The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

How merry a life the little River leads,
Piping a vagrant ditty free from care;
Now rippling as it rustles through the reeds
And broad-leaved lilies sailing here and there,
Now lying level with the clover meads
And musing in a mist of golden air!
Bearing a pastoral peace where'er it goes,
Narrow'd to mirth or broaden'd to repose:
Through copsy villages and tiny towns,
By belts of woodland singing sweet,
Pausing where sun and shadow meet
Without the darkness of the breezy downs,
Bickering o'er the keystone as it flows
'Neath mossy bridges arch'd like maiden feet;
And slowly widening as it seaward grows,
Because its summer mission grows complete.

Run seaward, for I follow!

Let me cross
My garden-threshold ankle-deep in moss.
Sweet Stream, your heart is beating and I hear it,
As conscious of its pleasure as a girl's:
O little River, whom I love so well,
Is it with something of a human spirit
You twine those lilies in your sedgy curls?
Take up the inner voice we both inherit,
O little River of my love, and tell!

The rain has crawled from yonder mountain-side,
And passing, left its footprints far and wide.
The path I follow winds by cliff and scar,
Purple and dark and trodden as I pass,
The foxglove droops, the crocus lifts its star,
And bluebells brighten in the dewy grass.
Over deep pools the willow hangs its hair,
Dwarf birches show their sodden roots and shake
Their melting jewels on my bending brows,
The mottled mavis pipes among their boughs
For joy of five unborn in yonder brake.
The River, narrow'd to a woody glen,
Leaps trembling o'er a little rocky ledge,
Then broadens forward into calm again
Where the gray moor-hen builds her nest of sedge;
Caught in the dark those willow-trees have made,
Lipping the yellow lilies o'er and o'er,
It flutters twenty feet along the shade,
Halts at the sunshine like a thing afraid,
And turns to kiss the lilies yet once more.

Those little falls are lurid with the rain
That ere the day is done will come again.
The River falters swoll'n and brown,
Falters, falters, as it nears them,
Shuddering back as if it fears them,
Falters, falters, falters, falters,
Then dizzily rushes down.

But all is calm again, the little River
Smiles on and sings the song it sings for ever.
Here at the curve it passes tilth and farm,
And faintly flowing onward to the mill
It stretches out a little azure arm
To aid the miller, aiding with a will,
And singing, singing still.

Sweet household sounds come sudden on mine ear:
The waggons rumbling in the rutted lanes,
The village clock and trumpet Chanticleer,
The flocks and cattle on the marish-plains,
With shouts of urchins ringing loud and clear;
And lo! a Village, breathing breath that curls
In foam-white wreaths through ancient sycamores!
A hum of looms comes through the cottage doors.
I stumble on a group of country girls
Faring afield thro' deep and dewy grass;
Small urchins rush from sanded kitchen-floors
To stare with mouths wide open as I pass.

But yonder cottage where the woodbine grows,
Half cottage and half inn, a pretty place,
Tempts ramblers with the country cheer it shows;
Entering, I rob the threshold of a rose,
And meet the welcome on a mother's face.
Come, let me sit. The scent of garden flowers
Flits through the casement of the sanded room,
Hitting the sense with thoughts of summer hours
When half the world has budded into bloom.
Is that the faded picture of our host
Shading the plate of pansies where I sit—
That lean-limb'd stripling straighter than a post,
Clad in a coat that seems a sorry fit?
I drink his health in this his own October,
That bites so sharply on the thirsty tongue;
And here he comes, but not so slim and sober
As in the days when Love and he were young.
‘Hostess!’ I fill again and pledge the glory
Of that stout angel answering to my call,
Who changed him from the shadow on the wall
Into the rosy tun of sack before me!

Again I follow where the river wanders.
The landscape billows into hills of thyme;
Over the purple heights I slowly climb;
Till in a glen of birchen-trees and boulders
I halt, beneath a heathery mountain ridge
Clothed on with amber cloud from head to shoulders.

I wander on and gain a mossy bridge,
And watch the angling of a shepherd boy;
Below the little river glimmers by,
Touched with a troubled sense of pain or joy
By some new life at work in earth and sky.
The marshes there steam mist from hidden springs,
Deep-hidden in the marsh the bittern calls,
And yonder swallow oils its ebon wings
While fluttering o'er the falls.
Below my feet the little budding flower
Thrusts up dark leaves to feel the coming shower:
I'll trust these weather-signs and creep apart
Beneath this crag until the rain depart,—
'Twill come again and go within an hour.

