Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
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 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
49
VIII
There was a woman Michael Villiers met
One evening at the Guilfoys’ fair and tall,
With shining hair, and eyes that seemed to be
The home of truth itself; and stately frame
Which well had worn the armour of the knight
Who did such gallant deeds at Joyous Gard.
‘You are like Britomart,’ said Annie once
To Lucy Vere; ‘like the deliverer
Of Amoret for Scudamore her love.’
‘Nay,’ said she, ‘I am more like Amoret,
Whom Britomart delivered.’ Knowing not
How strong as beautiful she was, she spake.
One evening at the Guilfoys’ fair and tall,
With shining hair, and eyes that seemed to be
The home of truth itself; and stately frame
Which well had worn the armour of the knight
Who did such gallant deeds at Joyous Gard.
‘You are like Britomart,’ said Annie once
To Lucy Vere; ‘like the deliverer
Of Amoret for Scudamore her love.’
‘Nay,’ said she, ‘I am more like Amoret,
Whom Britomart delivered.’ Knowing not
How strong as beautiful she was, she spake.
She went among a set of working girls,
Rough, rude, unchaste in word if not in deed,
And was a very light of joy to them,
In all the lovely rondure of her life,
And royal ‘dower of inward happiness.’
And light and joy she was to more than these,
For the sweet strength and catholic sympathy,
Which showed themselves in look and word and deed,
Sweeter because of lovely reticence,
That rosy guardian of the fount of life:
She being what it costs so much to make,
And what it costs so much to have and keep,
Most precious thing was ever bought with price,
Whether that price be found too high or no,—
Even a gentlewoman born and bred.
Such women help to save us at the least
From ignorance or ignoring of the past,
The very source of crude irreverence.
Rough, rude, unchaste in word if not in deed,
And was a very light of joy to them,
In all the lovely rondure of her life,
And royal ‘dower of inward happiness.’
And light and joy she was to more than these,
50
Which showed themselves in look and word and deed,
Sweeter because of lovely reticence,
That rosy guardian of the fount of life:
She being what it costs so much to make,
And what it costs so much to have and keep,
Most precious thing was ever bought with price,
Whether that price be found too high or no,—
Even a gentlewoman born and bred.
Such women help to save us at the least
From ignorance or ignoring of the past,
The very source of crude irreverence.
There be some tender virgin souls that go
Fed by the wholesome food of natural things,
Keeping the powers one day to bless the world
In happy silentness and fair reserve,
And dimly feeling something is to come,
Before the end shall be; some unknown good,
Some fair ineffable godship; till, one day,
The cestus is undone by sweet strong hands,
And life goes all a-thrilling through and through,
Till by-and-by the quickened thoughts come forth
In all the splendid might of word and deed.
Fed by the wholesome food of natural things,
Keeping the powers one day to bless the world
In happy silentness and fair reserve,
And dimly feeling something is to come,
Before the end shall be; some unknown good,
Some fair ineffable godship; till, one day,
The cestus is undone by sweet strong hands,
And life goes all a-thrilling through and through,
Till by-and-by the quickened thoughts come forth
In all the splendid might of word and deed.
She might have been whatever she desired;
Ruler of men, a star of stars set high
Above the pain and trouble of the poor;
But chose to be no more than Lucy Vere,
One of the workers; so, the time being come
To end her father's days of widowhood,
And a good woman filling her mother's place
For him, she gave her leisure up, and came
To work in London. She and Michael drew
Near to each other from the very first,
And clasped each other's hands in comradeship.
‘Childe Michael,’ on a day she called her friend,
‘Because she knew him for a knight of God.’
‘Nay, nay, no knight of God am I indeed,
Only a man who fain would find the truth,
At least, some part sufficient of the truth
To go by; but as yet I cannot wear
My armour, for I have not proven it.
Maybe Burd Lucy by-and-by will help
To buckle on that harness for her friend.’
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Above the pain and trouble of the poor;
But chose to be no more than Lucy Vere,
One of the workers; so, the time being come
To end her father's days of widowhood,
And a good woman filling her mother's place
For him, she gave her leisure up, and came
To work in London. She and Michael drew
Near to each other from the very first,
And clasped each other's hands in comradeship.
