Aspromonte and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Aspromonte and Other Poems

[by H. E. Hamilton]

King, Harriet Eleanor Baillie-Hamilton (1840-1920)

DRAMATIC LYRICS.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

MISCELLANEOUS.

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DRAMATIC LYRICS.

VIOLET.

When the buds and blossoms first
In the sudden sunshine burst,
Love came with the sweet spring-tide;
All the earth was glorified,
Violet! my young fair bride.

Violet! with thy young eyes
Tender as the twilight skies;
On thy cheek the first faint rose
That in Aurora's garden blows
When the sunrise overflows.

Fresher and tenderer than the spring;—
On thy finger I slipp'd the ring;
I saw, the old church windows through,
The branches waving to and fro,
All in their first greenness and glow.

Like a lily, bridal-drest,
White and blue violets on thy breast,
White star-flowers upon thy brow,
Violet, I see thee now!
The Angel of First Love wert thou.

Violet, we stood hand in hand,—
The birds were singing through the land,—
Thy little fingers clasp'd in mine,
Thy sweet eyes hidden—I am thine—
Thy long hair round thee a halo-shine.

The sunny world lay fair and wide,
We gazed out silent, side by side,
And heard on the warm western breeze
A murmur of the early bees
Among the blossoming apple-trees.

And when I brought thee home at night,
The earth was silent with delight;
The meadows lay all still and green,
Hesperus with passionate sheen
Glittered into thine eyes serene.

But when the Moon of Roses came,
And all the garden was aflame,
All the violets were gone;—
She died the last, my little one,
Softly she died, at set of sun.

On thy face a smile was set
Like an angel's, Violet;
Thy hair hung round thee, a bright cloud;
My lips to thy cold lips I bowed,
And then for anguish cried aloud.

That was a long time ago;—
Under green grass thou liest low,
And over thee the violets blow;
And it is harvest time to me,
Who in my April cherished thee.

It has been another world to me
Since then, Violet, wanting thee;
I have grown in wealth and fame,
My home and haunts are not the same,
I never hear nor speak thy name.

Yet mid the heat and hurry ever,
Like a breath of violets in fever,
See I a sweet spirit glide,
Young and fair and tender-eyed,
Mid soft shadow glorified.

The spring comes ever round again,
With living sunshine and soft rain;
Then the violets arise,
With their meek and fragrant eyes
Looking at me angel-wise.

Summer airs green garlands bring
In full flush of blossoming;
Red and white and blue are met;—
I see them not;—my eyes are wet,
Thinking of my dead Violet.

Many a maiden passes me
With sunny brow and smile of glee,
Young bright eyes upon me shine;
Violet, amid them all I pine
For that more beautiful smile of thine!

One hour of Eden in the morn,
At noon the wilderness forlorn;
Hope waiteth till the sun is set;—
There will be a summer yet
For thee and me, my Violet.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Out of the voices of the air,
That fill the great world everywhere,
One floated past me, with a sigh
O'erweighed and broken down:
‘The sun shines sadly in the sky,
For I am young, and I must die,
And die without my crown.
The hope I trusted in, that still
I might be chosen by God's will
Some noble purpose to fulfil,
Was sent but to befool.
What worthy offering to present
For all the golden talents lent,

For all the earnest striving spent?
With empty hands, I forth am sent,
That should have been so full.
And what is left, when will is vain,
When every nerve is wild with pain,
And a dull fire is in the brain,
The thoughts to overrule?
They will not work, they wander on,
All power, but power of suffering, gone:—
And I have missed a greater one,
And glory these above.
Youth's angel has not come to me;
I have not known the mystery
Of hand to hand, and heart to heart,
Of life that is not life apart:—
I have not looked on love:
Before my hour I go to lie
In a forgotten tomb:
No one will bless me when I die,
Alone amid the gloom.’
And, weak and broken, many a word
Of deeper anguish yet was heard,
That moaned and wailed away.
But as I sadly strove to hear,
I heard another voice come near
In accents sweeter and more clear;

‘Listen,’ it spake, ‘I pray:
O dying heart, where'er thou be,
One also stricken speaks to thee;—
Sometimes an angel says to me
Words solemn-sweet and calm;
Upon the fever of my grief
Pouring a music of relief
Like a mysterious psalm,
Till all my spirit sinks to rest:—
So thou too, howsoe'er distrest
Or hopeless thou have been,
Take comfort in what comforts me:—
If he has not yet come to thee,
I know that some day thou shalt see
That angel I have seen.
I cannot tell thee of his face,
Nor promise in what form or place
He will be at at thy side.
But this I know,—for I have known
All in the wilderness alone,—
When thou art nearing to thy home,
Behold the Bird of God shall come
Over the waters wide,
To bear the olive to thy soul,
And leave thee from his aureole
One ray that shall abide;

