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iii

TO MRS. HENRY CURTIS, This Book IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
5

MADRIGALS.

6

THE POET TO NATURE.

Far in the silence of the flowery west,
Mother, there lies a valley, only known
To me, thy child and worshipper, thine own!
Thither I wander'd in the idle quest
Of the shy ouzel's nest;
And there I found
Thee, queen and goddess, most supremely crown'd
With leafy loveliness.
The calmness of a silver sunset fell
Upon thine eyes, so turn'd to amethyst,
Smiling on me; and, first in that green dell,
I felt thy fingers press
My brows with ivy bound.
7

MUSIC.

Before the clavichord
Stately she sat, and from her fine lips pour'd
The song I love so well:
Fair is she, yet I could afford
To lose those deep eyes where clear violets dwell,
And, in a whirl of sound,
To gain the heaven where her young spirit soar'd,
Forgetful of the ground.
Music, thy noblest servant, Israfel,
Feels not his lyre-heart more divinely bound
At seraph-chaunts, than I to hear
That passionate rondel throb with hope and fear!
9

THE ANGEL OF THE ANNUNCIATION.

Still, with the lightning speed of his swift flight,
The rainbows of his wings
Vibrated, and his hair bore still the light
That shone around it in those mansions bright,
Whence the sun's glory springs;
On one knee to the Virgin fair he bent;
And, in a low clear voice of silver chord,
Gave forth the mystic word
Wherewith he had been sent;
A choral murmur of rich music blent
With the faint echo; then from her rapt sight
He faded, unador'd.
15

OPHELIA.

“She was as white as the lily flower.” Knight of the Burning Pestle.

Where didst thou find thy love?
Among the lilies, that, golden-spik'd and white,
Bend over the still lake, and catch the light
On ivory petals as they move.—
Among the lilies; and her hair was bright
With the dull sheeny splendour of wet gold,
And all her flesh was cold.
Then from the calm grey heavens above
A summer-evening light shone down, and night
Came ere I was aware.—
White and gold, like the lilies, calm and fair,
And moving like the lilies, waved or roll'd
By the capricious air.
18

AN INVITATION.

Come to the river-bank with me;
For there are plumèd ferns of crescent green,
And in the wine-dark pools are seen
The crimson-spotted trout.
Hush! hush! move through the brake most silently,
Vex with no loud unhallow'd shout
The holy secrecy of this sweet glade,
And you shall see
The dipper rush with sudden flash, and fade
Into the woodland screen;
Nor shall you by your presence make afraid
The kingfisher, who looks down dreamily
At his own shadow gorgeously array'd.
21

THE CRY OF THE UNSATISFIED.

O sing, sweet lark, some calmer, sadder song!
Thy melody awakes
A grief unsuited to the dawn and thee;
My heart, my poor heart breaks!
Its pain doth foully wrong
The golden glory of the sun-lit sea;
The long fields sloping to the ridg'd sea-sand
Take up the light, and send it through the land.
Above their waving grain I hear and see,
Climbing the air with ardent wings,
Thy spirit-form that shouts and sings,
Enraptur'd with the joy the scarlet sunrise brings.
But I,
Forgetting all the morning-grace,
And hiding in the chill sand-drift my face,
22

Moan out, “O night, too, too soon dead,
Oh! whither art thou fled?
Be silent, lark, or soar so high
Thy notes may fade away and die;
Let, rather, from yon tamarisk-grove,
The nightingale, that lover-bird,
Sing low of unrequited love
In strains more sweet and sad than cold Earth ever heard!”
25

TINTAGEL.

On the dark ridges of the granite steep
I stood in thought, above the moaning sea,
While spirits of the unweary deep
In sun and wind were swathing me:
Round me no mirth nor human jollity
Broke the great solemn silence; yet I knew
An awful joy went throbbing through
Each ledge of rock, each curl of rippling foam:
Then to my soul the thrilling gladness flew,
And I shall bear through years to come,
Hid in dim avenues of memory,
The splendour of that visionary sleep.
27

EROS TO PSYCHE.

Remember not, O Love! the days gone by,
Nor, blushing, stand and sigh!
Hold up once more the clear memorial flame
Within the purple hollow of the night;
And let the glow flush all thy rosy limbs,
As once most mournfully!
Ah! chase the dew that dims
Thine eyes made heavy-lidded with old shame;
We will forget the pale twilight
Of the old love that died so wretchedly:
And this shall be the golden splendid dawn
Of deeper ecstasy than ever came
Round my dread mother's path through Paphos' lawn.
28

SANTA LUCIA.

O Lord, my lovers gaze into my eyes,
But I am blind to any love but thine;
I will not cramp my soul with carnal ties,
Nor soil that passion, saintly and divine.
Another path is mine:—
Austere and chaste to thee I would arise;
And now, within this chapel on the hill,
Girdled with pine-woods, sung to by all winds,
My throbbing heart is still,
Calm'd with the rest it finds;
Around me, when I wake, the dawning sings;
I join all nature in the choral hymn;
And, sitting here alone,
All heaven grows scarlet with the seraph's wings;
And, past the choirs of blue-eyed cherubim,
I gaze far up to Thy immortal throne!
29

LYRICS.

34

IANTHE.

“I enter thy garden, my lover, my spouse,
I breathe the faint odour of pale daffodils,
I have gathered a leaf from the heart of the rose.
Art thou there, O my darling, my light of the house,
The house that is dark in the cup of the hills?
Look out to me now ere the river-breeze blows!”
Her window is open to let the cool air
Fan refreshingly brows that the noon-day made tir'd;
She sleeps! in the silence I fancy I hear
Her low-breathed whispers the calm night-winds bear;
And I see o'er the lintel her white arm attir'd
In the withering curl'd tendrils of vine-leaves grown sere.
35

Still she sleeps! “O beloved, I knock at the door
Of thy heart with emotion: O rise, let me in!
Let the dreams with swift wings from thy slumber fly far!”
And I trill a low harmony never before
Sung by aught but one bird in this desert of sin,—
By the nightingale taught by the soul of a star.
As I cease she awakens; I hear in the calm
That small golden head on the white pillow turn;
A short sigh—and a pause, while her heart made aware
Of my presence throbs silently;—then in the balm
Of her chamber full motion, and while my eyes burn
To receive such a glory, she smiles on me there.
But I stay in the dusk of the cedar awhile,
Till she leans out inquiringly into the night;
I linger to drink the full beauty of her,
Who, as now she looks lovingly down with a smile,
Is more fair than the dawn, and more dear than the light,
Whose hair drops with spikenard, her fingers with myrrh.
36

Then I pass from the shadow, made bold by my love,
And hold her sweet lips to my mouth in a kiss;
And there in the garden, in silent delight,
Breast to breast we hang speechless; nor mark where above
The vigilant stars are aware of all this,
Yet are gracious, and mar not the bliss of that night.
40

DROWNED IN DART.

Requiescat! let her lie
Where the river bubbles by;
Where, in endless prophesying
Of the bliss she shall inherit,
Never thought of death or dying
Can disturb her sleeping spirit.
Requiescat! Let her lie,
In embalming sanctity,
Where the bubbles tremble by.
Resurgetque! she shall rise,
Light revisit those cold eyes;
Waves dissever, not for ever,
Her sweet spirit and our love;
We shall meet, to part, ah! never,
In the paradise above.
Resurgemus! we shall rise!
Though now ashy-pale she lies,
Life shall visit those cold eyes!
45

A MADONNA OF 1310.

