Louise de la Valliaere and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE.

A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE.

Scene—A Calvary in the Carmelite Convent of the Faubourg S. Jacques.

Comes a new day; now pealeth near and far,
Rending the silence with its clamorous jar,
The midnight bell. Thy set-dead face, Beloved!
Glimmereth in the darkness like a star.

Thy meek, fair doves within this convent nest
Sleep with soft lips apart in childlike rest;
Dreamless clear eyes 'neath large white lids unmoved,
And frail hands folded on each sinless breast.

One with closed shining wings bends o'er each bed,
Haloes the moonlight round each little head;
Could I but rest like these Thy stainless ones!
Nay, I should dream, and in night's hour of dread,

Things walk in dreams 'twere deathly fair to meet.
Down the long corridor with footsteps fleet
Nightly I speed, and on these friendly stones
Lie through the haunted hours below Thy feet.

What though the air be full of sounds and sighs,
Silken-soft murmurs, whispers and replies,
Evil mysterious feet that steal and stir,
Rustle and trail of unseen draperies?

In thy Rood's shelter flee my vain alarms;
Powers of the night may weave their nets and charms,
Here I shall fear no wiles of Lucifer,
He cannot touch me in Thine outspread arms.

Yet he doth take strange shapes to tempt Thine own;
Now if I looked should one come dancing down,
Gold-haired and deep-eyed, blooming on the dark,
Wearing on his fair brows a kingdom's crown.

So shall I cower, laying cheek and eyelid wet,
To Thy dead feet for tears grown colder yet;
He shall not dare to drag me from this ark.
Weary am I and very sore beset.

Here will I take sweet sleep till yonder pane
Glimmereth grey, and night begins to wane,
And the small birds within the elm-tree boughs
Twitter and pipe and turn to sleep again.

And the cocks crow, and ere the sound be ceased,
From the mysterious chambers of the East
Blows a small wind, and all the grey gleams rose.
Then through the gold gates steppeth the high priest.

And it may be my feet will go in dreams
Down by Touraine's fair fields and pleasant streams,
Where my white girlhood's full fleet days were spent,
There the breeze freshens, and a great sun gleams.

Sleeps the old château through the roseate hours,
Drifts the white odorous bloom in almond bowers;
And the long grasses, hot and indolent,
Murmur of April and her wine-rich showers.

Like little white-winged birds that fluttering fly,
Lustrous small clouds come sailing down the sky,
And the great cattle, breathing thymy sweet,
Stand where gold cowslips in the grass are high.

Cherries are ripe and red-lipped in the nets,
And the old pear tree that its youth forgets,
Hoary with lichen, stands with aged feet
Deep in a purple mist of violets.

Oh, but to hear, its bloomy boughs among,
How the brown throstle chanteth loud and long!
He all unseen doth sway with shut bright eyes
In the delirious passion of his song.

Surely, these things had brought me full content,
Were I Louise clear-eyed and innocent,
Fifteen unsullied summers 'neath the skies.
I am Louise, sinner and penitent.

Ah! the child's heart o'erfull with trust and joy!
Lord! it grew world-sore, stained with earth's alloy;
Till one came smiling by, and taking it,
Broke it as children break a worn-out toy.

Even this poor heart Thou, Lord, didst not refuse.
Long Thou didst wait as one that knocks and sues
At a heart's door that opes not to admit,
While on his gold locks fall the dank night dews.

But my heart heard Thee calling through the years,
Though I had turned away and closed mine ears.
O'er the world's noise Thy cry came clear and sweet,
Sure Thou art gracious to a sinner's tears.

Now I remember how a woman came,
Meek were her eyelids, on her brows sat shame,
Laid unrebuked her tired head at Thy feet.
She was a sinner, Magdalen her name.

And in Thy Resurrection's day of grace,
First Thou didst shine before Thy mother's face;
Next Thou didst seek in tender strange disguise
Magdalen, weeping in the garden ways.

Take my bruised heart in those fair hands of Thine;
In the white city where Thy love doth shine,
It will find healing through the centuries;
Hasten the hour for which I faint and pine,

When I shall lie with broken failing breath,
Hearing the steps of one who hasteneth;—
Flame-shod, but garmented with grey is he,
Thy messenger, Thy fair strong angel, Death.

Women are many, well-loved wives and such,
Who quail to hear him, shudder from his touch;
His beautiful grave face these cannot see,
Eyes grow but clear through weeping overmuch.

How should they know how wondrous good he is
For whom a husband's arms are rest and bliss;
In whose glad eyes a tall fair son smiles down,
Whose lips receive a little daughter's kiss?

Ah! how these things are sweet! but I, outworn,
Whose body that hath sinned is racked and torn,
Look upward to the Cross and thorny crown,
And yearn and agonize for that new morn,

When I shall enter at the narrow gate,
And climb the steep defiles and desolate,
Knowing the path leads to clear heights and fine,
Where in the white noon Christ Himself doth wait.

I am but this, a broken reed that He
Hath bound with His strong fingers tenderly.
Lord! where Thy Father's many mansions shine,
Wilt Thou not keep a last least place for me?

THE DREAMERS.

One by one o'er a dreamer's face
The shadows go;
Pain hath him in a close embrace,
And the phantom sorrow and woe
Make of his heart a weeping-place.

Lieth outside in the perfect night
The land at rest,
In the stainless snow of the May moon's light
And the bird i' the nest,
And the hawthorn sleep in a world of white.

Soon will the short sweet night be gone,
And the heart break;
Dream on, unharmèd heart, dream on!
The world full soon will wake,
And thy winged pain flee away in the dawn.

Ye are not empty—O hands forlorn!
That lie so still,
On the wild heart dreaming of pain and scorn,
The happy day will fill
Your palms outstretched, with new oil and corn.

O feet! ye tread no thorny path
In toil and heat,
Flowers for footway the future hath
To the waved gold of the wheat.
The first fruits yours, and the aftermath.

O dreamer! turn from thy grieving now,
Hark! in the hush
A small wind ruffles with fingers slow
The grasses long and lush,
And O the choir in the elm-tree bough!

The brown bright shapes that swaying sit
I' the heart of shade,
Their throats are amber and chrysolite.
Frail each body was made,
But the gold voice poured into it!

My birds! God's minstrel choir ye are,
For Him each note;
I think He smiles to hear afar
The innocent rapture float
Clearly over the farthest star.

My tardy dreamer wakes, to behold
A pageant wide,
Rose-hued banners waved fold on fold,
The sun and his good knights ride
Up the eastern Field of the Cloth of Gold!

Yea, with the dream tears wet, doth smile
For life so sweet,
And Summer seaward standing the while
Bathing her small fair feet,
And the green corn waving many a mile.

For the faint flushed snow of the thorn in May,
And the thrush's glee,
And the whispering wood, that at high noon-day
Gleams like the heart of the sea,
And the golden laugh of a child at play.

The wind will touch like his sweetheart's kiss
His shining hair,
And the gold-grey meadow right pleasant is,
And O the wild rose fair,
And the blue blue eyes that are always his!

To another dreamer cometh at night
A dream of grace,
And passeth thence in the morning light,
And lo! Pain takes its place
With set pale lips, and high brow, and white.

The dreamer taketh him for a friend
For evermore;
Through the shadows the new ways wend,
And a burden passing sore
Burdens the shoulders that ache and bend.

A pale soul, stricken with sad surprise,
Whereto shall come
No joy for sake of a baby's eyes,
Forget-me-nots that bloom
In the King's garden of Paradise;

Nor a smile to hear in the orchard close
The blackbird's song,
When the boughs are flushing faintly to rose,
And April days are long,
And the world is white with the hawthorn snows.

O long the way, but there comes a rest
At sweet Eventide!
When the wild glad birds have flown to the nest,
O the radiance, mild and wide,
The fair pale lights that wake in the west!

There bloometh many a kindly flower
In the churchyard grass;
The silver feet of a summer shower
Will linger ere they pass;
“Hic Jacet” glimmers at evening hour.

While one shall sleep, nor hearken o'erhead
To birds in May;
And on the heart where Pain lieth dead
The tired hands rest alway,
Surely a dream shall be perfected.

Alas! that a human heart should break
For such as this,
Just from a bright false dream to wake,
For the loss of a phantom kiss.
Christ keep us all for His pity's sake!

IN SUMMER.

O Summer winds are soft and sweet,
And fair are Summer skies;
The flowers are slumberous with the heat;
But the long grass about my feet
All cool and odorous lies.
The sun is kingly down the west,
In pomp this eve rides he,
And, tipped with gold, each misty crest
Of grey and dun,—the clouds at rest
Float o'er him solemnly.
While their far sombre ranges through
Shine out long rifts, divinely blue.