The moist soft wind has died and fallen now,
The air is hot and hush'd on flower and tree,
The leaves are troubled into sighs, and see!
There falls a heavy drop upon my brow.
The cloudy standard is above unfurl'd;
The aspen fingers of the blinded Rain
Feel for the summer eyelids of the world
That she may kiss them open once again.
Darker and darker, till with one accord
The clouds pour forth their hoard in gusts of power,
A sunbeam rends their bowels like a sword
And frees the costly shower!

Fluttering around me and before me,
Stretched like a mantle o'er me,
The rushing shadows blind the earth and skies,
Dazzling a darkness on my gazing eyes
With troublous gleams of radiance, like the bright
Pigments of gold that flutter in our sight,
When with shut eyes we strain
Our aching vision back upon the brain.

Across the skies and o'er the plain
Fast fly the swollen shadows of the Rain;
Blown duskly by,
From hill to hill they fly,
O'er solitary streams and windy downs,
O'er trembling villages and darkened towns!

I crouch beneath the crag and watch the mist
Move on the skirts of yonder mountains gray
Until it bubbles into amethyst
And softly melts away.
The thyme-bells catch their drops of silver dew,
And quake beneath the load;
The squadron'd pines that shade the splashing road
Are glimmering with a million jewels too.
And hark! the Spirit of the Rain
Sings to the Summer sleeping,
Pressing a dark damp face against the plain,
And pausing, pausing, not for pain,
Pausing, pausing, ere the low refrain,
Because she cannot sing for weeping.
She flings her cold dim arms about the Earth,
That soon shall wear the blessing she has given,
Then brightens thro' her tears in sunny mirth
And flutters back to heaven.

A fallen sunbeam trembles at my feet,
And as I sally forth the linnets frame
Their throats to answer yonder laverock sweet.
The jewell'd trees flash out in emerald flame.
The bright drops fall with throbs of peaceful sound,
And melt in circles on the shallow pools
That glisten on the ground.
Last, Iris issues from her cloudy shrine,
Trembling alone in heaven where she rules,
And arching down to kiss with kisses sweet
The bright green world that flashes at her feet,
Runs liquid through her many hues divine.

II. The Summer Pool.

There is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perch'd upon the honeysuckle hedge
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world!
The stir of life on every blade of grass,
The motion and the joy on every bough,
The glad feast everywhere, for things that love
The sunshine, and for things that love the shade!

Aimlessly wandering with weary feet,
Watching the wool white clouds that wander by,
I come upon a lonely place of shade,—
A still green Pool, where with soft sound and stir
The shadows of o'erhanging branches sleep,
Save where they leave one dreamy space of blue,
O'er whose soft stillness ever and anon
The feathery cirrhus blows. Here unaware
I pause, and leaning on my staff I add
A shadow to the shadows; and behold!
Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a hum
Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs,—
The dusky stir and motion dwelling here,
Within this small green world. O'ershadowëd
By dusky greenery, tho' all around
The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat and bean,
Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue,
And pass into a waking sleep, wherein
The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths of cloud
Pass softly, piloted by golden airs:
The air is still,—no birds sing any more,—
And, helpless as a tiny flying thing,
I am alone in all the world with God.

The wind dies—not a leaf stirs—on the Pool
The fly scarce moves; Earth seems to hold her breath
Until her heart stops, listening silently
For the far footsteps of the coming Rain!

While thus I pause, it seems that I have gained
New eyes to see; my brain grows sensitive
To trivial things that, at another hour,
Had passed unheeded. Suddenly the air
Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I stand
Tremble and blacken—the blue eye o' the Pool
Is closed and clouded; with a sudden gleam,
Oiling its wings, a swallow darteth past,
And weedling flowers beneath my feet thrust up

Their leaves to feel the fragrant shower. Oh hark!
The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs,
And up above me, on the glistening boughs,
Patters the summer Rain!

Into a nook,
Screen'd by thick foliage of oak and beech,
I creep for shelter; and the summer shower
Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy sounds!
The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of leaves,
The deep, warm breathing of the scented air,
Sink sweet into my soul—until at last
Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall,
And lo! the eye of blue within the Pool
Opens again, while with a silvern gleam
Dew-diamonds twinkle moistly on the leaves,
Or, shaken downward by the summer wind,
Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light!

III. Up the River.

Behind the purple mountains lies a lake,
Steadfast thro' storm and sunshine in its place;
Asleep 'neath changing skies, its waters make
A mirror for the tempest's thunder-face;
Thence—singing songs of glee,
Fluttering to my cottage by the sea,
By bosky glen and grove,
Past the lone shepherd, moveless as the rock
Whence stretch'd at length he views his scatter'd flock,—
Cometh the little River that I love.