To tell thee in thy hour of need,
There is a Christ for all, indeed;
He cometh soon, all hearts that bleed
To bind up tenderly.
Soon shalt thou find thy faith was true,
Thy will fulfilled in works shalt view,
And what thou hadst not strength to do
Is not required of thee.
Art thou too weak? Dost thou complain
Of the long weariness of pain,
Of agony through nerve and brain,
Darkly bewildering?
The thorn was twisted round His brow,
Part of His love thou knowest now:
Enter into that hour of woe
Which I beheld, but cannot know,—
Thank God for suffering!
The depths before thee open on:
Thou canst not know, till hope is gone,
How faith and love may live alone;
Nor till the mind is past control,
The grandeur of the inner soul
In its own consciousness.
To feel, of life's last hope bereft,
Nothing is lost, for God is left,—
Yea, this is blessedness!

Ah, yes, my God, my grief grows calm;
What is there of despair or harm
While Thou art still Thyself?
In deepest hell I yet will trust,
And worship Thee, O Thou All-Just!
Leave me my love at least they must,
Because it is myself.—
Words fail—the tears are in my eyes,
Such sweet and solemn thoughts arise
Out of the west, when the sun dies,
And from the silver sea
Of twilight, o'er the pallid gold,
Glows Hesper forth, as fair as old,
In diamond royalty.
Be patient but till set of sun,
And whether life be lost or won,
The sweet clear night still cometh on,
The stars upon her breast.
The shadows pass, the splendours come,
Consoled for evermore at home,
For Love is Lord of all, in whom
We lose ourselves in rest.’

MANY VOICES.

I wandered on out of the town
Towards the end of May;
The morning sun shone on the spire,
The market-place was gay;
But the minster-bells were tolling
Behind me all the way.

‘What were the minster-bells tolling
As you came out of the town?’—
‘O sorrow, sorrow, sorrow!
My love is dead and gone,
It is the merry May-time,
And I am left alone.’

I passed among the hawthorns,
Heavy with tinted snow;
There was a flutter of young wings
Alive in every bough;
All the little birds together
Were singing loud and low.

‘And what were the little birds singing
In the hawthorns with one breath?’—
‘O my heart is breaking, breaking,
O young life turned to death!
The sun shines dark upon me,
And the May air sickeneth.’

I went down through the valley
To the stream above the mill;
The cool brown waters glidingly
Passed by me deep and still;
The noon-flies flickered in the shade
Or sunshine at their will.

‘And what did the mill-stream murmur
Silver-sliding to its leap?’—
‘O weary, weary anguish!
Through the long days to weep!
Down in the quiet waters
How sweet it is to sleep!’

I crossed the brook to the hayfields
With meadow-sweet a-scent;
The tall field daisies smil'd at me
As underfoot they bent;
And the long ripe grasses rustled
Around me as I went.

‘And what did you hear in the rustling
Of the field-flowers and the grass?’—
‘O stricken-down and broken!
Down to the dust, alas!
In patience and in lowliness
The bitterness will pass.’

I went up through the meadows
To the churchyard on the hill;
And there I found a cross and mound;
The mound was bare earth still;
There I lay down and let my heart
Break into sobs at will.

‘And did you hear no whisper,
There lying, heart to heart?’—
‘O love, love, love! for ever
My own where'er thou art;
Be comforted, my darling,
We are not far apart!’

Then I lay still an hour or more,
And slept a long sleep there;
I woke and it was evening,
The sunset fill'd the air;
And the sweet church-bells were ringing
The call to evening prayer.

‘And what were the church-bells ringing
At the time for evening prayer?’—
‘Home, home, home! in our Father's House,
And many mansions there.
Christ rose on Easter Sunday,
And God is everywhere.’

I stood up, and beneath me
Stretch'd out the golden plain;
Through the green-shadow'd pastures
The herds mov'd home again;
And the full, glorious river
Unrolling to the main,
Far onward wound and widen'd
Through leagues of open land;
Till on the furthest verge gleam'd out
A line of yellow sand,
And the white evanishing glory
Of breakers on the strand.

‘What uttered through the sunset
The voice of those far seas?’—
‘I could not hear it plainly,
But listening by degrees,
The choral swell of waters
Rolled into words like these:
“The Lord shall reign for ever and ever!

His kingdom standeth fast:
Thanks be to Him for victory!
When darkling faith is past,
When death and hell are conquered,
Love is alone at last!”’

THE IRIS.

With faint steps from a sleepless night,
Into the garden forth at noon
I went, and found there no delight,
For all the year was out of tune.
The July air was warm, not sweet,
There was no sunshine in the land;
Without a sign or sound, to greet,
Stood the dark trees on either hand.
Dim lay the heaviness and blight
On all the grey oppressive air:—
My heart grew heavier at the sight
Of the dull scene that should be fair.