Adown the scented garden ways
My lady comes to me,
Amid the lilies pale of grace—
Herself the fairest in the face
Of all that company.

No worldly deckings doth she wear,
A lily flower is she;
Her pure, pale face is very fair;
But the gold crowning of her hair
Is all her royalty.
She is so sweet,—one passionate rose
Leans out to touch her as she goes.

The birds are at their evensong,
Their joy is loud and clear;
And 'mid the chanting of the throng
The thrush's anthem, wild and long,
She stands awhile to hear.
Ah, Sweet! The gold will fade to grey
Down yon far western gates,
The thrush's song will die away;
But one whose love will last alway
For thy sweet coming waits.
She comes,—and, with no other sign,
Puts both her little hands in mine.

MY LADY.

A PORTRAIT.

She, my sweet, pale lady, goeth down
Through the grey streets of the wicked town,
And her steadfast face a shadow hath
For the sin and pain about her path.

By the side of her go angels three,
Love, and tenderness, and purity,
Folding her about with mighty wings;
In her heart she hears their whisperings.

Her soft golden hair is streaked with grey,
“Peace!” her grave eyes and her sweet lips say;
Earthly lover's love she shall not miss,
For the dear Lord her true lover is.

Her small hands have healing in their touch;
As she goes where some hearts suffer much,
She brings balm and light, this comforter,
And sick eyes grow glad at sight of her.

Oft a fevered child hath found sweet rest,
Crooned to wholesome slumber on her breast,
Its last waking thought, with hot hands weak
Just to dumbly stroke her pallid cheek.

And she kneels beside a dying bed,
Her fair arms support a weary head,
While the wan lips “babble of green fields,”
Her soft fingers' touch sweet comfort yields.

Down she bends, and murmurs tenderly
To the poor soul drifting out to sea,
How across the weary waste of death,
Seeking His own sheep that wandereth,

The dear blessed Jesus comes apace,
With the love and welcome on His face—
Seeing it, shall very gladly come
On His shoulders fair to bring it home.

So she speaks, till enters the dark room
One, whose eyes eternal light the gloom,
Grey as the faint dawn each mighty wing,
And his fair face wondrous pitying.

He shall stoop, and to the sick one say:
“Come with me, and put thy grief away,”
Who shall straightway go, while reft hearts weep
O'er a dead face smiling in its sleep.

Sometimes for a baby, soft and cold,
Still small face 'neath clinging rings of gold,
Like a little wounded singing-bird,
Whose sweet song shall never more be heard.

She hath wept her heart out wearily,
She, the mother that shall never be;
Kissed the little feet, grown tired of play,
That had wandered far since yesterday;

Closed the dead blue eyes that understand,
Laid wan blooms in each small waxen hand
That hath plucked the asphodel for prize
In the shining fields of paradise.

Where the ways of sin are dark and dim,
Her Lord tells her what to say for Him;
She, my saint! in spotless robes of white,
Lifts the sinner to her own heart's height.

Little children hail her coming sweet,
God's dear dumb things gather round her feet;
The poor heart that bitter trouble sears,
Melts at her soft words in healing tears.

As she goes, she sets no hearts astir,
Yet I think the sunshine follows her,
Resting on her broad brows, loving-wise,
And her wistful mouth, and brave grey eyes.

THE DEAD SPRING.

Like Elaine, with small dead hands
On her resting heart,
Cowslip hair in silken bands,
Dreaming lips apart,
Lieth Spring; in her wan face
Only white wild-rose hath place;
Eyes of dewy violet,
'Neath their snowdrop lids, forget.
Stilled is her sweet hawthorn breath,
And her kiss is cold in death;
She hath spilled her life-blood sweet
At her cruel lover's feet.

Ah! the morning when he came
Down the golden skies,
Flushed her flower-face, all aflame
For his passionate eyes;

But he turned, nor saw her there;
For the Summer, brown and fair,
Stood, with eyes of misty grey,
Cheeks like dawning of the day,
Lips like poppies wet with dew,
Sheeny hair of rust-gold hue—
Went to her, with arms outspread,
And the gentle Spring lay dead.

Now Queen Summer shares his throne;
She is fair of face;
But the King hath sigh and moan
For his young love's grace.
Here, her spirit wandereth;
When the wind doth bring a breath
Honey-sweet, the Spring is nigh,
And she goeth silently
Through the gold walls of the wheat;
For the love of her white feet
Silken corn-ears bend and break,
The thrush singeth for her sake,
In a wild, long roundelay,
All his passionate heart away.

THE FLIGHT OF THE WILD GEESE.

As red as battle, the dead sun's light
The spectral moon sailed through,
With mist for a shroud, and white as she
With silver wings trailed mournfully,
The Wild Geese eastward flew.
The sad stars watched through the weeping night
That glimmer ghostly pale,
And the nested birds did shuddering wake
For a wild, wild cry of hearts that break
Borne on the gathering gale.

O'er many a little tarn and lough,
The lovely land's blue eyes,
They passed, and the water quivered with pain,
The sapphire dimmed by a mournful stain,
In the reeds were wailing cries.
The wind a-moan made the tree-tops rock,
The blessed flowers lay dead,
The ripe fruits failed in the harvesting,
But these sailed fast on a drooping wing
And turned no more the head.

Wild Geese! Wild Geese! why did ye go?
Why did ye leave her forlorn,
Your lady Erin, who many a day,
While summer was green and winter was grey,
Waxed whiter, nor ceased to mourn?
Her sick eyes watched in the dawning's glow,
While, from the golden shore,
The sun's gem-laden argosies
Came sailing down the eastward skies,
But these returned no more.

The spring came up through meads of light,
With robes of primrose hue,
The stars were shed so thick in May
Each hedgerow shone a Milky Way,
The swallows homeward flew.
Rare ruby cups of incense bright,
The red fire at the core,
June roses swung in the garden close,
Gold autumn came, white winter's snows
Sped from the northern shore.

And they came not, O well-beloved!
In all the empty years,
Thine own fair heroes wandering,
No welcome beat of strong white wing
Made music in thine ears.
In Austria and France they roved
Through ways as sad as death;
In alien paths the tired feet bled,
The laurel crowns that decked the head
Were thorn-set underneath.

Ah! Patrick Sarsfield, when you lay,
With your life-blood flowing amain,
You looked at the dark stain on your hand,
And “Would it were shed for mine own dear land!”
You cried in your spirit's pain.
Did you long, true heart! in their alien clay
For a mossy churchyard mound,
With the shamrocks shrouding you close and sweet,
From the weary head to the weary feet,
In the blessed Irish ground?

The Irish soldiery, who, after the Williamite conquest and the treachery of the broken “Treaty of Limerick,” sailed away from Ireland and took service in the armies of France and Austria and Spain, were called “The Wild Geese.”

JOAN OF ARC.

A MONOLOGUE.

Scene—The great Tower of Rouen Castle. Time—Sunset, May 29, 1431.

Through the barred casement blood-red streams the sun,
Now this last day of mine is well-nigh run,
And the night cometh, and the dawn gives rest;
My heart is strangely peaceful in my breast.
But now meseemed these happy feet were set
In far-off shining meads; mine eyes are wet,
For in my dream I heard my mother call,
Till the ensanguined sun stains on the wall,
Like the radiant drops of His fair blood
Streaming adown the arms of Holy Rood,
Waked me too soon. I know in Domremy,
This golden eve, Meuse floweth silverly,

And shines, in our dim orchard's cool green glooms,
Warm flush of fruit, and drift of late dropped blooms
Foams o'er the grass; the birds sing mad for May;
And the long wind waves turn green fields to grey.
But these are dreams; and near at hand they build
The fiery pile, whereon, when morn doth gild
Rouen's fair spires, a nineteen-summers maid
Is set to die. O Saviour! lend Thine aid
To this small body of me, and the furnace breath
Will come as balm of spring, the flames of death
Lave my weak limbs like waters cool and fair!
I shall not fear; Thy dear love everywhere
Hath compassed me, hath led me by the hand;
And it were gain to die if I might stand
And meet sweet death beneath my banner's fold,
And feel my fiery charger, strong and bold,
Spurn the earth under me, and hear behind
An army's tramp, and feel a glad, great wind
Of battle beat about my brow and cheek.
But from this death my coward heart and weak
Shrinketh dismayed, and crieth out aloud,
Because that when the morn doth bring its crowd,
French mothers, who last year had come in haste
And held their babes to touch me as I passed,