To-day I'll bid farewell to books,
And by the River loved so well,
Thro' ferny haunts and flowery nooks,
Thro' stony glen and woody dell,
The rainy river-path I'll take,
Till by the silent-sleeping lake
I hear the shepherd's bell.
The summer bleats from every rocky height,
The bluebell banks are dim with dewy light,
The heavens are clear as infants' eyes above;
This is no day—you, little River, know it!—
For sage or poet
To localise his love.
In rippling cadence, calm and slow,
Sing, little River, as I go,
Songs of the mountains whence you flow!

The grassy banks are wet with dew that flashes
Silverly on the Naiad-river's lashes—
The Naiad-river, bright with sunken suns,
Who murmureth as she runs.
Yonder the silver-bellied salmon splashes
Within the spreading circle of blue shade
That his own leaps have made:
And here I stoop, and pluck with tender care
A lily from the Naiad's sedgy hair.
And curling softly over pebble,
Weaving soft waves o'er yellow sands,
Singing her song in tinkling treble,
The mountain Lady thro' the farmer's lands
Slides to the sea, with harvest-giving hands.

Here freckled cowslips bloom unsought,
Like yellow jewels on her light green train;
And yonder, dark with dreaming of the rain,
Grows the wood-violet like a lowly thought.
Lightly the mountain Lady dances down,
Dressed maidenly in many a woodland gem;—
Lo, even where the footprint of the clown
Has bruised her raiment-hem,
Crimson-tipp'd daisies make a diadem.

The little River is the fittest singer
To sound the praises of a day so fair.
The dews, suck'd up thro' pores of sunshine, linger
As silver cloudlets in mid-air;
And over all the sunshine throws
Its golden glamour of repose.
The Silence listens, in a dream,
To hear the ploughman urge his reeling team,
The trout, that flashes with a sudden gleam,
And musical motions heaved by hills that bound
The slumberous vales around.
I loiter onward slowly, and the whole
Sweet joy is in my happy fancies drowned.
The sunshine meets the music. Sight and sound
Are wedded by the Soul.
—Sing, little River, this sweet morn,
Songs of the hills where thou wert born!

For, suddenly, mine eyes perceive
The purple hills that touch the sky:
Familiar with the stars of eve,
Against the pale blue West they lie,
Netted in mists of azure air,
With thread-like cataracts here and there.
Oh hark! Oh hark!
The shepherd shouts, and answering sheepdogs bark;
And voices, startling Echo from her sleep,
Are blown from steep to steep.

At yonder falls, the trembling mountain Lady
Clings to the bramble high above me lying,
With veil of foam behind her swift feet flying,
And a lorn terror in her lifted voice,
Ere springing to the rush-friezed basin shady,
That boils below with noise.
Then, whirling dizzily for a moment's space,
She lets the sun flash brightly on her face,
And lightly laughs at her own terror past,
And floateth onward fast!

Thus wandering onward, ankle deep in grass,
Scaring the cumbrous black cock as I pass,
I came upon two shepherd boys, who wade
For coolness in the limpid waves,
And with their shade
Startle the troutling from its shallow caves.

Let me lie down upon the bank, and drink!
The minnows at the brim, with bellies white
Upturned in specks of silvery light,
Flash from me in a shower, and sink.
Below, the blue skies wink
Thro' heated golden air—a clear abyss
Of azure, with a solitary bird
Steadfastly winging thro' the depths unstirred.
The brain turns dizzy with its bliss;
And I would plunge into the chasms cool,
And float to yonder cloud of fleecy wool,
That floats below me, as I kiss
The mountain Lady's lips with thirsty mouth.
What would parch'd Dives give amid his drouth
For kisses such as this?

Sing, little River, while I rest,
Songs of your hidden mountain nest,
And of the blue sky in your breast!

The landscape darkens slowly
With mountain shadows; when I wander on,
The tremulous gladness of the heat seems gone,
And a cool awe spreads round me, sweet and holy,—
A tender, sober-suited melancholy.
The path rough feet have made me winds away
O'er fenny meadows to the white highway,
Where the big waggon clatters with its load,
And pushing onward, to the ankles wet
In swards as soft as silken sarcenet,
I gain the dusty road.

The air is hotter here. The bee booms by
With honey-laden thigh,
Doubling the heat with sounds akin to heat;
And like a floating flower the butterfly
Swims upward, downward, till its feet
Clin to the hedgerows white and sweet.
A black duck rises clumsily with a cry,
And the dim lake is nigh.
The road curves upward to a dusty rise,
Where fall the sunbeams flake on flake;
And turning at the curve, mine eyes
Fall sudden on the silent lake,
Asleep 'neath hyacinthine skies.

