A Sculptor and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“A sculptor!” “He left no work to see!”
“A genius!” “Wherein might his genius be?”
“A dead man!” “Reverence for the dead
Must never blind to the truth,” ye said.

There was That within him which was divine;
But his soul was its prison, not its shrine;
And the fetter'd Thought could never, free,
Go forth in its strength and symmetry,

Though its prison-walls at its yearning cry
Trembled and shook exceedingly.—
Alas for the man whom God bids live,
And keep what he fain would die to give.

Ever with patient hand he sought
To give its due to his lovely Thought;

And day after day, the story tells,
He workt as one whom a god impels.

One watcht him ever, with eyes so deep
For love that no slumber knew nor sleep:
Fair in body and fair in mind,
True and patient and strong and kind.

The self-same arms had rockt their rest;
Their lips had drunk from the self-same breast;
And her mother, dying, had pray'd that she
Would her foster-brother's keeper be.

The woman her life's delight had deem'd
To work for him while the waiting seem'd
So long and dreary; and, ere 'twas o'er,
The wolf might be standing at the door:
So, having him thus in her heart, she said
The sister should be in the mother's stead.

But, seeing that she was fair and young,
And knowing the stranger's busy tongue,
She pray'd it would please him to confer
The shield of a husband's name on her.

And three days after the burial,
Through a dull rain driving slow and small,
Wet ground underfoot, grey sky overhead,
They walkt to the church and there were wed.

Man and wife, through the chilling rain,
They walkt to the sculptor's house again;
And the sculptor went upon his way
Just with the heart of yesterday,

As though, in a kind of somnambulism,
A priest had toucht with the sacred chrism
The lady given of God to be
Supreme in her grace and royalty,
And, waking, his brain refus'd to keep
The thought of what he had done in sleep.

Many a year had past away
Since Cecco and Lotta us'd to play
Together 'neath that blue sky of theirs,
And blest and were blest in their lovely pray'rs:—

I think you never would recognise
The baby lovers in any wise
In the quiet woman who goes to-day
Deep-soul'd, deep-eyed, on her daily way,
And the thin, dark man who, people say,
Is that strange Francesco da Fiesole,

Poor fool, who aspires to the artist's meed
But none has seen or shall see, indeed,
The fruit of the travail of his brain—
Thinking and toiling all in vain.

Fair was the woman's face, and sweet
Her voice, and swift were her noiseless feet,
And kind her hands; but her husband knew
Full little of her the fair and true.

To work when the dawn brake golden-fair;
At work when the stars of night shone there:
Forwatcht, forwearied at night and worn,
Yet eager to meet his work at morn.

Sometimes she whisper'd, half in fear,
“Rest for a little while, my dear.”
But he—“For the soul that God has blest
Only in perfect work is rest.”

“Yet rest is the truest work sometimes!
Out of the silence grow new rimes;
Out of the cool where shadows brood
Leaps up the soul in its strength renew'd.”
Then he smil'd, and the smile said wordlessly,
“Woman, what have I to do with thee?”

Hours, days, years, swept on, it may be,—
Which he knew not and car'd not, he,—
Art knows not Time but Eternity—
When a wonderful vision, great and sweet,
Came in the silence his soul to greet,
And, daz'd by the glory's sharp excess,
He fell in a deep unconsciousness,

With a cry that struck on her ear alone:
And the woman found him lying prone,
With his head at the base of a block of stone,
A shapeless, loveless thing he wrought,
A cenotaph of his wondrous thought.

She lifted him into the outside air,
And its breeze crept in and out of his hair,
Touching his face with a light caress,
As he lay enwrapt in the silentness.

And, just as the day had kiss'd the night,
He woke, and, with wide eyes full of light,
Lookt up to her face and murmur'd he,
“Thank God that at last through the mists I see
The star of my life arise on me.”

Oh, then the delight of sweet surprise
Glow'd in the depths of her tender eyes;
And something fairer than laughter lit
Her face with a smile most exquisite.

But not for her is that gladness deep,
And not for her are the words that leap
From his spirit's depths—“My glorious Art,
Who hast shrin'd thyself within my heart,

Pardon the weakness of earth that shrank
When the fiery draught of thy life I drank,

And teach my spirit to bear the stress
And awe of thy terrible loveliness:
As when, in the earth-sprung bush there glow'd,
And yet consum'd not its frail abode,
The awful light of the living God.”

He rose with a fresh-nerv'd energy,
And a new-born life within his eye—
“Oh, deep in my heart of hearts is writ
‘Though the vision tarry, wait for it.’”

So, when she brought him a wine-fill'd cup,
With flashing eyes he rais'd it up,
And dasht the red wine upon the floor,
For the strength of his hope sustain'd him more.

And, laughing, he said, “the gods will bless
My work with an infinite success;
For the wine I have here pour'd out shall be
Libation paid unto them by me.”

But a tear was in the woman's eye,
And the thought swept over her mournfully,
As she lookt where the red stream slowly flow'd,
That its antitype was his heart's best blood.

She watcht outside the door all night,
Nor went away till the dawn of light;

And ceaselessly on her ear there broke
The ring of her husband's chisel-stroke.

And at dawn when, weary in heart and limb,
She carried the morning meal to him,
The ground was strewn with fragments white,
Where his hand had hewn at the block all night,
The block that seem'd to her eyes to grow
More shapeless and loveless at every blow.

But she saw his eyes as the eyes of a seer,
And he spoke, and her heart stood still to hear,
“It grows and grows beneath my touch—
O Art, thank God that I love thee much!

Not in the dull coarse clay will I shrine
The thought new-born from this soul of mine—
The stately marble's purity
At once shall its glorious temple be.

The beautiful wonder grows and grows—
I carve her as on my sight she rose,
Perfection and light the ministers
To wait on each motion and look of hers.

Ah, no mere lady of perfect mould
In her shall the gazer's eye behold;

The Godhead's splendour shall surely shine
In the lightest curve and the faintest line;
And my chisel shall loftily express
That Beauty is one with Holiness.”

Oh, full on his face, as the woman went,
There glow'd the light of supreme content;
And silent she left him as, sharp and clear,
His chisel clasht on her heart and ear.

With quick, lithe step she climb'd the stair
To her room that was very bleak and bare,
Save that a rich fair robe was spread
In mocking splendour upon the bed,
Wrought with a delicate broidery
Of flower and leaf full daintily.

Many and many a weary hour
The woman had toil'd over leaf and flow'r,
For winner she of the daily bread
Wherewith her beloved one was fed.

She did not look on the broidery bright
That strain'd her eyes far into the night,
(Yet Love had made the task seem light)
But, panting as if in struggle fierce,
She tore off that sombre dress of hers,
And once, after years, was fain to free
The storm of her passionate agony.

But the early light of the morning fair
Smote full on a little mirror square,
And the woman's eye was caught, and lo!
She could not but see the lovely show:

The stately throat and the golden hair
That fell on the gleaming shoulders bare,
And the eyes that glisten'd with all the rush
Of tears, and the cheeks with their crimson flush.

She lookt and started amaz'd because
She saw how exceeding fair she was,
And cried with a cry of great despair,
“Alas! in vain am I made so fair,

For his life is utterly perishing
At the feet of that dreadful, shapeless thing
Which never can rise, in face or limb
To smile back the strength of his love on him.

O love, my love, who never wilt know
That I, thy wife, have lov'd thee so,
I would lie death-doom'd at thy sacred feet
To hear thee say but, I love thee, Sweet,

Wilt thou not open thine eyes to see
How good perfection can never be
If Nature and Art, which are its source,
Be torn from each other in grim divorce?”

Then sudden, with one great, gasping strain,
The woman regain'd her calm again,
And, when she laid down her work that night,
Her eyes were still and her cheek was white,
And never a face in the universe
More passion-free than that face of hers.

And, strong in the love whose wish and want
Is good for its darling, not to vaunt
Itself as that good's sole ministrant,
“Pray God that my husband see,” she said,
“The joy of his work accomplished.”

But sometimes the woman would sorely grieve,
As one who cannot, but would, believe:
As one who, in seeking, cannot find,
And dares to hope 'tis that he is blind.

And sometimes she brooded in dull unrest
O'er the knowledge hidden within her breast,
How some in visible form have wrought
The passion and glory of their thought,
While some in their souls, unseen must hold
What never in form can be shown or told.

The studio's door is open'd wide,
And he stands at a veiled statue's side:

The door is open'd wide and free,
For all may enter who choose and see.

As one unto whom the time doth bring
The joyful calm of the finishing,
He stands by the side of the unseen thing;
Stands calm and still with his face uprais'd,
As if on some light unseen he gaz'd.

His wife in silence holds her place
Close, close to him, with that marble face
As fair as the vision of perfectness
His soul has sobb'd and moan'd to express.

Marble-cold and marble-fair;
Is she the woman who wrestled there
Last night in the agony of prayer?
Marble-cold, and marble-pale,
She waiteth the loosing of the veil.

The veil is loost, and the sculptor's eye
Looks round in that moment's ecstasy,
With a dumb appeal for sympathy.
For, as pain dies down when hearts are there
To take and eat of the bitter fare,
So joy is half pain if none may share.

Still are they all for a little space,
And each one gazeth on other's face,

Then back to the thing that stands alone,
A thought—a work—or a block of stone.

A hush—and then, in the murmurs low,
She knows what it needeth not she know—
A march for the dead beat soft and slow;
For the great dead hope and the man who lies
With death on his heart and in his eyes.

What does it matter, silence or speech?
For there, on the height he never might reach,
His Thought, unshrin'd in the failure grim,
In terrible pathos looks at him.

The house is silent, the critics thence
Have past with pity and reverence,
And the woman is left alone to keep
Her watch by the man that God lets sleep.

Only once do his lips unclose
As he lies on her breast in deep repose:
Only the murmur'd name, the dear
Pet-name unheard for many a year,

Lotta!—the dying man to-day
Is Ceccolino again, at play
With his little comrade among the flow'rs
And hopes and joys of the long-ago hours.

“What is the moral?” ye ask me—this
I offer, tell me whether it is.
The earth all quick with the diamond's soul
In its throes oft bears but the formless coal,
So close of kin to the perfect gem
That is meet for a kingly diadem.

“This is no moral! why fail'd the man?
Ay, tell me that, if ye only can.
Why and wherefore I know not, I,
Nor take upon me the mystery
Of things, as if I were God's spy.

Think ye God answers no or yes
To men as they idly guess and guess,
“If he had lov'd or if—”?—that If
Is God's undecipher'd hieroglyph.

TOLD IN THE FIRELIGHT.

At last, old friend, after all the years of hope that, deferr'd, doth tire
The heart as surely as pain itself, you are sitting here by my fire:
'Twas worth the waiting to find your heart the same as ever still,
Though alter'd much is that dear old face since last we met, friend Will.
The eyes are as bright as ever they were, but, just about the mouth,
The lines, not stern, but tenderly grave, tell something of parted youth:
And your step is slower than us'd to be, and bow'd is the stalwart form
Which minded us all of a rock that bade defiance to beat of storm:
And the waves of care have swept o'er your head, and left, just here and there,
A little streak of their silvery foam on the seaweed brown of your hair.

But oh! on your face is the sweetness still that oft is wrung out by pain
From natures less noble than yours, as the juice is crusht away from the cane.

Both of us, Will, have lov'd; each sought, in the Spring of his life, to be
The Knight of knights in the gentle eyes of the one belov'd lady:
Your dream, old friend, was realiz'd in the gift of your beautiful one—
To love her made you exceeding glad, to lose her, exceeding lone.
I remember the grace of her movements light, and her voice as soft as the sigh
Of wind among summer's full-leav'd trees—she was very fair to die—
But I think, such sweetness was on her brow, such pureness on her tongue,
She was lov'd with the mystic immortal love they say is death to the young.
Hand in hand together we stood on the still September morn
While the reapers' sickles rustled like wind against the yellow corn,
Hard by the place of your dove's last nest there under the light, loose turf
Whose bending grass should never be stirr'd by wind that had moan'd on the surf.

We parted soon for a long, long while: you went to the morning land
Where Nature spreadeth a daily feast of her lovely things and grand,
And the spirit of love and of those sweet songs which lips of the true have sung
Watcht o'er you by night and day and kept the harp of your life well-strung,
Else how, since grief doth age the heart, can your heart be so fresh and young?

My story you ask for, old comrade? Well, you shall have it and welcome too:
I could not have told it in letters, I think, but am glad to tell it to you,
Face to face and hand to hand this eventide by my fire,
Here, as so often I've wanted you with restless, great desire.
Is it not strange how the certain hand of Time can utterly smooth
Down into calm the passionate storms that trouble the heart of youth?
The wine that, in drinking, was bitterest, is mixt in remembrance with myrrh—
So, Will, it does not hurt me now to think or to speak of her.

Calm on my life's love-threshold she stood, with the forehead smooth and square
That gleam'd like a silver star against the drifts of her cloud-like hair;
And cheeks too young, too young to be so utterly pale and grave,
And lips where delicate pathos lay at the heart of each smile they gave.
A still, calm presence that, moonlike, wrought such a passionate tide in my breast,
That to me the love which I priz'd so dear was only a name for unrest.
My whole life gather'd up at once its trouble and joy and desire,
And laid itself down at her feet and pour'd out its strength in words of fire.
At first, as she listen'd, those lips of hers that stately were, but mild,
Curv'd into a pitying, quiet smile, as if for a wayward child;
But soon, with the force of my pleading strong, there came a look in her eyes,
As if she were gazing back to the past with its mazes and mysteries.
And when I ceast, she droopt her lids, and the few, low words she said
Were utter'd so faintly, I only caught the sound of the last one—dead!

Then I was dumb, and it seem'd as if a many ages swept
Over my life that, trembling there, its sorrowful silence kept.
Was it the ghost of her pain or else the wraith of mine that had come
And stood, a shadow between us two, in the shadows of evening's gloom?