‘Childe Michael,’ on a day she called her friend,
‘Because she knew him for a knight of God.’
‘Nay, nay, no knight of God am I indeed,
Only a man who fain would find the truth,
At least, some part sufficient of the truth
To go by; but as yet I cannot wear
My armour, for I have not proven it.
Maybe Burd Lucy by-and-by will help
To buckle on that harness for her friend.’
And so when Michael was at home, the two
Wrote to each other, and he told her things
He thought of, and she answered him again:
For both the hearts of them indeed were quick
With the live trouble that was in the air
They breathed; they being children of their time.
And of his daily life she liked to hear;
And things of outside that he dwelt amongst;
As when a great old oak was levin-struck,
The Villiers oak, almost as old as Herne's:
And how the blue-tits built themselves a nest
In the breast-pocket of an old worn coat,
The gardener's scarecrow: how himself had found
The dainty spider-orchis on the day
He heard the nightingale sing his first song;—
She minded the dispute—or argument—
She had with him about the nightingale?
He now was more than ever sure the song
Was one triumphant pæan of his joy;
He wished her there to hear it for herself.
She told him how her girls had gone with her
One Sunday afternoon to Hampstead Heath,
And seen the wealth of maybloom, golden furze,
And been so very happy for the nonce.
And Michael sent the choicest of the flowers
They had at Villiers Keep to Lucy Vere,
To brighten up those girls of hers, he said.
Their rooms were none the worse, as he supposed,
For a few roses; though of course he knew
Her girls had many friends beside himself.
And when he came to London once again,
They talked and communed, oft and much and long;
While Guilfoy and his wife looked on and guessed
Right guesses, though the comrades knew it not.
Wrote to each other, and he told her things
He thought of, and she answered him again:
For both the hearts of them indeed were quick
With the live trouble that was in the air
They breathed; they being children of their time.
52
And things of outside that he dwelt amongst;
As when a great old oak was levin-struck,
The Villiers oak, almost as old as Herne's:
And how the blue-tits built themselves a nest
In the breast-pocket of an old worn coat,
The gardener's scarecrow: how himself had found
The dainty spider-orchis on the day
He heard the nightingale sing his first song;—
She minded the dispute—or argument—
She had with him about the nightingale?
He now was more than ever sure the song
Was one triumphant pæan of his joy;
He wished her there to hear it for herself.
She told him how her girls had gone with her
One Sunday afternoon to Hampstead Heath,
And seen the wealth of maybloom, golden furze,
And been so very happy for the nonce.
And Michael sent the choicest of the flowers
They had at Villiers Keep to Lucy Vere,
To brighten up those girls of hers, he said.
Their rooms were none the worse, as he supposed,
For a few roses; though of course he knew
Her girls had many friends beside himself.
And when he came to London once again,
They talked and communed, oft and much and long;
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Right guesses, though the comrades knew it not.
But one day something came to lift the veil,
And lo! they knew it was love's self that each
Had shrined for each, unknowing how it was.
And Michael suffered bitter self-reproach,
Because he doubted much his right to wed,
Seeing it was a very troublous time,
And it might be indeed his lot to go
Into the wilderness for Azazel.
And Lucy held a wonder in her heart
Flushing her cheek with light, though Michael went
As one who bears a sorrow in his breast,
Nurst upon gladness; till one day he said,
‘Burd Lucy, I have made a little song,
For uttering what I cannot say unrimed.’
And lo! they knew it was love's self that each
Had shrined for each, unknowing how it was.
And Michael suffered bitter self-reproach,
Because he doubted much his right to wed,
Seeing it was a very troublous time,
And it might be indeed his lot to go
Into the wilderness for Azazel.
And Lucy held a wonder in her heart
Flushing her cheek with light, though Michael went
As one who bears a sorrow in his breast,
Nurst upon gladness; till one day he said,
‘Burd Lucy, I have made a little song,
For uttering what I cannot say unrimed.’
‘What is your song, Childe Michael? Let me hear.’