And mournful thoughts about me past,
Of spring, gone without flowers or sun,
Of summer, that might be the last,
Of harvest time and nothing done:
Of dreary paths without a clue,
Of thwarted work and earnest will;
Of thorny straits gone bleeding through,
And none the nearer heaven still.
Of all Divine impulses wide
Of charity and hope, forbidden;
And duty on the other side—
Between them both God's will was hidden—
And in the dust gold talents lying,
Without the strength to take them up;
Of faith too weak and vague for dying;
And that most bitter, hopeless cup,—
Of flesh o'erwrought and wearied brain,
And nerves unstrung, and all unrest;
A deep-set ill that turns to pain
All things that should be pleasantest.

In sorrowful foreboding lost,
A sudden splendour caught my eyes
From tangled flower-beds, where it crost
The green, light leaf-cloud, sunbeam-wise.

A gorgeous Iris I saw stand,
Arrayed in deep and dusky flame;
Like rainbows to a rainy land,
Its marvel-glory to me came.
It spoke like sunlight unto me,
It thrilled me with an arrowy fire
Of answer to the mystery
And pining waste of my desire:
‘God can work without thee, sad heart!
Thy weakness will not stay the world;
Nor worlds, in order, each apart,
Through all the spiral orbits curled.
One great good Will is Love and Life;
It ruleth on, it triumphs still,
It works its own best ends through strife,
Through mystery and seeming ill.
What thou hast been ordained to be,
Is well ordained, and must be so:
If the good never come to thee,
Some better purpose thou shalt know.
'Tis blessedness to do God's will,
Already if thou canst discern,—
That same to suffer, dark and still,
May be the lesson yet to learn.’

THE CHILDREN.

Father and mother, many a year
In rain and sunshine we have lived here,
And the children—
And now that the winter days are come,
We wait and rest in our own old home;
But where are the children?

All so young, in the times of old
Not a lamb was missing from our fold,
And the children—
God's ways are narrow, the world is wide,
I would have guarded them at my side;
But where are the children?

We walk to the house of God alone,
From the last year's nest the birds have flown,
And the children.—
Alone by the silent hearth we sit,
The chambers are ready, the fires are lit;
But where are the children?

My life is failing, my hair is grey,
I have seen the old years pass away,
And the children—
My steps are feeble, my voice is low,
I am longing to bless you ere I go;
But where are the children?

I had a dream of another home;
I thought when He called us I should come,
And the children—
And say, at the feet of Our Father in Heaven
Here am I, with those Thou hast given:—
But where are the children?

The day of the Lord is coming on;
We shall meet again before God's throne,
And the children—
Father and Mother, we trust, shall stand
Together then at God's right hand:—
But where are the children?

ARCTIC CHRISTMAS.

I had a garden down in the south,
Snowed with myrtle, rosy with vine.
If it had come by prophet's mouth,
That hard message, with power and sign,
‘Get thee hence, and leave thy garden!’
I should have held back, crying, ‘Pardon!
Too much—I cannot. Is it not mine?’

So, without escape or warning,
Came an angel with face of wrath,
Laid my Eden waste in the morning,
Shut the gates and led me forth;
Set flaming swords against each comer;
From my paradise of summer
Drove me out into the north.

All alone, cut off returning,
Winter and wilderness everywhere;
Looking back with a hopeless yearning
The trees were rocking black and bare;

The damp dead leaves were strewing the way,
The chill rain began to pour through the grey,
And forward I must fare.

Through the great cities, perished with hunger;
The bare gaunt workshops had ceased their din,
Not a fire glowed from the windows longer,
Through the empty streets the rain drove thin
The people were in; I met no faces,—
Waiting silent in their places
Till the fever should begin.

Northwards still, and the sleet came flying
With the whistling wind, so eerily;
Beside me long flat sands were lying,
Shimmering out to a far cold sea;
Where the flocks of stormy sea-birds hover,
Nothing else for the sky to cover
But the salt sand wastes and me.

Jagged white spectres nodded their heads,
Dead-white against the smoke-black sky,
Where the awful mountain wilderness spreads
In a cloudy winter-world on high;
Under their giant horror, then,
The ghastly darkness of day began
In freezing twilight to die.

Falling ever thicklier and stillier,
Lay the snow o'er the Arctic girth;
Ice-shapes looming stonier and chillier
Over the desolate field and firth.
Numb as a corpse the earth was lying,
All things were dead, and I was dying;—
Was there ever a summer on earth?