Sing, little River, in your mirth,
Sing to thyself for joy the earth
Is smiling on your humble worth;
And sing for joy that earth has given
A place of birth so near to heaven!
Sing, little River, while I climb
These little hills of rock and thyme;
And hear far-off your tinkling chime!
The cataracts burst in foamy sheen;
The hills slope blackly to the water's brim,
And far below I see their shadows dim;
The lake, so closely hemmed between
Their skirts of heather and of grass,
Grows black and cold beneath me as I pass.

The sunlight fades on mossy rocks,
And on the mountain sides the flocks
Are split like streams;—the highway dips
Down, narrowing to the path where lambs
Lay to the udders of their dams
Their soft and pulpy lips.
The hills grow closer; to the right
The path sweeps round a shadowy bay,
Upon whose slated fringes, white
And crested wavelets play.
All else is still. But list, oh list!
Hidden by boulders and by mist,
A shepherd whistles in his fist;
From height to height the far sheep bleat
In answering iteration sweet.
Sound, seeking Silence, bends above her,
Within some haunted mountain grot;
Kisses her, like a trembling lover—
So that she stirs in sleep, but wakens not!

Along this rock I'll lie,
With face turn d upward to the sky.
A dreamy numbness glows within my brain—
It is not joy and is not pain—
'Tis like the solemn, sweet imaginings
That cast a shade on Music's golden wings.
With face turned upward to the sun,
I lie as indolent as one
Who, in a vision sweet, perceives
Spirits thro' mists of lotus leaves;
And now and then small shadows move
Across me, cast by clouds so small
Mine eyes perceive them scarce at all
In the unsullied blue above.
I hear the streams that burst and fall,
The straggling shepherd's frequent call,
The kine low bleating as they pass,
The dark lake stirring with the breeze,
The melancholy hum of bees,
The very murmur of the grass.

IV. Snow.

I wander forth this chill December dawn:
John Frost and all his elves are out, I see,
As busy as the elfin world can be,
Clothing a world asleep with fleecy lawn.
'Mid the deep silence of the evening hours
They glimmered duskly down in silent showers,
And featly have they laboured all night long,
Cheering their labour with a half-heard rhyme—
Low as the burthen of a milkmaid's song
When Echo moans it over hills of thyme.

There is a hush of music on the air—
The white-wing'd fays are faltering everywhere;
And here and there,
Made by a sudden mingling as they fall,
There comes a softer lullaby than all,
Swept in upon the universal prayer.
Mine eyes and heart are troubled with a motion
Of music like the moving waves of ocean,
When, out of hearing, o'er the harbour bars
They sigh toward the moon and jasper stars.
The tiny squadrons waver down and thicken,
Gathering numbers as they fly,
And nearing earth their thick-set ranks they quicken,
And swim in swarms to die!

But now the clouds are winnowëd away:
The sky above is gray as glass; below
The feeble twilight of the dreamy day
Nets the long landskip hush'd beneath the snow.
The arrowy frosts sting keenly as I stray
Along the rutted lane or broad highway,
Past wind-swept hedges sighing sharp and clear,
Where half the sweetly changeful year
The scented summer loves to gleam and glow.
The new-lain snowy carpet, ankle-deep,
Crumbles beneath my footsteps as I pass,
Revealing scanty blades of frozen grass;
On either side the chirping sparrows leap,
And here and there a robin, friendly now,
From naked bough to bough.
That snow-clad homestead in the river's arm
Is haunted with the noisy rooks that fly
Between its leafless beeches and the sky,
And hailing fast for yonder fallow farm,
A solitary crow is plunging by.
Light muffled winds arising high among
White mountains brooding in their winter rest,
Bear from the eastern winter to the West
The muttered diapason of a song
Made by the thunder on a mountain's breast.

The sun is hanging in a purple globe,
'Mid yellow mists that stir with silver breath;
The quiet landskip slumbers, white as death,
Amid its naked fields and woody wolds,
Wearing the winter as a stainless robe
Low-trailing in a fall of fleecy folds.
By pasture-gates the mottled cattle swarm,
Thick'ning the misty air, with piteous eyes
Fixed ever on the tempest-breeding skies,
And watch the lingering traces of the storm.
A feeble sunbeam kisses and illumes
Yon whitened spire that hints a hidden town,
And flickering for a space it darkens down
Above the silence of forgotten tombs.

I gain the shoulder of the woodland now,
A fledgling's flutter from a small hill's brow.
I see the hamlet, half a mile below,
With dripping gables and with crimson panes,
And watch the urchins in the narrow lanes
Below the school-house, shouting in the snow.
The whitened coach comes swiftly round the road
With horns to which a dozen hills reply,
And rattling onward with its laughing load,
Halts steaming at the little hostelry.
Hard by the lonely woodman pants and glows,
And, wrapt in leather stockings to the thigh,
Toils with an icicle beneath his nose.
In yonder field an idle farm-boy blows
His frozen fingers into tingling flame;
The gaunt old farmer, as he canters by,
Reins in to greet the country clowns by name;
That chestnut pony in the yellow fly
Draws the plump parson and his leaner dame.