She laid on my arm a kind calm hand, and spoke to me, with the grace
Of her womanhood's pitying tenderness soft on her beautiful clear-cut face:
Just in the very fewest words and the simplest ones, she told
A story old and common enough, and as sad as common and old:
Something of poverty—parting—and then the struggle for daily bread
In a far-off land, and at last the news that crusht her hope—he was dead.
Ah! would that I never had spoken the words that I spoke out then to her
Whose love and pain should have been to me the veriest barrier—
“Hate me,” I said, “if you will, if you will, so you let me kneel and adore
The light that shall be my star of stars for ever and evermore.”

Commonplace words enough they sound, but nothing is commonplace
To a woman who sees a man's whole heart leap out to her in his face:
And her voice was softer than even its wont, and her eyes had tears unshed—
“I never shall love again, but yet—if you will, so be it.” she said.
Then I fain had drawn her close to the heart that would shelter hers for ever,
But she shudder'd, as if with pain or cold, and pray'd of me just to leave her,
Leave her a little while; she would strive her woman's duty to do;
Well she knew me and trusted me; she call'd me a good man and true;
Knew that I lov'd her; but all was strange and new, and the crisis of life
Was come unto her who had surely thought she never should be a wife.
And we parted then; but all night long, with a weight as heavy as lead,
It lay on my heart and haunted me, or waking, or sleeping, —Dead.

The days past on and a tender calm that was almost like to peace,
Fell on my life from that life of hers and bade its unrest to cease:
Her life so full of the duties fair that were order'd smooth and even,
To know her was beauty and grace and good, and to love her was very heaven.
Yet sometimes, despite, in my heart of hearts, a fathomless longing would rise
For storms and sunshine instead of the blue of those fair, untroubled skies;
For the delicate hearth-fire to cherish and tend, instead of the distant star;
For the beam of the lesser light close by, instead of the greater afar.
Well, seeing the time was passing fast in that gentle light and clear,
I askt her when should my hope be crown'd, and she pray'd me for a year,
And I thought in that year perhaps, perhaps, the waters of time might sweep
Lethe-like over her heart and drown all pain in a wakeless sleep.
We said we would part for that one year, and I left our country's shore
Not to see her again till the time I never should leave her more:

But oh! with the look in her quiet eyes there fell a shadow on me,
And I thought of the world-sick preacher's words that all is but vanity.

The year was over and gone at last, and both of us bound for home;
I and another, an artist-friend I had made while I stay'd at Rome.
A genial, open-hearted man, who was coming home to claim
The right to give to his best-belov'd the gift of the ring and name.
He told me more than I told him, Will, but somehow, it seem'd to strike
A chill on my heart that our hope should be so like and yet so unlike.
He told me about a morning bleak in the time of early snow,
When he parted from her, his lady dear, just five long years ago,
Knowing not when they should meet again, but strong in the trust and truth
That keep the flowers of the heart so fresh in the dew and beauty of youth.
Ay, the times change and we with them, but he knew he should find her the same
In heart and soul as the last sweet time he had heard her name his name.

Never a letter had past between them: her kinsfolk and friends disallow'd
The trothplight, for he was poor and young and they were poor and proud.
He had struggled hard and overcome by the force of that which gains
The crown and the palm—the patient “power of taking infinite pains;”
And when, at last, success had come, he had hugg'd with a miser's grasp
The gold that was bringing him every day more near to the deathless clasp
Of her virgin-hand, and the tender light of her lustrous violet eye
For evermore and for evermore—it was wonderful ecstasy.

He pac'd the long deck to and fro, and lookt so blest and proud
In his love and trust that I know not how I utter'd my thought aloud,
With a touch of cynicism that now I think of, Will, with pain,
As I said, “But how if you lose, good friend, where you only think to gain?”
He stopt his walk and lookt at me with the look of perfect calm
That comes to the face when the life is tun'd to the pitch of love's great psalm;—

“Ah, yes, I have thought of that before; she may be lying low
With violets quick on her dear dead breast; God's will be done, if so;
Or else she may have thought me dead, and given herself to one
As true and loving as I could be;—to say God's will be done
Truly were harder if so it were; in the book of the heart I have read
More bitter is grief for the living lost than ever it is for the dead.
All's in God's hands; but somehow I feel so strong in my love and trust
I think that He will not suffer this hope of mine to crumble to dust.
She cannot else be lost I know;—there's a word that Society uses
When a frivolous woman plays with a heart as long as her fancy chooses,
Then casts the poor plaything away for others to toy with, unless, indeed,
It be too much broken for that, and cares not and takes not the slightest heed—
Flirting they call it—but she, yes, she is so pure and true and high,
As far above that unwomanly shame as a star in its depth of sky,

And all that is lofty and beautiful in her is so surely blent,
My treasure perhaps may be lost to me, but it cannot have thus been spent.”

I had seen her again, my statue-love, she had met me with never a touch
Of true-love joyaunce and eager bliss, and my whole soul crav'd for such:
I had lookt in vain, in vain, for the crimson beacon of love on her cheek,
As a watcher looks with longing eyes to the East for the morning-streak.
Tender and meek as of old she was, and I thought “Has she come to forget
The Past with its sweetness and bitterness, and will she love me yet?”
Such women never forget, albeit, outliving their agony,
From their sweet souls is born the grace of infinite charity.

We were sitting together one eventide; her hand lay light in mine,
The quiet hand that, to-morrow morn, was to wear my marriage-sign:
I was reading a quaint old ballad aloud that pleas'd my lady much,

When we heard a footstep—an open'd door—and she drew her hand from my touch,
And lifted her eyes—and then—O Will!—with a cry, on my heart that rang
As a joybell might on a doom'd man's ear who waits for his deat?, she sprang,
With a deer-like bound in the eager joy that quiver'd through all her frame
To her home on his breast for evermore, and he kiss'd her and nam'd her name.

Only a moment thus they stood, forgetting all but the joy
Of a love whose infinite sweetness and strength nor time nor pain could destroy,
And then she started back from his arms with a glorious crimson glow,
Love's banner, flasht out over her face from her chin to her very brow;
So was the wonderful loveliness now full-lit by the light of the human,
Grown beneath love's true hand at once to the fairest beauty of woman.
My heart sent forth a desperate cry as wordless I past from the door,
Like the last long wail of one who is drown'd in sight of the ship and the shore.

There is the end;—there's a grand old truth that never grows dull or trite,
All that God does, and the way He does it, is sure to be wise and right.
And I call it nothing but casting reproach on Him and His perfect plan,
Who made the love of man for woman, the love of woman for man,
When those who have lost that bliss, or those to whom it has been denied,
Sneer at the holy name of love and smother with selfish pride
The seeds of the sacred flowers God holds to be given in service meet
When twin'd for a darling's brow or laid at tir'd humanity's feet.
And life has autumn and winter joys left yet, and I love to see
Her little children, whom I had hop'd should be mine, around my knee:
Ay, give me your hand, old friend, true friend—there was once a tender and true man
Like you, who gave to his friend a love passing the love of woman.

MARGARET, A MARTYR.

The dying man tost from side to side;
The nurse stoopt down in the twilight dim,
And smooth'd his brow to quiet him:
“He may dream of his mother's hand,” she said,
“By the touch of mine on his restless head.”
But he, with eyeballs staring wide,
Clutcht at that gentle hand of hers,
And moan'd, “O voice of the sea, the sea!
The curse of its voice! the curse! the curse!”

The house where he lay was far enough
From the roaring and beating of the sea;
Far away from the blast, said she,
That shrieks on the foam-fleckt crags. But he
Answer'd in accents hard and rough,
“Woman, I tell you wave on wave
Dashes along with a dread white crest,
Taking its spoil of my last long rest;
I shall hear the sound in my very grave.”

Pale was the nurse with wordless fright:
All the seeming-endless night
She had listen'd thus to his agony—
“Terrible, pitiless, ghastly sea!
She is drown'd, drown'd, drown'd, I tell you; She:
I lov'd and slew her, lov'd and slew!
Her eyes were bluer than the blue
Of the sea, and truer than the true
Of its tide; and I slew her by the sea.”

“Is he mad, or does he dream?” thought she.
“Forbid it God that true it be.”

“You don't believe, or you half believe?
I am quite calm now: will you listen to me?
Think you are going to receive
My last confession—is that the phrase?—
I'm telling you now because the day's
Adawn and I'm wearied out with pain,
And I think it must all be o'er at night.
No secret, child: it's ten years quite
Since I stood in the dock and they maunder'd on,
And said I was mad; and they shut me up
In a madhouse, not to come out again
Till her Majesty's pleasure—Give me the cup—
That's good—thanks, thanks; but, five years gone,
They sent me out on my pleasant way,
Old, and wrinkled, and bent, and gray;
(But I'm only forty, Nurse, to-day!)

And every one's dead—there were only two
To die, two only, Maggie and Hugh.”

Soft she said, “Let the dead past go!
God is tender and good, we know;
And it says in the Book, more white than snow
The blackest soul may be again;
That Blood blots out of blood the stain.”

“Poor little nurse-evangelist!”
He said, with a lip-curve sadder to see
Than eyes all veil'd in thick tear-mist,
“No good in preaching like that to me.

“‘Why did I moan all through the night?’”
'Twas a kind of physical need to moan
And talk of the sea and her, that's all:
But I'm not a penitent, to delight
Your good lean priest, and have him fall
On his knees a-thanking God: I groan
And sigh and shudder, from weakness, Nurse,
And not from penitence or remorse.

Hugh and I were early reft
Of the good gold, parents' love, and left
To struggle on as best we might,
Win or fail in the great life-fight.
How could he fail? He workt and plann'd,
True of heart and true of hand;

Builder and architect, so he.
He us'd to laugh and say to me
'Twas I must write the family name
High on the walls of the Temple of Fame.

I was a painter; one of those
Who were seal'd of the tribe pre-Raphaelite:
He thought me the greatest of the lot:
“Did any one else?” Well, I suppose,
Not many set me on such a height
As Hugh and she—but it matters not.

Hugh was one of your grandly made
Fellows, all strength of body and mind;
Tall and broad, none could make him afraid;
With a powerful arm and a manful tread,
And a heart that was kin to all mankind.

She—well, she was shy as sweet,
And, because she lov'd my brother, not me,
Would look not up at the sound of his feet,
But blush till she grew thrice fair to see,
A crimson blush that pal'd at tip
Of her wonderful little delicate ears
To the tender pink the young dawn wears:
And then she would talk to me and laugh
The loveliest laughter, till I went half

Mad for her love, and had let all slip,
All that I ever had deem'd of worth,
Anywhere, everywhere, Heaven or Earth,
For the light of her eye and the smile of her lip.

I can be just now and analyse
It all; look on with another's eyes,
And see how Maggie Rivers thought
She might be just a sister to me,
Because as a lover she lov'd me not—
Maggie! Maggie! the sea! the sea!
The white waves howl and leap around me!
I'm a fool, Nurse—there—so let me be.

Hugh came to me one day and said,
“Evan, Maggie has promist to be
The nearest of all the world to me.”
And I lookt up with a sick white smile—
“Joy to you, my brother!” while
My heart for a moment felt like dead.
But life came back with the horrible feel
Of a million little pricks of steel;
And then one awful grip of pain
Caught me, and made me mad, mad, mad—
That is the thing they call'd me when
I stood in the dock before those men—

But, that day, I heard the myriad
Spring-sounds upon the delicate air

That was round the martlet's procreant nest,
And I saw the sights that, everywhere,
Made up one sight of beauty; and, blest
I saw my brother standing there
With the head of the Spring-goddess on his breast;
And he was the Spring-god, and all was fair.
Should I remember if I had been mad?
Should I remember? There's the test.

He said—what was it he said?—I know—
“Brother and sister,”—and, in the glow
Of beauty, hers and his, when he bade,
She lifted her lips to mine, and I took
Their joy that once, and the whole earth shook
And reel'd, and I stood there, blind, deaf, dumb,
Only knowing a belt of fire
Was round my heart, and hell was come
In the heaven that was my soul's desire.”

He ceast a moment and, in the lull,
Came over the nurse a wonderful
Horror and shuddering as, all amaz'd,
Upward her frighted eyes she rais'd.
And from the sick man's lips a half
Sob came that was like a birth-chok'd laugh.
Then said she, “Let me pray, for the pow'r
Of the Evil One is on you this hour.”

Then roll'd out the sneer-set words of his,
With a terrible mocking emphasis;
“Don't you know it's the fashion to call it a lie,
The evil's personality?
A dream of the foolish times mediæval
To cross and cry for fear of the devil?
What is it then? an essence? a thread
From a queer kind of loom, that, wov'n in your stuff,
Will warp it and spoil it?—That's enough.
Perhaps I shall know to-night—well said—
Absurd polemics, good Nurse! pshaw!
You look at me with a grim white awe
In your face. What care I? Not a straw.
I can meet this death—must—face to face.”

But the nurse, as she strove in vain to chase
The horror back from her eyes to her heart,
Said, with an irrepressible moan,
“Oh, keep your story for God alone!”

“God!” said he, as he jerkt apart
Her hands, pray'r-claspt unconsciously,
“What have I got with God to do?
I mean the story only for you.
Sit there still and listen to me.

A full month's time was yet to be
Ere she came, array'd in bridal trim,

To make the house a home for him;—
Do you hear it now? Will you hear that sea?

I was a painter: I told you this?
Well, how I painted my masterpiece
Is yet to be told. Did I paint it, though,
Or only sketch it? I hardly know;
I think it was painted: wasn't the gown
Short, scant-folded, of russet brown?
What does it matter? leave it so.

You know the story of Margaret,
The girl who hugg'd the Covenant
Close to her heart and died—and yet
What did she die for? Truth or Cant?
My Margaret—no, not Maggie, no—
But Margaret Wilson, mine, I say,
Not Scotland's Margaret, nor History's, she
Who came,—was it in a dream?—to me,
With a steady step, in the early glow
Of her young life's just unfolden May;
She died for Truth, or died to be true—
That's better, I think; and Maggie too,
She died—was that for the Covenant?—
No, I'll not stop; my brain is clear
Though they call'd me mad—but—things that haunt—
Maggie, Margaret,—Nurse, you shall hear.