Dead I lay there, dead in the snow,
Wrapped in God's last merciful calm,
Till the vision of the days ago
Stole around me with Eden balm;
And I saw her lying clothed in white,
Lovely as on our marriage night,
Closed eyes and folded palm.

O blessèd vision, that held me fast,
Moments or years, in a rapt suspense!
What was the perished sunshine past,
And the dark way's pains, for this recompense?
Heart of home in the world-wide waste;—
One motion forward, and all was past
In vanishing darkness hence.

I wept such tears as I had not wept
Before, in a twice-dealt agony;
Till lustrous at last before me stept

And stood on the snow a Child; and He
Spake unto me, ‘Lo! I am born;
Wherefore, then, dost thou weep, and mourn
The dead whom I keep for thee?’

All are gone as I wake at home—
The desolate home, that once was gay;
The bells are ringing, for Christ is come,
‘Christ is born!’ in the air they say;
Not to the gardens of earthly delight,
Into the winter, into the night,
The Lord is born to-day.

Time to rise! The sunshine has perished,
The air is chill and the skies are grey;
The poor to be fed, and the weak to be cherished,
And the lost to be rescued, where are they?
‘With you always;’ though heart be breaking,
Let it work and keep down the aching;
Christ will take care of it some day.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

I lay this charge upon you,
My truest, tenderest friend,
That to these words, when I am dead,
You for my sake attend.

I have not seen you for so long,
In all my grief and pain;
And now I think I never
Shall see your face again.

For I am far in stranger-land,
And sinking heart and flesh;
The rain streams down my lattice,
My tears stream down afresh.

100

I have not one to turn to,
God has forsaken me quite;
And I am going all alone
Into the empty night.

I never had a tender hand
Of mother, sister, friend,
About me in my sicknesses;
But when my life shall end,

Oh, if you can, come to me then,
Kiss me before I die;
There will be no one at that hour
Will want you so much as I.

So for the last time, dearest,
Bear with me, and forgive
A sick child's foolish fancies,
Who has not long to live.

I give you this last trouble
And labour for my sake,
That with your own hands, dearest,
You shall my white robe make.

101

All straightly gathered to the throat,
And worked with simple bands
Of delicate ruffled edging
Around the neck and hands.

Let it be fine and delicate,
Because I once would lie
Lovely and tender to behold
Unto a loving eye.

And if my hair be still as long
And bright as it is now;
Smooth back the tresses either side,
And lay them from my brow,

And let them flow down over me
In long, loose, shining fold,
As they do in these desolate nights,
Wrapping me from the cold.

And then take from my finger
The pearl ring that I wear,
And place it over your wedding-ring,
And keep it always there.

102

Lay in my hands no token
Of laurel or of palm;
Will it not be enough for me
Not victory, but calm?

Lay them together on my breast,
There let them folded lie,
As one whose best deed was a prayer,
Whose life was but a cry.

And once at last smooth over
My forehead with your hand;
I shall wish to be alive again
To feel it and understand.

Here I lie sobbing in the dark,
Stretching out my hands in vain;
Knowing I never can find yours
To clasp and kiss again.

Oh, will you not be sorrowful?
Alas! I know you will.
Sweetest, if I could comfort you,
I would be living still.

103

And once before you leave me,
Kiss me that I may rest;
And then when it comes over you,
I, too, am crown'd and blest,

Kneel down to God our Father,
And say, if thou canst say,
‘He bringeth the outcasts home again,
And those that are out of the way.’

And I will not be buried here
Among the long dank grass,
And shiver of the falling leaves,
Where only strangers pass.

But there, where I have lived my life,
And dreamed my dreams, and sung,
And wandered, through my fitful youth,
The well-known ways among.

There is a churchyard off the road,
Down to the stream inclin'd,
Crowded with stones and shapes in front,
But quieter behind.

104

A little while ago it was
A fair and quiet spot;
It may be but a crowded place,
When I shall be forgot.

There, looking for the minnows,
The town-bred children play,
The only witnesses to them
Of sweet streams far away.

And I know every step of the way
That leads from it to your door;
I have walked there so often,
As I shall walk no more.

There let me be laid lowly
Where the short grass grows green:
No stone, no token—who will care
For what I might have been?

Only you will come there sometimes,
The dearest that I had;
And think of me in the sunshine,
And my spirit will be glad.

105

And perhaps on Easter Sunday,
When sweet winds begin to blow;
When the pear-trees in the valley
Are white with blossom-snow,

My father may come there slowly,
And hear no other sound
But the little birds all singing,
And the young leaves bursting round,

And my voice miss'd for ever—
And feel as the shadows fall,
That I cannot walk back home with him,
Nor meet him in the hall:

And dim through tears behold me,
A sweeter, happier child;
At last no shadow in the home
Where all are reconcil'd.