She is stiff and thin, but the eyes at least
Shine with an earnest love and true;
Though the brows and nose, it must be confess'd,
Are formal and hard; while the sweet mouth too
Stiffens with gravity, where should float
A smile to take hearts unaware;
Yet I can fancy a carolling note
Making those white lips rosy and fair!
Was not this lady, with great gold crown,
And drapery heavy with gems, and straight,
Whose massive aureole presses down
Her lank hair like a metal plate,—
Some sweet Italian girl, whose eye,
While she sang right blithely down the street,
Flash'd up at Giotto suddenly,
As she tripp'd away on her light hind's feet?
46

May we not think, as I love to dream,
That the painter,—tir'd with the weary work
Of making the saints and angels seem
(Though a dim despair in his heart would lurk)
At least a little like flesh and blood,—
Looking away in vague desire,
Suddenly caught, from where he stood,
That face, and his artist soul flash'd fire,
And yearn'd, with love unsatisfied,
To frame in colour that lovely face,
And its phantom, ever by his side,
Look'd up to him with an aëry grace;
Though, for one moment, and never again,
Her soul had pierc'd his through and through,
Those eyes return'd with a weary pain,
There was flame to scorch in their pure bright blue.
Till at last in anger he seiz'd the brush,
And work'd away with his own firm hand,
While this passion made the life-blood rush
Back to his heart, and half-unmann'd
47

His stalwart arm;—but the phantom-eyes
Kept him alert, and the picture grew
Under his hand, till with sad surprise
He paus'd, and nothing was left to do.
Then, as he laid the colours by,
In came a scholar-friend, no doubt,
And started and flush'd delightedly,
And hail'd this triumph of Art with a shout.
Florence and all her great and wise
Buzz'd and flutter'd around and prais'd.
Giotto the while with troubled eyes
Ruefully over his picture gaz'd;
Nothing replied, and let them admire:—
“The finest painting the world has seen!
Our Cimabue could never aspire
To this our Giotto's golden mean,
So he died, as was best!” But he silently sigh'd,
And thought of the sun-bright face, and knew,
When Man his loftiest art has tried,
He but learns how much there is left to do!
48

COWPER AT MUNDSLEY.

[_]

During the winter of 1795, which Cowper spent at Mundsley, he walked much by the sea, endeavouring vainly to throw off the dejection which now more than ever oppressed him.

When the blood runs cold and low,
When the winds of doubting blow,
When the shadow of my life
Silences the daily strife,
When the roses fade and fall,
When the violet-odours all
Are sickening with the scent of death,
When the lone soul sorroweth,
What shall light the sombre vale?
What for comfort shall avail?
Vague desire and aspiration
Haunt me like an inspiration:
49

Shadowy hopes that are despairs
Pass and mock my whisper'd prayers:
Solitude, thy silent calm
Lends to me no hallowed balm;
I am fully mournful only
When most intimately lonely;
When in the busy haunts that teem
With many a bruit of active scheme,
I crack the jest, and laugh my fill,
My demon laughs as loudly still;
Yet in the sight of other eyes
He frees me from his sorceries,
And then my weary spirit knows
A little respite of repose:
With Nature, too, a happy time
Is dedicate to thoughtful rhyme,
And in her presence I enjoy
Short solace for my great annoy.
I wander'd down the grassy steep,
Where purple orchis-blossoms sleep,
Waiting until the voice of Spring
Shall wake them into blossoming;—
50

Alas! their Spring is yet to come;
They nestle in a happy home;
But mine, that such a promise bore,
Is frost-nipp'd and can bloom no more.
Beneath the slope, the fringèd sea,
Lulled by its own low minstrelsy,
Was dreaming in the amber light
Which like a woven mantle bright
The sun threw o'er it. Here and there
Great gulls flapp'd through the heavy air,
And, on the pebble-girdled shore,
The pale green wavelets o'er and o'er
Went tumbling with a drowsy sense
Of universal indolence.
It was a day as sweet as rare,
When January, cold and bare,
Put on for once the golden hue
Of apple-blossom time. I grew
Heart-soften'd by the warm excess
Of unexpected loveliness;
And for a while forgot the shade
That lurks for me in every glade,
The bony fear that will not rest,
Nor pause from troubling my poor breast.
51

I cannot hope to live again,
And lose this load of quiet pain,
Until the years that speed so fast
Shall bring delightful calm at last!
The grand fulfilment of desire
Shall tip their angel-wings with fire,
Or else the lapse of time shall bless
My spirit with forgetfulness;
God in his mercy grant me peace,
And bid this demon-sorrow cease,
Or bear me in his arms of love
To amaranthine bowers above!
69

ODE TO THE EARTH.

I

O thou eternal Danae, whose breast
Is open ever to the showering gold,
Who ever dost in thy warm arms enfold
The god-like fervour, by a god possess'd!
Now, while the glory of the happy May
Is robing thee in festal bravery
Of vernal foliage gay,
And the sweet birds on every leafy spray
Bright minstrels are, that hymn their love to thee,—
I, too, though less melodious far than they,
Yet loving thee, O Mother, fervently,
Would sing, though faltering, one impassion'd song
In token of the praises that belong
To thee, who art our goddess, by great Jove
Lov'd, and made worthy of our reverent love.
70

II

In every ferny brake and hollow wild,
Warm'd into life, the children of the spring
Leap in their glory, and on foot or wing
Go forth through fair green leafage undefil'd;
Long shoots of lush and thornless eglantine
Fill up the darkening ways,
Through which Apollo darts his arrowy rays
From rosy morn on till his slow decline;
Now Philomel trills out her tenderest lays
In fragrant valleys when the moon is low;
And listening ye may hear, when she is dumb,
The sweet sedge-warbler, ere the night-winds blow,
Piping a feebler treble, till there come
Faint echoes from the hollow elms a-row.

III

Mother, the skies that o'er thy flowery dells
Bend as a solemn dome, are calm and blue;
Now floats a white cloud-island slowly through
The stainless realms where nothing evil dwells;
And like a bird on spirit-wings I rise
Far up to its pure cliffs, and thence gaze down
71

On all thy beauty with enamoured eyes;
For Loveliness is on thy brows a crown,
And, in the clear sunlighted weather,
Glory and Hope and Love seem met together,
To fill the air with dreams of Paradise,
And that first mystic day,
When out of Chaos and dim Night God drew
Thy glimmering orb, and sped thee on thy way!

IV

Then, waking from that strange primeval trance,
With joy thou didst His guiding voice obey,
And watched the planets in their pearly dance
Attend thy motion in a proud array;
Then o'er thy caverns and thy gleaming vales
Flew the clear-wingèd Spirit of the Spring,
And in her hands did bring
Such wealth of life, whether of leaf or limb,
That even the glad revival of to-day,
The fresh young breath that hails
The music of this morn, were all too dim
To shadow forth the least of that delight,
When every gloomy corner was made bright
72

With flushing wings, with blithesome feet that glance,
And all the green-wood joy of earliest May.

V

How to the core was thy profound heart stirr'd
By all this light, and fair tranquillity!
Yet from the heavens came down one awful word;
And how was all thy splendour gone and fled,—
Gone like the spirit of one dead!
For o'er thy breast flow'd the remorseless sea;
The long roll of the stormy waves was heard
In each green valley, where the brooding bird,
Deep in the noiseless leafage, had found rest,
And a fair sylvan nest;
The voice of many waters only sounded
Through the abyss, where still thy darkling globe
Roll'd on its ceaseless course, for ever bounded
By the dim belt of floods as by a robe.