They drest her up one party night
In a Scotch girl's dress and fetcht a stake

And bound her, waist, wrists, ankles, tight:
And she lookt a Martyr for Truth's sake.
And this was done for the brief delight
Of folk who had come to merrymake.
But she—did the ghost of the dead Scotch girl
Come back to earth for a little space,
And shine through the flesh of Maggie's face,
And tell us that evil were vain to unfurl
The flag? or did That for which men die
Or live, look out through that body of hers?
I know not; I only knew 'twas I
Must shew her thus to the universe.

A three-hours' ride from where we dwelt
The sea beat high upon a shore
Where, stark and strong like giants of yore,
Rose the great rocks the sea would pelt
With foam in its grim horse-play, or roar
At the foot of, until one, gazing, felt
A desperate wish to leap to its breast
And ride, or be tost, on its mighty crest.
Often I us'd to visit that beach
And look and think, until it seem'd
My Margaret Wilson stood there too,
She and I, and never a word of speech
Upon my lips or hers; and the blue
Great sky was above, and, underneath
Our feet was—was it the sea or death?

And the wild gulls flapt their wings and scream'd,
And the sea came up and toucht her feet;
And I saw them come to her and urge—
What? the pity of it? the dear life's sweet?
And I saw them go and the sweeping surge
Swirl round her limbs and then retreat;
And again and again they offer'd—what?
Life? It was Life the girl had got.
And the sea came up with no rebuke
From the lips of any thaumaturge,
And swept her into heaven—

I look
And see a face a moment bare
From the glaucous depths, and I see the hair
Float out like trails of the brown sea-weed.

Am I mad, mad, mad? No, Nurse, indeed:
‘My pulse as temperately as yours
Doth beat.’—That's Hamlet, Hamlet the Dane
With a bee in his bonnet; so, that's plain.—

Now, if I only could have a weed
And a man to talk with—that's what cures.
Madness! Death's coming up like the tide,
And pity it were to miss the end
Of a grand sensational tale because
The man who was telling the tale, my friend,
Let his jaw drop, eyes stare, and died—
So much for Buckingham—That's where I was.

We came down to this beach, we two;
Maggie, not Margaret, Maggie and I,
Hugh's Maggie, who was to sit to me
For my picture's sketch by the old gray sea;
The picture that should proclaim me him
Who had read God's runes and writ them for men
In language that whoso ran might read,
Clear and plain, not vague and dim.
What shall be the rune-reader's meed?

I tied her fast to the stake I had set;
I bound her, ankles, and wrists, and waist;
And the evil tide was far, far out,
It would not turn for a good while yet.
The low little rocks were slimy and green,
And the ugly barnacles could taste
The air that was blowing light about
Her snood-bound hair: I lookt, and lost
Myself in a sort of maze between
Sea and sky; it was strange, so lone a place,
So drear and wild, on the English coast.
You never saw a human face
Down there, nor heard a human voice;
Though folk in search of the picturesque
Might have here found plenty whereat to rejoice
And set forth, somehow, at easel or desk.

The waves went curling and rippling light;
But a voice was singing under their foam,

Their laugh-like, delicate, cresting foam,
The psalm-tune—you know it—Martyrdom—
The grand old psalm-tune, Martyrdom.
She stood and mov'd not: the little white
Clouds tost in the sky like the blue sea's foam.

I said, ‘You are mine now, death's or mine;
Love and wife.’ And she lookt at me
To understand; and I told her all,
Saying, ‘Take your choice, my heart or the sea.
Choose and quickly; no use to call,
For none will hear. Is it I or the brine,
The bitter, deadly glaucous brine?’

Brevity is the soul of wit;
Why should I make my story long?
I know the tide came swift and strong;
I know no man could fight with it,
And what could a fetter'd woman do?
Lie and say, ‘I promise you
All you wish if you set me free?’
Or lie to Hugh and God for me?
That? She lie? Do martyrs so?
Just one exceeding bitter cry
Went from her lips, and then she grew
Quite still, and settled herself to die.

The air was warm, the sky was blue,
And, at first, the sea rose calm and slow.

The shore stretcht out in a headland small,
A ‘beaked promontory’ small,
Whereon if I stood, I could see her plain.
I climb'd the place: I recall the pain
As I struck my knee against a stone,—
Should I remember that at all
Had I been mad?—The place was o'ergrown
With stubbed heather soft that felt.
I sat me down and lookt. A belt
Of sea had cover'd the barnacles,
And I saw no green slime now; and bells,
Church-bells, I think, were in my ear.

And she was there, and her face shone clear
As a star within the grisly blue,
And her little snood was loost, and brown
Bright hair was all about her—I knew
And saw, and I left her there to drown.

What is it someone somewhere saith
About being faithful unto death?
Well—well—the native savagery
Of the sea—I told you here the sea
Was wild and strong?—awoke at last,
And a little tempest sang i' the blast,
And grew to a wild roar presently.
And—I saw only the fierce big sea,
With a trail of weed upon its breast;

And heard the waters moan and roar,
And the cry of the gulls upon the shore;
And I saw the sun slope to the west,
Saw it or felt—Let be, let be.”

THE STORY OF ARGALUS AND PARTHENIA.

[_]

A Transcript from the Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, Book I.

When the good king, Basilius, come to years
More than decaying, (he was king of all
Arcadia) took Gynecia to his wife,
Came with her a young lord nam'd Argalus,
Who was her cousin-german; thither led
By honour partly and the love of her,
And partly by the humour of youth, which aye
Thinks that is good whose good he doth not see.
And in that lord he won so great increase
Of knowledge that, when years were spent, he shew'd
In all his actions such a virtuous mind,
He was Arcadia's glory: a gentleman
Rarely accomplisht, excellently learn'd,
Without vain-glory; valiant too—the earth
Holds not a man that hath perform'd more acts
Heroical than he; for valour of mind
And strength of body, none to him preferr'd,
If any equall'd; yet so valiant that

To none he ever durst do injury.
In 'haviour surely sober, ever wise,
To musing somewhat giv'n, but ne'er uncourteous;
His word led by his thought and follow'd of
His deed; more liberal than magnificent.
In sum, I say, such man was Argalus,
The nicest eye could find no spot in him,
Unless the over-vehement constancy
Of spotless love be counted for a spot.

The young lord Clitiphon, the king's sister's son,
(His mother married with good lord Kalander)
Haunted the company of Argalus
More than of any other, and between
These twain a liking and a friendliness
Sprang up and brought forth this that you shall hear.

It fell upon a time that Clitiphon
Brought Argalus to a great lady's house—
His father's sister's house he brought him to—
Who had one child, Parthenia; fair indeed,
And fairer much her fairness was, ywis,
Seeing 'twas but a fair ambassador
Of a fair mind exceeding, full of wit
Which better lov'd to judge itself than shew,
Her speech being rare as precious, and her silence
No sullenness, her modesty sincere,
And her shamefastness without ignorance.

In sum, if you would praise her, first set down
What is it to be excellent; this is she.

Now these perfections meeting could not choose
But find each other and delight in that
They found; likeness of manners surely will
Draw liking with affection; nor, indeed,
Do actions always cross with reason; in short,
They lov'd, though, for a while, the fire of Love,
Hope's fanning wings cut off, was blown for them
With a wild wind even by Despair himself.

Long while Demagoras had woo'd the maid;
A suitor mighty in wealth and pow'r, and proud
Thereof, and stout, who, save himself, lov'd none.
(He lov'd her for the sake of self-delight.)
And, following vehemently his desire,
His riches gilding over all his faults,
Parthenia's mother gave him her consent,
And, using with her child authority,
Had made her yield thereunto: not because
She lik'd that choice, but her obedient mind
Not yet had taken on it to make a choice.

And now the assurance-day drew very near,
When my lord Clitiphon brought Argalus,
Perchance that he might see so rare a sight
As she by all well-judging eyes was judg'd.

But though few days before the assurance-time
Appointed were to pass, yet Love, who saw
He had a journey very great to make
Within a time so short, so hasted him,
That, ere her word could to Demagoras
Tie her, her heart vow'd her to Argalus,
And he fear'd nothing but the missing her,
As she desir'd o'er all the having him.
And when the time came that Demagoras,
Full of proud joy, thought to receive the gift
Of her sweet self, she, very resolute,
Yet grieving that she must refuse, said thus,
She rather would be bedded in her grave
Than wedded to the lord Demagoras.

And strange unto her mother seem'd the change,
Strange as unpleasing, and all ways she tried
That ever mother hard of heart could use
Upon a humble child in whom the one
Resisting pow'r was love: but yet, the more
The maid defended did the mother grow
Obstinate in assault; and, finding now
That Argalus, standing between, eclipst
Parthenia's shining from Demagoras,
She sought by all means to be rid of him,
Employing him in dangerous enterprise
As ever step-dame Juno Hercules.

But, as she tried his virtue, purer still
It grew, and all things done to overthrow
His virtue set him up on honour's highth.
Yet struggling, seeing she would have her will,
And shew authority, as Argalus grew
In virtue and strength she hated him the more,
Thinking his conquest only conquer'd her;
And therefore, still employ'd him in attempts,
More and more dangerous, and, the meanwhile,
Using all possible extremities
On her fair child, that she might make her give
Herself to her direction. Hard to judge
If he in doing, or she in suffering,
Shew'd forth affection's greater constancy;
For rather did the world occasions want
Than Argalus the heart to go through them:
So with Parthenia; malice sooner ceast
Than her unchanged patience. Then, in sooth,
By treason foul Demagoras and the dame
Would fain have made away with Argalus,
But he, with courage and with providence
So past o'er all, she took a spiteful grief,
And her heart brake withal and so she died.

But now Demagoras assur'd himself
Parthenia free would ne'er be bound to him;
And, hearing thus much from her steadfast lips,
He, not more wishing his own happiness

Than envying Argalus, whom, with narrow eyes
He saw e'en ready to enjoy the bliss
Of full desire, so strengthen'd his conceit
With all the mischievous counsels love disdain'd
And envious pride could give: and so the wretch,
Taking the time when Argalus was gone
Hence to his country, gone to fetch his friends
For honouring of the marriage, (her consent
Joyfully given thereto), the wretch, I say,
Desiring privily to speak with her,
With force unmerciful, her too weak arms
In vain resisting, rubb'd upon her face
A horrible poison, the effect whereof
Was never leper lookt more foul than she.

This coming unto Clitiphon's father's ears,
The good old Kalander of famous name,
Her uncle, he made such means Demagoras
Was banisht from the land on pain of death.
Who, hating the punishment where the fault he should
Have hated, join'd himself with all his pow'r
Unto the Helots, rebels 'gainst the State;
And they, right glad to have among them one
Of such authority, made him general;
And under him these Helots did commit
The most outrageous villainies a base herd
In desperate revenge can think or do.

But in a little space came Argalus back,
Poor gentleman! having within his heart
Her image fair, and promising his eyes
The uttermost of their felicity,
When they—none other dar'd to tell it him—
Were the first messengers of their own woe.

And who can tell the grief of both of them
When he did know her? At the first, indeed,
He knew her not, and neither, at the first,
Could knowledge possibly have virtue's aid
So ready as not faintly to lament
The loss of such a jewel; so much the more
That skilful men sadly assured them
'Twas past the healing: but, within a while,
His truth of love and virtuous constancy
Shining through foulest mists took such full hold
Of Argalus, he began to comfort her
With comforts such as witty arguments
May give adversity; nor only this,
But with the most abundant kindness that
Eye-ravisht lover can express, he sought
To drive extremity of grief from her,
And hasten on the time of marriage; and
Thereunto not less earnest cheerfully
Than if she were not disinherited
Of that most goodly portion liberally
Bequeath'd by Nature; for that cause deferr'd

His purpos'd vengeance on Demagoras,
So he might keep continually with her:
Shewing more humble serviceableness
And joy to please her now than e'er before.

But even as he gave this example rare,
Not to be hoped for again unless
There might arise another Argalus,
So did Parthenia take as strange a course:
For, though she more desir'd his love than life,
She overcame her own desire and his,
And in no sort would yield to marry him.
And strange that he, by an affection sprung
Even from excessive beauty, should delight
Thus in such horrible foulness; and that she,
Of vehement desire to have him, should
Yet kindly thus a resolution build
Never to have him: for the truth it is
She lov'd him so she could not find in heart
To tie him down to an unworthy thing.

He conjur'd her by memory of her love,
And all true oaths of his affection true,
She would not make him so unblest to think
That with her face he had also lost her heart.
He told her, at its fairest, that her face
Had but a marshal been, to lodge her love
Within his mind, which now was plac'd so well

It needed not an outward harbinger:
Beseeching her, with very tears, to know
That not so superficial was his love
To go no deeper than the skin, which yet,
Since it was hers, to him was very fair.
How could he, thus ungrateful, love her less
For that which for his sake she had endur'd?
He ne'er beheld it but he saw therein
The loveliness of her great love toward him.
Protesting unto her he would not take
Joy of his life an 'twere not joy of her.

But she made answer, wringing of his hand;
“My lord, God knows I love you;” did she say.
“If I were princess of the whole wide world,
And had all blessings e'er the hour brought forth,
I would not make delay to lay myself
And them beneath your feet; or, if I had
Remain'd but as I was, though, I confess,
Unworthy far of you, I would with joy
Too great for my heart now to look upon,
Have taken your vouchsafing me to take,
And all defects with faith and love supplied.
But let me be more miserable than now,
Much more, much more, ere I match Argalus
To such Parthenia. No; live happy, Dear;
I give you back in full your liberty,
And I beseech of you to take the gift,

And I assure you that I shall rejoice
Whatever I be, to see you coupled so
As for your honour and your joy is best.”

With that she burst out crying and weeping sore,
Not able longer to contain herself,
Blaming her fate and wishing she were dead.

But Argalus, with a most heavy heart,
Pursuing his desire, she, fixt of mind
To avoid entreaty, fly all company,
Ay, even his, did steal away one night,
But whither no man knew. He sought her long
In many places, until wanhope came
Upon his heart, and he grew weary of life.