‘“Burd Mary”—Mary was my mother's name,
The sweetest woman's name of Christendom,
Saving one only, Lucy! Ave, Lux!
Yes, ave! ave! though the light should bring
The last of days;—I being about to die
Would still salute thee; ave, ave, Lux!’
And Lucy wondered sore, and looked at him
With trouble in her eyes; and he went on.
The sweetest woman's name of Christendom,
Saving one only, Lucy! Ave, Lux!
Yes, ave! ave! though the light should bring
The last of days;—I being about to die
Would still salute thee; ave, ave, Lux!’
54
With trouble in her eyes; and he went on.
‘Burd Mary and Childe—Villiers, shall I say?—
Nay, I will call her by her own sweet name!
Nay, I will call her by her own sweet name!
‘Burd Lucy and Childe Michael,
Two comrades true were they;
Childe Michael loved Burd Lucy
For ever and a day.
Two comrades true were they;
Childe Michael loved Burd Lucy
For ever and a day.
‘Alas! alas! Childe Michael
Had fallen on evil times,
To reap an evil sowing
Of blunders and of crimes.’
Had fallen on evil times,
To reap an evil sowing
Of blunders and of crimes.’
‘Shall I go on, or will Burd Lucy read
The rime herself?’
‘Nay, you shall read it me.’
The rime herself?’
‘Nay, you shall read it me.’
‘And so it was, Childe Michael,
Who loved his comrade so,
Must face his life in loneness,
And let Burd Lucy go.
Who loved his comrade so,
Must face his life in loneness,
And let Burd Lucy go.
‘There was but fear and trouble,
(God send it soon surcease!)
No time to build fair houses,
To marry and increase.
(God send it soon surcease!)
No time to build fair houses,
To marry and increase.
55
‘No time for aught but striving,
With fasting and with prayer,
Against the powers of evil,
All strong to do and dare.
With fasting and with prayer,
Against the powers of evil,
All strong to do and dare.
‘Some day, some day, hereafter,
When calmer grows the weather,
Two friends that here were parted
May meet and walk together.’
When calmer grows the weather,
Two friends that here were parted
May meet and walk together.’
Then Michael took Burd Lucy by the hand,
And looked into her eyes a moment's space,
Saying, ‘Forgive me, dear;’ and went from her.
And looked into her eyes a moment's space,
Saying, ‘Forgive me, dear;’ and went from her.
And on the morrow came this rime to him,
Writ with the clear firm penmanship she used.
Writ with the clear firm penmanship she used.
‘Childe Michael and Burd Lucy,
Two comrades true were they,
Who loved each other dearly,
For ever and a day.
Two comrades true were they,
Who loved each other dearly,
For ever and a day.
‘They drank from common pewter,
They ate from common delf;
Their home had some great fairness,
Love being there himself.
They ate from common delf;
Their home had some great fairness,
Love being there himself.
‘Burd Lucy kept the homestead,
And swept the floor and sewed,
And did on Michael's armour
Wherein he fought for God.
And swept the floor and sewed,
And did on Michael's armour
Wherein he fought for God.
56
‘Childe Michael on his shoulder
Had known Love's accolade;
He fought for Love's high kingdom
Whose coming maketh glad.
Had known Love's accolade;
He fought for Love's high kingdom
Whose coming maketh glad.
‘Upon his thigh he girded
A sword that gleamed like flame,
Whereon there was engraven
A strange and wondrous name.
A sword that gleamed like flame,
Whereon there was engraven
A strange and wondrous name.
‘More bright that sword than Morglay,
Than Courtain awfuller;
It flashed more great and dreadful
Than brand Excalibur.
Than Courtain awfuller;
It flashed more great and dreadful
Than brand Excalibur.
‘“It is Love's sword,” said Michael,
“For wielding faithfully;
And evermore I set it
Bared between self and me;
“For wielding faithfully;
And evermore I set it
Bared between self and me;
‘“And all day long I wield it,
And when I rest at even,
Burd Lucy cleans the swordblade
Which came to me from heaven.”
And when I rest at even,
Burd Lucy cleans the swordblade
Which came to me from heaven.”