VI

Then o'er thy weltering rim one moment hover'd
An angel, fire-envelop'd, rainbow-wing'd,
73

And with a rod smote the long wave that cover'd
Thy aching orb; the abyss was ring'd
With flame that lit thy sad and gloomy path,
And lick'd the waters with its arrowy heat;
The glory that then pulse-like beat
Upon the waters, dried their might away.
Ah! even in this repose which thy heart hath
In these late times, thou canst recall that day
Of comfort after anguish, the defeat
Of adverse powers that marr'd thy early love,
And the victorious aid that hail'd thee from above!

VII

The island-cloud whereon my spirit sate
Has faded like white foam upon the shore;
For a swift wind its gauzy fabric tore:
And now on viewless wings elate
I speed my visionary flight
O'er bosky glen, and heather-mantled height;
Be thou my Guide, my Teacher, and inspire
My heart with such poetic fire,
That ever where my else-unheeded voice
Shall echo through the land, all men may know
74

That I have been with thee, and may rejoice,
And feel their weary hearts with hope and gladness glow.

VIII

Far in warm lands across the Atlantic sea
Hast thou no home, O Mother, for thy child,
Where in the southern forest, dim and wild,
I might hold sweet communion silently
With all thy fairest subjects, and with thee?
There, there, where thou art queen and uncontroll'd,
Where gentle creatures still are calm and bold,
Where troops of mild-eyed deer unharass'd graze,
Might I not walk, and with down-gazing eyes,
Ponder in silence, and grow pure and wise,
Till, led by thee, and full of Magian lore,
I might return, and teach in tuneful lays
The lessons of those quiet days;
Or else, in that fair wilderness grown old,
Lay on thy kindly breast my scanty locks and hoar?

IX

Silence, weak heart! no words of thy repining
Can change the order of the fateful years;
75

Gaze rather at the wreath the Hours are twining
In this chill northern land! the time for tears
Is fled, with all the sorrows of the snow:
Now once again the milder zephyrs blow;
Flower-buds are dreaming in the deep fresh grass;
Waken, O Earth, my dull and weary spirit,
New glory to inherit!
Teach these faint eyes what sacred pleasures flow
From thy least valued places; wherefore go
To distant lands, when beauties here surpass
All that a poet in his dreams can see?
Therefore with humbled heart and head bent low,
Here will I rest until thou speak'st to me!

X

Great Mother, now thy solemn voice I hear!
Forgive the lightness of my opening song,
In which I did thy serious story wrong,
With idle names of worship old and sere,
Prating to thee of Grecian gods once dear
To priest and poet! empty dreamers they!
The gods they dreamt of, all are pass'd and dead!
Rather would I with bow'd, uncover'd head,
76

Alone with thee, a juster tribute pay,
With reverent voice, to Him who set thee here;
Who guides thee on thy wild mysterious way;
Whose power and love surpass all earthly measure;
Who clothes thee now with all the bloom of May,
And fills thy vales with green and golden treasure,
And decks thy mountain-sides with purple hues of pleasure!
94

THE TOMB IN THE GARDEN.

95

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

  • For CH. read CHERUB
  • For SER. read SERAPH
  • For SAL. read SALOME
  • For M.M. read MARY MAGDALENE

THE TOMB IN THE GARDEN.

“In the Garden a new Sepulchre.”

Joseph of Arimathea
and others enter, bearing the body of Jesus, and singing.
Sweet Silence reigns in this calm place
With more than all her wonted grace;
The cassia wastes its deep perfume
In breezes that the sands consume;
And with their hues the bright flowers bless
The all-surrounding wilderness.
The only sound in all the dell
Is the bluff bee in the lily-bell:
96

He shakes the golden dust around
The scarlet petals' stately bound,
And sings as loud as sing he can,
Secure from greed of thieving man.
The long, long shadows on the grass
Still lengthen as the slow hours pass:
A sultry twilight follows soon
On the hot and noiseless afternoon:
And to this garden still and fair
Our cold and lifeless Lord we bear.
See on the whiteness of his brow
The ruddy blood crept trickling slow;
The thorny crown has riv'n the fair
And rolling waves of his bright hair;
Close with a touching of thy lips
Those blue eyes darken'd in eclipse!
And now while fast the warm tears flow
Upon the chilly face below,
We lay the treasure of all time,
The theme of angel-poets' rhyme,
97

Within the marble tomb, hard by
The garden blooming ceaselessly.
Still shall the morning sun illume
The sweet flowers round this quiet tomb:
Still shall the heedless bee sing o'er
The lilies that he priz'd before:
But He that made the whole world bright,
Has left it for the realms of night!

As they depart, a Seraph is discovered in the tomb, supporting the head of the Saviour. To him a Cherub:—
Ch.
Launching from the clear radiance of a star,
I heard thy sad voice, calling from afar:
More swift than lightning through the vast of space
I come into the sunshine of thy face.

Ser.
Behold the beauty, mark the silent spell,
That in these pale and deathly features dwell!
Hold up the body! 'Tis a joy to bear
The earthly covering of a soul so fair!

98

Ch.
Who is he? My thoughts are folden
In the calm eyes cold before us;
Through his hair run lights more golden
Than the orb suspended o'er us!

Ser.
Follow me in solemn chorus.
[Sings,
Hail, O loving eyes and holy,
Tearful aye, and melancholy!
Hail, fair brow, so sadly torn
By the wreath of human scorn!
Oh! forgive that crown of thorn!

CHORUS.
Pardon all the human scorn.

Hail, sweet hands, too waxy-white,
Save where Roman nails did smite!
Dear dead fingers, that have bless'd
Little children, and caress'd
Babes upon the mother's breast!
99

CHORUS.
Now for ever laid to rest.

Hail, dear mouth, so foully smit,
By the men that heard from it
Only words of love and pity,
Even in the doomèd city!
Pardon, Lord, the blinded city!
Ch.
(perplexedly).
Stay the fervour of thy singing,
For thy words of song thrill through me,
And thy last strange speech is ringing
Through my pulse, till thou renew me
With a reassurance to me!

Ser.
Wait, and in silent weeping ease thy heart!

[Sings.
Lingering long, and loath to move,
Yearn'd thy all-forgiving love:
But the Father's time was come,
When to his supernal home
We might welcome once again,
Our adored—
100

Ch.
“Might welcome home!” but we for ever part
With human souls upon the grave's sad brink!

Ser.
Yet shall this human soul for ever drink
Delicious draughts of immortality.

Ch.
Ah! Seraph, say, how can this wonder be?
Great Enoch, when the sea-less earth he trod,
And, being pure in spirit, walk'd with God,
One morning, when the cold grey peaks were crown'd
With golden air of sunrise, was not found.
Elijah too, who, upright and austere,
Walk'd through the nations with a godly fear,
'Midst acclamations from each hymning choir,
Was drawn to heaven by wingèd steeds of fire.
These blessed men, through grace of God most high,
Received the favour that they should not die:
But this fair mortal has already gone
To silent shores where never light hath shone.

Ser.
Then know that this is the Almighty Son;
Th' Eternal Word; who, with the Father one,
Throughout the hoary past eternity
101

Was crown'd with all the awful joys that be
Concentred in that universal sway,
That knows no rise, no summit, no decay.

Ch.
And is this He! humbly on bended knee
To his dead shell I bow adoringly.
After a pause.
I know it all, the woe, the shame,
The scorn heap'd on the lowly name
He honour'd when to earth He came.
I see the hungry faces there;
The agony of silent prayer;
The pain and laughter sore to bear.
Brother, a change comes o'er thy face,
And o'er thy locks a lambent grace,
Like far light from a holy place.