But now, determining to be aveng'd
Upon Demagoras, he went alone,
Disguis'd, to the chief town the Helots held;
Where, coming into his presence, guarded round
By many soldiers, he could not delay
His fury longer for a fitter time,
But setting on him there despite of those
That helpt him, gave him many mortal wounds.
And he himself had perisht presently
But that Demagoras order'd he be kept
Alive, perchance with the intent to feed
His eyes with cruel persecution laid

On him; but death came sooner than he thought;
And his successor kept Argalus alive,
To wait for death till ending of the war.

Now strange events fell out which brought the war
To a quick issue, and Argalus was freed;
Who caring little, Parthenia being lost,
Whether he liv'd or died, went on his way
And sojourn'd at the house of Kalander.
And there was merry-making in the house,
Where all men, saving Argalus alone,
Shew'd forth in joyful eyes their joyful hearts.

Then fortune who, belike, was bid to the feast,
And meant to play the Goodfellow thereat,
Among them did a pleasant adventure bring.

As they had newly din'd, a messenger
Came unto Kalander, who brought him word
A noble lady, kinswoman to the queen
Of Corinth, was come thither and desir'd
A lodging in his house; and Kalander
Went out to meet her, all his worthiest guests
With him, save Argalus, who remain'd alone
Within his chamber, thinking of his love,
Wishing the company were broken up,
That he might make his solitary quest.

But, when they met the lady, Kalander
Thought straightway it had surely been his niece,
And would have spoken in familiar kind.
But she, in grave and honourable sort,
Gave him to understand that he mistook;
And Kalander, half asham'd, excus'd himself
With the exceeding likeness that she bore
Unto Parthenia, though indeed it seem'd
That, of the two, this lady had the more
Dainty and pure conplexion; and she said
It very well might be, because they two
Were taken, one for other, many times.

But, soon as she was brought into the house,
Ere she would rest her, she desir'd to speak
With Argalus in public, who, she heard,
Was in the house, and he came forth in haste,
And thought in haste as Kalander had thought,
With sudden change of joy to grief: but she,
When she had staid their thought by telling them
Her name and quality, spake on this sort.

“Lord Argalus,” she said, “late being left
At Helen's court, the Queen of Corinth, chief
During her absence, she being gone thence
For some occasion, came there unto me
Parthenia, so disfigur'd that, I think,
Greece hath not anything more foul to shew.

Some vehement oaths it took, yea, and good proofs
Ere she could make me think that it was she:
Yet, finding certainly that she it was,
And pitying her greatly, all the more
That men had told me, even as you do now,
Of that great likeness which between us is,
I took the dearest care I could of her,
And understood the woful history
Of her adventure; ay, and therewithal,
Of that most noble constancy in you,
Lord Argalus, which, whoso loveth not,
He sheweth him a hater of all good,
Ay, and unworthy with mankind to live.

But naught of outward cherishing could salve
Her inward sore: a few days since she died.
But, ere she died, Parthenia earnestly
Desir'd me and persuaded that of none
As husband I should think, saving of you,
The one man that was worthy to be lov'd.
Withal she bade me give this ring to you,
Desiring, and, by love's authority,
Commanding you to turn that love to me
Which you had borne to her; assuring you
Nothing there is can please her spirit more
Than to behold us twain together matcht.

And now, my lord, albeit this office I take
Upon me be not suitable to me,

In sex or in estate, seeing my sex
Should rather look to be desir'd, yet, sooth,
Desert uncommon claims uncommon deed:
And therefore I am come with faithful love
Built on your worthiness, to offer you
Myself, and to beseech you to accept
The offer; and, if these noble gentlemen
Here present, say it is great folly, yet
Let them withal say that it is great love.”

With that she staid, attending earnestly
The answer Argalus should make; who, first
Heaving most hearty sighs, the obsequies
Of his Parthenia, answered thus to her.

“Madam, I am infinitely bound to you
For not less rare than noble courtesy,
And infinitely bound because of that
Sweet kindness I perceive you shew'd to her;”
(With that the tears ran down his face, but yet
He follow'd on, she listening grave,) “and just
As much as so unfortunate a man,
Fit to be spectacle of misery,
Can do you service, here you may be sure
That you have made a purchase of a slave
Who, while I live, shall never fail you at need.
But this great matter you propose to me,
Wherein I am not so blind as not to see

What happiness 'twould be—O excellent
Lady, if but my heart were mine to give,
You should possess it before anyone;
But it is dead Parthenia's: there began
All matter of affection and there ends.
I hope not long to tarry after her
With whose good beauty only had I been
In love, I should be now with you who have
The same; but 'twas Parthenia's self I lov'd
And love; which never likeness can make one;
Which no commandment ever can dissolve;
Which never any foulness can defile;
Which never any death can bring to end.”

“And must I bear disgrace to be refus'd?”
Said she. But he, “Nay, use not that hard word,
Who know your own exceeding worthiness,
Far above my desert: I but refuse
Happiness, since the only happiness
I could or can desire, I am refus'd.”

But scarcely had he said these words than she
Ran unto him and fell upon his neck;
“Why, then, take thy Parthenia, Argalus!”
And there she stood, Parthenia's very self.

Then, seeing grief forbade him to believe,
She told him all the truth with circumstance;
How, being gone away, meaning to die,

Moaning aloud in solitary place,
Helen, the Queen of Corinth, passing by,
Walking alone, heard her and never left
Till she had heard the whole of her discourse;
And, pitying her greatly, Helen sent
A skill'd physician of her own, in hope
That he could help her; which he well perform'd
In that same sort they saw. Then she, with her
Taking of the queen's servants, thought to make
This trial, whether Argalus would yet
Quickly forget his true Parthenia or no.

And Helen's servants well confirm'd her speech,
And Argalus believ'd what he desir'd
More than ten thousand years of mortal life;
And so the wedding-feast was made for them.

TO ANNIE.

Springtime, Love! how short a time it seems since the snow and frost,
And the mist thick-falling over the hills and the daylight early lost;
The strong keen wind and the short-liv'd sun and the cosy household blaze,
And you, bright-fac'd and sober-gown'd, all pleasant and sweet to my gaze,
With your gracious wisdom calm beneath your pretty childly ways.

Ay, it was just a month, a month, I lost the count of, Dear;
That's how the beautiful summer-time has suddenly come so near;
It seems as it were but yesterday the doctor stood close by
With the face so grave it needed not to tell me that I must die:

Yes, Love, I could say, “God's will be done!” but, to see you standing there
With the agony stampt upon your face and your hands close-claspt in pray'r!

Poor little wife! as he left the room you follow'd him and I saw
When you came again that your eyes were dim, and a kind of quiet awe
Was on your face as you drew quite close and kiss'd my poor parcht mouth
With kisses that fell as sweet as rain on the heart of a summer's drouth.

Are the tears springing again at the thought? from joy, not sorrow, they come:
Yes, we are glad, Dear, you and I, that I stay for a while in this home:
And, full of its happy thankfulness and laughter and love, the heart,
Instead of learning a service strange, takes up its familiar part.

I am very glad it is spring-time now, for I seem to understand
New things as I breathe the happy breath of the new-awaken'd land:

New things, nay, rather old things new in the light which fair doth fall
Upon my heart from the presence-room of the Father who giveth all.

I hear the bleat of the yeanling lamb and I smell the new-turn'd earth,
The smell of the fields the Lord will bless in the harvest's time of mirth.
The glow of life is on my cheek and the common air is good,
And the hunger awakes to be satisfied with the taste of common food.

Turn your chair round a wee bit, Dear: so—that is the very place—
Put down your work and give me your hand and let me look in your face.
I want to tell you how, all the time that death was standing near,
I could not think of the parting-hour as I watcht you sitting here:
My thoughts turn'd back to the fair first time that ever I saw you, Dear.

The night-lamp's light was burning low, and all so quiet, except
For the feeble tick of the cover'd watch, that you thought I surely slept:

But my spirit was with the long-ago crown'd by the face that arose on me
Lustrous and pure in the silence fair that brooded o'er shore and sea.

You had flung off your gypsy hat for heat, and the sunset's golden red
Tremulous play'd with its sister-tint upon your bended head:
And your eyes were bow'd to that page of his who was king of your spirit then,
And your face mobile with the worded thoughts of Shake-spere's women and men.
Your father call'd you to greet his friend who had come to your home that night,
And you rose from your seat on the sand with a smile that was, oh! so frank and bright.
Welcome Home! and the soft little hand unjewell'd to mine was given—
Welcome Home! and my home was there that beautiful quiet even.
Home, home, home, sweet home! at last, in the own country,
The sparrow might build herself an house, the swallow at rest might be.
All the night long your lovely face was the star of stars that lit
My soul and banisht the heavy clouds that grief had flung over it:

All the night long: and when light made glad the heart of the rathe young hours,
I heard you singing a carol blithe as you tended your birds and flowers.

And day after day I knew your home, and walkt, a friend, by your side,
Till I surely knew that for your sweet sake I would gladly even have died;
Annie, our Annie, they call'd you, and I was wild for the right divine
To hold you fast in my heart and say My Annie, and only mine.

But the happy dream was broken up, for was it not mad and wild,
For I was a man of your father's age and you were almost a child?
Over and over I said to myself, ah, fool, but what would it be
To bind the sapling lithe and young to the many-ring'd, wind-bow'd tree?
And in my heart there arose a cry that, no matter at what fierce stress,
The angel of love might trample down the dragon of selfishness.

It were best, I thought, I should leave your home, though it were so hard to seek
The life unlit by the rosy dawn that was bright on your lips and cheek;
And I could not bear to look in your face and think how cold and dull
The world-mists would beat on my heart bereft of its bright and beautiful.

No, little hand, you shall not shut my lips with your tender touch;
Just let a sick man have his way who loves to chatter so much;
Was it a tear that fell just then, a tear to be kiss'd away?—
Little coy darling of mine, look up, and suffer me say my say.

You never should know, I said to myself, of the love that yearn'd to entwine
Its branches of strength around your heart and bind it fast to mine;
So I came to bid you a last goodbye, and I kiss'd your little hand,
But you drew it sharply away from my lips, and I dar'd not understand
Why, for a moment, you bow'd your face, and then, with a deepen'd glow,

And a half-reproach in your eyes' sweet depths, you askt me why I must go.
I only said that so it must be, and quietly turn'd away;
But there broke on my ear a voice, your voice, that bore me the one word Stay.

I turn'd me, Annie, and lookt in your face that was bright with the quick young blood,
And the eyes bedimm'd with the tears that sprang from your tender womanhood;
And I saw that you knew my secret then, yet fear'd that you might have given
Pity for Love, and I would not take aught less than Heaven for my Heaven.
“Good-bye, sweet Annie, good-bye, I will not dwell on what might have been—
It cannot be, that is all, my child: Good-bye, little household queen;
The locks that were wont to be bronze sometime are turning to silver now—”
And your eyes, for a moment's space, dear heart, were lifted to scan my brow—
And few were the low-ton'd words that brought such joy-wealth—” It may be
The bronze of youth is ruddy and fair—this silver is most to me.”

O my true wife, the gem that hour is set in remembrance-gold;
It fooded my heart with a perfect joy whose glory can never be told:
And day by day there grew on your face the look of great content
Which told me your happiness indeed with me and mine was blent:
Ay, I was glad for that good gift the Father of lights had sent.

We have been very happy, Dear, through all these wedded years;
In pleasant places our lot was cast, that, not with the terror of tears,
But the mist of compassion and tender thought from barrenness were kept,
While golden hours span swiftly round and the spirit of sorrow slept.
And oh! for a keener eye to see and a keener ear to hear,
And swifter feet and tenderer hands and love more large and clear:
And oh! to be kept in the perfect peace earth gives not nor can destroy,
Until we twain at the last shall come to our God's eternal joy.

CALLIMACHUS: A SKETCH.

Lo, when my master lay a-dying, I
Alone, he chose, should wait to see him die.
Soft, fine, and bright, even as web at morn,
Hung round his brow his locks: that brow had borne
Much weight of thinking, and the close, grave mouth
Had never curv'd it to the smile that groweth
Of mere light-heartedness. He lay with eyes
Undimm'd of age turn'd full to the sunrise;
And thus he spake in slow tones thrillingly,
Scarce to himself, and scarce, methinks, to me.

“The earth is older now by fifty years
With all their joy and sorrow and smiles and tears,
Since I, a young man, saw my future rise
From the sun's bed, upon my eager eyes,
With slow, symmetric movements gliding on:
And in her curved palms I saw anon,
Or seem'd to see, life, work, and crown in one.
Yet was her face hid wholly from my sight,
Veil'd with a veil of chrysochromal light.

Thus to my heart my heart—‘The grace to thee
Upon those mute lips' veil'd sublimity,
Is the shaper's hand with the seer's eye to see.’

Yea, with these eyes of mine I saw it pass,
The pageant of life's mystery that was.
Groups of old warriors rose from their death-mist;
Lips smil'd that funeral-fires long since had kiss'd;
Brows that were calm'd of dreamless sleep, again
Took their old fierceness, resting limbs their strain.
Deeper the wonder grew, diviner still,
Glow'd the Immortals' track on slope and hill.
There, where the sky stoopt down the earth to meet,
It was the rapture of Phœbus' parting feet
Mellow'd the blue and scarlet colours slow
Into the quivering amethystine glow.
It was the breath of loving Dryades
Stirr'd all the leafage of the happy trees.

Lo, in that glory of my days I saw
A maiden standing, with a shadowy awe
Upon her face that mockt her brows' bright wreath
As with the heavy dusk of coming death;
While stern-fac'd men stood waiting till the knife
Should drink with cold blue lips her crimson life.
Then, with the heat upon me, I essay'd
To paint the picture.—

When aside I laid

My brush, I knew full well that none would see
In that false picture what was seen of me.
And, though the many did, with partial eyes,
Praise it as beautiful and true, more wise
To mine own condemnation, lifted I
My hands against that work that was a lie.
Those eyes of Zeus had burn'd into my brain,
And better light than joy, though light be pain;
Yea, Beauty, to my deeming, is in sooth
Bastard that springs not from the womb of Truth.

