.

II Privately Printed Poems

III.

III Unpublished Poems

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III. VOLUME III

I
Separately Published Poems

DEATH'S CHILL BETWEEN.

Chide not; let me breathe a little,
For I shall not mourn him long.
Tho' the life-cord was so brittle
The love-cord was very strong.
I would wake a little space
Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go, I shall not weep;
You can go unto your rest;
My heart-ache is all too deep,
And too sore my throbbing breast.
Can sobs be, or angry tears,
Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Tho' with you I am alone,
And must be so everywhere,
I will make no useless moan;
None shall say: “She could not bear;”
While life lasts I will be strong,
But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen! everywhere
A low voice is calling me,
And a step is on the stair,
And one comes ye do not see.
Listen, listen! evermore
A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me: he is come again;
My own dearest is come back.

Bring him in from the cold rain;
Bring wine, and let nothing lack.
Thou and I will rest together,
Love, until the sunny weather.

I will shelter thee from harm,
Hide thee from all heaviness;
Come to me, and keep thee warm
By my side in quietness.
I will lull thee to thy sleep
With sweet songs; we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping? yet
There is something at my heart
Gnawing, I would fain forget,
And an aching and a smart—
Ah my Mother, 'tis in vain,
For he is not come again.

HEART'S CHILL BETWEEN.

I did not chide him, tho' I knew
That he was false to me:
Chide the exhaling of the dew,
The ebbing of the sea,
The fading of a rosy hue,
But not inconstancy.

Why strive for love when love is o'er?
Why bind a restive heart?
He never knew the pain I bore
In saying: “We must part;
Let us be friends, and nothing more”:—
Oh woman's shallow art!

But it is over, it is done;
I hardly heed it now;
So many weary years have run
Since then, I think not how
Things might have been; but greet each one
With an unruffled brow.

What time I am where others be
My heart seems very calm,
Stone calm; but if all go from me
There comes a vague alarm,
A shrinking in the memory
From some forgotten harm.

And often thro' the long long night
Waking when none are near,
I feel my heart beat fast with fright,
Yet know not what I fear.
Oh how I long to see the light
And the sweet birds to hear!

To have the sun upon my face,
To look up through the trees,
To walk forth in the open space,
And listen to the breeze,
And not to dream the burial place
Is clogging my weak knees.

Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray,
But am half stupified;
And then all those who see me say
Mine eyes are opened wide,
And that my wits seem gone away:—
Ah would that I had died!

Would I could die and be at peace,
Or living could forget;
My grief nor grows nor doth decrease,
But ever is:—and yet
Methinks now that all this shall cease
Before the sun shall set.

Repining.

She sat alway thro' the long day
Spinning the weary thread away;
And ever said in undertone:
“Come; that I be no more alone.”

From early dawn to set of sun
Working, her task was still undone;
And the long thread seemed to increase
Even while she spun and did not cease.
She heard the gentle turtle dove
Tell to its mate a tale of love;
She saw the glancing swallows fly,
Ever a social company;
She knew each bird upon its nest
Had cheering songs to bring it rest;
None lived alone, save only she;
The wheel went round more wearily;
She wept, and said in undertone:
“Come; that I be no more alone.”
Day followed day; and still she sighed
For love, and was not satisfied;
Until one night, when the moon-light
Turned all the trees to silver white,
She heard, what ne'er she heard before,
A steady hand undo the door.
The nightingale since set of sun
Her throbbing music had not done,
And she had listened silently;
But now the wind had changed, and she
Heard the sweet song no more, but heard
Beside her bed a whispered word:
“Damsel, rise up; be not afraid,
“For I am come at last;” it said.

She trembled tho' the voice was mild,
She trembled like a frightened child,
Till she looked up, and then she saw
The unknown speaker without awe.
He seemed a fair young man, his eyes
Beaming with serious charities;
His cheek was white, but hardly pale;
And a dim glory, like a veil,
Hovered about his head, and shone
Thro' the whole room, till night was gone.

So her fear fled; and then she said,
Leaning upon her quiet bed:
“Now thou art come I prithee stay,
“That I may see thee in the day,
“And learn to know thy voice, and hear
“It evermore calling me near.”
He answered: “Rise, and follow me.”
But she looked upwards wonderingly:
“And whither would'st thou go friend? stay
“Until the dawning of the day.”
But he said: “The wind ceaseth, Maid;
“Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.”
She bound her hair up from the floor,
And passed in silence from the door.

So they went forth together, he
Helping her forward tenderly.
The hedges bowed beneath his hand;
Forth from the streams came the dry land
As they passed over; evermore
The pallid moonbeams shone before,
And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;
Not even a solitary bird
Scared by their footsteps fluttered by,
Where aspen trees stood steadily.

As they went on, at length a sound
Came trembling on the air around;
The undistinguishable hum
Of life; voices that go and come
Of busy men and the child's sweet
High laugh, and noise of trampling feet.

Then he said: “Wilt thou go and see?”
And she made answer joyfully:
“The noise of life, of human life,
“Of dear communion without strife,
“Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;
“Is it not here our path shall end?”

He led her on a little way
Until they reached a hillock: “Stay.”

It was a village in a plain.
High mountains screened it from the rain
And stormy wind; and nigh at hand
A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand
Pebbly and fine; and sent life up
Green succous stalk and flower cup.

Gradually, day's harbinger,
A chilly wind began to stir.
It seemed a gentle powerless breeze
That scarcely rustled thro' the trees;
And yet it touched the mountain's head,
And the paths man might never tread.
But hearken! in the quiet weather
Do all the streams flow down together?
No, 'tis a sound more terrible
Than tho' a thousand rivers fell.
The everlasting ice and snow
Were loosened then, but not to flow;
With a loud crash like solid thunder
The avalanche came, burying under
The village; turning life and breath
And rest and joy and plans to death.

“Oh let us fly, for pity fly,
“Let us go hence friend, thou and I.
“There must be many regions yet
“Where these things make not desolate.”

He looked upon her seriously;
Then said: “Arise, and follow me.”
The path that lay before them was
Nigh covered over with long grass,
And many slimy things and slow
Trailed on between the roots below.
The moon looked dimmer than before;
And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er

Its face, sometimes quite hid its light,
And filled the skies with deeper night.

At last, as they went on, the noise
Was heard of the sea's mighty voice;
And soon the ocean could be seen
In its long restlessness serene.
Upon its breast a vessel rode
That drowsily appeared to nod
As the great billows rose and fell,
And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.

Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth
From the chill regions of the North;
The mighty wind invisible.
And the low waves began to swell;
And the sky darkened overhead;
And the moon once looked forth, then fled
Behind dark clouds; while here and there
The lightning shone out in the air;
And the approaching thunder rolled
With angry pealings manifold.
How many vows were made; and prayers
That in safe times were cold and scarce.
Still all availed not; and at length
The waves arose in all their strength,
And fought against the ship, and filled
The ship; then were the clouds unsealed,
And the rains hurried forth and beat
On every side and over it.

Some clung together; and some kept
A long stern silence; and some wept.
Many, half crazed, looked on in wonder
As the strong timbers rent asunder;
Friends forgot friends; foes fled to foes;
And still the water rose and rose.

“Ah woe is me! whom I have seen
“Are now as tho' they had not been.

“In the earth there is room for birth,
“And there are graves enough in earth;
“Why should the cold sea, tempest torn,
“Bury those whom it hath not borne?”

He answered not, and they went on.
The glory of the heavens was gone;
The moon gleamed not, nor any Star;
Cold winds were rustling near and far;
And from the trees the dry leaves fell
With a sad sound unspeakable.

The air was cold; till from the South
A gust blew hot like sudden drouth
Into their faces, and a light
Glowing and red shone thro' the night.

A mighty city full of flame,
And death, and sounds without a name!
Amid the black and blinding smoke
The people, as one man, awoke.
Oh happy they who yesterday
On the long journey went away;
Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,
While the flames scorch them smile on still;
Who murmur not, who tremble not
When the bier crackles fiery hot;
Who dying said in love's increase:
“Lord, let Thy servant part in peace.”

Those in the town could see and hear
A shaded river flowing near.
The broad deep bed could hardly hold
Its plenteous waters calm and cold.
Was flame wrapped all the city wall,
The city gates were flame wrapped all.

What was man's strength, what puissance then?
Women were mighty as strong men.
Some knelt in prayer believing still,
Resigned unto a righteous will,
Bowing beneath the chastening rod,

Lost to the world, but found of God.
Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;
Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life;
While some, proud even in death, hope gone,
Steadfast and still stood looking on.

“Death, death! oh let us fly from death,
“Where'er we go it followeth.
“All these are dead; and we alone
“Remain to weep for what is gone.
“What is this thing, thus hurriedly
“To pass into eternity?
“To leave the earth so full of mirth?
“To lose the profit of our birth?
“To die and be no more? to cease,
“Having numbness that is not peace?
“Let us go hence: and even if thus
“Death everywhere must go with us,
“Let us not see the change, but see
“Those who have been or still shall be.”

He sighed, and they went on together.
Beneath their feet did the grass wither;
Across the heaven, high overhead,
Dark misty clouds floated and fled;
And in their bosom was the thunder;
And angry lightnings flashed out under,
Forkèd and red and menacing;
Far off the wind was muttering;
It seemed to tell, not understood,
Strange secrets to the listening wood.

Upon its wings it bore the scent
Of blood of a great armament;
Then saw they how on either side
Fields were downtrodden far and wide;
That morning at the break of day,
Two nations had gone forth to slay.

As a man soweth, so he reaps.
The field was full of bleeding heaps;

Ghastly corpses of men and horses
That met death at a thousand sources;
Cold limbs and putrifying flesh;
Long love-locks clotted to a mesh
That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath
Staring eyes that had looked on death.

But these were dead; these felt no more
The anguish of the wounds they bore.
Behold; they shall not sigh again,
Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.
What if none wept above them; is
The sleeper less at rest for this?
Is not the young child's slumber sweet
When no man watcheth over it?

These had deep calm: but all around
There was a deadly smothered sound,
The choking cry of agony
From wounded men who could not die.
Who watched the black wing of the raven
Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,
And in the distance, flying fast,
Beheld the eagle come at last.

She knelt down in her agony:
“O Lord, it is enough;” said she:
“My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;
“Let me return to whence I came.
“Thou, Who for love's sake didst reprove,
“Forgive me, for the sake of love.”

NEW ENIGMAS.

Name any gentleman you spy,
And there's a chance that he is I;
Go out to angle, and you may
Catch me on a propitious day:
Booted and spurred, their journey ended,

The weary are by me befriended:
If roasted meat should be your wish,
I am more needful than a dish:
I am acknowledgedly poor:
Yet my resources are no fewer
Than all the trades; there is not one
But I profess, beneath the sun:
I bear a part in many a game;
My worth may change, I am the same.
Sometimes, by you expelled, I roam
Forth from the sanctuary of home.

CHARADES.

My first is no proof of my second,
Though my second's a proof of my first:
If I were my whole I should tell you
Quite freely my best and my worst.

One clue more: if you fail to discover
My meaning, you're blind as a mole;
But if you will frankly confess it,
You show yourself clearly my whole.

THE ROSE.

O Rose, thou flower of flowers, thou fragrant wonder,
Who shall describe thee in thy ruddy prime;
Thy perfect fulness in the summer time;
When the pale leaves blushingly part asunder
And show the warm red heart lies glowing under?
Thou shouldst bloom surely in some sunny clime,
Untouched by blights and chilly Winter's rime,
Where lightnings never flash, nor peals the thunder.
And yet in happier spheres they cannot need thee
So much as we do with our weight of woe;

Perhaps they would not tend, perhaps not heed thee,
And thou wouldst lonely and neglected grow;
And He Who is All-Wise, He hath decreed thee
To gladden earth and cheer all hearts below.

The Trees' Counselling.

I was strolling sorrowfully
Thro' the corn fields and the meadows;
The stream sounded melancholy,
And I walked among the shadows;
While the ancient forest trees
Talked together in the breeze;
In the breeze that waved and blew them,
With a strange weird rustle thro' them.

Said the oak unto the others
In a leafy voice and pleasant:
“Here we all are equal brothers,
“Here we have nor lord nor peasant.
“Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
“Pass in happy following.
“Little winds may whistle by us,
“Little birds may overfly us;

“But the sun still waits in heaven
“To look down on us in splendour;
“When he goes the moon is given,
“Full of rays that he doth lend her:
“And tho' sometimes in the night
“Mists may hide her from our sight,
“She comes out in the calm weather,
“With the glorious stars together.”

From the fruitage, from the blossom,
From the trees came no denying;
Then my heart said in my bosom:
“Wherefore art thou sad and sighing?
“Learn contentment from this wood

“That proclaimeth all states good;
“Go not from it as it found thee;
“Turn thyself and gaze around thee.”

And I turned: behold the shading
But showed forth the light more clearly;
The wild bees were honey-lading;
The stream sounded hushing merely,
And the wind not murmuring
Seemed, but gently whispering:
“Get thee patience; and thy spirit
“Shall discern in all things merit.”

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.”

Who standeth at the gate?—A woman old,
A widow from the husband of her love:
“O Lady, stay; this wind is piercing cold,
Oh look at the keen frosty moon above;
I have no home, am hungry, feeble, poor:”—
“I'm really very sorry, but I can
Do nothing for you, there's the clergyman,”—
The Lady said, and shivering closed the door.

Who standeth at the gate?—Way-worn and pale,
A grey-haired man asks charity again:
“Kind Lady, I have journeyed far, and fail
Thro' weariness; for I have begged in vain
Some shelter, and can find no lodging-place:”—
She answered: “There's the Workhouse very near,
Go, for they'll certainly receive you there:”—
Then shut the door against his pleading face.

Who standeth at the gate?—a stunted child,
Her sunk eyes sharpened with precocious care:
“O Lady, save me from a home defiled,
From shameful sights and sounds that taint the air.
Take pity on me, teach me something good;”—
“For shame, why don't you work instead of cry?—

I keep no young impostors here, not I;”—
She slammed the door, indignant where she stood.

Who standeth at the gate, and will be heard?—
Arise, O woman, from thy comforts now:
Go forth again to speak the careless word,
The cruel word unjust, with hardened brow.
But Who is This, That standeth not to pray
As once, but terrible to judge thy sin?
This, Whom thou wouldst not succour, nor take in,
Nor teach, but leave to perish by the way?—

“Thou didst it not unto the least of these,
And in them hast not done it unto Me.
Thou wast as a princess, rich and at ease,
Now sit in dust and howl for poverty.
Three times I stood beseeching at thy gate,
Three times I came to bless thy soul and save:
But now I come to judge for what I gave,
And now at length thy sorrow is too late.”

[Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel]

Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel,
But, missing better, settled down in well.
Both fail, indeed; but not alike we fail—
My forte being Venus' face, and his a dragon's tail.

The Offering of the New Law, the One Oblation once Offered.

“Sacrifice and Offering Thou wouldest not, but a BODY hast Thou prepared Me.”

Once I thought to sit so high
In the Palace of the sky;
Now I thank God for His Grace,
If I may fill the lowest place.

Once I thought to scale so soon
Heights above the changing moon;

Now I thank God for delay—
Today, it yet is called today.

While I stumble, halt and blind,
Lo! He waiteth to be kind;
Bless me soon, or bless me slow,
Except He bless, I let not go.

Once for earth I laid my plan,
Once I leaned on strength of man,
When my hope was swept aside,
I stayed my broken heart on pride:

Broken reed hath pierced my hand;
Fell my house I built on sand;
Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin,
Fightings without, and fears within:

Yet, a tree, He feeds my root;
Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit;
Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns,
He seeks for me among the thorns.

With Thine Image stamped of old,
Find Thy coin more choice than gold;
Known to Thee by name, recall
To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.

Sacrifice and Offering
None there is that I can bring;
None, save what is Thine alone:
I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own—

Broken Body, Blood Outpoured,
These I bring, my God, my Lord;
Wine of Life, and Living Bread,
With these for me Thy Board is spread.

The eleventh hour.

Faint and worn and aged
One stands knocking at a gate,

Tho' no light shines in the casement,
Knocking tho' so late.
It has struck eleven
In the courts of Heaven,
Yet he still doth knock and wait.

While no answer cometh
From the heavenly hill,
Blessed Angels wonder
At his earnest will.
Hope and fear but quicken
While the shadows thicken;
He is knocking knocking still.

Grim the gate unopened
Stands with bar and lock,
Yet within the unseen Porter
Hearkens to the knock.
Doing and undoing,
Faint and yet pursuing,
This man's feet are on the Rock.

With a cry unceasing
Knocketh prayeth he:—
“Lord, have mercy on me
“When I cry to Thee.”—
With a knock unceasing
And a cry increasing:—
“O my Lord, remember me.”

Still the Porter standeth,
Love-constrained He standeth near,
While the cry increaseth
Of that love and fear:—
“Jesus look upon me;
“Christ hast Thou foregone me?
“If I must, I perish here.”—

Faint the knocking ceases,
Faint the cry and call:
Is he lost indeed for ever,

Shut without the wall?—
Mighty Arms surround him,
Arms that sought and found him,
Held withheld and bore thro' all.—

O celestial mansion
Open wide the door:
Crown and robes of whiteness,
Stone inscribed before,
Flocking Angels bear them;
Stretch thy hand and wear them,
Sit thou down for evermore.

I know you not.

O Christ the Vine with living Fruit,
The twelvefold fruited Tree of Life,
The Balm in Gilead after strife,
The valley Lily and the Rose:
Stronger than Lebanon, Thou Root,
Sweeter than clustered grapes, Thou Vine;
Oh Best, Thou Vineyard of red Wine
Keeping Thy best Wine till the close.

Pearl of great price Thyself alone
And ruddier than the ruby Thou,
Most precious lightening Jasper Stone,
Head of the corner spurned before;
Fair Gate of pearl, Thyself the Door,
Clear golden Street, Thyself the Way,
By Thee we journey toward Thee now
Thro' Thee shall enter Heaven one day.

I thirst for Thee, full Fount and Flood,
My heart calls Thine as deep to deep:
Dost Thou forget Thy sweat and pain,
Thy provocation on the Cross?
Heart pierced for me, vouchsafe to keep
The purchase of Thy lavished Blood;

The gain is Thine Lord if I gain,
Or if I lose Thine Own the loss.

At midnight, saith the parable,
A cry was made, the Bridegroom came:
Those who were ready entered in;
The rest shut out in death and shame
Strove all too late that feast to win
Their die was cast and fixed their lot,
A gulph divided heaven from hell,
The Bridegroom said, ‘I know you not.’

But Who is This That shuts the door
And saith ‘I know you not’ to them?
I see the wounded Hands and Side,
The Brow thorn-tortured long ago:
Yea, This Who grieved and bled and died,
This Same is He Who must condemn;
He called, but they refused to know,
So now He hears their cry no more.

A Christmas Carol.

Before the paling of the stars
Before the winter morn
Before the earliest cockcrow
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable
Cradled in a manger,
In the world His Hands had made
Born a Stranger.

Priest and King lay fast asleep
In Jerusalem,
Young and Old lay fast asleep
In crowded Bethlehem:
Saint and Angel Ox and Ass
Kept a watch together

Before the Christmas daybreak
In the winter weather.

Jesus on His Mother's breast
In the stable cold,
Spotless Lamb of God was He
Shepherd of the Fold:
Let us kneel with Mary Maid
With Joseph bent and hoary
With Saint and Angel Ox and Ass
To hail the King of Glory.

Easter Even.

There is nothing more that they can do
For all their rage and boast;
Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew,
Herod with his host,

Pontius Pilate in his judgment hall
Judging their Judge and his,
Or he who led them all and passed them all
Arch-Judas with his kiss.

The sepulchre made sure with ponderous stone
Seal that same stone, O priest;
It may be thou shalt block the Holy One
From rising in the east:

Set a watch about the sepulchre
To watch on pain of death;
They must hold fast the stone if One should stir
And shake it from beneath.

God Almighty He can break a seal,
And roll away a stone;
Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel,
And crush the mighty one.

There is nothing more that they can do
For all their passionate care,
Those who sit in dust, the blessed few,
And weep and rend their hair.

Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalen,
The Virgin unreproved,
Joseph with Nicodemus foremost men,
And John the well-beloved.

Bring your finest linen and your spice,
Swathe the Sacred Dead,
Bind with careful hands and piteous eyes
The napkin round His Head;

Lay Him in the garden rock to rest;
Rest you the Sabbath length:
The Sun That went down crimson in the west
Shall rise renewed in strength.

God Almighty shall give joy for pain,
Shall comfort him who grieves:
Lo, He with joy shall doubtless come again
And with Him bring His sheaves.

Come unto Me.

Oh for the time gone by when thought of Christ
Made His yoke easy and His burden light;
When my heart stirred within me at the sight
Of Altar spread for awful Eucharist;
When all my hopes His promises sufficed;
When my soul watched for Him by day by night;
When my lamp lightened, and my robe was white,
And all seemed loss except the Pearl unpriced.
Yet since He calls me still with tender call,
Since He remembers Whom I half forgot,
I even will run my race and bear my lot:
For Faith the walls of Jericho cast down,

And Hope to whoso runs holds forth a crown,
And Love is Christ, and Christ is All in all.

Ash Wednesday.

Jesus, do I love Thee?
Thou art far above me,
Seated out of sight
Hid in heavenly light
Of most highest height.
Martyred hosts implore Thee,
Seraphs fall before Thee,
Angels and Archangels,
Cherub throngs adore Thee;
Blessed she that bore Thee!—
All the Saints approve Thee,
All the Virgins love Thee.
I show as a blot
Blood hath cleansed not,
As a barren spot
In Thy fruitful lot.
I, figtree fruit-unbearing,
Thou, Righteous Judge unsparing:
What canst Thou do more to me
That shall not more undo me?
Thy Justice hath a sound:
“Why cumbereth it the ground?”
Thy Love with stirrings stronger
Pleads: “Give it one year longer.”
Thou giv'st me time: but who
Save Thou, shall give me dew,
Shall feed my root with Blood
And stir my sap for good?—
Oh by Thy gifts that shame me
Give more lest they condemn me:
Good Lord, I ask much of Thee,
But most I ask to love Thee:

Kind Lord, be mindful of me,
Love me and make me love Thee.

SPRING FANCIES.

I.

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing
Ding ding, ding a ding.

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth the thrush,
And the robin sings
In a holly bush
With his breast ablush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs,
Arching high over
A cool green house
Where doves coo the arouse.

There the sun shineth
Most shadily;
There sounds an echo
Of the far sea,
Tho' far off it be.

II.

All the world is out in leaf,
Half the world in flower,
Faint the rainbow comes and goes
In a sunny shower;
Earth has waited weeks and weeks
For this special hour.

All the world is making love;
Bird to bird in bushes,
Beast to beast in glades, and frog
To frog among the rushes:
Wake, O south wind sweet with spice
Wake the rose to blushes.

All the world is full of change;
Tomorrow may be dreary:
Life breaks forth, to right and left
Pipe the woodnotes cheery—
Nevertheless there lie the dead
Fast asleep and weary—

III.

If it's weary work to live,
It will rest us to lie dead,
With a stone at the tired feet
And a stone at the tired head.

In the waxing April days
Half the world will stir and sing,
But half the world will slug and rot
For all the sap of spring.

“LAST NIGHT.”

Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;
I went down early, I stayed down late.
Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;
Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.
Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:
I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man;
It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:

Some girls might cry and scold you a bit
And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;
Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;
Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,
Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? to me it was;
Now clean gone as an image from glass,
As a goodly rainbow that fades away,
As dew that steams upwards from the grass,

As the first spring day, or the last summer day,
As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,
As a flame burnt out for lack of oil
Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you,
I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo;
I wish her a pretty face that will last,
I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend;
All things begin and all have an end.
But let broken be broken; I put no faith
In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate:
Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—
For even such a thing has been known
As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

PETER GRUMP.

If underneath the water
You comb your golden hair
With a golden comb, my daughter,
Oh, would that I were there.

If underneath the wave
You fill a slimy grave,
Would that I, who could not save,
Might share.

FORSS.

If my love Hero queens it
In summer Fairyland,
What would I be
But the ring on her hand?
Her cheek when she leans it
Would lean on me:—
Or sweet, bitter-sweet,
The flower that she wore
When we parted, to meet
On the hither shore
Anymore? nevermore.

Helen Grey.

Because one loves you, Helen Grey,
Is that a reason you should pout
And like a March wind veer about
And frown and say your shrewish say?
Don't strain the cord until it snaps,
Don't split the sound heart with your wedge,
Don't cut your fingers with the edge
Of your keen wit: you may perhaps.

Because you're handsome, Helen Grey,
Is that a reason to be proud?
Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud,
Your steps go mincing on their way:
But so you miss that modest charm
Which is the surest charm of all;
Take heed; you yet may trip and fall,
And no man care to stretch his arm.

Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey,
Come down and take a lowlier place;
Come down to fill it now with grace;
Come down you must perforce some day:
For years cannot be kept at bay,
And fading years will make you old;
Then in their turn will men seem cold,
When you yourself are nipped and grey.

If.

If he would come today today today,
Oh what a day today would be;
But now he's away, miles and miles away
From me across the sea.

O little bird flying flying flying
To your nest in the warm west,
Tell him as you pass that I am dying,
As you pass home to your nest.

I have a sister, I have a brother,
A faithful hound, a tame white dove;
But I had another, once I had another,
And I miss him my love, my love.

In this weary world it is so cold so cold
While I sit here all alone
I would not like to wait and to grow old
But just to be dead and gone.

Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed,
Fair where I am lying;
Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead
He for whom I am dying.

Dig my grave for two with a stone to show it
And on the stone write my name:
If he never comes I shall never know it
But sleep on all the same.

Seasons.

Oh the cheerful budding-time
When thorn-hedges turn to green;
When new leaves of elm and lime
Cleave and shed their winter screen:
Tender lambs are born and baa,
North wind finds no snow to bring,
Vigorous nature laughs Haha
In the miracle of spring.

Oh the gorgeous blossom-days
When broad flag-flowers drink and blow;
In and out in summer blaze
Dragonflies flash to and fro:
Ashen branches hang out keys,
Oaks put forth the rosy shoot,
Wandering herds wax sleek at ease,
Lovely blossoms end in fruit.

Oh the shouting harvest-weeks:
Mother Earth grown fat with sheaves;
Thrifty gleaner finds who seeks:
Russet golden pomp of leaves
Crowns the woods, to fall at length;
Bracing winds are felt to stir,
Ocean gathers up her strength,
Beasts renew their dwindled fur.

Oh the starving winter-lapse,
Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim:
Dormant roots recal their saps,
Empty nests show black and grim,
Short-lived sunshine gives no heat,
Undue buds are nipped by frost,
Snow sets forth a windingsheet
And all hope of life seems lost.

HENRY HARDIMAN,

Aged 55.

Affliction sore long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain,
Till God did please his soul release,
And ease him of his pain.

Within the Veil.

She holds a lily in her hand,
Where long ranks of Angels stand;
A silver lily for her wand.

All her hair falls sweeping down,
Her hair that is a golden brown;
A crown beneath her golden crown.

Blooms a rose-bush at her knee,
Good to smell and good to see;
It bears a rose for her, for me:

Her rose a blossom richly grown,
My rose a bud not fully blown
But sure one day to be mine own.

Paradise: in a Symbol.

Golden-winged, silver-winged,
Winged with flashing flame,
Such a flight of birds I saw,
Birds without a name:
Singing songs in their own tongue
(Song of songs) they came.

One to another calling,
Each answering each,
One to another calling
In their proper speech:

High above my head they wheeled,
Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came
With a cadenced clang,
Their silver wings tinkled,
Their golden wings rang,
The wind it whistled thro' their wings
Where in heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted
Awhile before mine eyes,
Mounting mounting mounting still
In haste to scale the skies,
Birds without a nest on earth,
Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riseth not
Nor sun seeks the west,
There to sing their glory
Which they sing at rest,
There to sing their love-song
When they sing their best:

Not in any garden
That mortal foot hath trod,
Not in any flowering tree
That springs from earthly sod,
But in the garden where they dwell
The Paradise of God.

[In July]

In July
No goodbye;
In Augùst
Part we must.

[Love hath a name of Death]

Love hath a name of Death:
He gives a breath
And takes away.

Lo we beneath his sway
Grow like a flower;
To bloom an hour,
To droop a day,
And fade away.

[Alas my Lord]

Alas my Lord,
How should I wrestle all the livelong night
With Thee my God, my Strength and my Delight?

How can it need
So agonized an effort and a strain
To make Thy Face of Mercy shine again?

How can it need
Such wringing out of breathless prayer to move
Thee to Thy wonted Love, when Thou art Love?

Yet Abraham
So hung about Thine Arm outstretched and bared,
That for ten righteous Sodom had been spared.

Yet Jacob did
So hold Thee by the clenched hand of prayer
That he prevailed, and Thou didst bless him there.

Elias prayed,
And sealed the founts of Heaven; he prayed again
And lo, Thy Blessing fell in showers of rain.

Gulped by the fish,
As by the pit, lost Jonah made his moan;
And Thou forgavest, waiting to atone.

All Nineveh
Fasting and girt in sackcloth raised a cry,
Which moved Thee ere the day of grace went by.

Thy Church prayed on
And on for blessed Peter in his strait,
Till opened of its own accord the gate.

Yea, Thou my God
Hast prayed all night, and in the garden prayed
Even while, like melting wax, Thy strength was made.

Alas for him
Who faints, despite Thy Pattern, King of Saints:
Alas, alas, for me, the one that faints.

Lord, give us strength
To hold Thee fast, until we hear Thy Voice
Which Thine own know, who hearing It rejoice.

Lord, give us strength
To hold Thee fast until we see Thy Face,
Full Fountain of all Rapture and all Grace.

But when our strength
Shall be made weakness, and our bodies clay,
Hold Thou us fast, and give us sleep till day.

AN ALPHABET.

A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.

C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.

E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.

F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.

G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.

I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I—who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.

K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.

M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut—in a nutshell it grows—
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing—oh list!

O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.

Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.

S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.

U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.

W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or XX, or XXX is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.

Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoöphyte, seen at the Zoo.

Husband and Wife.

“Oh kiss me once before I go,
“To make amends for sorrow;
“Oh kiss me once before we part
“Who shall not meet tomorrow.

“And I was wrong to urge your will,
“And wrong to mar your life;
“But kiss me once before we part,
“Because you are my wife.”

She turned her head and tossed her head
And puckered up her brow:
“I never kissed you yet,” said she,
“And I'll not kiss you now.

“Tho' I'm your wife by might and right
“And forsworn marriage vow,
“I never loved you yet,” said she,
“And I don't love you now.”

So he went sailing on the sea,
And she sat crossed and dumb
While he went sailing on the sea
Where the storm winds come.

He'd been away a month and day
Counting from morn to morn:

And many buds had turned to leaves
And many lambs were born

And many buds had turned to flowers
For Spring was in a glow,
When she was laid upon her bed
As white and cold as snow.

“Oh let me kiss my baby once,
“Once before I die;
“And bring it sometimes to my grave
“To teach it where I lie.

“And tell my husband when he comes
“Safe home from sea,
“To love the baby that I leave
“If ever he loved me:

“And tell him, not for might or right
“Or forsworn marriage vow
“But for the helpless baby's sake,
“I would have kissed him now.”

MICHAEL F. M. ROSSETTI.

Born April 22nd, 1881; Died January 24th, 1883.

A holy Innocent gone home
Without so much as one sharp wounding word:
A blessed Michael in heaven's lofty dome
Without a sword.

Brief dawn and noon and setting time!
Our rapid-rounding moon has fled:
A black eclipse before the prime
Has swallowed up that shining head.
Eternity holds up her lookingglass:—
The eclipse of Time will pass,
And all that lovely light return to sight.

I watch the showers and think of flowers:
Alas, my flower that shows no fruit!
My snowdrop plucked, my daisy shoot
Plucked from the root.

Soon Spring will shower, the world will flower,
A world of buds will promise fruit,
Pear trees will shoot and apples shoot
Sound at the root.

Bud of an hour, far off you flower;
My bud, far off you ripen fruit;
My prettiest bud, my straightest shoot
Sweet at the root.

The youngest bud of five,
The least lamb of the fold,—
Bud not to blossom, yet to thrive
Away from cold.

Lamb which we shall not see
Leap at its pretty pranks,
Our lamb at rest and full of glee
On heavenly banks.

A SICK CHILD'S MEDITATION

Pain and weariness, aching eyes and head,
Pain and weariness all the day and night:
Yet the pillow's soft on my smooth soft bed,
And fresh air blows in, and mother shades the light.

Thou, O Lord, in pain hadst no pillow soft,
In Thy weary pain, in Thine agony:
But a cross of shame held Thee up aloft
Where Thy very mother could do nought for Thee.

I would gaze on Thee, on Thy patient face;
Make me like Thyself, patient, sweet, at peace;

Make my days all love, and my nights all praise,
Till all days and nights and patient sufferings cease.

[Love is all happiness, love is all beauty]

Love is all happiness, love is all beauty,
Love is the crown of flaxen heads and hoary,
Love is the only everlasting duty,
And love is chronicled in endless story
And kindles endless glory.

[A handy Mole who plied no shovel]

A handy Mole who plied no shovel
To excavate his vaulted hovel,
While hard at work met in mid-furrow
An Earthworm boring out his burrow.
Our Mole had dined and must grow thinner
Before he gulped a second dinner,
And on no other terms cared he
To meet a worm of low degree.
The Mole turned on his blindest eye
Passing that base mechanic by;
The Worm entrenched in actual blindness
Ignored or kindness or unkindness;
Each wrought his own exclusive tunnel
To reach his own exclusive funnel.

A plough its flawless track pursuing
Involved them in one common ruin.
Where now the mine and countermine,
The dined-on and the one to dine?
The impartial ploughshare of extinction
Annulled them all without distinction.

“One swallow does not make a summer.”

A Rose which spied one swallow
Made haste to blush and blow:
“Others are sure to follow:”
Ah no, not so!

The wandering clouds still owe
A few fresh flakes of snow,
Chill fog must fill the hollow,
Before the bird-stream flow
In flood across the main
And winter's woe
End in glad summer come again.
Then thousand flowers may blossom by the shore,
But that Rose never more.

[Contemptuous of his home beyond]

Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.

Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.

Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more:—not so, alas!

A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke:
“Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,—
Oh for my old familiar byeway!”

The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.

Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)

“A Froggy would a-wooing go:”
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.

O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.

A Word for the Dumb.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old Dog
Who wags his tail a-begging in his need:
Despise not even the sorrows of a Frog,
God's creature too, and that's enough to plead:
Spare Puss who trusts us purring on our hearth:
Spare Bunny once so frisky and so free:
Spare all the harmless tenants of the earth:
Spare, and be spared:—or who shall plead for thee?

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

“In the grave, whither thou goest.”

O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit's fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee—please God, of rest:
So some time must it come to every man;

To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.

An Echo from Willowwood.

“O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood.”
D. G. Rossetti.

Two gazed into a pool, he gazed and she,
Not hand in hand, yet heart in heart, I think,
Pale and reluctant on the water's brink,
As on the brink of parting which must be.
Each eyed the other's aspect, she and he,
Each felt one hungering heart leap up and sink,
Each tasted bitterness which both must drink,
There on the brink of life's dividing sea.
Lilies upon the surface, deep below
Two wistful faces craving each for each,
Resolute and reluctant without speech:—
A sudden ripple made the faces flow
One moment joined, to vanish out of reach:
So those hearts joined, and ah! were parted so.

“YEA, I HAVE A GOODLY HERITAGE.”

My vineyard that is mine I have to keep,
Pruning for fruit the pleasant twigs and leaves.
Tend thou thy cornfield: one day thou shalt reap
In joy thy ripened sheaves.

Or if thine be an orchard, graft and prop
Food-bearing trees each watered in its place:
Or if a garden, let it yield for crop
Sweet herbs and herb of grace.

But if my lot be sand where nothing grows?—
Nay, who hath said it? Tune a thankful psalm:
For tho' thy desert bloom not as the rose,
It yet can rear thy palm.

A Death of a First-born.

January 14th, 1892.

One young life lost, two happy young lives blighted,
With earthward eyes we see:
With eyes uplifted, keener, farther-sighted,
We look, O Lord, to Thee.

Grief hears a funeral knell: hope hears the ringing
Of birthday bells on high;
Faith, hope, and love make answer with soft singing,
Half carol and half cry.

Stoop to console us, Christ, Sole Consolation,
While dust returns to dust;
Until that blessed day when all Thy Nation
Shall rise up of the Just.

“FAINT, YET PURSUING.”

1.

Beyond this shadow and this turbulent sea,
Shadow of death and turbulent sea of death,
Lies all we long to have or long to be:—
Take heart, tired man, toil on with lessening breath,
Lay violent hands on heaven's high treasury,
Be what you long to be thro' life-long scathe:
A little while hope leans on charity,
A little while charity heartens faith.
A little while: and then what further while?
One while that ends not and that wearies not,
For ever new whilst evermore the same:
All things made new bear each a sweet new name;

Man's lot of death has turned to life his lot,
And tearful charity to love's own smile.

2.

Press onward, quickened souls, who mounting move,
Press onward, upward, fire with mounting fire;
Gathering volume of untold desire
Press upward, homeward, dove with mounting dove.
Point me the excellent way that leads above;
Woo me with sequent will, me too to aspire;
With sequent heart to follow higher and higher,
To follow all who follow on to love.
Up the high steep, across the golden sill,
Up out of shadows into very light,
Up out of dwindling life to life aglow,
I watch you, my beloved, out of sight;—
Sight fails me, and my heart is watching still:
My heart fails, yet I follow on to know.

[What will it be, O my soul, what will it be]

What will it be, O my soul, what will it be
To touch the long-raced-for goal, to handle and see,
To rest in the joy of joys, in the joy of the blest,
To rest and revive and rejoice, to rejoice and to rest!

[Lord, Thou art fulness, I am emptiness]

Lord, Thou art fulness, I am emptiness:
Yet hear my heart speak in its speechlessness
Extolling Thine unuttered loveliness.