Deeming the touch a benediction given,
Will come to see the Maid, forsook of Heaven,
Die the dark witch's death; and many a maid
And fair French youth, half pitying, half afraid,
Will find the day a feast and hail the sun
That sees my ordeal. Now Thy will be done!
But ever from my sad heart goes a cry,
“O Rouen, Rouen! is it here I die?”
God knows, I take this cup right willingly,
As Thou didst drain the mystic chalice dry
In grey Gethsemane, when Thy chosen slept,
And none that awful vigil with Thee kept
That night, when Thou went'st down into the pit
Of our corruption, becam'st even as it,
As though one, sound and sweet and white of limb,
Should take in his fair arms and clasp to him
The loathly body of one a tenth day dead;
Though Thy God's soul came shuddering back in dread,
Didst clothe Thyself with the sins of centuries,
Until, in highest heaven, Thy Father's eyes
Darkened down on thee. Nay, it seems to me
That this was more Thine hour of agony
Than the Passion of Thy Cross; for this I know
That many a sin hath seemèd fair enow

In distant pastures, but brought near to us
Hath showed so utter foul and venomous
That in a man, where god and beast are twain,
It hath chanced the god hath risen with strength amain
And power of a god, and, with a mighty spring,
Hath taken by the throat the fearsome thing
And trampled its foul life out; so if it be
That a stained human soul might valorously
Rise sometime, godlike, at the crested head
And crush it for hate, then I do know indeed
How the unsullied soul of the white Christ
Had shrunken, seared and withered in His breast,
At the snake's touch.

On yonder pallet lies,
For the morrow's shows, my woman's draperies.
And now, fair armour, that hath held me fast
In all my great, glad days, gone with the past,
I lay you down—my knightly days are o'er—
The coming dawn sees me a maid once more.
Indeed, for France I gave my womanhood,
Nor knew the foolish, sweet thoughts that are food
Of other maids; the love that one brief day
Painteth with pearl and rose the canvas grey

Where their small lives are limned; and yet this heart
Beats woman-tender, though I stand apart,
Knowing not joys that other women know—
The lover's love, the mother's joy and woe;
And I have taken ofttimes and caressed,
For some dumb yearning stirring in my breast,
A peasant's babe, and laid its clinging arm
On my mailed neck, and kissed it close and warm,
So that it thought the mother held it still,
The little tender, sweet thing, and had will
To lie in dumb content, like a bird? the nest.
But I am happier, singled from the rest
To do Thy will. I mind me when I went
That morn Thy maiden knight and instrument,
And with me all the chivalry of the land,
Rode my fair lord the king on my right hand.
We went as to a bridal, by fair meads,
Gold paved and daisy starred, where our good steeds
Sank to the girth in dewy herbs a-bloom.
God knoweth, in this languorous grey gloom
That morn's slow wind hath ofttimes come to me!
The round sun hung aflame in a sapphire sea,
And shone on my fair armour's wroughten gold
Of brave device, and on each silken fold

Of my loved banner, joyous in the breeze:
None spake as we rode fast 'neath dropping trees.
For Orleans waited her deliverance.
There came an hour I went as one in trance,
Nor saw the king's face, marvellous and fair,
Because St. Michael went beside me there.
The visage of him was full grave and sweet;
Arrayed in shining mail from head to feet;
So fair a knight this earth had never seen,
And where he passed red roses from the green
Sprang up to do him homage. Verily,
When that his gracious face had looked on me,
If the Lord helped me not, I should have died
Of that too deep delight. By his strong side
Was gleaming, flame-red, his great fiery sword;
His clear hand pointed, without any word,
To where the leaguered towers of Orleans shone:
Nor was this vision seen of any one
Save me the Maid. And when encamped we lay
Before the walls, in one God-given day,
Where the Maid went the English arms fell down,
For there the angel passed, and the good town
The Lord did even deliver with His hand:
Then were earth's strong ones fallen away like sand.

And thus He led our arms to victory
Till I, the peasant maid of Domremy,
In one fair hour, beloved of all the years,
With noise of many waters in mine ears,
Clothed of gold armour, stood beside the king,
And heard in Rheims the organ thundering
And pealing in the grey cathedral fane,
And saw the cloud of incense wax and wane,
Flying to God's feet, and the sun stream fast
Through the stained windows; was a glory cast
Of rose and amber on the wide, cool place,
And beamed enaureoled many a joyous face.
Beneath our feet surged waves of shining flowers;
And in that supreme hour of all Time's hours
These small maid's hands had laid the jewelled crown
On his fair, mighty brows. Then I fell down,
Clasping his knees, and knew my task complete.
Would I had died in that rich hour and sweet!
Indeed I am forgotten of all men's love.
'Tis given to me to measure and disprove
A prince's faith. Perchance this very hour
He lingereth in his lady's rose-sweet bower,
Lapped in all soft delights and silkenness.
He hath forgotten for her flower-loveliness

How I within these strait walls languished sore
Through grey, sad days, a leaden year or more,
Who, being but an humble peasant maid,
Used always to green field and forest glade,
Have moaned and thirsted as the hours crept by
For cool, long grasses and for wide, clear sky;
For bright, small waters chattering all day long
In fair, forgotten dells; for glad, wild song
Of merle and mavis, screenèd of great trees.
Nay, scarce might heaven have sweeter things than these!
It is as though one took, and fettered of limb,
Some small brown thing that loved the forest dim,
And played its merry small games all the day,
And taking laid it in a dungeon grey
To pant and fever for the woods' cool breath,
Till some day God remembered and sent death.
My king! for one light woman's white and rose
I am forgotten, as are the winter's snows
Forgotten of the May world! When sword in hand
We rode for Orleans by the Lord's command,
I mind me how my Voices came to me,
And while my heart was glad exceedingly,
They bade that none impure should go with us
On our emprise most high and glorious.

Thereafter, rich-attired, Dame Agnes came;
Her wondrous, shameful beauty was as flame
To burn men's souls, and straight I bade her thence
And wash in tears and holy penitence
Her leprous soul, who, with a shrill, sweet cry,
Ran where the beauteous king was standing nigh,
And cast herself about his mailed neck.
Meseemed each warm white arm a writhing snake,
She was so fair and evil. The king's face
Frowned dark on me, but by the Lord's good grace
My words were strong and stern before him there.
Around the brave French knights and ladies fair
Stood still to hear while I rebuked their king;
And as I spake the lovely flaunting thing
Came where I stood, and fell before my feet,
And clasped her small hands, tremulous and sweet
And soft as the pearly petal of a flower,
About my knees, and called me in that hour
Her sweet Joan, and her well-belovèd Maid,
And shrank with tears, as she were sore afraid,
From my sad eyes. She looked as undefiled,
As innocent-sweet, as any three-year child.
Dear Heaven, she was marvellously fair!
The great waves of her amber-shining hair

Covered her like another Magdalen.
And I was moved, and leaning to her then
Touched her gold head, and spake a secret word,
Thinking to bring this fair thing to the Lord,
Of One who died for sinners, till she went
Weeping, with veil down-drawn and sweet head bent,
Back to her bower; and we rode on our way.
The leopard may not change its spots: a day
Came when my king returned right gloriously,
And had not strength this wanton's arts to flee,
Who holdeth him, and he hath weaker grown
Than the English babe-king, who a week agone
Looked with sad, mystic child-eyes on my face.
Lord, save this man, anointed of Thy grace;
Thou at whose face the noon-sun pales and fades,
For France's sake, have mercy, and Thy Maid's!

The sun has gone an hour. What light doth come
Gleaming a-sudden palely through the gloom?
Lord, whence is this to me? Behold Thy Cross!
Thy fair face, pale with agony and loss,
Leaneth to my face! Hold Thine arms still wide,
Nailed lest they tire and fall, O Crucified!

I come, I come. Thou hast waited long for me!
Lo! has the dungeon vanished utterly?
I think this is the New Jerusalem.
Yonder I hear the seraph's raptured hymn
Before the Throne; I see the pearly gate
And crystal walls; my flying feet are set
On jacinth, gold, and crusted porphyry.
Now, sweet fire, come, take me, and burn from me
All earthly taints, and make me lily fair,
Give me white Pentecostal robes to wear
Against the Bridegroom cometh! With me be,
O sweet St. Catherine and Margery,
And guide me through the shadowed valley's ways
To where across a mystic shining haze
His arms await me! Mary, take this hand,
And lead me by morass and shifting sand
Through yon white river of flames, that leap and roar,
To where Christ waiteth on the further shore!

POPPIES.

Through the land at Midsummer,
Singing, Love came.
Gracious was the new-comer,
Like a God in face and limb,
And the trailing wings of him
Tipped with flame.
Red gold hair, and fair flushed face,
Warm as the south;
And he stood a little space,
By the sunrise seas of wheat,
Took wild rose and meadow-sweet,
And laid them on his mouth.