Years did I toil in patience: grew a face
Upon my canvas, wherein I sought to trace
His woe, by the strong victors' pitiless might
Crusht into silence, smitten into night.
The dead wreath fallen from his loosen'd hair,
The hands dropt listless in his dumb despair.
Look, O mine eyes and gaze, and see in this
The very self-same stricken Thamyris!—
A little doubt that rose flood-high, and swept
My hope away!
I bow'd my face and wept,
As he might weep whom Time not yet may rob
Of the child-right to lift his voice and sob.

Again, more old, more sad, I paus'd to see
A work that was conceiv'd and born of me.
The mortal maid the Immortal God must slay
With splendour, waiting for the hour o' the day

The God who stoopt to love her should arise
In all his unveil'd glory on her eyes.
O soul in the eager eyes and quivering lips!
O transport of the near Apocalypse!

‘Is this the picture that thy soul did see?
Nay.—Let it perish unbelov'd of thee!’

Well, I was stronger now; perhaps because
The great white Truth had kiss'd my brows, it was:
And, though there throbb'd through every nerve and sense
The agony of conscious impotence,
I, loving Truth beyond all hope, all fame,
Gave all my pictures to the heart o' the flame,
And—waited. A little while ago there came
A light I knew to be the morning star;
I felt its thrills of tremulous sweetness afar,
And rose with happy tears upon my cheek—
Then first I knew that I was old and weak—
And follow'd, faltering, toward the blessed light,
While one walkt with me, stately, tall, and bright,
Who smote upon a lyre, and keen and strong
Uprose the subtle sweetness of his song.
I think I must have swoon'd in my delight,
For, when I knew to speak and see, the white
Folds of his undefiled robe were gone,
And I was lying on the ground alone,
Fever and strife and weariness all ceast
In that fixt solemn gaze upon the East.

And I am well content; the mystery
Is open now, or my brain clear'd to see
How from my seeming failure's bitterness
I shall, in unborn ages, reap success:
Not in myself, a man of men, indeed,
But in the man, one day to take his meed
As victor from the breast of Time, superb
In virile strength that needs nor spur nor curb.

O life! O art! I know that I am pure
From treason, having chosen to endure
Rather the most exceeding pain than show
Shadow for light; I joy that it was so.

Hush! the ascending sun! mine eyeballs beat
To catch his ray: a thousand times more sweet
To perish blind for gazing thus, I know,
Than look unharm'd upon the dusk below.
—Cover my face,”

And it was so: and thus
He past away who was Callimachus.

IN A NUTSHELL.

In the Arcadia, Sidney's fair romance,
There is a fragment of a fairy tale,
Which clings about my heart and will not go.

'Twas Mopsa told it: rough and coarse was she,
Stampt vulgar to the core with the brand self
Unlovely and unlov'd; and, as she told,
The hearers were unfain to hear, and yet
She moon'd along, until one stay'd her tongue
With gentle prayer that she would keep her tale
For better audience and a better day.

She lik'd the tale, or lik'd to tell the tale,
And laid it in the silence, with the hope
To tell it one day at a festival.
Poor Mopsa! Here beginneth Mopsa's tale,
Told, nearly as may be, in Mopsa's words.

“In the time past,” she said, “there was a king,
The mightiest man in all his countryside,

Whose wife bare unto him a child that was
The fairest daughter ever tasted pap.
And the king kept a great and generous house
Where all might come and freely take their meat.
So one day, as the king's fair daughter sat
Within her window, playing on a harp—
As sweet as any rose was she: her hair
Held by a rich comb, set with precious stones—
There came a knight riding into the court
Upon a goodly horse, one hair of gold,
The other silver; and 'twas so that he,
Casting his eyes up to that window of hers,
Fell into such extremity of love,
That he did grow not worth the bread he ate:
Till, many a sorry day going o'er his head,
With daily diligence and griefly groans,
He won her heart and won her word to leave
Her father's court and go along with him.

And so in May when all true hearts rejoice,
They stole away together, staying not
To break their fast, but satisfied with love.
And now as they together went, and oft
Did fall to kissing one another's face,
He told his lady how the water-nymphs
Had brought him up, and had bewitcht him so,
If any one should ask him of his name,
He presently must vanish quite away.

And therefore charg'd her, on his blessing, ne'er
To ask him what he was or whither he would.

So a great while she did his bidding keep,
Till, passing through a cruel wilderness,
As dark as pitch, her heart so burn'd in her,
She could not choose but ask the question.

Then he, making the grievousest complaints,
That would have melted hardest wood to hear,
There in the darkness vanisht quite away.
And she lay down casting forth pitiful cries.

But having lain so five days and five nights,
Wet by the rain, burnt by the sun, she rose
And went o'er many high hills and rivers deep
Until she came to an aunt's house of hers,
And stood and cried aloud to her for help.
And she, for pity, gave a nut to her,
And bade her never open it, till she
Were come to the extremest misery
That ever tongue could speak of: and she went
And went, and never rested her at even
Where in the morn she went, until she came
Unto a second aunt, who gave to her
Another nut.”—Here Mopsa's tale breaks off.

I read this o'er, and ponder'd, till I saw
Unto an end, albeit not Mopsa's end;

Only an end that met the soul of one
Small singer of the nineteenth century,
Who felt her heart burn in her at the words,
“And bade her never open it till she
Were come to the extremest misery.”

I think she must have found another aunt
And gain'd another nut.—Though fairy tales
Delight to deal in sevens and in threes,
I let the third gift go and keep the two.

This was the word went with the second nut,
“Break this when thou dost know there is no need
To break the other.” And she faintly smil'd,—
“I think that will be in the day of joy,
The day of joy that I shall never see.”

Suppose a woman with a gift like this,
Not to be us'd till she herself was come
Unto the very extremest misery
That ever tongue could speak of—how of it?—
May it be thus?—

The princes must go on
Smitten of sorrow, driven of remorse,
Seeking and never finding, till her limbs
Refus'd to bear her up, and so she cast
Her length upon a rocky beach, 'neath cliffs
White, sharp, and strong and stern, around whose base

Beat that eternal trouble of the sea.
“And now,” she said, “the time is surely come,
The very extremest time of misery,
For what I seek is gone, and power to seek
Is gone.” But lo, a voice that whisper'd, “Nay,
For will to seek is thine; till that be gone
Thou art not come to thy extremest woe.”

And so she rose and still pursued her way,
Bedrencht with rain, or faint for extreme heat,
Footsore and tir'd; and yet there never came
A moment in the which to pause and say,
“Now am I come to woe's extremity.”

And on her way she sang this song of hers.

“I may not find thee, O my love of loves;
My sin it was that drave thee from my side,
My suffering would I give to bring thee back.
Unfaith of mine hath struck thee like a flash
Of lightning, and I cannot see thy face.
My loss I know, but thine, who hast lost the light
Of earth and all the sweets of human joy
And grandeur of human suffering, know I not;
I love thee and seek, though finding never come.”

So cried she weeping, in a stranger land,
And the men said, “Behold, the maid is mad!”
And took her up in their ungentle arms

And bare her to a dungeon underground,
And left her there; so she was all alone
With flitter-mice and heavy dark and damp,
And silence; and on her bosom lay her nut,
And yet she brake it not.

But lo! a cry
Smote through the horrible darkness on her ear;
And, sharp upon her brain, no need of sense,
There came the knowledge that he lay close by,
Prison'd and tortur'd: then she lifted up
Her voice, that bare exceeding love and ruth
In a strong cry upon her lover's name.
But it sank quivering on the darkness' heart,
And could not reach him, for the walls were thick.
Then moan'd she in her grief, “The time is come,
My most extremest time of misery,
For I am fain to help and cannot help;
No darker time can come.”

But the same voice
That stay'd her heretofore, rose up, and said,
“Thou hast the will to help, if not the power;
Therefore thou art not in extremest woe.”

And then the princess askt, “Is there yet more?”
And this the answer, “Not for thee, O child,
The extremest misery tongue can utter forth,
Or shuddering silence hold upon her breast;
Seeing that all the suffering laid on thee

Hath quicken'd thee, not kill'd thee: sharp regrets
For sin have prickt thee on, not stung to death:
Great waters going over thee washt clean,
Not drown'd thee: therefore rise and break the nut
Whose breaking was to be when thou wert sure
Thy woe should never be extremest woe.”

And so she brake the nut—and then—there came
That which I know not how to tell—great joy
And peace and strength—and came for both of them,
The seeker and the sought.

I dedicate
This little tale to You, for You will know:
And, if some throw the thing aside, because
I have mixt the thought of separate centuries
And thence brought forth some strange inconsequence,
I shall be satisfied, if You approve.
If any shrug the shoulder, saying, “Well,
But Mopsa never would have ended thus.”
You know I never said or thought she would.

GOOD-BYE.

There is no one but you with me now? it is well, for I wanted to say
A word in your ear alone, before I am taken away.
Stoop to me, love, till I touch your brow with my lips again—
I wish they could smooth away the furrows of care and pain.

Don't fret—there is comfort to come, and it must be best, I know,
Because it was God's sweet will that I should arise and go;
But if He had left me a while, had left me to be your wife,
I should have made you forget the sorrow that gloom'd your life.

I know it, my dear, my dear; the wisest and best of you all
Have been snar'd from the heights of their strength and faith into sudden fall;

Snar'd from their loyalty's glory to peril their lofty place,
For a shrine that has never a god, their souls for a beautiful face.

What is it, darling of mine? You say you were vain and untrue?
Belov'd, in the darkest hour of that darkest night, I knew
When the glamour past from your eyes, you would be your own self once more—
And I, you know it full well, I lov'd you the same as before.

The same, though I gave you back, unshrinking, your plighted troth,
And told you, with tearless eyes, that I thought so best for us both;
But when you left me I knelt, and with crying and tears I crav'd,
Not, dear, that you might be mine, but that somehow you might be sav'd.

Sav'd, undegraded, unstain'd, from the breast of the ruin that mocks
With the semblance of holiest things, while it shears off the strong one's locks;
Sav'd to the grace and the glory that only the pure can know,
The life that is warm as the sun, the life that is white as the snow.

When you came from the wanderings home, I should scarcely have known you again,
For your face was chang'd so much with traces of struggle and pain,
And your eyes were so deep and sad, and even over your brow
My yellow harvest was dasht with a sprinkling of early snow.

But O, my belov'd, my belov'd, that look in your face you had
The look for a woman who lov'd and had waited, to see and be glad;
I knew you would come to the Father, come home from the stranger's country—
I knew not how strong through the struggle my darling would come back to me.

You are weeping silently here! There are tears on the hand you hold!
“Poor little hand,” you say, “undeckt of the marriage gold.”
Ah, but my dear, we shall know, when the time of the purpose is ripe,
Love in the glory unveil'd that needeth nor symbol nor type.

Stay from your weeping a while; so—raise my head on your breast;
Is the light passing away? No matter, this light is the best.

Think, love, when you're closing my eyes, and crossing my hands to-night,
“It never was grief that slew her, but overweight of delight.”

For the harp that was lone so long, when it felt your hand once more
Lie light and strong on its strings, as in happy days of yore,
In its agony of bliss, gave forth such music in token
To the dear, dear hand that swept, that its golden strings were broken.

I wanted to make you happy—but God will do so still;
Has not His tenderness made it easy to trust His will?
It will be morning soon—morning for me and for you—
God be with you, my darling; He will be with me too.

BLUE AND WHITE.

“Of all the colours that are, say what may your favourite be?”
And the lad I had nurst back to life lookt up and made answer to me,
“Two colours I choose, blue and white.” Then up from my throat did there spread
Yea, up to my very temples, a dye of happy rose-red:
For a maiden's face will flush for the lightest thing ever-more,
And blue was the ribbon that bound my hair, and white was the gown I wore.

“May I tell you all, lady sweet?” “Ay, sir, an it please you so.”
Together and all alone we sat in the firelight's glow;
Myself and the lad our men had found nigh dead close by:—
The mother that bare him could never, I think, have nurst him more gently than I.

“Fair sister—nay, pardon the freedom—but oh! you have been so good,
I well could wish that I ow'd you the duty of brotherhood;
Now crown your sweet favours with this, the greatest of all, and be
As tender to that true-love of mine as you have been tender to me.”

The light seem'd blurr'd away, and all was strange and dim
For a little space, as there I sat and listen'd to him:
A little space, but then, by the helping of God's dear grace,
I spoke and answer'd, “Yea, brother, I will,” with a very smile on my face.

“God bless you!” he said from his heart: “now listen; a year ago
She gave herself to me for ever and ever; and so,
One still, sweet Autumn eve, in the time of the falling of dew,
I gemm'd that little white hand of hers with a circlet of sapphires blue.

For she, my own lady and love, takes ever the most delight
In the delicate virginal calm of the colours I nam'd, blue and white;

And it seem'd I was sooth'd all o'er with a sense of fair repose,
O dear new sister, seeing you wear the colours my darling chose.”

O bonny blue ribbon, you prest on my brain too tight, too tight!
O heart, how wildly you beat beneath your virginal white !—
Dear friend, in whose happy home the love-fire burneth free,
I am glad God's hand has given to you the joy it has kept from me.

DAVIE CARR.

Are you asleep, little Davie? I've slipt away from the gloom;
It was, oh, so dreary to play in the lonely, darken'd room:
The blinds are all pull'd down and our books put by on the shelf:
But I don't care for holidays now when there's no one to play but myself.

You are fast asleep, little coz: I won't disturb you, but croon
So softly it will not awake you; you'll think it's a bit of a tune
You are listening to in your dreams as you lie so pale and still;—
Won't your pretty red roses come back? I wonder whether they will.

You've lain so long, so long, in that wearisome bed, coz dear,
They will hardly come back before the red June roses are here:

The angels that love the flowers will come to our gardens then,
And maybe they'll kiss your cheeks and make 'em rosy again.

I think there's a secret for us to hear in a day or so,
For I heard old Nursey whisper to Aunty, “when may she know?”
I know it was me they meant, but Aunty just turn'd to the wall—
But when you get up they'll find we are sharp enough for 'em all.

I'm tir'd of holidays, Davie; I'd like to do lessons again;
But Aunty looked just as she looks, you know, when her head is in pain,
When I offer'd to bring her my books, and said, “Little Alice, nay,
You needn't mind lessons just now; you may go to your dolls and play.”