[O Lord, I cannot plead my love of Thee]

O Lord, I cannot plead my love of Thee:
I plead Thy love of me;—
The shallow conduit hails the unfathomed sea.

[Faith and Hope are wings to Love]

Faith and Hope are wings to Love,
Silver wings to golden dove.

A SORROWFUL SIGH OF A PRISONER.

Lord, comest Thou to me?
My heart is cold and dead:
Alas that such a heart should be
The place to lay Thy head!

[“I sit a queen, and am no widow, and shall see no sorrow”—]

“I sit a queen, and am no widow, and shall see no sorrow”—
Yea, scarlet woman, today: but not yea at all tomorrow.
Scarlet queen on a scarlet throne all today without sorrow,
Bethink thee: today must end; there is no end of tomorrow.

[Passing away the bliss]

Passing away the bliss,
The anguish passing away:
Thus it is
Today.

Clean past away the sorrow,
The pleasure brought back to stay:
Thus and this
Tomorrow.

[Love builds a nest on earth and waits for rest]

Love builds a nest on earth and waits for rest,
Love sends to heaven the warm heart from its breast,
Looks to be blest and is already blest,
And testifies: “God's Will is alway best.”

[Jesus alone:—if thus it were to me]

Jesus alone:—if thus it were to me;
Yet thus it cannot be;
Lord, I have all things if I have but Thee.

Jesus and all:—precious His bounties are,
Yet He more precious far;
Day's-eyes are many, one the Morning Star.

Jesus my all:—so let me rest in love,
Thy peaceable poor dove,
Some time below till timeless time above.

The Way of the World.

A boat that sails upon the sea;
Sails far and far and far away:
Who sail in her sing songs of glee,
Or watch and pray.

A boat that drifts upon the sea
Silent and void to sun and air:
Who sailed in her have ended glee
And watch and prayer.

BOOKS IN THE RUNNING BROOKS.

“It is enough, enough,” one said,
At play among the flowers:
“I spy a rose upon the thorn,
A rainbow in the showers;
I hear a merry chime of bells
Ring out the passing hours.”—
Soft springs the fountain
From the daisied ground:
Softly falling on the moss
Without a sound.

“It is enough,” she said, and fixed
Calm eyes upon the sky:
“I watch a flitting tender cloud
Just like a dove go by;
A lark is rising from the grass;
A wren is building nigh.”—
Softly the fountain
Threads its silver way,

Screened by the scented bloom
Of whitest may.

“Enough?” she whispered to herself,
As doubting: “Is it so?
Enough to wear the roses fair?
Oh sweetest flowers that blow:—
Oh yes, it surely is enough,
My happy home below.”—
A shadow stretcheth
From the hither shore:
Those waters darken
More and more and more.

“It is enough,” she says; but with
A listless, weary moan:
“Enough,” if mixing with her friends;
“Enough,” if left alone.
But to herself: “Not yet enough,
This suffering, to atone?”—
The cold black waters
Seem to stagnate there;
Without a single wave,
Or breath of air.

And now she says: “It is enough,”
Half languid and half stirred:
“Enough,” to silence and to sound,
Thorn, blossom, soaring bird:
“Enough,” she says; but with a lack
Of something in the word.—
Defiled and turbid
See the waters pass;
Half light, half shadow,
Struggling thro' the grass.

Ah, will it ever dawn, that day
When calm for good or ill
Her heart shall say: “It is enough,
For Thou art with me still;

It is enough, O Lord my God,
Thine only blessed Will.”—
Then shall the fountain sing
And flow to rest;
Clear as the sun track
To the purple West.

GONE BEFORE

She was most like a rose, when it flushes rarest;
She was most like a lily, when it blows fairest;
She was most like a violet, sweetest on the bank:
Now she's only like the snow cold and blank
After the sun sank.

She left us in the early days, she would not linger
For orange blossoms in her hair, or ring on finger:
Did she deem windy grass more good than these?
Now the turf that's between us and the hedging trees
Might as well be seas.

I had trained a branch she shelters not under,
I had reared a flower she snapped asunder:
In the bush and on the stately bough
Birds sing; she who watched them track the plough
Cannot hear them now.

Every bird has a nest hidden somewhere
For itself and its mate and joys that come there,
Tho' it soar to the clouds, finding there its rest:
You sang in the height, but no more with eager breast
Stoop to your own nest.

If I could win you back from heaven-gate lofty,
Perhaps you would but grieve returning softly:
Surely they would miss you in the blessed throng,
Miss your sweet voice in their sweetest song,
Reckon time too long.

Earth is not good enough for you, my sweet, my sweetest;
Life on earth seemed long to you tho' to me fleetest.
I would not wish you back if a wish would do:
Only love I long for heaven with you
Heart-pierced thro' and thro'.

II
Privately Printed Poems

THE DEAD CITY.

Once I rambled in a wood
With a careless hardihood,
Heeding not the tangled way;
Labyrinths around me lay,
But for them I never stood.

On, still on, I wandered on,
And the sun above me shone;
And the birds around me winging
With their everlasting singing
Made me feel not quite alone.

In the branches of the trees,
Murmured like the hum of bees
The low sound of happy breezes,
Whose sweet voice that never ceases
Lulls the heart to perfect ease.

Streamlets bubbled all around
On the green and fertile ground,
Thro' the rushes and the grass,
Like a sheet of liquid glass,
With a soft and trickling sound.

And I went, I went on faster,
Contemplating no disaster;
And I plucked ripe blackberries,
But the birds with envious eyes
Came and stole them from their master:

For the birds here were all tame;
Some with bodies like a flame,

Some that glanced the branches thro'
Pure and colourless as dew;
Fearlessly to me they came.

Before me no mortal stood
In the mazes of that wood;
Before me the birds had never
Seen a man, but dwelt for ever
In a happy solitude;

Happy solitude, and blest
With beatitude of rest;
Where the woods are ever vernal,
And the life and joy eternal,
Without Death's or Sorrow's test.

Oh most blessed solitude!
Oh most full beatitude!
Where are quiet without strife,
And imperishable life,
Nothing marred, and all things good.

And the bright sun, life begetting,
Never rising, never setting,
Shining warmly overhead,
Nor too pallid, nor too red,
Lulled me to a sweet forgetting,

Sweet forgetting of the time:
And I listened for no chime
Which might warn me to begone;
But I wandered on, still on,
'Neath the boughs of oak and lime.

Know I not how long I strayed
In the pleasant leafy shade;
But the trees had gradually
Grown more rare, the air more free,
The sun hotter overhead.

Soon the birds no more were seen
Glancing thro' the living green;

And a blight had passed upon
All the trees; and the pale sun
Shone with a strange lurid sheen.

Then a darkness spread around:
I saw nought, I heard no sound;
Solid darkness overhead,
With a trembling cautious tread
Passed I o'er the unseen ground.

But at length a pallid light
Broke upon my searching sight;
A pale solitary ray,
Like a star at dawn of day
Ere the sun is hot and bright.

Towards its faintly glimmering beam
I went on as in a dream;
A strange dream of hope and fear!
And I saw as I drew near
'Twas in truth no planet's gleam;

But a lamp above a gate
Shone in solitary state
O'er a desert drear and cold,
O'er a heap of ruins old,
O'er a scene most desolate.

By that gate I entered lone
A fair city of white stone;
And a lovely light to see
Dawned, and spread most gradually
Till the air grew warm and shone.

Thro' the splendid streets I strayed
In that radiance without shade,
Yet I heard no human sound;
All was still and silent round
As a city of the dead.

All the doors were open wide;
Lattices on every side

In the wind swung to and fro;
Wind that whispered very low:
Go and see the end of pride.

With a fixed determination
Entered I each habitation,
But they all were tenantless;
All was utter loneliness,
All was deathless desolation.

In the noiseless market-place
Was no care-worn busy face;
There were none to buy or sell,
None to listen or to tell,
In this silent emptiness.

Thro' the city on I went
Full of awe and wonderment;
Still the light around me shone,
And I wandered on, still on,
In my great astonishment,

Till at length I reached a place
Where amid an ample space
Rose a palace for a king;
Golden was the turreting,
And of solid gold the base.

The great porch was ivory,
And the steps were ebony;
Diamond and chrysoprase
Set the pillars in a blaze,
Capitalled with jewelry.

None was there to bar my way—
And the breezes seemed to say:
Touch not these, but pass them by,
Pressing onwards: therefore I
Entered in and made no stay.

All around was desolate:
I went on; a silent state

Reigned in each deserted room,
And I hastened thro' the gloom
Till I reached an outer gate.

Soon a shady avenue
Blossom-perfumed, met my view.
Here and there the sun-beams fell
On pure founts, whose sudden swell
Up from marble basins flew.

Every tree was fresh and green;
Not a withered leaf was seen
Thro' the veil of flowers and fruit;
Strong and sapful were the root,
The top boughs, and all between.

Vines were climbing everywhere
Full of purple grapes and fair:
And far off I saw the corn
With its heavy head down borne,
By the odour-laden air.

Who shall strip the bending vine?
Who shall tread the press for wine?
Who shall bring the harvest in
When the pallid ears begin
In the sun to glow and shine?

On I went, alone, alone,
Till I saw a tent that shone
With each bright and lustrous hue;
It was trimmed with jewels too,
And with flowers; not one was gone.

Then the breezes whispered me:
Enter in, and look, and see
How for luxury and pride
A great multitude have died:—
And I entered tremblingly.

Lo, a splendid banquet laid
In the cool and pleasant shade.

Mighty tables, every thing
Of sweet Nature's furnishing
That was rich and rare, displayed;

And each strange and luscious cate
Practised Art makes delicate;
With a thousand fair devices
Full of odours and of spices;
And a warm voluptuous state.

All the vessels were of gold
Set with gems of worth untold.
In the midst a fountain rose
Of pure milk, whose rippling flows
In a silver basin rolled.

In green emerald baskets were
Sun-red apples, streaked, and fair;
Here the nectarine and peach
And ripe plum lay, and on each
The bloom rested every where.

Grapes were hanging overhead,
Purple, pale, and ruby-red;
And in panniers all around
Yellow melons shone, fresh found,
With the dew upon them spread.

And the apricot and pear
And the pulpy fig were there;
Cherries and dark mulberries,
Bunchy currants, strawberries,
And the lemon wan and fair.

And unnumbered others too,
Fruits of every size and hue,
Juicy in their ripe perfection,
Cool beneath the cool reflection
Of the curtains' skyey blue.

All the floor was strewn with flowers
Fresh from sunshine and from showers,

Roses, lilies, jessamine;
And the ivy ran between
Like a thought in happy hours.

And this feast too lacked no guest
With its warm delicious rest;
With its couches softly sinking,
And its glow, not made for thinking,
But for careless joy at best.

Many banquetters were there,
Wrinkled age, the young, the fair;
In the splendid revelry
Flushing cheek and kindling eye
Told of gladness without care.

Yet no laughter rang around,
Yet they uttered forth no sound;
With the smile upon his face
Each sat moveless in his place,
Silently, as if spell-bound.

The low whispering voice was gone,
And I felt awed and alone.
In my great astonishment
To the feasters up I went—
Lo, they all were turned to stone.

Yea they all were statue-cold,
Men and women, young and old;
With the life-like look and smile
And the flush; and all the while
The hard fingers kept their hold.

Here a little child was sitting
With a merry glance, befitting
Happy age and heedless heart;
There a young man sat apart
With a forward look unweeting.

Nigh them was a maiden fair;
And the ringlets of her hair

Round her slender fingers twined;
And she blushed as she reclined,
Knowing that her love was there.

Here a dead man sat to sup,
In his hand a drinking cup;
Wine cup of the heavy gold,
Human hand stony and cold,
And no life-breath struggling up.

There a mother lay, and smiled
Down upon her infant child;
Happy child and happy mother
Laughing back to one another
With a gladness undefiled.

Here an old man slept, worn out
With the revelry and rout;
Here a strong man sat and gazed
On a girl, whose eyes upraised
No more wandered round about.

And none broke the stillness, none;
I was the sole living one.
And methought that silently
Many seemed to look on me
With strange stedfast eyes that shone.

Full of fear I would have fled;
Full of fear I bent my head,
Shutting out each stony guest:—
When I looked again the feast
And the tent had vanished.

Yes, once more I stood alone
Where the happy sunlight shone
And a gentle wind was sighing,
And the little birds were flying,
And the dreariness was gone.

All these things that I have said
Awed me, and made me afraid.

What was I that I should see
So much hidden mystery?
And I straightway knelt and prayed.

The Water Spirit's Song.

In the silent hour of even,
When the stars are in the heaven,
When in the azure cloudless sky
The moon beams forth all lustrously,
When over hill and over vale
Is wafted the sweet-scented gale,
When murmurs thro' the forest trees
The cool, refreshing, evening breeze,
When the nightingale's wild melody
Is waking herb and flower and tree,
From their perfumed and soft repose,
To list the praises of the rose;
When the ocean sleeps deceitfully,
When the waves are resting quietly,
I spread my bright wings, and fly far away
To my beautiful sister's mansion gay:
I leave behind me rock and mountain,
I leave behind me rill and fountain,
And I dive far down in the murmuring sea,
Where my fair sister welcomes me joyously;
For she's Queen of Ocean for ever and ever,
And I of each fountain and still lake and river.

She dwells in a palace of coral
Of diamond and pearl;
And in each jewelled chamber the fishes
Their scaly length unfurl;
And the sun can dart no light
On the depths beneath the sea;
But the ruby there shines bright
And sparkles brilliantly;

No mortal e'er trod on the surface
Of the adamantine floor;
No human being e'er passed the bound
Of the pearl-encrusted door.
But the mermaidens sing plaintively
Beneath the deep blue ocean,
And to their song the green fishes dance
With undulating motion.
And the cold bright moon looks down on us
With her fixed unchanging smile;
'Neath her chilly glance the mermaids dance
Upon each coral isle;
And her beams she laves in the briny waves
With loving constancy;
And she never ceases with light caresses
To soothe the swelling sea;
All night on us she softly shines
With a fond and tender gaze,
Till the sun blushes red from his ocean bed
And sends forth his warming rays.
And then she flies to other skies
Till the sun has run his race,
And again the day to the night's soft sway
To the moon and stars gives place.

And when the bright sun doth arise,
To tinge with gold the vaulted skies,
When the nightingale no longer sings,
And the blush rose forth its odour flings,
When the breath of morn is rustling through
The trees, and kissing away the dew,
When the sea casts up its foam and spray,
And greets the fresh gale that speeds away,
I fly back to my home in the rushing cascade—
By the silvery streamlet my dark hair I braid,
And then when the sun once more sinks in the ocean,
I glide with a floating and passionless motion,
To my sister 'neath the boundless sea
And with her till morn dwell joyously.

In a river of extasy flow along,
Without a pausing, without a hushing,
Like an everlasting fountain's gushing
That of its own will bubbles up
From a white untainted cup.
Countless planets float round me
Differing all in majesty;
Smaller some, and some more great,
Amethystine, roseate,
Golden, silvery, glowing blue,
Hueless, and of every hue.
Each and all, both great and small,
With a cadence musical,
Shoot out rays of glowing praise,
Never ending, but always
Hymning the Creator's might
Who hath filled them full of light.
Pealing through eternity,
Filling out immensity,
Sun and moon and stars together,
In heights where is no cloudy weather;
Where is nor storm, nor mist, nor rain;
Where night goeth not to come again.
On, and on, and on for ever,
Never ceasing, sinking never,
Voiceless adorations rise
To the Heaven above the skies.
We all chant with a holy harmony,
No discord marreth our melody;
Here are no strifes nor envyings,
But each with love joyously sings,
For ever and ever floating free
In the azure light of infinity.

Summer.

Hark to the song of greeting! the tall trees
Murmur their welcome in the southern breeze.

Amid the thickest foliage many a bird
Sits singing, their shrill matins scarcely heard
One by one, but all together
Welcoming the sunny weather.
In every bower hums a bee
Fluttering melodiously.
Murmurs joy in every brook,
Rippling with a pleasant look.
What greet they with their guileless bliss?
What welcome with a song like this?

See in the south a radiant form,
Her fair head crowned with roses;
From her bright foot-path flies the storm;
Upon her breast reposes
Many an unconfinèd tress,
Golden, glossy, motionless.
Face and form are love and light,
Soft ineffably, yet bright.
All her path is strewn with flowers,
Round her float the laughing Hours,
Heaven and earth make joyful din,
Welcoming sweet Summer in.

And now she alights on the Earth
To play with her children the flowers;
She touches the stems, and the buds have birth,
And gently she trains them in bowers.
And the bees and the birds are glad,
And the wind catches warmth from her breath,
And around her is nothing sad,
Nor any traces of death.
See now she lays her down
With roses for her crown,
With jessamine and myrtle
Forming her fragrant kirtle;
Conquered by softest slumbers
No more the hours she numbers,
The hours that intervene
Ere she may wing her flight

At length she reached a lonely spot, . . .
Why trembled she? why turned she pale?
A ruined Cross stood in the midst
Of a most quiet vale.

A Cross o'ergrown with moss and flowers,
A cross fast sinking to decay;
The Cross she knew, the Cross she loved
In childhood's happy day.

And she had journeyed many miles,
Morning and eve untiringly,
To look again upon that Cross,
To look again and die.

She knelt within its sacred shade,
And hung her garland on the stone;
Her azure eyes were bright with tears
Of love and joy unknown.

And there she knelt, and there she prayed
Until her heart was satisfied;—
The ancient Cross is standing yet,
The youthful wanderer died.

Eva.

[_]

(From Maturin's “Woman.”)

Yes, I loved him all too well,
And my punishment is just,
But its greatness who can tell?
Still I have a stedfast trust
That the sorrow shall not last,
And the trial shall be past,
And my faith shall anchor fast.

Lord, Thou knowest, I have said,
All is good that comes from Thee;
Unto Thee I bow my head.
I have not repented me.

Still, oh! still 'tis bitter ill;
Still I have a stubborn will,
And my heart is haughty still:

Haughty in its humbleness;
Proud in its idolatry;
Let the loved heel gall and press
On my neck: so it should be.
'Twas in madness that I spake it:
Let him leave my heart or take it,
Let him heal my heart or break it;

But it still shall be for him,
It shall love him only still.—
Nay, it was no passing whim,
But a woman's stedfast will.
And this word is aye returning:
And I cannot quell the yearning
That in breast and brain is burning.

Tears of mine may quench it never,
Bitter tears shed all alone;
Dropping, dropping, dropping ever
For the thought of him that's gone:
Dropping when none see or know.
Woe is me! they only flow
For the joys of long ago.

Foolish one, were it not fitter
For thyself to mourn and pray?
Tho' thy Father's cup be bitter,
Put it not from thee away.
It is good and meet and right.
Yea, if darksome be the night,
The day dawn shall be more bright.

Hast thou too much time, in sooth,
For the work of penitence,
That thou wastest tears and youth
Mourning one who is gone hence?
For thyself cry out and weep

Ere that thou lie down and sleep,
And for ever silence keep.

Humbly strive to enter in
By the strait and narrow gate;
Strive the courts of Heaven to win,
Where nought maketh desolate;
Where are none to come and go;
Where no tears may ever flow;
Where nor death may be, nor woe.

And in prayer think thou of him
Who hath left thee sad and lone.
Pray that earth's light may grow dim,
So to him Heaven's light be shown.
Pray that, all thy sins forgiven,
Pray that, from his errors shriven,
Ye may meet at length in Heaven.

Love ephemeral.

Love is sweet, and so are flowers
Blooming in bright summer bowers;
So are waters, clear and pure,
In some hidden fountain's store;
So is the soft southern breeze
Sighing low among the trees;
So is the bright queen of heaven,
Reigning in the quiet even:
Yet the pallid moon may breed
Madness in man's feeble seed;
And the wind's soft influence
Often breathes the pestilence;
And the waves may sullied be
As they hurry to the sea;
Flowers soon must fade away—
Love endures but for a day.

Burial Anthem.

Flesh of our flesh—bone of our bone—
(For thou and we in Christ are one)
Thy soul unto its rest hath flown,
And thou has left us all alone
Our weary race to run
In doubt, and want, and sin, and pain,
Whilst thou wilt never sin again.
For us remaineth heaviness;
Thou never more shalt feel distress,
For thou hast found repose
Beside the bright eternal river
That clear and pure flows on for ever,
And sings as on it flows.
And it is better far for thee
To reach at once thy rest,
Than share with us earth's misery,
Or tainted joy at best;
Brother, we will not mourn for thee,
Although our hearts be weary
Of struggling with our enemy,
When all around is dreary.
But we will pray that still we may
Press onward in the narrow way
With a calm thankful resignation,
And joy in this our desolation.
And we will hope at length to be
With our Great Head, and, friend! with thee
Beside that river blest.

Sappho.

I sigh at day-dawn, and I sigh
When the dull day is passing by.
I sigh at evening, and again
I sigh when night brings sleep to men.

Oh! it were better far to die
Than thus for ever mourn and sigh,
And in death's dreamless sleep to be
Unconscious that none weep for me;
Eased from my weight of heaviness,
Forgetful of forgetfulness,
Resting from pain and care and sorrow
Thro' the long night that knows no morrow;
Living unloved, to die unknown,
Unwept, untended and alone.

Tasso and Leonora.

A glorious vision hovers o'er his soul,
Gilding the prison and the weary bed
Though hard the pillow placed beneath his head;
Though brackish be the water in the bowl
Beside him; he can see the planets roll
In glowing adoration, without dread;
Knowing how, by unerring wisdom led,
They struggle not against the strong control.
When suddenly a star shoots from the skies,
Than all the other stars more purely bright,
Replete with heavenly loves and harmonies;
He starts:—what meets his full awakening sight?
Lo! Leonora with large humid eyes,
Gazing upon him in the misty light.

ON THE DEATH OF A CAT,

A Friend of Mine, Aged Ten Years and a Half.

Who shall tell the lady's grief
When her Cat was past relief?
Who shall number the hot tears
Shed o'er her, beloved for years?

Who shall say the dark dismay
Which her dying caused that day?

Come, ye Muses, one and all,
Come obedient to my call.
Come and mourn, with tuneful breath,
Each one for a separate death;
And while you in numbers sigh,
I will sing her elegy.

Of a noble race she came,
And Grimalkin was her name.
Young and old full many a mouse
Felt the prowess of her house:
Weak and strong full many a rat
Cowered beneath her crushing pat:
And the birds around the place
Shrank from her too close embrace.
But one night, reft of her strength,
She laid down and died at length:
Lay a kitten by her side,
In whose life the mother died.
Spare her line and lineage,
Guard her kitten's tender age,
And that kitten's name as wide
Shall be known as her's that died.

And whoever passes by
The poor grave where Puss doth lie,
Softly, softly let him tread,
Nor disturb her narrow bed.

Mother and Child.

“What art thou thinking of,” said the Mother,
“What art thou thinking of my child?”
“I was thinking of Heaven,” he answered her,
And looked up in her face and smiled.

“And what didst thou think of Heaven?” she said;
“Tell me, my little one!”
“Oh . . , I thought that there the flowers never fade,
That there never sets the sun.”

“And wouldst thou love to go thither, my child?
Thither wouldst thou love to go?
And leave the pretty flowers that wither,
And the sun that sets below?”

“Oh, I would be glad to go there, mother,
To go and live there now;
And I would pray for thy coming, mother,
My mother, wouldst not thou?”

FAIR MARGARET.

“Fair Margaret sat in her bower window,
Combing her yellow hair;
There she spied sweet William and his bride
As they were a riding near.”
—Old Ballad.

The faith of years is broken,
The fate of years is spoken,
Years past, and years to come;
I pity and I scorn thee,
I would not now adorn me
For thy false bridal home.

Yet thou, perfidious wooer,
Thou yet mayst be the ruer,
For thou mayst meet with one
Who will not love thee really,
But cast kind glances merely
That thou mayst be undone.

Soft eyes, and dark, and flashing,
Thy hopes may yet be dashing,
Thou yet mayst be deceived;
And then think on her sadly,

Whom once thou grievedst gladly,
Ere thou thyself wast grieved.

And if despair should seize thee,
And urge thee to release thee
From weariness and life,
Oh! think on her who'll languish,
Bearing the bitter anguish
Of a heart's bitter strife.

For, though I may not love thee,
Though calm as heaven above me,
My thoughts of thee must be,
I cannot break so lightly
The chain that bound me tightly,
Once bound my soul to thee.

Earth and Heaven.

Water calmly flowing,
Sun-light deeply glowing,
Swans some river riding,
That is gently gliding
By the fresh green rushes;
The sweet rose that blushes,
Hyacinths whose dow'r
Is both scent and flow'r,
Skylark's soaring motion,
Sun-rise from the ocean,
Jewels that lie sparkling
'Neath the waters darkling,
Sea-weed, coral, amber,
Flow'rs that climb and clamber,
Or more lowly flourish
Where the earth may nourish;
All these are beautiful,
Of beauty Earth is full:—
Say, to our promised Heaven
Can greater charms be given?

Yes; for aye in Heav'n doth dwell
Glowing, indestructible,
What here below finds tainted birth
In the corrupted sons of Earth;
For, filling there and satisfying
Man's soul unchanging and undying,
Earth's fleeting joys and beauties far above,
In Heaven is Love.

Love attacked.

Love is more sweet than flowers,
But sooner dying;
Warmer than sunny hours,
But faster flying;

Softer than music's whispers
Springing with day
To murmur till the vespers,
Then die away;

More kind than friendship's greeting,
But as untrue,
Brighter than hope, but fleeting
More swiftly too;

Like breath of summer breezes
Gently it sighs,
But soon, alas! one ceases,
The other dies;

And like an inundation
It leaves behind
An utter desolation
Of heart and mind.

Who then would court Love's presence,
If here below
It can but be the essence
Of restless woe?

Returned or unrequited
'Tis still the same;
The flame was never lighted,
Or sinks the flame.

Yet all, both fools and sages,
Have felt its power,
In distant lands and ages,
Here, at this hour.

Then what from fear and weeping
Shall give me rest?
Oh tell me, ye who sleeping
At length are blest!

In answer to my crying
Sounds like incense
Rose from the earth, replying,
Indifference.

Love defended.

Who extols a wilderness?
Who hath praised indifference?
Foolish one, thy words are sweet,
But devoid of sense.

As the man who ne'er hath seen,
Or as he who cannot hear,
Is the heart that hath no part
In Love's hope and fear.

True, the blind do not perceive
The unsightly things around;
True, the deaf man trembleth not
At an awful sound.

But the face of Heaven and Earth,
And the murmur of the main,
Surely are a recompense
For a little pain.

So, tho' Love may not be free
Always from a taint of grief,
If its sting is very sharp,
Great is its relief.

Divine and Human Pleading.

“I would the saints could hear our prayers!
If such a thing might be,
O blessed Mary Magdalene,
I would appeal to thee!

“For once in lowly penitence
Thy head was bowed with shame;
But now thou hast a glorious place,
And hast an unknown name.”

So mused a trembling contrite man,
So mused he wearily;
By angels borne his thoughts appeared
Before the Throne on high.

[OMITTED]

The calm, still night was at its noon,
And all men were at rest,
When came before the sleeper's eyes
A vision of the blest.

A woman stood beside his bed,
Her breath was fragrance all;
Round her the light was very bright,
The air was musical.

Her footsteps shone upon the stars,
Her robe was spotless white;
Her breast was radiant with the Cross,
Her head with living light.

Her eyes beamed with a sacred fire;
And on her shoulders fair,

From underneath her golden crown
Clustered her golden hair.

Yet on her bosom her white hands
Were folded quietly;
Yet was her glorious head bowed low
In deep humility.

Long time she looked upon the ground;
Then raising her bright eyes
Her voice came forth as sweet and soft
As music when it dies.

“O thou who in thy secret hour
Hast dared to think that aught
Is faulty in God's perfect plan,
And perfect in thy thought!

“Thou who the pleadings would'st prefer
Of one sin-stained like me
To His Who is the Lord of Life,
To His Who died for thee!

“In mercy I am sent from Heaven:
Be timely wise, and learn
To seek His love Who waits for thee,
Inviting thy return.

“Well know I His long-suffering
And intercession's worth;
My guilt was as a heavy chain
That bound me to the earth.

“It was a clog upon my feet,
To keep me from Life's path;
It was a stain upon my hands,
A curse upon my hearth.

“But there is mighty Power and Grace
Can loose the heavy chain,
Can free the feet, can cleanse the hands,
Can purge the hearth again.

“Weeping I sought the Lord of Life,
Bowed with my shame and sin;
And then unto my wondering heart
Love's searching fire came in.

“It was with deep repentance,
I knelt down at His Feet
Who can change the sorrow into joy,
The bitter into sweet.

“I had cast away my jewels
And my rich attire;
And my breast was filled with a holy flame,
And my heart with a holy fire.

“My tears were more precious
Than my precious pearls;—
My tears that fell upon His Feet
As I wiped Them with my curls.

“My youth and my beauty
Were budding to their prime;
But I wept for the great transgression,
The sin of other time.

“Trembling betwixt hope and fear,
I sought the King of Heaven;
Forsook the evil of my ways,
Loved much, and was forgiven.

“In hope and fear I went to Him,
He broke and healed my heart;
No man was there to intercede;
As I was, so thou art.”

TO MY FRIEND ELIZABETH.

[_]

with some Postage Stamps towards a collection.

Sweetest Elizabeth, accept I pray
These lowly stamps I send in homage true;

One hundred humble servants in their way
Are not to be despised, though poor to view.
Their livery of red and black, nor gay,
Nor sober all, is typical of you,
In whom are gravity and gladness mixed.
Thought here, smiles there; perfection lies betwixt.

Love and Hope.

Love for ever dwells in Heaven,
Hope entereth not there.
To despairing man Love's given,
Hope dwells not with despair.
Love reigneth high, and reigneth low, and reigneth everywhere.

In the inmost heart Love dwelleth,
It may not quenchèd be;
E'en when the life-blood welleth
Its fond effects we see.
In the name that leaves the lips the last, fades last from memory.

And when we shall awaken
Ascending to the sky,
Tho' Hope shall have forsaken,
Sweet Love shall never die.
For perfect Love, and perfect bliss, shall be our lot on high.

Serenade.

Come, wander forth with me! the orange flowers
Breathe faintest perfume from the summer bowers.
Come, wander forth with me! the moon on high

Shines proudly in a flood of brilliancy.
Around her car each burning star
Gleams like a beacon from afar;
The night-wind scarce disturbs the sea
As it sighs forth so languidly,
Laden with sweetness like a bee;
And all is still, below, above,
Save murmurs of the turtle dove,
That murmurs ever of its love:
For now 'tis the hour, the balmy hour
When the strains of love have chiefly power;
When the maid looks forth from her latticed bower,
With a gentle yielding smile,
Donning her mantle all the while.
Now the moon beams down on high
From her halo brilliantly;
By the dark clouds unencumbered
That once o'er her pale face slumbered.
Far from her mild rays flutters Folly,
For on them floats calm Melancholy.
A passionless sadness without dread,
Like the thought of those we loved long dead,
Full of hope and chastened joy,
Heavenly without earth's alloy.
Listen, dearest! all is quiet,
Slumb'ring the world's toil and riot,
And all is fair in earth and sky and sea,
Come, wander forth with me!

The Rose.

Gentle, gentle river
Hurrying along
With a sparkle ever,
And a murmured song,
Pause in thine onward motion,
Fast flowing toward the ocean,

And give this rose from me
To haughty Coralie.

Tell her that love's symbol,
The deep blushing rose,
Doth in all resemble
That it would disclose.
Untended, shortly thriving
There'll soon be no reviving;
But nursed with kindliness
'T will cheer life's wilderness.

Present and Future.

What is life that we should love it,
Cherishing it evermore,
Never prizing aught above it,
Ever loath to give it o'er?
Is it goodness? Is it gladness?
Nay, 'tis more of sin and sadness,
Nay, of weariness 'tis more.

Earthly joys are very fleeting—
Earthly sorrows very long;—
Parting ever follows meeting,
Night succeeds to even-song.
Storms may darken in the morning,
And eclipse the sun's bright dawning,
And the chilly gloom prolong.

But though clouds may screen and hide it
The sun shines for evermore;
Then bear grief in hope: abide it,
Knowing that it must give o'er:
And the darkness shall flee from us,
And the sun beam down upon us
Ever glowing more and more.

WILL THESE HANDS NE'ER BE CLEAN?

And who is this lies prostrate at thy feet?
And is he dead, thou man of wrath and pride?
Yes, now thy vengeance is complete,
Thy hate is satisfied.
What had he done to merit this of thee?
Who gave thee power to take away his life?
Oh deeply-rooted direful enmity
That ended in long strife!
See where he grasped thy mantle as he fell,
Staining it with his blood; how terrible
Must be the payment due for this in hell!

And dost thou think to go and see no more
Thy bleeding victim, now the struggle's o'er?
To find out peace in other lands,
And wash the red mark from thy hands?
It shall not be; for everywhere
He shall be with thee; and the air
Shall smell of blood, and on the wind
His groans pursue thee close behind.
When waking he shall stand before thee;
And when at length sleep shall come o'er thee,
Powerless to move, alive to dream,
So dreadful shall thy visions seem
That thou shalt own them even to be
More hateful than reality
What time thou stoopest down to drink
Of limpid waters, thou shalt think
It is thy foe's blood bubbles up
From the polluted fountain's cup,
That stains thy lip, that cries to Heaven
For vengeance—and it shall be given.

And when thy friends shall question thee,
“Why art thou changed so heavily?”
Trembling and fearful thou shalt say
“I am not changed,” and turn away;

For such an outcast shalt thou be
Thou wilt not dare ask sympathy.

And so thy life will pass, and day by day
The current of existence flow away;
And though to thee earth shall be hell, and breath
Vengeance, yet thou shalt tremble more at death.
And one by one thy friends will learn to fear thee,
And thou shalt live without a hope to cheer thee;
Lonely amid a thousand, chained though free,
The curse of memory shall cling to thee:
Ages may pass away, worlds rise and set—
But thou shalt not forget.

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

[_]

See Crabbe.

When I die, oh lay me low
Where the greenest grasses grow;
Where the happy stream meanders;
Where the deer securely wanders;
Where the sweet birds sit and sing
In the branches quivering;
Where the violets spring to die,
And the breezes passing by,
Laden with their fragrant breath,
Scarcely seem to tell of death;
Where the sun can dart no ray
In the noon-tide of his day;
Where upon the fertile ground
Broods an everlasting shade,
And a strange, mysterious sound
By the rustling boughs is made,
And all's quiet, meet for one
Whose long, toilsome race is run.
O'er my grave the turf extend,
But beside me lay no friend,

And above me place no stone;
I would lie there all alone,
Unremembered or unknown.
Soon forgotten, none will taunt me;
Soon forgetting, none will haunt me
Of the ghosts of former pleasures
Meted out with scanty measures.
Resting from all human passion,
From earth's hate and its compassion,
From its hope and fear, from love
Stedfast as the stars above,
That shine clearly down for ever
On some cold, unglowing river;
By my faith and hope sure lighted
Through the darkness of the tomb;
And by Heavenly Love requited
For whatever love was slighted,
And whatever joy was blighted
By earth's coldness and its gloom,
In the grave I'll rest secure
Till the appointed time is o'er,
And the work of love is done,
And the great sin; and the sun
Sets in night to rise no more.
What is life but toil and riot?
What is death but rest and quiet?
Life is but a dream of trouble,
Death calm sleep from visions free;
Life is but a bursting bubble,
Death is immortality.

THE TIME OF WAITING.

Life is fleeting, joy is fleeting,
Coldness follows love and greeting,
Parting still succeeds to meeting.

If I say, “Rejoice today,”
Sorrow meets me in the way,
I cannot my will obey.

If I say, “My grief shall cease;
Now then I will live in peace:”
My cares instantly increase.

When I look up to the sky,
Thinking to see light on high,
Clouds my searching glance defy.

When I look upon the earth
For the flowers that should have birth,
I find dreariness and dearth.

And the wind sighs on for ever,
Murmurs still the flowing river,
On the graves the sun-beams quiver.

And destruction waxes bold,
And the earth is growing old,
And I tremble in the cold.

And my weariness increases
To an ache that never ceases,
And a pain that ne'er decreases.

And the times are turbulent,
And the Holy Church is rent,
And who tremble or repent?

And loud cries do ever rise
To the portals of the skies
From our earthly miseries;

From love slighted, not requited;
From high hope that should have lighted
All our path up, now benighted;

From the woes of human kind;
From the darkness of the mind;
From all anguish undefined;

100

From the heart that's crushed and sinking;
From the brain grown blank with thinking;
From the spirit sorrow drinking.

All cry out with pleading strong:
“Vengeance, Lord; how long, how long
Shall we suffer this great wrong?”

And the pleading and the cry
Of earth's sons are heard on high,
And are noted verily.

When this world shall be no more,
The Oppressors shall endure
The great Vengeance, which is sure.

And the sinful shall remain
To an endless death and pain;
But the good shall live again,

Never more to be oppressed;
Balm shall heal the bleeding breast,
And the weary be at rest.

All shall vanish of dejection,
Grief, and fear, and imperfection,
In that glorious Resurrection.

Heed not then a night of sorrow,
If the dawning of the morrow
From past grief fresh beams shall borrow.

Thankful for whate'er is given,
Strive we, as we ne'er have striven,
For love's sake to be forgiven.

Then, the dark clouds opening,
Ev'n to us the sun shall bring
Gladness; and sweet flowers shall spring.

For Christ's guiding Love alway,
For the everlasting Day,
For meek patience, let us pray.

101

Charity.

I praised the myrtle and the rose,
At sunrise in their beauty vying;
I passed them at the short day's close,
And both were dying.

The summer sun his rays was throwing
Brightly; yet ere I sought my rest,
His last cold ray, more deeply glowing,
Died in the west.

After this bleak world's stormy weather,
All, all, save Love alone, shall die;
For Faith and Hope shall merge together
In Charity.

The Dead Bride.

There she lay so still and pale,
With her bridal robes around her:
Joy is fleeting—life is frail—
Death had found her.

Gone for ever: gone away
From the love and light of earth;
Gone for ever: who shall say
Where her second birth?