Ser.
Into the dark I seem to raise
Prophetic vision, and to gaze
On actions of the future days.

Ch.
What happiness is hidden there?
102

O say, what rais'd the weight of care,
And made thy sad brow clear and fair?

Ser.
I see a little room apart;
Few sit there, dull and sad at heart.

Ch.
Why should that dismal sight renew
Thy lifted eyes with living blue?

Ser.
The room is shaken where they sit;
God's fiery Spirit visits it,
And saith, “O ye of little wit,
Ye love the dead one; and ye know
He is not dead, but living so
That He can hear you pray below!
Be glad then! Fill with sacred force
The world, as rain-floods at the source
Fill up an arid watercourse!”

Ch.
Ah! brother, then the glow of light,
That glorified thy face with might,
Came reflex from their inner sight!

[Here they sit silent a while.
103

Ch.
Seraph, the light has faded from thine eyes;
And all the changing tints of rainbow dyes,
That gave thy crimson wings fresh loveliness,
Have fail'd; and in thy features new distress
Arises like a pale moon wrapp'd in mist.

Ser.
Saw'st thou the shadowy form that came and kiss'd
The dead brow that was his?

Ch.
I only gazed
Into the stillness of thy deep eyes raised
To heaven for consolation, and my ears
Listen'd for no sound but thy falling tears.

Ser.
It was the desolate Jerusalem!
She who for aye has madly murder'd them
Who lov'd her; and the One who lov'd her best
She thrust most rudely from her maniac breast.

Ch.
Has she no hope? Cannot this kiss atone?

Ser.
I gaze into the future, but her moan
Drowns the response. Ay me! while yet He trod
104

The barren hills, lorn of the smile of God,
It would have brought into an angel's eyes
(Could angels weep for mortal miseries)
The bitter tears, to see how men withstood
The unselfish love He sealèd with his blood.

Ch.
E'en as thou speakest, to my wond'ring mind
A doubt comes swifter than the wingèd wind.
Say, taking pity on my feebler sense,
Did any subtle and dim influence
Move in the gusty halls of heaven, when He
Walked this low earth? Or tell me, didst thou see
A fluttering movement of the planet-cars,
A darkening tumult in the pearly stars,
A sickening faintness in the pulse of air?
Or, were thine eyes, ineffable and fair,
Made capable to watch from that high throne
The Lord of glory, with all glory gone?

Ser.
Cherub, by right we hold a higher place,
And nearer station to the Holy Face,
Than ye, whose throbbing choirs of purest blue
Circle around us in attendance due.
Ye, gazing ever towards the source of light,
105

See but our splendour and the vault of night:
We, from a height sublimer, more august,
Can watch the actions of the breathing dust,
And clear below, though narrow'd to a span,
Behold the motions of poor mortal Man.
Of late the view—at all times worthy note,
Since first God made in dusky ether float
The sun-illumin'd globe—most strange has been,
Since One has with his presence made serene
The warring winds, and wrought upon the sea
Quick halcyon charms of perfect potency.
Learn then that I have watch'd this Man divine
Since first He deign'd to claim the royal line
Of Judah's David: all our flaming host,
Star-crown'd, and bearing, in the innermost
Recesses of our being, glowing fires,
Outward-refulgent, with our sacred lyres
For ever strung to chant Jehovah's praise,—
We, in this glory, hush'd our tuneful lays,
And silence reign'd in Heaven.

Ch.
We still sang on;
Our faint, sweet voices rang in unison,
106

As round and round the splendour of your ranks,
Ye warriors of the Lord in proud phalanx,
We, gentler spirits, wheel'd in love and awe,
Still singing, but more faintly, as we saw
Your mighty harps had ceas'd the thrill that sent
Loud melody to all the winds. What lent
That sudden silence to your minstrelsy
We knew not.

Ser.
'Twas the King of all, 'twas He!
A little child in pastoral meanness laid
Among the senseless brutes that low'd and bray'd,
Unseen of men, unthought of, and unlov'd,
That Babe with such an awe our cohorts mov'd,
That angels in mute adoration bow'd,
Who reign in glory, loftiest of the proud.
In that great silence, and with looks so bent,
We gaz'd upon the growing child, still pent
In household bonds of mothers' maxims fine,
And petty dogmas ruling the Divine.

Ch.
Could not the love of all our starry powers
Comfort the sadness of those cheerless hours?
107

Could not his spirit, hungering patiently,
Be fed with solace from his home on high?
And through the toil of all his earthly way
Some angel bear the languor of a day?

Ser.
Yea, once! We watch'd Him with the same intense
Deep silence, through his childhood's innocence,
And boyhood's years, while dimly through the screen
Of human flesh shone out the light serene.
At last when, grown a man, he pass'd his days
In quiet labour, full of gentle grace,
The mortal still with power to render null
The grand immortal,—till the time was full;
Then suddenly we watch'd him leave behind
The palmy valleys and the fresh hill-wind,
And through the waste and flaring wilderness
With aching footsteps ever onward press.
At last, where all the rocks are bare and white,
And from dark crannies struggle to the light
Black thorny bushes, sapless, cheerless, dead,—
Mocking the sight with forms rememberèd
Of leafy shrub and sweet lush greenery,
108

So made the saddest thing that man can see,—
His faltering steps the heavenly pilgrim stay'd,
And on a glittering slab his faint limbs laid.
In this sad glen, hemm'd in by boulders rude,
In such a loveless and dull solitude,
A sulphurous cloud, like the envenom'd birth
Of sultry marshes, rose out of the earth,
And as the mists of morning intervene
Between the world and dawn, hid the ravine,
Nor could we see him more. Day after day,
Sadder, yet silent, where the fog still lay,
We gaz'd in vain, till, after forty times
The sun had roll'd up from the under-climes,
The word of God came unto me; I flew
To meet the mandate with submission due,
And soon my swift obsequious pinions furl'd
Above that silent limit of the world.
The cloud was gone, once more the happy light
Shone brilliant on those cliffs of polish'd white:
E'en as I came, the Arch-fiend Satan rose
With hissing noise, and writh'd in mighty throes:
Shapeless and horrible and huge, he flapp'd
What seem'd his wings; and, in a gloom enwrapp'd,
109

Fled, moaning, to that dim antarctic cave,
Where round the pole his spectral banners wave,
Where rally in a hideous dance of death
All forms engender'd by his flaming breath.
He, rushing homeward with a hellish cry,
Stain'd with his shadow all the western sky:
But, in the glen, victorious though faint,
The holy Warrior, tried, yet without taint,
Lay as if dying; I, with helping hand,
Rais'd him, and led him gently through the land,
To where, hard by, a gushing streamlet fell
Adown the rocks into a quiet dell,
And from the windings of its reedy bed
A grateful verdure through the valley spread.
Here in the coolness of the long, sweet grass,
In deepest shadow of the high-cliff'd pass,
I laid him, while the murmur of the bees
Answer'd a whisper in the leafy trees.
The golden kingcups open'd as he came;
His presence broke their buds to living flame;
Pure lilies from his footprints sprang, and I
Plucked one and bear it still memorially.
Then drinking of the river, clear and cold,
110

And, feasting on fresh manna's honey'd gold,
That rain'd upon us from the upper air,
He swiftly gain'd new life and vigour there.
But say, O Cherub, why this altered guise,
And quivering of curv'd lips and downcast eyes?