In his luminous deep eyes
A slow smile grew,
When a small bird, brown and wise,
Sudden sang, a yard away,

A little mad fair roundelay
To skies of blue;
And ah! his eyes were very sad,
With tears o'erfilled,
And died the grave sweet smile he had,
When in the wide wheat's wrinkled gold
He saw a small bird, soft and cold,
Its singing stilled.

Many a gift he bore that hour
For many a one,
Rose, and rue, and passion-flower;
As he went, he gatherèd
The silken poppies, tall and red,
Flaunting in the sun.
Took them to him tenderly,
The flowers of sleep,
Kissed their lips with many a sigh,
“Now, I have no better thing
Than a Lethe cup to bring
To some that weep.”

So he came, in morning hours,
To a garden wild,

Where, amid hushed dreaming fowers,
A pale, golden-headed girl,
Like a daisy, or a pearl,
Sang and smiled.
The reddest rose in all the land;
He held to her,
Fell the poppies from his hand,
Brushed the gold bloom of her hair,
Smote her innocent eyes, and fair,
Till closed they were.

When the slumber took her eyes,
Skies were blue and gold,
The world was fair as Paradise,
And when she woke, ah, well-a-day!
The wintry world was bare and grey,
And she was cold,
Very tired, and most forlorn:
“Now, heart, wilt break?
Our life's day is gone since morn;
All the years like shifting sands,
Slipped from out those empty hands,
For a dream's sake!”

AT SET OF SUN.

Within the church, long shadows on the wall
Come, and are gone; the hours have lingering feet;
And the great organ's pulses rise and fall,
Waking to life in rapturous music sweet,
Weaving a poem ever mystical.
Without, in a high westward world of gold,
As, loth to leave, the sun goes tenderly;
The trailing glories of his vesture's fold,
Amber and rose, and all fair hues that be,
Float all transfigured in a sapphire sea.
In the low hedge the brown birds chirp and sing,
And the wan wild rose opes its jewelled cup
Lighting the briar; the elder blooms are white;
Where late the hawthorn stars were blossoming,
Now woodbine doth its sweet breath render up,
And the rich air grow languorous with delight.

I know a lady who at sunset fire—
O white, unsoilèd dove!—comes here to prayer,
So pure she is, the seraphs scarce were higher;
So sweet, the Summer Wind in warm desire
With fair cool fingers ruffles her soft hair.
So tender, flowers are joyful 'neath her tread;
The loving dumb things gather in her way;
The singing birds from her white hands are fed.
Drop down, O Music, into silence grey!
She comes, my love, my love; O fairer than the day!
She kneels; the light from the rose-window rolled
Streams o'er her burnished hair and fair grand brows,
Staining her white robe with auroral dyes.
Now could I fall and kiss her garments' fold,
And tell her all my love and all my vows,—
Ah! the sweet wonder in her lovely eyes.

THE DEAD PATRIOT.

THE LATE A. M. SULLIVAN.

Sunday, October 19, 1884.

All the morn the wan, white mist is creeping
Round the fair, grey city, and the rain
Falls unceasing, the wild clouds are weeping
Tears of pain.

Pain is in the air; the year is dying—
Pain is on the faces of the crowd;
One, the country's well-beloved, is lying
In his shroud.

Just without the city's noise and clamour,
From its fret and turmoil set apart,
He is lying in a lighted chamber,
The true heart!

With his thin hands folded from their reaping,
And the clear peace on the brave, dead face,
That hath gained, it seems, in this pale sleeping,
Some new grace.

Out of doors the dreary rain is streaming
On the marred gold of the autumn leaves,
And the fair wide fields no longer gleaming
With the sheaves.

On the kindly shamrocks that to-morrow
Shall be pillow to the good, grey head,
These shall fold him—he shall know no sorrow,
Being dead.

Two days since his feet were set for heaven,
Strong, and pure, and great, and free from strife—
Unto God and kin and country given
The white life.

To all noble things devoted solely,
So he strays in fields of asphodel—
Underneath the smile of God most holy
Faring well.

A while since, when life was near its ending,
Like strong angels' swords, his grand words came—
Christ's fair honour holding and defending,
And His name.

O! be sure the dear Lord came to meet him!
This true knight who did His cause espouse,
Bending down, with glad, sweet words, to greet him
To His house.

Here on earth some lonely hearts are bursting
With the stress of agony and pain,
Just for one word from the dead lips thirsting,
And in vain.

Did this trouble him in his long dying,
Thoughts of his fair, noble wife's despair,
Echoes of his little children crying?
God will care.

Peace, dear heart! be not disturbed in heaven,
Keep the joy-light still upon your brow—
These, your own beloved on Thursday even,
Ireland's now.

Ah, our exile! what strange prescience taught you
To come back, and seek your mother's breast,
To your own wild, lovely country brought you
For your rest?

When you came to us this last dead summer,
With the laughing winds and sapphire sky,
Could we tell we welcomed our home-comer
Just to die?

If we saw the guest that came beside you,
Underneath the happy sky of blue—
If we guessed what fate would soon betide you,
If we knew!

If we only knew your way was wending
To that country, lonely and apart,
To what fair, new path your feet were tending!
Loyal heart!

We had not let you go from us unheeding—
We had prayed our hearts out for your stay,
Kissed your hands with tears of love and pleading,
True alway!

KING COPHETUA'S QUEEN.

Here shall we stay. The terrace walk is cool;
Yonder thy palace towers rise silver-clear;
From the dim city, grey and beautiful,
Snatches of song we hear.

'Tis a dream city, stretching fair and wide;
Surely mine eyes have seen it in a dream—
So, with frail spires transfigured, glorified,
In a last late rose gleam.

So, were the hill's brows touched with solemn gold,
So, kingly purpled lay their flanks at rest;
The blue small lakes in those grey arms are cold
Like flowers on a dead breast.

So, in a trailing glory passed the sun
To lands of spice and odours whence he came;
The far faint hyacinth pastures gloom to dun
Where late his feet were flame.

And the night comes with misty glimmering feet
Wet from wan waterways in some cool world,
Shadowed and still; and where her heart doth beat
A crescent moon lies curled.

Lovely large stars are in her dewy hands,
Lilies are these she scatters as she goes,
The pale high flowers—her purple meadow lands
Are blooming with their snows.

Sweet blows the wind— Ah, love! the night is sweet
Because thy fair dusk face looks down on me;
Lover and lord and king! low at thy feet
Were a meet place to be.

Not on thy breast. O wonderful grave eyes!
That drew me all my days to this one day,
Lighting my feet to thy love's mysteries
Through moonless nights and grey.

I kiss these hands that brought to one forlorn
Thy strong love's frankincense and gold and myrrh,
Making her rich, and filled with oil and corn
The empty heart of her.

Love! I had thirst, and thou hast given to me
Thy life's red wine-cup for my full delight,
I am grown strong, and fair exceedingly
In my beloved's sight.

Surely thy kingliness my brow hath crowned;
Thy love's rare mantle, with its golden sheen
And purple wrought with lilies, wraps me round,
Robing me like a queen.

This day when thy hands crowned me I was proud,
And paled no whit, nor shook, nor fell to tears,
Seeing but thee through rushing waters loud
That surged about mine ears.

Thy courtiers smiled to see the beggar girl,
An hour's queen, bear herself so queenly wise,
I did not see them glint in rose and pearl—
I only saw thine eyes.

Ah, my fair king! these light lords could not know
How thy love's power hath made me fair and great,
How that thine arms have raised me high enow
Even for thine own estate.

Love! is it years or days since first thy call
Found me, with folded flowers and sleeping birds,
Dreaming in a grey dawn-world, mystical,
And waked me with sweet words?

I was a small pale thing through all my years,
Loving full well the fair enchanted woods,
The innocent flowers, and little pearl-pure meres
In the dreamy solitudes.

I was the child of the forest and the sky,
My kith and kin the wood's small creatures were,
The bright-eyed birds and the squirrels wild and shy,
Loving me had no fear.

And when I slept, all night the trees bent low,
Crooning a wind-song and the sea-sweet rain
Touched my thin cheek with fingers, soft and slow,
That went and came again.

Then the day's smile; and from a nest anear,
A sleek brown head would peep to see it break,
And a gold throat would sudden carol clear,
And the fairy world would wake.

Once, with the dawn's feet, came a mighty tread;
The brown things shivered, and against the grey,
Lo! two great eyes within a lion's head,
That looked and turned away.

Like a sea-world at noon the sweet shades grew
Green, through the pale leaves streamed the strong gold light,
And far o'erhead, in the misty blinding blue,
A wondrous sun burned white.