Had her life been good and kind?
Had her heart been meek and pure?
Was she of a lowly mind,
Ready to endure?

Did she still console the sad,
Soothe the widow's anguish wild,
Make the poor and needy glad,
Tend the orphan child?

102

Who shall say what hope and fear
Crowded in her short life's span?
If the love of God was dear,
Or the love of man?

Happy bride if single-hearted
Her first love to God was given;
If from this world she departed
But to dwell in Heaven;

If her faith on Heaven was fixed,
And her hope; if love's pure worth
Made her rich indeed, unmixed
With the dross of earth.

But alas! if tainted pleasure
Won her heart and held it here,
Where is now her failing treasure,
All her gladness where? . . . . .

Hush, too curious questioner;
Hush and think thine own sins o'er:
Little canst thou learn from her;
For we know no more

Than that there she lies all pale
With her bridal robes around her:
Joy is fleeting—life is frail—
Death hath found her.

LIFE OUT OF DEATH.

“Now I've said all I would, mother;
My head is on thy breast,
And I feel I can die without a sigh,
And sink into my rest.

“And if ever you weep o'er my grave, mother,
Weep not for doubt or sadness;
I shall fall asleep in pain and in grief,
But wake to perfect gladness.”

103

Mourn not, thou mother of the dead,
That in her youth she died;
for He was with her then Who said:
“Ye that in me abide,
Ask what ye will, it shall be given;
Faith, hope, and love on earth, and Love and Joy in Heaven.”

The solitary Rose.

O happy Rose, red Rose, that bloomest lonely
Where there are none to gather while they love thee;
That art perfumed by thine own fragrance only,
Resting like incense round thee and above thee;—
Thou hearest nought save some pure stream that flows,
O happy Rose.

What tho' for thee no nightingales are singing?
They chant one eve, but hush them in the morning.
Near thee no little moths and bees are winging
To steal thy honey when the day is dawning;—
Thou keep'st thy sweetness till the twilight's close,
O happy Rose.

Then rest in peace, thou lone and lovely flower;
Yea be thou glad, knowing that none are near thee
To mar thy beauty in a wanton hour,
And scatter all thy leaves, nor deign to wear thee.
Securely in thy solitude repose,
O happy Rose.

Lady Isabella.

Lady Isabella,
Thou art gone away,
Leaving earth's darksome trouble,
To rest until the Day.

104

From thy youth and beauty,
From each loving friend,
Thou art gone to the land of sure repose,
Where fears and sorrows end.

Thou wert pure whilst with us;
Now, we trust, in Heaven,
All thy tears are wiped away,
All thy sins forgiven.

Who would wish thee back again
But to share our sorrow?
Who would grudge thine hour of rest,
Ere the coming morrow?

Let us rejoice the rather
That thou hast reached that shore,
Whilst yet thy soul was spotless,
And thy young spirit pure.

And if thy crown be brighter
By but one little ray,
Why wish to dim its lustre? . .
Oh! rather let us pray
That when we are most fitted
We too may pass away.

THE DREAM.

Rest, rest; the troubled breast
Panteth evermore for rest:—
Be it sleep, or be it death,
Rest is all it coveteth.

Tell me, dost thou remember the old time
We sat together by that sunny stream,
And dreamed our happiness was too sublime
Only to be a dream?

105

Gazing, till steadfast gazing made us blind,
We watched the fishes leaping at their play;
Thinking our love too tender and too kind
Ever to pass away.

And some of all our thoughts were true at least
What time we thought together by that stream;
THY happiness has evermore increased,—
MY love was not a dream.

And now that thou art gone, I often sit
On its green margin, for thou once wert there;
And see the clouds that, floating over it,
Darken the quiet air.

Yes, oftentimes I sit beside it now,
Harkning the wavelets ripple o'er the sands;
Until again I hear thy whispered vow
And feel thy pressing hands.

Then the bright sun seems to stand still in heaven,
The stream sings gladly as it onward flows,
The rushes grow more green, the grass more even,
Blossoms the budding rose.

I say: “It is a joy-dream; I will take it;
He is not gone; he will return to me.”
What found'st thou in my heart that thou should'st break it?—
How have I injured thee?

Oh! I am weary of life's passing show,—
Its pageant and its pain.
I would I could lie down lone in my woe,
Ne'er to rise up again;
I would I could lie down where none might know;
For truly love is vain.
Truly love's vain; but oh! how vainer still
Is that which is not love, but seems;
Concealed indifference, a covered ill,
A very dream of dreams.

106

The Dying Man to his Betrothed.

One word—'tis all I ask of thee;
One word—and that is little now
That I have learned thy wrong of me;
And thou too art unfaithful—thou!—
O thou sweet poison, sweetest death,
O honey between serpent's teeth,
Breathe on me with thy scorching breath!

The last poor hope is fleeting now,
And with it life is ebbing fast;
I gaze upon thy cold white brow,
And loathe and love thee to the last.
And still thou keepest silence—still
Thou look'st on me—for good or ill
Speak out, that I may know thy will.

Thou weepest, woman, and art pale!
Weep not, for thou shalt soon be free;
My life is ending like a tale
That was—but never more shall be.
O blessed moments, ye fleet fast,
And soon the latest shall be past,
And she will be content at last.

Nay, tremble not—I have not cursed
Thy house or mine, or thee or me;
The moment that I saw thee first,
The moment that I first loved thee,
Curse them! alas!—I can but bless,
In this mine hour of heaviness;—
Nay, sob not so in thy distress!

I have been harsh, thou sayst of me;—
God knows my heart was never so;
It never could be so to thee—
And now it is too late—I know
Thy grief—forgive me, love! 'tis o'er,
For I shall never trouble more
Thy life that was so calm before.

107

I pardon thee—mayst thou be blest!
Say, wilt thou sometimes think of me?
Oh may I, from my happy rest,
Still look with love on thine and thee,
And may I pray for thee alway,
And for thy Love still may I pray,
Waiting the everlasting Day.

Stoop over me—ah! this is death!
I scarce can see thee at my side;
Stoop lower—let me feel thy breath,
O thou, mine own, my promised bride!
Pardon me, love—I pardon thee,
And may our pardon sealèd be
Throughout the long eternity.

The pains of death my senses cover:—
Oh! for His Sake Who died for men,
Be thou more true to this thy lover
Than thou hast been to me—Amen!
And if he chide thee wrongfully,
One little moment think on me,
And thou wilt bear it patiently.

And now, O God, I turn to Thee:
Thou Only, Father, canst not fail;
Lord, Thou hast tried and broken me,
And yet Thy Mercy shall prevail.
Saviour, through Thee I am forgiven—
Do Thou receive my soul, blood-shriven,
O Christ, Who art the Gate of Heaven!

The Martyr.

See, the sun hath risen!
Lead her from the prison;
She is young and tender, lead her tenderly:
May no fear subdue her,
Lest the Saints be fewer,
Lest her place in Heaven be lost eternally.

108

Forth she came, not trembling,
No, nor yet dissembling
An o'erwhelming terror weighing her down—down;
Little, little heeding
Earth, but inly pleading
For the strength to triumph and to win a crown.

All her might was rallied
To her heart; not pallid
Was her cheek, but glowing with a glorious red,
Glorious red and saintly,
Never paling faintly,
But still flushing, kindling still, without thought of dread.

On she went, on faster,
Trusting in her Master,
Feeling that His Eye watched o'er her lovingly;
He would prove and try her,
But would not deny her,
When her soul had pass'd, for His sake, patiently.

“Christ,” she said, “receive me,
Let no terrors grieve me,
Take my soul and guard it with Thy heavenly cares:
Take my soul and guard it,
Take it and reward it
With the Love Thou bearest for the love it bears.”

Quickened with a fire
Of sublime desire,
She looked up to Heaven, and she cried aloud,
“Death, I do entreat thee,
Come! I go to meet thee;
Wrap me in the whiteness of a virgin shroud.”

On she went, hope-laden;
Happy, happy maiden!
Never more to tremble, and to weep no more:
All her sins forgiven,
Straight the path to Heaven
Through the glowing fire lay her feet before.

109

On she went, on quickly,
And her breath came thickly,
With the longing to see God coming pantingly:
Now the fire is kindled,
And her flesh has dwindled
Unto dust;—her soul is mounting up on high:

Higher, higher mounting,
The swift moments counting,
Fear is left beneath her, and the chastening rod:
Tears no more shall blind her,
Trouble lies behind her,
Satisfied with hopeful rest, and replete with God.

The End of Time.

Thou who art dreary
With a cureless woe,
Thou who art weary
Of all things below,
Thou who art weeping
By the loved sick-bed,
Thou who art keeping
Watches o'er the dead,
Hope, hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn the day.

The rose blooms brightly,
But it fades ere night;
And youth flies lightly,
Yet how sure its flight!
And still the river
Merges in the sea,
And death reigns ever
Whilst old Time shall be;
Yet hope! old Time flies fast upon his way,
And soon will cease the night, and soon will dawn the day.

110

All we most cherish
In this world below,
What tho' it perish?
It has aye been so.
So thro' all ages
It has ever been
To fools and sages,
Noble men and mean:
Yet hope, still hope! for Time flies on his way,
And soon will end the night, and soon will dawn the day.

All of each nation
Shall that morning see
With exultation
Or with misery:
From watery slumbers,
From the opening sod,
Shall rise up numbers
To be judged by God.
Then hope and fear, for Time speeds on his way,
And soon must end the night, and soon must dawn the day.

Resurrection Eve.

He resteth: weep not!
The living sleep not
With so much calm:
He hears no chiding
And no deriding,
Hath joy for sorrow,
For night hath morrow,
For wounds hath balm,
For life's strange riot
Hath death and quiet.
Who would recall him
Of those that love him?

111

No fears appal him,
No ills befal him;
There's nought above him
Save turf and flowers
And pleasant grass.
Pass the swift hours,
How swiftly pass!
The hours of slumber
He doth not number;
Grey hours of morning
Ere the day's dawning:
Brightened by gleams
Of the sun-beams,
By the foreseeing
Of Resurrection,
Of glorious being,
Of full perfection,
Of sins forgiven
Before the face
Of men and spirits;
Of God in Heaven,
The Resting Place
That he inherits.

ZARA.

[_]

See Maturin's “Women.”

Now the pain beginneth and the word is spoken;—
Hark unto the tolling of the churchyard chime!—
Once my heart was gladsome, now my heart is broken,—
Once my love was noble, now it is a crime.

But the fear is over; yea, what now shall pain me?
Arm thee in thy sorrow, O most Desolate!
Weariness and weakness, these shall now sustain me,—
Pride and bitter grieving, burning love and hate.

112

Yea, the fear is over, the strong fear and trembling;
I can doubt no longer, he is gone indeed.
Rend thy hair, lost woman, weep without dissembling;
The heart torn forth from it, shall the breast not bleed?

Happy she who looketh on his beauty's glory!
Happy she who listeneth to his gentle word!
Yet, O happy maiden, sorrow lies before thee;
Greeting hath been given, parting must be heard.

He shall leave thee also, he who now hath left me,
With a weary spirit and an aching heart;
Thou shalt be bereaved by him who hath bereft me;
Thou hast sucked the honey,—feel the stinging's smart.

Let the cold gaze on him, let the heartless hear him,
For he shall not hurt them, they are safe in sooth:
But let loving women shun that man and fear him,
Full of cruel kindness and devoid of ruth.

When ye call upon him, hope for no replying;
When ye gaze upon him, think not he will look;
Hope not for his pity when your heart is sighing;
Such another, waiting, weeping, he forsook.

Hath the Heaven no thunder wherewith to denounce him?
Hath the Heaven no lightning wherewith to chastise?
O my heart and spirit, O my soul, renounce him
Who hath called for vengeance from the distant skies.

Vengeance which pursues thee, vengeance which shall find thee,
Crushing thy false spirit, scathing thy fair limb:—
O ye thunders deafen, O ye lightnings blind me,
Winds and storms from heaven, strike me but spare him.

I forgive thee, dearest, cruel, I forgive thee;—
May thy cup of sorrow be poured out for me;
Though the dregs be bitter yet they shall not grieve me,
Knowing that I drink them, O my love, for thee.

114

[Soul rudderless, unbraced]

Soul rudderless, unbraced,
The Body's friend and guest,
Whither away today?
Unsuppled, pale, discased,
Dumb to thy wonted jest.

115

III
Unpublished Poems

117

Heaven.

1

What is heaven? 'tis a country
Far away from mortal ken;
'Tis a land, where, by God's bounty,
After death live righteous men.

2

That that blest land I may enter,
Is my humble, earnest cry;
Lord! admit me to Thy presence,
Lord! admit me, or I die.

Hymn.

To the God Who reigns on high,
To th'Eternal Majesty,
To the Blessed Trinity
Glory on earth be giv'n;
In the sea, and in the sky,
And in the highest heav'n.

Corydon's Lament and Resolution.

1

I have wept and I have sighed;
Chloe will not be my bride.

118

I have sighed and I have wept,
She hath not her promise kept.

2

I have grieved and I have mourned;
She hath not my love returned.
I have mourned and I have grieved;
She hath not my pains relieved.

3

But her pride I'll mortify,
For her love I will not die.
Amaryllis fair I'll wed,
Nor one tear for Chloe shed.

Rosalind.

She sat upon a mountain,
And gazed upon the sea;
Beside her crouched a stag-hound,
A boy stood at her knee.

She fixed upon the ocean
An agonizèd stare—
The ship is fast receding—
Her husband off they bear.

“Oh, robbers! take some pity
Upon my helpless state:
Restore him to my fond arms!
Leave me not desolate!”

They heed not her entreaties,
They list not to her prayer;
The ship is fast receding—
Her husband off they bear.

119

“Oh Captain! take these jewels
That grace my hair of jet;
And ne'er in my devotion
To bless thee I'll forget.”

Then sudden cried the pirate,
“Lady, your prayers are vain;
When as my bride I sought you,
You heeded not my pain.

“Now for the grief I suffered
I'll compensated be”—
He said; and hurled her husband
Into the raging sea.

Upon her snow-white bosom
Sank down that Lady's head;—
“I join thee, dearest Arthur”—
Fair Rosalind is dead.

The Faithless Shepherdess.

1

There once was a time when I loved,
'Tis gone to return never more;
My shepherdess faithless has proved,
The maiden I once did adore.

120

2

And now we are parted for ever,
And gone are my hopes and my fears,
To forget Phillis false I'll endeavour,
And arrest all these fast-flowing tears.

3

Yet wherever I turn I must think
Of her who is faithless to me;
I stand by the rivulet's brink,
And the play of its waters I see.

4

'Twas there I first told her my love,
And she blushingly bade me hope still,
And the moon looking down from above
Seemed to smile on the murmuring rill;

5

On the rill that was murm'ring of love
To its beautiful mistress in heaven,
The moon seeming to speak far above
Of the rays that in token she'd given;

6

In token of love never-ending,
And pure as when first 'twas avowed,
As long as that stream should be sending
Soft sighs to its Queen in the cloud.

7

And false Phillis swore that she'd ever
Keep faithful her pure heart to me,
That she'd think of another love never,
So long as the rill true should be.

121

8

The rill to its love true remains,
The moon still smiles on it from heaven,
But from you I've experienced sharp pains,
That the rill to the moon ne'er has given.

9

And now we are parted for ever,
And gone are my hopes and my fears;
To forget Phillis false I'll endeavour,
And arrest all these fast-flowing tears.

Ariadne to Theseus.

1

Sunlight to the river,
Moonlight to the sea,
As false and as fleeting
Thou hast been to me.

2

And I've been like the lily
That to the summer clings,
Or like the nightingale
That to the sweet rose sings:

3

That wooing never ceases
For her indifference,
And never his beloved flower
Reproaching will incense.

4

But thou more cruel than the rose
Hast left me faithlessly,

122

To mourn for ever and alone
Over thy perfidy.

5

Soft breezes! waft him not
Across the wide wide sea;
Ingulph, just waves of Ocean!
The wretch who flies from me.

6

Ah no! 'tis vain! Affection
For my false love still remains:
Blow, breezes! Peace, ye waters!
Revenge not ye my pains!

7

May happiness attend thee,
Who hast ta'en from me all joy!
Be thine unmixèd pleasure;
Be mine the sad alloy!

On Albina.

The roses lingered in her cheeks,
When fair Albina fainted;
Oh! gentle Reader, could it be
That fair Albina painted?

A Hymn for Christmas Day.

The Shepherds watch their flocks by night,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
All around is calm and still,
Save the murm'ring of the rill:

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When lo! a form of light appears,
And on the awe-struck Shepherds' ears
Are words, of peace and comfort flowing
From lips with love celestial glowing.
Spiritual forms are breaking
Through the gloom, their voices taking
Part in the adoring song
Of the bright angelic throng.
Wondering the Shepherds bend
Their steps to Bethlehem, and wend
To a poor and crowded inn:—
Tremblingly their way they win
To the stable, where they find
The Redeemer of mankind,
Just born into this world of danger,
Lying in an humble manger.
And they spread abroad each word
Which that joyful night they'd heard,
And they glorified the name
Of their gracious God, Who came
Himself to save from endless woe
The offspring of this world below.

Love and Death.

“Our bark's on the water; come down, come down,
I'll weave for thy fair head a leafy crown,
And in it I'll blend the roses bright,
With asphodel woven of faint sunlight.
But more precious than these I'll twine the pearls
In the flowing locks of thy chestnut curls;
And the gem and the flow'r from wave and from tree
Shall form a bright diadem, Bianca, for thee.
The sea is calm, and I will guard thee;
Oh what, sweet love, should thus retard thee?
Descend, fairest maiden, descend to the sea,
And sail o'er the motionless waters with me.”
The sound of his last words was scarcely o'er,

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When beside him she stood on the ocean shore.
Lightly she entered the gondola,
And gaily her lover followed her—
But for them it had been happier
Had they quietly lain in their beds all night,
Nor sailed forth 'neath the moonbeam's deceitful light.
Smoothly, swiftly the gondolier rowed along,
The splash of his oars keeping time to his song;
'Twas an old tale of hope and of fear and of danger,
Of the loves of a noble princess and a stranger;
How they fled, and were married one fine summer night,
And their days glided on in one stream of delight.
But oh! wherefore trembles that lady fair?
The lightning gleams forth through the heavy air;
The thunder peals loudly, the low wind is wailing,
And the heart of the lady for terror is failing.
But Gonsalvo around her his left arm clasped tightly,
And he fought with the sea that was foaming so whitely;
All vain are his struggles—the billows rise higher,
The thunder is pealing, the sky seems on fire,
The wild wind is howling, the lightning ne'er ceases—
He still clasps his love, but his strength fast decreases—
Fair Bianca has fainted; she hears not the wind,
Nor the splash of the rain; to the lightning she's blind—
She knows not that down to the depths of the sea
She's dragging her love irresistibly:
Gonsalvo's efforts have fainter grown,
And she hangs on his arm like a heavy stone;—
And now o'er them rolls each mighty wave—
In the sea they have found a common grave.

Despair.

1

Up rose the moon in glory,
And glittered on the sea;
Up rose the stars around her,
Making the darkness flee.

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2

The nightingale's wild warbling
Rang in the far-off wood;
When in his Father's castle
A mournful figure stood.

3

His heart was almost bursting,
He madly beat his breast;
As, in low plaintive accents,
His grief he thus exprest.

4

“Stars, shroud yourselves in darkness!
Pale moon, withdraw thy light!
Let darkness hide the ocean
For ever from my sight;

5

“Hide cottage, town and city;—
Appear no more, thou Sun!
But let in foreign countries
Thy cheering race be run.

6

“For I have lost my loved one!
Low lies she in her grave!
Speak not to me of pleasure,
For her I could not save.

7

“Hark to the distant murmur
As waves break on the shore”—
When lo! a light came flashing
Along the corridor.

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8

The mystic form that bore it
He scarcely could discern;
Its flowing robe was blackness—
Higher the flame doth burn—

9

He cried, “What art thou, Spirit
So luminous and bright?”
A voice said, “I'm the maid, Sir,
A bringing in the light.”

Forget Me Not.

1

“Forget me not! Forget me not!”
The maiden once did say,
When to some far-off battle-field
Her lover sped away.

2

“Forget me not! Forget me not!”
Says now the chamber-maid
When the traveller on his journey
No more will be delayed.

Easter Morning.

1

The sun arises from the sea,
And all around his rays is flinging,
The flowers are opening on the lea,
The merry birds are singing.

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2

The summer breeze is rustling past,
Sweet scents are gathering around it,
The rivulet is flowing fast,
Beside the banks that bound it.

3

All nature seemeth to rejoice,
In the returning summer weather;
Let us with nature raise our voice,
And harmonise together.

4

But not alone for summer skies
Shall praise unto our God be given:
This day our Saviour did arise,
And oped the gate of heaven.

5

To sinful man, if only he
His errings will confess with sorrow,
Then, after earth's night-misery,
Shall dawn a glorious morrow:

6

A blissful bright eternity
Bought by the rising of the Giver,
To Whom all praise, all honour be,
For ever and for ever.

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The Last Words of St. Telemachus.

There is a sound of weeping; wherefore weep
That I should sleep?
Oh! wherefore mourn that I at last should be
At liberty?
One only grief yet lingers at my heart—
That we must part:
Part—! and perchance we never more may meet
In converse sweet!
The memory of all thy gentle ways,
Kind without praise—
And of thy loving acts, scarce seen before,
Now numbered o'er,
Weigh me to earth clinging about my heart—
And must we part?
Yet still my trust in God shall stedfast be—
By faith I see
Through the long vista of eternal years,
Free from all fears,
Thee by my side in calm unchanging rest,
For ever blest!

Lord Thomas and fair Margaret.

1

Fair Marg'ret sat in her bower,
Unbraiding of her hair,
When entered in Lord Thomas' ghost,
And gave her greeting fair.

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2

“Oh how pale thou art, my love,” she said,
“Oh how pale thou art to see!
Once thine eye was bright, and thy cheek was red;
Why comest thou so to me?”

3

“Oh fair Marg'ret, oh sweet Marg'ret,
I murderèd have been—
They have ta'en my body for love of thee,
And cast it in a stream.

4

“Oh fair Marg'ret, oh sweet Marg'ret,
We aye maun parted be,
If thou wilt not bind up thy yellow hair,
And quickly follow me.”

5

Up and ris fair Marg'ret,
And quickly followed him;
As the moon was the colour of his face,
And the colour of his limb.

6

The ghost he fled, the ghost he sped,
The ghost he ran and glided,
And still fair Margaret pursued,
Though never to be brided.

7

The ghost he sped, the ghost he fled,
Ploughed land and hillocks over,
And still fair Margaret pursued.
After her flying lover.

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8

Away, away “without stop or stay,”
Till they came to waters running,
“I canna stay, I maun away,
For fast the day is coming.

9

“Oh fair Marg'ret, oh sweet Marg'ret,
We now maun parted be,
If in the last trail thou shalt go through
Thy heart should fail in thee.”

10

On glided the ghost, while the starry host
Glittered down on the sleeping stream;
O'er the waves glided he impalpably,
Then vanished like a dream.

11

Fair Margaret still followed him,
Till she sank amid the wave;
Thus died for each other these lovers true,
And were joinèd in the grave.

Lines to my Grandfather.

Dear Grandpapa,
To be obedient,
I'll try and write a letter;
Which (as I hope you'll deem expedient)
Must serve for lack of better.

My muse of late was not prolific,
And sometimes I must feel

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To make a verse a task terrific
Rather of woe than weal.

As I have met with no adventure
Of wonder and refulgence,
I must write plain things at a venture
And trust to your indulgence.

The apple-tree is showing
Its blossom of bright red
With a soft colour glowing
Upon its leafy bed.

The pear-tree's pure white blossom
Like stainless snow is seen;
And all earth's genial bosom
Is clothed with varied green.

The fragrant may is blooming,
The yellow cowslip blows;
Among its leaves entombing
Peeps forth the pale primrose.

The kingcup flowers and daisies
Are opening hard by;
And many another raises
Its head, to please and die.

I love the gay wild flowers
Waving in fresh spring air;
Give me uncultured bowers
Before the bright parterre!

And now my letter is concluded,
To do well I have striven;
And though news is well-nigh excluded,
I hope to be forgiven.

With love to all the beautiful,
And those who cannot slaughter,
I sign myself,
your dutiful,
Affectionate Granddaughter.

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Charade.

My first may be the firstborn,
The second child may be;
My second is a texture light
And elegant to see:
My whole do those too often write
Who are from talent free.

Hope in Grief.

Tell me not that death of grief
Is the only sure relief.
Tell me not that hope when dead
Leaves a void that nought can fill,
Gnawings that may not be fed.
Tell me not there is no skill
That can bind the breaking heart,
That can soothe the bitter smart,
When we find ourselves betrayed,
When we find ourselves forsaken,
By those for whom we would have laid
Our young lives down, nor wished to waken.
Say not that life is to all
But a gaily coloured pall,
Hiding with its deceitful glow
The hearts that break beneath it,
Engulphing as they anguished flow
The scalding tears that seethe it.
Say not, vain this world's turmoil,
Vain its trouble and its toil,
All its hopes and fears are vain,
Long, unmitigated pain.
What though we should be deceived
By the friend that we love best?
All in this world have been grieved,
Yet many have found rest.
Our present life is as the night,

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Our future as the morning light:
Surely the night will pass away,
And surely will uprise the day.

Song.

[I saw her; she was lovely]

I saw her; she was lovely,
And bright her eyes of blue,
Whilst merrily her white white hands
Over the harp-strings flew.
I saw her and I loved her,
I loved her for my pain,
For her heart was given to another
Not to return again.

Again I saw her pacing
Down the cathedral aisle;
The bridal wreath was in her hair,

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And on her lips a smile;
A quiet smile and holy,
Meet for a holy place,
A smile of certain happiness
That lighted up her face.

And once, once more I saw her,
Kneeling beside a bed;
The bright sun's rays were shining there,
And shone upon the dead;
From the body of her husband
Earth's gloom they chased away,
And she gazed on him without a tear,
And hailed the coming day.

Praise of Love.

And shall Love cease? Ask thine own heart, O Woman,
Thy heart that beats restlessly on for ever!
All earthly things shall pass away and human,
But Love's divine: annihilated never,
It binds and nought shall sever.

Oh! it is Love makes the world habitable,
Love is a foretaste of our promised Heaven;
Though sometimes robed in white, sometimes in sable,
It still is Love, and still some joy is given,
Although the heart be riven.

And who would give Love's joy to 'scape its paining?
Yea, who would lose its sorrow and its gladness?
Then let us bear its griefs without complaining:—
This only earthly passion is not madness,
Nor leads to dearth and sadness.

Love is all happiness, Love is all beauty,
Love is the crown of flaxen heads and hoary,
Love is the only everlasting duty,
And Love is chronicled in endless story,
And leads to endless glory.

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“I have fought a good fight.”

“Who art thou that comest with a stedfast face
Thro' the hushed arena to the burying-place?”
“I am one whose footprints marked upon the sand
Cry in blood for vengeance on a guilty land.”

“How are these thy garments white as whitest snow
Tho' thy blood hath touched them in its overflow?”
“My blood cannot stain them, nor my tears make white;
One than I more mighty, He hath made them bright.”

“Say, do thy wounds pain thee open every one,
Wounds that now are glowing clearer than the sun?”
“Nay, they are my gladness unalloyed by grief;
Like a desert fountain, or a long relief.”

“When the lion had thee in his deadly clasp,
Was there then no terror in thy stifled gasp?”
“Tho' I felt the crushing, and the grinding teeth,
He was with me ever, He Who comforteth.”

“Didst thou hear the shouting, as of a great flood,
Crying out for vengeance, crying out for blood?”
“I heard it in silence, and was not afraid,
While for the mad people silently I prayed.”

“Did their hate not move thee? art thou heedless then
Of the fear of children and the curse of men?”
“God looked down upon me from the Heaven above,
And I did not tremble, happy in His Love.”

Wishes: Sonnet.

Oh! would that I were very far away
Among the lanes, with hedges all around,
Happily listening to the dreamy sound
Of distant sheep-bells, smelling the new hay
And all the wild-flowers scattered in my way:

136

Or would that I were lying on some mound
Where shade and butterflies and thyme abound,
Beneath the trees, upon a sunny day:
Or would I strolled beside the mighty sea,
The sea before, and the tall cliffs behind;
While winds from the warm south might tell to me
How health and joy for all men are designed:—
But be I where I may, would I had thee,
And heard thy gentle voice, my Mother kind.

Eleanor.

Cherry-red her mouth was,
Morning-blue her eye,
Lady-slim her little waist
Rounded prettily;
And her sweet smile of gladness
Made every heart rejoice;
But sweeter even than her smile
The tones were of her voice.

Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she sang;
And evermore the sound
Floated, a dreamy melody,
Upon the air around;
As tho' a wind were singing
Far up beside the sun,
Till sound and warmth and glory
Were blended all in one.

Her hair was long and golden,
And clustered unconfined
Over a forehead high and white
That spoke a noble mind.
Her little hand, her little foot
Were ready evermore
To hurry forth to meet a friend;
She smiling at the door.

137

But if she sang, or if she spoke,
'Twas music soft and grand,
As tho' a distant singing sea
Broke on a tuneful strand;
As tho' a blessed Angel
Were singing a glad song,
Half way between the earth and Heaven
Joyfully borne along.

Isidora.

[_]

/See Maturin's “Melmoth.”/

Love, whom I have loved too well,
Turn thy face away from me;
For I heed nor Heaven nor Hell
While mine eyes can look on thee.
Do not answer, do not speak,
For thy voice can make me weak.

I must choose 'twixt God and man,
And I dare not hesitate:
Oh how little is life's span,
And Eternity how great!
Go out from me; for I fear
Mine own strength while thou art here.

Husband, leave me; but know this:
I would gladly give my soul
So that thine might dwell in bliss
Free from the accursed control,
So that thou mightest go hence
In a hopeful penitence.

Yea, from Hell I would look up,
And behold thee in thy place,
Drinking of the living cup,
With the joy-look on thy face,
And the Light that shines alone
From the Glory of the Throne.

138

But how could my endless loss
Be thine everlasting gain?
Shall thy palm grow from my cross?
Shall thine ease be in my pain?
Yea, thine own soul witnesseth
Thy life is not in my death.

It were vain that I should die;
That we thus should perish both;
Thou would'st gain no peace thereby;
And in truth I should be loath
By the loss of my salvation
To increase thy condemnation.

Little infant, his and mine,
Would that I were as thou art;
Nothing breaks that sleep of thine,
And ah! nothing breaks thy heart;
And thou knowest nought of strife,
The heart's death for the soul's life.

None misdoubt thee; none misdeem
Of thy wishes and thy will.
All thy thoughts are what they seem,
Very pure and very still;
And thou fearest not the voice
That once made thy heart rejoice.

Oh how calm thou art, my child!
I could almost envy thee.
Thou hast neither wept nor smiled,
Thou that sleepest quietly.
Would I also were at rest
With the one that I love best.

Husband, go. I dare not hearken
To thy words, or look upon
Those despairing eyes that darken
Down on me—but he is gone.
Nay, come back; and be my fate
As thou wilt—it is too late.

139

I have conquered; it is done;
Yea, the death-struggle is o'er,
And the hopeless quiet won!—
I shall see his face no more!—
And mine eyes are waxing dim
Now they cannot look on him.

And my heart-pulses are growing
Very weak; and thro' my whole
Life-blood a slow chill is going:—
Blessed Saviour, take my soul
To Thy Paradise and care;—
Paradise, will he be there?

The Novice.

I love one, and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,
More than repose in Heaven.

Yea, it is as a poison cup
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
The slow death looketh up.

140

Then bring me to a solitude
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow,
And roots are found for food;

Where the wild honey-bee booms by;
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts; there I would live,
And there I fain would die.

There Autumn leaves may make my grave,
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
And shadowy branches wave.

Immalee:
[_]

/See Maturin's “Melmoth.”/

Sonnet.

I gather thyme upon the sunny hills,
And its pure fragrance ever gladdens me,
And in my mind having tranquillity
I smile to see how my green basket fills.
And by clear streams I gather daffodils;
And in dim woods find out the cherry-tree,
And take its fruit, and the wild strawberry,
And nuts, and honey; and live free from ills.
I dwell on the green earth, 'neath the blue sky,
Birds are my friends, and leaves my rustling roof;
The deer are not afraid of me, and I
Hear the wild goat, and hail its hastening hoof;
The squirrels sit perked as I pass them by,
And even the watchful hare stands not aloof.

Lady Isabella.

Heart warm as Summer, fresh as Spring,
Gracious as Autumn's harvesting,
Pure as the Winter snows; as white

141

A hand as lilies in sun-light;
Eyes glorious as a midnight star;
Hair shining as the chestnuts are;
A step firm and majestical;
A voice singing and musical;
A soft expression, kind address;
Tears for another's heaviness;
Bright looks; an action full of grace;
A perfect form, a perfect face;
All these become a woman well,
And these had Lady Isabelle.

Night and Death.

Now the sun-lit hours are o'er,
Rise up from thy shadowy shore,
Happy Night, whom Chaos bore.

Better is the peaceful treasure
Of thy musings without measure,
Than the day's unquiet pleasure.

Bring the holy moon; so pale
She herself seems but a veil
For the sun, where no clouds sail.

Bring the stars, thy progeny;
Each a little lamp on high
To light up an azure sky.

Sounds incomprehensible
In the shining planets dwell
Of thy sister Queen to tell.

Of that sister Nature saith,
She hath power o'er life and breath;
And her name is written Death.

She is fairer far than thou;
Grief her head can never bow,
Joy is stamped upon her brow.

142

She is full of gentleness,
And of faith and hope; distress
Finds in her forgetfulness.

In her arms who lieth down
Never more is seen to frown,
Tho' he wore a thorny crown.

Whoso sigheth in unrest
If his head lean on her breast
Witnesseth she is the best.

All the riches of the earth
Weighed by her are nothing worth;
She is the eternal birth.

In her treasure-house are found
Stored abundantly around
Almsdeeds done without a sound;

Long forbearance; patient will;
Fortitude in midst of ill;
Hope, when even fear grew still;

Kindness given again for hate;
Hearts resigned tho' desolate;
Meekness, which is truly great;

Bitter tears of penitence;
Changeless love's omnipotence:—
And nought lacketh recompense.

In her house no tainted thing
Winneth any entering;
There the poor have comforting.

There they wait a little time
Till the angel-uttered chime
Sound the eternal matin-prime.

Then, upraised in joyfulness,
They shall know her; and confess
She is blessed and doth bless.

143

When earth's fleeting day is flown
All created things shall own,
Death is Life, and Death alone.

“Young men aye were fickle found Since summer trees were leafy.”

Go in peace my Beloved; tho' never again
Shall I feel in thy presence strange joy and sweet pain;
Go in peace my Beloved; perhaps thou may'st yet
Find a young heart to love thee that need not forget.

In glory and beauty and smiles thou shalt go,
And I shall remain in my wearisome woe.
Oh! thine is the rose on a bright summer morn
Full of perfume and blushes;—and mine is the thorn.

And thine is the sun-light, and mine is the cloud;
And thine is the feasting, and mine is the shroud.
And thou shalt have gladness and honour's increase;
And I in my cool silent grave shall have peace.

But so it is fitting, and so let it be;
The praise be thy portion, the shame be for me.
Ah! why should I chide thee and struggle in vain?
For love, once recalled, is not given again.

Thy word is forgotten, and broken thy vow;
If I pray or reproach thee thou heedest not now.
I would I could hate thee, false love; but in truth
How can I abhor the delight of my youth?

Oh! happy the maiden whose beautiful strength
Shall win thy proud heart and subdue it at length!
Yet tho' she be true, what hath she more than I?
She may live but for thee, and for thee I shall die.

The faith which endures and is mighty in death
Is more real, to my thinking, than words which are breath.

144

There are many fair women will court thee and live;
But who, broken-hearted, will die and forgive?

By the love that I bear thee, the hopes that are flown,
The heart that lies bleeding, the life left alone,—
Remember, remember the dear vanished time,
In thy far-distant country and sun-gladdened clime.

The Lotus-Eaters: Ulysses to Penelope.

In a far-distant land they dwell,
Incomprehensible,
Who love the shadow more than light,
More than the sun the moon,
Cool evening more than noon,
Pale silver more than gold that glitters bright.
A dark cloud overhangs their land
Like a mighty hand,
Never moving from above it;
A cool shade and moist and dim,
With a twilight-purple rim,
And they love it.
And sometimes it giveth rain,
But soon it ceaseth as before,
And earth drieth up again;
Then the dews rise more and more,
Till it filleth, dropping o'er;
But no forked lightnings flit,
And no thunders roll in it.
Thro' the land a river flows;
With a sleepy sound it goes;
Such a drowsy noise, in sooth,
Those who will not listen, hear not;
But if one is wakeful, fear not;
It shall lull him to repose,
Bringing back the dream's of youth.
Hemlock groweth, poppy bloweth

145

In the fields where no man moweth;
And the vine is full of wine
And are full of milk the kine,
And the hares are all secure,
And the birds are wild no more,
And the forest-trees wax old,
And winds stir, or hot, or cold,
And yet no man taketh care,
All things resting everywhere.

Sonnet from the Psalms.

All thro' the livelong night I lay awake
Watering my couch with tears of heaviness.
None stood beside me in my sore distress;—
Then cried I to my heart: If thou wilt, break,
But be thou still; no moaning will I make,
Nor ask man's help, nor kneel that he may bless.
So I kept silence in my haughtiness,
Till lo! the fire was kindled, and I spake
Saying: Oh that I had wings like to a dove,
Then would I flee away and be at rest:
I would not pray for friends, or hope, or love,
But still the weary throbbing of my breast;
And, gazing on the changeless heavens above,
Witness that such a quietness is best.

Song.

[The stream moaneth as it floweth]

The stream moaneth as it floweth,
The wind sigheth as it bloweth,
Leaves are falling, Autumn goeth,
Winter cometh back again;
And the air is very chilly,
And the country rough and hilly,
And I shiver in the rain.