Ch.
At first, my brother, with admiring thought,
I envied thee the joy that service brought;
And felt a keen pang of now vain desire
That I could then have left the singing choir,
And in humility and menial ways
Have offer'd to our Lord my love and praise.
I envied thee, but, ere the tale was done,
A swift remembrance through my brain did run,
And thy great mission seem'd a little thing!

Ser.
What was this sudden memory that did sting
Thy heart to such a change?

Ch.
It was the flower,
The lily-stem, which, on that solemn hour,
Thy hand had pluck'd, that bore the thought to me,
And on my brow wrote such strange charact'ry;
For, half-forgotten in the lapse of years,
111

Another lily through the darkness peers,
Borne by seraphic fingers. Let me tell
Thy courteous patience of this miracle.
I, sailing round the ether of a star,
Bound on some heavenly mission thence afar,
Saw far beneath me, most sublimely winging,
A fiery spirit, who with speed and singing
Mounted the air that kindled as he came;
Soon at my side his webs of crimson flame
He furl'd, and with a greeting full of grace
Hover'd beside me in that silent place;
Before his breast he held a lily tall
Whose flowers were purest white, save where did fall
Faint rose reflection from his shadowing wings;
And still he brooded with low murmurings
Over the stainless petals, and did press
Them to his lips with ardent tenderness.
Soon to my wondering ears he did unfold
The strangest story angel ever told!
Great was the grace, but ah! my clouded brain
Made all that rare narration void and vain;
For, till this hour, I never knew aright
The mysteries which thy kindness has made bright.
112

It seems, that day, he, sent by God Most High,
Had sought a maiden of mortality,
To say that she, a virgin undefil'd,
Should be the mother of a wondrous Child.
He found her in a garden wall'd and sure,
Fit emblem of her sweet life, calm and pure;
And in a vase before her door were set
Three lilies with the morning dew still wet.
His mission over, while the sudden news
Still did her cheeks with mantling flush diffuse,
He rose again to heaven, but bore away
One fragrant token of that solemn day.
No longer I must ponder this in vain,
The child was He who in this tomb is lain!

Ser.
But hark! what sound comes through the silent air?
What men are these with foreheads bow'd and bare?
Surely this little troop was wont to follow
Christ's sacred footsteps over hill and hollow,
And, with more love than knowledge, faith than wit,
Humbly, as listeners, round his feet to sit.

113

Down the hill, and by the garden, the Disciples slowly pass, singing:—
Why should we weep and sorrow thus in vain?
Let us go back again
To those fair shores on which the wavelets break
Of Galilee's calm lake;
Once more the nets, once more the little boat,
Once more again to float
Across the silent water-ways that bore
Him we shall see no more.
Why did we ever leave those noiseless places,
To look on busy faces?
We will go back to our old trade again,
Nor fish for souls of men.
Ay me! He had a winning voice, and ways
Full of all love and grace!
None ever spoke such words as this Man said,
And lo! this Man is dead!
O thou rock-bulwark'd and imperial town,
Set on the high hill's crown!
Thou seem'st a lamp lit by pure seraphim,
Yet art a fen-fire dim!
114

O cruel city, blinded and undone!
This was the Spotless One:
This was the Man gentle and without stain,
Who now lies foully slain!
If ye must murder, was there then no death,
To take away his breath,
Less shameful than this doom of thief and slave?
Than this dishonour'd grave?
Ah! we are simple folk, and cannot know
The reason of each blow;
We see full little, yet to our poor eyes
This is not just or wise.
Now all the wishes of our lives are dead,
With this thorn-crownèd head;
If anything could cheer our sad hearts yet,
It would be, to forget!
O calm, cold eyes, and sweet and silent mouth,
Parched with a deadly drouth!
O sacred Master, whom we lov'd so well!
For evermore, farewell!
115

As they depart, Salome and Mary Magdalene timidly approach.
M.M.
Now these are gone, Salome, let us see
Where they have laid Him!

Sal.
Can it, can it be,
That Jesus, lovely Master, lies alone,
Beneath the pressure of that great white stone?

M.M.
My heart is there! I feel the bitter weight!
Oh! hold my hands till this sharp grief abate!
Salome, I could kill myself for sorrow:
The dismal night-time has a darker morrow.
Each day brings fresh despair; I feel within,
What brought this woe upon Him was my sin;
And Hope is gone for ever.

Sal.
Joy is gone,
But Hope, dear sister, kneeling at God's throne,
May not be thrust away. Hope is a lute
That gives sweet songs out, when the birds are mute,
In wintry weather. Though the Lord is dead,
Are not His words to be remembered?
116

Did He not say, “Whatever ye may want,
Ask of the Father, He will surely grant”?

M.M.
But He is dead! before his living feet
We might pour out our sorrow, might intreat
With weeping eyes and passionate confession,
His gracious pardon and great intercession;
But who shall go down to the gates of Night,
And through those portals find his way aright,
Question the gibbering ghosts and flitting shades
Whether his shadow yet their calm invades?
And, having found him, should a man embrace
Feet of a spirit, or a phantom face?
There sit the Kings, and He, a King, will take
His throne there in a silence none may break.

Sal.
But God,—our Father, as we learn'd to say,
By listening to his doctrine day by day,—
God is not dead: the earthly help may be
Remov'd, to clear dim eyes that will not see!
The glittering lines of morning mist are bright
117

With gold and purple gleams of tender light;
Their fairness tempts the eye to wish their stay,
And blame the beams that clear their veil away;
But when the sun has burst that cloudy prison,
And on the world in fullest glory risen,
Charm'd by his splendour, we no more regret
The loss that brought that blessing.

M.M.
Eyes are wet
In this wild world of sorrow for all woes,
Yet every mortal grief claims some repose
In lapse of time; but this despair of mine
Must be unchanging as the hopes divine
That were its source of being. Years may roll
Their deadening circles o'er my weary soul,
But respite from this aching weight of sin,
Nor prayer, nor patient suffering e'er can win!

Sal.
I still would hope! But if no other plea
Can wean you from this wailing misery,
Look up at least, and to your heart confess
This woman knows a deeper wretchedness!

118

M.M.
Mary! his mother! let us go, nor pain
Her broken heart with our distress in vain.

As they hurry away, the Mother of Jesus comes near, and throws herself down before the Tomb. After a silent interval she says:—
Weep, Mothers of Jerusalem! and ye
Who through the ages wail for children dead,
Rise from your stony tombs and mourn with me,
With me, whose grief is so divinely fed
With blighted hopes and dreams that round his head
Wove their delightful garlands; rise and say
“Our wretched hearts with bitter sorrow
But she is cast upon a sadder way,
Is rack'd by fiercer woes, shrinks from more blank dismay!
“We wept to soothe a mother's natural love,
And sigh'd to lose the long desire of years;
A few near friends whom our wild grief did move
Bow'd o'er the grave and mingled quiet tears;
The world knew nothing of our hopes and fears;
119

But on this woman” (ye shall say) “there lies
The utter weight of such despair as seres
A man, who sees with swift prophetic eyes,
A scheme to save the world, and hears the world despise!”
Go back to those dim haunts of silentness,
From which my fancy called you! Shades of night!
I once might dream to see your footsteps press
These well-known precincts in the happy light!
Sweet legendary matrons, fairly dight
In spotless robes of purest chastity!
Are you for ever crush'd by death's chill blight?
Is there no second life, where piety
Shall meet its lov'd and lost, and ne'er more parted be?
The lips that taught me such a happy creed
Are silent, and the eyes of heavenly blue,
In whose divinest depths my heart could read
More love and wisdom than the world e'er knew,
Are darken'd with a film of stony hue.
120