Once by a stream I made my brown feet wet,
And gemmed my hair with drops, and laughed to see
How from the clear heart of the rivulet
Mine own eyes gazed at me.

Then gloomed a woman in the woodland path.
I trembled, she was fierce and old and grand.
She spake, “For thee, a crown the future hath
In a far distant land.”

And passed, and to my dreams that night there came
One with proud passionate face and dusky hair,
Who kissed my mouth, and wept, and called my name;
His eyes were grave and fair.

“Ah, love!” he said, “thy lover waits for thee;
Far to the South, he yearns to see thy face.
Arise, the high gods guide thee graciously
Unto his dwelling-place.”

Then I awoke, and in the grey wood heard
The dews drop from the branches, and the leaves
Shiver before the dawn; a small wind stirred
Amid the grassy sheaves.

Just for an instant stood I in the spot,
Seeing through some slow tears the brightening ways,
Tears for the blind old days that knew thee not,
The happy blind old days.

And so to southward turned from the kindly wood
To the wide plain, grown gold with swaying corn;
I marvel if the brown birds understood
That I was lost that morn.

A sad-eyed woman, in a happy vale,
Kissed me, and wept, and fain would have me stay,
Because her little daughter, pure and pale,
Had died but yesterday;

And since I would not, washed my feet with care,
And kissed the bleeding wounds the thorns had made,
And gave me food, and on my shoulders bare
A warm grey mantle laid.

And as I went, thine eyes starred all the way,
Their sudden splendours made my heart rejoice,
And in mine ears rang clear the livelong day
The gold notes of thy voice.

So did I hear the birds sing in the bowers,
Where no birds were or bowers, in the desert blind,
And walked knee-deep in blooming meadow-flowers,
Blown by a cool wet wind;

And went right joyously, with festal tread,
And moist, glad eyes, till, lo! this morn I came
To where thy palace windows gleamed to red,
Fronting the eastward flame;

And waited with the beggars at the gate,
Hiding my face with my long hair unbound,
That coiling crept, and trailed its yellow weight
Over me to the ground.

Then in that hour some bird's voice in me stirred,
And of a sudden I began to sing
Some happy fair old lay, that once I heard
At dawn when forests ring.

On all the listening crowd there fell a hush,
It swayed and surged a little, and grew still,
And from the pleasaunce near a love-lorn thrush
Answered me trill for trill.

Then mine eyes saw a glint of arms and spears,
A stately pageantry came riding by,
Glittering in gold and gems, and to mine ears
Was borne a sudden cry:

“The King! the King!” I trembled and grew white.
The crowd fell back, and, lo! one came apace
Clad all in gold, a marvellous fair knight,
And lifted up my face

From out my hair, with whispered words of fire,
And kissed the mouth and eyes and brows of me.
I looked. It was the face of my Desire
Mine eyes were raised to see!

Fair as a god's, and passionate as the South,
Thy face, beloved! that looks upon me now
With grave sweet eyes, and tender smileless mouth,
A king's crown on the brow.

Ah! the fair face grown pale for loss of me!
Long were the years, while we two walked apart,
Waiting this dawn; but now my place shall be
On this most loyal heart.

My brown hands stroke thy hair's dusk silken grace.
Love! so within thine arms 'twere well to die;
I would be warm within Death's stark embrace
With this hour's memory.

Now the night wraps us round; the last lights wane.
Hush, love! dost hear the passionate nightingale
Pour to the stars the burden of his pain?
Hearing it I grow pale.

Kiss me once more, my king, and find me sweet.
We are alone beneath the mystic sky,
Hand clasped in hand, and heart-beat to heart-beat,
Together, thou and I.

THE DEAD CHRIST.

Three days in the sepulchre,
Silent as the patient dead,
One was lying still and fair.
Years of years! and overhead
Spun the world's cry up through air,
Fell from Heaven unanswerèd.

Was the sleep so very sweet,
In the silence, cool and dim,
Draping Him from head to feet,
Holding weary heart and limb
Moveless in the winding-sheet,
While the world cried out on Him?

Cried upon a heedless Christ,
Silent in the dead man's place,

With no mind to turn and list,
With the death upon His face,
And the lips the traitor kissed
Fair and frozen in their grace.

In His Father's house on high
It had been another thing.
The wild joy had passed him by;
For His smile the seraphs sing.
He is listening steadfastly
For the snapping of a string,

When a human heart, unmeet
For the sorrow and the need,
Breaks a-sudden at His feet,
He will gather it with speed.
This, His harvest, wide and sweet,
Smoking flax and bruisèd reed.

These are His, to have and hold;
And he waits long hours together
By the gates of carven gold
For the cries that come up hither,
From the lost ones of his fold,
Wandering in the windy weather.

Nay, the surer help to render,
This Good Shepherd leaveth oft
His fair Heaven, nor rues its splendour,
If he hears the bleating soft
Of a young lamb, weak and tender,
Strayed to some far vale or croft.

Who hath trod the ways of pain
Hath not met Him in the gloom,
Coming swiftly through the rain?
Hath not prayed to see Him come?
Many a weary head hath lain
On His breast and found it home.

Who shall cry, and He not hear?
When the night comes down in dread,
Lo! He standeth very near.
“Child of Mine, be not afraid;
In Mine arms you shall not fear,
In My hands your hands are laid.”

If He turn His face away,
Never answering a word,
When for some ill boon we pray,
And his lips with pain be stirred,

Blessed be His Name for aye,
For the prayers He hath not heard!

We shall find these otherwhere,
Garnered up by love divine;
Some day lips too dry for prayer,
Hands too weak to pour the wine,
Shall be given to drink and bear
Vintage of an older vine.

But the earth sore travailing
While the Christ was lying dead!
Not a bird might dare to sing,
Gloomed a lurid sun and red,
Day and night the thundering
Of the Lord's wrath overhead.

And the world's cry, desolate,
Like a sad grey, wounded bird,
Beating wild at Heaven's gate,
And One speaking not a word;
Like a dead King keeping state,
With his tender heart unstirred.

A TIRED HEART.

Dear Lord! if one should some day come to Thee,
Weary exceedingly, and poor, and worn,
With bleeding feet sore-pierced of many a thorn,
And lips athirst, and eyes too tired to see,
And, falling down before Thy face, should say:
“Lord, my day counts but as an idle day,
My hands have garnered fruit of no fair tree,
Empty am I of stores of oil and corn,
Broken am I and utterly forlorn,
Yet in Thy vineyard hast Thou room for me?”
Wouldst turn Thy face away?
Nay, Thou wouldst lift Thy lost sheep tenderly.

“Lord! Thou art pale, as one that travaileth,
And Thy wounds bleed where feet and hands were riven;

Thou hast lain all these years, in balms of Heaven,
Since Thou wert broken in the arms of Death,
And these have healed not!” “Child! be comforted.
I trod the winepress where thy feet have bled;
Yea, on the Cross, I cried with mighty breath,
Thirsting for thee, whose love was elsewhere given,
I, God, have followed thee from dawn to even,
With yearning heart, by many a moor and heath,
My sheep that wanderèd!
Now on My breast, Mine arm its head beneath.”

Then, if this stricken one cried out to Thee,
“Now mine eyes see that Thou art passing fair,
And Thy face marred of men beyond compare,”
And so should fall to weeping bitterly,
With, “Lord, I longed for other love than Thine,
And my feet followed earthly lovers fine,
Turning from where Thy gaze entreated me;
Now these grow cold, and wander otherwhere,
And I, heart-empty, poor, and sick, and bare,
Loved of no lover, turn at last to Thee;”—
Wouldst stretch Thine hands divine,
And stroke the bowed head very pityingly?

“Will not My love suffice, though great thy pain?”
“Ah, Lord! all night without a lighted house,
While some within held revel and carouse,
My lost heart wandered in the wind and rain,
And moaned unheard amid the tempest's din.”
“Peace, peace! if one had oped to let thee in,
Perchance this hour were lost for that hour's gain;
Wouldst thou have sought Me then, with thy new vows?
Ah, child! I too, with bleeding feet and brows,
Knocked all the night at a heart's door in vain,
And saw the dawn begin,
On My gold head the dews have left a stain.”

WANDERERS.

Ah, my beloved! my best is all your due
Always—my love, and faith, and loyalty.
And in your gain so very poor am I,
What marvel that my thoughts, grown recreant too,
Should seek a happier resting-place with you!
Leaving a wintry heart and waning sky,
Flying across the world as swallows fly
To a new summer, and new skies of blue.
I wonder will you know them when they come,
Fanning your face and hair with homeless wings,
Drifting in some grey storm-hour to your breast!
Ah! will you take them with glad murmurings,
And stroke the wet wings, faint with wind and foam,
And lay them in your heart, and bid them rest?