146

Who will help me? Who will love me?
Heaven sets forth no light above me;
Ancient memories reprove me,
Long-forgotten feelings move me,
I am full of heaviness.
Earth is cold, too cold the sea;
Whither shall I turn and flee?
Is there any hope for me?
Any ease for my heart-aching?
Any sleep that hath no waking?
Any night without day-breaking?
Any rest from weariness?
Hark! the wind is answering:
Hark! the running stream replieth:
There is rest for him that dieth;
In the grave whoever lieth
Nevermore hath sorrowing.
Holy slumber, holy quiet,
Close the eyes and still the riot;
And the brain forgets its thought,
And the heart forgets its beating.—
Earth and earthly things are fleeting,
There is what all men have sought;
Long, unchangeable repose,
Lulling us from many woes.

A Counsel.

Oh weep for the glory departed
That comes not again;
And weep for the friends hollow-hearted
Ye cared for in vain;
And weep for the roses that perished
Ere Summer had fled;
For hopes that ye vainly have cherished;—
But not for the dead.

147

Nay mourn not for them: they have ended
All labours and woes;
Their hopes now of glory are blended
With perfect repose.
And tell me, this thing that is given,
Shall it not suffice?
They wait for the gladness of Heaven,
And have Paradise.

The World's Harmonies.

Oh listen, listen; for the Earth
Hath silent melody;
Green grasses are her lively chords,
And blossoms; and each tree,
Chestnut and oak and sycamore,
Makes solemn harmony.

Oh listen, listen; for the Sea
Is calling unto us;
Her notes are the broad liquid waves
Mighty and glorious.
Lo, the first man and the last man
Hath heard, shall hearken thus.

The Sun on which men cannot look
Its splendour is so strong;
Which wakeneth life and giveth life
Rolling in light along,
From day-dawn to dim eventide
Sings the eternal song.

And the Moon taketh up the hymn,
And the Stars answer all;
And all the Clouds and all the Winds
And all the Dews that fall
And Frost and fertilizing Rain
Are mutely musical.

148

Fishes and Beasts and feathered Fowl
Swell the eternal chant,
That riseth through the lower air,
Over the rainbow slant,
Up through the unseen palace-gates,
Fearlessly jubilant.

Before the everlasting Throne
It is acceptable;
It hath no pause or faltering;
The Angels know it well;
Yea, in the highest heaven of heavens
Its sound is audible.

Yet than the voice of the whole World
There is a sweeter voice,
That maketh all the Cherubim
And Seraphim rejoice;
That all the blessèd Spirits hail
With undivided choice;

That crieth at the golden door
And gaineth entrance in;
That the palm-branch and radiant crown
And glorious throne may win;—
The lowly prayer of a poor man
Who turneth from his sin.

Lines given with a Penwiper.

I have compassion on the carpeting,
And on your back I have compassion too.
The splendid Brussels web is suffering
In the dimmed lustre of each glowing hue;
And you the everlasting altering
Of your position with strange aches must rue.
Behold, I come the carpet to preserve,
And save your spine from a continual curve.

149

The last Answer.

She turned round to me with her steadfast eyes:
“I tell you I have looked upon the dead;
“Have kissed the brow and the cold lips;” she said;
“Have called upon the sleeper to arise;
“He loved me, yet he stirred not; on this wise,
“Not bowing in weak agony my head,
“But all too sure of what life is, to dread,
“Learned I that love and hope are fallacies.”
She gazed quite calmly on me; and I felt
Awed and astonished and almost afraid:
For what was I to have admonished her?
Then, being full of doubt and fear, I knelt,
And tears came to my eyes even as I prayed:
But she, meanwhile, only grew statelier.

One of the Dead.

Paler, not quite so fair as in her life,
She lies upon the bed, perfectly still;
Her little hands clasped with a patient will
Upon her bosom, swelling without strife;
An honoured virgin, a most blameless wife.
The roses lean upon the window sill,
That she trained once; their sweets the hot air fill,
And make the death-apartment odour-rife.
Her meek white hands folded upon her breast,
Her gentle eyes closed in the long last sleep,
She lieth down in her unbroken rest;
Her kin, kneeling around, a vigil keep,
Venting their grief in low sobs unrepressed:—
Friends, she but slumbers, wherefore do ye weep?

“The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint.”

Woe for the young who say that life is long,
Who turn from the sun-rising to the west,

150

Who feel no pleasure and can find no rest,
Who in the morning sigh for evensong.
Their hearts weary because of this world's wrong,
Yearn with a thousand longings unexpressed;
They have a wound no mortal ever drest,
An ill than all earth's remedies more strong.
For them the fount of gladness hath run dry,
And in all nature is no pleasant thing;
For them there is no glory in the sky,
No sweetness in the breezes' murmuring;
They say: The peace of heaven is placed too high,
And this earth changeth and is perishing.

“I do set My bow in the cloud.”

The roses bloom too late for me;
The violets I shall not see;
Even the snowdrops will not come
Till I have passed from home to home;
From home on earth to home in heaven,
Here penitent and there forgiven.

Mourn not, my Father, that I seek
One Who is strong when I am weak.
Through the dark passage, verily,
His rod and staff shall comfort me;
He shall support me in the strife
Of death, that dieth into life;
He shall support me; He receive
My soul when I begin to live,
And more than I can ask for give.

He from the heaven-gates built above
Hath looked on me in perfect love.
From the heaven-walls to me He calls
To come and dwell within those walls;
With Cherubim and Seraphim
And Angels; yea, beholding Him.

151

His care for me is more than mine,
Father; His love is more than thine.
Sickness and death I have from thee,
From Him have immortality.
He giveth gladness where He will,
Yet chasteneth His belovèd still.

Then tell me; is it not enough
To feel that when the path is rough,
And the sky dark, and the rain cold,
His promise standeth as of old?
When heaven and earth have passed away,
Only His righteous word shall stay,
And we shall know His will is best.
Behold; He is a Haven Rest,
A Sheltering Rock, a Hiding Place,
For runners steadfast in the race;
Who, toiling for a little space,
Had light through faith when sight grew dim,
And offered all their world to Him.

“O Death where is thy Sting?”

She sleepeth: would ye wake her if ye could?
Is her face sad that ye should pity her?
Did Death come to her like a messenger
From a far land where is not any good?
I tell ye nay: but, having understood
That God is Love, Death was her harbinger

[_]

[The rest of the manuscript is missing from the notebook.]

Undine.

She did not answer him again
But walked straight to the door;
Her hand nor trembled on the lock,

152

Nor her foot on the floor,
But as she stood up steadily
She turned, and looked once more.

She turned, and looked on him once more:
Her face was very pale;
And from her forehead her long hair
Fell back like a thick veil;
But, though her lips grew white, the fire
Of her eyes did not fail.

Then as she fixed her eyes on him
Old thoughts came back again
Of the dear rambles long ago
Through meadow-land and lane,
When all the woods were full of flowers,
And all the fields of grain.

When all the birds were full of song
Except the turtle dove;
And that sat cooing tenderly
In the green boughs above;
When they hoped the same hopes, and when
He told her of his love.

Old memories came back to her
Of what once made her glad,
Till her heart seemed to stand quite still,
And every pulse she had:
Then the blood rose up to her brain
And she was almost mad.

Yet still she stood there steadily
And looked him in the face;
There was no tear upon her cheek;
Upon her brow no trace
Of the agonizing strife within,
The shame and the disgrace.

And so she stayed a little while
Until she turned once more,

153

Without a single sob or sigh;
But her heart felt quite sore:
The spirit had been broken, and
The hope of life was o'er.

Lady Montrevor.

[_]

(See Maturin's “Wild Irish Boy.”)

I do not look for love that is a dream:
I only seek for courage to be still;
To bear my grief with an unbending will,
And when I am a-weary not to seem.
Let the round world roll on; let the sun beam;
Let the wind blow, and let the rivers fill
The everlasting sea; and on the hill
The palms almost touch heaven, as children deem.
And though young Spring and Summer pass away,
And Autumn and cold Winter come again;
And though my soul, being tired of its pain,
Pass from the ancient earth; and though my clay
Return to dust; my tongue shall not complain:
No man shall mock me after this my day.

Floral Teaching.

O ye red-blushing summer roses, ye
Who are like queens, crowned with a rich perfume,
In whose deep heart there is no shade of gloom,
Who are a pasture for the honey-bee;
Surely your days and nights pass happily:
And when the earth, your mother, doth resume
Your little lives, do ye not think the tomb
Is full of soft leaves and looks pleasantly?
So be it with me: through life so may I deem
That this world's course is ordered well, and give
My help to others and my loving heed.

154

Then when the day comes that it is decreed
I am to die, may I not cease to live,
But rest awhile waiting the morning beam.

“Death is swallowed up in Victory.”

“Tell me: doth it not grieve thee to lie here,
And see the cornfields waving not for thee,
Just in the waxing Summer of the year?”

“I fade from earth; and lo! along with me
The season that I love will fade away:
How should I look for Autumn longingly?”

“Yet Autumn beareth fruit whilst day by day
The leaves grow browner with a mellow hue,
Declining to a beautiful decay.”

“Decay is death, with which I have to do,
And see it near; behold, it is more good
Than length of days and length of sorrow too.”

“But thy heart hath not dwelt in solitude:
Many have loved and love thee; dost not heed
Free love, for which in vain have others sued?”

“I thirst for love, love is mine only need,
Love such as none hath borne me, nor can bear,
True love that prompteth thought and word and deed.”

“Here it is not: why seek it otherwhere?
Nay, bow thy head, and own that on this earth
Are many goodly things, and sweet, and fair.”

“There are tears in man's laughter; in his mirth
There is a fearful forward look; and lo!
An infant's cry gives token of its birth.”

“I mark the ocean of Time ebb and flow:
He who hath care one day, and is perplext
Tomorrow may have joy in place of woe.”

155

“Evil becomes good; and to this annext
Good becomes evil; speak of it no more;
My heart is wearied and my spirit vext.”

“Is there no place it grieves thee to give o'er?
Is there no home thou lov'st, and so wouldst fain
Tarry a little longer at the door?”

“I must go hence and not return again;
But the friends whom I have shall come to me,
And dwell together with me safe from pain.”

“Where is that mansion mortals cannot see?
Behold the tombs are full of worms; shalt thou
Rise thence and soar up skywards gloriously?”

“Even as the planets shine we know not how,
We shall be raised then; changed, yet still the same;
Being made like Christ; yea, being as He is now.”

“Thither thou goest whence no man ever came:
Death's voyagers return not; and in Death
There is no room for speech or sigh or fame.”

“There is room for repose that comforteth;
There weariness is not; and there content
Broodeth for ever, and hope hovereth.”

“When the stars fall, and when the graves are rent,
Shalt thou have safety? shalt thou look for life
When the great light of the broad sun is spent?”

“These elements shall consummate their strife,
This heaven and earth shall shrivel like a scroll
And then be re-created, beauty-rife.”

“Who shall abide it when from pole to pole
The world's foundations shall be overthrown?
Who shall abide to scan the perfect whole?”

“He who hath strength given to him, not his own;
He who hath faith in that which is not seen,
And patient hope; who trusts in love alone.”

156

“Yet thou! the death-struggle must intervene
Ere thou win rest; think better of it; think
Of all that is and shall be, and hath been.”

“The cup my Father giveth me to drink,
Shall I not take it meekly? though my heart
Tremble a moment, it shall never shrink.”

“Satan will wrestle with thee, when thou art
In the last agony; and Death will bring
Sins to remembrance ere thy spirit part.”

“In that great hour of unknown suffering
God shall be with me, and His arm made bare
Shall fight for me: yea, underneath His wing
I shall lie safe at rest and freed from care.”

Death.

“The grave-worm revels now”
Upon the pure white brow,
And on the eyes so dead and dim,
And on each putrifying limb,
And on the neck 'neath the long hair;
Now from the rosy lips
He damp corruption sips,
Banquetting everywhere.
Creeping up and down through the silken tresses
That once were smoothed by her husband's caresses,
In her mouth, and on her breast
Where the babe might never rest
In giving birth to whom she lost her life;
She gave all and she gave in vain,
Nor saw the purchase of her pain,
Poor mother and poor wife.

Was she too young to die?
Nay, young in sorrow and in years,
Her heart was old in faith and love;

157

Her eyes were ever fixed above,
They were not dimmed by tears.
And as the time went swiftly by
She was even as a stately palm
Beside still waters, where a dove
Broodeth in perfect calm.
Yea, she was as a gentle breeze
To which a thousand tones are given;
To tell of freshness to the trees,
Of roses to the honey-bees,
Of Summer to the distant seas,
And unto all of Heaven.

They rest together in one grave,
The mother and her infant child,
The holy and the undefiled:
Let none weep that ye could not save
So much of beauty from the earth;
It is not death ye see, though they
Pass into foulness and decay;
It is the second birth.

A Hopeless Case.

(Nydia.)

All night I dream of that which cannot be:
And early in the morning I awake
My whole heart saddened for a vision's sake.
I in my sleep have joy; but woe is me!
Thro' the long day the shadowy pleasures flee
And are not: wherefore I would gladly take
Some warm and poppied potion that might make
My slumbers long which pass so pleasantly.
And if I slept and never woke again,
But dreamed on with a happy consciousness
Of grass and flowers and perfect rest from pain,
I would leave hope a thousand times found vain,

158

And own a twilight solitude doth bless
Shut in from cold and wind and storm of rain.

Ellen Middleton.

Raise me; undraw the curtain; that is well.
Put up the casement; I would see once more
The golden sun-set flooding sea and shore;
And hearken to the solemn evening-bell
That ringeth out my spirit like a knell.
The tree of love a bitter fruitage bore,
Sweet at the rind but rotten at the core,
Pointing to heaven and bringing down to hell.
I will not name His name, lest the young life
That dieth at my heart should live again;
Strengthening me to renew the weary strife
That ceaseth,—is this death? It is not pain.
Write on my grave: Here lieth a lone wife
Whose faith was hidden and whose love was vain.

St. Andrew's Church.

I listen to the holy antheming
That riseth in thy walls continually,
What while the organ pealeth solemnly
And white-robed men and boys stand up to sing.
I ask my heart with a sad questioning:
“What lov'st thou here?” and my heart answers me:
“Within the shadows of this sanctuary
To watch and pray is a most blessed thing.”
To watch and pray, false heart? it is not so:
Vanity enters with thee, and thy love
Soars not to Heaven, but grovelleth below.
Vanity keepeth guard, lest good should reach
Thy hardness; not the echoes from above
Can rule thy stubborn feelings or can teach.

159

Grown Cold.

Sonnet.

An old man asked me: What is Love? I turned
In mirth away, and would not answer him;
He filled a cup of wine up to the brim,
And yet no sparkling in its depths discerned.
Methought a death fire in his weak eyes burned
While he beholding brightness called it dim;
He sat and chuckled: 'twas a ghastly whim
In one whose spirit had so little learned.
So shall it be with me; but so not I
Shall question: certainly the blessèd thought
Of Love shall linger, when itself is gone.
Oh nest of thorns for dove to brood upon!
Oh painful throbbings of a heart untaught
To rest when all its gladness goeth by!

Zara.

[_]

(see Maturin's “Women.”)

The pale sad face of her I wronged
Upbraids and follows me for ever:
The silent mouth grows many-tongued
To chide me; like some solemn river
Whose every wave hath found a tone
To reason of one truth alone.

She loved and was beloved again:
Why did I spoil her paradise?
Oh fleeting joy and lasting pain!
Oh folly of the heart and eyes!
I loved him more than all; and he,
He also hath forsaken me.

How have I wearied thee false friend?
Answer me, wherein have I erred
That so our happy loves should end?

160

Was it in thought, or deed, or word?
My soul lay bare to thee; disclose
The hidden fountain of my woes.

The Lady Moon is all too bright
Loftily seated in the skies.
They say that love once dimmed her light,
But surely such are poets' lies.
Who knoweth that she ever shone
On rosy cheeked Endymion?

Narcissus looked on his own shade,
And sickened for its loveliness.
Grasping, he saw its beauties fade
And stretch out into nothingness.
He died, rejecting his own good,
And Echo mourned in solitude.

But wherefore am I left alone?
What was my sin, to merit this?
Of all my friends there is not one
I slighted in my happiness,
My joyful days—oh, very white
One face pursues me day and night.

She loved him even as I love,
For she is dying for his sake.
Oh happy hope that looks above!
Oh happy heart that still can break!
I cannot die, though hope is dead;
He spurned me, and my heart but bled.

Therefore because she did not speak,
Being strong to die and make no sign;
Because her courage waxed not weak,
Strengthened with love as with new wine;
Because she stooped not while she bore,
He will return to her once more.

Perhaps he still may bring her health,
May call her colour back again;
While I shall pine in fame and wealth,

161

Owning that such as these are vain,
And envying her happier fate:—
And yet methinks it is too late.

Thou doubly false to her and me,
Boast of her death and my despair.
Boast if thou canst: on land, on sea,
I will be with thee everywhere;
My soul, let loose by mine own deed,
Shall make thee fear who would'st not heed.

Come, thou glad hour of vengeance, come,
When I may dog him evermore,
May track him to his distant home:
Yea, though he flee from shore to shore
I will be there, the pallid ghost
Of love and hope for ever lost.

Old memories shall make him sad,
And thin his hair and change his mien;
He shall remember what he had,
And dream of what he might have been,
Till he shall long for death; yet shrink
From the cold cup that I shall drink.

Who drinketh of that potent draught
May never set it down again.
What matter if one wept or laughed?
It killeth joy and numbeth pain:
It hath sleep for the sorrowful,
And for the sick a perfect lull.

A drowsy lull, a heavy sleep:
Haply it may give such to me:
And if my grave place were dug deep
Beneath the cold earth, verily
Such quietness I would not break,
Not for my cherished vengeance' sake.

Bring me the cup: behold, I choose
For all my portion nothingness.
Bring me the cup: I would not lose

162

One drop of its forgetfulness.
On the grave brink I turn and think
Of thee, before I stoop to drink.

When the glad Summer time is past
Shalt thou not weary of thy life
And turn to seek that home at last
Where never enters fear nor strife?
Yea, at length, in the Autumn weather,
Shall not we twain repose together?

Ruin.

Amid the shade of a deserted hall
I stand and think on much that hath been lost.
How long it is since other step has cross'd
This time-worn floor; that tapestry is all
Worm-eaten; and those columns rise up tall
Yet crumbling to decay; where banners toss'd
Thin spiders' webs hang now; and bitter frost
Has even killed the flowers upon the wall.
Yet once this was a home brim full of life,
Full of the hopes and fears and love of youth,
Full of love's language speaking without sound:
Here honour was enshrined and kindly truth;
Hither the young lord brought his blushing wife,
And here her bridal garlands were unbound.

I sit among green shady valleys oft
Listening to echo-winds sighing of woe;
The grass and flowers are strong and sweet below,
Yea, I am tired and the smooth turf is soft.
I sit and think and never look aloft
Save to the tops of a tall poplar row
That glisten in the wind, whispering low
Of sudden sorrow reaching those who laughed.

163

A very drowsy fountain bubbles near
Catching pale sunbeams o'er it wandering;
Its waters are so clear the stones look through:—
Then sitting by its lazy stream I hear
Silence more loud than any other thing,
What time the trees weep o'er me honeydew.

Listen, and I will tell you of a face
Not lovely, but made beautiful by mind;
Lighted up with dark eyes in which you find
All womanly affections have their place;
Upon her even brow there is no trace
Of passion; many fragrant blossoms bind
Her hair glossy and golden; like a blind
It shadows her round cheeks blush full of grace.
I know now how it is, but it was so:
And when I think upon her bosom heaving,
And her full glistening eyes looking on me
When the poor bird was struggling; I still see
The throbbing tenderness, the virgin glow,
And dream on, not at rest and yet believing.

Wouldst thou give me a heavy jewelled crown
And purple mantle and embroidered vest?
Dear Child, the colours of the glorious west
Are far more gorgeous when the sun sinks down.
The diadem would only make me frown
With its own weight; nay, give me for my crest
Pale violets dreaming in perfect rest,
Or rather leaves withered to Autumn brown.
A purple flowing mantle would but hinder
My careless walk, and an embroidered robe
Would shame me: what is the best man who stepped
On earth, more than the naked worm that crept
Over its surface? Earth shall be a cinder;
Where shall be then the beauty of the globe?

164

I said within myself: I am a fool
To sigh ever for that which being gone
Cannot return: the sun shines as it shone;
Rejoice:—but who can be made glad by rule?
My heart and soul and spirit are no tool
To play with and direct; my cheek is wan
With memory; and ever and anon
I weep feeling life is a weary school.
There is much noise and bustle in the street;
It used to be so, and it is so now;
All are the same, and will be many a year.
Spirit, that canst not break and wilt not bow,
Fear not the cold, thou who hast borne the heat;—
Die if thou wilt; but what hast thou to fear?

Methinks the ills of life I fain would shun;
But then I must shun life which is a blank:
Even in my childhood oft my spirit sank
Thinking of all that had still to be done.
Among my many friends there is not one
Like her with whom I sat upon the bank
Willow-o'er-shadowed; from whose lips I drank
A love more pure than streams that sing and run.
But many times that joy has cost a sigh;
And many times I in my heart have sought
For the old comfort, and not found it yet:
Surely in that calm day when I shall die
The painful thought will be a blessed thought,
And I shall sorrow that I must forget.

Strange voices sing among the planets which
Move on for ever; in the old sea's foam
There is a prophecy; in Heaven's blue dome
Great beacon fires are lighted; black as pitch
Is night, and yet star jewels make it rich;
And if the moon lights up her cloudy home
The darkness flees, and forth strange gleamings roam

165

Lighting up hill and vale and mound and ditch.
Earth is full of all questions that all ask;
And she alone of heavy silence full
Answereth not: what is it severeth
Us from the spirits that we would be with?
Or is it that our fleshly ear is dull,
And our own shadow hides light with a mask?

“Sleep, sleep, happy child;
“All creation slept and smiled.” Blake.

Sleep, sleep, happy one;
Thy night is but just begun.
Sleep in peace; still angels keep
Holy watches o'er thy sleep.

Softest breasts are pillowing,
Softest wings are shadowing
Thy calm slumber; little child,
Sleep in thy white robes undefiled.

There is no more aching now
In thy heart or in thy brow.
The red blood upon thy breast
Cannot scare away thy rest.

Though thy hands are clasped as when
A man thou prayedst among men,
Thy pains are lulled, thy tears are dried,
And thy wants are satisfied.

Sleep, sleep; what quietness
After the world's noise is this!
Sleep on, where the hush and shade
Like a veil are round thee laid.

At thy head a cross is hewn
Whereon shines the Advent moon:
Through all the hours of the night
Its shadow rests on thee aright.

166

In temptation thou wert firm;
Now have patience with the worm.
Yet a little while, and he
And death and sin shall bow to thee.

Yet a little while, and thou
Shalt have a crown upon thy brow,
And a palm branch in thy hand
Where the holy angels stand.

Sleep, sleep, till the chime
Sound of the last matin prime:
Sleep on until the morn
Of another Advent dawn.

What Sappho would have said had her leap cured instead of killing her.

Love, Love, that having found a heart
And left it, leav'st it desolate;—
Love, Love, that art more strong than Hate,
More lasting and more full of art;—
O blessèd Love, return, return,
Brighten the flame that needs must burn.

Among the stately lilies pale,
Among the roses flushing red,
I seek a flower meet for my head,
A wreath wherewith to bind my veil:
I seek in vain; a shadow-pain
Lies on my heart; and all in vain.

The rose hath too much life in it;
The lily is too much at rest.
Surely a blighted rose were best,
Or cankered lily flower more fit;
Or purple violet, withering
While yet the year is in its spring.

167

I walk down by the river side
Where the low willows touch the stream;
Beneath the ripple and sun-gleam
The slippery cold fishes glide,
Where flags and reeds and rushes lave
Their roots in the unsullied wave.

Methinks this is a drowsy place:
Disturb me not; I fain would sleep:
The very winds and waters keep
Their voices under; and the race
Of Time seems to stand still, for here
Is night or twilight all the year.

A very holy hushedness
Broods here for ever: like a dove
That, having built its nest above
A quiet place, feels the excess
Of calm sufficient, and would fain
Not wake, but drowse on without pain.

And slumbering on its mossy nest
Haply hath dreams of pleasant Spring;
And in its vision prunes its wing
And takes swift flight, yet is at rest.
Yea, is at rest: and still the calm
Is wrapped around it like a charm.

I would have quiet too in truth,
And here will sojourn for a while.
Lo; I have wandered many a mile,
Till I am foot-sore in my youth.
I will lie down; and quite forget
The doubts and fears that haunt me yet.

My pillow underneath my head
Shall be green grass; thick fragrant leaves
My canopy; the spider weaves
Meet curtains for my narrow bed;
And the dew can but cool my brow
That is so dry and burning now.

168

Ah, would that it could reach my heart,
And fill the void that is so dry
And aches and aches;—but what am I
To shrink from my self-purchased part?
It is in vain; is all in vain;
I must go forth and bear my pain.

Must bear my pain, till Love shall turn
To me in pity and come back.
His footsteps left a smouldering track
When he went forth, that still doth burn.
Oh come again, thou pain divine,
Fill me and make me wholly thine.

On Keats.

A garden in a garden: a green spot
Where all is green: most fitting slumber-place
For the strong man grown weary of a race
Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot
Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not,
But his own daisies: silence, full of grace,
Surely hath shed a quiet on his face:
His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot.
What was his record of himself, ere he
Went from us? Here lies one whose name was writ
In water: while the chilly shadows flit
Of sweet Saint Agnes' Eve; while basil springs,
His name, in every humble heart that sings,
Shall be a fountain of love, verily.

Have Patience.

The goblets all are broken,
The pleasant wine is spilt,
The songs cease; if thou wilt,
Listen, and hear truth spoken.

169

We take thought for the morrow,
And know not we shall see it;
We look on death with sorrow,
And cannot flee it.
Youth passes like the lightning,
Not to return again;
Just for a little bright'ning
The confines of a plain;
Gilding the spires, and whitening
The grave-stones and the slain.
Youth passes like the odour
From the white rose's cup,
When the hot sun drinks up
The dew that overflowed her:
Then life forsakes the petals
That had been very fair;
No beauty lingers there,
And no bee settles.
But when the rose is dead,
And the leaves fallen;
And when the earth has spread
A snow-white pall on;
The thorn remains, once hidden
By the green growth above it;
A darksome guest unbidden,
With none to love it.
Manhood is turbulent,
And old age tires;
That, hath no still content,
This, no desires.
The present hath even less
Joy than the past,
And more cares fret it:—
Life is a weariness
From first to last:—
Let us forget it.
Fill high and deep:—but how?
The goblets all are broken.

170

Nay then, have patience now:
For this is but a token
We soon shall have no need
Of such to cheer us:
The palm-branches, decreed,
And crowns, to be our meed,
Are very near us.

To Lalla, reading my verses topsy-turvy.

Darling little Cousin,
With your thoughtful look
Reading topsy-turvy
From a printed book

English hieroglyphics,
More mysterious
To you, than Egyptian
Ones would be to us;—

Leave off for a minute
Studying, and say
What is the impression
That those marks convey?

Only solemn silence,
And a wondering smile:
But your eyes are lifted
Unto mine the while.

In their gaze so steady
I can surely trace
That a happy spirit
Lighteth up your face.

Tender, happy spirit,
Innocent and pure;
Teaching more than science,
And than learning more.

171

How should I give answer
To that asking look?
Darling little Cousin
Go back to your book.

Read on: if you knew it,
You have cause to boast:—
You are much the wisest,
Though I know the most.

Sonnet.

[Some say that love and joy are one: and so]

Some say that love and joy are one: and so
They are indeed in heaven, but not on earth.
Our hearts are made too narrow for the girth
Of love, which is infinity; below
The portion we can compass may bring woe;
Of this the Church bears witness from her birth:
And though a throne in heaven be more than worth
Tears, it is pain that makes them overflow.
Think of the utter grief that fell on them
Who knew that they should see his face no more,
When, strong in faith and love, he went before,
Bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem,
And yet the bitter parting scarcely bore,
Though burning for a martyr's diadem.

The last Complaint.

Woe is me! an old man said
Stretched upon his dying bed:
Woe is me! for life is short;
And one hour cannot be bought
With great treasure or long thought.
What have all my days been worth?

172

Weary labour without gain,
Pleasure ending in much pain,
Planting that brought forth no fruit,
Tree of life struck at the root,
Were my portion from my birth:
But my cold heart sickeneth
Shrinking from the touch of death;
And I fain would have again
Toil and weariness and pain
For a short time more on earth.
Yet the time was troublesome,
And the days lagged slowly on;
Surely it is better so:
And I cannot grieve to go
Hence. How fast the shadows come:—
Light and darkness both grow wan:—
Is that fire? it is not heat.
Cover up my face and feet;
Stand back; do not speak to me:
I would think how it will be
When the sun is blotted from
My existence, and the worm
Dwells with me as friend with friend
For a certain measured term.
But his term will have an end:
Then I shall be quite alone,
Quite alone without a sound;
For no wind beneath the ground
Can come jarring bone with bone.
Without eyes I shall behold
Darkness, and shall feel the cold
Without nerves, or brain, or flesh;—
Oh sweet air that blowest fresh;
Oh sweet stars that glimmer through
The dim casement;—I shall soon
Have a sod instead of you.
Draw the curtains, while I wake
Who shall sleep; and let me lie

173

In the blackness, till I die;
For I cannot bear to take
My last look of the clear moon.

Have you forgotten?

Have you forgotten how one Summer night
We wandered forth together with the moon,
While warm winds hummed to us a sleepy tune?
Have you forgotten how you praised both light
And darkness; not embarrassed yet not quite
At ease? and how you said the glare of noon
Less pleased you than the stars? but very soon
You blushed, and seemed to doubt if you were right.
We wandered far and took no note of time;
Till on the air there came the distant call
Of church bells: we turned hastily, and yet
Ere we reached home sounded a second chime.
But what; have you indeed forgotten all?
Ah how then is it I cannot forget?

A Christmas Carol, (on the stroke of Midnight.)

Thank God, thank God, we do believe,
Thank God that this is Christmas Eve.
Even as we kneel upon this day,
Even so the ancient legends say
Nearly two thousand years ago
The stalled ox knelt, and even so
The ass knelt full of praise which they
Could not express, while we can pray.
Thank God, thank God, for Christ was born
Ages ago, as on this morn:
In the snow-season undefiled

174

God came to earth a little Child;
He put His ancient glory by
To live for us, and then to die.

How shall we thank God? how shall we
Thank Him and praise Him worthily?
What will He have Who loved us thus,
What presents will He take from us?
Will He take gold, or precious heap
Of gems, or shall we rather steep
The air with incense, or bring myrrh?
What man will be our messenger
To go to Him and ask His Will?
Which having learned we will fulfil
Tho' He choose all we most prefer:—
What man will be our messenger?

Thank God, thank God, the Man is found,
Sure-footed, knowing well the ground:
He knows the road, for this the way
He travelled once, as on this day.
He is our Messenger; beside,
He is our Door, and Path, and Guide;
He also is our Offering,
He is the Gift that we must bring.
Let us kneel down with one accord
And render thanks unto the Lord:
For unto us a Child is born
Upon this happy Christmas morn;
For unto us a Son is given,
Firstborn of God and Heir of Heaven.

For Advent.

Sweet sweet sound of distant waters falling
On a parched and thirsty plain;
Sweet sweet song of soaring skylark, calling
On the sun to shine again;

175

Perfume of the rose, only the fresher
For past fertilizing rain;
Pearls amid the sea, a hidden treasure
For some daring hand to gain;—
Better, dearer than all these
Is the earth beneath the trees:
Of a much more priceless worth
Is the old, brown, common earth.

Little snow-white lamb piteously bleating
For thy mother far away;
Saddest, sweetest nightingale retreating
With thy sorrow from the day;
Weary fawn whom night has overtaken,
From the herd gone quite astray;
Dove whose nest was rifled and forsaken
In the budding month of May;—
Roost upon the leafy trees;
Lie on earth and take your ease:
Death is better far than birth,
You shall turn again to earth.

Listen to the never pausing murmur
Of the waves that fret the shore:
See the ancient pine that stands the firmer
For the storm-shock that it bore;
And the moon her silver chalice filling
With light from the great sun's store;
And the stars which deck our temple's ceiling
As the flowers deck its floor;
Look and hearken while you may,
For these things shall pass away:
All these things shall fail and cease;
Let us wait the end in peace.

Let us wait the end in peace; for truly
That shall cease which was before:
Let us see our lamps are lighted, duly
Fed with oil, nor wanting more:
Let us pray while yet the Lord will hear us,

176

For the time is almost o'er;
Yea, the end of all is very near us;
Yea, the Judge is at the door.
Let us pray now while we may;
It will be too late to pray
When the quick and dead shall all
Rise at the last trumpet call.

Two Pursuits.

A voice said: “Follow, follow:” and I rose
And followed far into the dreamy night,
Turning my back upon the pleasant light.
It led me where the bluest water flows,
And would not let me drink; where the corn grows
I dared not pause, but went uncheered by sight
Or touch; until at length in evil plight
It left me, wearied out with many woes.
Some time I sat as one bereft of sense:
But soon another voice from very far
Called: “Follow, follow:” and I rose again.
Now on my night has dawned a blessèd star;
Kind, steady hands my sinking steps sustain,
And will not leave me till I shall go hence.

Looking forward.

Sleep, let me sleep, for I am sick of care;
Sleep, let me sleep, for my pain wearies me.
Shut out the light; thicken the heavy air
With drowsy incense; let a distant stream
Of music lull me, languid as a dream,
Soft as the whisper of a Summer sea.

Pluck me no rose that groweth on a thorn,
Nor myrtle white and cold as snow in June,

177

Fit for a virgin on her marriage morn:
But bring me poppies brimmed with sleepy death,
And ivy choking what it garlandeth,
And primroses that open to the moon.

Listen, the music swells into a song,
A simple song I loved in days of yore;
The echoes take it up and up along
The hills, and the wind blows it back again.—
Peace, peace, there is a memory in that strain
Of happy days that shall return no more.

Oh peace, your music wakeneth old thought,
But not old hope that made my life so sweet,
Only the longing that must end in nought.
Have patience with me, friends, a little while:
For soon where you shall dance and sing and smile,
My quickened dust may blossom at your feet.

Sweet thought that I may yet live and grow green,
That leaves may yet spring from the withered root,
And buds and flowers and berries half unseen;
Then if you haply muse upon the past,
Say this: Poor child, she hath her wish at last;
Barren through life, but in death bearing fruit.

Life hidden.

Roses and lilies grow above the place
Where she sleeps the long sleep that doth not dream.
If we could look upon her hidden face
Nor shadow would be there nor garish gleam
Of light: her life is lapsing like a stream
That makes no noise but floweth on apace
Seawards; while many a shade and shady beam
Vary the ripples in their gliding chase.
She doth not see, but knows: she doth not feel,
And yet is sensible: she hears no sound,

178

Yet counts the flight of time and doth not err.
Peace far and near; peace to ourselves and her:
Her body is at peace in holy ground,
Her spirit is at peace where Angels kneel.

Queen Rose.

The jessamine shows like a star;
The lilies sway like sceptres slim;
Fair clematis from near and far
Sets forth its wayward tangled whim;
Curved meadowsweet blooms rich and dim;—
But yet a rose is fairer far.

The jessamine is odorous; so
Maid lilies are, and clematis;
And where tall meadowsweet flowers grow
A rare and subtle perfume is;—
What can there be more choice than these?—
A rose when it doth bud and blow.

Let others choose sweet jessamine,
Or weave their lily crown aright,
And let who love it pluck and twine
Loose clematis; or draw delight
From meadowsweet's clustry downy white;—
The rose, the perfect rose be mine.

How one chose.

“Beyond the sea, in a green land
Where only rivers are;—
Beyond the clouds, in the clear sky
Close by some quiet star;—
Could you not fancy there might be
A home Beloved for you and me?”

179

“If there were such a home my Friend
Truly prepared for us
Full of palm branches or of crowns
Sun-gemmed and glorious,
How should we reach it? let us cease
From longing; let us be at peace.”

“The nightingale sang yestereve;
A sweet song singeth she:
Most sad and without any hope
And full of memory;
But still methought it seemed to speak
To me of home, and bid me seek.”

“The nightingale ceased ere the morn:
Her heart could not contain
The passion of her song, but burst
With the loud throbbing pain.
Now she hath rest which is the best,
And now I too would be at rest.”

“Last night I watched the mounting moon:
Her glory was too pale
To shine thro' the black heavy clouds
That wrapped her like a veil;
And yet with patience she passed thro'
The mists and reached the depths of blue.”

“And when the road was travelled o'er
And when the goal was won
A little while and all her light
Was swallowed by the sun:
The weary moon must seek again;
Even so our search would be in vain.”

“Yet seek with me. And if our way
Be long and troublesome,
And if our noon be hot until
The chilly shadows come
Of evening;—till those shadows flee
In dawn, think Love it is with me.”

180

“Nay seek alone: I am no mate
For such as you, in truth:
My heart is old before its time;
Yours yet is in its youth:
This home with pleasures girt about
Seek you, for I am wearied out.”

Seeking rest.

My Mother said: The child is changed
That used to be so still;
All the day long she sings, and sings,
And seems to think no ill;
She laughs as if some inward joy
Her heart would overfill.

My Sisters said: Now prithee tell
Thy secret unto us:
Let us rejoice with thee; for all
Is surely prosperous,
Thou art so merry: tell us Sweet:
We had not used thee thus.

My Mother says: What ails the child
Lately so blythe of cheer?
Art sick or sorry? nay, it is
The Winter of the year;
Wait till the Spring time comes again
And the sweet flowers appear.

My Sisters say: Come, sit with us,
That we may weep with thee:
Show us thy grief that we may grieve:
Yea, haply, if we see
Thy sorrow, we may ease it; but
Shall share it certainly.

How should I share my pain, who kept
My pleasure all my own?

181

My Spring will never come again;
My pretty flowers have blown
For the last time; I can but sit
And think and weep alone.