So when she went out of the room with that sorrowful look in her face,
(I hadn't been naughty indeed,) I stole away from the place,
And left Miss Doll on the floor in her grand new frock that I've made;—
I'll shew it you when you get up—that won't be just yet, I'm afraid.

I've minded your toys for you, Davie; your little pet bird I have fed;
And you couldn't have taken more care of your garden yourself, Robin said;
There are funny green letters sprung up; you never would guess what they are—
It's a secret—but then you're asleep—D.C. for your name, Davie Carr.

They've cut off your nice little curls: 'twas a pity, but then, you know,
You'll be just as happy without 'em; they'll never get tangled so:
Your hands were as brown as mine, and now they are just as white
As Aunty's—and how did you keep the bed clothes so tidy all night?

You're sleeping a long, long while: good-bye, little coz: oh dear,
I'm afraid, if I stay any longer, they'll come in and find me here.
If I kiss'd you perhaps I should wake you: good-bye, make haste to get well—
I am very lonely without you, more lonely than I can tell.

AN OLD MAID.

Sitting with folded hands, that have dropt the needle and thread,
Looking athwart the fields, where the evening light is shed
On the waving grass, and whence arises the lowing of herds,
While the happy leafage thrills because of the time of the singing of birds.

Sixty rings, I think, have circled her life-tree's girth,
Sixty years of the world, with its mingled pathos and mirth.
How has she taken the time since her baby-steps were set
Among the anemones' bloom, and the sweets of the violet?

What has she been, who sitteth with delicate lights dropping down
On the bow'd head's silver locks, and the folds of the silken gown?

Has she not walkt on the way that she chose at the gates of youth,
Bright in the graces of holiness, grand in the splendours of truth?

Bearing the hopes of the sowing, the gladness of those who reap;
Smiling with those who are smiling, weeping with those who weep;
Graciously grave, serenely bright, with a wisdom large and mild,
A man's clear judgment, a woman's love, and the faith of a little child.

Her heart is the little ones' nest, grown tired of the ball and the race,
They come to be rested because of the love in her beautiful face;
One silent clasp of her hand most deeply has comforted
Women and men too, whose eyes have wept for the false or the dead.

And many a heart that bleeds for its sin, and yet could not bare
The throb of its shuddering nerves to a cold, analytical stare,

Lying lone on the wayside of life, she, tenderly bending above,
Doth soothe with the unguent of mercy, and cheer with the strong wine of love.

Was there ever a pitiful cry in the depths of her gracious soul
For the wifehood's joy denied, and the motherhood's aureole?
Can her thought go back to a time when her patient footsteps trod
Among the grieving thorns, alone with sorrow and God?

However it be, on her face is the look of sweet content
That comes when the music of life of love and duty is blent;
And peace is hers that is more than the joy of morning prime,
And light that is greater than day, has come at her evening time.

PADDY.

“William O'Grady, bachelor, and Mary Lee, spinsther.” So
His Riverence call'd us in the church, it's just five year ago.
Three times the banns was put up for us, but, the day that follow'd the third,
I meets my Mary an' says ‘Let us each give back the other their word.’
She knew why I spoke out then to her; it was growin' for manny a day
Afore at last it lep' into speech, as we stood amoong the hay,
Down in the half-mown meddas: the sun was gone to rest,
An' the corncrake was crakin' an' croakin',—I knew where she had her nest.
It wasn't a sharp, quick quarrel iv ours, to blaze up sthrong an' die out;
It wasn't doubtin' each other we was, we niver had had a doubt;

But a thing that had smowldher'd an' smowldher'd until I'd made up my mind at last,
The loove I'd been buildin' my future on must just be a thing o' the past.

“Mary,” says I, “there's a word, a name, that coomes between us two,
A name that slips like a bit iv a sting from that purty mouth iv you;
Ah, my child! I know it well, so where's the good iv a fuss?
Say good-bye, an' let it all be as it never had been for us.
Ye never would call me Paddy as ye do, if ye didn't despise
Somethin' about me or in me; an' it doesn't seem right in my eyes
A girl should look down in anny way on the man she's goin' to wed—
That's enough; ye know how the' say, soonest mendud where laste is said.
Ye're better nor me a hoondherd times, but only betther becos
Ye're a woman—the sweetest woman on earth, the dearest that ever was—
An' not becos iv yer English blood, for, were ye a man, it's thrue,
I'd look ye sthraight in the face an' say, ‘I'm as good, every bit, as you.’

What right had ye, Mary, I axe, to have that look in your face, an' spake
O' my counthry in words ye shouldn't ha' us'd, not for my sake, but right' sake;
Ring out yer scornful Paddy! as if my Irish blood was a taint
The Lord 'ud have to burn out o' me afore he could make me a saint?
Counthry! what good's in a counthry? Why this, I take it, indeed—
God made us all wan flesh an' blood—that's thrue, but God decreed
Father an' mother, an' family o' brothers an' sisthers then,
An' next the clan, and next, I think, the country was made for men.
An' I loove my father an' moother well, an' broothers an' sisthers too,
An' loove my people, an' loove my land, like a loyal man and thrue.
Maybe it's proud ye're thinkin' me? I think there's some things, dear,
God manes us all to be proud about, an' I think I've wan iv 'um here.
I don't deserve to be despis'd; I'd be wrongin' God if I said
That becos he made me an Irishman, I ought to hang down my head.

England says, ‘Where's Ireland's wrongs? They're all in the long ago;
We're thratin' Ireland handsome enough.’ An' all the while, ye know,
Englishmen wid a laff an' a sneer, or a pat on the back that's worse,
Talks o' the Paddies they've got to manage, an' turns their good to a curse.
Ireland's wrongs! Well, Mary—no, I am not goin' to jaw;
I'm sore all over, too sore to scold. It's a long while since I saw
Ye lookt down on me becos o' my blood; I thought I could make it right,
But I couldn't—it wasn't anny use; so I say good-bye to-night.
It was only yester-eve, my dear, ye thrated me just like this,
An' I lay awake all night, an' I made up my mind that betther it is,
Ay, maid an' bachelor's betther we part, nor go through a maybe long life,
A wife that despises her husband, a husband despis'd by his wife!
I've spoke about it manny a time; ye know I have, my dear;
I wouldn't take y' up short like this, I wouldn't coome to ye here,

Afther the banns was call'd an' all, if I hadn't ha' spoke afore:
I know its dhreadful breakin' the plight, but it's dhreadful, ten times more
To go through wedlife wid broken peace. They'll know it's all my fau't;
They'll never wrong ye, Mary dear, wid the shadda iv a thought.
Forgive me touchin' at such a thing, but I know what things the' say—
They'll never dare to say 'um o' you, that's all; ye can thrust me? Eh?”

Then I turn'd away an' left her there, who never had said a word,
An' I listen'd, but grasshopper's chirrup and cry o' corncrake only I heard.
I gother'd up my horruble grief an' sthrode away from the place,
An' left the girl, who had been my girl, wid a hush an' fear in her face.
An' I wisht I might be a woman for wonst, ay, so from my heart did I;
For a woman might ease her heart wid tears, but a man have no call to cry.

Crake! crake! crake! she called, that bird, an' the grass-hopper chirrupt so sthrong,
An' the jew was fallin' heavy an' thick, as, alone, I walkt along;

The air was dhrencht wid the sweets o'the flowers, for, all the way as I went,
The roses, an' woodbine, an' manny more, was givin' out such a scent.
An' afther a while I stopt my walk, an' down, wid weary limb
An' wearier heart, I sat on a stone, an' life lookt sthrange an' grim:
The flower breath seem'd to choke me a'most, an' even the feel o' the jew
Was like a fever an' not a cool, an' the moon came out an' grew,
Sailin' along in the big blue sky, she grew to an awful size;
An' all the stars seem'd starin' down on me wid their pitiless eyes:
Eyes o' fire, an' eyes o' fire, an' eyes o' fire they were,
Till I hid my face—an' when I lookt up, her eyes was shinin' there.
She puts her two arms round my neck, and says, “My love, forgive.”
An' I looks sthraight into her face to see if my hope, just born, might live;
“Then, are we equals in God's sight?” “No, love,” says she, “becos
Ye're betther nor me, for ye wouldn't give up yer manhood for me that was
Silly an' stupud enough—” but here I stopt her words wid a kiss—

“Are we equals now in blood an' birth?” an' Mary answer'd “Yes.”
An' I rose to my feet, an' she flung herself on my breast in sobs an' tears:—
I wouldn't ha' made her cry like that for the joy iv a thousand years:
But thin for the right it's a different thing.—She cried that night, Isay;
But niver a tear since thin for me, an' we're marrud five year to-day.

The u through as in put.

As in look,

THAT BOY.

Thank you, Willie, my child, this is very cosy and sweet;
Son and daughter in one, sit down here at my feet.
What a great fellow you're growing! and ever, still as you grow,
You are liker another Willie, my darling of long ago.

I like to talk to you of him, I know that you understand ;—
Yes, dear, draw closer to me,—so—closer—and hold my hand;
That other Willie of mine, who past from my sight for a space,
With the dew of youth on his locks, and the light of God on his face.

Strong, and joyous, and true; 'twould not have been easy to find
One more thoroughly healthy, alike in body and mind;

With his clever strong brown hands, and the laugh from his heart that rang,
And the noble thoughts half hid, half told in his school-boy slang.

Sometimes he'd dream for an hour, then call out for something to do;
He had feet that were ready for service, and innocent mischief, too;
Was careless of clothing and cash; I remember his mother would say
That money burnt holes in his pockets before he had had it a day.

He had fancies graceful and strange. You know those odd, grotesque
Faces he cut with his pen-knife upon his deal-wood desk:
And you know those sketches of his, where under the crudeness lay
A life and a fire that must have wrought good work some day.

I loved to watch him at church, as he sat in the corner-place,
A light from within or without, you knew not which, on his face,

As his soul went up to God in the singing and praying that rose:
And his face was a poem that taught me more than the sermon's prose.

And oh! those holiday times when the vague delicious blue
That grew into greenwood anear, our jubilant footsteps drew
Through light that never was glare, and shade that never was gloom,
To the tufts of primroses fair, and the wild blue hyacinths' bloom.

Yes, dear, it was he who taught my soul in the long ago
The great invisible love by the visible love to know:
It was first in that bright young life that ever I understood
To make people happy, Willie, is surely to make them good.

He made people happy, Willie, just in his earnest or play,
He couldn't help it, that's all; and, oh! when he went away,
There was many and many a heart that mourn'd for the lad, whose life
Had deepen'd its every-day joy and strengthen'd for every-day strife.

100

They say that all pure souls grow to their stature's stately height
Of manhood in Godhead baptiz'd, in the land of love and light;
But I think of him just as I knew him, and oh! it is such a joy
To know that the heart of Christ once beat as the hear of a boy.

101

A ROSE.

The sweetest rose it was, the loveliest
He could in all his garden find:
He brought it, saying, “Darling, leave your quest
Of knowledge for a little while, and rest
In sweet belief that Nature teaches best.”
Well did he speak for, blind
To deep delight that Nature gives, I was
Unquiet-soul'd a seeker for the cause
Of many a thing and, with cold eyes,
I sought to read close-folden mysteries,
Forgetting Love, not Knowledge, maketh wise.

I took his rose and laid it to my mouth.
For one sweet hour I was a girl again,
Forgot my theories form'd at cost and pain,
And all I had gone through for knowledge' sake.
The soul of Eden fragrancy divine
Enter'd this soul of mine
And quencht its desperate drouth.
It was because I took when Love said “Take.”

102

My very brow grew smooth
For drops of spray tost from the Fount of Youth.

But, woe is me!
I could not let this light and beauty be!
I pull'd the petals of my rose apart,
With fingers most unkindly tore aside
The crimson veil that veil'd its golden heart.
I saw the gold, but ah! the flower died.
And, all unwomanly, in pride,
“Away with ignorance!” I cried,
“My flow'rs shall all be knowledge-bringers!
To what availeth joy unless one knows
Its why and wherefore?”

But my lover sigh'd,
“Ah, lady, you have kill'd my rose!”
And his true eyes with unshed tears grew dim,
Because the voice that had been unto him
Sweetest among the voices of the singers,
On God's good world flung discord's bitter wrong
Instead of sweetest song.

And never now a word of love he speaks,
But talks of systems and of rules and laws,
And of effect and cause,
As learned men talk unto learned men—
And my heart inly breaks,
For oh! to be a woman once again!

103

So, cruel hand which could such joyaunce slay,
Lay down your pen for aye,
For you will never write those deep-ton'd songs
Of Love and Truth, to live on human tongues,
That human hearts may beat more quick and pure.

But how shall I endure
When One, with sadder eyes than his I griev'd,
Shall look on me whose garden is dead-leav'd?

O ghost of that sweet rose I kill'd,
Wilt thou for ever haunt me night and day?
Must all my life for aye
With breath of thy dead leaves be fill'd,
And golden dust defil'd cling to the feet
That on thy quivering heart unpitying trod,
And evermore that still, sad voice repeat
That whoso wrongeth Nature wrongeth God?

104

A DEAD WORKER.

Cross her hands upon her breast:
Hands she never rais'd for pray'r
In her toil; but, in her rest,
Let them lie, cross-folden fair
As they had won prayer's reward:
Poor dead hands all seam'd and hard.

What was she who lieth there,
Little past her early youth;
Eyes coin-shut that else would stare,
Bandage closing up the mouth;
No one having car'd to dress
Death away from ghastliness?

Young? Nay, she was dull and old,
Thinking but of market-price,
Just its copper, not its gold;
With no glory in her eyes.
At the rising of the sun
Wishing weary day-time done.

105

Just a mere bald life was hers,
Missing our deep questioning,
What the outer universe
To the inner world may bring?
Stagnant soul that, all without
Faith or hope, could know no doubt.

Missing Love, and so, with it,
Missing all of Love that grew:
Missing too the exquisite
Morn-flusht skies and early dew.
Ah, of Love and Beauty reft,
What worth having is there left?

Silence kept without the pain
Speech denied brings bitterly:
Silence kept without the gain
Of a larger speech thereby:
Silence always:—was there naught
She could tell us of her thought?