A DAY OF FROST.

The King, that speedeth from a northern land,
With shining robe bedight with many a gem
And gleam and flash of jewelled diadem,
O'er the grey world hath waved his magic wand;
And where the sodden earth showed bare and brown,
A rare regalia he hath shaken down.

Tenderly doth he touch the dear dead leaves,
Tremulous once, and fair, and paly-green,
But now down-fallen, have lost their fairy sheen,
Ah, what a change his gentle magic weaves!
The deathly robe, and dark, each late did wear,
Is meshed with shimmering silver, fine and fair.

Every bare bough's a-glitter. Hush! I hear
From yon stark tree a gush of melody.

Sing out, my birdie! I rejoice with thee,
Whose heart is light, for that the air is clear,
Shines a gold sun, and sapphire is the sky,
Though rose-crowned June be many a month gone by.

Down in the earth—hush! clamorous bird of mine!—
Are strange things stirring. Bright elves out of sight
Fashion this hour king's goblets gold and white,
Shapely and carven fair to hold the wine.
Soon wilt thou see, some morn, rise fairly up
The snowdrop chalice and the crocus cup.

Sing, then, and sway, and close thine eyes to sing!
Dream that June's sun is slanting goldenly
In on thy soft brown sleeping mate, and thee,
And the small heads beneath the mother's wing.
O, the long singing days, the love at home,
When the wan wild rose of the June hath come!

WAITING.

In a grey cave, where comes no glimpse of sky,
Set in the blue hill's heart full many a mile,
Having the dripping stone for canopy,
Missing the wind's laugh and the good sun's smile,
I, Fionn, with all my sleeping warriors lie.

In the great outer cave our horses are,
Carved of grey stone, with heads erect, amazed,
Purple their trappings, gold each bolt and bar,
One fore foot poised, the quivering thin ears raised;
Methinks they scent the battle from afar.

A frozen hound lies by each warrior's feet,
Ah, Bran, my jewel! Bran, my king of hounds!
Deep-throated art thou, mighty flanked, and fleet;
Dost thou remember how with giant bounds
Did'st chase the red deer in the noontide heat?

I was a king in ages long ago,
A mighty warrior, and a seer likewise,
Still mine eyes look with solemn gaze of woe
From stony lids adown the centuries,
And in my frozen heart I know, I know.

A giant I, of a primeval race,
These, great-limbed, bearing helm and shield and sword,
My good knights are, and each still awful face
Will one day wake to knowledge at a word—
O'erhead the groaning years turn round apace.

Here with the peaceful dead we keep our state;
Some day a cry shall ring adown the lands;
“The hour is come, the hour grown large with fate.”
He knows who hath the centuries in His hands
When that shall be—till then we watch and wait.

The queens that loved us, whither be they gone,
The sweet, large women with the hair as gold,
As though one drew long threads from out the sun?
Ages ago, grown tired, and very cold,
They fell asleep beneath the daisies wan.

The waving woods are gone that once we knew,
And towns grown grey with years are in their place;
A little lake, as innocent and blue
As my queen's eyes were, lifts a baby face
Where once my palace towers were fair to view.

The fierce old gods we hailed with worshipping,
The blind old gods, waxed mad with sin and blood,
Laid down their godhead as an idle thing
At a God's feet, whose throne was but a Rood,
His crown wrought thorns, His joy long travailing.

Here in the gloom I see it all again,
As ages since in visions mystical
I saw the swaying crowds of fierce-eyed men,
And heard the murmurs in the judgment hall,
O, for one charge of my dark warriors then!

Nay, if He willed, His Father presently
Twelve star-girt legions unto Him had given.
I traced the blood-stained path to Calvary,
And heard far off the angels weep in Heaven;
Then the Rood's arms against an awful sky.

I saw Him when they pierced Him, hands and feet,
And one came by and smote Him, this new King,
So pale and harmless, on the tired face, sweet;
He was so lovely, and so pitying,
The icy heart in me began to beat.

Then a strong cry—the mountain heaved and swayed
That held us in its heart, the groaning world
Was reft with lightning, and in ruins laid,
His Father's awful hand the red bolts hurled,
And He was dead—I trembled, sore afraid.

Then I upraised myself with mighty strain
In the gloom, I heard the tumult rage without,
I saw those large dead faces glimmer plain,
The life just stirred within them and went out,
And I fell back, and grew to stone again.

So the years went—on earth how fleet they be,
Here in this cave their feet are slow of pace,
And I grow old, and tired exceedingly,
I would the sweet earth were my dwelling-place—
Shamrocks and little daisies wrapping me!

There I should lie, and feel the silence sweet
As a meadow at noon, where birds sing in the trees,
To mine ears should come the patter of little feet,
And baby cries, and croon of summer seas,
And the wind's laughter in the upland wheat.

Meantime, o'erhead the years were full and bright,
With a kind sun, and gold wide fields of corn;
The happy children sang from morn to night,
The blessed church bells rang, new arts were born,
Strong towns rose up and glimmered fair and white.

Once came a wind of conflict, fierce as hail,
And beat about my brows: on the eastward shore,
Where never since the Vikings' dark ships sail,
All day the battle raged with mighty roar;
At night the victor's fair dead face was pale.

Ah! the dark years since then, the anguished cry
That pierced my deaf ears, made my hard eyes weep,
From Erin wrestling in her agony,
While we, her strongest, in a helpless sleep
Lay, as the blood-stained years trailed slowly by.

And often in those years the East was drest
In phantom fires, that mocked the distant dawn,
Then blackest night—her bravest and her best
Were led to die, while I slept dumbly on,
With the whole mountain's weight upon my breast.

Once in my time, it chanced a peasant hind
Strayed to this cave. I heard, and burst my chain,
And raised my awful face stone-dead and blind,
Cried, “Is it time?” and so fell back again,
I heard his wild cry borne adown the wind.

Some hearts wait with us. Owen Roe O'Neill,
The kingliest king that ever went uncrowned,
Sleeps in his panoply of gold and steel
Ready to wake, and in the kindly ground
A many another's death-wounds close and heal.

Great Hugh O'Neill, far off in purple Rome,
And Hugh O'Donnell, in their stately tombs
Lie, with their grand fair faces turned to home:
Some day a voice will ring adown the glooms,
“Arise, ye Princes, for the hour is come!”

And these will rise, and we will wait them here,
In this blue hill-heart in fair Donegal,
That hour shall sound the clash of sword and spear,
The steeds shall neigh to hear their master's call,
And the hounds' cry shall echo shrill and clear.

Note.—This poem treats of a legend well known among the peasantry of the north of Ireland, which recounts how a band of Irish warriors of the primeval time lie in armour, and frozen in a deathly sleep, in one of the hill-caverns of the Donegal highlands, there to await the hour of Ireland's redemption, when they will come forth to do battle for her under the leadership of the giant Finn. The legend further prophesies that in the hour of victory the phantom knights and their leader will be claimed by Death, from whom they have been so long withheld, that they will receive at last burial in holy earth, and that the hill-cavern will know them no more.

TWO WAYFARERS.

One with a sudden cry
Crieth: “O Lord! and whence is this to me
That in my daily pathway I should see
Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh,
With Thy still face and fair,
And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes,
And Thy eternal arms stretched loving-wise
As on the Cross they were?

“If I had only known
How I should meet Thee this day face to face,
I had made all my life a praying-place
For this hour's sake alone:
Now am I poor indeed.
I who have gathered all things most forlorn,
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with thorn;—
See how my weak hands bleed!”

One bendeth low, and saith:
“Lo! My hands bleed likewise, and I am God.
Come, heart of Mine! wilt tread the path I trod,
The desert way of death?
Come, bleeding hands! and take
My thorns that bring new toil and weariness,
Days of grey pain, and nights of sore distress,
Come! for My great love's sake.

“Yet if thou fearest to come,
Speak! I can give thee fairest earthly things,
Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's wings,
By pleasant paths of home,
And thou wilt still be Mine.
Choose thou thy path! My way is dark, I know,
Yet through the moaning wind, and rain, and snow
My feet should go with thine.”

One groweth wan and grey,
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him,
Then he doth lift his weary eyes and dim,
With ashen lips doth say:
“With Thee the desert sands!

How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower of Pain!
Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and vain
And wringing of the hands?

“If the rose were my share,
And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine eyes
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise,
To Thine eyes dreamy fair
That muse on Calvary?
Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would say:
‘Now, heart! in what dark hour of night or day
Hast thou kept watch with Me?’”

AN ANSWER.