A Year Afterwards.

Things are so changed since last we met:
Come; I will show you where she lies.
Doubtless the old look fills her eyes,
And the old patient smile is set
Upon her mouth: it was even so
When last I saw her stretched and still,
So pale and calm I could not weep:
The steady sweetness did not go
Thro' the long week she lay asleep,
Until the dust was heaped on her.
Now many-feathered grasses grow
Above her bosom: come; I will
Show you all this, and we can talk
Going; it is a pleasant walk
And the wind makes it pleasanter.

This is the very path that she
So often trod with eager feet
Tho' weary. The dusk branches meet
Above, making green fretted work,
The screen between my saint and me.
There, where the softest sunbeams lurk,
Cannot you fancy she may be
Leaning down to me from her rest;
And shaking her long golden hair
Thro' the thick branches to my face,
That I may feel she still is mine?—
Is not this wood a pleasant place?
To me the faintest breath of air
Seems here to whisper tenderly
That she, mine own, will not forget.

182

It may be selfishness; and yet
I like to think her joy may not
Be perfected, although divine
In all the glory of the blest,
Without me: that the greenest spot
And shadiest, would not suffice,
Without me, even in Paradise.

But we must leave the wood to go
Across the sunny fields of wheat;
I used to fancy that the grass
And daisies loved to touch her feet.
This was the way we used to pass
Together; rain nor wind nor snow
Could hinder her, until her strength
Failed utterly; and when at length
She was too weak, they put her bed
Close to the window; there she lay
Counting the Church chimes one by one
For many weeks: at last a day
Came when her patient watch was done,
And some one told me she was dead.

Now we can see the Church tower; look,
Where the old flaky yew trees stand.
There is a certain shady nook
Among them, where she used to sit
When weary: I have held her hand
So often there: one day she said
That sometimes, when we sat so, she
Could fancy what being dead must be,
And long for it if shared by me:—
She had no cause for dreading it,
And never once conceived my dread.

This path leads to the Western door
Where the sun casts his latest beam,
And hard beside it is her grave.
I sowed those grasses there that wave
Like down, but would sow nothing more,

183

No flowers, as if her resting place
Could want for sweetness; where she is
Is sweetest of all sweetnesses.
If you look closely, you can trace
A Cross formed by the grass, above
Her head: and sometimes I could dream
She sees the Cross, and feels the love
That planted it; and prays that I
May come and share her hidden rest;
May even lie where she doth lie,
With the same turf above my breast,
And the same stars and silent sky.

Two thoughts of Death.

1

Her heart that loved me once is rottenness
Now and corruption; and her life is dead
That was to have been one with mine she said.
The earth must lie with such a cruel stress
On her eyes where the white lids used to press;
Foul worms fill up her mouth so sweet and red;
Foul worms are underneath her graceful head.
Yet these, being born of her from nothingness
These worms are certainly flesh of her flesh.—
How is it that the grass is rank and green,
And the dew dropping rose is brave and fresh
Above what was so sweeter far than they?
Even as her beauty hath passed quite away
Their's too shall be as tho' it had not been.

2

So I said underneath the dusky trees:
But because I still loved her memory
I stooped to pluck a pale anemone
And lo! my hand lighted upon heartsease

184

Not fully blown: while with new life from these
Fluttered a starry moth that rapidly
Rose toward the sun: sunlighted flashed on me
Its wings that seemed to throb like heart pulses.
Far far away it flew far out of sight,
From earth and flowers of earth it passed away
As tho' it flew straight up into the light.
Then my heart answered me: Thou fool to say
That she is dead whose night is turned to day,
And whose day shall no more turn back to night.

Three Moments.

The Child said: “Pretty bird
“Come back and play with me.”
The bird said: “It is in vain,
“For I am free.
“I am free, I will not stay,
“But will fly far away,
“In the woods to sing and play,
“Far away, far away.”
The Child sought her Mother:
“I have lost my bird;” said she
Weeping bitterly:
But the Mother made her answer,
Half sighing pityingly,
Half smiling cheerily:
“Tho' thy bird come nevermore
“Do not weep;
“Find another playfellow
“Child, and keep
“Tears for future pain more deep.”

“Sweet rose do not wither,”
The Girl said.
But a blight had touched its heart
And it drooped its crimson head.
In the morning it had opened

185

Full of life and bloom,
But the leaves fell one by one
Till the twilight gloom.
One by one the leaves fell
By summer winds blown from their stem;
They fell upon the dewy earth
Which nourished once now tainted them.
Again the young Girl wept
And sought her Mother's ear:
“My rose is dead so full of grace,
“The very rose I meant to place
“In the wreath that I wear.”
“Nay, never weep for such as this;”
The Mother answered her:
“But weave another crown, less fair
“Perhaps, but fitter for thy hair.
“And keep thy tears,” the Mother said:
“For something heavier.”

The Woman knelt; but did not pray
Nor weep nor cry; she only said:
“Not this, not this:” and clasped her hands
Against her heart and bowed her head
While the great struggle shook the bed.
“Not this, not this:” tears did not fall:
“Not this:” it was all
She could say; no sobs would come;
The mortal grief was almost dumb.—
At length when it was over, when
She knew it was and would be so,
She cried: “Oh Mother, where are they,
“The tears that used to flow
“So easily? one single drop
“Might save my reason now, or stop
“My heart from breaking. Blessed tears
“Wasted in former years!”
Then the grave Mother made reply:
“Oh Daughter mine be of good cheer,
“Rejoicing thou canst shed no tear.

186

“Thy pain is almost over now.
“Once more thy heart shall throb with pain,
“But then shall never throb again.
“Oh happy thou who canst not weep,
“Oh happy thou!”

Once.

She was whiter than the ermine
That half shadowed neck and hand,
And her tresses were more golden
Than their golden band;
Snowy ostrich plumes she wore
Yet I almost loved her more
In the simple time before.

Then she plucked the stately lilies
Knowing not she was more fair,
And she listened to the skylark
In the morning air.
Then, a kerchief all her crown,
She looked for the acorns brown,
Bent their bough and shook them down.

Then she thought of Christmas holly
And of maybloom in sweet May;
Then she loved to pick the cherries
And to turn the hay.
She was humble then and meek,
And the blush upon her cheek
Told of much she could not speak.

Now she is a noble lady,
With calm voice not overloud;
Very courteous in her action,
Yet you think her proud;
Much too haughty to affect;
Too indifferent to direct,
Or be angry, or suspect;
Doing all from self-respect.

187

Three Nuns.

1.

“Sospira questo core
E non so dir perchè.”

Shadow, shadow on the wall
Spread thy shelter over me;
Wrap me with a heavy pall,
With the dark that none may see.
Fold thyself around me; come:
Shut out all the troublesome
Noise of life; I would be dumb.

Shadow thou hast reached my feet,
Rise and cover up my head;
Be my stainless winding sheet,
Buried before I am dead.
Lay thy cool upon my breast:
Once I thought that joy was best,
Now I only care for rest.

By the grating of my cell
Sings a solitary bird;
Sweeter than the vesper bell,
Sweetest song was ever heard.
Sing upon thy living tree:
Happy echoes answer thee,
Happy songster, sing to me.

When my yellow hair was curled
Though men saw and called me fair,
I was weary in the world
Full of vanity and care.
Gold was left behind, curls shorn
When I came here; that same morn
Made a bride no gems adorn.

Here wrapped in my spotless veil,
Curtained from intruding eyes,

188

I whom prayers and fasts turn pale
Wait the flush of Paradise.
But the vigil is so long
My heart sickens:—sing thy song,
Blithe bird that canst do no wrong.

Sing on, making me forget
Present sorrow and past sin.
Sing a little longer yet:
Soon the matins will begin;
And I must turn back again
To that aching worse than pain
I must bear and not complain.

Sing, that in thy song I may
Dream myself once more a child
In the green woods far away
Plucking clematis and wild
Hyacinths, till pleasure grew
Tired, yet so was pleasure too,
Resting with no work to do.

In the thickest of the wood,
I remember, long ago
How a stately oak tree stood,
With a sluggish pool below
Almost shadowed out of sight.
On the waters dark as night,
Water-lilies lay like light.

There, while yet a child, I thought
I could live as in a dream,
Secret, neither found nor sought:
Till the lilies on the stream,
Pure as virgin purity,
Would seem scarce too pure for me:—
Ah, but that can never be.

“Sweetest eyes were ever seen.” E. B. Browning.

189

2.

“Sospirerà d'amore,
Ma non lo dice a me.”

I loved him, yes, where was the sin?
I loved him with my heart and soul.
But I pressed forward to no goal,
There was no prize I strove to win.
Show me my sin that I may see:—
Throw the first stone, thou Pharisee.

I loved him, but I never sought
That he should know that I was fair.
I prayed for him; was my sin prayer?
I sacrificed, he never bought.
He nothing gave, he nothing took;
We never bartered look for look.

My voice rose in the sacred choir,
The choir of Nuns; do you condemn
Even if, when kneeling among them,
Faith, zeal and love kindled a fire
And I prayed for his happiness
Who knew not? was my error this?

I only prayed that in the end
His trust and hope may not be vain.
I prayed not we may meet again:
I would not let our names ascend,
No, not to Heaven, in the same breath;
Nor will I join the two in death.

Oh sweet is death; for I am weak
And weary, and it giveth rest.
The Crucifix lies on my breast,
And all night long it seems to speak
Of rest; I hear it through my sleep,
And the great comfort makes me weep.

Oh sweet is death that bindeth up
The broken and the bleeding heart.
The draught chilled, but a cordial part

190

Lurked at the bottom of the cup;
And for my patience will my Lord
Give an exceeding great reward.

Yea, the reward is almost won,
A crown of glory and a palm.
Soon I shall sing the unknown psalm;
Soon gaze on light, not on the sun;
And soon, with surer faith, shall pray
For him, and cease not night nor day.

My life is breaking like a cloud;
God judgeth not as man doth judge.—
Nay, bear with me; you need not grudge
This peace; the vows that I have vowed
Have all been kept: Eternal Strength
Holds me, though mine own fails at length.

Bury me in the Convent ground
Among the flowers that are so sweet;
And lay a green turf at my feet,
Where thick trees cast a gloom around.
At my head let a Cross be, white
Through the long blackness of the night.

Now kneel and pray beside my bed
That I may sleep being free from pain:
And pray that I may wake again
After His Likeness, Who hath said
(Faithful is He Who promiseth,)
We shall be satisfied Therewith.

3.

“Rispondimi, cor mio,
Perchè sospiri tu?
Risponde: Voglio Iddio,
Sospiro per Gesù.”

My heart is as a freeborn bird
Caged in my cruel breast,
That flutters, flutters evermore,

191

Nor sings, nor is at rest.
But beats against the prison bars,
As knowing its own nest
Far off beyond the clouded West.

My soul is as a hidden fount
Shut in by clammy clay,
That struggles with an upward moan;
Striving to force its way
Up through the turf, over the grass,
Up, up into the day,
Where twilight no more turneth grey.

Oh for the grapes of the True Vine
Growing in Paradise,
Whose tendrils join the Tree of Life
To that which maketh wise.
Growing beside the Living Well
Whose sweetest waters rise
Where tears are wiped from tearful eyes.

Oh for the waters of that Well
Round which the Angels stand.
Oh for the Shadow of the Rock
On my heart's weary land.
Oh for the Voice to guide me when
I turn to either hand,
Guiding me till I reach Heaven's strand.

Thou World from which I am come out,
Keep all thy gems and gold;
Keep thy delights and precious things,
Thou that art waxing old.
My heart shall beat with a new life,
When thine is dead and cold:
When thou dost fear I shall be bold.

When Earth shall pass away with all
Her pride and pomp of sin,
The City builded without hands
Shall safely shut me in.

192

All the rest is but vanity
Which others strive to win:
Where their hopes end my joys begin.

I will not look upon a rose
Though it is fair to see:
The flowers planted in Paradise
Are budding now for me.
Red roses like love visible
Are blowing on their tree,
Or white like virgin purity.

I will not look unto the sun
Which setteth night by night:
In the untrodden courts of Heaven
My crown shall be more bright.
Lo, in the New Jerusalem
Founded and built aright
My very feet shall tread on light.

With foolish riches of this World
I have bought treasure, where
Nought perisheth: for this white veil
I gave my golden hair;
I gave the beauty of my face
For vigils, fasts and prayer;
I gave all for this Cross I bear.

My heart trembled when first I took
The vows which must be kept;
At first it was a weariness
To watch when once I slept.
The path was rough and sharp with thorns;
My feet bled as I stepped;
The Cross was heavy and I wept.

While still the names rang in mine ears
Of daughter, sister, wife;
The outside world still looked so fair
To my weak eyes, and rife

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With beauty; my heart almost failed;
Then in the desperate strife
I prayed, as one who prays for life,

Until I grew to love what once
Had been so burdensome.
So now when I am faint, because
Hope deferred seems to numb
My heart, I yet can plead; and say
Although my lips are dumb:
“The Spirit and the Bride say, Come.”

Song.

[We buried her among the flowers]

We buried her among the flowers
At falling of the leaf,
And choked back all our tears; her joy
Could never be our grief.

She lies among the living flowers
And grass, the only thing
That perishes;—or is it that
Our Autumn was her Spring?

Doubtless, if we could see her face,
The smile is settled there
Which almost broke our hearts, when last
We knelt by her in prayer.

When with tired eyes and failing breath
And hands crossed on her breast
Perhaps she saw her Guardian spread
His wings above her rest.

So she sleeps hidden in the flowers:
But yet a little while
And we shall see her wake, and rise
Fair, with the selfsame smile.

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The Watchers.

She fell asleep among the flowers
In the sober Autumn hours.

Three there are about her bed,
At her side and feet and head.

At her head standeth the Cross
For which all else she counted loss:

Still and steadfast at her feet
Doth her Guardian Angel sit:

Prayers of truest love abide
Wrapping her on every side.

The Holy Cross standeth alone,
Beneath the white moon, whitest stone.

Evil spirits come not near
Its shadow, shielding from all fear;

Once she bore it in her breast,
Now it certifies her rest.

Humble violets grow around
Its base, sweetening the grassy ground,

Leaf-hidden; so she hid from praise
Of men her pious holy ways.

Higher about it, twining close,
Clingeth a crimson thorny rose;

So from her heart's good seed of love
Thorns sprang below, flowers spring above.

Tho' yet his vigil doth not cease,
Her Angel sits in perfect peace,

With white folded wings; for she
He watches, now is pure as he.

He watches with his loving eyes
For the day when she shall rise;

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When full of glory and of grace
She shall behold him face to face.

Tho' she is safe for ever, yet
Human love doth not forget;

But prays that in her deep
Grave she may sleep a blessed sleep,

Till when time and the world are past
She may find mercy at the last.

So these three do hedge her in
From sorrow as death does from sin.

So freed from earthly taint and pain
May they all meet in Heaven. Amen.

Annie.

Annie is fairer than her kith
And kinder than her kin;
Her eyes are like the open heaven
Holy and pure from sin;
Her heart is like an ordered house
Good fairies harbour in;
Oh happy he who wins the love
That I can never win.

Her sisters stand as hyacinths
Around the perfect rose:
They bloom and open to the full,
My bud will scarce unclose;
They are for every butterfly
That comes and sips and goes,
My bud hides in the tender green
Most sweet and hardly shows.

Oh cruel kindness in soft eyes
That are no more than kind,
On which I gaze my heart away
Till the tears make me blind.

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How is it others find the way
That I can never find
To make her laugh that sweetest laugh
Which leaves all else behind?

Her hair is like the golden corn
A low wind breathes upon;
Or like the golden harvest moon
When all the mists are gone;
Or like a stream with golden sands
On which the sun has shone
Day after day in summer time
Ere autumn leaves are wan.

I will not tell her that I love
Lest she should turn away
With sorrow in her tender heart
Which now is light and gay.
I will not tell her that I love
Lest she should turn and say
That we must meet no more again
For many a weary day.

A Dirge.

She was as sweet as violets in the Spring,
As fair as any rose in Summer time:
But frail are roses in their prime
And violets in their blossoming.
Even so was she:
And now she lies,
The earth upon her fast closed eyes,
Dead in the darkness silently.

The sweet Spring violets never bud again,
The roses bloom and perish in a morn:
They see no second quickening lying lorn;
Their beauty dies as tho' in vain.
Must she die so
For evermore,

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Cold as the sand upon the shore,
As passionless for joy and woe?—

Nay, she is worth much more than flowers that fade
And yet shall be made fair with purple fruit;
Branch of the Living Vine, Whose Root
From all eternity is laid.
Another Sun
Than this of our's,
Has withered up indeed her flowers
But ripened her grapes every one.

Song.

[It is not for her even brow]

It is not for her even brow
And shining yellow hair,
But it is for her tender eyes
I think my love so fair;
Her telltale eyes that smile and weep
As frankly as they wake and sleep.

It is not for her rounded cheek
I love and fain would win,
But it is for the blush that comes
Straight from the heart within;
The honest blush of maiden shame
That blushes without thought of blame.

So in my dreams I never hear
Her song, although she sings
As if a choir of spirits swept
From earth with throbbing wings;
I only hear the simple voice
Whose love makes many hearts rejoice.

A Dream.

Oh for my love, my only love,
Oh for my lost love far away!—

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Oh that the grass were green above
Her head or mine this weary day:—
The grass green in the morning grey.

She lies down in a foreign land
And in a foreign land doth rise.
I cannot hold her by the hand;
I cannot read her speaking eyes
That turned mere spoken words to lies.

This is the bough she leaned upon
And watched the rose deep western sky,
For the last sun rays almost gone:
I did not hear the wind pass by,
Nor stream; I only heard her sigh.

I saw the tears that did not fall,
I saw the blush upon her cheek,
The trembling hand so white and small:
She did not speak, I could not speak:—
Oh that strong love should make us weak.

Therefore we parted as we met,
She on her way, and I on mine.
I think her tender heart was set
On holier things and more Divine:—
We parted thus and gave no sign.

Oh that the grass were green above
Her head or mine; so I could pray
In certain faith for her my love,
Unchanging, all the night and day:
Most near altho' most far away.

“A fair World tho' a fallen.”—

You tell me that the world is fair, in spite
Of the old fall; and that I should not turn
So to the grave, and let my spirit yearn
After the quiet of the long last night.

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Have I then shut mine eyes against the light,
Grief-deafened lest my spirit should discern?
Yet how could I keep silence when I burn?
And who can give me comfort?—hear the right.
Have patience with the weak and sick at heart:
Bind up the wounded with a tender touch.
Comfort the sad, tear-blinded as they go:—
For tho' I failed to choose the better part,
Were it a less unutterable woe
If we should come to love this world too much?—

Advent.

“Come,” thou dost say to Angels,
To blessed Spirits, “Come”;
“Come,” to the Lambs of Thine Own flock,
Thy little Ones, “Come home.”

“Come,” from the many-mansioned house
The gracious word is sent,
“Come,” from the ivory palaces
Unto the Penitent.

O Lord, restore us deaf and blind,
Unclose our lips tho' dumb;
Then say to us, “I come with speed,”
And we will answer, “Come.”

All Saints.

They have brought gold and spices to my King,
Incense and precious stuffs and ivory;
O holy Mother mine, what can I bring
That so my Lord may deign to look on me?
They sing a sweeter song than I can sing,
All crowned and glorified exceedingly;
I, bound on earth, weep for my trespassing,
They sing the song of love in Heaven, set free.

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Then answered me my Mother, and her voice,
Spake to my heart, yea, answered in my heart:
Sing, saith He, to the Heavens, to Earth, rejoice;
Thou, also, lift thy heart to Him above;
He seeks not thine, but thee, such as thou art,
For lo! His banner over thee is Love.

“Eye hath not seen.”

Our feet shall tread upon the stars
Less bright than we.
The everlasting shore shall bound
A fairer sea
Than that which cold
Now glitters in the sun like gold.

Oh good, oh blest: but who shall say
How fair, how fair,
Is the Light-region where no cloud
Darkens the air,
Where weary eyes
Rest on the green of Paradise?

There cometh not the wind, nor rain,
Nor sun, nor snow;
The trees of Knowledge and of Life
Bud there and blow,
Their leaves and fruit
Fed from an undecaying root.

There Angels flying to and fro
Are not more white
Than Penitents some while ago,
Now Saints in Light:
Once soiled and sad;
Cleansed now and crowned, fulfilled and glad.

Now yearning thro' the perfect rest
Perhaps they gaze
Earthwards upon their best beloved

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In all earth's ways:
Longing, but not
With pain, as used to be their lot.

The hush of that beatitude
Is ages long,
Sufficing Virgins, Prophets, Saints,
Till the new song
Shall be sent up
From lips which drained the bitter cup.

If but the thought of Paradise
Gives joy on earth,
What shall it be to enter there
Thro' second birth?
To find once more
Our dearest treasure gone before?

To find the Shepherd of the Sheep,
The Lamb once slain,
Who leads His Own by living streams.
Never again
To thirst, or need
Aught in green pastures where they feed.

But from the Altar comes a cry
Awful and strong
From martyred Saints: How long, they say,
O Lord, how long
Holy and True,
Shall vengeance for our blood be due?

Then the Lord gives them robes of white;
And bids them stay
In patience till the time be full
For the last day:
The day of dread
When the last sentence shall be said.

When heaven and earth shall flee away;
And the great deep
Shall render up her dead, and earth

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Her sons that sleep;
And day of grace
Be hid for ever from Thy Face.

Oh hide us till Thy wrath be past,
Our grief, our shame,
With Peter and with Magdalene
And him whose name
No record tells
Who by Thy promise with Thee dwells.

St. Elizabeth of Hungary.

When if ever life is sweet,
Save in heart in all a child,
A fair virgin undefiled
Knelt she at her Saviour's feet;
While she laid her royal crown,
Thinking it too mean a thing
For a solemn offering,
Careless on the cushions down.

Fair she was as any rose,
But more pale than lilies white,
Her eyes full of deep repose
Seemed to see beyond our sight.
Hush, she is a holy thing:
Hush, her soul is in her eyes
Seeking far in Paradise
For her Light, her Love, her King.

Moonshine.

Fair the sun riseth,
Bright as bright can be,
Fair the sun shineth
On a fair fair sea.

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“Across the water
“Wilt thou come with me,
“Miles and long miles, love,
“Over the salt sea?”—

“If thou wilt hold me
“Truly by the hand,
“I will go with thee
“Over sea and sand.

“If thou wilt hold me
“That I shall not fall,
“I will go with thee,
“Love, in spite of all.”

Fair the moon riseth
On her heavenly way
Making the waters
Fairer than by day.

A little vessel
Rocks upon the sea,
Where stands a maiden
Fair as fair can be.

Her smile rejoices
Though her mouth is mute,
She treads the vessel
With her little foot.

Truly he holds her
Faithful to his pledge,
Guiding the vessel
From the water's edge.

Fair the moon saileth
With her pale fair light,
Fair the girl gazeth
Out into the night.

Saith she: “Like silver
“Shines thy hair, not gold;”—

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Saith she: “I shiver
“In thy steady hold.

“Love,” she saith weeping,
“Loose thy hold awhile,
“My heart is freezing
“In thy freezing smile.”

The moon is hidden
By a silver cloud,
Fair as a halo
Or a maiden's shroud.

No more beseeching,
Ever on they go:
The vessel rocketh
Softly to and fro;

And still he holds her
That she shall not fall,
Till pale mists whiten
Dimly over all.

Onward and onward,
Far across the sea;
Onward and onward,
Pale as pale can be;

Onward and onward,
Ever hand in hand,
From sun and moon light
To another land.

“The Summer is ended.”

Wreathe no more lilies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet:
Or if you will for the last time
Indeed, why make me fair
Once for my windingsheet.

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Pluck no more roses for my breast,
For I like them fade in my prime:
Or if you will, why pluck them still
That they may share my rest
Once more, for the last time.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
Dear tender one, but hope and smile:
Or if you cannot choose but weep
A little while, weep on
Only a little while.

“I look for the Lord.”

Our wealth has wasted all away,
Our pleasures have found wings;
The night is long until the day,
Lord, give us better things:
A ray of light in thirsty night
And secret water springs.

Our love is dead, or sleeps, or else
Is hidden from our eyes:
Our silent love, while no man tells
Or if it lives or dies.
Oh give us love, O Lord, above
In changeless Paradise.

Our house is left us desolate,
Even as Thy word hath said.
Before our face the way is great,
Around us are the dead:
Oh guide us, save us from the grave,
As Thou Thy saints hast led.

Lead us where pleasures evermore
And wealth indeed are placed,
And home on an eternal shore,
And love that cannot waste;

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Where Joy Thou art unto the heart,
And Sweetness to the taste.

Song.

[I have loved you for long long years Ellen]

I have loved you for long long years Ellen,
On you has my heart been set;
I have loved you for long patient years,
But you do not love me yet.

Oh that the sun that rose that day
Had never and never set,
When I wooed and you did not turn away,
Tho' you could not love me yet.

I lay lands and gold at your feet Ellen,
At your feet a coronet,
I lay a true heart at your feet Ellen,
But you do not love me yet.

Oh when I too lie dead at your feet,
And in death my heart is set,
Will you love me then, cold proud Ellen,
Tho' you will not love me yet?—

A Discovery.

“I thought your search was over.”—“So I thought.”—
“But you are seeking still.”—“Yes, even so:
Still seeking in mine own despite below
That which in Heaven alone is found unsought;
Still spending for that thing which is not bought.”—
“Then chase no more this shifting empty show.”—
“Amen: so bid a drowning man forego
The straw he clutches; will he so be taught?
You have a home where peace broods like a dove
Screened from the weary world's loud discontent,

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You have home here, you wait for home above:
I must unlearn the pleasant ways I went,
Must learn another hope, another love,
And sigh indeed for home in banishment.”—

From the Antique.

The wind shall lull us yet,
The flowers shall spring above us;
And those who hate forget,
And those forget who love us.

The pulse of hope shall cease,
Of joy and of regretting:
We twain shall sleep in peace,
Forgotten and forgetting.

For us no sun shall rise,
Nor wind rejoice, nor river,
Where we with fast closed eyes
Shall sleep and sleep for ever.

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness.”

Weep yet a while
Weep till that day shall dawn when thou shalt smile
Watch till the day
When all save only Love shall pass away.

Weep, sick and lonely,
Bow thy heart to tears,
For none shall guess the secret
Of thy griefs and fears.
Weep, till the day dawn,
Refreshing dew:
Weep till the spring;
For genial showers

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Bring up the flowers,
And thou shalt sing
In summer time of blossoming.

Heart sick and silent,
Weep and watch in pain.
Weep for hope perished,
Not to live again;
Weep for love's hope and fear
And passion vain.
Watch till the day
When all save only love shall pass away.

Then love rejoicing
Shall forget to weep;
Shall hope or fear no more,
Or watch, or sleep,
But only love and cease not,
Deep beyond deep.
Now we sow love in tears,
But then shall reap:
Have patience as the Lord's Own flock of sheep:
Have patience with His Love,
Who died below, Who lives for thee above.

“To what purpose is this waste?”

A windy shell singing upon the shore:
A lily budding in a desert place;
Blooming alone
With no companion
To praise its perfect perfume and its grace:
A rose crimson and blushing at the core,
Hedged in with thorns behind it and before:
A fountain in the grass,
Whose shadowy waters pass
Only to nourish birds and furnish food
For squirrels of the wood:

209

An oak deep in the forest's heart, the house
Of black-eyed tiny mouse;
Its strong roots fit for fuel roofing in
The hoarded nuts, acorns and grains of wheat;
Shutting them from the wind and scorching heat,
And sheltering them when the rains begin:

A precious pearl deep buried in the sea
Where none save fishes be:
The fullest merriest note
for which the skylark strains his silver throat,
Heard only in the sky
By other birds that fitfully
Chase one another as they fly:
The ripest plum down tumbled to the ground
By southern winds most musical of sound,
But by no thirsty traveller found:
Honey of wild bees in their ordered cells
Stored, not for human mouths to taste:—
I said, smiling superior down: What waste
Of good, where no man dwells.

This I said on a pleasant day in June
Before the sun had set, tho' a white moon
Already flaked the quiet blue
Which not a star looked thro.’
But still the air was warm, and drowsily
It blew into my face:
So since that same day I had wandered deep
Into the country, I sought out a place
For rest beneath a tree,
And very soon forgot myself in sleep:
Not so mine own words had forgotten me.
Mine eyes were opened to behold
All hidden things,
And mine ears heard all secret whisperings:
So my proud tongue that had been bold
To carp and to reprove,
Was silenced by the force of utter Love.

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All voices of all things inanimate
Join with the song of Angels and the song
Of blessed Spirits, chiming with
Their Hallelujahs. One wind wakeneth
Across the sleeping sea, crisping along
The waves, and brushes thro' the great
Forests and tangled hedges, and calls out
Of rivers a clear sound,
And makes the ripe corn rustle on the ground,
And murmurs in a shell;
Till all their voices swell
Above the clouds in one loud hymn
Joining the song of Seraphim,
Or like pure incense circle round about
The walls of Heaven, or like a well-spring rise
In shady Paradise.

A lily blossoming unseen
Holds honey in its silver cup
Whereon a bee may sup,
Till being full she takes the rest
And stores it in her waxen nest:
While the fair blossom lifted up
On its one stately stem of green
Is type of her, the Undefiled,
Arrayed in white, whose eyes are mild
As a white dove's, whose garment is
Blood-cleansed from all impurities
And earthly taints,
Her robe the righteousness of Saints.

And other eyes than our's
Were made to look on flowers,
Eyes of small birds and insects small:
The deep sun-blushing rose
Round which the prickles close
Opens her bosom to them all.
The tiniest living thing
That soars on feathered wing,

211

Or crawls among the long grass out of sight,
Has just as good a right
To its appointed portion of delight
As any King.

Why should we grudge a hidden water stream
To birds and squirrels while we have enough?
As if a nightingale should cease to sing
Lest we should hear, or finch leafed out of sight
Warbling its fill in summer light;
As if sweet violets in the spring
Should cease to blow, for fear our path should seem
Less weary or less rough.

So every oak that stands a house
For skilful mouse,
And year by year renews its strength,
Shakes acorns from a hundred boughs
Which shall be oaks at length.

Who hath weighed the waters and shall say
What is hidden in the depths from day?
Pearls and precious stones and golden sands,
Wondrous weeds and blossoms rare,
Kept back from human hands,
But good and fair,
A silent praise as pain is silent prayer.
A hymn, an incense rising toward the skies,
As our whole life should rise;
An offering without stint from earth below,
Which Love accepteth so.

Thus is it with a warbling bird,
With fruit bloom-ripe and full of seed,
With honey which the wild bees draw
From flowers, and store for future need
By a perpetual law.
We want the faith that hath not seen
Indeed, but hath believed His truth
Who witnessed that His work was good:

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So we pass cold to age from youth.
Alas for us: for we have heard
And known, but have not understood.

O earth, earth, earth, thou yet shalt bow
Who art so fair and lifted up,
Thou yet shalt drain the bitter cup.
Men's eyes that wait upon thee now,
All eyes shall see thee lost and mean,
Exposed and valued at thy worth,
While thou shalt stand ashamed and dumb.—
Ah, when the Son of Man shall come,
Shall He find faith upon the earth?—

Next of Kin.

The shadows gather round me, while you are in the sun;
My day is almost ended, but yours is just begun:
The winds are singing to us both and the streams are singing still,
And they fill your heart with music, but mine they cannot fill.

Your home is built in sunlight, mine in another day;
Your home is close at hand, sweet friend, but mine is far away:
Your bark is in the haven where you fain would be;
I must launch out into the deep, across the unknown sea.

You, white as dove or lily or spirit of the light;
I, stained and cold and glad to hide in the cold dark night:
You, joy to many a loving heart and light to many eyes;
I, lonely in the knowledge earth is full of vanities.

Yet when your day is over, as mine is nearly done,
And when your race is finished, as mine is almost run,
You, like me, shall cross your hands and bow your graceful head;
Yea, we twain shall sleep together in an equal bed.

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“Let them rejoice in their beds.”

The winds sing to us where we lie,
They sing to us a pleasant song;
Sweeter than song of mortal mouth,
Spice laden from the sunny south.
They say: This is not death you die;
This slumber shall not hold you long.

The north winds stir around our rest,
Their whispers speak to us and say:
Sleep yet awhile secure and deep,
A little while the blessed sleep;
For your inheritance is best,
And night shall yet bring forth the day.

The western winds are whispering too
Of love, with faith and hope as yet,
Of consummation that shall be,
Of fulness as the unfathomed sea,
When all creation shall be new
And day arise that shall not set.

But from the east a word is sent
To which all other words are dumb:
Lo, I come quickly, saith the Lord,
Myself thy exceeding great Reward:—
While we with thirsty hearts intent
Answer: Yea, come, Lord Jesus, come.

Portraits.

An easy lazy length of limb,
Dark eyes and features from the south,
A short-legged meditative pipe
Set in a supercilious mouth;
Ink and a pen and papers laid
Down on a table for the night,

214

Beside a semi-dozing man
Who wakes to go to bed by light.

A pair of brothers brotherly,
Unlike and yet how much the same
In heart and high-toned intellect,
In face and bearing, hope and aim:
Friends of the selfsame treasured friends
And of one home the dear delight,
Beloved of many a loving heart
And cherished both in mine, good night.

Whitsun Eve.

The white dove cooeth in her downy nest,
Keeping her young ones warm beneath her breast:
The white moon saileth thro' the cool clear sky,
Screened by a tender mist in passing by:
The white rose buds, with thorns upon its stem,
All the more precious and more dear for them:
The stream shines silver in the tufted grass,
The white clouds scarcely dim it as they pass:
Deep in the valleys lily cups are white,
They send up incense all the holy night:
Our souls are white, made clean in Blood once shed:
White blessed Angels watch around our bed:—
O spotless Lamb of God, still keep us so,
Thou Who wert born for us in time of snow.

What?

Strengthening as secret manna,
Fostering as clouds above,
Kind as a hovering dove,
Full as a plenteous river,

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Our glory and our banner
For ever and for ever.

Dear as a dying cadence
Of music in the drowsy night;
Fair as the flowers which maidens
Pluck for an hour's delight,
And then forget them quite.

Gay as a cowslip meadow
Fresh opening to the sun
When new day is begun;
Soft as a sunny shadow
When day is almost done.

Glorious as purple twilight,
Pleasant as budding tree,
Untouched as any islet
Shrined in an unknown sea;
Sweet as a fragrant rose amid the dew;—
As sweet, as fruitless too.

A bitter dream to wake from,
But oh how pleasant while we dream;
A poisoned fount to take from,
But oh how sweet the stream.

A Pause.

They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves,
And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay;
While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way.
I did not hear the birds about the eaves,
Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves:
Only my soul kept watch from day to day,
My thirsty soul kept watch for one away:—
Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves.
At length there came the step upon the stair,
Upon the lock the old familiar hand:

216

Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air
Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand
Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair
Put on a glory, and my soul expand.

Holy Innocents.

Sleep, little Baby, sleep,
The holy Angels love thee,
And guard thy bed and keep
A blessed watch above thee.
No spirit can come near
Nor evil beast to harm thee;
Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear
Where nothing need alarm thee.

The Love Which doth not sleep,
The eternal Arms surround thee;
The Shepherd of the sheep
In perfect love hath found thee.
Sleep thro' the holy night
Christ-kept from snare and sorrow
Until thou wake to light
And love and warmth tomorrow.

“There remaineth therefore a rest for the people of God.”

1.

“Ye have forgotten the exhortation”—

Come blessed sleep, most full, most perfect, come;
Come sleep, if so I may forget the whole;
Forget my body and forget my soul,
Forget how long life is and troublesome.
Come happy sleep to soothe my heart or numb,
Arrest my weary spirit or control;
Till light be dark to me from pole to pole,

217

And winds and echoes and low songs be dumb.
Come sleep and lap me into perfect calm,
Lap me from all the world and weariness:
Come secret sleep that hidest us from harm,
Safe sheltered in a hidden cool recess:
Come heavy dreamless sleep, and close and press
Upon mine eyes thy fingers dropping balm.

2.

“Which speaketh unto you as unto children.”

Art thou so weary then, poor thirsty soul?
Have patience, in due season thou shalt sleep.
Mount yet a little while, the path is steep;
Strain yet a little while to reach the goal;
Do battle with thyself, achieve, control:
Till night come down with blessed slumber, deep
As love, and seal thine eyes no more to weep
Thro' long tired vigils while the planets roll.
Have patience, for thou too shalt sleep at length,
Lapped in the pleasant shade of Paradise.
My Hands That bled for thee shall close thine eyes,
My Heart That bled for thee shall be thy Rest:
I will sustain with everlasting Strength,
And thou, with John, shalt lie upon my Breast.

Annie.

It's not for earthly bread, Annie,
And it's not for earthly wine,
And it's not for all thou art, Annie,
Nor for any gift of thine:
It's for other food and other love
And other gifts I pine.

I long all night and day, Annie,
In this glorious month of June,
Tho' the roses all are blossoming
And the birds are all in tune:

218

I dream and long all night, Annie,
Beneath the tender moon.

There is a dearer home than this
In a land that's far away,
And a better crown than cankered gold,
Or withering leaves of bay:
There's a richer love than thine, Annie,
Must fill an endless day.

I long to be alone indeed,
I long to sleep at last;
To know the lifelong fever
And sick weariness are past;
To feel the night is come indeed,
And the gate secure and fast.

Oh gate of death, of the blessed night,
That shall open not again
On this world of shame and sorrow,
Where slow ages wax and wane,
Where are signs and seasons, days and nights,
And mighty winds and rain.

I long to dwell in silence,
In twilight cool and dim:
It may be sometimes seeing
Soft gleams of Seraphim;
It may be sometimes catching
Faint echoes of their hymn.

I am tired of all the shows
And of all the songs of earth;
I am sick of the cold sky overhead,
And the cold land of my birth;
I am sick for the home-land of delight
And love and endless worth.

Is the day wearing toward the west?—
Far off cool shadows pass,
A visible refreshment
Across the sultry grass;

219

Far off low mists are mustering,
A broken shifting mass.