Did God hold her just as dear
(Hard, if so, to realize)
As our saint whose soul shone clear
Through her pure, pathetic eyes;
Whom we gaz'd on dead as though
Love itself lay still and low?

106

In the framing of our chart,
For the unexplored land
We must leave an unfill'd part
Till, some day, we understand
All the good things life may yield
In the country new-reveal'd.

But we fancy streams and trees,
Rock and moss and vale and hill;
Till the new land clad in these
Seems not unfamiliar still.
There must be, whene'er we come,
Something in it like our home.

Oh, the home we love must be
That strong Heart which loveth best:
In that other country He
Still is Home, so let it rest.
Cross her hands and leave her so,
Only He who loves can know.

Ah, and if she miss'd indeed
Blessings which the life receives
In the sowing of the seed,
In the binding of the sheaves,
Greater lessons God can teach
In some other kind of speech.

107

When her life shall take the grace
Of His life that naught can dim,
And the light is on her face,
Caught from looking up at Him,
Shall we meet as equals then?
Sister, child of His, Amen.

108

MADONNA DELLA VITA.

Whoso will let him cast off the robe of his faith
And the crown of his hope and the sceptre of love,
And lie at the feet of the Lady of Death,
Enwrapt in the slumber no trouble of breath,
No tempest of joy or of sorrow can move.
Not thine be such rest, O my brother, my knight,
Who ownest the mighty ones' sinews and thews:
Not theirs and not thine to despair and refuse
The forefront of battle, the thickest of fight.

I charge thee by all thou esteemest of worth
Around thee and in thee, below and above,
By the hintings of heav'n from the lips of the earth
As she smiles in the clasp of the infinite love;
By that infinite love which around us lies light
As the ether, or grips like a stark fate austere;
By the light and the darkness, the veil'd and the clear;
By the mystical glories of red and of white;
By the little we guess and the much we shall know
Of the meaning of things that bewilder us here
With fairness and foulness and gladness and woe:

109

I charge thee to stand, though bedew'd with the sweat
That is blood, armour hackt, and upon thee the stains
Of travail and conflict, and over thee pain's
Broad banner of dim, heavy purple, and wet
With the floods thou hast past through to come to this place:
For the foe is alive yet, and nothing of grace
Must he have at thy hands till thou smite him to death;
Thy foe who has vow'd to fordo her whose breath
In the world's nostrils breath'd made it quicken, and lo!
No longer red clay, but a glory and glow,
And a flame, which is God, whosoever gainsaith.

She stood in her splendour of beauty and grace
By Sokrates' side, and she breath'd on his soul
Till it would not be foil'd by the strange satyr-face,
The mask of the clay that was fain to control.
She smil'd on Gautama and kindled desire
For the fairer than fair, and her love was the fire,
The radiant, the lustral, that toucht him and caught
The heart of the prince till it flam'd up one red
In that light and its passion, and self lay all dead
To rise never more, for the man was of those
To whom hunger or fulness, or toil or repose,
Or glory or shame, seeing God, matters not.

Her hand held the Christ's from the womb to the grave,
Through the flow'rland of childhood that smil'd as he stept,

110

On, on, through the wilds where the heather scarce kept
One touch of God's purple, hoar hill, and lone cave;
On, on to the heights that in sheer steepness frown'd,
Jagged cliffs, black for awe of the elements' strife,
She led him unswerving, until he had found
The terrible cruciform portal of life.

Thou didst pledge her, unknowing, when speechless thou lay'st,
In the milk of thy mother; and, later, in wine
Of the world's life that thrill'd through the young veins of thine,
In the splendid excess that knew nothing of waste;
Thou did'st pledge her, 'mid horror and darkness, in brine
Of the terrible waters that swept over thee
Bedrenching and beating: then, scap'd from the flood,
Didst thou stand by thy lady and look on that sea,
And pledge her again, and the cup was thy blood.

Thy lady! thou know'st her: her eyes are the light
Of the world, and her heart is the fountain of joy,
And her lips are light-curv'd to a smile, never coy
But quickening and calming: and grand is her height
And stately her going, and wondrous the white
Of her brows; and her name—She hath many a name,

111

As Love, Truth, Life, Sorrow; and whom she doth claim
By the pledge he unshrinking redeems, he alone
(Oh, pride for dishonour! oh, glory for blame!)
Shall know by which name she delights to be known.

112

TOO LATE.

I am lying here with my head dropt low on your grave: the sky
Is cloudless, pitiless blue: over all a quiet is shed,
A desolate quiet that broods like the passionless calm and dead
Of a heart that ne'er quicken'd its beats at the sound of beloved tread:
The sun strikes blindly down from its noonday height as I lie
With my very soul crampt up in the spasms of its agony.

I feel the slow, slight shudder of growing grass at my ear
Stir through the dead-brown hair that was wont to be so bright
For the royal crown of love, whose very shadow dropt light
Around me until I stood made fair and transfigur'd quite,
And my face as an angel's was—O God of mercy, I fear
The weight of my punishment now is greater than I can bear.

113

My blood makes shuddering leaps as, alone in my dark, I think
Of my own white stag whom the pitiless archers wounded sore;
My royal eagle whose plumes were all bedabbled with gore;
My strong one whose prideful locks of glory and might they shore;
And the iron enters into my soul, and I shiver and shrink;
And the bitter and awe of death is in the cup that I drink.

O passionate outstretcht arms, ye may drop your warm, white weight
On the cold, cold, silent grave, for he cannot feel you strain
And beat against the impassable barriers to clasp him again—
Scorch me, O glaring sun! Drench me, O pitiless rain!
Nothing can make me dull to the terrible cry, Too Late!
Or blind to the light that burns through the closed chrystal gate.

O love, my beloved, I love you, I love you, I love you; I say
Again I love you, I love you; but oh! that awful sea

114

Of death rolls heavily in betwixt your soul and me,
And my fireful words are drown'd in the roar of its waves, and she
Who utters them sinks and fails, her garments weighted with spray,
And hopes not the terrible tide will ebb out at the breaking of day.

All through I lov'd you, dear heart! Oh, had I but told you so
When your forehead was flushen red with the shame of your one, one sin;
Nor open'd my soul's gate wide for pride to enter in;
Nor turn'd my eyes away and left the devils to grin
O'er the grand young fallen soul they waited to drag below;
While I might have sav'd who lie with the Cain-curse on me now.

Alas, my belov'd, my belov'd! that I left you to sink in the mire
Till the garments you wore, once fair, ah, scarcely a vestige show'd
Of the stately, saintly white they wear in the kingdom of God:
While the hand was folded away that could have help if it would,

115

Ere the last fair string was wrencht from the breast of the golden lyre,
And the voice into silence sank, that was even the angels' desire.

Come back to me living and erring, and body and soul shall be thrown
As a bridge across the abyss, and the gulf at your feet be spann'd,
And I be right glad to perish so you may but safely stand
Unsmircht from the brow to the feet in the light of the holy land
Where the Shepherd in pastures of rest folds every saved one;
And no more may the eyeballs weep and no more may the lips make moan.

116

GHOSTS.

Dread you their haunting, O man of the world-wise brow?
These ghosts, would you banish them all away from our earth?
Alas! when I was haunted, the loveless dearth
Never came over my soul that is over it now.

Oh for the beautiful spirits that haunted me
In the long, sweet hours of the pallid winter nights,
With the noiseless garb, and the tremulous angel-lights,
Lighting my soul, as the sun the desolate sea!

What have I done that your cherisht presence is gone
Away from my lonely hearthstone and loveless home?
Vainly I stretch out imploring arms—ah! come
As ye us'd to come, for now I am all alone.

Fair little one, with the violet eyes, oh pass!
Loving and bright as in other hours of grace,

117

When the beauty and light of your childly joysome face
Were to me as the presence of spring to the snowcovered grass.

Statelier one, with the passionate ruddy gold
Crowning the beautiful head that is grand and pround,
Let the darkness be your garment, and not your shroud;
Yea, shine, deep eyes, that never were quiet or cold.

And you with the gracious eyes, come bend them on mine,
Kiss away the furrows of pain from my face;
Stay here, spirit, stay in this lonely place,
Presence that thrills like a strain of song divine!

You three us'd to come long ago, and smile
With a perfect measureless smile, that thro' and thro'
My soul sank, as to a rose's heart sinks dew :—
Why have you left me here so lonely, while

The working world is striving to keep me low,
With its ledgers and day-books dull on my aching sight?
Come, for I need the fall of your garments white
To sweep the heavy earth-dust away from me now.

Come, my beloved, who are not three, but one;
O childhood! O girlhood! O womanhood, sweet and good;
Each with its own most exquisite grace, that could
Fill the heart with delight in itself alone.

118

So unlike, that you seem not one, but three;
How is it, Sweet? I know not, indeed, but this
I know, that when you ceast haunting, my perfect bliss,
My great one joy, was taken away from me.

Were you not ever a spirit? you could not have been
A mortal who bore the mortal title of wife;
Yet this do I know, that I bear a changed life,
And in the churchyard a grave, that seems mine, is green.

119

RESTITUTION.

Her face was marr'd with lines of pain and doubt:
Love came instead of death and swept them out.

Within her breast rag'd tempest strong and wild:
Love still'd it into calm with, Peace my child.

Her arms dropt nerveless after their fierce strain:
Love lifted them, and they were strong again.

er eyes were dimm'd with bitter weeping's awe:
Love's holy salve anointed and they saw.

Her eyes were deafen'd with the ruthless cry
Of foes, upcrashing sharp against the sky:

Sweeter than silence came Love's voice divine,
Thou shalt arise again, for thou art Mine.

Oh, the good word sank down into her ears,
I will restore the locust-eaten years.

120

So, in Love's light her face transfigur'd shone,
And she grew very fair to look upon.

O vineyard, wasted once of beasts of prey,
Thou hast put forth thrice-glorious fruit to-day!

O jewel, flung before the trampling swine,
Love's hand resets thee in the crown divine!

Maker, Redeemer, Sanctifier, Thou
Hast seal'd her for Thine own from feet to brow:

And every noble pow'r and each bright grace
Flames in the perfect lustre of Thy face.

121

LOIS THE HEALER.

(“Gifts of Healing.”)

Lois the Healer pray'd
With soul uplift,
“O Love the Beautiful,
Give me this gift:
Comfort and help to be
Where'er I go,
Cool in the summer time,
Warmth in the snow.”

So, on her tender lips,
Brow, cheek, and breast,
Love shed a baptism
Of strength and rest.
Thus on her way she goes,
Blessing and blest,
Till her life-day shall come
Into its west.

122

Men say, “She groweth old;
See how her hair
Weareth the silver threads
Of time and care.”
We, whom she healeth, know
Light through the Gate
Shines on her gracious head
While she doth wait.

123

BELOVED, IT IS MORN!

Beloved, it is morn!
A redder berry on the thorn,
A deeper yellow on the corn,
For this good day new-born.
Pray, Sweet, for me
That I may be
Faithful to God and thee.

Beloved, it is day!
And lovers work, as children play,
With heart and brain untir'd alway.
Dear love, look up and pray,
Pray, Sweet, for me
That I may be
Faithful to God and thee.

Beloved, it is night!
Thy heart and mine are full of light,
Thy spirit shineth clear and white,
God keep thee in His sight!
Pray, Sweet, for me
That I may be
Faithful to God and thee.

124

LOVE'S LEADING.

Did love deceive thee, dearest, when he brought
One so unworthy as this friend of thine
To thy heart's temple, yea, its inmost shrine,
And, through the veil of purple twin'd and wrought,
Bade her come in, fearing and doubting not,
And see the lamp's white flame that burns alway;
And bade her care and trim it night and day?
Oh, dreadful honour that she had not sought.
Oh, torment of the doubt and the surmise,
“How can I keep the sacred flame alight?
My hand lacks skill and cunning, and my eyes
Are dim because they have not wept aright,
And my feet fail as his who walks by night—”
But Love has led me hither, and Love is wise.

125

WILD GRAPES.

I wait to meet the Master: a white fleece
Of cloud is hanging in the evening sky;
A little paly gold lies tenderly
About the sun's calm death-bed. Happy peace
I know not, and my fellows whisper low,
“What hast thou, O thou waiting one, to shew
The One who cometh? For thy life's dear lease
What hast thou paid?” And I—I do not know.
Looks He for grapes? I have brought Him forth wild grapes;
And who shall crush from these wild grapes of mine,
Meet for that cup of His, the royal wine?
I know not, but from my soul's depth escapes
My child-right cry to Him Who all things shapes,
“The worlds are Thine, my Father, and I am Thine.”

126

“MAN IS NOT GOOD TILL HE CEASES TO STRIVE AFTER GOODNESS.”

I

There came one day a leper to my door:
I shrank from him in loathing and in dread,
But yet, remembering how old legends said
That Jesus Christ so often heretofore
Came in such guise to try His saints of yore,
I brought him in, and cloth'd, and warm'd, and fed;
Yea, brake my box of precious nard, to pour
Its costly fragrancy upon his feet.
And when the house was fill'd with odour sweet,
I lookt to see the loveliest face,—but o'er
The leper came no change divine to greet
My eager soul, which did such change entreat.
And then I bow'd my head, and wept full sore—
Ah! the times change; such visions come no more!

II

With tear-dimm'd eyes I went upon my way,
Past from the city to the April wood,

127

Where the young trees in trembling gladness stood;
And once again my grieved heart grew gay.
Then did I see a little child at play;
All the sweet April fountain of his blood
Tost out in joy, that brake in laughter-spray;
And all my heart it lov'd him; so I bent
To kiss his sunny mouth. Then through me went
That which I may not tell, nor can, to-day.
When was such healing with such wounding blent?
Such pain supreme with such supreme content?
The fires of God comfort as well as slay,
Else had I surely died, who am but clay.

128

IN MEMORIAM.

Praise to God for the fight so bravely fought!
Praise to God for the work so truly wrought!
Help to the weak-arm'd, strength to the feeble-kneed
O thou thinker of many a noble thought,
O thou doer of many a noble deed!

129

WHY?