I said, “The year hath nothing left to bring,”
And wearied of the grey November skies,
For that I mourned for dead and vanished spring,
And rose-lit summer's flowery argosies;
For that I yearned for golden primrose days,
For tender skies, for thrush's passionate strain,
To hear again, 'mid leafy springtide ways,
The sweet small footsteps of the silvern rain.

I said, “The glory of the year is gone,
The very sunlight hath a tinge forlorn,
The spectral trees loom, desolate and wan,
Of their late regal robes bereft and shorn.
Where the white lilies plumed their radiant heads,
And the geranium flashed—a scarlet flame—
Stretch now all brown and bare the garden beds,
Dead are all fair sweet things since winter came.”

And as I spake, lo! in the glimmering West
A paly streak of stormy sunset gold,
And near me, in all beauteous colours drest
The gentle flower that fears nor frost nor cold,
The brave chrysanthemum; there, to my heart,
Said I, with joy, “Though 'tis not always May,
The bounteous mother tires not of her part,
Her strong white hands bear gifts for every day.”

FRA ANGELICO AT FIESOLE.

I.

Home through the pleasant olive woods at even
He sees the patient milk-white oxen go;
Without his lattice doves wheel to and fro,
A great moon climbs the wan green fields of heaven.
An hour since, the sun-veil whereon are graven
Gold bells and pomegranates in scarlet show
Parted, and lo! the city's spires of snow
Flushed like an opal, and the streets gold paven!
Then the night's purple fell and hid the rest,
And this monk's eyes filled with the happy tears
That come to him beholding all things fair:
A bird's flight over wan skies to the nest;
The great sad eyes of beasts, the silk wheat ears,
Flowers, or the gold dust on a baby's hair.

II.

In his small cell he hath high company,
The angels make it their abiding-place;
Their grave eternal eyes 'neath brows of grace
Watch him at work, their great wings silently
Wrap him around with peace; and it may be
That looking from his work a minute's space,
The sudden blue eyes of an angel's face
His happy startled eyes are raised to see.
Down through the shadowy corridor they glide,
Their wings auroral trailing soft and slow,
Each still face like a moon-lit lily in June;
They kiss with fair pale lips the canvas wide,
Whereon his colours like dropped jewels glow
Against a gold ground pale as the harvest moon.

EASTERTIDE.

To me sweet Easter cometh fair and bright,
Bringing exceeding joyaunce and delight,
For the new time comes, clothèd as a bride,
And the sad grey days vanish utterly;
Comes the young Spring, knee-deep in shining flowers,
And the old earth rejoiceth through the hours:
She hath forgotten her fairest ones that died,
When the fierce winter blighted flower and tree.

Somewhere while small glad waters croon a song,
And a soft wind is captive all day long,
I know the violet's feet are lately set,
And the pale primrose star of hope hath risen.
About the land the grave large hills are blue,
And the great trees grow emerald green of hue,
For now each curled babe-leaf begins to fret,
Waking and stirring in its cradle-prison.

Now from our slow delicious northern spring,
In paschal days my thoughts are wandering
Unto that Orient land, bloom-bright and warm;
Where the dear Jesus walked in days of old;
I think all things, in these dim mystic days,
Grew fair with full delight before his face,
Bloomed the grey desert, azure grew the storm,
And the skies shone in newer rose and gold.

The air was sweet with music of harp-strings,
And the white sudden flash of angels' wings,
As the high sentinels passed that guarded Him.
The birds sang faint for rapture in the sky,
The small meek flowers about His pathway lay
Flushed with desire that in some gracious day
He in His healing hands might gather them,
Or that beneath His feet their hearts might lie.

OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE.

A rustic maiden, delicately fair,
With sweet mute lips and eyes serene and mild,
That look straight sunward, while with gentle air
Clings to her side a little loving child,
Linking a chain of daisies; this is all,
And yet methinks old memories bestir
At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall,
Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her
Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall.

I see the gentle vicar, old and kind,
The good house-mother, quick to blame and praise,
All the quaint story rises to my mind,
The meadow bank that bloomed with flowering days:

And in the hay-field, now I seem to see
Olivia stand with happy downcast eyes,
Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy;
While o'er the ethereal blue of summer skies
Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully.

He sang of happy homes, who home had none,
Of sweet hearth joys whose way was lone and bleak,
And oft his voice rang out with truest tone
When wintry winds froze tears upon his cheek.
A deathless fount of joy was ever springing
From out his bright child-nature pure and sweet,
Soft comforting and surest healing bringing;
And when earth's sharpest thorns had pierced his feet
His way was gladdened with his inward singing.

THE LARK'S WAKING.

O passionate heart! before the day is born,
When the faint rose of dawn a shut bud lies,
Dost thou not wait, hid in gold spears that rise
Sweet and bejewelled with the dews of morn,
Till the low wind of daybreak in the corn
Moves all the silken ears with languorous sighs,
And the fair sun rides up the Eastern skies,
Clad in bright robes of state right kingly worn?
Then dost thou cleave the air on rapturous wing,
Where the far east, with roseate splendours fraught,
Tells that no more can night enshroud thy king,
Or the pale stars his empire set at naught—
Higher and higher, till the clear skies ring
With the wild amorous greeting thou hast brought.

CHARLES LAMB.

Dear heart! from dim Elizabethan days
Surely thy feet strayed to our garish noon;
Thou shouldst have walked beneath a yellowing moon,
In some old garden's green enchanted ways,
With Herrick and Ben Jonson; while in praise
Of his lady trilled the nightingale's full tune,—
And he grown still, these sang, 'neath skies of June,
That bent to hear, catches and roundelays.
In fair converse, thou might'st have wanderèd
With Burton's self, the master whose rare thought
Makes Melancholy glad the heart like wine;
In thy earth-day, those high compeers were dead;
How pleasant was their laughter, had they caught
The sallies of thy humour, quaint and fine!

AUGUST OR JUNE?

In the rich Autumn weather,
When royal August visits the fair land,
Coming with pomp and coloured pageantry,
Flinging around him with a lavish hand,
Gold on the gorse, and purple on the heather,
Across the land as far as eye can see,
Under his tread all yellow grows the wheat,
All purple every belt of perfumed clover,
Purple and gold, fit carpet for his feet,
This harmony of colouring and light,
And all the happy space he passes over,
Grows fruitful, fair, and pleasant to the sight.

In these luxuriant days,
Have we no sorrow for the fair June hours

We thought so sweet, the skies we deemed so blue,
The glad young world so prodigal of flowers,
Of form most perfect, and most fair of hue?
Have we forgotten all the leaf-hung ways?
Ah! never Autumn's wealth of golden dowers,
Atones for joy that all the fresh June fills,
The purple-hearted solemn passion-flowers,
The slender shafts of moon-born lilies tall,
The most fair paleness of the daffodils,
The cool June sky which beauty sheds o'er all.

FAINT-HEARTED.

I stand where two roads part:
Lord! art Thou with me in the shadows here?
I cannot lift my heavy eyes to see.
Speak to me if Thou art!
I tremble, and my heart is cold with fear;
Dark is the way Thou hast appointed me.

From the bright face of day
It winds far down a valley dark as death,
And shards and thorns await my shrinking feet;
An icy mist and grey
Comes to me, chilling me with awful breath;
How canst Thou say Thy yoke is light and sweet?

Nay, these are pale who go
Down the grey shadows; each one, tired and worn,
Bearing a cross that galleth him full sore;

And blood of this doth flow,
And that one's pallid brows are rayed with thorn,
And eyes are blind with weeping evermore.

Still they press onward fast,
And the shades compass them; now, far away,
I see a great hill shaped like Calvary;
Will they come there at last?
A reflex from some far fair perfect day
Touches the high clear faces goldenly.

Ah! yonder path is fair,
And musical with many singing birds,
Large golden fruit and rainbow-coloured flowers
The wayside branches bear;
The air is murmurous with sweet love-words,
And hearts are singing through the happy hours.

Nay, I shall look no more.
Take Thou my hands between Thy firm fair hands
And still their trembling, and I shall not weep.
Some day, the journey o'er,
My feet shall tread the still safe evening-lands,
And Thou canst give to Thy beloved, sleep.

And though Thou dost not speak,
And the mists hide Thee, now I know Thy feet
Will tread the path my feet walk wearily;
Some day the veil will break,
And sudden looking up, mine eyes shall meet
Thine eyes, and lo! Thine arms shall gather me.

THOREAU AT WALDEN.

I.