There is no end to all my vain regret;
Even as the hopes were vast that in me grew,
So above all the hope of hope is set
A great despair that clings where life is lingering yet.
I thought that this my well-belovèd son,
My own sweet son, awful and beautiful,
Should be indeed the long-expected One,
The true Messiah; for the years were full,
And though we trespass'd, God was pitiful;
The land was weary of long widowhood,
No error could God's promises annul,
And as I by my baby's cradle stood,
I sobb'd for very bliss, and prais'd the Lord of Good.
Then, after, when He walk'd the grey hill-side,
The olives seemed to glisten with bright life;
Sweet music wander'd o'er the valley wide;
The birds were emulous in tuneful strife;
All earth and air with ecstasy were rife;
The stars of evening glow'd with treble splendour,
And crown'd those locks, where never came the knife,
121

With a pale glory, as they praise would render,
In their own silent way, to Israel's great Defender.
And God spoke to Him in mysterious ways,
And taught Him in the wilderness strange lore;
Yet was He full of sweet and humble grace,
And duly all the homely duties bore;
But well I knew, the solemn smile He wore
Told of great thoughts we could not understand;
That other, nobler missions were in store
For such a heart as his, than with quick hand
To serve our daily wants, and ready waiting stand.
So when the call came, others ask'd and wonder'd;
But I remember'd what the angel said,
And how, when in my ears that message thunder'd,
Desire and pride had cheer'd my heart, afraid;
So He went forth, and now is lying dead!
Dead with the hopes my faint heart deeply cherish'd;
How can I bear to dream that that dear head
Has bowed to Death, and all my faith e'er nourish'd
Of loyal, wise, and fair, with his pure breath has perish'd?
122

How shall I spend the few, the sombre years
That still must waste their tardy hours away?
His memory shall in my embalming tears
Find such a tomb as cannot know decay.
The sharp distress of this eventful day
Shall linger on my old and weary heart,
Till, all its pain by time worn dim and grey,
The older hopes shall once again find part
In all my thought and prayer, and never thence depart.
As she slowly moves away, the Angels resume:—
Ch.
Surely these human wailings must arise
Into God's hearing like sweet symphonies;
Not prayer itself can have more precious smell
Than frankincense of love made audible;
But all their sorrow is confus'd and wild,
Like sobbings of a half-awakened child,
Who finds itself in silence of the night
Lorn of its mother, and despairs of light.

Ser.
Thou wond'rest that they have so soon forgotten
The living faith once in their hearts begotten?

123

Ch.
Is it not strange? Could we forget to bless
The gracious God in any wretchedness?
If His good pleasure for a while should doom
Our beauty to a dark and earthy tomb,
Would not what consciousness our brains still kept
Be praising still the love that never slept?
Can these have been with Jesus, and yet dream
That the cold earth contains Him?

Ser.
Yea! I deem
The film of their mortality still covers
The glory from them where the new life hovers!
Were we as they are, clouds of doubt would hide
From us the light where now our souls abide.

Ch.
That can I feel,—for though my finer brain
Can reach a height their weakness may not gain,
Yet I myself am still too blind to see
What end to all this wonder there will be.
When, in the world's first morning, there was light,
And all the lucid air was calm and bright,
When Eden woke on Adam's opening eyes,
124

And God smil'd on his perfect Paradise,
E'en then the grating whine from Satan's lips
Clouded that beauty with a dun eclipse;
Elate with conquest, then he spread his sway
Over the earth, and man was forc'd obey;
For roses, thistles flourish'd; the pure sea
Grew salt and bitter with the poisonous tree
That bloom'd in Wormwood valley; Lust and Hate
Sprang up like weeds, and Love, disconsolate,
Flew on fair wings to heaven. But all this pain
We knew would end in some benignant reign,
Where God's own loveliness should chase away
All spectral shadows from the clouded day.
This soul whose tomb we guard is surely He,
Whose coming caused the men of God to see,
From earliest ages through the night forlorn,
Sweet glimpses of the golden hope of morn.
But tell me, Seraph, wherefore has He died,
And how has our arch-foe been mortified,
Since He is dead who was both God and man?

Ser.
The mysteries of time I dare not scan.
Yet this I know, the cunning fiend shall ache,
125

And for short triumph vaster anguish take,
From this brief life in death; and Christ shall reign,
And in great glory rule the world again.
No more, in darkness and in vain despair,
Poor mortals shall from birth to death repair,
But, crown'd with laurels of redemption, they
From earth to heaven shall make a singing way.
For Christ, a man, where all men fail'd before,
Has learn'd the fulness of God's sacred lore,
And, in His dying, sinless, without stain,
Has made man spotless in God's sight again.
This miracle of grace shall be the praise
Of saints and angels through the endless days:
Even our holy wisdom cannot gauge
The worth of lowly man's vast heritage.
This glory, too, was won at no less price
Than Christ's humanity in sacrifice!
Behold a wonder! can the King of kings,
Who breath'd the life into all moving things,
Succumb to death? Ah yes! He bleeds, He dies!
But hear his whisper through those agonies,—
The echoes on from star to star are hurl'd,—
“I give my life a ransom for the world!”
126

But more than my poor tongue could e'er have spoken,
You will have learn'd when this day's dawn has broken.
And hush! e'en now far up in heaven I hear
The voice as of a rushing charioteer,
Who, through the empyrean in swift flight,
Heralds the coming of the Lord of Light!
This is the hour for which the expectant world
Through suffering ages, with long pinions furl'd
Over her gather'd limbs, with downcast eyes,
Has long'd for in her deepest agonies.
Now from this tomb where we have watch'd so long,
The Saviour rises with triumphant song,
And leaves behind him, in defeat and chains,
Sin and her doleful family of Pains, For hark! [OMITTED]
Far up in heaven the Archangel proclaims silence.
Blow ye the message on from star to star,
Ye trumpet-winds afar!
Ye angels! from the crimson of whose wings
Gold fire eternal springs,
Come from all corners of the dædal earth,
Come with a morning-singing, and make fair
127

The pinion-ploughèd air!
Ye prophets! still half-anguish'd with the birth
Of those great pæans of Jehovah's war
Whose notes still echoing are,
Come with your sackcloth chang'd for robes of glory,
And bow your grave locks hoary!
Ye saints and patient martyrs! come ye all,
Come with sweet singing to our festival,
For Christ, who late hath in the cold earth lain,
In triumph comes again!

While the air rings with “Christ is risen,” the two watchers rise and meet the descending choir. As they hover in mid-air, their song is heard above the harp-music.
CHORUS.
The morning light
Has chas'd the night,
And the baleful shades of the dark take flight;
Our enamour'd eyes
Have watch'd the rise
Of the Orb whose splendour fills the skies:
We saw Him climb
From the night of time
And truth burst forth in a golden prime.
128

This is the morn
When joy is born
To a sad world weary and faint and lorn;
The bitter reign
Of hatred and pain
Is past, and Love is enthron'd again!
The frozen springs
Of all holy things
Are thaw'd with the warmth that the new light brings.

ANTI-CHORUS.
Ye isles of the West!
For ever caress'd
By the lulling swell of the Ocean's breast,
Your white-hair'd waves
And shadowy caves
Shall resound with the voice of a Truth that braves
The failing scorn
Of a priesthood born
In the lap of a worship old and worn.
The light that lies
Conceal'd from our eyes
129

In the depths of eternal destinies,
With wings unfurl'd
Shall sweep through the world
Till the powers of the dark to oblivion are hurl'd.
Ah! Lord Most High!
Let the years rush by,
Till the ultimate fulness of victory!