I know there comes a struggle
Before the utter calm,
And a searching pain like fire
Before the healing balm;—
But the pain shall cease, and the struggle cease,
And we shall take no harm.

Doubtless the Angels wonder
That we can live at ease
While all around is full of change,
Yea, full of vanities:
They wonder we can think to fill
Our hearts with such as these.

Still in the deepest knowledge
Some depth is left unknown;
Still in the merriest music lurks
A plaintive undertone;
Still with the closest friend some throb
Of life is felt alone.

But vain it were to linger
On the race we have to run,
For that which was must be again
Till time itself is done;
Yea, there is nothing new we know
At all beneath the sun.

I am sick for love, and moan
Like a solitary dove:
Love is as deep as hell, Annie,
And as high as heaven above;
There's nothing in all the world, Annie,
That can compete with love.

Time's summer breath is sweet, his sands
Ebb sparkling as they flow,
Yet some are sick that this should end
Which is from long ago:—

220

Are not the fields already white
To harvest in the glow?—

God puts the sickle to the corn
And reaps it when He will
From every watered valley
And from every fruitful hill:
He holdeth time in His Right Hand,
To check or to fulfil.

There shall come another harvest
Than was in days of yore:
The reapers shall be Angels,
Our God shall purge the floor:—
No more seed-time, no more harvest,
Then for evermore.

Come, let us kneel together
Once again love, I and thou;
We have prayed apart and wept apart,
But may weep together now:
Once we looked back together
With our hands upon the plough.

A little while, and we must part
Again, as on that day:
My spirit shall go forth alone
To tread the untried way;
Then thou shalt watch alone once more,
And kneel alone to pray.

When the shadows thicken round me
And the silence grows apace,
And I cannot hear thy voice, Annie,
Nor look upon thy face,
Wilt thou kneel for me and plead for me
Before the Throne of Grace?—

So surely if my spirit
Hath knowledge while it lies
In the outer courts of Heaven,
It shall watch with longing eyes

221

And pray that thou mayest also come
To dwell in Paradise.

Seasons.

In spring time when the leaves are young,
Clear dewdrops gleam like jewels, hung
On boughs the fair birds roost among.

When summer comes with sweet unrest,
Birds weary of their mother's breast,
And look abroad and leave the nest.

In autumn ere the waters freeze,
The swallows fly across the seas:—
If we could fly away with these!—

In winter when the birds are gone,
The sun himself looks starved and wan,
And starved the snow he shines upon.

[Thou sleepest where the lilies fade]

Thou sleepest where the lilies fade,
Thou dwellest where the lilies fade not;
Sweet, when thine earthly part decayed
Thy heavenly part decayed not.

Thou dwellest where the roses blow,
The crimson roses bud and blossom;
While on thine eyes is heaped the snow,
The snow upon thy bosom.

[I wish I were a little bird]

I wish I were a little bird
That out of sight doth soar,
I wish I were a song once heard
But often pondered o'er,
Or shadow of a lily stirred
By wind upon the floor,
Or echo of a loving word

222

Worth all that went before,
Or memory of a hope deferred
That springs again no more.

(Two parted.)

“Sing of a love lost and forgotten,
“Sing of a joy finished and o'er,
“Sing of a heart core-cold and rotten,
“Sing of a hope springing no more.”—
—“Sigh for a heart aching and sore.”—

“I was most true and my own love betrayed me,
“I was most true and she would none of me.
“Was it the cry of the world that dismayed thee?
“Love, I had bearded the wide world for thee.”
—“Hark to the sorrowful sound of the sea.”—

“Still in my dreams she comes tender and gracious,
“Still in my dreams love looks out of her eyes:
“Oh that the love of a dream were veracious,
“Or that thus dreaming I might not arise!”
“Oh for the silence that stilleth all sighs.”—

[All night I dream you love me well]

All night I dream you love me well,
All day I dream that you are cold:
Which is the dream? ah, who can tell,
Ah would that it were told.

So I should know my certain doom,
Know all the gladness or the pain;
So pass into the dreamless tomb,
Or never doubt again.

(For Rosaline's Album.)

Do you hear the low winds singing,
And streams singing on their bed?—

223

Very distant bells are ringing
In a chapel for the dead:—
Death-pale better than life-red.

Mother, come to me in rest,
And bring little May to see.—
Shall I bid no other guest?—
Seven slow nights have passed away
Over my forgotten clay:
None must come save you and she.

[Care flieth]

Care flieth,
Hope and fear together,
Love dieth
In the Autumn weather.

For a friend
Even care is pleasant;
When fear doth end
Hope is no more present:
Autumn silences the turtle dove;—
In blank Autumn who could speak of love?

(Epitaph.)

[A slave yet wearing on my head a crown]

A slave yet wearing on my head a crown,
A captive from whose eyes no tears ran down,
Bound with no chain, compelled to do no work,
I fell a victim to the jealous Turk.

The P. R. B.

The P. R. B. is in its decadence:—
for Woolner in Australia cooks his chops;
And Hunt is yearning for the land of Cheops;
D. G. Rossetti shuns the vulgar optic;
While William M. Rossetti merely lops

224

His B.s in English disesteemed as Coptic;
Calm Stephens in the twilight smokes his pipe
But long the dawning of his public day;
And he at last, the champion, great Millais
Attaining academic opulence
Winds up his signature with A. R. A.:—
So rivers merge in the perpetual sea,
So luscious fruit must fall when over ripe,
And so the consummated P. R. B.

Seasons.

Crocuses and snowdrops wither,
Violets primroses together,
Fading with the fading spring
Before a fuller blossoming.

O sweet summer pass not soon,
Stay awhile the harvest moon;
O sweetest summer do not go,
For autumn's next and next the snow.

When autumn comes the days are drear,
It is the downfall of the year:
We heed the wind and falling leaf
More than the withered harvest sheaf.

Dreary winter come at last,
Come quickly, so be quickly past;
Dusk and sluggish winter wane
Till spring and sunlight dawn again.

“Who have a form of godliness.”

When I am sick and tired it is God's will;
Also, God's will alone is sure and best:—
So in my weariness I find my rest,
And so in poverty I take my fill:

225

Therefore I see my good in midst of ill,
Therefore in loneliness I build my nest;
And thro' hot noon pant toward the shady west,
And hope in sickening disappointment still.
So when the times of restitution come,
The sweet times of refreshing come at last,
My God shall fill my longings to the brim:
Therefore I wait and look and long for Him;
Not wearied tho' the work is wearisome,
Nor fainting tho' the time be almost past.

Ballad.

[Soft white lamb in the daisy meadow]

Soft white lamb in the daisy meadow,
Come hither and play with me,
For I am lonesome and I am tired
Underneath the apple tree.

There's your husband if you're lonesome, lady,
And your bed if you want for rest,
And your baby for a playfellow
With a soft hand for your breast.

Fair white dove in the sunshine,
Perched on the ashen bough,
Come and perch by me and coo to me
While the buds are blowing now.

I must keep my nestlings warm, lady,
Underneath my downy breast;
There's your baby to coo and crow to you
While I brood upon my nest.

Faint white rose come lie on my heart,
Come lie there with your thorn;
For I'll be dead at the vesper bell
And buried the morrow morn.

There's blood on your lily breast, lady,
Like roses when they blow,

226

And there's blood upon your little hand
That should be white as snow;
I will stay amid my fellows
Where the lilies grow.

But its oh my own own little babe
That I had you here to kiss,
And to comfort me in the strange next world
Tho' I slighted you so in this.

You shall kiss both cheek and chin, mother,
And kiss me between the eyes,
Or ever the moon is on her way
And the pleasant stars arise;
You shall kiss and kiss your fill, mother,
In the nest of Paradise.

A Study. (A Soul.)

She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
For dim beyond it looms the land of day;
Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.
She stands there like a beacon thro' the night,
A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;
She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
Indomitable in her feebleness,
Her face and will athirst against the light.

“There remaineth therefore a rest.”

Very cool that bed must be
Where our last sleep shall be slept:

227

There for weary vigils kept,
There for tears that we have wept,
Is our guerdon certainly.

Underneath the growing grass,
Underneath the living flowers,
Deeper than the sound of showers;—
There we shall not count the hours
By the shadows as they pass.

No more struggling then at length,
Only slumber everywhere;
Nothing more to do or bear:
We shall rest, and resting there
Eagle-like renew our strength.

In the grave will be no space
For the purple of the proud,
They must mingle with the crowd;
In the wrappings of a shroud
Jewels would be out of place.

Youth and health will be but vain,
Courage reckoned of no worth;
There a very little girth
Shall hold round what once the earth
Seemed too narrow to contain.

High and low and rich and poor,
All will fare alike at last:
The old promise standeth fast:
None shall care then if the past
Held more joys for him or fewer.

There no laughter shall be heard,
Nor the heavy sound of sighs;
Sleep shall seal the aching eyes;
All the ancient and the wise
There shall utter not a word.

Yet it may be we shall hear
How the mounting skylark sings

228

And the bell for matins rings;
Or perhaps the whisperings
Of white Angels sweet and clear.

Sun or moon hath never shone
In that hidden depth of night;
But the souls there washed and white
Are more fair than fairest light
Mortal eye hath looked upon.

The die cast whose throw is life—
Rest complete; not one in seven—
Souls love-perfected and shriven
Waiting at the door of heaven,
Perfected from fear of strife.

What a calm when all is done,
Wearing vigil, prayer and fast:—
All fulfilled from first to last:—
All the length of time gone past
And eternity begun.

Fear and hope and chastening rod
Urge us on the narrow way:
Bear we still as best we may
Heat and burden of the day,
Struggling panting up to God.

“Ye have forgotten the exhortation.”

Angel
Bury thy dead, dear friend,
Between the night and day;
Where depths of summer shade are cool,
And murmurs of a summer pool
And windy murmurs stray:—

Soul
Ah, gone away,
Ah, dear and lost delight,
Gone from me and for ever out of sight.

229

Angel
Bury thy dead, dear love,
And make his bed most fair above;
The latest buds shall still
Blow there, and the first violets too,
And there a turtle dove
Shall brood and coo:—

Soul
I cannot make the nest
So warm, but he may find it chill
In solitary rest.

Angel
Bury thy dead heart-deep;
Take patience till the sun be set;
There are no tears for him to weep,
No doubts to haunt him yet:
Take comfort, he will not forget:—

Soul
Then I will watch beside his sleep;
Will watch alone,
And make my moan
Because the harvest is so long to reap.

Angel
The fields are white to harvest, look and see,
Are white abundantly.
The harvest moon shines full and clear,
The harvest time is near,
Be of good cheer:—

Soul
Ah, woe is me;
I have no heart for harvest time,
Grown sick with hope deferred from chime to chime.

Angel
But One can give thee heart, thy Lord and his,
Can raise both thee and him
To shine with Seraphim

230

And pasture where the eternal fountain is.
Can give thee of that tree
Whose leaves are health for thee;
Can give thee robes made clean and white,
And love, and all delight,
And beauty where the day turns not to night.
Who knocketh at His door
And presseth in, goes out no more.
Kneel as thou hast not knelt before—
The time is short—and smite
Upon thy breast and pray with all thy might:—

Soul
O Lord, my heart is broken for my sin:
Yet hasten Thine Own day
And come away.
Is not time full? Oh put the sickle in,
O Lord, begin.

Guesses.

Was it a chance that made her pause
One moment at the opened door,
Pale where she stood so flushed before
As one a spirit overawes:—
Or might it rather be because
She felt the grave was at our feet,
And felt that we should no more meet
Upon its hither side no more?

Was it a chance that made her turn
Once toward the window passing by,
One moment with a shrinking eye
Wherein her spirit seemed to yearn:—
Or did her soul then first discern
How long and rough the pathway is
That leads us home from vanities,
And how it will be good to die?

231

There was a hill she had to pass;
And while I watched her up the hill
She stooped one moment hurrying still,
But left a rose upon the grass:
Was it mere idleness:—or was
Herself with her own self at strife
Till while she chose the better life
She felt this life has power to kill?

Perhaps she did it carelessly,
Perhaps it was an idle thought;
Or else it was the grace unbought,
A pledge to all eternity:
I know not yet how this may be;
But I shall know when face to face
In Paradise we find a place
And love with love that endeth not.

From the Antique.

It's a weary life, it is; she said:—
Doubly blank in a woman's lot:
I wish and I wish I were a man;
Or, better than any being, were not:

Were nothing at all in all the world,
Not a body and not a soul;
Not so much as a grain of dust
Or drop of water from pole to pole.

Still the world would wag on the same,
Still the seasons go and come;
Blossoms bloom as in days of old,
Cherries ripen and wild bees hum.

None would miss me in all the world,
How much less would care or weep:
I should be nothing; while all the rest
Would wake and weary and fall asleep.

232

Three Stages.

1.

I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth;
But years must pass before a hope of youth
Is resigned utterly.

I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
And though the object seemed to flee away
That I so longed for; ever, day by day,
I watched and waited still.

Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more:
My expectation wearies and shall cease;
I will resign it now and be at peace:—
Yet never gave it o'er.

Sometimes I said: It is an empty name
I long for; to a name why should I give
The peace of all the days I have to live?—
Yet gave it all the same.

Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit
For healthy joy and salutary pain;
Thou knowest the chase useless, and again
Turnest to follow it.

2.

My happy happy dream is finished with,
My dream in which alone I lived so long.
My heart slept—woe is me, it wakeneth;
Was weak—I thought it strong.

Oh weary wakening from a life-true dream:
Oh pleasant dream from which I wake in pain:
I rested all my trust on things that seem,
And all my trust is vain.

233

I must pull down my palace that I built,
Dig up the pleasure-gardens of my soul;
Must change my laughter to sad tears for guilt,
My freedom to control.

Now all the cherished secrets of my heart,
Now all my hidden hopes are turned to sin:
Part of my life is dead, part sick, and part
Is all on fire within.

The fruitless thought of what I might have been
Hauthing me ever will not let me rest:
A cold north wind has withered all my green,
My sun is in the west.

But where my palace stood, with the same stone,
I will uprear a shady hermitage;
And there my spirit shall keep house alone,
Accomplishing its age:

There other garden beds shall lie around
Full of sweet-briar and incense-bearing thyme;
There I will sit, and listen for the sound
Of the last lingering chime.

3.

I thought to deal the death-stroke at a blow,
To give all, once for all, but nevermore;—
Then sit to hear the low waves fret the shore,
Or watch the silent snow.

“Oh rest,” I thought, “in silence and the dark;
Oh rest, if nothing else, from head to feet:
Though I may see no more the poppied wheat,
Or sunny soaring lark.

“These chimes are slow, but surely strike at last;
This sand is slow, but surely droppeth thro';
And much there is to suffer, much to do,
Before the time be past.

234

“So will I labour, but will not rejoice:
Will do and bear, but will not hope again;
Gone dead alike to pulses of quick pain,
And pleasure's counterpoise:”

I said so in my heart, and so I thought
My life would lapse, a tedious monotone:
I thought to shut myself, and dwell alone
Unseeking and unsought.

But first I tired, and then my care grew slack;
Till my heart slumbered, may-be wandered too:—
I felt the sunshine glow again, and knew
The swallow on its track;

All birds awoke to building in the leaves,
All buds awoke to fulness and sweet scent,
Ah, too, my heart woke unawares, intent
On fruitful harvest sheaves.

Full pulse of life, that I had deemed was dead,
Full throb of youth, that I had deemed at rest,—
Alas, I cannot build myself a nest,
I cannot crown my head

With royal purple blossoms for the feast,
Nor flush with laughter, nor exult in song;—
These joys may drift, as time now drifts along;
And cease, as once they ceased.

I may pursue, and yet may not attain,
Athirst and panting all the days I live:
Or seem to hold, yet nerve myself to give
What once I gave, again.

Long looked for.

When the eye hardly sees,
And the pulse hardly stirs,
And the heart would scarcely quicken

235

Though the voice were hers:
Then the longing wasting fever
Will be almost past;
Sleep indeed come back again,
And peace at last.

Not till then, dear friends,
Not till then, most like, most dear,
The dove will fold its wings
To settle here.
Then to all her coldness
I also shall be cold,
Then I also have forgotten
Our happy love of old.

Close mine eyes with care,
Cross my hands upon my breast,
Let shadows and full silence
Tell of rest:
For she yet may look upon me
Too proud to speak, but know
One heart less loves her in the world
Than loved her long ago.

Strew flowers upon the bed
And flowers upon the floor,
Let all be sweet and comely
When she stands at the door:
Fair as a bridal chamber
For her to come into,
When the sunny day is over
At falling of the dew.

If she comes, watch her not
But careless turn aside;
She may weep if left alone
With her beauty and her pride:
She may pluck a leaf perhaps
Or a languid violet
When life and love are finished
And even I forget.

236

Listening.

She listened like a cushat dove
That listens to its mate alone;
She listened like a cushat dove
That loves but only one.

Not fair as men would reckon fair,
Nor noble as they count the line;
Only as graceful as a bough
And tendrils of the vine;
Only as noble as sweet Eve
Your ancestress and mine.

And downcast were her dovelike eyes,
And downcast was her tender cheek,
Her pulses fluttered like a dove
To hear him speak.

Zara

[_]

(see Maturin's Women.)

I dreamed that loving me he would love on
Thro' life and death into eternity:
I dreamed that love would be and be and be
As surely as the sun shines that once shone.
Now even that my dream is killed and gone,
It sometimes even now returns to me;
Not what it was, but half being memory,
And half the pain that wears my cheek so wan.
Oh bitter pain, what drug will lull the pain?
Oh lying memory, when shall I forget?
For why should I remember him in vain
Who hath forgotten and rejoiceth still?
Oh bitter memory, while my heart is set
Oh love that gnaws and gnaws and cannot kill.

237

The last look.

Her face was like an opening rose,
So bright to look upon;
But now it is like fallen snows,
As cold, as dead, as wan.
Heaven lit with stars is more like her
Than is this empty crust;
Deaf, dumb and blind it cannot stir
But crumbles back to dust.

No flower be taken from her bed
For me, no lock be shorn;
I give her up, the early dead,
The dead, the newly born:
If I remember her, no need
Of formal tokens set;
Of hollow token lies, indeed,
No need, if I forget.

“I have a message unto thee.”

(written in sickness.)

Green sprout the grasses,
Red blooms the mossy rose,
Blue nods the harebell
Where purple heather blows;
The water lily, silver white,
Is living—fair as light;
Sweet jasmine branches trail
A dusky starry veil:
Each goodly is to see,
Comely in its degree;
I, only I, alas that this should be,
Am ruinously pale.

New year renews the grasses,
The crimson rose renews,

238

Brings up the breezy bluebell,
Refreshes heath with dews;
Then water lilies ever
Bud fresh upon the river;
Then jasmine lights its star
And spreads its arms afar:
I only in my spring
Can neither bud nor sing;
I find not honey but a sting
Though fair the blossoms are.

For me no downy grasses,
For me no blossoms pluck;
But leave them for the breezes,
For honey bees to suck,
For childish hands to pull
And pile their baskets full:
I will not have a crown
That soon must be laid down;
Trust me: I cannot care
A withering crown to wear,
I who may be immortally made fair
Where autumn turns not brown.

Spring, summer, autumn,
Winter, all will pass,
With tender blossoms
And with fruitful grass.
Sweet days of yore
Will pass to come no more,
Sweet perfumes fly,
Buds languish and go by:
Oh bloom that cannot last,
Oh blossoms quite gone past,
I yet shall feast when you shall fast,
And live when you shall die.

Your workday fully ended,
Your pleasant task being done,
You shall finish with the stars,

239

The moon and setting sun.
You and these and time
Shall end with the last chime;
For earthly solace given,
But needed not in heaven.
Needed not perhaps
Thro' the eternal lapse:
Or else, all signs fulfilled,
What you foreshow may yield
Delights thro' heaven's own harvest field
With undecaying saps.

Young girls wear flowers,
Young brides a flowery wreath;
But next we plant them
In garden plots of death.
Whose sleep is best?—
The maiden's curtained rest,
Or bride's whose hoped for sweet
May yet outstrip her feet?—
Ah, what are such as these
To death's sufficing ease—
How long and deep that slumber is
Where night and morning meet.

Dear are the blossoms
For bride's or maiden's head,
But dearer planted
Around our happy dead.
Those mind us of decay
And joys that slip away;
These preach to us perfection
And endless resurrection.
We make our graveyards fair
For spirit-like birds of air;
For Angels, may be, finding there
Lost Eden's own delection.

A blessing on the flowers
That God has made so good,

240

From crops of jealous gardens
To wildlings of a wood.
They show us symbols deep
Of how to sow and reap;
They teach us lessons plain
Of patient harvest gain.
They still are telling of
God's unimagined love:—
“Oh gift,” they say, “all gifts above,
“Shall it be given in vain?—

“Better you had not seen us
“But shared the blind man's night,
“Better you had not scented
“Our incense of delight,
“Than only plucked to scorn
“The rosebud for its thorn:
“Not so the instinctive thrush
“Hymns in a holly bush.
“Be wise betimes, and with the bee
“Suck sweets from prickly tree
“To last when earth's are flown;
“So God well pleased will own
“Your work, and bless not time alone
“But ripe eternity.”

Cobwebs.

It is a land with neither night nor day,
Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain,
Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain
Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away:
While thro' the sluggish air a twilight grey
Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane,
No ebb and flow are there along the main,
No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye,
No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand,
No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space,

241

No pulse of life thro' all the loveless land:
And loveless sea; no trace of days before,
No guarded home, no toil-won restingplace
No future hope no fear for evermore.

Unforgotten.

Oh unforgotten!
How long ago? one spirit saith:
As long as life even unto death,
The passage of a poor frail breath.

Oh unforgotten:
An unforgotten load of love,
A load of grief all griefs above,
A blank blank nest without its dove.

As long as time is—
No longer? time is but a span
The dalliance space of empty man;
And is this all immortals can?—

Ever and ever,
Beyond all time, beyond all space;—
Now, shadow darkening heart and face,—
Then, glory in a glorious place.

Sad heart and spirit
Bowed now yea broken for a while,
Lagging and toiling mile by mile
Yet pressing toward the eternal smile.

Oh joy eternal!—
Oh youth eternal without flaw!—
Thee not the blessed angels saw
Rapt in august adoring awe.

Not the dead have thee,
Not yet O all surpassing peace;
Not till this veiling world shall cease
And harvest yield its whole increase.

242

Not the dead know thee,
Not dead nor living nor unborn:
Who in the new sown field at morn
Can measure out the harvest corn?—

Yet they shall know thee;
And we with them, and unborn men
With us, shall know and have thee when
The single grain shall wax to ten.

An Afterthought.

Oh lost garden Paradise:—
Were the roses redder there
Than they blossom otherwhere?
Was the night's delicious shade
More intensely star inlaid?
Who can tell what memories
Of lost beloved Paradise
Saddened Eve with sleepless eyes?—

Fair first mother lulled to rest
In a choicer garden nest,
Curtained with a softer shading
Than thy tenderest child is laid in,
Was the sundawn brighter far
Than our daily sundawns are?
Was that love, first love of all
Warmer, deeper, better worth
Than has warmed poor hearts of earth
Since the utter ruinous fall?—

Ah supremely happy once,
Ah supremely broken hearted
When her tender feet departed
From the accustomed paths of peace:
Catching Angel orisons
For the last last time of all,
Shedding tears that would not cease
For the bitter bitter fall.

243

Yet the accustomed hand for leading,
Yet the accustomed heart for love;
Sure she kept one part of Eden
Angels could not strip her of.
Sure the fiery messenger
Kindling for his outraged Lord,
Willing with the perfect Will,
Yet rejoiced the flaming sword
Chastening sore but sparing still
Shut her treasure out with her.

What became of Paradise?
Did the cedars droop at all
(Springtide hastening to the fall)
Missing the beloved hand—
Or did their green perfection stand
Unmoved beneath the perfect skies?—
Paradise was rapt on high,
It lies before the gate of Heaven:—
Eve now slumbers there forgiven,
Slumbers Rachel comforted,
Slumber all the blessed dead
Of days and months and years gone by,
A solemn swelling company.

They wait for us beneath the trees
Of Paradise that lap of ease:
They wait for us, till God shall please.
Oh come the day of death, that day
Of rest which cannot pass away:
When the last work is wrought, the last
Pang of pain is felt and past
And the blessed door made fast.

To the end.

There are lilies for her sisters—
(Who so cold as they?)—
And heartsease for one I must not name

244

When I am far away.
I shall pluck the lady lilies
And fancy all the rest;
I shall pluck the bright eyed heartsease
For her sake I love the best,
As I wander on with weary feet
Toward the twilight shadowy west.

Oh bird that fliest eastward
Unto that sunny land
Oh wilt thou 'light on lilies white
Beside her whiter hand?
Soft summer wind that breathest
Of perfumes and sweet spice,
Ah tell her what I dare not tell
Of watchful waiting eyes
Of love that yet may meet again
In distant Paradise.

I go from earth to Heaven
A dim uncertain road,
A houseless pilgrim thro' the world
Unto a sure abode:
While evermore an Angel
Goes with me day and night,
A ministering spirit
From the land of light,
My holy fellow servant sent
To guide my steps aright.

I wonder if the Angels
Love with such love as our's,
If for each other's sake they pluck
And keep eternal flowers.
Alone I am and weary,
Alone yet not alone:
Her soul talks with me by the way
From tedious stone to stone,
A blessed Angel treads with me
The awful paths unknown.

245

When will the long road end in rest,
The sick bird perch and brood?
When will my Guardian fold his wings
At rest in the finished good?—
Lulling lulling me off to sleep:
While death's strong hand doth roll
My sins behind His back,
And my life up like a scroll,
Till thro' sleep I hear kind Angels
Rejoicing at the goal.

If her spirit went before me
Up from night to day,
It would pass me like the lightning
That kindles on its way.
I should feel it like the lightning
Flashing fresh from Heaven:
I should long for Heaven sevenfold more,
Yea and sevenfold seven;
Should pray as I have not prayed before,
And strive as I have not striven.

She will learn new love in Heaven
Who is so full of love,
She will learn new depths of tenderness
Who is tender like a dove.
Her heart will no more sorrow,
Her eyes will weep no more:
Yet it may be she will yearn
And look back from far before:
Lingering on the golden threshold
And leaning from the door.

“Zion said.”

O Slain for love of me, canst Thou be cold,
Be cold and far away in my distress:
Is Thy love also changed growing less and less
That carried me thro' all the days of old?—

246

O Slain for love of me, O Love untold,
See how I flag and fail thro' weariness:
I flag, while sleepless foes dog me and press
On me; behold O Lord, O Love behold.
I am sick for home, the home of love indeed;
I am sick for Love, that dearest name for Thee:
Thou Who hast bled, see how my heart doth bleed;
Open Thy bleeding Side and let me in;
Oh hide me in Thy Heart from doubt and sin,
Oh take me to Thyself and comfort me.

May.

Sweet Life is dead.—
Not so:
I meet him day by day,
Where bluest fountains flow
And trees are white as snow
For it is time of May.
Even now from long ago
He will not say me nay;
He is most fair to see;
And if I wander forth, I know
He wanders forth with me.

But Life is dead to me;
The worn-out year was failing
West winds took up a wailing
To watch his funeral:
Bare poplars shivered tall
And lank vines stretched to see;
'Twixt him and me a wall
Was frozen of earth like stone
With brambles overgrown;
Chill darkness wrapped him like a pall
And I am left alone.

How can you call him dead?
He buds out everywhere:

247

In every hedgerow rank,
On every mossgrown bank
I find him here and there.
He crowns my willing head
With may flowers white and red,
He rears my tender heartsease bed;
He makes my branch to bud and bear,
And blossoms where I tread.

River Thames (?).

There are rivers lapsing down
Lily-laden to the sea;
Every lily is a boat
For bees, one, two, or three:
I wish there were a fairy boat
For you, my friend, and me.

We would rock upon the river,
Scarcely floating by;
Rocking rocking like the lilies,
You, my friend, and I;
Rocking like the stately lilies
Beneath the statelier sky.

But ah, where is that river
Whose hyacinth banks descend
Down to the sweeter lilies,
Till soft their shadows blend
Into a watery twilight?—
And ah, where is my friend?—

A chilly night.

I rose at the dead of night
And went to the lattice alone
To look for my Mother's ghost
Where the ghostly moonlight shone.

248

My friends had failed one by one,
Middleaged, young, and old,
Till the ghosts were warmer to me
Than my friends that had grown cold.

I looked and I saw the ghosts
Dotting plain and mound:
They stood in the blank moonlight
But no shadow lay on the ground;
They spoke without a voice
And they leapt without a sound.

I called: “O my Mother dear,”—
I sobbed: “O my Mother kind,
Make a lonely bed for me
And shelter it from the wind:

“Tell the others not to come
To see me night or day;
But I need not tell my friends
To be sure to keep away.”

My Mother raised her eyes,
They were blank and could not see;
Yet they held me with their stare
While they seemed to look at me.

She opened her mouth and spoke,
I could not hear a word
While my flesh crept on my bones
And every hair was stirred.

She knew that I could not hear
The message that she told
Whether I had long to wait
Or soon should sleep in the mould:
I saw her toss her shadowless hair
And wring her hands in the cold.

I strained to catch her words
And she strained to make me hear,
But never a sound of words
Fell on my straining ear.

249

From midnight to the cockcrow
I kept my watch in pain
While the subtle ghosts grew subtler
In the sad night on the wane.

From midnight to the cockcrow
I watched till all were gone,
Some to sleep in the shifting sea
And some under turf and stone:
Living had failed and dead had failed
And I was indeed alone.

“Let patience have her perfect work.”

I saw a bird alone,
In its nest it sat alone,
For its mate was dead or flown
Tho' it was early spring.
Hard by were buds half blown,
With cornfields freshly sown;
It could only perch and moan
That used to sing:
Droop in sorrow left alone
A sad sad thing.

I saw a star alone,
In blue heaven it hung alone,
A solitary throne
In the waste of space:
Where no moon glories are,
Where not a second star
Beams thro' night from near or far
To that lone place.
Its beauties all unknown,
Its glories all alone
Sad in heaven's face.

Doth the bird desire a mate,
Pine for a second mate
Whose first joy was so great

250

With its own dove?
Doth the star supreme in night
Desire a second light
To make it seem less bright
In the shrine of heavenly height
That is above?—
Ah, better wait alone,
In nest or heaven alone,
Forsaken or unknown;
Till time being past and gone
Full eternity rolls on,
While patience reaps what it has sown
In the harvest land of love.

A Martyr.

It is over the horrible pain,
All is over the struggle and doubt,
She's asleep tho' her friends stand and weep,
She's asleep while the multitudes shout,
Not to wake to her anguish again
Not to wake until death is cast out.

Stoop, look at the beautiful face,
See the smile on the satisfied mouth,
The hands crost—she hath conquered not lost,
She hath drunk who was fevered with drouth.
She shall sleep in her safe restingplace
While the hawk spreads her wings toward the south.

She shall sleep while slow seasons are given,
While daylight and darkness go round;
Her heart is at rest in its nest;
Her body at rest in the ground:
She has travelled the long road to heaven,
She sought it and now she has found.

Will you follow the track that she trod,
Will you tread in her footsteps, my friend?

251

That pathway is rough but enough
Are the light and the balm that attend.
Do I tread in her steps, O my God,
Shall I joy with her joy in the end?

In the Lane.

When my love came home to me
Pleasant Summer bringing
Every tree was out in leaf
Every bird was singing
Every red rose burst the bud
On its bramble springing.

There I met her in the lane
By those waters gleamy,
Met her toward the fall of day
Warm and dear and dreamy;
Did I loiter in the lane?
None was there to see me.

Only roses in the hedge
Lilies on the river
Saw our greeting fast and fond,
Counted gift and giver,
Saw me take her to my home
Take her home for ever.

Acme.

Sleep, unforgotten sorrow, sleep awhile;
Make even awhile as tho' I might forget,
Let the wound staunch thy tedious fingers fret
Till once again I look abroad and smile
Warmed in the sunlight: let no tears defile
This hour's content, no conscious thorns beset
My path; O sorrow slumber, slumber yet
A moment, rouse not yet the smouldering pile.

252

So shalt thou wake again with added strength
O unforgotten sorrow, stir again
The slackening fire, refine the lulling pain
To quickened torture and a subtler edge:
The wrung cord snaps at last; beneath the wedge
The toughest oak groans long but rends at length.

A bed of Forget-me-nots.

Is love so prone to change and rot
We are fain to rear forget-me-not
By measure in a garden plot?—

I love its growth at large and free
By untrod path and unlopped tree,
Or nodding by the unpruned hedge,
Or on the water's dangerous edge
Where flags and meadowsweet blow rank
With rushes on the quaking bank.

Love is not taught in learning's school,
Love is not parcelled out by rule;
Hath curb or call an answer got?—
So free must be forget-me-not.
Give me the flame no dampness dulls,
The passion of the instinctive pulse,
Love steadfast as a fixèd star,
Tender as doves with nestlings are,
More large than time, more strong than death:
This all creation travails of—
She groans not for a passing breath—
This is forget-me-not and love.

The Chiefest among ten thousand.

When sick of life and all the world,
How sick of all the earth but Thee,
I lift mine eyes up to the hills,

253

Eyes of my heart that truly see:
I see beyond all death and ills
Refreshing green for heart and eyes;
The golden streets and gateways pearled,
The living trees of paradise.

Oh that a dove's white wings I had
To flee away from this distress
For Thou art in the wilderness
Drawing and leading Thine Own love:
Wherefore it blossoms like a rose,
The solitary place is glad;
There sounds the soft voice of the dove
And there the spicy south wind blows.

Draw us, we will run after Thee;
Call us by name, the name we know;
Call her beloved who was not so,
Beulah and blessed Hepzibah:
That where Thou art I too may be
Bride of the Bridegroom heart to heart;
Thou God, my Love, the Fairest art
Where all things fair and lovely are.

From north and south from east and west
Thy sons and daughters all shall flock
Who built their house upon the Rock
And eagle-like renew their strength:
How glad and glorious is their rest
Whom Thou hast purged from fleshly scum,—
The long-desired is come at length,
The fulness of the time is come.

Then the new heavens and earth shall be
Where righteousness shall dwell indeed:
There shall be no more blight nor need
Nor barrier of the tossing sea;
No sun and moon alternating
For God shall be the Light thereof,
No sorrow more no death no sting
For God shall reign and God is Love.

254

“Look on this picture and on this.”

I wish we once were wedded,—then I must be true;
You should hold my will in yours to do or to undo:
But now I hate myself Eva when I look at you.

You have seen her hazel eyes, her warm dark skin,
Dark hair—but oh those hazel eyes a devil is dancing in:—
You my saint lead up to heaven she lures down to sin.

Listen Eva I repent, indeed I do my love:
How should I choose a peacock and leave and grieve a dove?—
If I could turn my back on her and follow you above.

No it's not her beauty bloomed like an autumn peach,
Not her pomp of beauty too high for me to reach;
It's her eyes, her witching manner—ah the lore they teach

You are winning, well I know it, who should know but I?
You constrain me, I must yield or else must hasten by:—
But she, she fascinates me, I can neither fight nor fly.

She's so redundant, stately;—in truth now have you seen
Ever anywhere such beauty, such a stature, such a mien?
She may be queen of devils but she's every inch a queen.

If you sing to me, I hear her subtler sweeter still
Whispering in each tender cadence strangely sweet to fill
All that lacks in music all my soul and sense and will.

If you dance, tho' mine eyes follow where my hand I gave
I only see her presence like a sunny wave
I only feel her presence like a wind too strong to rave.

If we talk: I love you, do you love me again?—
Tho' your lips speak it's her voice I flush to hear so plain
Say: Love you? yes I love you, love can neither change nor wane.

But, you ask, “why struggle? I have given you up:
Take again your pledges, snap the cord and break the cup:
Feast you with your temptation for I in heaven will sup.”—

255

Can I bear to think upon you strong to break not bend,
Pale with inner intense passion silent to the end,
Bear to leave you, bear to grieve you, O my dove my friend?

One short pang and you would rise a light in heaven
While we grovelled in the darkness mean and unforgiven
Tho' our cup of love brimmed sevenfold crowns of love were seven.

What shall I choose, what can I for you and her and me;
With you the haven of rest, with her the tossing miry sea;
Time's love with her, or choose with you love's all eternity.—

Nay, you answer coldly yet with a quivering voice:
That is over, doubt and struggle, we have sealed our choice;
Leave me to my contentment vivid with fresh hopes and joys.

Listening so, I hide mine eyes and fancy years to come:
You cherished in another home with no cares burdensome;
You straitened in a windingsheet pulseless at peace and dumb.

So I fancy—The new love has driven the old away;
She has found a dearer shelter a dearer stronger stay;
Perhaps now she would thank me for the freedom of that day.

Open house and heart barred to me alone the door;
Children bound to meet her, babies crow before;—
Blessed wife and blessed mother whom I may see no more.

Or I fancy—In the grave her comely body lies;
She is 'tiring for the Bridegroom till the morning star shall rise,
Then to shine a glory in the nuptials of the skies.

No more yearning tenderness, no more pale regret,
She will not look for me when the marriage guests are set,
She joys with joy eternal as we had never met.

I would that one of us were dead, were gone no more to meet,

256

Or she and I were dead together stretched here at your feet,
That she and I were strained together in one winding sheet:

Hidden away from all the world upon this bitter morn;
Hidden from all the scornful world, from all your keener scorn;
Secure and secret in the dark as blessed babe unborn.

A pitiless fiend is in your eyes to tempt me and to taunt:
If you were dead I verily believe that you would haunt
The home you loved, the man you loved, you said you loved—avaunt.

Why do you face me with those eyes so calm they drive me mad,
Too proud to droop before me and own that you are sad?
Why have you a lofty angel made me mean and cursed and bad?

How have you the heart to face me with that passion in your stare
Deathly silent? weep before me, rave at me in your despair—
If you keep patience wings will spring and a halo from your hair.

Yet what matters—yea what matters? your frenzy can but mock:
You do not hold my heart's life key to lock and to unlock,
The door will not unclose to you tho' long you wait and knock.