I loiter down the road, and feel the ground
Like iron 'neath my heel; the windless air
Seems lying in a swound.
Frost follows in its path without a sound,
And plies his nimble fingers everywhere,
Under my eyelids and beneath my hair.
Yon mountain dons once more its helm of cloud,
The air grows dark and dim as if in wonder;
Once more the heaven is winnow'd, and the crowd
Of silken fays flock murmurously under
A sky that flutters like a wind-swept shroud.
Through gloomy dimbles, clad with new-fall'n snow,
Back to my little cottage home I go.
But once again I roam by field and flood,
Stung into heat where hoar-frosts melt and bite,
What time the fog-wrapt sun drops red as blood,
And Eve's white star is tingling into sight.

TO THE LUGGIE.

Oh, sweet and still around the hill
Thy silver waters, Brook, are creeping;
Beneath the hill, as sweet and still,
Thy weary Friend lies sleeping:
A laurel leaf is in his hair,
His eyes are closed to human seeming,
And surely he hath dreams most fair,
If he, indeed, be dreaming.

O Brook! he smiled, a happy child,
Upon thy banks, and loved thy crying,
And, as time flew, thy murmur grew
A trouble purifying;
Till, last, thy laurel leaf he took,
Dream-eyed and tearful, like a woman,
And turned thy haunting cry, O Brook!
To speech divine and human.

O Brook! in song full sweet and strong,
He sang of thee he loved so dearly;
Then softly creep around his sleep,
And murmur to him cheerly;
For though he knows no fret or fear,
Though life no more slips strangely through him,
Yet he may rest more sound to hear
His friend so close unto him.

And when at last the sleepers cast
Their swathes aside, and, wondering, waken,
Let thy Friend be full tenderly
In silvern arms uptaken.
Him be it then thy task to bear
Up to the Footstool, softly flowing,—
Smiles on his eyes, and in his hair
Thy leaf of laurel blowing!

See ‘The Luggie and other Poems,’ by the late David Gray.

FRA GIACOMO.

I.

Alas, Fra Giacomo,
Too late! but follow me . . .
Hush! draw the curtain—so!
She is dead, quite dead, you see.
Poor little lady! she lies,
All the light gone out of her eyes!
But her features still wear that soft,
Gray, meditative expression,
Which you must have noticed oft,
Thro' the peephole, at confession.
How saintly she looks, how meek!
Though this be the chamber of death,
I fancy I feel her breath,
As I kiss her on the cheek.
Too holy for me, by far!—
As cold and as pure as a star,
Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,
But made for a heavenly crown! . . .
Ay, Father, let us go down,—
But first, if you please, your blessing.

II.

. . . Wine? No! Come, come, you must!
Blessing it with your prayers,
You'll quaff a cup, I trust,
To the health of the Saint upstairs.
My heart is aching so!
And I feel so weary and sad,
Through the blow that I have had!
You'll sit, Fra Giacomo? . . .

III.

Heigho! 'tis now six summers
Since I saw that angel and married her—
I was passing rich, and I carried her
Off in the face of all comers . . .
So fresh, yet so brimming with Soul!
A sweeter morsel, I swear,
Never made the dull black coal
Of a monk's eye glitter and glare . . .
Your pardon—nay, keep your chair!—
A jest! but a jest! . . . Very true,
It is hardly becoming to jest,
And that Saint upstairs at rest—
Her Soul may be listening, too!
To think how I doubted and doubted,
Suspected, grumbled at, flouted
That golden-hair'd Angel, and solely
Because she was zealous and holy!—
Night and noon and morn
She devoted herself to piety—
Not that she seemed to scorn,
Or shun, her husband's society;
But the claims of her Soul superseded
All that I asked for or needed,
And her thoughts were far away
From the level of lustful clay,
And she trembled lest earthly matters
Interfered with her aves and paters!
Sweet dove! she so fluttered, in flying
To avoid the black vapours of Hell,
So bent on self-sanctifying,—
That she never thought of trying
To save her poor husband as well!
And while she was named and elected
For place on the heavenly roll,
I (beast that I was) suspected
Her manner of saving her Soul—
So half for the fun of the thing,
What did I (blasphemer!) but fling
On my shoulders the gown of a monk,
(Whom I managed for that very day
To get safely out of the way),
And seat me, half-sober, half-drunk,
With the cowl drawn over my face,
In the Father Confessor's place . . .
Eheu! benedicite!
In her beautiful sweet simplicity,
With that pensive gray expression,
She sighfully knelt at confession,—
While I bit my lips till they bled,
And dug my nails in my palm,
And heard, with averted head,
The horrible words come calm—
Each word was a serpent's sting;
But, wrapt in my gloomy gown,
I sat like a marble thing
As she uttered your name. Sit down!