I said “I will serve my God and man.”
So I took my life and wrencht it away
From things it clung to, as life so can,
The beautiful things of dawn and day
And scent and music; and in the gray
Dim twilight kept it. But lo, it began
To cry for its beautiful reds and blues,
And moan'd and sobb'd as the moments ran
Into hours and days, and I would not choose
Aught else but the sad and sober hues.
And my life was fain for the joyous shout
Of youth and spring, and I husht it then
And said, “Thou must serve thy God and men!
So life, my life, be content without
The things that thy fellows may not have;
Sell all and give to the poor, and crave
No more, for the night-time cometh, and then
No man can work: toil on and slave;
Thrice pitiless to thine own self be;
God's pity is enough for thee.”

130

But I could not still its murmuring,
And at last, at last, I brought it back
To the dear old world, and bade it cling
To the beauty and brightness; but, dull and slack,
Its tendrils dropped away from each thing
They were wont to clasp; and I moan'd “Alack!
What matter to me if the sky be black
And the song-birds droop with broken wing?
Oh woe is me that I cannot care!
I sit dull-eyed, with faded hair,
And I cannot weep and I cannot sing,
And I care not to serve God or men,
I care not either to work or wait.—
The shadows are falling, it groweth late,
The night-time cometh, and soon: what then?”

131

AT EVENING.

I sit alone in the evening,
Alone in the waning light;
And I wait for my lady's coming
To comfort my soul to-night.

She comes in her noble beauty,
In her tenderness and truth;
Her Love and Death have gifted
With everlasting youth.

God's light on her gracious forehead;
God's peace in her joyous eyes;
God's comfort that goes out from her
To cheer and to harmonise.

My life is full and busy,
For its love runs deep and wide;
But here, in my lady's presence,
It keepeth a sabbathtide.

132

And softly the shadows of evening
On our blessed commune fall,
Till the children's voices call me
Away to the mirth-fill'd hall.

I go to play with the children,
And close to my heart I hold
That one little shining ringlet,
That soft little curl of gold.

I took it the night she lay dying
From the head on my breast that lay,
That precious memory-token
Of a love that is mine for aye.

She never will think I forget her,
Though our laughter ring loud and wild;
She loves me to play with the children,
For she had the heart of a child.

133

ONE SWALLOW.

We are very glad to-day and lift our praises,
For, with eyes that lookt out long and anxiously,
While the cutting wind blew sharp against our faces,
This one swallow did we see.

O thou blessed swallow, matter not thou reach us
Travel-faint and tir'd, with draggled plumage wet;
Through the winter-awe thou comest now to teach us
Of a spring we know not yet.

Yes, to-day has set us free from that oppressive
Going softly we had kept so very long,
And we loose the strain of new-born joy excessive
In a rain of tears and song.

But “One Swallow does not make a Summer,” say ye,
“Earth in dreary twilight lieth veil'd as yet;
Many a weary wind must blow its blast ere may ye
Seek the nascent violet.”

134

Would ye quench with that drear adage joy that quickens
In a triumph through our whole lives once again;
Till the spirit, shorn of comfort, quails and sickens
For your biting frost and rain?

Nay, ye cannot take our holy joyaunce from us;
Nay, ye cannot make the anointed eyesight dim
Of the trustful eyes that waited God's good promise
Which they had received of Him.

Ye have only seen to-day one swallow flying
From the sunny southern land where Summer is;
But we know they come in flights with that undying
Summer greater far than this.

O the beauty and the joy that passeth telling!
O the time of singing birds that soon shall come,
When the trees put forth their leaves of fairest smelling,
And the brooks no more are dumb!

Oh, we take the blessed guerdon none receiveth
Save whose soul 'gainst doubting's bitter breath can prove
That sweet grace which all things hopeth and believeth,
Not credulity, but love.

135

AFTER THE DAY-WORK.

Darling, to-night I claim of you
That which so often I have claim'd;
Look my whole spirit through and through
With eyes that will not make asham'd
As the calm eyes of angelhood,
Never bedimm'd with weeping, would.

Dear, life is short and art is long,
And I am weak who should be strong,
Restless who perfect calm should know,
And empty who should overflow:
Just a tir'd child to you I come,
O more than mother, more than home.

Kiss me upon the weary eyes,
Tir'd after day-work's stress and strain;
I shall see clear when I arise,
I shall be young and strong again;
For there was none but you could lull
Thus into rest, my beautiful.

136

LOVE-SONG.

I know not whether to laugh or cry,
So greatly, utterly glad am I:
For one, whose beautiful love-lit face
The distance hid for a weary space,
Has come this day of all days to me
Who am his home and his own country.

What shall I say who am here at rest,
Led from the good things up to the best?
Little my knowledge, but this I know,
It was God said “Love each other so.”
O love, my love, who hast come to me,
Thy love, thy home, and thy own country.

137

A SONG OF THE UNSUNG.

I would give anything
Of all that I hold most dear
If I could only sing
The beautiful songs I hear.
Who is it sings them? you say.
My darling, how can I tell?
I hear them the livelong day,
And often at night as well.
Songs of such comforting,
So tender and sweet and true,
That I would give anything
Could I only sing them for you.

138

SONNET.

I was Pygmalion's handiwork; I grew
Into that beauty he had bidden be;
He saw, and gaz'd, and lov'd exceedingly,
Yea, lov'd me into life. He little knew
I, who was his and he and myself too,
Had other life in store for him and me,
Art's life of splendid immortality,
A meed for ever paying, for ever due!
Why did he win for me this mortal breath
Why did the ivory sheen of face and limb
Flush into tender ruddiness for him?
O fateful praying love that quickeneth!
Alas for the perisht pride, the fame-gold dim,
The gift, my life, that to his name was death.

139

OUTLEFT.

What shall we do for her, our sister?
What can we do for her, you and I;
For, oh! the sunshine hath somehow miss'd her,
For, oh! the dewfall hath left her dry!

Never we felt it and yet we know it,
Anguish and wrong that her life doth prove;
You, because you were born a poet,
I, because I was born your love.

Shall we not care for her greatly, seeing
How it was given to her to hold,
Down in the depths of her inmost being,
Love that could never be shown or told?

Well does she know that loving is living,
Does not her heart with the thought half break?
Sorely she longs for the joy of giving,
None will stoop down unto her and take.

140

Many would rise and call her blessed,
If she were one whose face could tell
That which her tongue leaves unexpressed,
That which her spirit knows so well.

Ay, if we could, such face we had won her,
Strong with her life's true emphasis;
Pale for the stress of love's infinite honour,
And warm rose-red for its infinite bliss.

Oh, but our sister, our little sister,
What must we do for her, you and I?
Seeing love's lips have never kiss'd her,
Seeing love's feet have past her by.

Oh, we will tell her we love her truly;
Ask her to love and to care for us—
Will it seem strange to her, wonderfully,
Will she not think that we mock her thus?

After the years of dull repression,
Folding her up in their darkness deep,
Blown on by spring-winds that rouse and freshen,
Will she not think that she walks in sleep?

Opening her eyes, she will see around her,
Glory and beauty passing bright;
Then she will know that Love has found her,
Love that is surely one with light.

141

And it shall be that, a little while hence,
This little sister we care for thus,
Loosing her heavy veil of silence,
Lifting her voice, will sing to us.

Sing to us, weep to us, laught to us, render
Love what is love's through all calms and stirs;
Cling to our breast as a baby tender,
And as a mother clasps us to hers.

142

A LETTER.

John Graham to the one who was his own
Sends greeting kind and half a broken ring,
And many her letters, and this last of his.

You know me, Alice Ker, and what I am,
So little, you may be surpris'd, I think,
To read the words that I have writ above,
As well as griev'd: I think you will be griev'd
A good deal; for you had made up your mind
To play the ministering angel here,
And comfort me and help me faithfully:
And, knowing I was blinded where I lay
Asleep for weariness, on time's great shore,
You would have suffer'd me to take you up
Within mine arms, and rested on me blind,
And, seeing for me, guided me across
The waste, and set me where the rising sun
Should smite mine eyeballs into sight again.

This was your good intent, dear Alice Ker—
Ah, I am bitter—well, I will not be—

143

Nay, bounteous-brow'd and bounteous-hearted, nay,
I ask not for such largesse nor will take.

I bar'd my heart before you, but you thought
'Twas cover'd still: the veil was on your eyes,
Or had I let you come too near to see?

Suppose the father of the prodigal,
Upon his way to meet the erring one,
Had chanc'd upon the elder son who ne'er
Had vext his soul for harlot-wasted goods,
And fallen upon his neck and pardon'd him
The faults and follies he committed not,
How could the young man take such love as that?
Had he not wrong'd his soul in taking it?
I say that self-abasement, undeserved,
Is but one shape of the damned Protean lie.

So, Alice, is it now 'twixt you and me:
You fain would pardon, slay the fatted calf,
And bid me don the robe and ring and shoes.
I have not sinn'd and will not take such grace.

God never sets us level with His eyes,
Lest we go blind: but, in some shape of earth,
Veiling Himself, reveals Himself, or would
If we would, but, we willing not, He stands
Powerless, because He will not force our will.

144

What are these words betwixt us twain? Am I
A god? No—but, maybe, a veil of God,
And hence His revelation: yours, if so
You had will'd: you willing not, I take my way.

I lov'd you, dear, and love you passing well,
And yet I will not, cannot, say that life
Without you is a desert: God is here
And work; and God and work are all enough.
And I will work just as I should have done
With you to work beside me, even you
Who cannot fail to live a noble life,
Being noble through and through: and so, good-bye,
God bless you: so, good-bye, dear Alice Ker.

145

“DISCOURAGED BECAUSE OF THE WAY.”

With the earth-dust on our raiment and the earth-tears on our cheek,
Wrestling sorely in our passion, in our patience very weak,
Far off, far off seems the city which from far we still must seek.

Past the sunrise and the sunset glories of the east and west,
Where the fair and good things ripen to the fairest and the best,
Where the heart beats on untiring, and in serving is at rest.

Oh, the never-ceasing conflict! Oh, the stress on heart and brain!
“Lord, deliver us from evil!” mournfully we cry again;
But the underbreath of passion is “Deliver us from pain!”

146

Look upon us, God and Father! there is none to save but Thee:
Look upon us, God and Father! strengthen Thou each feeble knee:
Thou canst make the deaf to hear, the dumb to speak, the blind to see.

Shame on us, on us faint-hearted, pausing here to weep and moan,
When beyond all thought's conceiving is the glory we have known,
Seeing, Father, Thou didst love us into life who were but stone.

Bid the weary silence break because of symphony and song,
And the weary darkness pass because of glory white and strong,
For the love that kills all coldness, and the right that slays all wrong.

147

BY ME: IN ME.

I.

Whatever Thy will may be,
Lord, let it be done by me.
Oh, give me the joyful strength
That fails not for journey's length;
And the swift, obedient feet
That hasten their tasks to meet;
And the hands that, day by day,
Delight in their work alway;
And the voice that is true to raise
The burden of prayer and praise;
And the eyes that are swift to see,
Because they are toucht of Thee;
And the heart of love to share
Thy little ones' joy and care:
Whatever Thy will may be,
Lord, let it be done by me.

II.

Whatever Thy will may be,
Lord, let it be done in me:

148

For now Thou hast laid me low
In the mystery of woe;
I am shut from speech and song,
I am weak who was so strong,
And my soul is known of Thee
In her great adversity.
So I clasp Thy feet, and say,
“Thou hast given and taken away.”
I know that I serve Thee so,
In lying all meek and low;
I know Thou wilt deeply bless
In trusting and quietness;
And I cry through the gracious gloom
Of the fig-tree's perisht bloom,
Whatever Thy will may be,
Lord, let it be done in me.

149

GRISILDIS.

I curse you, O my son's wife, Grisildis!
You, lady, mild of brow and still of tongue,
And beautiful and fruitful, with the young
Life's red upon your cheek, the gold that is
Light captive on your hair. O fleur-de-lys,
(He call'd you so) fall with white petals wrung
From their fair rest, and golden bosom stung
By piercing winds for the sun's tender kiss.
Fallen he is now, my child, my Benjamin,
Who should be upright, little who should be great;
You hated not his sin, nor made him hate,
Whose lustral love had burn'd him white and clean.
Weep tears of blood for your soul-murder'd mate,
O stupid lamb who lion should have been.

150

A VOW ANNULLED.

(Should ‘honour rooted in dishonour’ stand?
And ‘faith unfaithful’ keep me ‘falsely true’?)

Not broken it is, but annull'd,
And for ever, the vow that I made
When reason and conscience were lull'd,
And I went on my way, unafraid
Alike of God's sun or His shade.

Did you know what it was to allure
My weak, weary soul, tempest-driven,
In the name of the pure from the pure,
In the name of her God from His heaven,
With its peace and its glory free-given?

You askt me to save you by love;
And Love by that word you blasphem'd;
Love the holy, that soareth above,
All saving that ever was dream'd:
By God above all things esteem'd.

151

They know not what Love is, who say
That any can love and yet lose
The right to look up all the day
Crown'd with lilies as holy ones use,
The Virgins the Bridegroom doth choose.

Love is strength, glory, pathos, and fire;
All colours blent into one light;
A beauty exceeding desire,
That sitteth with God on His height,
Superb in immaculate white.

I car'd not, you say, for your want—
I know, dear, how lonely you were;
Yet, by the lone hearth God will grant
Souls possest in men's patience and pray'r
His presence, than lover's more fair.

Do you think that no anguish will come
Strong-wav'd o'er my soul when I see,
In the light of her lord's love and home,
A wife with her child on her knee,
To think what is lost unto me?

But the anguish will pale at the last,
In the light of the glory begun;
More great than her glory, who, past
The pain and the peril, has won
The bliss of embracing a son.

152

Most blessed, who deepliest feel
The awe and the torment, and search
Through tears for the hand that can heal
And cleanse from the terrible smirch,
And lay, pure, on the breast of His Church.

Forgive me, as He doth forgive;
I hurt you and hinder'd; yes, I
Who had vow'd for His service to live,
Was the worse and the weaker, I cry.
Good-bye, dear! God bless you! Good-bye!