Have I wronged you? nay not I nor she in deed or will:
You it is alone that mingle the venomous cup and fill;
Why are you so little lovely that I cannot love you still?—

One pulse, one tone, one ringlet of her's outweighs the whole
Of you, your puny graces puny body puny soul:
You but a taste of sweetness, she an overrunning bowl.

257

Did I make you, that you blame me because you are not the best?
Not so, be wise, take patience, turn away and be at rest:
Shall I not know her lovelier who is far loveliest?—

See now how proud you are, like us after all, no saint;
Not so upright but that you are bowed with the old bent;
White at white-heat, tainted with the devil's special taint.

Sit you still and wring the cup drop after loathsome drop:
You have let loose a torrent it is not you can stop;
You have sowed a noisome field-ful, now reap the stinging crop.

Did you think to sit in safety, to watch me torn and tost
Struggling like a mad dog, watch her tempting doubly lost?
Howl you, you wretched woman, for your flimsy hopes are crost.

Be still, tho' you may writhe you shall hear the branding truth:
You who thought to sit in judgment on our souls forsooth,
To sit in frigid judgment on our ripe luxuriant youth.

Did I love you? never from the first cold day to this;
You are not sufficient for my aim of life, my bliss;
You are not sufficient, but I found the one that is.

The wine of love that warms me from this life's mortal chill:
Drunk with love I drink again, a thirst I drink my fill;
Lapped in love I care not doth it make alive or kill.

Then did I never love you?—ah the sting struck home at last;
You are drooping, fainting, dying—the worst of death is past;
A light is on your face from the nearing heaven forecast.

Never?—yes I loved you then; I loved: the word still charms:—

258

For the first time last time lie here in my heart my arms,
For the first last time as if I shielded you from harms.

I trampled you, poor dove, to death; you clung to me, I spurned;
I taunted you, I tortured you, while you sat still and yearned:—
Oh lesson taught in anguish but in double anguish learned.

For after all I loved you, loved you then, I love you yet.
Listen love I love you: see, the seal of truth is set
On my face in tears—you cannot see? then feel them wet.

Pause at heaven's dear gate, look back, one moment back to grieve;
You go home thro' death to life; but I, I still must live:
On the threshold of heaven's love, O love can you forgive?—

Fully freely fondly, with heart truth above an oath,
With eager utter pardon given unasked and nothing loth,
Heaping coals of fire upon our heads forgiving both.

One word more—not one: one look more—too late too late:—
Lapped in love she sleeps who was lashed with scorn and hate;
Nestling in the lap of love the dove has found a mate.

Night has come, the night of rest; day will come, that day:
To her glad dawn of glory kindled from the deathless ray;
To us a searching fire and strict balances to weigh.

The tearless tender eyes are closed, the tender lips are dumb:
I shall not see or hear them more until that day shall come:
Then they must speak, what will they say—what then will be the sum?—

Shall we stand upon the left and she upon the right—
We smirched with endless death and shame, she glorified in white:

259

Will she sound our accusation in intolerable light?

Be open-armed to us in love—type of another Love—
As she forgave us once below will she forgive above,
Enthroned to all eternity our sister friend and dove?—

“Now they desire.”

There is a sleep we have not slept
Safe in a bed unknown;
There hearts are staunched that long have wept
Alone, or bled alone:
Sweet sleep that dreams not, or whose dream
Is foretaste of the truth;
Sweet sleep whose sweets are what they seem
Refreshing more than youth.

There is a sea whose waters clear
Are never tempest tost;
There is a home whose children dear
Are saved, not one is lost:
There Cherubim and Seraphim
And Angels dwell with Saints,
Whose lustre no more dwindleth dim,
Whose ardour never faints.

There is a Love Which fills desire
And can our love requite;
Like fire It draws our lesser fire,
Like greater light our light:
For It we agonize in strife
We yearn we famish thus—
Lo, in the far off land of life
Doth It not yearn for us?—

“Oh fair oh fair Jerusalem,”
How fair how far away,
When shall we see thy Jasper Gem
That gives thee light for day?
Thy sea of glass like fire, thy streets

260

Of glass like virgin gold,
Thy royal Elders on their seats,
Thy four Beasts manifold?—

Fair city of delights, the bride
In raiment white and clean,
When shall we see thee loving eyed,
Sun girdled, happy Queen?
Without a wrinkle or a spot,
Blood cleansed, blood purchased once:
In how fair ground is fallen the lot
Of all thy happy sons.

Dove's eyes beneath thy parted lock,
A dove's soft voice is thine;
Thy nest is safe within the Rock,
Safe in the Very Vine;
Thy walls salvation buildeth them
And all thy gates are praise
Oh fair oh fair Jerusalem
In sevenfold day of days.

A Christmas Carol, for my Godchildren.

The shepherds had an angel,
The wise men had a star,
But what have I, a little child,
To guide me home from far,
Where glad stars sing together
And singing angels are?—

Lord Jesus is my Guardian,
So I can nothing lack:
The lambs lie in His Bosom
Along life's dangerous track;
The wilful lambs that go astray
He bleeding fetches back.

261

Lord Jesus is my Guiding Star,
My Beacon Light in heaven:
He leads me step by step along
The path of life uneven;
He, True Light, leads me to that land
Whose day shall be as seven.

Those shepherds thro' the lonely night
Sat watching by their sheep,
Until they saw the heavenly host
Who neither tire nor sleep
All singing ‘Glory glory’
In festival they keep.

Christ watches me His little lamb,
Cares for me day and night,
That I may be His Own in heaven:
So angels clad in white
Shall sing their ‘Glory, glory’
For my sake in the height.

The wise men left their country
To journey morn by morn
With gold and frankincense and myrrh
Because the Lord was born:
God sent a star to guide them
And sent a dream to warn.

My life is like their journey,
Their star is like God's Book,
I must be like those good wise men
With heavenward heart and look:
But shall I give no gifts to God?—
What precious gifts they took.

Lord I will give my love to Thee,
Than gold much costlier,
Sweeter to Thee than frankincense,
More prized than choicest myrrh:
Lord make me dearer day by day,
Day by day holier.

262

Nearer and dearer day by day:
Till I my voice unite
And sing my ‘Glory, glory’
With angels clad in white,
All ‘Glory, glory’ given to Thee
Thro' all the heavenly height.

“Not yours but you.”

He died for me: what can I offer Him?
Toward Him swells incense of perpetual prayer;
His court wear crowns and aureoles round their hair;
His ministers are subtle cherubim,
Ring within ring, white intense seraphim
Leap like immortal lightnings thro' the air:
What shall I offer Him? defiled and bare
My spirit broken and my brightness dim.—
Give Me thy youth;—I yield it to Thy rod
As Thou didst yield Thy prime of youth for me:—
Give Me thy life;—I give it breath by breath
As Thou didst give Thy life so give I Thee:—
Give Me thy love;—So be it, my God, my God,
As Thou hast loved me even to bitter death.

An Answer.

[_]

[The first page of the MS is missing from the notebook.]

To make it glad with a goodly crop:
Even so One Wiser deals with me:—
Amen, say I: if He choose to lop
Branch after branch of my leafèd tree,
In its own ripe season more fruit shall be.

Tenfold fruit in the time of fruit,
In the time of corn and wine and oil,
Sound at the core, firm at the root;

263

Repaying the years and years of toil,
Repaying the blood that fed the soil.

Sir Winter.

Sir Winter is coming across the wide sea,
With his blustering companions, so wild and so free:
He speeds on his way, like some bold buccaneer,
And Day flies before him with faltering and fear.

In the front of the battle new trophies to reap,
Mid the howl of the tempest, the roar of the deep,
Lo, he comes with his noiseless-shod legions of snow
And nips the last buds that were lingering to blow.

Sweet blackbird is silenced with chaffinch and thrush,
Only waistcoated robin still chirps in the bush:
Soft sun-loving swallows have mustered in force
And winged to the spice-teaming southlands their course.

Plump housekeeper dormouse has tucked himself neat,
Just a brown ball in moss with a morsel to eat;
Armed hedgehog has huddled him into the hedge
While frogs miss freezing deep down in the sedge.

So sturdy Sir Winter has conquered us quite,
He has ravaged our country to left and to right:
Since we must bear his yoke for a season, we'd best
Try to lighten its weight on ourselves and the rest.

Soft swallows have left us alone in the lurch,
But robin sits whistling to us from his perch:
If I were red robin, I'd pipe you a tune
Would make you despise all the beauties of June.

But since that cannot be, let us draw round the fire,
Munch chestnuts, tell stories, and stir the blaze higher:

264

We'll comfort pinched robin with crumbs, little man,
Till he sings us the very best song that he can.

Down to the these verses are written by Mr. Jervis.

In an Artist's Studio.

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel;—every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Introspective.

I wish it were over the terrible pain,
Pang after pang again and again;
First the shattering ruining blow,
Then the probing steady and slow.

Did I wince? I did not faint:
My soul broke but was not bent;
Up I stand like a blasted tree
By the shore of the shivering sea.

On my boughs neither leaf nor fruit,
No sap in my uttermost root,
Brooding in an anguish dumb
On the short past and the long to come.

Dumb I was when the ruin fell,
Dumb I remain and will never tell:

265

O my soul I talk with thee
But not another the sight must see.

I did not start when the torture stung,
I did not faint when the torture wrung;
Let it come tenfold if come it must
But I will not groan when I bite the dust.

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness.”

When all the over-work of life
Is finished once, and fast asleep
We swerve no more beneath the knife
But taste that silence cool and deep;
Forgetful of the highways rough,
Forgetful of the thorny scourge,
Forgetful of the tossing surge,
Then shall we find it is enough?—

How can we say ‘enough’ on earth;
‘Enough’ with such a craving heart:
I have not found it since my birth
But still have bartered part for part.
I have not held and hugged the whole,
But paid the old to gain the new;
Much have I paid, yet much is due,
Till I am beggared sense and soul.

I used to labour, used to strive
For pleasure with a restless will:
Now if I save my soul alive
All else what matters, good or ill?
I used to dream alone, to plan
Unspoken hopes and days to come:—
Of all my past this is the sum:
I will not lean on child of man.

To give, to give, not to receive,
I long to pour myself, my soul,
Not to keep back or count or leave

266

But king with king to give the whole:
I long for one to stir my deep—
I have had enough of help and gift—
I long for one to search and sift
Myself, to take myself and keep.

You scratch my surface with your pin;
You stroke me smooth with hushing breath;—
Nay pierce, nay probe, nay dig within,
Probe my quick core and sound my depth.
You call me with a puny call,
You talk, you smile, you nothing do;
How should I spend my heart on you,
My heart that so outweighs you all?

Your vessels are by much too strait;
Were I to pour you could not hold,
Bear with me: I must bear to wait
A fountain sealed thro' heat and cold.
Bear with me days or months or years;
Deep must call deep until the end
When friend shall no more envy friend
Nor vex his friend at unawares.

Not in this world of hope deferred,
This world of perishable stuff;—
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor heart conceived that full ‘enough’:
Here moans the separating sea,
Here harvests fail, here breaks the heart;
There God shall join and no man part,
I full of Christ and Christ of me.

“Reflection”.

Gazing thro' her chamber window
Sits my soul's dear soul;
Looking northward, looking southward,

267

Looking to the goal,
Looking back without control.—

I have strewn thy path, beloved,
With plumed meadowsweet,
Iris and pale perfumed lilies,
Roses most complete:
Wherefore pause on listless feet?—

But she sits and never answers;
Gazing gazing still
On swift fountain, shadowed valley,
Cedared sunlit hill:
Who can guess or read her will?

Who can guess or read the spirit
Shrined within her eyes,
Part a longing, part a languor,
Part a mere surprize,
While slow mists do rise and rise?—

Is it love she looks and longs for;
Is it rest or peace;
Is it slumber self-forgetful
In its utter ease;
Is it one or all of these?

So she sits and doth not answer
With her dreaming eyes,
With her languid look delicious
Almost Paradise,
Less than happy, over wise.

Answer me, O self-forgetful—
Or of what beside?—
Is it day dream of a maiden,
Vision of a bride,
Is it knowledge, love, or pride?

Cold she sits thro' all my kindling,
Deaf to all I pray:
I have wasted might and wisdom,

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Wasted night and day:
Deaf she dreams to all I say.

Now if I could guess her secret
Were it worth the guess?—
Time is lessening, hope is lessening,
Love grows less and less:
What care I for no or yes?—

I will give her stately burial,
Tho', when she lies dead:
For dear memory of the past time,
Of her royal head,
Of the much I strove and said.

I will give her stately burial,
Willow branches bent;
Have her carved in alabaster,
As she dreamed and leant
While I wondered what she meant.

A Coast-Nightmare.

I have a friend in ghostland—
Early found, ah me, how early lost!—
Blood-red seaweeds drip along that coastland
By the strong sea wrenched and tossed.
In every creek there slopes a dead man's islet,
And such an one in every bay;
All unripened in the unended twilight:
For there comes neither night nor day.

Unripe harvest there hath none to reap it
From the watery misty place;
Unripe vineyard there hath none to keep it
In unprofitable space.
Living flocks and herds are nowhere found there;
Only ghosts in flocks and shoals:
Indistinguished hazy ghosts surround there

269

Meteors whirling on their poles;
Indistinguished hazy ghosts abound there;
Troops, yea swarms, of dead men's souls.—

Have they towns to live in?—
They have towers and towns from sea to sea;
Of each town the gates are seven;
Of one of these each ghost is free.
Civilians, soldiers, seamen,
Of one town each ghost is free:
They are ghastly men those ghostly freemen:
Such a sight may you not see.—

How know you that your lover
Of death's tideless waters stoops to drink?—
Me by night doth mouldy darkness cover,
It makes me quake to think:
All night long I feel his presence hover
Thro' the darkness black as ink.

Without a voice he tells me
The wordless secrets of death's deep:
If I sleep, his trumpet voice compels me
To stalk forth in my sleep:
If I wake, he hunts me like a nightmare;
I feel my hair stand up, my body creep:
Without light I see a blasting sight there,
See a secret I must keep.

‘For one Sake.’

One passed me like a flash of lightning by
To ring clear bells of heaven beyond the stars:
Then said I: Wars and rumours of your wars
Are dull with din of what and where and why;
My heart is where these troubles draw not nigh:
Let me alone till heaven shall burst its bars,
Break up its fountains, roll its flashing cars

270

Earthwards with fire to test and purify.
Let me alone tonight, and one night more
Of which I shall not count the eventide;
Its morrow will not be as days before:
Let me alone to dream, perhaps to weep;
To dream of her the imperishable bride,
Dream while I wake and dream on while I sleep.

My old Friends.

They lie at rest asleep and dead,
The dew drops cool above their head,
They knew not when past summer fled—

Amen.

They lie at rest and quite forget
The hopes and fears that wring us yet;
Their eyes are set, their heart is set—

Amen.

They lie with us, yet gone away
Hear nothing that we sob or say
Beneath the thorn of wintry may—

Miserere.

Together all yet each alone,
Each laid at rest beneath his own
Smooth turf or white appointed stone—

Amen.

When shall our slumbers be so deep,
And bleeding heart and eyes that weep
Lie lapped in the sufficient sleep?—

Miserere.

We dream of them: and who shall say
They never dream while far away
Of us between the night and day?—

Sursum corda.

271

Gone far away: or it may be
They lean toward us and hear and see
Yea and remember more than we—

Amen.

For wherefore should we deem them far
Who know not where those spirits are
That shall outshine both moon and star?—

Hallelujah.

Where check or change can never rise
Deep in recovered Paradise
They rest world-wearied heart and eyes—

Jubilate.

We hope and love with throbbing breast,
They hope and love and are at rest:
And yet we question which is best—

Miserere.

Oh what is earth, that we should build
Brief houses here, and seek concealed
Poor treasure, and add field to field

And heap to heap and store to store,
Still grasping, ever grasping more,
While death stands knocking at our door?—

Cui bono?

But one will answer: Changed and pale
And starved at heart, I thirst I fail
For love, I thirst without avail—

Miserrima.

Sweet love, a fountain sealed to me:
Mere love, the sole sufficiency
For every longing that can be—

Amen.

Oh happy those alone whose lot
Is love: I search from spot to spot;
In life, in death, I find it not—

Miserrima.

272

Not found in life: nay, verily.
I too have sought: come sit with me
And grief for grief shall answer thee—

Miserrima.

Sit with me where the sapless leaves
Are fallen and sere: to one who grieves
What cheer have last year's harvest sheaves?—

Cui bono?

Not found in life: yet found in death.
I sought life as but a breath
There is a nest of love beneath

The sod, a home prepared before;
Our brethren whom one mother bore
Live there, and toil and ache no more—

Hallelujah.

Dear friends and kinsfolk great and small;
Not lost but saved both one and all:
They watch across the parting wall

(Do they not watch?) and count the creep
Of time, and sound the shallowing deep,
Till we in port shall also sleep—

Hallelujah, Amen.

“Yet a little while”.

These days are long before I die:
To sit alone upon a thorn
Is what the nightingale forlorn
Does night by night continually;
She swells her heart to extasy
Until it bursts and she can die.

These days are long that wane and wax:
Waxeth and wanes the ghostly moon
Achill and pale in cordial June;

273

What is it that she wandering lacks?
She seems as one that aches and aches
Most sick to wane most sick to wax.

Of all the sad sights in the world
The downfall of an Autumn leaf
Is grievous and suggesteth grief:
Who thought when Spring was fresh unfurled
Of this? when Spring twigs gleamed impearled
Who thought of frost that nips the world?

There are a hundred subtle stings
To prick us in our daily walk:
A young fruit cankered on its stalk,
A strong bird snared for all his wings,
A nest that sang but never sings;
Yea sight and sound and silence stings.

There is a lack in solitude,
There is a load in throng of life;
One with another genders strife,
To be alone yet is not good:
I know but of one neighbourhood
At peace and full; death's solitude.

Sleep soundly, dears, who lulled at last
Forget the bird and all her pains,
Forget the moon that waxes, wanes,
The leaf, the sting, the frostful blast;
Forget the troublous years that past
In strife or ache did end at last.

We have clear call of daily bells,
A dimness where the anthems are,
A chancel vault of sky and star,
A thunder if the organ swells:
Alas our daily life—what else?—
Is not in tune with daily bells.

You have deep pause betwixt the chimes
Of earth and heaven, a patient pause

274

Yet glad with rest by certain laws:
You look and long; while oftentimes
Precursive flush of morning climbs
And air vibrates with coming chimes.

“Only believe.”

I stood by weeping
Yet a sorrowful silence keeping
While an Angel smote my love
As she lay sleeping.—

Is there a bed above
More fragrant than these violets
That are white like death?

White like a dove
Flowers in the blessed islets
Breathe sweeter breath
All fair morns and twilights.

Is the gold there
More golden than these tresses?

There heads are aureoled
And crowned like gold
With light most rare.

Are the bowers of Heaven
More choice than these?

To them are given
All odorous shady trees.
Earth's bowers are wildernesses
Compared with the recesses
Made soft there now
Nest-like twixt bough and bough.

Who shall live in such a nest?

Heart with heart at rest:
All they whose troubles cease

275

In peace:
Souls that wrestled
Now are nestled
There at ease:
Throng from east and west
From north and south
To plenty from the land of drouth.

How long must they wait?

There is a certain term
For their bodies to the worm
And their souls at Heaven-gate.
Dust to dust, clod to clod
These precious things of God;
Trampled underfoot by man
And beast the appointed years.

Their longest life was but a span
For birth, death, laughter, tears:
Is it worth while to live,
Rejoice and grieve,
Hope, fear and die?
Man with man, lie with lie,
The slow show dwindles by:
At last what shall we have
Besides a grave?

Lies and shows no more,
No fear, no pain,
But after hope and sleep
Dear joys again.
Those who sowed shall reap:
Those who bore
The cross shall wear the crown:
Those who clomb the steep
There shall sit down.
The Shepherd of the sheep
Feeds His flock there;

[_]

[The rest of the poem is missing from the notebook.]

276

“Rivals.” A Shadow of Saint Dorothea.

“Golden haired, lily white,
“Will you pluck me lilies;
“Or will you show me where they grow,
“Show where the summer rill is?
“But is your hair of gold or light,
“And is your foot of flake or fire,
“And have you wings rolled up from sight,
“And joy to slake desire?”—

“I pluck young flowers of Paradise,
“Lilies and roses red;
“A sceptre for my hand,
“A crown to crown my golden head.
“Love makes me wise:
“I sing, I stand,
“I pluck palm branches in the sheltered land.”—

“Is there a path to Heaven
“My heavy foot may tread;
“And will you show that way to go,
“That rose and lily bed?
“Which day of all these seven
“Will lighten my heart of lead,
“Will purge mine eyes and make me wise
“Alive or dead?”—

“There is a Heavenward stair—
“Mount, strain upwards, strain and strain—
“Each step will crumble to your foot
“That never shall descend again.
“There grows a tree from ancient root,
“With healing leaves and twelvefold fruit,
“In musical Heaven air:
“Feast with me there.”—

“I have a home on earth I cannot leave,
“I have a friend on earth I cannot grieve:
“Come down to me, I cannot mount to you.”—

277

“Nay choose between us both,
“Choose as you are lief or loath:
“You cannot keep these things and have me too.”—

A Yawn.

I grow so weary: is it death
This awful woful weariness?
It is a weight to heave my breath,
A weight to wake, a weight to sleep;
I have no heart to work or weep.

The sunshine teazes and the dark;
Only the twilight dulls my grief:
Is this the Ark, the strong safe Ark,
Or the tempestuous drowning sea
Whose crested coursers foam for me?

Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from Heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore:
All earth's full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness
Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Salt passionless anemones
Blow flower-like; just enough alive
To blow and propagate and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve or spot or spike,
Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike yet all unlike,
Are born without a pang and die
Without a pang and so pass by.

I would I lived without a pang:
Oh happy they who day by day
Quiescent neither sobbed nor sang;
Unburdened with a what or why
They live and die and so pass by.

278

For H. P.

On the land and on the sea,
Jesus keep both you and me:

Going out and coming in,
Christ keep us both from shame and sin:

In this world, in the world to come,
Keep us safe and lead us home:

Today in toil, tonight in rest,
Be Best Beloved and love us best.

“Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another.”

Friend I commend to thee the narrow way:
Not because I, please God, will walk therein,
But rather for the love-feast of that day
The exceeding prize which whoso will may win.
This world is old and rotting at the core
Here death's heads mock us with a toothless grin
Here heartiest laughter leaves us spent and sore.
We heap up treasures for the fretting moth,
Our children heap our fathers heaped before,
But what shall profit us the cumbrous growth?
It cannot journey with us, cannot save,
Stripped in that darkness be we lief or loth
Stripped bare to what we are from all we have,
Naked we came, naked we must return
To one obscure inevitable grave.
If this the lesson is which we must learn
Taught by God's discipline of love or wrath
(To brand or purify His fire must burn)—
Friend I commend to theee the narrow path
That thou and I, please God, may walk therein,

279

May taste and see how good is God Who hath
Loved us while hating even to death our sin.

“What good shall my life do me?”

No hope in life; yet is there hope
In death, the threshold of man's scope:
Man yearneth (as the heliotrope

For ever seeks the sun) thro' light
Thro' dark for Love: all read aright
Is Love for Love is infinite.

Shall not this infinite Love suffice
To feed thy dearth? Lift heart and eyes
Up to the hills, grow glad and wise.

The hills are glad because the sun
Kisses their round tops every one
Where silver fountains laugh and run:

Smooth pebbles shine beneath; beside
The grass, mere green, grows myriad-eyed
With pomp of blossoms veined or pied.

So every nest is glad whereon
The sun in tender strength has shone;
So every fruit he glows upon;

So every valley depth, whose herds
At pasture praise him without words;
So the winged extasies of birds.

If there be any such thing, what
Is there by sunlight betters not?—
Nothing except dead things that rot.

Thou then who art not dead and fit
Like blasted tree beside the pit
But for the axe that levels it,

280

Living show life of Love, whereof
The force wields earth and heaven above:
Who knows not Love begetteth Love?—

Love in the gracious rain distils;
Love moves the subtle fountain rills
To fertilize uplifted hills

And seedful vallies fertilize;
Love stills the hungry lion's cries
And the young raven satisfies;

Love hangs this earth in space; Love rolls
Fair worlds rejoicing on their poles
And girds them round with aureoles;

Love lights the sun; Love thro' the dark
Lights the moon's evanescent arc;
Same Love lights up the glow-worm's spark;

Love rears the great; Love tends the small;
Breaks off the yoke, breaks down the wall;
Accepteth all, fulfilleth all.

O ye who taste that Love is sweet,
Set waymarks for the doubtful feet
That stumble on in search of it.

Sing hymns of Love, that those who hear
Far off in pain may lend an ear
Rise up and wonder and draw near.

Lead lives of Love, that others who
Behold your lives may kindle too
With Love and cast their lots with you.

The Massacre of Perugia.

A trumpet pealed thro' France. Then Italy
Stirred, shook, from sea to sea.
Then many cities broke

281

Their lawful yoke.
Then in an evil hour
Perugia on her fort-crowned hill

[_]

[The rest of the poem is missing from the notebook.]

[I have done with hope]

I have done with hope;
Have done with lies from sea to sea:
How should I lie beneath the cope
Of Heaven's star-blazoned verity?

I will not wear your crown tonight,
But mine own crown tomorrow morn:

[_]

[The lines of the poem preceding and following the above are missing from the notebook.]

Promises like Piecrust.

Promise me no promises,
So will I not promise you;
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go;
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You, so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one;
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass
And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again;

282

If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain:
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less;
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess.

By the waters of Babylon.

By the waters of Babylon
We sit down and weep,
Far from the pleasant land
Where our fathers sleep;
Far from our Holy Place
From which the Glory is gone;
We sit in dust and weep
By the waters of Babylon.

By the waters of Babylon
The willow trees grow rank:
We hang our harps thereon
Silent upon the bank.
Before us the days are dark,
And dark the days that are gone;
We grope in the very dark
By the waters of Babylon.

By the waters of Babylon
We thirst for Jordan yet,
We pine for Jerusalem
Whereon our hearts are set:
Our priests defiled and slain,
Our princes ashamed and gone,
Oh how should we forget
By the waters of Babylon?

By the waters of Babylon
Tho' the wicked grind the just,
Our seed shall yet strike root

283

And shall shoot up from the dust:
The captive shall lead captive,
The slave rise up and begone,
And thou too shalt sit in dust
O daughter of Babylon.

Better so.

Fast asleep, mine own familiar friend,
Fast asleep at last:
Tho' the pain was strong,
Tho' the struggle long,
It is past;
All thy pangs are at an end.

Whilst I weep, whilst death bells toll,
Thou art fast asleep,
With idle hands upon thy breast
And heart at rest:
Whilst I weep
Angels sing around thy singing soul.

Who would wish thee back upon the rough
Wearisome dangerous road?
Wish back thy toil-spent soul
Just at the goal?
My soul, praise God
For one dear soul which hath enough.

I would not fetch thee back to hope with me
A sickening hope deferred,
To taste the cup that slips
From thirsty lips:
Hast thou not heard
What was to hear, and seen what was to see?

I would not speak the word if I could raise
My dead to life:
I would not speak
If I could flush thy cheek

284

And rouse thy pulses' strife
And send thy feet on the once-trodden ways.

How could I meet the dear rebuke
If thou should'st say:
“O friend of little faith,
Good was my lot of death,
And good my day
Of rest, and good the sleep I took”—?

Our widowed Queen.

The Husband of the widow care for her,
The Father of the fatherless:
The faithful Friend, the abiding Comforter,
Watch over her to bless.

Full twenty years of blameless married faith,
Of love and honour questioned not,
Joys, griefs imparted: for the first time Death
Sunders the common lot.

Christ help the desolate Queen upon her throne,
Strengthen her hands, confirm her heart:
For she henceforth must bear a load alone
Borne until now in part.

Christ help the desolate Woman in her home,
Broken of heart, indeed bereft;
Shrinking from solitary days to come,
Beggared tho' much is left.

Rise up, O Sons and Daughters of the Dead,
Weep with your Mother where she weeps;
Yet not as sorrowing without hope be shed
Your tears: he only sleeps.

Rise up, O Sons and Daughters of the realm,
In pale reflected sorrow move;
Revere the widowed hand that holds the helm,
Love her with double love.

285

In royal patience of her soul possess'd
May she fulfill her length of days:
Then may her children rise and call her bless'd,
Then may her husband praise.

In progress.

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

“Out of the deep.”

Have mercy, Thou my God; mercy, my God;
For I can hardly bear life day by day:
Be I here or there I fret myself away:
Lo for Thy staff I have but felt Thy rod
Along this tedious desert path long trod.
When will Thy judgement judge me, Yea or Nay?
I pray for grace; but then my sins unpray
My prayer: on holy ground I fool stand shod.
While still Thou haunts't me, faint upon the cross,
A sorrow beyond sorrow in Thy look,
Unutterable craving for my soul.
All faithful Thou, Lord: I, not Thou, forsook
Myself; I traitor slunk back from the goal:
Lord, I repent; help Thou my helpless loss.

286

For a Mercy received.

Thank God Who spared me what I feared!
Once more I gird myself to run.
Thy promise stands, Thou Faithful One.
Horror of darkness disappeared
At length; once more I see the sun,

And dare to wait in hope for Spring,
To face and bear the Winter's cold:
The dead cocoon shall yet unfold
And give to light the living wing;
There's hidden sap beneath the mould.

My God, how could my courage flag
So long as Thou art still the same?
For what were labour, failure, shame,
Whilst Thy sure promise doth not lag
And Thou dost shield me with Thy Name?

Yet am I weak, my faith is weak,
My heart is weak that pleads with Thee:
O Thou That art not far to seek
Turn to me, hearken when I speak,
Stretch forth Thy Hand to succour me.

Thro' many perils have I pass'd,
Deaths, plagues, and wonders, have I seen:
Till now Thy Hand hath held me fast:
Lord help me, hold me, to the last;
Still be what Thou hast always been.

Open Thy Heart of Love to me,
Give me Thyself, keep nothing back
Even as I give myself to Thee.
Love paid by Love doth nothing lack,
And Love to pay Love is not slack.

Love doth so grace and dignify
That beggars sue as King with King
Before the Throne of Grace on high:

287

My God, be gracious to my cry;
My God, accept what gift I bring:

A heart that loves; tho' soiled and bruised,
Yet chosen by Thee in time of yore:
Who ever came and was refused
By Thee? Do, Lord, as Thou art used
To do, and make me love Thee more.

Summer.

Come, cuckoo, come;
Come again, swift swallow;
Come and welcome; where you come
Summer's sure to follow.
June, the month of months,
Flowers and fruitage brings too;
When green trees spread shadiest boughs,
When each wild bird sings too.

May is scant and crude,
Generous June is riper;
Birds fall silent in July,
June has its woodland piper:
Rocks upon the maple-top
Homely-hearted linnet,
Full in hearing of his nest
And the dear ones in it.

If the year would stand
Still at June for ever,
With no further growth on land
Nor further flow of river,
If all nights were shortest nights
And longest days were all the seven,—
This might be a merrier world
To my mind to live in.

288

A Dumb Friend.

I planted a young tree when I was young;
But now the tree is grown and I am old:
There wintry robin shelters from the cold
And tunes his silver tongue.

A green and living tree I planted it,
A glossy-foliaged tree of evergreen:
All thro' the noontide heat it spread a screen
Whereunder I might sit.

But now I only watch it where it towers:
I, sitting at my window, watch it tossed
By rattling gale, or silvered by the frost;
Or, when sweet summer flowers,

Wagging its round green head with stately grace
In tender winds that kiss it and go by:
It shows a green full age; and what show I?
A faded wrinkled face.

So often have I watched it, till mine eyes
Have filled with tears and I have ceased to see;
That now it seems a very friend to me
In all my secrets wise.

A faithful pleasant friend, who year by year
Grew with my growth and strengthened with my strength,
But whose green lifetime shows a longer length:
When I shall not sit here

It still will bud in spring, and shed rare leaves
In autumn, and in summer heat give shade,
And warmth in winter; when my bed is made
In shade the cypress weaves.

289

Margery.

What shall we do with Margery?
She lies and cries upon her bed,
All lily-pale from foot to head,
Her heart is sore as sore can be;
Poor guileless shamefaced Margery.

A foolish girl, to love a man
And let him know she loved him so!
She should have tried a different plan;
Have loved, but not have let him know:
Then he perhaps had loved her so.

What can we do with Margery
Who has no relish for her food?
We'd take her with us to the sea—
Across the sea—but where's the good?
She'd fret alike on land and sea.

Yes, what the neighbours say is true:
Girls should not make themselves so cheap.
But now it's done what can we do?
I hear her moaning in her sleep,
Moaning and sobbing in her sleep.

I think—and I'm of flesh and blood—
Were I that man for whom she cares
I would not cost her tears and prayers
To leave her just alone like mud,
Fretting her simple heart with cares.

A year ago she was a child,
Now she's a woman in her grief;
The year's now at the falling leaf,
At budding of the leaves she smiled;
Poor foolish harmless foolish child.

It was her own fault? so it was.
If every own fault found us out
Dogged us and snared us round about,

290

What comfort should we take because
Not half our due we thus wrung out?

At any rate the question stands:
What now to do with Margery,
A weak poor creature on our hands?
Something we must do: I'll not see
Her blossom fade, sweet Margery.

Perhaps a change may after all
Prove best for her: to leave behind
Those home-sights seen time out of mind;
To get beyond the narrow wall
Of home, and learn home is not all.

Perhaps this way she may forget,
Not all at once, but in a while;
May come to wonder how she set
Her heart on this slight thing, and smile
At her own folly, in a while.

Yet this I say and I maintain:
Were I the man she's fretting for
I should my very self abhor
If I could leave her to her pain,
Uncomforted to tears and pain.

In Patience.

I will not faint, but trust in God
Who this my lot hath given;
He leads me by the thorny road
Which is the road to heaven.
Tho' sad my day that lasts so long,
At evening I shall have a song;
Tho' dim my day until the night,
At evening time there shall be light.

My life is but a working day
Whose tasks are set aright:

291

A while to work, a while to pray,
And then a quiet night.
And then, please God, a quiet night
Where Saints and Angels walk in white:
One dreamless sleep from work and sorrow,
But re-awakening on the morrow.

Sunshine.

“There's little sunshine in my heart
Slack to spring, lead to sink;
There's little sunshine in the world
I think.”—

“There's glow of sunshine in my heart
(Cool wind, cool the glow);
There's flood of sunshine in the world
I know.”—

Now if of these one spoke the truth,
One spoke more or less:
But which was which I will not tell;—
You, guess.

Meeting.

If we shall live, we live;
If we shall die, we die;
If we live, we shall meet again;
But tonight, good bye.
One word, let but one be heard—
What, not one word?

If we sleep, we shall wake again
And see tomorrow's light;
If we wake, we shall meet again;
But tonight, good night.
Good night, my lost and found—
Still not a sound?

292

If we live, we must part;
If we die, we part in pain;
If we die, we shall part
Only to meet again.
By those tears on either cheek,
Tomorrow you will speak.

To meet, worth living for;
Worth dying for, to meet;
To meet, worth parting for;
Bitter forgot in sweet.
To meet, worth parting before
Never to part more.

“None with Him.”

My God, to live: how didst Thou bear to live
Preaching and teaching, toiling to and fro;
Few men accepting what Thou hadst to give,
Few men prepared to know
Thy Face, to see the truth Thou camest to show?

My God, to die: how didst Thou bear to die
That long slow death in weariness of pain;
A curse and an astonishment, passed by,
Pointed at, mocked again,
By men for whom Thy Blood was shed in vain?

Whilst I do hardly bear my easy life,
And hardly face my easy-coming death:
I turn to flee before the tug of strife;
And shrink with troubled breath
From sleep, that is not death Thy Spirit saith.

Under Willows.

Under willows among the graves
One was walking, ah welladay!
Where each willow her green boughs waves

293

Come April prime, come May.
Under willows among the graves
She met her lost love, ah welladay!
Where in Autumn each wild wind raves
And whirls sere leaves away.

He looked at her with a smile,
She looked at him with a sigh,
Both paused to look awhile;
Then he passed by,
Passed by and whistled a tune;
She stood silent and still:
It was the sunniest day in June,
Yet one felt a chill.

Under willows among the graves
I know a certain black black pool
Scarce wrinkled when Autumn raves;
Under the turf is cool;
Under the water it must be cold;
Winter comes cold when Summer's past;
Though she live to be old, so old,
She shall die at last.

A Sketch.

The blindest buzzard that I know
Does not wear wings to spread and stir,
Nor does my special mole wear fur
And grub among the roots below;
He sports a tail indeed, but then
It's to a coat; he's man with men;
His quill is cut to a pen.

In other points our friend's a mole,
A buzzard, beyond scope of speech:
He sees not what's within his reach,
Misreads the part, ignores the whole.
Misreads the part so reads in vain,

294

Ignores the whole tho' patent plain,
Misreads both parts again.

My blindest buzzard that I know,
My special mole, when will you see?
Oh no, you must not look at me,
There's nothing hid for me to show.
I might show facts as plain as day;
But since your eyes are blind, you'd say:
Where? What? and turn away.

If I had Words.

If I had words, if I had words
At least to vent my misery:—
But muter than the speechless herds
I have no voice wherewith to cry.
I have no strength to life my hands,
I have no heart to lift mine eye,
My soul is bound with brazen bands,
My soul is crushed and like to die.
My thoughts that wander here and there,
That wander wander listlessly,
Bring nothing back to cheer my care,
Nothing that I may live thereby.
My heart is broken in my breast,
My breath is but a broken sigh—
Oh if there be a land of rest
It is far off, it is not nigh.
If I had wings as hath a dove,
If I had wings that I might fly,
I yet would seek the land of love
Where fountains run which run not dry;
Tho' there be none that road to tell,
And long that road is verily:
Then if I lived I should do well,
And if I died I should but die.
If I had wings as hath a dove
I would not sift the what and why,

295

I would make haste to find out love,
If not to find at least to try.
I would make haste to love, my rest;
To love, my truth that doth not lie:
Then if I lived it might be best,
Or if I died I could but die.