IV.

More wine, Fra Giacomo?
One cup—as you love me! No?
Come, drink! 'twill bring the streaks
Of crimson back to your cheeks.
Come! drink again to the Saint,
Whose virtues you loved to paint,
Who, stretched on her wifely bed,
With the soft, sweet, gray expression
You saw and admired at confession—
Lies poisoned, overhead!

V.

Sit still—or, by God, you die!
Face to face, soul to soul, you and I
Have settled accounts, in a fine
Pleasant fashion, over our wine—
Stir not, and seek not to fly—
Nay, whether or not, you are mine!
Thank Montepulciano for giving
Your death in such delicate sips—
'Tis not every monk ceases living
With so pleasant a taste on his lips—
But lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss,
Take this!—and this!—and this!

VI.

. . . Raise him; and cast him, Pietro,
Into the deep canal below:
You can be secret, lad, I know . . .
And hark you, then to the convent go—
Bid every bell of the convent toll,
And the monks say mass, for your mistress's soul.

CHARMIAN.

Cleo.
Charmian!

Char.
Madam?

Cleo.
Give me to drink mandragora!

Antony and Cleopatra.

In the time when water-lilies shake
Their green and gold on river and lake,
When the cuckoo calls in the heart o' the heat,
When the Dog-star foams and the shade is sweet;
Where cool and fresh the River ran,
I sat by the side of Charmian,
And heard no sound from the world of man.

All was so sweet and still that day!
The rustling shade, the rippling stream,
All life, all breath, dissolved away
Into a golden dream;
Warm and sweet the scented shade
Drowsily caught the breeze and stirred,
Faint and low through the green glade
Came hum of bee and song of bird.
Our hearts were full of drowsy bliss,
And yet we did not clasp nor kiss,
Nor did we break the happy spell
With tender tone or syllable.
But to ease our hearts and set thought free,
We pluckt the flowers of a red rose-tree,
And leaf by leaf, we threw them, Sweet,
Into the River at our feet,
And in an indolent delight
Watch'd them glide onward, out of sight.

Sweet, had I spoken boldly then,
How might my love have garner'd thee!
But I had left the paths of men,
And sitting yonder, dreamily,
Was happiness enough for me!
Seeking no gift of word or kiss,
But looking in thy face, was bliss!
Plucking the rose-leaves in a dream,
Watching them glimmer down the stream,
Knowing that eastern heart of thine
Shared the dim ecstasy of mine!

Then, while we linger'd, cold and gray
Came Twilight, chilling soul and sense;
And you arose to go away,
Full of a sweet indifference!
I missed the spell—I watch'd it break,—
And such come never twice to man:
In a less golden hour I spake,
And did not win thee, Charmian!

For wearily we truned away
Into the world of everyday,
And from thy heart the fancy fled
Like the rose-leaves on the River shed;
But to me that hour is sweeter far
Than the world and all its treasures are:
Still to sit on so close to thee,
Were happiness enough for me!
Still to sit on in a green nook,
Nor break the spell by word or look!
To reach out happy hands for ever,
To pluck the rose-leaves, Charmian!
To watch them fade on the gleaming River,
And hear no sound from the world of man!

CLOUDLAND.

Under green branches I lie,
Pensive, I know not why;
All is dead calm down here;
But yonder, tho' heaven smiles clear,
Bright winds blow, and silent and slow
The vaporous Clouds sail by.

For the branches, that here and there
Grow yellow in autumn air,
Are parted; and through the rent
Of a flower-enwoven tent,
The round blue eye of the peaceful sky
Shows tearless, quiet, and fair.

Face upward, calmly I rest
As the leaf that lies dead on my breast;
And the only sound I hear
Is a rivulet tinkling near,
And falling asleep in the woodland deep
Like a fluttering bird in a nest.

My mood would be full of grace
As an eremite's peaceful face,
And I should slumber away
The delicate dreamful day,
Save for Shapes that swim thro' the silence dim
Of the blue ethereal space!

I close my eyes in vain,
In a pensive, poetic pain:
Even then, to the gurgling glee
Of the Brook I cannot see,
Silent and slow they glide and they go
O'er the bright still blank of the brain!

With a motion wind-bequeath'd,
Fantastically wreathed,
They disturb my Soul,—as the beat
Of the pale Moon's silvern feet
Broke the sleep forlorn of the Sea new-born,
Till it audibly stirr'd and breathed.