‘Upon the hilts cross-shapen
Burd Lucy laid her hand,
And sware to help Childe Michael
To battle for his land.’
Burd Lucy laid her hand,
And sware to help Childe Michael
To battle for his land.’
And Michael read his rime she made her rime
Over and over, and his life was thrilled,
And all his heart was sore; and pen and ink
Seemed all incapable to bear his mind.
And so he went and sought Burd Lucy out.
Over and over, and his life was thrilled,
And all his heart was sore; and pen and ink
57
And so he went and sought Burd Lucy out.
Then at his coming all the gracious blood
Ran to her cheeks, and her whole body pulsed
The faster as she raised her eyes to his.
But Michael's cheek was pale, and round his lips
Ran a strange tremor as he looked at her;
And passionately he took her hands in his,
And kissed them close, and laid them on his heart,
Then loosed them, saying, ‘Lucy, it cannot be:
There are some things too hard for flesh and blood,
Too hard for flesh and blood like mine at least.
I know not, dear my lady, what may come;
And I will never bring the bitterness
Of my uncertainty on one I love.
I know not now at all what I must do,
Nor how I may be called upon to act,
Or suffer, for my own and others' sin.
And, oh, Burd Lucy, you have your own work!
You fight, my dear, a better fight than mine.
And you to sweep the floor and sew, while I
Go in my armour! O my Britomart,
I am not worthy to stoop down and kiss
The dust your feet have left a print upon.
You see, and do, while I can scarce discern
Men from trees walking. O my queen, my faith,
Pray for me, for I think that prayers like yours
Must needs be heard. I know not, nor may guess
Whither I go, nor how, not any whit:
I only know that God has laid on me
A burden which I must not dare shake off.
I would not shake it off if so I dared.
The very easiest path for me to take
Would be to live and labour with my hands,
And have the wages of my toil and sweat,
And share them with my fellow-men, and be
Among them even as one that serveth, not
As one that lordeth it; and take my part
In the world's fellowship of suffering.
I would I might be poor instead of rich,
Because my brothers are not rich but poor;
Because the women and the men who work
Can scarce keep body and soul together, while
I, just one man, have money and wealth enough
For filling thousands of the mouths and minds
That hunger very sorely, while I might
Surfeit, if so I pleased. It is not well.
I would I had no rights to give away,
Seeing my rights are based on others' wrongs.
Lucy, God knows I would, if I could see
It were the right of rights for me to do,
Go naked with my brothers of the State
Unsocial to the very inmost core.
And yet I know not if I may do thus—
I hate this wealth I am to have, and yet
I know not if to throw the burden down
Whereunto I was born, to ease my back
And ease my heart, were not indeed to make
The Great Refusal; seeming best may be
The very worst; and one may build a fair
And stately building on the shifting sands
The rain shall beat on, and the winds blow round
Till great indeed shall be the fall of it.
Besides—“I saw there was a way to hell
Even from the gates of heaven,” John Bunyan says:
True for all time.’
Ran to her cheeks, and her whole body pulsed
The faster as she raised her eyes to his.
But Michael's cheek was pale, and round his lips
Ran a strange tremor as he looked at her;
And passionately he took her hands in his,
And kissed them close, and laid them on his heart,
Then loosed them, saying, ‘Lucy, it cannot be:
There are some things too hard for flesh and blood,
Too hard for flesh and blood like mine at least.
I know not, dear my lady, what may come;
And I will never bring the bitterness
Of my uncertainty on one I love.
I know not now at all what I must do,
Nor how I may be called upon to act,
Or suffer, for my own and others' sin.
And, oh, Burd Lucy, you have your own work!
You fight, my dear, a better fight than mine.
And you to sweep the floor and sew, while I
Go in my armour! O my Britomart,
I am not worthy to stoop down and kiss
The dust your feet have left a print upon.
You see, and do, while I can scarce discern
58
Pray for me, for I think that prayers like yours
Must needs be heard. I know not, nor may guess
Whither I go, nor how, not any whit:
I only know that God has laid on me
A burden which I must not dare shake off.
I would not shake it off if so I dared.