What to do?

Oh my love and my own own deary!
What shall I do? my love is weary.
Sleep, O friend, on soft downy pillow,
Pass, O friend, as wind or as billow,
And I'll wear the willow.

No stone at his head be set,
A swelling turf be his coverlet
Bound round with a graveyard wattle;
Hedged round from the trampling cattle
And the children's prattle.

I myself, instead of a stone,
Will sit by him to dwindle and moan;
Sit and weep with a bitter weeping,
Sit and weep where my love lies sleeping
While my life goes creeping.

Young Death.

Lying adying—
Such sweet things untasted,
Such rare beauties wasted:
Her hair a hidden treasure,
Her voice a lost pleasure;
Her soul made void of passion;
Her body going to nothing
Though long it took to fashion,
Soon to be a loathing:
Her road hath no turning,

296

Her light is burning burning
With last feeble flashes;
Dying from the birth:
Dust to dust, earth to earth,
Ashes to ashes.

Lying adying—
Have done with vain sighing:
Life not lost but treasured,
God Almighty pleasured,
God's daughter fetched and carried,
Christ's bride betrothed and married.
Lo, in the Room, the Upper,
She shall sit down to supper,
New bathed from head to feet
And on Christ gazing;
Her mouth kept clean and sweet
Shall laugh and sing, God praising:
Then shall be no more weeping,
Or fear, or sorrow,
Or waking more, or sleeping,
Or night, or morrow,
Or cadence in the song
Of songs, or thirst, or hunger;
The strong shall rise more strong
And the young younger.
Our tender little dove
Meek-eyed and simple,
Our love goes home to Love;
There shall she walk in white
Where God shall be the Light
And God the Temple.

In a certain place.

I found Love in a certain place
Asleep and cold—or cold and dead?—
All ivory-white upon his bed

297

All ivory-white his face.
His hands were folded
On his quiet breast,
To his figure laid at rest
Chilly bed was moulded.

His hair hung lax about his brow,
I had not seen his face before;
Or if I saw it once, it wore
Another aspect now.
No trace of last night's sorrow,
No shadow of tomorrow;
All at peace (thus all sorrows cease),
All at peace.

I wondered: Were his eyes
Soft or falcon-clear?
I wondered: As he lies
Does he feel me near?
In silence my heart spoke
And wondered: If he woke
And found me sitting nigh him
And felt me sitting by him,
If life flushed to his cheek,
He living man with men,
Then if I heard him speak
Oh should I know him then?

“Cannot sweeten.”

If that's water you wash your hands in
Why is it black as ink is black?—
Because my hands are foul with my folly:
Oh the lost time that comes not back!—

If that's water you bathe your feet in
Why is it red as wine is red?—
Because my feet sought blood in their goings;
Red red is the track they tread.—

298

Slew you mother or slew you father
That your foulness passeth not by?—
Not father and oh not mother:
I slew my love with an evil eye.—

Slew you sister or slew you brother
That in peace you have not a part?—
Not brother and oh not sister:
I slew my love with a hardened heart.

He loved me because he loved me,
Not for grace or beauty I had;
He loved me because he loved me;
For his loving me I was glad.

Yet I loved him not for his loving
While I played with his love and truth,
Not loving him for his loving,
Wasting his joy, wasting his youth.

I ate his life as a banquet,
I drank his life as new wine,
I fattened upon his leanness,
Mine to flourish and his to pine.

So his life fled as running water,
So it perished as water spilt:
If black my hands and my feet as scarlet,
Blacker redder my heart of guilt.

Cold as a stone, as hard, as heavy;
All my sighs ease it no whit,
All my tears make it no cleaner
Dropping dropping dropping on it.

Of my life.

I weary of my life
Thro' the long sultry day,
While happy creatures play

299

Their harmless lives away:—
What is my life?

I weary of my life
Thro' the slow tedious night,
While earth and heaven's delight
The moon walks forth in white:—
What is my life?

If I might I would die;
My soul should flee away
To day that is not day
Where sweet souls sing and say.—
If I might die!

If I might I would die;
My body out of sight,
All night that is not night
My soul should walk in white—
If I might die!

[Yes, I too could face death and never shrink]

Yes, I too could face death and never shrink:
But it is harder to bear hated life;
To stive with hands and knees weary of strife;
To drag the heavy chain whose every link
Galls to the bone; to stand upon the brink
Of the deep grave, nor drowse, though it be rife
With sleep; to hold with steady hand the knife
Nor strike home: this is courage as I think.
Surely to suffer is more than to do:
To do is quickly done; to suffer is
Longer and fuller of heart-sicknesses:
Each day's experience testifies of this:
Good deeds are many, but good lives are few;
Thousands taste the full cup; who drains the lees?—

[Would that I were a turnip white]

Would that I were a turnip white,
Or raven black,

300

Or miserable hack
Dragging a cab from left to right;
Or would I were the showman of a sight,
Or weary donkey with a laden back,
Or racer in a sack,
Or freezing traveller on an Alpine height;
Or would I were straw catching as I drown,
(A wretched landsman I who cannot swim,)
Or watching a lone vessel sink,
Rather than writing: I would change my pink
Gauze for a hideous yellow satin gown
With deep-cut scolloped edges and a rim.

[I fancy the good fairies dressed in white]

I fancy the good fairies dressed in white,
Glancing like moon-beams through the shadows black;
Without much work to do for king or hack.
Training perhaps some twisted branch aright;
Or sweeping faded Autumn leaves from sight
To foster embryo life; or binding back
Stray tendrils; or in ample bean-pod sack
Bringing wild honey from the rocky height;
Or fishing for a fly lest it should drown;
Or teaching water-lily heads to swim,
Fearful that sudden rain might make them sink;
Or dyeing the pale rose a warmer pink;
Or wrapping lilies in their leafy gown,
Yet letting the white peep beyond the rim.—

[Some ladies dress in muslin full and white]

Some ladies dress in muslin full and white,
Some gentlemen in cloth succinct and black;
Some patronise a dog-cart, some a hack,
Some think a painted clarence only right.
Youth is not always such a pleasing sight,
Witness a man with tassels on his back;
Or woman in a great-coat like a sack
Towering above her sex with horrid height.

301

If all the world were water fit to drown
There are some whom you would not teach to swim,
Rather enjoying if you saw them sink;
Certain old ladies dressed in girlish pink,
With roses and geraniums on their gown:—
Go to the Bason, poke them o'er the rim.—

Autumn.

Fade tender lily,
Fade O crimson rose,
Fade every flower
Sweetest flower that blows.

Go chilly Autumn,
Come O Winter cold;
Let the green things die away
Into common mould.

Birth follows hard on death,
Life on withering:
Hasten, we shall come the sooner
Back to pleasant Spring.

312

By way of Remembrance.

[Remember, if I claim too much of you]

Remember, if I claim too much of you,
I claim it of my brother and my friend:
Have patience with me till the hidden end,
Bitter or sweet, in mercy shut from view.
Pay me my due; though I to pay your due
Am all too poor and past what will can mend:
Thus of your bounty you must give and lend
Still unrepaid by aught I look to do.

313

Still unrepaid by aught of mine on earth:
But overpaid, please God, when recompense
Beyond the mystic Jordan and new birth
Is dealt to virtue as to innocence;
When Angels singing praises in their mirth
Have borne you in their arms and fetched you hence.

[Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried]

Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:
Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there,
To sit down in your glory and to share
Your gladness, glowing as a virgin bride?
Or will another dearer, fairer-eyed,
Sit nigher to you in your jubilee;
And mindful one of other will you be
Borne higher and higher on joy's ebbless tide?
—Yea, if I love I will not grudge you this:
I too shall float upon that heavenly sea
And sing my joyful praises without ache;
Your overflow of joy shall gladden me,
My whole heart shall sing praises for your sake
And find its own fulfilment in your bliss.

[In resurrection is it awfuller]

In resurrection is it awfuller
That rising of the All or of the Each:
Of all kins of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
When dust reanimate begins to stir
Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
While every wave disgorges on its beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
In resurrection, on the day of days,
That day of mourning throughout all the earth,
In resurrection may we meet again:
No more with stricken hearts to part in twain;
As once in sorrow one, now one in mirth,
One in our resurrection songs of praise.

314

[I love you and you know it—this at least]

I love you and you know it—this at least,
This comfort is mine own in all my pain:
You know it and can never doubt again,
And love's mere self is a continual feast.
Not oath of mine nor blessing-word of priest
Could make my love more certain or more plain:—
Life as a rolling moon doth wax and wane
O weary moon, still rounding, still decreased!
Life wanes: and when love folds his wings above
Tired joy, and less we feel his conscious pulse,
Let us go fall asleep, dear Friend, in peace;—
A little while, and age and sorrow cease;
A little while, and love reborn annuls
Loss and decay and death—and all is love.

Valentines from C.G.R.

[Fairer than younger beauties, more beloved]

Fairer than younger beauties, more beloved
Than many a wife,—
By stress of Time's vicissitudes unmoved
From settled calm of life,—

Endearing rectitude to those who watch
The verdict of your face,
Raising & making gracious those who catch
A semblance of your grace:—

With kindly lips of welcome, & with pleased
Propitious eyes benign,
Accept a kiss of homage from your least
Last Valentine.

A Valentine, 1877.

Own Mother dear,
We all rejoicing here
Wait for each other,

315

Daughter for Mother,
Sister for Brother,
Till each dear face appear
Transfigured by Love's flame
Yet still the same,—
The same yet new,—
My face to you,
Your face to me,
Made lovelier by Love's flame
But still the same;
Most dear to see
In halo of Love's flame,
Because the same.

1878.

Blessed Dear & heart's Delight,
Companion, Friend, & Mother mine
Round whom my fears & love entwine,—
With whom I hope to stand & sing
Where Angels form the outer ring
Round singing Saints who, clad in white,
Know no more of day or night
Or death or any changeful thing,
Or anything that is not love,
Human love & love Divine,—
Bid me to that tryst above,
Bless your Valentine.

1879.

Mother mine
Whom every year
Doth endear,
Before sweet Spring
(That sweetest thing
Brimfull of bliss)

316

Sets all the throng
Of birds a-wooing
Billing & cooing,—
Your Valentine
Sings you a song,
Gives you a kiss.

1880.

More shower than shine
Brings sweet St. Valentine;
Warm shine, warm shower,
Bring up sweet flower on flower:
Thro' shower & shine
Loves you your Valentine,
Thro' shine, thro' shower,
Thro' summer's flush, thro' Autumn's fading hour.

St. Valentine's Day 1881.

Too cold almost for hope of Spring
Or firstfruits from the realm of flowers,
Your dauntless Valentine, I bring
One sprig of love, and sing
“Love has no Winter hours”.—

If even in this world love is love
(This wintry world which felt the Fall),
What must it be in Heaven above
Where love to great and small
Is all in all?

317

A Valentine 1882.

My blessed Mother dozing in her chair
On Christmas Day seemed an embodied Love,
A comfortable Love with soft brown hair
Softened and silvered to a tint of dove,
A better sort of Venus with an air
Angelical from thoughts that dwell above,
A wiser Pallas in whose body fair
Enshrined a blessed soul looks out thereof.
Winter brought Holly then; now Spring has brought
Paler and frailer Snowdrops shivering;
And I have brought a simple humble thought
—I her devoted duteous Valentine—,
A lifelong thought which thrills this song I sing,
A lifelong love to this dear Saint of mine.

February 14. 1883.

A world of change & loss, a world of death,
Of heart & eyes that fail, of labouring breath,
Of pains to bear & painful deeds to do:—
Nevertheless a world of life to come
And love; where you're at home, while in our home
Your Valentine rejoices having you.

1884.

Another year of joy & grief,
Another year of hope & fear:
O Mother, is life long or brief?
We hasten while we linger here.

But since we linger, love me still
And bless me still, O Mother mine,
While hand in hand we scale life's hill,
You Guide, & I your Valentine.

318

1885. St. Valentine's Day.

All the Robin Redbreasts
Have lived the winter thro',
Jenny Wrens have pecked their fill
And found a work to do,
Families of Sparrows
Have weathered wind & storm
With Rabbit on the stony hill
And Hare upon her form.

You & I, my Mother,
Have lived the winter thro',
And still we play our daily parts
And still find work to do:
And still the cornfields flourish,
The olive & the vine,
And still you reign my Queen of Hearts
And I'm your Valentine.

1886 St. Valentine's Day.

Winter's latest snowflake is the snowdrop flower,
Yellow crocus kindles the first flame of the Spring,
At that time appointed, at that day and hour
When life reawakens and hope in everything.
Such a tender snowflake in the wintry weather,
Such a feeble flamelet for chilled St. Valentine,—
But blest be any weather which finds us still together,
My pleasure and my treasure O blessed Mother mine.

[Ah welladay and wherefore am I here?]

Ah welladay and wherefore am I here?
I sit alone all day I sit & think—

319

I watch the sun arise, I watch it sink
And feel no soul-light tho the day is clear
Surely it is a folly; it is mere
Madness to stand for ever on the brink
Of dark despair & yet not break the link
That makes me scorned who cannot be held dear.
I will have done with it; I will not stand
And fear on without hope & tremble thus
Look for the break of day & miss it ever
Although my heart be broken they shall never
Say: She was glad to sojourn among us
Thankful if one would take her by the hand.

[Along the highroad the way is too long]

Along the highroad the way is too long
Let us walk where the oak trees rise up thick
I take a crab-, you take a cherry stick
Let us go from among men to the throng
Of belted bees: the wild roses smell strong
And sweet; & my old dog is fain to lick
My hand: best so in good truth I am sick
Of the world; & hear silence as a song
And you I think are changed friend you who once
Would dance thro' the long night; a something called
From your heart; into your hid brain it sunk;
Oh listen silence maketh the air drunk
I would not give these shades that have not palled
On me, for the broad light of many suns.

[And is this August weather? nay not so]

And is this August weather? nay not so
With the long rain the cornfield waxeth dark.
How the cold rain comes pouring down & hark
To the chill wind whose measured pace & slow
Seems still to linger being loth to go.
I cannot stand beside the sea and mark
Its grandeur; it's too wet for that: no lark
In this drear season cares to sing or show.

320

And since its name is August all men find
Fire not allowable; Winter foregone
Had more of sunlight & of glad warmth more
I shall be fain to run upon the shore
And mark the rain. Hath the sun ever shone
Cheer up there can be nothing worse to mind.

[From early dawn until the flush of noon]

From early dawn until the flush of noon
And from hot noon unto the hushèd night
I look around beholding all things bright
From the deep sun unto the silver moon
My heart & soul & spirit are in tune.
My sense is gladdened with an inward light.
The very clouds above my head are white
And glorious radiance shall disperse them soon.
All trees & bushes fruits & flowers bear,
The sea is full of life & beauty, how
The grand waves leap up—as tho' full of sense,
A better day was not I think & ne'er
Was I so full of joy as I am now.
Surely a chill shall come & this go hence

[I seek among the living & I seek]

I seek among the living & I seek
Among the dead for some to love; but few
I find at last & these have quite run through
Their store of love & friendship is too weak
And cold for me; yet will I never speak
Telling my heart want to cold listeners who
Will wonder smiling; I can bear & do
No tears shall sully my unfurrowed cheek
So when my dust shall mix with other dust
When I shall have found quiet in decay
And lie at ease & cease to be & rot
Those whom I love thinking of me shall not
Grieve with a measure, saying: Now we must
Weep for a little ere we go & play.

321

[O glorious sea that in each climbing wave]

O glorious sea that in each climbing wave
Bearest great thoughts as in a wondrous book
The ends of earth oft at thy presence shook
And not denied when thou hast stooped to crave.
Sometimes the mighty winds have dared to brave
Thy potency; but with a single look
Raising thy head forth from its ancient nook
Thou hast recalled the quiet thou wouldst have.
What is a ship save many a fragile stick?
How should it brave thy terrors when they wear
The lightning crest that maketh substance wither
Yea though the planks be seasoned well & thick
Thine anger is too hard a thing to bear:—
Thou sayest to men: go back & come not hither.

[Oh thou who tell'st me that all hope is over]

Oh thou who tell'st me that all hope is over
With lazy limbs that heavily recline
On the soft cushions; flushed & fair with wine
Scarce seeming conscious of the scents that hover
Round & above thee: can thy heart recover
So soon its quiet, while mine own shall pine?
Thou who canst love & not o'erstep the line
Of comfort, art thou in good truth a lover
O take away from me those chill calm glances
As thou hast ta'en thy heart away; & give
My heart again that must forget to wander
Thy words were worse than silence they were lances
To poison all the life I have to live
Stagnate the streams of life that should meander

[Surely there is an aching void within]

Surely there is an aching void within
Man's spirit unto other men unknown
And which were it unveiled and freely shown
Would open to the sight so much of sin
And folly & a cry that at the din
His overbearing pride & overblown

322

Would quite shrink down & seem as it had grown
Humble, content to lose & not to win.
Oh that we so could hide the grief of years
From our own selves yea the whole guilt & trouble
And in our secret spirit look on grace;
Yet death for ever sendeth messengers
Before it conscience pricks, & were these double
They were not equal to our sin-stained face.

[The spring is come again not as at first]

The spring is come again not as at first
For then it was my spring; & now a brood
Of bitter memories haunt me, & my mood
Is much changed from the time when I was nursed
In the still country. Oh! my heart could burst
Thinking upon the long ago: the crude
Hopes all unrealised; the flowers that strewed
My path, now changed to painful thorns & curst.
And though I know the kingcups are as fine
As they were then, my spirit cannot soar
As it did once: when shadows of a wood
Or thinking of a blossom that soon should
Unfold & fill the air with scent, would pour
Peace on my brow now marked with many a line.

[Who shall my wandering thoughts steady & fix]

Who shall my wandering thoughts steady & fix
When I go forth into the world and gaze
Around me, thinking on mens evil ways
I wonder in myself to see how mix
Evil & good; beyond the Sleepy Styx
All things shall be unravelled whoso lays
These things to heart after the settled days
Shall know all. Even as a dog that licks
Your hand whom tears chide not away nor laughter
So to your souls clingeth the taint of crime
Shall it be ever so? & if not why?
The river bed is full of filthy slime

323

And so our heart is lined with wonder: die
And having died thou shalt see all things after.

[You who look on passed ages as a glass]

You who look on passed ages as a glass
To shadow forth the future, in your home
Peacefully dwelling little heeding some
But loving many; as the visions pass
Turn from them for a moment to the grass
And solemn sun & blue o'erarching dome
And in the hush of nature think on Rome
Not as it is now but as it once was.
As of the mighty dead think without hope
But if you will indulge a hopeful pile
Yea if you will write about it in rhyme
For if it once had a too mighty scope
To be all as the sun fails not to smile
It shall be nothing to the end of time.

330

The Succession of Kings.

William the Norman was brave in the field;
And Rufus, his Son, in the chase was killed.
Henry the first early lost his dear Son;
And Stephen's battles were bravely won.
Henry the second his kingdom increased.
Richard the first led Crusades in the East.
John signed Magna Charta at Runnymede.

331

Henry the third put his seal to the deed.
Brave Edward the first the Welsh did subdue.
Weak Edward the second had foes not a few.
Edward the third to France did aspire,
Whose Son, the Black Prince, died before his Sire.
Richard the second to weakness was prone;
And Henry the fourth was placed on his throne.
Fifth Henry at Agincourt won the field.
Meek Henry the sixth was forced to yield,
To Edward the fourth who abused his power.
Edward the fifth found a grave in the Tower.
Richard the third was a treacherous friend;
By Henry the seventh he came to his end.
Henry the eighth had six wives in succession.
Edward the sixth was the hope of the nation;
For ten days reigned his Cousin the Lady Jane.
Queen Mary espoused King Philip of Spain.
A reign glorious and long was Elizabeth's lot.
James the first shrewdly guessed at the Gunpowder Plot.
Charles the first on a scaffold lost his head;
The Protector Cromwell ruled in his stead.
Richard Cromwell from ruling with joy did retire.
Charles the second beheld both the Plague and Fire.
For his faith James the second the crown did lose;
Which third William and Mary did not refuse.
Marlborough fought under good Queen Anne.
The Hanover Line with first George began.
Second George overcame the second Pretender.
In the reign of third George did Napoleon surrender.
George the fourth was long Regent, but King at last.
Under William the fourth the Reform Bill passed.
Good Queen Victoria, the last King's Niece,
Reigns over England beloved and at peace.

A true Story.

(continued.)

In this great city now the haunt,
Of priest and friar and monk

332

Where reason sees her ill-starr'd bark,
By superstition sunk;

Where nature's voice by force repress'd,
Its energy declares,
In demon deeds of wickedness,
When fear its dagger bares;

In Rome itself there lately dwelt
Two sister-maidens fair,
Affianced both to noble youths,
Of form and virtue rare.

Preparing now for that great step,
Of weal or woe the seal,
Before they joyful give their hands,
Where purest love they feel;

(To be continued)

[The two Rossettis (brothers they)]

The two Rossettis (brothers they)
And Holman Hunt and John Millais,
With Stephens chivalrous and bland,
And Woolner in a distant land,
In these six men I awestruck see
Embodied the great P.R.B.
D. G. Rossetti offered two
Good pictures to the public view:
Unnumbered ones great John Millais,
And Holman more than I can say [OMITTED]
William Rossetti calm and solemn
Cuts up his brethren by the column. [OMITTED]

Imitated from the Arpa Evangelica: Page 121.

My Lord, my Love! in pleasant pain
How often have I said:

333

Blessed that John, who on Thy Breast
Laid down his head.
It was that contact all Divine
Transformed him from above,
And made him amongst men the man
To show forth holy love.

Yet shall I envy blessed John?
Nay, not so verily,
Now that Thou, Lord, both Man & God
Dost dwell in me:
Upbuilding with Thy Manhood's might
My frail humanity;
Yea, Thy Divinehood pouring forth
In fulness filling me.

Me, Lord, Thy temple consecrate,
Even me to Thee alone;
Lord reign upon my willing heart
Which is Thy throne:
To Thee the Seraphim fall down
Adoring round Thy house;
For which of them hath tasted Thee,
My Manna & my Spouse?

Now that Thy Life lives in my soul
And sways & warms it thro',
I scarce seem lesser than the world,
Thy temple too.
O God Who dwellest in my heart,
My God Who fillest me,
The broad immensity itself
Hath not encompassed Thee.

[_]

“T'amo; e fra dolci affanni”—. p. 121.—

My Lord, my Love!—in love's unrest
How often have I said:
“Blessed that John who on Thy Breast
Reclined his head.”
Thy touch it was, Love's Pelican,
Transformed him from above,

334

And made him amongst men the man
To show forth holy love!

Yet shall I envy blessèd John?
Nay, not so verily,
While Thou indwellest as Thine own
Me, even me:
Upbuilding with Thy Manhood's worth
My frail humanity;
Yea, Thy Divinehood pouring forth,
In fulness filling me.

Me, Lord, Thy temple consecrate,
Me unto Thee alone;
Within my heart set up Thy state
And mount Thy throne:
The Seraphim in ecstasy
Fall prone around Thy house,
For which of them hath tasted Thee
My Manna and my Spouse?

Now Thou dost wear me for a robe
And sway and warm me thro',
I scarce seem lesser than the globe,—
Thy temple too:
O God Who for Thy dwelling place
Dost take delight in me,
The ungirt immensity of space
Hath not encompassed Thee.

[Mr. and Mrs. Scott, and I]

Mr. and Mrs. Scott, and I,
With Mr. Manson, Editor,
And of the social Proctors four,
Agreed the season to defy.

We mustered forces at the Rail,
Struck hands and made our interests one:
Alas for absent Annie Hayle
Who should have shared the fare and fun.

335

Not neighbour Humble and her child
—Tho' well-disposed of doubtful force—
But Annie Hayle my verse deplores,
Behatted plump alert and mild.

From Newcastle to Sunderland
Upon a misty morn in June
We took the train: on either hand
Grimed streets were changed for meadows soon.

Umbrellas, tarts and sandwiches
Sustained our spirits' temperate flow,
With potted jam, and cold as snow
Rough-coated sun-burnt oranges.

[Gone to his rest]

1

Gone to his rest
Bright little Bouby!
Build green his nest
Where sun and dew be,
Nor snails molest

2

A cheerful sage,
Simple, light-hearted:
In ripe old age
He had departed
And ta'en his wage.

3

Dear for himself;
Dear for another
Past price of pelf;
—(Ah, dearest Mother!)—
Song-singing elf.

336

4

O daisies, grow
Lightly above him,
Strike root, and blow:
For some who love him
Would have it so.

[I said “All's over”—& I made my]

I said “All's over”—& I made my [OMITTED]
Thenceforward to keep silence & [OMITTED]
From any hope or enterprise aga[OMITTED]
But as one certain day the sap[OMITTED]
Sun warmed & solaced in its f[OMITTED]
So something stirred in me th[OMITTED]
And all my hardness broke [OMITTED]
And hope once more tended [OMITTED]

[_]

[illegible fragment]

337

[I said good bye in hope]

I said good bye in hope:
But now we meet again
I have no hope at all
Of anything but pain,
Our parting & our meeting
Alike in vain.

Hope on thro' all your life
Until the end, dear Friend.
Live thro' your noble life
Where joy & promise blend:
I too will live my life
Until the end.

Long may your vine entwine,
Long may your figtree spread
Their paradise of shade
Above your cherished head:
My shelter was a gourd,
And it is dead.

Yet when out of a grave
We are gathered home at last,
Then may we own life spilt
No good worth holding fast:—
Death had its bitterness
But it is past.

My Mouse.

A Venus seems my Mouse
Come safe ashore from foaming seas,
Which in a small way & at ease
Keeps house.

An Iris seems my Mouse,
Bright bow of that exhausted shower
Which made a world of sweet-herbs flower
And boughs.

338

A darling Mouse it is:—
Part hope not likely to take wing,
Part memory, part anything
You please.

Venus-cum-Iris Mouse
From shifting tides set safe apart,
In no mere bottle, in my heart
Keep house.

[Had Fortune parted us]

Had Fortune parted us
Fortune is blind,
Had Anger parted us
Anger unkind—
But since God parts us
Let us part humbly
Bearing our burden
Bravely & dumbly.

And since there is but one
Heaven, not another,
Let us not close that door
Against each other.
God's Love is higher than mine,
Christ's tenfold proved,
Yet even I would die
For thee Beloved.

Counterblast on Penny Trumpet.

[_]

“When raged the conflict, fierce & hot.”

If Mr. Bright retiring does not please
And Mr. Gladstone staying gives offence,
What can man do which is not one of these?
Use your own common sense.

Yet he's a brave man who abjures his cause
For conscience' sake: let byegones be byegones:

339

Not this among the makers of our laws
The least & and last of Johns.

If all our byegones could be piled on shelves
High out of reach of penny-line Tyrtaeus!
If only all of us could see ourselves
As others see us!

[A roundel seems to fit a round of days]

A roundel seems to fit a round of days
Be they the days of upright man or scoundrel:
Allow me to construct then in your praise
A roundel.
[This flower of wit turns out a weed like groundsel:
Yet deign to welcome it, as loftiest bays
Grown on the shore of Girvan's ocean groundswell.]
Accept the love that underlies the lays;
Condone the barbarous rhymes that will not sound well
In building up, all Poets to amaze,
A roundel.

[Heaven overarches earth and sea]

Heaven overarches earth and sea,
Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness;
Heaven overarches you and me:
A little while, and we shall be
(Please God) where there is no more sea
Or barren wilderness.

Heaven overarches you and me
And all earth's gardens and her graves:
Look up with me, until we see
The day break and the shadows flee;
What tho' tonight wrecks you and me,
If so tomorrow saves?

[Sleeping at last, the trouble & tumult over]

Sleeping at last, the trouble & tumult over,
Sleeping at last, the struggle & horror past,

340

Cold & white out of sight of friend & of lover
Sleeping at last.

No more a tired heart downcast or overcast,
No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover,
Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast.

Fast asleep. Singing birds in their leafy cover
Cannot wake her, nor shake her the gusty blast.
Under the purple thyme & the purple clover
Sleeping at last.

4th May morning.

My carrier pigeon is a “fancy” pigeon,
Less tangible than widgeon;
A sympathetic love,—yet not a Cupid,
Nor pert nor stupid,
Heart-warm & snug tho' May Day deal in zeroes,
A well-known Eros.
On windless wings by flight untired for ever
Outspeed the speeding river,
From Torrington remote to utmost Chelsea
(—Do what I tells ye!—)
Carry a heart of love & thanks & blisses,
A beak of kisses,
Past Piccadilly's hills & populous valleys,
Past every human head that more or less is
Begirt with tawny tresses,
Past every house, to sumptuous Bellevue Palace;
There greet the courteous Courtneys with politeness,
And the dear Scotts with an affectionate brightness,
And give a kiss to dark-locked Alice.

341

THE CHINAMAN.

‘Centre of Earth!’ a Chinaman he said,
And bent over a map his pig-tailed head,—
That map in which, portrayed in colours bright,
China, all dazzling, burst upon the sight:
‘Centre of Earth!’ repeatedly he cries,
‘Land of the brave, the beautiful, the wise!’
Thus he exclaimed; when lo his words arrested
Showed what sharp agony his head had tested.
He feels a tug—another, and another—
And quick exclaims, ‘Hallo! what's now the bother?’
But soon alas perceives. And, ‘Why, false night,
Why not from men shut out the hateful sight?
The faithless English have cut off my tail,
and left me my sad fortunes to bewail.
Now in the streets I can no more appear,
For all the other men a pig-tail wear.’
He said, and furious cast into the fire
His tail: those flames became its funeral-pyre.

[‘Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer!’]

‘Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer!’
As the soldier remarked whose post lay in the rear.

THE PLAGUE

“Listen, the last stroke of death's noon has struck—
The plague is come,” a gnashing Madman said,
And laid him down straightway upon his bed.
His writhèd hands did at the linen pluck;
Then all is over. With a careless chuck
Among his fellows he is cast. How sped
His spirit matters little: many dead
Make men hard-hearted.—“Place him on the truck.
Go forth into the burial-ground and find
Room at so much a pitful for so many.

342

One thing is to be done; one thing is clear:
Keep thou back from the hot unwholesome wind,
That it infect not thee.” Say, is there any
Who mourneth for the multitude dead here?

[How many authors are my first!]

How many authors are my first!
And I shall be so too
Unless I finish speedily
That which I have to do.

My second is a lofty tree
And a delicious fruit;
This in the hot-house flourishes—
That amid rocks takes root.

My whole is an immortal queen
Renowned in classic lore:
Her a god won without her will,
And her a goddess bore.

[Me you often meet]

Me you often meet
In London's crowded street,
And merry children's voices my resting-place proclaim.
Pictures and prose and verse
Compose me—I rehearse
Evil and good and folly, and call each by its name.
I make men glad, and I
Can bid their senses fly,
And festive echoes know me of Isis and of Cam.
But give me to a friend,
And amity will end,
Though he may have the temper and meekness of a lamb.

[So I began my walk of life; no stop]

So I began my walk of life; no stop
Was possible; or else my will was frail;
Or is it that the first stumblings entail
Weakness no after strength has power to prop?

343

The heart puts forth her boughs; and these we lop
For very wantonness; until the gale
Is rank with blood; then our life-portions fail
And we are fain to share another's sop.
At first my heart was true and my soul true,
And then the outside world believed me false.
Therefore my sweets grew bitter, and I thrust
Life back, till it stood still and turned to must.
Yet sometimes through the great stagnation calls
Of spirits reach me: is it so with you?

[So I grew half delirious and quite sick]

So I grew half delirious and quite sick,
And thro' the darkness saw strange faces grin
Of Monsters at me. One put forth a fin,
And touched me clammily: I could not pick
A quarrel with it: it began to lick
My hand, making meanwhile a piteous din
And shedding human tears: it would begin
To near me, then retreat. I heard the quick
Pulsation of my heart, I marked the fight
Of life and death within me; then sleep threw
Her veil around me; but this thing is true:
When I awoke the sun was at his height,
And I wept sadly, knowing that one new
Creature had love for me, and others spite.

[On the note you do not send me]

On the note you do not send me
I have thought too long: adieu.
Hope and fear no longer rend me:—
Home is near: not news of you.

CHARON

In my cottage near the Styx
Co. and Charon still combine
Us to ferry o'er like bricks

344

In a boat of chaste design.
Cerberus, thou triple fair,
Distance doth thy charms impair:
Let the passage give to us
Charon, Co., and Cerberus.

CHORUS
Now the passage gives us to
Charon, Cerberus, and Co.

FROM METASTASIO

First, last, and dearest,
My love, mine own,
Thee best beloved,
Thee love alone,
Once and for ever
So love I thee.

First as a suppliant
Love makes his moan,
Then as a monarch
Sets up his throne:
Once and for ever—
So love I thee.

345

GOLDEN HOLLY

Common Holly bears a berry
To make Christmas Robins merry:—
Golden Holly bears a rose,
Unfolding at October's close
To cheer an old Friend's eyes and nose.

[I toiled on, but thou]

I toiled on, but thou
Wast weary of the way,
And so we parted: now
Who shall say
Which is happier—I or thou?

I am weary now
On the solitary way:
But art thou rested, thou?

346

Who shall say
Which of us is calmer now?

Still my heart's love, thou,
In thy secret way,
Art still remembered now:
Who shall say—
Still rememberest thou?

COR MIO

Still sometimes in my secret heart of hearts
I say “Cor mio” when I remember you,
And thus I yield us both one tender due,
Welding one whole of two divided parts.
Ah Friend, too wise or unwise for such arts,
Ah noble Friend, silent and strong and true,
Would you have given me roses for the rue
For which I bartered roses in love's marts?
So late in autumn one forgets the spring,
Forgets the summer with its opulence,
The callow birds that long have found a wing,
The swallows that more lately got them hence:
Will anything like spring, will anything
Like summer, rouse one day the slumbering sense?

[My old admiration before I was twenty,—]

My old admiration before I was twenty,—
Is predilect still, now promoted to se'enty!
My own demi-century plus an odd one
Some weight to my judgment may fairly impart.
Accept this faint flash of a smouldering fun,
The fun of a heavy old heart.

TO MARY ROSSETTI

You were born in the Spring
When the pretty birds sing

347

In sunbeamy bowers:
Then dress like a Fairy,
Dear dumpling my Mary,
In green and in flowers.

TO MY FIOR-DI-LISA

The Rose is Love's own flower, and Love's no less
The Lily's tenderness.
Then half their dignity must Roses yield
To Lilies of the field?
Nay, diverse notes make up true harmony,
All-fashioned loves agree:
Love wears the Lily's whiteness, and Love glows
In the deep-hearted Rose.

[Hail, noble face of noble friend!—]

Hail, noble face of noble friend!—
Hail, honoured master hand and dear!—
On you may Christmas good descend
And blessings of the unknown year

348

So soon to overtake us here.
Unknown, yet well known: I portend
Love starts the course, love seals the end.

Hymn

O the bitter shame and sorrow
That a time could ever be,
When I let the Saviour's pity
Plead in vain, and proudly answered
“All of Self, and none of Thee.”

Yet He found me; I beheld Him
Bleeding on the accursed Tree;
Heard Him pray “Forgive them, Father!”
And my wistful heart said faintly
“Some of Self, and some of Thee.”

Day by day, His tender mercy,
Healing, helping, full and free,
Sweet and strong, and ah! so patient,
Brought me lower, while I whispered
“Less of Self, and more of Thee.”

Higher than the highest Heaven,
Deeper than the deepest sea,
“Lord, Thy love at last hath conquered,
Grant me now my soul's desire
None of Self, and all of Thee.”

University of Virginia Library

III. VOLUME III

I Separately Published Poems

DEATH'S CHILL BETWEEN.

HEART'S CHILL BETWEEN.

Repining.

NEW ENIGMAS.

CHARADES.

THE ROSE.

The Trees' Counselling.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.”

[Gianni my friend and I both strove to excel]

The Offering of the New Law, the One Oblation once Offered.

The eleventh hour.

I know you not.

A Christmas Carol.

Easter Even.

Come unto Me.

Ash Wednesday.

SPRING FANCIES.

I.

II.

III.

“LAST NIGHT.”

PETER GRUMP.

Helen Grey.

If.

Seasons.

HENRY HARDIMAN,

Aged 55.

Within the Veil.

Paradise: in a Symbol.

[In July]

[Love hath a name of Death]

[Alas my Lord]

AN ALPHABET.

Husband and Wife.

MICHAEL F. M. ROSSETTI.

Born April 22nd, 1881; Died January 24th, 1883.

A SICK CHILD'S MEDITATION

[Love is all happiness, love is all beauty]

[A handy Mole who plied no shovel]

“One swallow does not make a summer.”

[Contemptuous of his home beyond]

A Word for the Dumb.

CARDINAL NEWMAN.

An Echo from Willowwood.

“YEA, I HAVE A GOODLY HERITAGE.”

A Death of a First-born.

“FAINT, YET PURSUING.”

1.

2.

[What will it be, O my soul, what will it be]

[Lord, Thou art fulness, I am emptiness]

[O Lord, I cannot plead my love of Thee]

[Faith and Hope are wings to Love]

A SORROWFUL SIGH OF A PRISONER.

[“I sit a queen, and am no widow, and shall see no sorrow”—]

[Passing away the bliss]

[Love builds a nest on earth and waits for rest]

[Jesus alone:—if thus it were to me]

The Way of the World.

BOOKS IN THE RUNNING BROOKS.

GONE BEFORE

II Privately Printed Poems

THE DEAD CITY.

The Water Spirit's Song.

The Song of the Star.

Summer.

Eva.

Love ephemeral.

Burial Anthem.

Sappho.

Tasso and Leonora.

ON THE DEATH OF A CAT,

A Friend of Mine, Aged Ten Years and a Half.

Mother and Child.

FAIR MARGARET.

Earth and Heaven.

Love attacked.

I
Separately Published Poems

II
Privately Printed Poems

III
Unpublished Poems