White as a flock of sheep,
Slender and soft and deep,
With a radiance mild and faint
As the smile of a pictured Saint,
Or the light that flies from a mother's eyes
On the face of a babe asleep!

Yonder with dripping hair,
Is Aphrodite the fair,
Fresh from the foam, whose dress
Enfleeces her loveliness,
But melts like mist from the limbs sun-kiss'd
That are kindling unaware!

One, like a Titan cold,
With banner about him roll'd,
Bereft of sense, and hurl'd
To the wondrous under-world,
And drifting down, with a weedy crown,
Some miraculous River old.

One like a bank of snows,
Which flushes to crimson, and glows;
One like a goddess tall
In a violet robe;—and all
Have a motion that seems like the motion of dreams,—
A dimly disturb'd repose;—

A motion such as you see
In the pictured divinity
By the touch of an artist thrown
On a Naiad sculptured in stone,
For ever and ever about to quiver
To a frighten'd flush, and flee!

Beautiful, stately, slow,
The pageants changefully grow;
And in my bewilder'd brain
Comes the distinct refrain
Of the stately speech and the mighty reach
Of Songs made long ago.

Into my heart there throng
Rich melodies worshipp'd long:
The epic of Troy divine,
Milton's majestical line,
The palfrey pace and the glittering grace
Of Spenser's magical song.

Do whatever I may,
I cannot shake them away;
They are haunting voices that move
Like the wondrous shapes above;
Stately and slow they come and they go,
Like measured words when we pray.

When the troublous motion sublime
Of the Clouds and the answering rhyme,
Ceasing, leave now and again
A pause in the hush'd heart, then
The brook bursts in with a pastoral din,
A gurgling lyrical chime!

Oh! sweet, very sweet, to lie
Pensive, I know not why,
And to fashion magical swarms
Of poet-created Forms
In the pageants dumb that go and come
Above in a windless sky!

For yonder, a dark Ship furls
Sails by an Island of pearls,
And crafty Ulysses steers
Through the white-tooth'd waves, and hears
The liquid song of the syren throng,
That beckon through golden curls.

Tis faded away, and lo!
The Grecian tents, like snow,
And a brazen Troy afar,
Whence Helen glitters a star;
And the tents reveal the glimmering steel
Of the gathering Greeks below!

In fierce, precipitate haste
From a golden gate are chased
A shadowy Adam and Eve;
And within the Gate they leave,
Doth a sunbeam stand like the angel's brand,
To illumine the azure waste.

The sunbeam fading, behold
A huge Tree tipp'd with gold,
And a naked Eve beneath,
With the apple raised to her teeth;
While round and round the Snake coils, wound
In many a magical fold.

Oppress'd with fanciful fears,
Trembling with unshed tears,
I droop my eyes, until
The notes of the lyrical rill
Are shaken like rain on my eyelids twain,
And another pageant appears.

Far, far away, snow-white,
Full of a silvern light,
Beauteous, and yet so small
They are scarce perceived at all,
See Una guide her Lamb, by the side
Of the mounted Red-Cross Knight.

Then, to meet a far foe, speeds
The Knight over azure meads,
While threatening Dragons, hordes
Of Satyrs, and traitor swords,
Assail the Maid, but tremble afraid
At the milk-white Lamb she leads!

And she wanders undismay'd
Through vistas of sun and shade;
Over a mountain's brow
She shines like a star; and now
She fading is seen in the depths dark-green
Of a mimical forest glade,—

Which, opening flower-like, shows
A Garden of crimson repose,
Of lawns ambrosial,
Streams that flash as they fall,
In the innermost fold an arbour of gold
Like the yellow core of a rose.

On the verge of this fairy land
Doth mailèd Sir Guyon stand,
And bending his bloody plume
'Neath portals of snowy bloom,
He enters the place with a pallid face,
Breathless, and sword in hand.

Oh! is it not sweet, sweet, sweet,
To lie in this green retreat,
In a beautiful dim half-dream
Like a god on a hill; and seem
A part of the fair strange shapes up there,—
With the wood-scents round my feet?

But shadows lengthen around,
And the dew is dim on the ground;
And hush'd, to list to the tune
Of the coming stars and moon,
The brook doth creep thro' the umbrage deep
With cooler, quieter sound.

Homeward;—but when the pale
Moon filleth her silver sail,
I shall sit alone with a book
'Neath another heaven, and look
On the spiritual gleam and the cloudy dream
Of Milton's majestical tale;

Or wandering side by side
With Una, through forests wide,
Watch her beauty increase
To heavenly patience and peace,
While the Lamb of light licks her hand snow-white,
And watches her face, meek-eyed!