The very easiest path for me to take
Would be to live and labour with my hands,
And have the wages of my toil and sweat,
And share them with my fellow-men, and be
Among them even as one that serveth, not
As one that lordeth it; and take my part
In the world's fellowship of suffering.
I would I might be poor instead of rich,
Because my brothers are not rich but poor;
Because the women and the men who work
Can scarce keep body and soul together, while
I, just one man, have money and wealth enough
For filling thousands of the mouths and minds
That hunger very sorely, while I might
Surfeit, if so I pleased. It is not well.
I would I had no rights to give away,
Seeing my rights are based on others' wrongs.
Lucy, God knows I would, if I could see
It were the right of rights for me to do,
59
Unsocial to the very inmost core.
And yet I know not if I may do thus—
I hate this wealth I am to have, and yet
I know not if to throw the burden down
Whereunto I was born, to ease my back
And ease my heart, were not indeed to make
The Great Refusal; seeming best may be
The very worst; and one may build a fair
And stately building on the shifting sands
The rain shall beat on, and the winds blow round
Till great indeed shall be the fall of it.
Besides—“I saw there was a way to hell
Even from the gates of heaven,” John Bunyan says:
True for all time.’
And Lucy interposed,
‘Ay, Michael; and there is a way to heaven
Even from the gates of lowest hell itself.’
And into Michael's eyes there came a light
A moment; then, ‘But only this I know,
A wrong is not amended by a wrong.
Yet none can trust who dare not trust himself;
And if I cannot come to trust myself,
I am no worker for the commonweal.’
‘Ay, Michael; and there is a way to heaven
Even from the gates of lowest hell itself.’
And into Michael's eyes there came a light
A moment; then, ‘But only this I know,
A wrong is not amended by a wrong.
Yet none can trust who dare not trust himself;
And if I cannot come to trust myself,
I am no worker for the commonweal.’
‘My comrade,’ Lucy answered, ‘there is none
Of men can do a generation's work;
And none of generations that can do
The work of man; the Seer of seers himself,
The Galilean with the eagle eyes
That looked straight up at God, and grew not blind,
Helped men the most, I think, in teaching them
By implication, not the having laws
Ready at hand to follow and obey,
But culture of that state of body and soul
Wherein each man is to himself a law,
Is manhood's crown upon its end and aim.
And nearly nineteen hundred years gone by,
Leaving the power still latent in mankind,
Only developed in a few, at most,
Disproves it not to be the best, because
With God a thousand years are as a day,
And he who trusteth Him shall not make haste.
60
And none of generations that can do
The work of man; the Seer of seers himself,
The Galilean with the eagle eyes
That looked straight up at God, and grew not blind,
Helped men the most, I think, in teaching them
By implication, not the having laws
Ready at hand to follow and obey,
But culture of that state of body and soul
Wherein each man is to himself a law,
Is manhood's crown upon its end and aim.
And nearly nineteen hundred years gone by,
Leaving the power still latent in mankind,
Only developed in a few, at most,
Disproves it not to be the best, because
With God a thousand years are as a day,
And he who trusteth Him shall not make haste.
‘You say you fain would suffer with the rest.
You, comrade, who are surely suffering much,
Vext with cross-lights which keep from seeing clear!
You, who have felt upon your very soul
The blows a drunken husband gives his wife;
You, who have looked on death with the wan eyes
Of famine-stricken children; you, whose blood
Goes hot with righteous anger, horror-cold
When nameless wrongs are flung upon the world!
You, comrade, who are surely suffering much,
Vext with cross-lights which keep from seeing clear!
You, who have felt upon your very soul
The blows a drunken husband gives his wife;
You, who have looked on death with the wan eyes
Of famine-stricken children; you, whose blood
61
When nameless wrongs are flung upon the world!
‘I talk not of this suffering now, my friend,
But of the trouble which has come because
That pulse of yours goes beating with the pulse
Of the Time-Spirit; and because, begirt
With all your past, you cannot well discern
Garment from cerement. That will come to you
One day when you are glad for having known
The torment of uncertainty and doubt.