135

SONGS AND SONNETS.

136

SONG FOR CORNELIA OVER MARCELLO.

Hush! the sad sound of your weeping
Will awake my child from sleeping!
Pluck me no more roses,
On the white brow lay a lily;—
Which is flesh and which is flower?
For both are chilly.
Leave me here alone an hour,
That I may deck my dear child's corse with posies.
Yet leave me not, for thoughts affright me!
Have you no other torch to light me,
But this of funeral flaring?
Be silent! for we sleep together.
137

He is sleeping, I am dead;
My hair is white with wintry weather
And frosty death, but his bright head
Its life of curls is wearing!
Forgive me, friends! my old brain wanders,
And mine is not the life Death squanders,—
My boy is dead before me;
Yet leave me face to face with Death,
For I must whisper in his ear
Some last maternal secrets, that I fear
May perish with my faltering breath:
And when I lie on my last bed,
I fain would see my dear boy's head
Smile and bend o'er me!
 

In “Vittoria Corombona.”

141

CAVALIER SONG.

Maiden, deign to wait and smile
On my suppliant lute awhile!
Surely when thy fragrant breath,
Flying from its rosy gates,
Has such music in't that Death,
About to slay thy lover, waits,
And, overcome by strange surprise,
Seeks that music in thine eyes,—
Surely then my tender song
Can do your ling'ring ears no wrong!
Maiden, stay! the hours flit by;
At last a day will come to die;
142

All men at last must let their hair
With rosemary and yew be twin'd;
However brave they be and fair,
Short time for pleasure they can find;
Oh! let them then at once be wise,
And fan the love-light in their eyes,
Before they lie in their cold home,
For there's no kissing in the tomb!
147

A SONG OF THE NIGHT.

Good night! the silver veil of sleep
Will fall across our closèd eyes,
And our unconscious brains will keep
No careful memories.
If now the slumbrous soul forgets
The deepest passions it has felt,—
How, when the sun for ever sets,
Will earthly visions melt!
Good night! the crimson glow of morn
Will brighten o'er your waking face,
And I shall wake, alas! forlorn,
And run a shorter race.
148

Darker my dawning sure will be!
The night of doubt is closing round:
The dim waves of Eternity
Wash with a doleful sound!
149

[Down the slope with flowers besprent]

Down the slope with flowers besprent
At noontide yesterday I went,
And some few precious hours I spent
Beside the sounding sea;
The light-green wavelets at my feet
Upon the snow-white pebbles beat,
In oft-recurring music, sweet
As moonlight melody;
The clouds were crimson-barr'd and gold,
Behind their crags I saw the old
Primeval blue its breadth unfold,—
I saw it and was glad:
For no low-chanted lulling psalm,
No holy waft of Gilead balm,
Can bring my soul such stedfast calm,
'Twould soothe a brain grown mad!
151

SONNETS.

152

II. FROM CORNWALL.

Rarely, O Friend, in these “degenerate days,”
Can we discover any hamlet rude,
Where still the hush of pastoral solitude
Is undisturb'd in seldom-trodden ways.
How sweet, then, while the winter wind delays
To strip the beeches' solemn sisterhood,
In some sweet western valley, where intrude
No troubling sounds, and where no vulgar gaze
Can penetrate, to spend delicious hours
Beside the ferny becks and torrent-streams,
While fancy scales the cloud-embattled towers
Of Milton's empyrean, or sails wide
Through Spenser's faery sea, or in the bowers
Of Shakspeare's sonnets amorously doth hide!
154

IV. MEMORIES.

The happy dwellers in green spring-tide valleys,
The wanderers over moor and heath and down,
Ladies of hill-tops far from any town,
Where the fresh north wind o'er the grey wold sallies,
With antique garb, and old Greek songs outsinging,
They come to bless me, shadows of the South,
Sweet lily limbs, and dewy rose for mouth,
And violet eyes from depths of soul upspringing;
And some come crown'd with hyacinth and moly,
A sad wan smile faint flickering on their lips,—
Slowly they draw a veil of dim eclipse
Over their eyes so sweetly melancholy;
And some bring garlands dipp'd in mandragore,
By moonlight pluck'd on some Circæan shore.
155

V.

What man is there loves not the moon's white shell,
Carv'd out upon the purple sky aright,
When stars are waking in the early night,
And flowers are closing up each tender bell
For dewy sleep? Ah! dear friend, loved so well!
Thou, like the moon, didst borrow all thy light
From the sweet source of glory and delight,
The sun, my deity, my oracle!
Now for thy own sake art thou dear to me,
For I have learn'd to find in all thy ways
Peculiar beauty, where at first I saw
Only the lovely and reflected grace
Of that pure soul who all through life must be
My crown of comfort, my desire, and law.
158

VIII.

As if two, wandering through a garden fair,
In whose green heart a high-wall'd palace lay,
Should try this door and that to find a way,
And, finding none, should walk contented there,
Until one turn'd aside to pluck a rare
High-twining rose, and, coming back to say
How sweet the alley blossom'd where it lay,
Should find her sister vanish'd unaware;
Yet, by a murmur of doors shut within,
Should know that to the palace she was led,
And yet should wail for sorrow, and begin
To weep in passion for her unseen friend,—
Such is their woe who mourn the happy dead,
And will not wait in patience for the end.
160

X. WITH A BIRTHDAY GIFT OF WEBSTER'S PLAYS.

Poet and Friend! Pause while the bells of Time
Ring out this great division of your days,
And let the cadence of these sombre lays
Be the grave echo of their silver chime;
And as you slowly up to glory climb,
Nigh fainting in the lower thorny ways,
Take solace from th' eternal wreath of bays
That crowns at last this weary brow sublime;
His was a soul whose calm intensity
Glared, shadeless, at the passion-sun that blinds,
Unblinded, till the storm of song arose;—
Even as the patient and Promethean sea
Tosses in sleep, until the vulture winds
Swoop down and tear the breast of its repose.
161

XI. A PICTURE.

She tapp'd her scarlet slipper listlessly
Against the hollow rushes on the floor,
And twined a rose, deep crimson to the core,
Among the golden waving luxury
Of her loose hair; an orange-girdled bee
Raised with his boisterous song of honey-lore
Her languid eyes, that idly watch'd before
The sunlight creeping upward to her knee:
A step came suddenly upon the stair,
A firm foot from the silence climbing higher:—
The sound woke all her wan face to a flush;
Down slipp'd the rose-bud from her floating hair:—
A pause while every feature flash'd with fire:
Then love met love in one entrancing rush!
165

XV. LADIES' TRESSES.

INSCRIBED TO M. C. AND J.
The dear one we both love so well, and I,
Climb'd yesterday along the red hill-side,
Over the flat green tufts of moor-grass, dried
With the fierce sunlight of an August sky,
Until we gained the ledges grey that lie
Round the sheer summit; as my eye glanc'd wide
O'er the tumultuous slope of grass, I spied
A little spiral whiteness, not more high
Than a mole's shoulder. 'Twas sweet ladies' tresses;
Soon in her hand the gather'd flow'ret lay,
And in the dreamy autumn light that blesses
The distant woods with shades of grey and blue,
We spoke of one who was so far away,
And wished our flow'ret had been pluck'd by you.
166

XVI. THE RIVER PENPONT.

I sit so still upon the river-brink;
The trout float underneath me leisurely;
The great green dragon-flies swoop down to drink,
And plume their gauze wings on the ferns hard by;
Weird shadowy beeches towards each other bend
Across the bosom of the twinkling stream,
Whence honeysuckle-garlands faintly send
Rich perfume felt like music in a dream;
The sunlight through the canopy of leaves
In starry fretwork gilds the watery floor:
In all this summer weather nothing grieves,
Except the stream that murmurs to the moor,—
Except the stream and I, who cannot borrow,
Light from my sweet Love's eyes to banish sorrow.
170

XX. A MADONNA IN THE ANTWERP MUSEUM.

INSCRIBED TO J. F. B.
Through the long centuries comes faint and dim
The blast of trumpets and the brazen clang
That from the seventh Charles's bastions rang,
When France went out, armed or in merry trim;
And we forget the feats of state and war
That thrill'd the heroes of the elder age,
Taking their conquests for our heritage,
Nor grateful to the men that fought afar;
And yet our hearts are open'd when we see
(All thanks to Jehan Foucquet) through the years
Sweet Agnes Sorel of the noble heart
And the wise face, and hear all suddenly
Down the world's silence the slow-falling tears
On the grey tomb where a king mourns apart!
171

XXI. ANSTEY'S COVE.

INSCRIBED TO W. A. P.
Walter, when through the thirsty streets and squares
Of London, in the burning sun of June,
We wander, and the too-melodious tune
Of barrel-organs chafes us unawares,
What would we give to rise on sudden wings,
And fly where southward lay our mutual home,
Where in the rock-pools boils the smitten foam,
Or where from corn-fields soars the lark and sings!
One day shall be to us for ever dear,
When on the quarried margin of the shore
We sat with the sea-music in our ear,
Until the solitude our spirits bore
Into sweet depths of thought, where grief and fear
Sank, and were drown'd in love to rise no more!
174

XXIV.

INSCRIBED TO I. L. T. B.
Sad and alone and weary, nigh despairing,
I sat in the old church above the sea,
And heard the organ sound a peal of glee,
Like some great solemn “bird of God” declaring
Peace and good-will to all who, meek robes wearing,
Hail'd the bright dawning advent; but for me
There was no comfort till that minstrelsy
Had faded, and the silent air was bearing
One sweet clear voice, that said, “Unto Me come,
Ye heavy-laden! unto Me, and I
Will bear your burden!” Then my terror ceased,
And, gazing out, I saw, across the foam,
God's symbol smite along the wintry east,
Pale gold between the waters and the sky.
177

DEVONIANA.

HOLNE CHACE.

How strange it is to pace some olden haunt,
Unvisited since childhood's blithe desire
Led the same feet through half-familiar paths
To the lov'd spot for frolic or for rest,—
How strange to find in each grotesque detail
Of twisted trunk, or mossy boulder-stone,
A form laid up in corners of the brain,
And often ponder'd over! strange to feel
The early buoyancy of restless mirth
No longer forcing the o'er-venturous steps
To clamber vainly down the perilous gorge
In search of ferns and flowerets! Then the morn,
Glittering and cold, seem'd most delightful time
For these swift visits; now the quiet eve,
178

And noiseless ending of the afternoon,
Please most the calm and meditative mind.
Hence with full heart, in this wild bower, arch'd o'er
With twining ivy and the traveller's joy,
I sit this summer evening and review
The short May-day of passion and of thought
Men call my life, and ponder on the ways
Of God, who leads us by an inner voice
Oracular, through ways we dream'd not of,
And new-creates ambition in our souls,
And gives us power to fashion, or makes known
Our weakness to us;—lessons manifold
That pierce our hearts like lightning, and appear
To outward show in laughter or in tears.
O solemn ceaseless river, that dost flow
In darkness through the valley at my feet!
Judge me not arrogant if now at last,
After so many days, I seek again
To mingle my faint song of love and praise
With all the pastoral tribute of long years!
How, since the earliest dawn of life and warmth
In the young earth primæval, hast thou heard
179

Praises from all thy banks! Around thy source
Grey-headed hills bow down in mute amaze,
Reverent and hush'd, while here the obsequious woods
Bend o'er thy current, and the fragrant stars
Of blackthorn and of may fall noiselessly
Into thy breast as incense from the Spring.
Surely thou hast a spirit of keen life,
Whose amorous sway binds all the winds and flowers,
And brooding birds, and all things blithe and young,
Into a rapt fraternity of praise!
Alas! that human eyes should be so dull!
I only cannot see what every bird,
The very flowers, are glorified in seeing;—
I cannot hear when in melodious choir
The hymn of Nature rises;—all I feel
Is that the dew seems fresher by thy banks,
And that the music of thy twinkling stream
Makes my heart bound more gladly!
Yet perchance
It is my deeper love for thee that frames
These dreams of general worship; thou hast been
My sponsor into song, for thou didst take
180

My rhyming vows upon thee, when as yet
The faltering tongue lack'd skill to round a verse;
And, O majestic stream! didst teach me lore,
Whether of music, or of hue or form,
Such as no other teacher could have taught.
Hence, with a reverent heart and full of thanks
To Him who dower'd my childhood with such wealth
Of pure delights and natural influence,
I come to listen once again, O Dart!
To thy great voice beneath me in the glen;
And through my brain comes rushing with new awe
The tragic story of thy fierce revenge,
That chill'd my blood in earlier, younger years.
Cruel thou wert, O river! but not for that
Can I revoke my love; rather condemn
The heedlessness of those unhappy ones!
Short is the tale, but sad!—It was the spring,
When the bright heats of April had made warm
The heap'd-up snow around thy chilly springs,
Which melting in the sunshine, suddenly,
Along the streamlet-bed and through the glens,
The floods came fiercely dashing to the sea.
181

Two brothers, one a dweller in these vales,
The other late return'd from weary years
Under a tropic sun, had met at last,
With such a calm delight as grown men feel,
In the south city of the gleaming masts.
Now back again the elder brother brought
Another son home to the gray old dame
That spun and waited in her cottage home
(To wait, alas! till Heaven should give her peace);
They, weary with the endless burning moor,
Were resting on that meadow at my feet.
There, while they loll'd upon the close warm grass,
Hard by the mossy pillars of the bridge,
Half-dozing in the lassitude of heat,
And dreaming of the flow of happy years
That were to be, and peace, and calm repose,
And hum of bees, and distant low of kine,
And caw of rooks in solemn quiet elms,
And sweet sedge-warblers singing of true love,—
All flowing round the dulcitude of love,—
Suddenly, with a sharp tumultuous roar,
A gurgling rushing noise of many streams
Came down the wild ravine; and round the glen,
182

Frothy and brown, like a gigantic wall,
The flood came right upon them.
This strange tale,
True in the pity of a hundred hearts,
Came to my boyish ears ere yet the sight
Of human suffering taught me human love,
And made the spell of thy wild loveliness
A passion to me; beautiful thou wert,
And now I knew thee swift and strong to smite,
And weirdest admiration filled my heart.
And now adieu! within the hateful whirl
Of city-strife, and when the weariness
Of a slow circular life shall pain me most,
Thy cool luxuriance, and the lapping sound
Of currents rushing through the mossy stones,
Shall oft sustain me! O immortal stream!
Thy blessed memory helps me to sustain
A steady front to all the blows of Fate;
And now I leave thee, stronger for this hour
Of deep communion with the all-wise heart
Of Nature beating in this mossy valley.
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