A little log-hut in the woodland dim,
A still lake, like a bit of summer sky,
On the glad heart of which great lilies lie.
“Ah!” he had said, “the Naiads, white of limb.”
In those green glooms fair shapes did come to him,
He saw a Dryad's sheeny drapery
Shimmer at dusk, he heard Pan pipe hereby
A lusty strain to fauns and satyrs grim.
For that he was fair Nature's leal knight
She loved him, taught him all her grammarye;
All the quaint secrets of her magic clime,
He heard the unborn flowers' springing footsteps light,
And the wind's whisper of the enchanted sea,
And the birds sing of love, and pairing-time.

II.

Seeking this sage in fair fraternity
Came Hawthorne here and Emerson, I know.
O happy woods, that watched them to and fro!
Thrice happy woods, that hearkened to the three!
Yet, my rare Thoreau! a thought comes to me
Of one sweet soul you missed, who long ago
Went through Assisi's streets, with eyes aglow
And worn meek face, and lips curved tenderly.
So for God's dumb things was this great heart stirred,
Called he the happy birds his sisters sweet,
The fish his brethren, blessed them, prayed with them.
Now, my sweet-hearted Pagan! had you heard,
You would have wept upon his wounded feet,
And craved a blessing from the hands of him.

A SAD YEAR.

1882.

The last month being come,
December, in sad guise of deathly white,
I counted with sore heart the sons of light
Whose wise lips had grown dumb
Since the last New Year's morn,
And thought Death's harvest had been full and wide
And fair and rich the grain his sweeping scythe
Had gathered to the barn.

Three poets died in Spring—
We wept the dear dead singer of the West,
Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast
When leaves were bourgeoning;

A poet spirit fled
From Irish shores, in Resurrection days;
And England twined wan immortelles with bays
For one beloved grey head.

And, as the year went by,
Death called our best and dearest to his feast—
Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest,
A goodly company.
The Spring's flowers waxèd pale,
Summer cast rue for roses in her path,
And the lone Autumn brought its meed of death,
And sad was Winter's tale.

And so my heart was tired
Counting the loss, and knowing not the gain.
In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain;
And who shall be inspired
To tell our hearts that weep
What gifts the sweet small hands bring far-off years?
We know but this—that “they who sow in tears
In shining joy shall reap.”

The world lost in this year Longfellow, D. F. McCarthy, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

A SONG OF SUMMER.

Oh, sweet it is in Summer,
When leaves are fair and long,
To lie amid lush, scented grass,
Where gold and grey the shadows pass,
A swift, unresting throng;
And hear low river voices
Sing o'er the shining sands,
That seem a glory garb to wear
Of emerald and jacinth rare,
The work of fairy hands;
And see afar the mountains, heaven-kissed,
Shine through the white rain's silvery-sheeted mist.

Oh, fair the balmy morning,
When gay the sun doth ride,
And white plumes sail against the blue,
And all the land is fresh with dew,

And sweet the hay-fields wide!
Yet fairer windless evening,
When the pale vesper star
Parts her long veil of dusky hair,
And looks with gentle eyes and fair
From palaces afar,
And sings the nightingale to trancèd skies
Of love and pain and all high mysteries.

A BIRD'S SONG.

Chill was the air, for yet the year was young,
Wan was the sky, the clouds were fresh with rain;
A bird, from where his small, soft nest was hung,
Sang very joyously a tender strain.
For he had seen, near where a giant oak
Stretched out its Titan branches, strong and sure,
Close-sheltered, in a quiet moss-grown nook,
A dainty April garden bloom secure.

And there he saw the sun-born crocus, tall,
Shine out in 'broidered bravery of gold;
The violet—no longer Winter's thrall—
Begin her purple mantle to unfold.
He saw the primrose star rise palely fair
From where the mosses thickly, softly grow,
And, delicately gleaming in the air,
The snowdrop's fairy robe of green and snow.

And oh, with sudden flush of life and heat,
The grey March world for him was charmed to May;
And then rang out in bird-notes, fresh and sweet,
A jocund carol in the clear cold day.
He heard the soft wind whisper from the West—
The promise of the Summer's blossoming;
And gleefully he sang out from his nest
A herald welcome to the coming Spring.

VIVIA PERPETUA IN PRISON.

A.D. 204.

Welcome, O fair new day that comes at last;
Waited and hoped for! O young hours, fly fast,
Bringing the time of my sweet sacrifice!
I know that when the morrow's sun doth rise
My place shall elsewhere be. O thought most sweet!
Before another dawn these weary feet
Shall find the jasper streets, and pass the gate
Wrought of a pearl, to where the Christ doth wait
For His beloved ones.

Lord, Thou hearest me!
Dost Thou not know it hath seemed good to Thee
Of late to try, oft and in many ways,
Thy servant's heart? Oh, sorrowing nights and days,
When Thy love seemed far off, my soul hath known!
Have I not suffered anguish, when mine own,

Those whom I love, had drawn me by my love
Back to their gods; and when to Thee above
I cried for help, Thou didst not hear my cry,
And Thy sweet heaven seemed brass, while wearily
Alone I wrestled with mine anguish sore
Through the long days and nights? The babe I bore,
The little babe I love, that came from Thee,
To grow into my heart, they brought to me
To tempt me, with its baby cry of pain
And baby kiss. Oh, my heart broke in twain!
Yet I did turn away, and hid my face,
And wound my trembling arms in strong embrace
Round Thy dead piercèd feet; nor looked again
Till they grew weary tempting, and were fain
To leave me. But the night came on with speed,
And these who suffer with me, these indeed
My dear-loved friends in Thee, did slumber sweet,
When on the dark I saw, with anguished beat
Of my sad heart, my baby's form arise
And stretch weak hands to me, and baby cries
Came to me through the silence, and I fell
Upon the dank ground of this loathly cell;
And my soul wrestled with my heart with might,
The while upon the dark the livelong night

100

The phantom thing rose up that sought my soul,
And I cried out to Thee, “Lord, keep me whole;
Lord, save me from this sight,” until with morn
It vanished. Yet this anguish have I borne
Through all the nights since then, and wished me dead,
At rest; but now Thou hast rememberèd!
For lo! last night, when the high city streets
Were pale with moonlight, and the sea that meets
Our shores, a new white moon-world gleamed an shone,
Seemed the grey towers of our Carthage grown
To carven silver, I did kneel and pray,
And saw the while a pitiful moon-ray
Steal through the dark, and light the fearsome place,
When lo! a wondrous light, as from God's face,
So passing bright it was, filled all the air:
Then saw I where a ladder high and fair,
Made of the precious gold, did lift its head
Into the clouds of heaven, and shapes of dread
Dragons at foot thereof did vomit fire
And flame and smoke, and things of torture dire
Each step encompassed, knife and gleaming sword,
To fright who would ascend; and then I heard

101

A voice, so sweet my very heartstrings moved,
Call to me, once, twice, thrice—“My best beloved,
Come, My Perpetua, come; thy Lover waits;”
And knew Thy voice, O Lord! from heaven's gates.
Then passed I by the dragon's mouth of flame,
With Jesu, Jesu, Jesu, and the Name
Stilled the foul beast, and with unfaltering feet
Clomb I the straitened stair; nor feared to meet
The piercing knives, for when the flesh had shrieked
The spirit leaped and sang, and nothing recked
Of earthly pains, and last I came to where
Celestial fields did bloom, and pale and fair
My Lover came, with bleeding hands outspread,
And both were pierced, and on His kingly head
Bare He a thorny crown, and, oh! He spake
Such words to me, this heart methought did break
Forth from my breast to pass away to Him,
And with the happy tears mine eyes were dim.
Then gave He fair white food to me to eat,
Which I did taste, and found so wondrous sweet
Lo! on the ground I fell, and all things passed.
And when to things of earth my soul at last
Wakened, within the cell, 'twas nigh the morn,
And pallid looked each sleeping face forlorn,

102

And chill the air, and all the place did fill
The dying moonlight, silvery and still.

And now the day comes, as an Eastern king,
With jewelled pomp and brave apparelling
Of gold and sapphire! O thou day of bliss!
O sweet fair day! was ever day like this;
This day that sees my bridal hour draw near?
Sweet joy fills all my heart; all thoughts of fear
Have vanished, and I know by Thy sweet word
Some day, some hour, that Thou wilt bring me, Lord,
My child—grown whiter, sweeter; yet my child!
And now I wait Thy presence fair and mild.
Call Thy poor bride, who, from her poverty,
Has only tears and love to bring to Thee;
And let her lay her gifts beneath Thy feet,
Perchance to find them some day, rich and sweet,
Glowing like gems, in everlasting years;
For love may shine as rubies, and pale tears
Become as rare sweet pearls before Thy throne.
Now haste, dear Lord, the dark hour that comes on,
The fierce, wild torture, borne a little space,
And then—the Palm, the Crown, the Bridegroom's face!