“Our light affliction for a moment's space,
Yea, but a moment, worketh us a more
Exceeding weight of glory!” Does that mean
It fits us to receive? that bitterness
Prepares the palate for the perfect sweet;
That sickness shows the preciousness of health;
That only after tasting pain we know
What pleasure is; that blindness, deafness, shows
Glory of opened eye and ear unstopped?’
But of the trouble which has come because
That pulse of yours goes beating with the pulse
Of the Time-Spirit; and because, begirt
With all your past, you cannot well discern
Garment from cerement. That will come to you
One day when you are glad for having known
The torment of uncertainty and doubt.
“Our light affliction for a moment's space,
Yea, but a moment, worketh us a more
Exceeding weight of glory!” Does that mean
It fits us to receive? that bitterness
Prepares the palate for the perfect sweet;
That sickness shows the preciousness of health;
That only after tasting pain we know
What pleasure is; that blindness, deafness, shows
Glory of opened eye and ear unstopped?’
And Michael smiled a little wistful smile;
‘I am not over-eager, dear, I think,
To be released from pain, but I desire
To be set free for action, though I be
Maimed in the struggle first; and better far
Enter God's kingdom halt or maimed or blind,
Than with two feet to find Gehenna fire,
The anguish of remorse for done or undone;
Than with two eyes to look, but not on God.’
‘I am not over-eager, dear, I think,
To be released from pain, but I desire
To be set free for action, though I be
Maimed in the struggle first; and better far
62
Than with two feet to find Gehenna fire,
The anguish of remorse for done or undone;
Than with two eyes to look, but not on God.’
She said, ‘Yes, comrade, yes; but surely best,
Enter the kingdom with all members sound.
You fight, and not as one that beats the air;
You wrestle, wrestling not with flesh and blood;
You will not be contented, you who have
Earth's blessings of the basket and the store,
And of the healthy body and loyal heart,
You will not be contented save with best
Of all, the power to see and do aright.
And you will never cease to strive for this.
Enter the kingdom with all members sound.
You fight, and not as one that beats the air;
You wrestle, wrestling not with flesh and blood;
You will not be contented, you who have
Earth's blessings of the basket and the store,
And of the healthy body and loyal heart,
You will not be contented save with best
Of all, the power to see and do aright.
And you will never cease to strive for this.
‘But, I will say it, do not, O my friend,
Be overmuch afraid to do your best
Because mistakes may mar that best of yours.
Dare the mistakes may follow a purpose clean.
Michael, trust God, trust man, and trust yourself.
Trust God with your mistakes; better, I think,
A smirch upon a life's white perfectness,
Than one dull grey pervading all of it.
Souls are for serving, not for lying by
In a fair silence, shut away from men;
And if a serving soul be stained, God's eyes
Transmute the stain to splendour with their smile.
Go forth to do your work; go forth, and trust
The quickening impulse of the law of love.’
Be overmuch afraid to do your best
Because mistakes may mar that best of yours.
Dare the mistakes may follow a purpose clean.
Michael, trust God, trust man, and trust yourself.
Trust God with your mistakes; better, I think,
A smirch upon a life's white perfectness,
Than one dull grey pervading all of it.
Souls are for serving, not for lying by
63
And if a serving soul be stained, God's eyes
Transmute the stain to splendour with their smile.
Go forth to do your work; go forth, and trust
The quickening impulse of the law of love.’
And Michael looked upon the woman's face,
And as it were an angel's face he saw.
And as it were an angel's face he saw.
‘I will go on, Burd Lucy; will go on;
And, winning not, my body in its fall
Shall help, at least, to overbridge the trench
Whereo'er my brothers pass to victory.’
And, winning not, my body in its fall
Shall help, at least, to overbridge the trench
Whereo'er my brothers pass to victory.’
And not a word she said; but in her eyes
He read, ‘Go on, O Michael, O my love!
I go with you wherever you may go;
I strive with you however you may strive;
I win with you however you may win;
I fail with you however you may fail.’
He read, ‘Go on, O Michael, O my love!
I go with you wherever you may go;
I strive with you however you may strive;
I win with you however you may win;
I fail with you however you may fail.’
So, not divided, went the twain apart.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |