 | A Child of the People |  |
63
SOUL SONGS.
65
[O God, I have striven to grasp a straw]
“What know we greater than the soul?”
I.
O God, I have striven to grasp a straw
Whirled from Thy central mystery,—
Some merest fragment of Thy law,
To bring me somehow nearer Thee:
Whirled from Thy central mystery,—
Some merest fragment of Thy law,
To bring me somehow nearer Thee:
To give me foothold but to span
A moment of Thy wealth of years,
Who drinkest up the life of man,—
Whose heart-throbs keep alive the spheres.
A moment of Thy wealth of years,
Who drinkest up the life of man,—
Whose heart-throbs keep alive the spheres.
Star after star floats up the sky;
They sing in rapture as they go.
I hear; they know no more than I;
They are contented not to know.
They sing in rapture as they go.
I hear; they know no more than I;
They are contented not to know.
The secrets of the world I probe;
Nature and all her laws are dumb.
Saith the great heart-voice of the globe,—
“From thine own soul must knowledge come.”
Nature and all her laws are dumb.
Saith the great heart-voice of the globe,—
“From thine own soul must knowledge come.”
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I search my soul, but find no key
To unlock the door shut fast on Him.
The whole world murmurs, “Where is He?”
Is the voice His, when storms grow grim?
To unlock the door shut fast on Him.
The whole world murmurs, “Where is He?”
Is the voice His, when storms grow grim?
I were content with any mite
Of knowledge, for the sky is black
With hungry wolf-hounds, born of night,
And Death is hard upon the track;
Of knowledge, for the sky is black
With hungry wolf-hounds, born of night,
And Death is hard upon the track;
And I am as a little child
That feebly gropes along the wall,
A moment walks, then totters wild,
And thrusts blind hands to meet its fall,
That feebly gropes along the wall,
A moment walks, then totters wild,
And thrusts blind hands to meet its fall,
And cannot rise, and night is nigh,
And spectres gibber in the grey,
And the destroyer, passing by,
Will find me fall'n across the way.
And spectres gibber in the grey,
And the destroyer, passing by,
Will find me fall'n across the way.
II.
Year after year fulfils the word
God spake of it when speech was new,
'Mid storms and thunder-throbs that stirred
The roots of order through and through.
God spake of it when speech was new,
'Mid storms and thunder-throbs that stirred
The roots of order through and through.
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His finger thrills along the nerves
Of space that weave the worlds in one.
His changeless will nor shrinks nor swerves
To wreck a star, to spare a sun.
Of space that weave the worlds in one.
His changeless will nor shrinks nor swerves
To wreck a star, to spare a sun.
How then shall man, with half a day
To build his flimsy walls of thought,
Hem in a God with hands of clay,
Whose footfall shivers worlds to nought,—
To build his flimsy walls of thought,
Hem in a God with hands of clay,
Whose footfall shivers worlds to nought,—
Unveil the heart o' the universe,
And dwarf it to his human mind?
Before the prime there came the curse
Of Time on us, and made us blind
And dwarf it to his human mind?
Before the prime there came the curse
Of Time on us, and made us blind
To all beyond the grasp of sense.
We drift upon creation's round,
Nor know what wave of consequence,
God-driven, hath caught us, whither bound.
We drift upon creation's round,
Nor know what wave of consequence,
God-driven, hath caught us, whither bound.
Yet once, may be, the soul may burst
Her bonds in some ecstatic hour,
When years of tireless toil have nursed
Closed buds of knowledge into flower:—
Her bonds in some ecstatic hour,
When years of tireless toil have nursed
Closed buds of knowledge into flower:—
Gaze blenchless through the mist and mark
Faint gleams of swiftly flying feet,—
Far lightnings flooding all the dark
Inwards toward God's world-circled seat!
Faint gleams of swiftly flying feet,—
Far lightnings flooding all the dark
Inwards toward God's world-circled seat!
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Back shrinks the soul! the gleam is gone;
Through rifts of cloud night oozes gloom.
Down her dim path the earth spins on,
And, darkling, we fulfil our doom.
Through rifts of cloud night oozes gloom.
Down her dim path the earth spins on,
And, darkling, we fulfil our doom.
III.
Slow swings the earth round her own core,
Swift swings the earth about the sun,
Nor rests from either evermore
Till God hath thundered, “It is done!”
Swift swings the earth about the sun,
Nor rests from either evermore
Till God hath thundered, “It is done!”
But lo, this human heart of mine,
That whirls with every gust of sin;
That fain would follow Love divine
In cycling flight till Life begin;
That whirls with every gust of sin;
That fain would follow Love divine
In cycling flight till Life begin;
Yet fain would taste of earthly love,
And win the goal of earthly fame;
And hath its idols, and would prove
Each one a god till turned to shame;
And win the goal of earthly fame;
And hath its idols, and would prove
Each one a god till turned to shame;
And follows every wandering fire
That seems a beacon in the mist;
And deems some unknown faith were higher
Than that whose God's lips Judas kissed;
That seems a beacon in the mist;
And deems some unknown faith were higher
Than that whose God's lips Judas kissed;
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And throbs to every faith men hold,
And knows not what itself believes;
Gleans from all creeds chance shreds of gold,
And thence its motley garment weaves.
And knows not what itself believes;
Gleans from all creeds chance shreds of gold,
And thence its motley garment weaves.
Yet this it hath, O God, and this
Is vain;—a will to find out Thee
And die, Thy raiment's hem to kiss,
Scorched with the blasts of Deity!
Is vain;—a will to find out Thee
And die, Thy raiment's hem to kiss,
Scorched with the blasts of Deity!
But Thou art hidden, and my heart,
Blinded with searching, calls in vain,
“Wilt Thou not show me where Thou art?”
Storms shout my anguish back again.
Blinded with searching, calls in vain,
“Wilt Thou not show me where Thou art?”
Storms shout my anguish back again.
Until the silences of space
Break up and, shrivelling, leave Thee bare,
My soul must sorrow in its place,
Whirled on its pivot of despair.
Break up and, shrivelling, leave Thee bare,
My soul must sorrow in its place,
Whirled on its pivot of despair.
70
[Strange isolation hath the soul]
I.
Strange isolation hath the soul;
A germ which God informs with breath,
Whence thought and will evolve a whole,—
A circle broadening into death.
A germ which God informs with breath,
Whence thought and will evolve a whole,—
A circle broadening into death.
Viewless, yet visible through flesh;
Forging deep-shrined, self-ruling laws;
Fain oft to burst her bounding mesh,
Updrawn toward her primal Cause;
Forging deep-shrined, self-ruling laws;
Fain oft to burst her bounding mesh,
Updrawn toward her primal Cause;
Oft, self-involved, constrained to dwell
Sole warder of the gates of sense,
Lord of her life-ramped citadel,
Till death shall scale its last defence.
Sole warder of the gates of sense,
Lord of her life-ramped citadel,
Till death shall scale its last defence.
Sitting alone, she broods in tears
On many a half-remembered sight,
Which, ere she measured life by years,
Made splendour in her primal night.
On many a half-remembered sight,
Which, ere she measured life by years,
Made splendour in her primal night.
This body she is bound unto
She chose, whom her own thoughts consumed,
To blossom into action through:—
But gone the God-light that illumed.
She chose, whom her own thoughts consumed,
To blossom into action through:—
But gone the God-light that illumed.
71
She with her greatness bought her gains;
Strange grows the Heaven's eternal law:
Now nothing unto her remains
But shadows of the things she saw.
Strange grows the Heaven's eternal law:
Now nothing unto her remains
But shadows of the things she saw.
Sure but of one thing,—“I am I!
I think, act, feel, desire, apart;
To me, I am God's mystery,
And the world's centre is my heart!”
I think, act, feel, desire, apart;
To me, I am God's mystery,
And the world's centre is my heart!”
Yet some self-knowledge hath she won,
Whence self-contempt. She knows what fires
Flame where still streams were wont to run;
She shudders at her own desires.
Whence self-contempt. She knows what fires
Flame where still streams were wont to run;
She shudders at her own desires.
She sits as one round whom are hurled
The remnants of a harried feast,
'Mid jumbled creeds of all the world,—
Creeds of which she alone is priest;—
The remnants of a harried feast,
'Mid jumbled creeds of all the world,—
Creeds of which she alone is priest;—
Hopes, visions, dreams, imaginings,
Birth-blighted all. Her frosty eyes
Stare stonily past all these things,
To see a dawn adown the skies
Birth-blighted all. Her frosty eyes
Stare stonily past all these things,
To see a dawn adown the skies
Steal out beneath the skirts of grey,
And set the sombre heavens astir.
Then will she wake, and laugh away
This ghost of life that haunteth her.
And set the sombre heavens astir.
Then will she wake, and laugh away
This ghost of life that haunteth her.
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II.
I heard an echo falling down
The steep where sang the quiet stars,
Into the hot heart of the town,
Foul with its festering sores and scars,—
An echo that had burst God's bars,
Sweet as the reed-throat bird of brown.
The steep where sang the quiet stars,
Into the hot heart of the town,
Foul with its festering sores and scars,—
An echo that had burst God's bars,
Sweet as the reed-throat bird of brown.
It came, a message to my soul,
Mad with her doubtings of the creeds,
And hungry search from pole to pole
For God made manifest by deeds;—
Crutchless amid her broken reeds
Wherewith lame feet might reach the goal.
Mad with her doubtings of the creeds,
And hungry search from pole to pole
For God made manifest by deeds;—
Crutchless amid her broken reeds
Wherewith lame feet might reach the goal.
A voice, myself with being banned
While still the soul was body-free;
Now, captive in a stranger land,
I hear it sigh along the sea.
The strain has second birth in me:
The words I cannot understand.
While still the soul was body-free;
Now, captive in a stranger land,
I hear it sigh along the sea.
The strain has second birth in me:
The words I cannot understand.
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Backward to grasp my thought I strain;
In life's dim light, I lose the clue:
Yet but to hear my soul's refrain
Thrilling the darkness through and through,
Wakes half a hope the dream is true
That life from death may something gain.
In life's dim light, I lose the clue:
Yet but to hear my soul's refrain
Thrilling the darkness through and through,
Wakes half a hope the dream is true
That life from death may something gain.
III.
What gain, alas? A permanence
Of aimless being all unknit,
Lopped of the grappling arms of sense
Wherewith the worlds were caught to it?
Of aimless being all unknit,
Lopped of the grappling arms of sense
Wherewith the worlds were caught to it?
The soul a waif upon the tide
That storms along eternity?
Is this the end of all her pride
Of power, her half-divine degree?
That storms along eternity?
Is this the end of all her pride
Of power, her half-divine degree?
Or shall she slumber, vision-fed,
Penned torpid in her body-shroud,
Hearing the thunder overhead
Boom in the bosom of a cloud,
Penned torpid in her body-shroud,
Hearing the thunder overhead
Boom in the bosom of a cloud,
A voice that saddens all her dreams?
Yet bounding to God's pulse, that runs
Through all His balanced worlds, and streams
His life-blood into furthest suns,
Yet bounding to God's pulse, that runs
Through all His balanced worlds, and streams
His life-blood into furthest suns,
74
She strikes her vigour up the clod,
And bursts in blossom on the plain;
Then, with a waning sense of God,
Drones in her deathly dreams again.
And bursts in blossom on the plain;
Then, with a waning sense of God,
Drones in her deathly dreams again.
Oh, better far did Death make end
Of soul and body and have done,
Than that Eternity should lend
Her years to death-in-life begun,—
Of soul and body and have done,
Than that Eternity should lend
Her years to death-in-life begun,—
A dying fire that will not die,
Red-hearted 'mid its embers still!
Up then, doomed soul, give God the lie,
Mock, dare, defy Him; He may kill!
Red-hearted 'mid its embers still!
Up then, doomed soul, give God the lie,
Mock, dare, defy Him; He may kill!
Better that thou shouldst rot than rust.
When life has grown a barren thing,
And thought is stifled in the dust
That chokes its baffled water-spring,
When life has grown a barren thing,
And thought is stifled in the dust
That chokes its baffled water-spring,
And not the will remains to urge
The flagging wheels of action on,
Pray God to cast thee o'er the verge
Of being, blessed to be gone!
The flagging wheels of action on,
Pray God to cast thee o'er the verge
Of being, blessed to be gone!
Gain! if she deemed life ended so,
The soul that groans for God's embrace
And portion in His life, would throw
His gift of being in His face!
The soul that groans for God's embrace
And portion in His life, would throw
His gift of being in His face!
75
[The ripe fruit swung, dainty and fair]
I.
The ripe fruit swung, dainty and fair,
Islanded in the autumn air:
Wind-wavelets surged against the stem.
The ripe fruit lay, yellow and red,
Rotting upon the garden-bed:
Death claimeth tithe of them.
Islanded in the autumn air:
Wind-wavelets surged against the stem.
The ripe fruit lay, yellow and red,
Rotting upon the garden-bed:
Death claimeth tithe of them.
The seedling maggot at the core
Leapt, while the sun at every pore
Drank dry the life that walled it round.
A maiden, come to count the crop,
Sighed sadly, “How the apples drop!”
And left it on the ground.
Leapt, while the sun at every pore
Drank dry the life that walled it round.
A maiden, come to count the crop,
Sighed sadly, “How the apples drop!”
And left it on the ground.
The wind wailed o'er it half a breath,—
“My fingers on thy stalk were death;
For love of mine how all unfit!”
Shrills there to thee, O soul, no cry,—
“Windfall of time!—Eternity?
Fool, what would'st thou with It?”
“My fingers on thy stalk were death;
For love of mine how all unfit!”
Shrills there to thee, O soul, no cry,—
“Windfall of time!—Eternity?
Fool, what would'st thou with It?”
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II.
Oft as the footstep of my thought
Grows firm upon a higher stair,
I deem the lesson clearer taught,
No boundless life the soul could bear.
Grows firm upon a higher stair,
I deem the lesson clearer taught,
No boundless life the soul could bear.
Higher the standard she must reach,
Fairer her fitness, ere the soul
Takes all Eternity can teach,
And gathers to a perfect whole.
Fairer her fitness, ere the soul
Takes all Eternity can teach,
And gathers to a perfect whole.
But year by year the progress won
We count,—much more then God,—so small:
And oft the rung we stand upon
Snaps at a doubt, and straight we fall
We count,—much more then God,—so small:
And oft the rung we stand upon
Snaps at a doubt, and straight we fall
Into as drowning-deep a hell
As high the heaven whereto we climb.
We were God's eaglets from the shell,
Tossed from His eyrie into Time,
As high the heaven whereto we climb.
We were God's eaglets from the shell,
Tossed from His eyrie into Time,
To beat about the world and grow
Broad-winged, strong-sighted, straining back;
But life hath clogged our wings with woe,
And clouds have drawn across the track.
Broad-winged, strong-sighted, straining back;
But life hath clogged our wings with woe,
And clouds have drawn across the track.
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How much of toil! how little gain!
The ant-hill half a lifetime rears,
To scale the heavens, an hour of rain
Crumbles: no more return our years.
The ant-hill half a lifetime rears,
To scale the heavens, an hour of rain
Crumbles: no more return our years.
Must life be counted then a test
To prove to God what ore is base;
We but His rough-hewn models, drest
For types unto some nobler race?
To prove to God what ore is base;
We but His rough-hewn models, drest
For types unto some nobler race?
And all we are and dream and do,
But foils unto the souls He forms
Of perfect pattern, strange and new,
Behind the curtain of His storms?
But foils unto the souls He forms
Of perfect pattern, strange and new,
Behind the curtain of His storms?
What if the mighty mystery
That walls us in have answer thus:—
“Ye have your sole eternity
In that ye were God's types of us!”
That walls us in have answer thus:—
“Ye have your sole eternity
In that ye were God's types of us!”
And ye of others! They of more,
Till, down the ages drifted far,
God crowns His works with all His store,
And hoards His glory in one star!
Till, down the ages drifted far,
God crowns His works with all His store,
And hoards His glory in one star!
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III.
Anon my veering soul will say,
Self-scorned into a stormier mood,—
“Has thy day been so fair a day,
Or gleaned thee such a store of good,
Self-scorned into a stormier mood,—
“Has thy day been so fair a day,
Or gleaned thee such a store of good,
Or wrought thee to such steadfast might,
That thou durst wish thy being drawn
Through lampless chasms of the night,
A flimsy thread from dawn to dawn?
That thou durst wish thy being drawn
Through lampless chasms of the night,
A flimsy thread from dawn to dawn?
Since life, whose limits loom defined
Ever more near, doth hateful grow,
What were the loathing of the mind
For life, whose end not God doth know?”
Ever more near, doth hateful grow,
What were the loathing of the mind
For life, whose end not God doth know?”
Then shapes, herself, the world's reply;—
“Thy dread is God's best argument;
Once wert thou thrilled with fear to die,
Lest life should some day all be spent:
“Thy dread is God's best argument;
Once wert thou thrilled with fear to die,
Lest life should some day all be spent:
Though thy bark ground on its own shore,
It yet may harbour o'er the sea.
Time's miseries make the chances more
Of Futures that shall fairer be.
It yet may harbour o'er the sea.
Time's miseries make the chances more
Of Futures that shall fairer be.
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What recompense hath life in death?
Lo, this we cling to, more than all,
That somewhere with unvexèd breath
We may forget our draughts of gall;
Lo, this we cling to, more than all,
That somewhere with unvexèd breath
We may forget our draughts of gall;
Not blindly, as who, dying, leaves
His memories waifs in miry ways,
But as one, binding golden sheaves,
Forgets the frost and thankless days.”
His memories waifs in miry ways,
But as one, binding golden sheaves,
Forgets the frost and thankless days.”
Thereto the soul responds again,—
“What if the all-pervading Soul,
Whence issuing, whither drunk like rain,
All forms of life and being roll,
“What if the all-pervading Soul,
Whence issuing, whither drunk like rain,
All forms of life and being roll,
Bleeds from a flesh-wound in the side!
If we, a misbegotten race,
Far from creation's seething tide,
Drip, God-forgotten, into space!”
If we, a misbegotten race,
Far from creation's seething tide,
Drip, God-forgotten, into space!”
Alas, my soul would find a doubt,
Though on a sudden He should call
My name in a fierce thunder-shout;
Still sob—“Is there a God at all?”
Though on a sudden He should call
My name in a fierce thunder-shout;
Still sob—“Is there a God at all?”
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A NEW YEAR'S EVE.
O death-night of another year,
O birth-night of a year to be,
That shakest, like a leaf grown sere,
Time's mellowed youngling from the tree,
Yet, with a breath blown tenderer,
Smites through his frozen rings a stir,
And thrills his latest-moulded sphere
With pulses of Eternity!—
O birth-night of a year to be,
That shakest, like a leaf grown sere,
Time's mellowed youngling from the tree,
Yet, with a breath blown tenderer,
Smites through his frozen rings a stir,
And thrills his latest-moulded sphere
With pulses of Eternity!—
O night that leadest to the vast
Another of Time's tottering kings,
Leaving to him who cometh last
A heritage of loveless things,
Blossoms that never shall be more,—
Fruit with a canker at the core,—
Germs in the pest-house of the Past,
Ripening from long-forgotten Springs!—
Another of Time's tottering kings,
Leaving to him who cometh last
A heritage of loveless things,
Blossoms that never shall be more,—
Fruit with a canker at the core,—
Germs in the pest-house of the Past,
Ripening from long-forgotten Springs!—
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I would some strong one, girt with might
And starless thunders of the sky,
Would clog the swift wings of thy flight,
And chain thee 'neath my feet to lie;
That for a moment life might stand,—
Knowledge be heaped within my hand,
And star-beams of some perfect light
Illume my soul before I die.
And starless thunders of the sky,
Would clog the swift wings of thy flight,
And chain thee 'neath my feet to lie;
That for a moment life might stand,—
Knowledge be heaped within my hand,
And star-beams of some perfect light
Illume my soul before I die.
A New Year's Eve! and since the time
When thy dead sister nearest-born
Rang greetings, in bell-throated chime,
Through star-kept chambers of the morn,
We have but better learned to know
That life can ne'er to knowledge grow,—
That death climbs with us as we climb,
And laughs our dauntless dreams to scorn.
When thy dead sister nearest-born
Rang greetings, in bell-throated chime,
Through star-kept chambers of the morn,
We have but better learned to know
That life can ne'er to knowledge grow,—
That death climbs with us as we climb,
And laughs our dauntless dreams to scorn.
For now we climb the unfooted crag
And gain a foot-hold as we can,
Yet slip upon some treacherous jag,—
Our failure serves some other man.
Life hath no triumph, toil no crown;
Death drags the span-off victor down;
And we shall see no battle-flag
Unfurled on this, the world's Redan.
And gain a foot-hold as we can,
Yet slip upon some treacherous jag,—
Our failure serves some other man.
Life hath no triumph, toil no crown;
Death drags the span-off victor down;
And we shall see no battle-flag
Unfurled on this, the world's Redan.
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Why was life given us thus accursed?
What god, to glut himself with pain,
Sowed seeds of fierce desire, sharp thirst,
Some end to achieve, some goal to gain,—
Set where it seems but sport to touch,
But, as our hands draw near to clutch,
And the soul's bands are almost burst,
Binds us in death's eternal chain?
What god, to glut himself with pain,
Sowed seeds of fierce desire, sharp thirst,
Some end to achieve, some goal to gain,—
Set where it seems but sport to touch,
But, as our hands draw near to clutch,
And the soul's bands are almost burst,
Binds us in death's eternal chain?
Life's promise then is all a lie
That will not ripen into fruit?
Suns sink and shine; stars turn that fly;
Winds wail on many a forest lute,
Waves moan upon the barren beach,—
“The end will bring the crown!” their speech.
They to the end endure; we die;
For us fulfilment's voice is mute.
That will not ripen into fruit?
Suns sink and shine; stars turn that fly;
Winds wail on many a forest lute,
Waves moan upon the barren beach,—
“The end will bring the crown!” their speech.
They to the end endure; we die;
For us fulfilment's voice is mute.
Deep in the past our spring-time hides
Mid grave-mounds of forgotten graves;
Mourned but of Memory, it abides
Afar, in sea-surrounded caves.
Sour-sweet the spices wafted thence,
That once were balm and frankincense;
Strange spoils drift on the in-washing tides,—
Soiled, amber-scented waifs of waves.
Mid grave-mounds of forgotten graves;
Mourned but of Memory, it abides
Afar, in sea-surrounded caves.
Sour-sweet the spices wafted thence,
That once were balm and frankincense;
Strange spoils drift on the in-washing tides,—
Soiled, amber-scented waifs of waves.
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And now betwixt life's bud and flower,
While heedless hearts are caught with gleams
Of maiden's eyes, our hearts, grown sour,
Sigh for the slow Lethean streams,
And peel the poppy's heart, and weep
Because its poison gives not sleep,
And seek Persephone's sad bower,
Enbuilded in a world of dreams.
While heedless hearts are caught with gleams
Of maiden's eyes, our hearts, grown sour,
Sigh for the slow Lethean streams,
And peel the poppy's heart, and weep
Because its poison gives not sleep,
And seek Persephone's sad bower,
Enbuilded in a world of dreams.
Alas! can ever life forget,
Or but remember with a smile,
The tears with which youth's cheeks were wet,
The dreams which did its years beguile:—
That the world still had wrongs to right
By virtue of some hero's might;—
That captive maidens languished yet
In every ocean-girdled isle;—
Or but remember with a smile,
The tears with which youth's cheeks were wet,
The dreams which did its years beguile:—
That the world still had wrongs to right
By virtue of some hero's might;—
That captive maidens languished yet
In every ocean-girdled isle;—
That to the wizard who could hold
His will unthralled by doubts and fears,
Would wisdom's back-swung gates unfold
The hoarded treasures of the years:—
That from her wooer, fond yet stern,
Knowledge could hide no mystic urn,
No sacred store, no guarded gold,
No God-born secret of the spheres?
His will unthralled by doubts and fears,
Would wisdom's back-swung gates unfold
The hoarded treasures of the years:—
That from her wooer, fond yet stern,
Knowledge could hide no mystic urn,
No sacred store, no guarded gold,
No God-born secret of the spheres?
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But we have lived, alas, too long
Not to have learned the lesson grim,
That from the world none drives a wrong,
Nor slays the hydra nearest him.
Naught we achieve save this, O God,—
To follow where our fathers trod,
Through dreams to darkness, with a song
Thou hear'st not for Thy cherubim!
Not to have learned the lesson grim,
That from the world none drives a wrong,
Nor slays the hydra nearest him.
Naught we achieve save this, O God,—
To follow where our fathers trod,
Through dreams to darkness, with a song
Thou hear'st not for Thy cherubim!
See! in the fiery-footed East
Blind motion of the dawn begins.
Shot through and through with shafts, released
From signal bows, the grey mist thins,
And, folding fleecy wings, unfurled
To be the curtains of the world,
Shows where earth's silver-sandalled priest
Up the clear heaven his pathway wins.
Blind motion of the dawn begins.
Shot through and through with shafts, released
From signal bows, the grey mist thins,
And, folding fleecy wings, unfurled
To be the curtains of the world,
Shows where earth's silver-sandalled priest
Up the clear heaven his pathway wins.
Steeped in a golden glow, the year
Spends the first morning of his days.
The hill-drawn streamlet babbles here,
And gurgles yonder sweetest lays.
Sap stirs in many an oak-tree's core,
Fain to thrust twigs through every pore,
And up the face of hill-sides sheer
Thin vapour curls, a silver haze.
Spends the first morning of his days.
The hill-drawn streamlet babbles here,
And gurgles yonder sweetest lays.
Sap stirs in many an oak-tree's core,
Fain to thrust twigs through every pore,
And up the face of hill-sides sheer
Thin vapour curls, a silver haze.
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We only, Nature's lordliest born,
Sadden, nor will be comforted.
Stay, Old Year Night, stay, New Year Morn,
And show us whither we are led!
Show us at least what after-birth
Awaits us, banished from the earth,
When with the vesture we have worn
Foul flies are housed and worms are fed?
Sadden, nor will be comforted.
Stay, Old Year Night, stay, New Year Morn,
And show us whither we are led!
Show us at least what after-birth
Awaits us, banished from the earth,
When with the vesture we have worn
Foul flies are housed and worms are fed?
Saddening with rain, winds whisper low,—
“Man dieth and is walled with clay:
The founts of knowledge cease to flow;
Wisdom is but a played-out play;
And all the Future vast and dim,
Is an eternal dream to him.
Æons of ages come and go;—
For him there dawns no later day!”
“Man dieth and is walled with clay:
The founts of knowledge cease to flow;
Wisdom is but a played-out play;
And all the Future vast and dim,
Is an eternal dream to him.
Æons of ages come and go;—
For him there dawns no later day!”
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ALCESTIS.
When Love the lily-handed fought with Death,
And through her scorn was strong to win,
How suffered he who watched the ebbing breath
In the dead-heavy night grow faint and thin,
Glazed eyes and sharpening chin!
And through her scorn was strong to win,
How suffered he who watched the ebbing breath
In the dead-heavy night grow faint and thin,
Glazed eyes and sharpening chin!
He saw not him, the lion-hided, leap
The last ravine that clove the plain.
He saw alone the leaden-lidded sleep
Mask her pale face, and marble out the pain,
And groaned for all his gain.
The last ravine that clove the plain.
He saw alone the leaden-lidded sleep
Mask her pale face, and marble out the pain,
And groaned for all his gain.
O soul, my soul, when Love is slain for thee,
And all the pleasant springs are dry,—
When thou hast probed life's torturing mystery,
The wisdom teaching thee how best to be
Will make thee glad to die!
And all the pleasant springs are dry,—
When thou hast probed life's torturing mystery,
The wisdom teaching thee how best to be
Will make thee glad to die!
But thee, alas! no great-heart Herakles
Will give again thy golden day.
For Love thou wilt have left Love's memories,
Like song-birds frozen in the storm-swept trees,
Life's music blown away.
Will give again thy golden day.
For Love thou wilt have left Love's memories,
Like song-birds frozen in the storm-swept trees,
Life's music blown away.
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TIME'S WEFT.
Still at the loom of Time goes on the toil;
Still at his task th' unresting craftsman strives,
And some strange purpose that no god can foil
Grows shapelier in our lives.
Still at his task th' unresting craftsman strives,
And some strange purpose that no god can foil
Grows shapelier in our lives.
What pattern weaves he all these years of ours?
How blend the colours? Is the texture rare?
I pray he fashion, dearest, nought but flowers,
To make thy future fair.
How blend the colours? Is the texture rare?
I pray he fashion, dearest, nought but flowers,
To make thy future fair.
Is the skein ravelled? Runs the woof awry?
Not always does the weaver work by line:—
Distortions these that vanish by-and-bye,
Or ground the life-design.
Not always does the weaver work by line:—
Distortions these that vanish by-and-bye,
Or ground the life-design.
How shall these threads combine? What care dispart
These tangles? Lo, my soul knows only this,—
One purpose sure; Time hideth in his heart
How its fulfilment is.
These tangles? Lo, my soul knows only this,—
One purpose sure; Time hideth in his heart
How its fulfilment is.
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Ah me, what will the years do with us, sweet?
Weave us what web of life? I know not, I.
I dream we grow toward something more complete,
Made perfect when we die.
Weave us what web of life? I know not, I.
I dream we grow toward something more complete,
Made perfect when we die.
So this result of living we shall see
Foreshadowed only. Death, that maketh end,
Will round our lives to some divine degree
We shall not apprehend.
Foreshadowed only. Death, that maketh end,
Will round our lives to some divine degree
We shall not apprehend.
Dream we look back on life when, for an hour,
Silence has held the loom and Time's swift hand;
And lo! each life has grown a glorious flower,
Ev'n as the craftsman planned,
Silence has held the loom and Time's swift hand;
And lo! each life has grown a glorious flower,
Ev'n as the craftsman planned,
Lily and leaf, a glory of gloom and gold!—
Hark, down star-baffling heights what voices glide?—
“See, first, life's face: life doth of life behold
Only the under-side!”
Hark, down star-baffling heights what voices glide?—
“See, first, life's face: life doth of life behold
Only the under-side!”
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FOR THE CHILDREN.
O children, fresh-foot travellers,
Who onward pass through flowers as yet,
Nor see the sharp-spiked hedge of furze
Across the pathway set,
Who onward pass through flowers as yet,
Nor see the sharp-spiked hedge of furze
Across the pathway set,
With mimic world in narrow bounds,
And sorrow, spent when falls a tear,
To what wide ends God moulds and rounds
Your lives' hereafter here!
And sorrow, spent when falls a tear,
To what wide ends God moulds and rounds
Your lives' hereafter here!
Must you, who half in heaven now tread,
The furthest stray? It is God's plan
To leave the chains unriveted
Wherewith he tethers man.
The furthest stray? It is God's plan
To leave the chains unriveted
Wherewith he tethers man.
I, mounted to life's barren brow,
Turning to mark the lower place,
Find Truth was nearer then than now,
And fairer far God's face.
Turning to mark the lower place,
Find Truth was nearer then than now,
And fairer far God's face.
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Listen! You children are God's glass,
Wherein His whiteness mirrors best.
Time's breathings o'er the surface pass;
It clouds beneath the test.
Wherein His whiteness mirrors best.
Time's breathings o'er the surface pass;
It clouds beneath the test.
Deem not, young hearts, my love untrue,
That I could pray for you to die,
Ere I grow sadder, seeing you
Outlive all faith as I!
That I could pray for you to die,
Ere I grow sadder, seeing you
Outlive all faith as I!
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EARLY OLD.
Sweet, we grow old, grow old!
We have learned what living is,
Heaping dead friends with mould.
Dying,—what will it be?
Time some day will teach this,
Alas, to you and me.
We have learned what living is,
Heaping dead friends with mould.
Dying,—what will it be?
Time some day will teach this,
Alas, to you and me.
We are not getting grey;
Men would say we were young;
But the heart hath a woeful way
Of ageing before its prime.
Or ever our noon has rung,
We have somehow passed our prime.
Men would say we were young;
But the heart hath a woeful way
Of ageing before its prime.
Or ever our noon has rung,
We have somehow passed our prime.
You remember our talk last night?
I would believe, if I dare,
That our souls shall come to a light
Beyond the sorrowful years,
And finish our converse there,
And laugh at our old-world fears;
I would believe, if I dare,
That our souls shall come to a light
Beyond the sorrowful years,
And finish our converse there,
And laugh at our old-world fears;
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But I cannot. For, given we rise,
I find in this Christian creed
An end of all earthly ties
And friendships,—a separation
Of lover and loved,—no need
Of any human relation.
I find in this Christian creed
An end of all earthly ties
And friendships,—a separation
Of lover and loved,—no need
Of any human relation.
Believe it or not as you can;
But I cannot endure the thought
That the bonds between me and a man,
Whose very souls are as one,
Shall be utterly brought to nought,
Unriveted and undone.
But I cannot endure the thought
That the bonds between me and a man,
Whose very souls are as one,
Shall be utterly brought to nought,
Unriveted and undone.
So I challenge the creed which is all,
For the revelation given
Of what shall hereafter fall
In its Paradise which is part.
I care not for such a heaven,
Who have still a human heart.
For the revelation given
Of what shall hereafter fall
In its Paradise which is part.
I care not for such a heaven,
Who have still a human heart.
But this riddle of what shall be,
And the doubt and the nearing gloom,
And the world, on a writhing knee,
Godward pealing its prayers
To tear the veil from the tomb,
When no God calls nor cares,
And the doubt and the nearing gloom,
And the world, on a writhing knee,
Godward pealing its prayers
To tear the veil from the tomb,
When no God calls nor cares,
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Make me grow old, grow old,
And sadden while life is glad
To others with glint of gold,
Wine-cups or a woman's breath:
And where most are the whirlpools mad,
I shall drift in the dark on death.
And sadden while life is glad
To others with glint of gold,
Wine-cups or a woman's breath:
And where most are the whirlpools mad,
I shall drift in the dark on death.
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DEATH'S SECRET.
If my soul gain a glimpse of death
With seven days' journey still to run,
She shall not waste her lessening breath
With groanings for great deeds undone,
Nor cramp with palsies of the grave,
Nor, stupor-smitten, shrink, adread
Lest the lone silences which gave
Wait to reclaim their doubly dead;
With seven days' journey still to run,
She shall not waste her lessening breath
With groanings for great deeds undone,
Nor cramp with palsies of the grave,
Nor, stupor-smitten, shrink, adread
Lest the lone silences which gave
Wait to reclaim their doubly dead;
Nor lavish, in a woman's mood,
Her tears for sweets slipped like a wind;
Nor holding death the greatest good,
And life a bane left best behind,
But glad to know the chance anigh
That all her days have dreamed of yet;
Half glad, half sad, to live or die,
And all to know, or all forget.
Her tears for sweets slipped like a wind;
Nor holding death the greatest good,
And life a bane left best behind,
But glad to know the chance anigh
That all her days have dreamed of yet;
Half glad, half sad, to live or die,
And all to know, or all forget.
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Her crystalled thoughts shall turn afar;—
“O soul, shall it be thus or thus?
At the white gateway of a star
Doth some white soul wave hands for us?
A little while, a little while,
And life shall drown in sea on sea!”
Then sun her sad heart with a smile,
Content, howe'er the issue be.
“O soul, shall it be thus or thus?
At the white gateway of a star
Doth some white soul wave hands for us?
A little while, a little while,
And life shall drown in sea on sea!”
Then sun her sad heart with a smile,
Content, howe'er the issue be.
(Not all content; her thoughts sublime,
Borne in each flight on stronger wing
O'er the low-hanging skies of Time,
Found nowhere roof to anything.
What after shall content the soul?
Will she have heart for walls of clay?
Be glad to think her course and goal
Shut in the scantness of a day?)
Borne in each flight on stronger wing
O'er the low-hanging skies of Time,
Found nowhere roof to anything.
What after shall content the soul?
Will she have heart for walls of clay?
Be glad to think her course and goal
Shut in the scantness of a day?)
Then, careless of the body's needs,
Nor heeding if it fast or faint,
Deaf to the wrangles of the creeds,
World-dead as any trancèd saint,
Her eyes, fast on the flawless white
O' the Soul of worlds, first blind for shame,
Shall afterward grow stars for sight,
And she the thin ghost of a flame.
Nor heeding if it fast or faint,
Deaf to the wrangles of the creeds,
World-dead as any trancèd saint,
Her eyes, fast on the flawless white
O' the Soul of worlds, first blind for shame,
Shall afterward grow stars for sight,
And she the thin ghost of a flame.
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Girt round in no sick bedchamber
With low lamps and laborious feet,
And muffled motions, noisier
Than honest hubbub of the street,
And drooping heads turned sharp awry
To hear the death-watch ticking slow,
Or sudden gust of wings go by;—
O soul, thou shalt not meet death so!
With low lamps and laborious feet,
And muffled motions, noisier
Than honest hubbub of the street,
And drooping heads turned sharp awry
To hear the death-watch ticking slow,
Or sudden gust of wings go by;—
O soul, thou shalt not meet death so!
When all save one o' the hours have flown,
And round me puffs of sharp cold creep,
Thence, where his wings make nearing moan,
Like darkening storms, along the deep,
Then bear me to some frowning shore,
Where the sea hurls his heaving chain
On sheer crag-steeps, that evermore
Shatter the surges into rain;
And round me puffs of sharp cold creep,
Thence, where his wings make nearing moan,
Like darkening storms, along the deep,
Then bear me to some frowning shore,
Where the sea hurls his heaving chain
On sheer crag-steeps, that evermore
Shatter the surges into rain;
And leave the litter with no word,
Nor wait the last sob of the shell.
Lone as on Nebo one, the Lord
Laid out of sight of Israel,
My soul shall stand on guard as stout,
And, ere the clouds draw close, slip past
And back, and ring death's secret out
Into the weary world at last!
Nor wait the last sob of the shell.
Lone as on Nebo one, the Lord
Laid out of sight of Israel,
My soul shall stand on guard as stout,
And, ere the clouds draw close, slip past
And back, and ring death's secret out
Into the weary world at last!
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PHANTOMS.
Oft in my haunted soul will flit
Some blind-born thought about the gloom,
That, ere the soul's hands compass it,
Creeps to its lidded tomb;
Some blind-born thought about the gloom,
That, ere the soul's hands compass it,
Creeps to its lidded tomb;
And, fearful of the phantom dawn,
Stirs out no more to wile or lure;
Yet, when the watch is well withdrawn,
Gleams forth untrapped, secure.
Stirs out no more to wile or lure;
Yet, when the watch is well withdrawn,
Gleams forth untrapped, secure.
Then if I spur a stumbling sense
Along the labyrinths, straight has passed;
And, shackled with my impotence,
I lose it at the last.
Along the labyrinths, straight has passed;
And, shackled with my impotence,
I lose it at the last.
My soul is full of ghosts like this,
That breed and brood in starless caves;
She cannot sound the black abyss,
Or, reaching, search these graves.
That breed and brood in starless caves;
She cannot sound the black abyss,
Or, reaching, search these graves.
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Yet but to reach perchance is gain;
For though the spectral thought eludes,
Still may she clutch some slenderest chain
That threads the solitudes.
For though the spectral thought eludes,
Still may she clutch some slenderest chain
That threads the solitudes.
So then the flying forms are kind
That, though they flee, their track betray
If, on a star's trail, stars I find,
I am no cast-away.
That, though they flee, their track betray
If, on a star's trail, stars I find,
I am no cast-away.
And since her mystery hath no shore,
Nor half her treasures can she guess,
She saith, “God yet may give me more,
But gives me first the less!”
Nor half her treasures can she guess,
She saith, “God yet may give me more,
But gives me first the less!”
99
NIGHT.
Night! In the balcony now in the heart of the heart of this London,
Still from pavement to sky,—still as the graves shut at noon.
Still the trees in the square, and behind them like sleep-stricken fireflies,
Lights burn steady and still, hung in a visible dark.
One by one in the windows the lights go out; where they linger,
Lo there are watchers within; shadows will move on the blinds.
Dead to the bodily eye is the world, but the soul's eye hath vision,—
Fiery realities, throes, most where the curtains are drawn.
What of this night will the world-soul say when the years by a hundred
More shall be told? Of the world, history grows in the dark.
Why may not also the skies be, drawn round the windows of heaven,
Masks of a merciless might, veils of imagineless deeds?
Forgings for Time and Eternity round us,—who saith, “Not above us!”
Still the soul straineth beyond: Lo there, yon storm-drift of clouds,—
Shadows of gods, may-be, who, banished at last by a greater,
Linger with desolate eyes fast on the thrones that were theirs!
Shall then some god-scribe record of this hour that it slept, when the ancient
Lordship of heaven changed hands? Giants of chaos and night
Strained to the zenith to snatch from its rulers the tyrannous sceptre?
What if the morrow on us burst in a tempest of fire,—
Wild upheaval of worlds when the fresh gods first handle the thunder?
Madmen are many around,—what if mad gods be above?
Still from pavement to sky,—still as the graves shut at noon.
Still the trees in the square, and behind them like sleep-stricken fireflies,
Lights burn steady and still, hung in a visible dark.
One by one in the windows the lights go out; where they linger,
Lo there are watchers within; shadows will move on the blinds.
Dead to the bodily eye is the world, but the soul's eye hath vision,—
Fiery realities, throes, most where the curtains are drawn.
What of this night will the world-soul say when the years by a hundred
More shall be told? Of the world, history grows in the dark.
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Masks of a merciless might, veils of imagineless deeds?
Forgings for Time and Eternity round us,—who saith, “Not above us!”
Still the soul straineth beyond: Lo there, yon storm-drift of clouds,—
Shadows of gods, may-be, who, banished at last by a greater,
Linger with desolate eyes fast on the thrones that were theirs!
Shall then some god-scribe record of this hour that it slept, when the ancient
Lordship of heaven changed hands? Giants of chaos and night
Strained to the zenith to snatch from its rulers the tyrannous sceptre?
What if the morrow on us burst in a tempest of fire,—
Wild upheaval of worlds when the fresh gods first handle the thunder?
Madmen are many around,—what if mad gods be above?
Soul, it is well for thee, greater than Time and the worlds that he changes;
Faint not though folds of the sky haunt thee with truths that they hide:
Thou who conceivest of them art of them; the day is thy prison,
Holding thee back from the quest; night hath no cords to confine.
Thine is the will to attain to the heart of the infinite secret;
Flag not nor falter; the night broadens about thee for wings.
Faint not though folds of the sky haunt thee with truths that they hide:
101
Holding thee back from the quest; night hath no cords to confine.
Thine is the will to attain to the heart of the infinite secret;
Flag not nor falter; the night broadens about thee for wings.
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A FLY-BY-NIGHT.
My soul hath freedom with the night.
Sleep shears her body-bonds away,
And every sense grows infinite
For service, an enchanted wight,
That turns her tyrant with the day.
Sleep shears her body-bonds away,
And every sense grows infinite
For service, an enchanted wight,
That turns her tyrant with the day.
Ah, then, what steadfast eyes she hath!
Quick ears for all melodious sounds!
Strong wings to drive her random path,—
Clogged not, as day's, with fear of scathe,—
Where the stars pace eternal rounds.
Quick ears for all melodious sounds!
Strong wings to drive her random path,—
Clogged not, as day's, with fear of scathe,—
Where the stars pace eternal rounds.
No harsh note jars the symphonies
That in the silence round her ring;
Oft her high thought, on Heaven's own keys,
Will improvise in ordered ease
Strains whereto spheres thenceforth might sing.
That in the silence round her ring;
Oft her high thought, on Heaven's own keys,
Will improvise in ordered ease
Strains whereto spheres thenceforth might sing.
Hers too the gift of gracious speech
Wherewith all ways men's hearts incline.
It is her pastime still, from each
Of all impossibles, to reach
Results which, single, were divine.
Wherewith all ways men's hearts incline.
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Of all impossibles, to reach
Results which, single, were divine.
Or she will track a hunted word
Or truant memory down the slot:
Ring out, like heart-notes of a bird,
Rare rhymes toward which no thought had stirred;
Or twist the tangles of a plot.
Or truant memory down the slot:
Ring out, like heart-notes of a bird,
Rare rhymes toward which no thought had stirred;
Or twist the tangles of a plot.
Then she is strong wild storms to scare
Back to their bellowing rocks again.
All spirits of the earth and air
That jostle round her path must wear
Fantastic fetters in her train.
Back to their bellowing rocks again.
All spirits of the earth and air
That jostle round her path must wear
Fantastic fetters in her train.
But what mis-shapen, phantom hosts!
Such reckless marriage of extremes,
Whence monstrous broods! Above her coasts,
Grotesque as gargoyles, wander ghosts,
Buoyed with the bubbles of her dreams.
Such reckless marriage of extremes,
Whence monstrous broods! Above her coasts,
Grotesque as gargoyles, wander ghosts,
Buoyed with the bubbles of her dreams.
You shall not find in elfin lore
Or goblin annals such a crew,
Whom she deems fair, till to the door
Of waking come, a thrall once more,
She shudders lest they follow through.
Or goblin annals such a crew,
Whom she deems fair, till to the door
Of waking come, a thrall once more,
She shudders lest they follow through.
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O, further than her fancy spans
I wish this waking morn by morn!
A sleep-song sings itself and scans,
But fierce its birth-throes as a man's,
In the soul's house of bondage born.
I wish this waking morn by morn!
A sleep-song sings itself and scans,
But fierce its birth-throes as a man's,
In the soul's house of bondage born.
My soul doth for the death-night wait.
Free then to soar through all the skies,
She shall new worlds of dreams create,
When first she feels, emancipate,
Sleep from all day-light seal her eyes.
Free then to soar through all the skies,
She shall new worlds of dreams create,
When first she feels, emancipate,
Sleep from all day-light seal her eyes.
105
APOLOGIA.
O linked with cycling forms of change,—
Tides, tempests, seasons, shadow, shine,—
O body-bridled to the range
Of death and that, why hold it strange
No nobler songs are thine?
Tides, tempests, seasons, shadow, shine,—
O body-bridled to the range
Of death and that, why hold it strange
No nobler songs are thine?
We may not utter what we could;
Voiceless our fieriest thoughts must wait,
May-be, for nature's millionth mood:
And if it comes in time, why good;
Oftener it cometh late.
Voiceless our fieriest thoughts must wait,
May-be, for nature's millionth mood:
And if it comes in time, why good;
Oftener it cometh late.
This song the sun drew; that the rain:
One blossomed in a field of flowers:
You the blank void of a bare plain
Voiced with its yearning; fairer grain
Ripens in fairer hours.
One blossomed in a field of flowers:
You the blank void of a bare plain
Voiced with its yearning; fairer grain
Ripens in fairer hours.
Alas! more oft the frolic day
Unfriends our spirit-preludings,
And thought must burn itself away,
And frustrate life's melodious lay
Shriek on the snapping strings.
Unfriends our spirit-preludings,
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And frustrate life's melodious lay
Shriek on the snapping strings.
Or, if the music match the time,
Nature's next mask so soon is on,
That, like enough, we clang the chime,
Trip here or stumble, lest the rhyme
End not ere this be gone.
Nature's next mask so soon is on,
That, like enough, we clang the chime,
Trip here or stumble, lest the rhyme
End not ere this be gone.
Last Spring my heart for songs found room
Of life, that somewhere might be more,
Born of wild lilies round a tomb:—
Fell one sad hour of dripping gloom;—
My songs fell dead before.
Of life, that somewhere might be more,
Born of wild lilies round a tomb:—
Fell one sad hour of dripping gloom;—
My songs fell dead before.
Oh, could we lift the last disguise
And see the very face a breath,
Whose, whose would be the changeless eyes?
In ours what sudden sharp surprise,
Full face with Truth or Death!
And see the very face a breath,
Whose, whose would be the changeless eyes?
In ours what sudden sharp surprise,
Full face with Truth or Death!
Dying, have done; or, freed with fire
From taint of change, our songs be born
One with the universal choir,—
Voiced with the heart o' the world's desire
Like Memnon with the morn!
From taint of change, our songs be born
One with the universal choir,—
Voiced with the heart o' the world's desire
Like Memnon with the morn!
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THE BIRTH OF A RIVER.
Girt with the mountains, his brothers, born more near to the prime,—
Are they not all one mother's,—Nature's, begotten of Time?—
The rivulet danced and chattered, tumbled the pebbles, his toys,
Pounded, piled them and scattered, just for the sake of the noise,—
Leapt on the ledge of crevasses, trilled to the tunes of the wind
Blown through the throats of the passes, heedless of meanings behind.
Still to her youngest clinging, the mother, majestic and mild,
Followed the sound of his singing, loth to be stern with her child,—
Spake at the last, “Wilt thou dally here in the fold of thy birth?
Girt with the hills is the valley; girdling the hills is the earth.
Little art thou, for Life still beginneth at least, to give space
For growth unto purpose and will; there can nothing stand long in one place.
The hills have grown taller, O stream; their height hath set props for the skies;
Dim are their brows as a dream; far wonders are seen of their eyes;
But far as they follow the light, thy gathering waters shall glide;
At the uttermost range of their sight thou first shalt come to thy pride!”
Are they not all one mother's,—Nature's, begotten of Time?—
The rivulet danced and chattered, tumbled the pebbles, his toys,
Pounded, piled them and scattered, just for the sake of the noise,—
Leapt on the ledge of crevasses, trilled to the tunes of the wind
Blown through the throats of the passes, heedless of meanings behind.
Still to her youngest clinging, the mother, majestic and mild,
Followed the sound of his singing, loth to be stern with her child,—
Spake at the last, “Wilt thou dally here in the fold of thy birth?
Girt with the hills is the valley; girdling the hills is the earth.
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For growth unto purpose and will; there can nothing stand long in one place.
The hills have grown taller, O stream; their height hath set props for the skies;
Dim are their brows as a dream; far wonders are seen of their eyes;
But far as they follow the light, thy gathering waters shall glide;
At the uttermost range of their sight thou first shalt come to thy pride!”
Thither the stream's eyes strained where the brawny brothers stood,
With ermined necks that craned from shaggy shoulders of wood.
They were poets, these hills, with time for nought but the terribly far,—
Ragged, unkempt, sublime, and in love with the evening star.
They had forgotten the tale of the years they had yearned for her;
Their beards were matted with hail; the bristles were each a fir;
And when their hoary brows throbbed to behold her go,
An avalanche rent the boughs from the olive-bowers below.
Ah, then the trickling tears make seams in each rusty side,
And the restless chamois hears the shuddering crag-teeth gride,
And wails round the rocks are flung, from the caverns trumpeted,—
But the heart of the stream is strung to the height of the hoarest head!
With ermined necks that craned from shaggy shoulders of wood.
They were poets, these hills, with time for nought but the terribly far,—
Ragged, unkempt, sublime, and in love with the evening star.
They had forgotten the tale of the years they had yearned for her;
Their beards were matted with hail; the bristles were each a fir;
And when their hoary brows throbbed to behold her go,
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Ah, then the trickling tears make seams in each rusty side,
And the restless chamois hears the shuddering crag-teeth gride,
And wails round the rocks are flung, from the caverns trumpeted,—
But the heart of the stream is strung to the height of the hoarest head!
“Hearken, you hills,” he carolled, “My brothers, why, stand you there
With limbs so foully apparelled, with heads so high in the air?
What a time you must have been growing! Do you never mean to have done?
Or, really there seems no knowing how soon you will hit the sun.
But why, when you live so near, do you shiver and seem so cold?
Is it pain, or the night-winds drear, or a palsy one has when old?
But I guess why your life so glooms; you have always stood so still;
They have cramps and stitches and rheums, whose youth leaps not with a will;
Mine now is a merrier day, but your sorrow has made me sage:
I also may have to pay for the pleasures of youth in age.
But what is the vision fair, wide-stretched to the far-off shore?
Is it cloudland everywhere, or a world to be wandered o'er?
Where fails your sight at the last? Though the rest of the world be dull,
Since there are my fortunes cast, oh, say it is beautiful!”
With limbs so foully apparelled, with heads so high in the air?
What a time you must have been growing! Do you never mean to have done?
Or, really there seems no knowing how soon you will hit the sun.
But why, when you live so near, do you shiver and seem so cold?
Is it pain, or the night-winds drear, or a palsy one has when old?
But I guess why your life so glooms; you have always stood so still;
They have cramps and stitches and rheums, whose youth leaps not with a will;
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I also may have to pay for the pleasures of youth in age.
But what is the vision fair, wide-stretched to the far-off shore?
Is it cloudland everywhere, or a world to be wandered o'er?
Where fails your sight at the last? Though the rest of the world be dull,
Since there are my fortunes cast, oh, say it is beautiful!”
Then the mountains spake to the stream in a soft sad voice but deep,
Though to us their words would seem but the roar of winds on the steep;—
“Will you not stay with us in the home we have made for you?
Ah, the sweet lays slumberous, and the vigils you never knew,
And the years we have cheered each other with thoughts of the happy time
When first you should stammer ‘Brother,’ and first to our shoulders climb!
But one is your heart with the rest of the brothers we erst have known:
The old may pine in the nest, but the fledglings will fly alone.
Alas that you ask us this! We nought that we know must hide;
So the word of the Mother is, of none of her sons defied.
When the star we love descends the last low stair of the sky,
And the new-roused sungod rends his night-long canopy,
And the phantom mists are furled, and the night's swart shadows flee,
Our eyes look over the world to the faint grey line of the sea;—
To the long white wall of wave, and tides round the earth that roll,
Where the rivers glide to a grave and drown in the infinite soul.
Oh, older than star or earth is the terrible, ageless main,—
The womb whence they sprang to birth,—the tomb that shall take them again!
Some well of innermost ocean hath the heart of life in it,
And the restless undulant motion is the pulse of her fever fit,
For the sea, indrawn in her sobs, its own drowned fields o'erstrides,
And ever we count the throbs by times of tyrannous tides.
Would you be waif in the whirl,—a drop in the driven deeps,—
Caught here in a torrent's swirl, tossed now from the roaring steeps,—
Is it this you would wander for,—must our old eyes watch you roam,
And drown at last on the shore? Oh, stay with us here at home!”
Though to us their words would seem but the roar of winds on the steep;—
“Will you not stay with us in the home we have made for you?
Ah, the sweet lays slumberous, and the vigils you never knew,
And the years we have cheered each other with thoughts of the happy time
When first you should stammer ‘Brother,’ and first to our shoulders climb!
But one is your heart with the rest of the brothers we erst have known:
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Alas that you ask us this! We nought that we know must hide;
So the word of the Mother is, of none of her sons defied.
When the star we love descends the last low stair of the sky,
And the new-roused sungod rends his night-long canopy,
And the phantom mists are furled, and the night's swart shadows flee,
Our eyes look over the world to the faint grey line of the sea;—
To the long white wall of wave, and tides round the earth that roll,
Where the rivers glide to a grave and drown in the infinite soul.
Oh, older than star or earth is the terrible, ageless main,—
The womb whence they sprang to birth,—the tomb that shall take them again!
Some well of innermost ocean hath the heart of life in it,
And the restless undulant motion is the pulse of her fever fit,
For the sea, indrawn in her sobs, its own drowned fields o'erstrides,
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Would you be waif in the whirl,—a drop in the driven deeps,—
Caught here in a torrent's swirl, tossed now from the roaring steeps,—
Is it this you would wander for,—must our old eyes watch you roam,
And drown at last on the shore? Oh, stay with us here at home!”
Then the stream's heart leapt out straight to the goal of its wanderings,—
To the low-lying sand-locked gate where the great sea shallows, and sings
Of the mystery fathomless,—of the pendulous ebb and flow,—
Of the pain and the dull distress when the wing of a storm stoops low;
And then of the tide-swung bells in the palace of lazuli,
Where the god Poseidon dwells with old-world lords of the sea;—
Of the pomp and the proud array when the high god, dolphin-drawn,
Beats out the bounds of his sway on the edges of even and dawn;—
Of the blossoming wave whereof the wonderful foambell sprang,
The laughing mother of love, while the shell that she sailed in sang.
And he spake as one who speaks of a vision he seeth still,—
“Be it yours, O pale-blooded peaks, to pine for a star, an ye will!
Be it yours, in your frost-bitten fashion, to ponder and prate of the strife,
But I am thrilled with the passion and pulse of a measureless life.
For I in the storm would swing, o'ertopping the rack of the cloud,—
In the ranks of the surges spring toward the wild heights thunder-browed,—
Be one with effortless power, with limitless life be one:
Watch you for my victor hour with eyes on the first of the sun!”
And the rivulet slipped his tether, slid through a gorge, and was free;
And he and a wind together went forth to look for the sea.
To the low-lying sand-locked gate where the great sea shallows, and sings
Of the mystery fathomless,—of the pendulous ebb and flow,—
Of the pain and the dull distress when the wing of a storm stoops low;
And then of the tide-swung bells in the palace of lazuli,
Where the god Poseidon dwells with old-world lords of the sea;—
Of the pomp and the proud array when the high god, dolphin-drawn,
Beats out the bounds of his sway on the edges of even and dawn;—
115
The laughing mother of love, while the shell that she sailed in sang.
And he spake as one who speaks of a vision he seeth still,—
“Be it yours, O pale-blooded peaks, to pine for a star, an ye will!
Be it yours, in your frost-bitten fashion, to ponder and prate of the strife,
But I am thrilled with the passion and pulse of a measureless life.
For I in the storm would swing, o'ertopping the rack of the cloud,—
In the ranks of the surges spring toward the wild heights thunder-browed,—
Be one with effortless power, with limitless life be one:
Watch you for my victor hour with eyes on the first of the sun!”
And the rivulet slipped his tether, slid through a gorge, and was free;
And he and a wind together went forth to look for the sea.
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THE FATE OF A FLOWER.
Drawn downward with the stream, the water-lily
Tugged at its roots in vain.
“Cruel to hold me here in dank shades stilly,
Who have yonder all to gain!
My glorious flower would win men's praise and wonder,
Long palled with blacks and browns,
Might I but float where silver waters sunder
The wharves of crowded towns;
And ah, beyond where cloud and wave have meeting,
Through dreamful afternoons,
Broad beds of golden blossoms till my greeting
Furl close their bursting moons!”
Tugged at its roots in vain.
“Cruel to hold me here in dank shades stilly,
Who have yonder all to gain!
My glorious flower would win men's praise and wonder,
Long palled with blacks and browns,
Might I but float where silver waters sunder
The wharves of crowded towns;
And ah, beyond where cloud and wave have meeting,
Through dreamful afternoons,
Broad beds of golden blossoms till my greeting
Furl close their bursting moons!”
“Fair fool,” the roots, rough foster-mother, scolded,—
“Be glad we know your place;
Your pollen-powdered crest was never moulded
For greatness, but for grace:
The river-filth would soon your gold bespatter;
Men eye their gold at home,
And the first cloud-caressing wave would shatter
Your flimsy leaves to foam!”
“Be glad we know your place;
Your pollen-powdered crest was never moulded
For greatness, but for grace:
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Men eye their gold at home,
And the first cloud-caressing wave would shatter
Your flimsy leaves to foam!”
No words might fright the lily from its visions,
Till with the stream it stole
Toward the strange sea.
So ever great ambitions
Ruin a little soul!
Till with the stream it stole
Toward the strange sea.
So ever great ambitions
Ruin a little soul!
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THE SONG OF THE EARTH.
“Then Azrael said unto his fellow, as they crossed the orbit of
the sun, ‘Let us hearken to the song of the earth! Her song is the
sum of all her voices, yet her cry is unto God!’”
With the world of stars in spanless orbits swinging,
To the Godward spaces greater than my skies,
In the darkness, in the daylight I am singing,
And the darkness and the daylight are my eyes;
For they lighten when a star sends back rehearsal,
And they darken as it dies along the sea;
For the light is elemental, universal,
But the daylight and the darkness are of me.
To the Godward spaces greater than my skies,
In the darkness, in the daylight I am singing,
And the darkness and the daylight are my eyes;
For they lighten when a star sends back rehearsal,
And they darken as it dies along the sea;
For the light is elemental, universal,
But the daylight and the darkness are of me.
I remember when the light-wave rolled unto me,
To my soul came fitful thunders, fiery gleams
Of a momentary glory flashing through me,
Setting lightnings for the pauses of my dreams.
I remember that the flame of my first seeing
Fell on worlds that moved around me in a throng,
And the earliest breath indrawn into my being
Was the last sob of an æon of their song.
To my soul came fitful thunders, fiery gleams
Of a momentary glory flashing through me,
Setting lightnings for the pauses of my dreams.
I remember that the flame of my first seeing
Fell on worlds that moved around me in a throng,
And the earliest breath indrawn into my being
Was the last sob of an æon of their song.
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Then they hailed me new-born sister, fairest blossom
That God's touch had ever kissed out of His deep,
For whose trances had the vastness been a bosom,
With all planets for the warders of her sleep;
Saying, “Hail, O fairest star-birth of the ocean!
Long thy pathway has lain silent 'mid thy peers;
Now, new thrilling with the music of thy motion,
Swell the pæan of our immemorial years!”
That God's touch had ever kissed out of His deep,
For whose trances had the vastness been a bosom,
With all planets for the warders of her sleep;
Saying, “Hail, O fairest star-birth of the ocean!
Long thy pathway has lain silent 'mid thy peers;
Now, new thrilling with the music of thy motion,
Swell the pæan of our immemorial years!”
Then life burned along my being, as the lightning
Kindles all the sullen storm-wrack where it runs,
And I saw the clouds withdrawing, lifting, brightening,
To the dazzling heights where God-illumined suns
Hid the mainspring of my life from my discerning,—
Hid the law that sets the limits, sways the psalm
Of the myriad worlds, in various orbits turning
On the pivot of His everlasting calm.
Kindles all the sullen storm-wrack where it runs,
And I saw the clouds withdrawing, lifting, brightening,
To the dazzling heights where God-illumined suns
Hid the mainspring of my life from my discerning,—
Hid the law that sets the limits, sways the psalm
Of the myriad worlds, in various orbits turning
On the pivot of His everlasting calm.
Then the clouds drew, drooping, deadening, o'er that wonder,
And the mask of that Divineness shone no more.
Now I can but guess the secret from the thunder,
Or the music of the air-waves on my shore;
And I wander, singing ever, singing ever
To the measures of the choric path I tread,
With a restless heart which nothing can dissever
From its kinship with the glory overhead.
And the mask of that Divineness shone no more.
Now I can but guess the secret from the thunder,
Or the music of the air-waves on my shore;
And I wander, singing ever, singing ever
To the measures of the choric path I tread,
With a restless heart which nothing can dissever
From its kinship with the glory overhead.
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For my heart hath fiery motions, adorations,
Yearnings upward, growths to godlike, past control,
That will burst at last these measured modulations,
And up-buoy me to the height of my own soul.
And the mystery in rapture shall have ending;
Nay, not ending, but beginning it shall be,
When I see the clouds unclosing, lightening, rending,
And I whirl into the glory where is He!
Yearnings upward, growths to godlike, past control,
That will burst at last these measured modulations,
And up-buoy me to the height of my own soul.
And the mystery in rapture shall have ending;
Nay, not ending, but beginning it shall be,
When I see the clouds unclosing, lightening, rending,
And I whirl into the glory where is He!
121
MIDNIGHT MUSIC.
I know a carven church in a Breton town,
Where angels now will be singing all night long.
There are wonders waiting a poet
In many a mouldering nook 'mid the quaint wharves brown,
But the poets pass post-haste with their glory of song,
So the world never gets to know it.
Where angels now will be singing all night long.
There are wonders waiting a poet
In many a mouldering nook 'mid the quaint wharves brown,
But the poets pass post-haste with their glory of song,
So the world never gets to know it.
If you knew how nearly my heart was broken then!
I had given the whole of my hopes of eternity
To have known my friend dead only.
I had hurried fast away from the eyes of men,
But the very motes in the air had eyes to see,
And I dare yet less be lonely:
I had given the whole of my hopes of eternity
To have known my friend dead only.
I had hurried fast away from the eyes of men,
But the very motes in the air had eyes to see,
And I dare yet less be lonely:
For devils all down the road would gibber and grin,
And the owl—why, a child could tell he had heard my shame,
As he blinked in mute derision;
And the hideous spouting heads on the gabled inn
Leered, and made mouths, and gurgled about my shame,
And croaked of the last suspicion.
And the owl—why, a child could tell he had heard my shame,
As he blinked in mute derision;
And the hideous spouting heads on the gabled inn
Leered, and made mouths, and gurgled about my shame,
And croaked of the last suspicion.
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So at last I came to this little town by night;—
A bad, black night, when there came no stars to stare,
And the wind had rain to tell of.
Through the dark church door I reeled from the last of the light;—
How it came to be open I never thought to care,—
I had thoughts they will make my hell of.
A bad, black night, when there came no stars to stare,
And the wind had rain to tell of.
Through the dark church door I reeled from the last of the light;—
How it came to be open I never thought to care,—
I had thoughts they will make my hell of.
Pitch-dark, but I knew how the sculptured stone ones stood,
With still eyes suddenly drawn from the altar shrine,
And gazed in their soulless fashion;
While the million baby-angels about the rood
Grew rounder-cheeked, and the twelve made semi-sign
On the very eve of the Passion.
With still eyes suddenly drawn from the altar shrine,
And gazed in their soulless fashion;
While the million baby-angels about the rood
Grew rounder-cheeked, and the twelve made semi-sign
On the very eve of the Passion.
Then I rose up brazen-browed in the midst of them,
Stung into scorn of the scorn of the world, and spake:—
“Sweet saints, unscared of the Prussian,
Though your council sat last night at Jerusalem,
And keep St. Chad in his own church here awake
With your drowsy adjourned discussion,
Stung into scorn of the scorn of the world, and spake:—
“Sweet saints, unscared of the Prussian,
Though your council sat last night at Jerusalem,
And keep St. Chad in his own church here awake
With your drowsy adjourned discussion,
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“I budge no further, though every separate hair
Of the holy beard they keep in the coffers, packed
With the plate and gold candelabrum,
Should fit itself to a Holy Innocent there,
Whose sleek, smooth head in the week of his birth was cracked:—
I swear by the beard of Abram!”
Of the holy beard they keep in the coffers, packed
With the plate and gold candelabrum,
Should fit itself to a Holy Innocent there,
Whose sleek, smooth head in the week of his birth was cracked:—
I swear by the beard of Abram!”
What light was that? A globe as of living flame,
Stainless and soft beyond all light of the moon,
O'er the altar poised and floated.
Life to the marble limbs of the martyrs came;
Started the stiff-legged knights from their centuried swoon,
With rust no longer coated;
Stainless and soft beyond all light of the moon,
O'er the altar poised and floated.
Life to the marble limbs of the martyrs came;
Started the stiff-legged knights from their centuried swoon,
With rust no longer coated;
Stepped saints from the windows, wrapped in wondrous woof;
Flew gilded heads and wings from the galleries
To the floor like apple-blossom;
Last came the mighty angels lost in the roof;
But the climbing cherubs fell from the dizzy frieze,
Like flowers into Mary's bosom.
Flew gilded heads and wings from the galleries
To the floor like apple-blossom;
Last came the mighty angels lost in the roof;
But the climbing cherubs fell from the dizzy frieze,
Like flowers into Mary's bosom.
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Ah, God, that singing! It rings in my ears to-day!—
Snared, all my soul, in the sweet melodious net
Of a song,—but the angels live it.
My burden of madness now I could cast away;
The festering sin of my hell-false friend forget;
For the world,—poor world,—forgive it!
Snared, all my soul, in the sweet melodious net
Of a song,—but the angels live it.
My burden of madness now I could cast away;
The festering sin of my hell-false friend forget;
For the world,—poor world,—forgive it!
Then a mighty breath of the wrath of God blew sore,
And bore me back, back ever, into the street,
Through the door to the wind that waited,
And flung me fierce on the wave of the world once more:—
Lost, not for scorn of a beard that's a modern cheat,
But a man that my heart had hated!
And bore me back, back ever, into the street,
Through the door to the wind that waited,
And flung me fierce on the wave of the world once more:—
Lost, not for scorn of a beard that's a modern cheat,
But a man that my heart had hated!
All that wild night and the wild night through were driven,
And evermore on a faithful wind float down
Strange melodies on my track.
So now, whenever they come, those waifs of heaven,
I know that the angels sing in the Breton town;—
But I may no more go back!
And evermore on a faithful wind float down
Strange melodies on my track.
So now, whenever they come, those waifs of heaven,
I know that the angels sing in the Breton town;—
But I may no more go back!
125
ADRIFT.
Beyond the harbour bar the sun goes down
Into a bank of vapour, rising brown,
And thrusting shadowy arms into the sky;
The church-vane glistens last in the grey town.
Into a bank of vapour, rising brown,
And thrusting shadowy arms into the sky;
The church-vane glistens last in the grey town.
Seaward the waters run their scurrying race;
Billows curl upward oftener with white face;
And that long streak where broken waves leap high
The limit of the ocean, nears apace.
Billows curl upward oftener with white face;
And that long streak where broken waves leap high
The limit of the ocean, nears apace.
The salt spray, born of clashing wave and wave,
Anon a land-wind to the westward drave,
And tangled beds of sea-weed drifted by,
And strong-winged sea-gulls through the spray-showers clave.
Anon a land-wind to the westward drave,
And tangled beds of sea-weed drifted by,
And strong-winged sea-gulls through the spray-showers clave.
The last faint gleam dies off the steadfast vane;
The risen vapour thickens into rain;
The sky stoops downward to the leaden sea,
Veiling the land. Will he see land again?
The risen vapour thickens into rain;
The sky stoops downward to the leaden sea,
Veiling the land. Will he see land again?
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Drifting away upon the ebbing tide,
Oarless, toward an ocean, opening wide
Beyond the bar, o'er which ev'n now in glee
Waves toss him. Only God can be his guide.
Oarless, toward an ocean, opening wide
Beyond the bar, o'er which ev'n now in glee
Waves toss him. Only God can be his guide.
Over the bar waves tumble fierce and hoar;
Rude reaches stretch unto a far-off shore,
And wandering tempests rage eternally;
For him the sun shall smite the vane no more!
Rude reaches stretch unto a far-off shore,
And wandering tempests rage eternally;
For him the sun shall smite the vane no more!
127
MINETTE.
What's in a name? men say, Minette;
But I believe,—deny who can,—
That cogs in unseen cogs are set,
And finger-touches mould a man;
But I believe,—deny who can,—
That cogs in unseen cogs are set,
And finger-touches mould a man;
That trivial acts, remotest springs,
Each idlest word, each merriest strife,
Work out the destinies of things,
And a name colours all a life.
Each idlest word, each merriest strife,
Work out the destinies of things,
And a name colours all a life.
And yours is such a saucy name,
And so decided in its hue,
That were your nature not the same
Or like it, you would not be you.
And so decided in its hue,
That were your nature not the same
Or like it, you would not be you.
Did I not know you, I could draw
Your face, your feelings, and your fate;
For, subject to some hidden law,
Natures and names assimilate.
Your face, your feelings, and your fate;
For, subject to some hidden law,
Natures and names assimilate.
Your face is like a laughing ray
Of sudden sunlight after rain;
Your nose a trifle retroussé
That speaks perverseness in the grain;
Of sudden sunlight after rain;
Your nose a trifle retroussé
That speaks perverseness in the grain;
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Your mouth the sweetest little rose
That ever rounded for a kiss;
Who would not snatch one, goodness knows
Ah, what a pouting mouth it is!
That ever rounded for a kiss;
Who would not snatch one, goodness knows
Ah, what a pouting mouth it is!
Your eyes are black and sharp and clear,
Like a ger-falcon's, and declare
A little vixen, void of fear,
Whose text is, “Touch me if you dare!”
Like a ger-falcon's, and declare
A little vixen, void of fear,
Whose text is, “Touch me if you dare!”
And what a figure! Straight and slim,
And bosomed like a frozen wave.
That Gaspard, how I envy him!
There's comfort though;—he'll be your slave.
And bosomed like a frozen wave.
That Gaspard, how I envy him!
There's comfort though;—he'll be your slave.
Last year you might have married me,
I was so taken with your ways,
And been a lady over sea
For the remainder of your days.
I was so taken with your ways,
And been a lady over sea
For the remainder of your days.
But now I see your choice was good.
No dreamer would have satisfied
The cravings of your southern mood;
You would have beat your bars and died.
No dreamer would have satisfied
The cravings of your southern mood;
You would have beat your bars and died.
And this to me is comfort too;—
Each pettish little grace and air,
To wild-eyed wooers ever new,
Wedded a week, were worn threadbare.
Each pettish little grace and air,
To wild-eyed wooers ever new,
Wedded a week, were worn threadbare.
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Be sure 'tis best for both of us
You once have wisdom's armour worn;
And I can write cold verses thus,
A week before your wedding morn.
You once have wisdom's armour worn;
And I can write cold verses thus,
A week before your wedding morn.
If you these verses chance to get,
How will you treat them? Who can say?
Perhaps you'll burn them in a pet;
Perhaps you'll whisk a tear away.
How will you treat them? Who can say?
Perhaps you'll burn them in a pet;
Perhaps you'll whisk a tear away.
But this at least, I'll prophesy:—
That in, at most, a fortnight's time,
You'll whisper with a mock-wet eye,—
“Read, love, the English stranger's rhyme.
That in, at most, a fortnight's time,
You'll whisper with a mock-wet eye,—
“Read, love, the English stranger's rhyme.
“Poor boy! he once was mad with love
For me; how soon men's hearts grow strange!
Alas, I wonder if you'll prove
As faithless and as ripe for change!
For me; how soon men's hearts grow strange!
Alas, I wonder if you'll prove
As faithless and as ripe for change!
“Of course you will! All men are frail
As—” here a kiss will seal your lips,
And my poor verses ride the gale,
Tossed from your scornful finger-tips.
As—” here a kiss will seal your lips,
And my poor verses ride the gale,
Tossed from your scornful finger-tips.
Ah, well-a-day! Good-bye, good-bye!
Who would not, in a week, forget
A lover fonder far than I,
Did she but bear your name, Minette!
Who would not, in a week, forget
A lover fonder far than I,
Did she but bear your name, Minette!
130
FOR YOU.
“If he keep pure in will,
Crown him a victor still.”
Crown him a victor still.”
For you, and not for me
You wrote; be yours the palm as yours the lay.
Somewhere the jubilee
Shall sound some day.
You wrote; be yours the palm as yours the lay.
Somewhere the jubilee
Shall sound some day.
This day-long life men live,
Measures the man by its own paltry rule;
But the Immortals give
Marks to the school.
Measures the man by its own paltry rule;
But the Immortals give
Marks to the school.
Then, when the gods are judge,
We first shall learn where the first honour lies
At least, I shall not grudge
You the first prize.
We first shall learn where the first honour lies
At least, I shall not grudge
You the first prize.
I would not pay my debt
With scant praise of a song; 'tis good to owe
So strike no balance yet;
The debt shall grow.
With scant praise of a song; 'tis good to owe
So strike no balance yet;
The debt shall grow.
131
Yet, take this scentless spray
From a poor posy, fain to yield its due,
That had not known a May
Except for you;
From a poor posy, fain to yield its due,
That had not known a May
Except for you;
And though it last no hour,—
True type therein of all these songs of mine,—
Not less let its white flower
Speak for a sign.
True type therein of all these songs of mine,—
Not less let its white flower
Speak for a sign.
132
ON A FLY-LEAF.
Some poets even puff not their wares to-day.
There are who sing to silence, neither heed
Though the world wreathe no bay
For word or deed;
There are who sing to silence, neither heed
Though the world wreathe no bay
For word or deed;
And such the man whose heart I send you is.
What bird-notes of the children, grave and wild,
Pipe in each song of his,
An older child;
What bird-notes of the children, grave and wild,
Pipe in each song of his,
An older child;
Whose hand, by some clear stream he singeth of,
Old nature clasped in days of childish fears,
And holds with lasting love
Through all the years;
Old nature clasped in days of childish fears,
And holds with lasting love
Through all the years;
Whom follow yet the mystery and the pain,
And moans that from the lips of life o'erflow,—
“Never to be again!”
“I shall not know!”
And moans that from the lips of life o'erflow,—
“Never to be again!”
“I shall not know!”
133
Him the Guide's gracious presence satiates still;—
“I live alone; Fame is not here,” she saith;
“Go, seek her if you will!”
He stays till death.
“I live alone; Fame is not here,” she saith;
“Go, seek her if you will!”
He stays till death.
The children love him; let the world go by:—
“Love be my crown,” saith he,—“Life's perfect end!”—
I should be happy, I
Who call him friend!
“Love be my crown,” saith he,—“Life's perfect end!”—
I should be happy, I
Who call him friend!
134
TO A FALSE FRIEND.
Well, we have drifted far enough apart
Never to heave a half-regretful sigh,
Nor feel a fiercer throb of pulse or heart,
For glad days, grown a bitter memory
Of silent vows which shame forbore to tell,
Lest each should laugh at him who loved so well.
Never to heave a half-regretful sigh,
Nor feel a fiercer throb of pulse or heart,
For glad days, grown a bitter memory
Of silent vows which shame forbore to tell,
Lest each should laugh at him who loved so well.
What parted us? No harsh word hotly said,
Repented and forgiven, ere paled a star;
But cold indifference, gathering to a head
Through voiceless months in city-streets afar.
No news, save random rumours flying down,
Of sunnier-souled and falser friends in town.
Repented and forgiven, ere paled a star;
But cold indifference, gathering to a head
Through voiceless months in city-streets afar.
No news, save random rumours flying down,
Of sunnier-souled and falser friends in town.
God knows how I have striven to keep my grip;
But from your soul, new-steeped in worldly oil
Of time-service, my soul's hands could but slip,
Nor grasp it any more for all their toil.
Go, friend, untracked by ban of mine or blame;
Pride keeps us to the world still friends in name;
But from your soul, new-steeped in worldly oil
Of time-service, my soul's hands could but slip,
Nor grasp it any more for all their toil.
Go, friend, untracked by ban of mine or blame;
Pride keeps us to the world still friends in name;
135
But on the heavy heart I carry here
Fall hammer-blows of Fate, that weld my will
Into a sapless scorn of vow and tear
From lips and eyes that seem to love me still.
Friend, I could curse you for a life awry,
That dare not trust another till it die.
Fall hammer-blows of Fate, that weld my will
Into a sapless scorn of vow and tear
From lips and eyes that seem to love me still.
Friend, I could curse you for a life awry,
That dare not trust another till it die.
Go, whither as Fate will; get other friends;
Knead narrower loves and aims into your life;
Work, careless of the means, to soul-cramped ends;
Grow rich and great; marry a stately wife;
But, if your carriage down my street should go,
Drive faster, faster; let me never know!
Knead narrower loves and aims into your life;
Work, careless of the means, to soul-cramped ends;
Grow rich and great; marry a stately wife;
But, if your carriage down my street should go,
Drive faster, faster; let me never know!
136
A PHARISEE.
Room for her! Let her pass!
Shrink from her, reeking with gin;
Her touch; her forehead of brass,
Seared with the scrawl of her sin.
Shrink from her, reeking with gin;
Her touch; her forehead of brass,
Seared with the scrawl of her sin.
See her shuffle along,
In the gutter now, in the road,
With a curse or scrap of a song,
To the kennel she claims for abode.
In the gutter now, in the road,
With a curse or scrap of a song,
To the kennel she claims for abode.
Damn her with your last look;
Little she knows or cares;
Then back to your banking-book
And hypocritical prayers!
Little she knows or cares;
Then back to your banking-book
And hypocritical prayers!
O my friend, my friend,
Your charity fits you well!
Some things will be known in the end!
Who first set her straight for hell?
Your charity fits you well!
Some things will be known in the end!
Who first set her straight for hell?
Many a ripe Eve-apple
You've plucked and tossed to the street;
Now you go to a West-end chapel,
And sit in the uppermost seat.
You've plucked and tossed to the street;
Now you go to a West-end chapel,
And sit in the uppermost seat.
137
“These things are best forgotten;
Youth will be wild,”—say you?
Ay, but this fruit, found rotten,
In somebody's garden grew.
Youth will be wild,”—say you?
Ay, but this fruit, found rotten,
In somebody's garden grew.
What if your daughters be taken
In a net like that you spread;—
If they tramp the streets forsaken,
And sleep some night in a shed!
In a net like that you spread;—
If they tramp the streets forsaken,
And sleep some night in a shed!
There are laws of compensation,
Depend on it, yet unlearned:
Sharp strokes of retaliation,
Or ever the earth be burned.
Depend on it, yet unlearned:
Sharp strokes of retaliation,
Or ever the earth be burned.
God works in no worldly way;
He casts her down to the pit;
He lets you alone to-day;
Some day you will smart for it.
He casts her down to the pit;
He lets you alone to-day;
Some day you will smart for it.
Meanwhile shrink back, let her pass;
Pace proud, grow green with your gall.
There is rest for her; but alas
For you, if your God rules all!
Pace proud, grow green with your gall.
There is rest for her; but alas
For you, if your God rules all!
138
GOD'S ACRE.
Sharp sprang the streamers, red and grey,
Amid heaven's wanderers.
'Neath a round moon the low earth lay,
With face as white as hers,
And, gemmed with tears, Night's frosty spears
Stood fringe-wise round the firs.
Amid heaven's wanderers.
'Neath a round moon the low earth lay,
With face as white as hers,
And, gemmed with tears, Night's frosty spears
Stood fringe-wise round the firs.
I, loitering while the clanging bells
Adieu and welcome said,
To far and false sighed sad farewells;
But lilies seemed the dead,
Heaven's winter flowers whose roots are ours,
With our tears waterèd.
Adieu and welcome said,
To far and false sighed sad farewells;
But lilies seemed the dead,
Heaven's winter flowers whose roots are ours,
With our tears waterèd.
I have planted flowers Heaven took, and know
There seems no sadder thing
Than if the bell-flower of our woe,
Grown upward toward the Spring
Of God's delight, forgetteth quite
Who round its stem doth cling.
There seems no sadder thing
Than if the bell-flower of our woe,
Grown upward toward the Spring
Of God's delight, forgetteth quite
Who round its stem doth cling.
141
But my dead love, grown to God's air
Where no flower fades or dies,
Draws hence my tears to star her hair;—
If there such pearls they prize,
Then she, I trow, hath rich enow
For all God's paradise!
Where no flower fades or dies,
Draws hence my tears to star her hair;—
If there such pearls they prize,
Then she, I trow, hath rich enow
For all God's paradise!
142
A QUIET HAVEN.
I would my love and I were shrined
In the white stillness of a star;
Set beyond seas of storm and wind
In soundless gulfs afar.
In the white stillness of a star;
Set beyond seas of storm and wind
In soundless gulfs afar.
There should no carking rumour shrill
Remembrance of an earthlier day,
Nor envious Time with fingers chill,
Pale golden hair to grey.
Remembrance of an earthlier day,
Nor envious Time with fingers chill,
Pale golden hair to grey.
There should not he who grips the sword,
Wrought on the ringing forge of Fate,
Shear with his deadly stroke abhorred
Our blissful summer state.
Wrought on the ringing forge of Fate,
Shear with his deadly stroke abhorred
Our blissful summer state.
Ah, happy star! ah, golden dream!
While white worlds glimmer in the blue,
Our wings are clogged in Time's dull stream,
And may not soar to you.
While white worlds glimmer in the blue,
Our wings are clogged in Time's dull stream,
And may not soar to you.
Bound, and the wintry waves will rise
O'er breast and gurgling throat and head;
Dark end of all,—stars fade, life dies,
Nor Love can warm the dead.
O'er breast and gurgling throat and head;
Dark end of all,—stars fade, life dies,
Nor Love can warm the dead.
143
MASKED.
Faint lights and shades that skim the plain,
And in the purple woodland blend,
Are emblems of Love's loss and gain
For you and me, fair friend.
And in the purple woodland blend,
Are emblems of Love's loss and gain
For you and me, fair friend.
Your soul gives colour to your eyes,
Your face of shifting cloud and sun;
My soul, responsive, takes the guise
Of that it gazes on;
Your face of shifting cloud and sun;
My soul, responsive, takes the guise
Of that it gazes on;
But yours is April, with a sound
Of sobbing rain that spoils the tune,
While mine, beneath its mask, were found
Fierce as a fiery June.
Of sobbing rain that spoils the tune,
While mine, beneath its mask, were found
Fierce as a fiery June.
Yet, since your love is of the Spring,
I will not seem to love you more,
Lest, deeming love a light-won thing,
You set by it small store.
I will not seem to love you more,
Lest, deeming love a light-won thing,
You set by it small store.
But love will ripen, Spring will grow
To steadfast Summer, and the days
That dawned with chequered gloom and glow,
Burst out in cloudless blaze.
To steadfast Summer, and the days
That dawned with chequered gloom and glow,
Burst out in cloudless blaze.
144
Till then I but reflect your face,
And echo back each varying tone,
Hiding my rose-heart in its place
Till yours be fuller blown.
And echo back each varying tone,
Hiding my rose-heart in its place
Till yours be fuller blown.
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