Or, 'mid trumpets murmuring loud,
The waving of banners proud,
And the rattle of horses' hooves,
See the Grecian host—as it moves
Its glittering powers to the Trojan towers,
That dissolve away, as a Cloud!

CUCKOO SONG.

O Kitty Bell, 'twas sweet, I swear,
To wander in the spring together,
When buds were blowing everywhere,
And it was golden weather!
And down the lanes beside the farm
You roam'd beside me, tripping lightly,—
Blushing you hung upon my arm,
And the small gloved hand press'd tightly! . . .
And the orchis sprang
In the scented meadow,
And the throstle sang
In the greenwood shadow;
And your eyes were bright
With happy dew,—
Could I doubt a light
So divinely blue,
When you kiss'd and sighed
‘I will be true’? . . .
Cuckoo!
Though far and wide
The brown bird cried—
‘Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!’

O Kitty Bell, the cry seem'd sweet,
For you were kind, and flowers were springing;
The dusty willow in the heat
Its woolly bells were swinging,
And in its boll the linnet brown
Finish'd her nest with wool and feather,
And we had thoughts of nestling down,
In the farm by the mill, together. . . .
And over the hill
The breeze was blowing,
And the arms of the mill
Kept coming and going;
And who but Love
Was between us two,
When around and above
The flittermice flew,
And as night drew nigh,
You swore to be true? . . .
Cuckoo!
I heard the cry
From woods hard by—
‘Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!’

O Kitty Bell, 'tis spring again,
But all the face of things looks iller;
The nests are built in wood and lane,
But you are nested with the miller.
And other lovers kiss and swear,
While I behold in scorn and pity,
For ‘all,’ I cry, ‘is false and fair,’
And curse the cuckoo and Kitty. . . .
And over the hill
The breeze is blowing,
And the arms of the mill
Keep coming and going;
And the hidden bird
Is singing anew
The warning I heard
When I trusted you;
And I sicken and sigh,
With my heart thrill'd through . . .
Cuckoo!
Wherever I fly
I hear the cry—
‘Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!’

THE WHITE DEER.

[[I.]]

The hunter leaps from slumber,
And quits his cottage door;
Days and nights without number,
Forth he has fared before.

Still the old quest is sorest,
The hunter's heart is cold;
He seeks the deer of the forest
With mystical horns of gold.

Dim as a dream it glimmers
Through the dark forest glades,
Passes with starlight tremors,
Trances the sight and fades.

By the dim quiet fountain
Lies the print of its form;
Up mid the cloud of the mountain
Cries its voice in the storm!

Not a bullet or arrow
Hath reached its bosom yet,
And though the ways are narrow,
It steps through noose and net.

The hunter's cheek is sickly,
Time hath silvered his hair,
His weary breath comes quickly,
He trembleth in despair.

Many a one before him
Hath been a hunter here,
Then, with the sad sky o'er him,
Died in quest of the deer.

See, the day is dying!
See, the hunter is spent!
Under the dark trees lying;
Perishing ill content.

Ev'n as his sad eyes darken,
Stirs the boughs of the glade,
He gathers his strength to hearken,
Peering into the shade.

And lo, with a soft light streaming,
Stainless and dimly bright,
Stands with its great eyes gleaming
The mystical deer, snow-white!

Closer it comes up creeping,
With burning beautiful eyes—
Then, as he falls back sleeping,
Touches his lips and flies!

II.

The live foot ever fleeing,
It comes to the dying and dead—
Oh, hope in the darkness of being!
Methinks I hear thy tread.

Around, above me, and under,
God's forest is closing dim;
I chase the mystical wonder,
Footsore and weary of limb.

Down in the dim recesses,
Up on the heights untrod,
Eluding our dreams and guesses,
Slips the secret of God.

Only seen by the dying,
In the last spectral pain;
Just as the breath is flying—
Flashing and fading again.

White mystery, might I view thee!
Bright wonder, might we meet!
Ever as I pursue thee,
I see the print of thy feet.

Ever those feet are roaming,
Ever we follow in quest;
While thou hauntest the gloaming
Never a soul shall rest.

CONVENT-ROBBING.

(OLD STYLE.)

May Margaret felt a cold cloud come down on her—
They made her a nun and put a black gown on her;
Young Roland went white
Thro' the winter moonlight,
Looming tall in the breath of the frost every night,
And gazed at the Convent, and plann'd how to win her there,
And his cheek gather'd dew till the dawn, and grew thinner there.

‘A ruse, ho, a ruse!’ cried his brother, Clerk John, to him,—
When in vain both the monks and the leeches had gone to him,—
‘Cease to fume and to frown,
Close thine eyes, lie thee down,
Stretch thee straight on a bier in thy chilly death-gown;
The great bell shall ring, and thy house gather gloom in it,
While I'll to the Convent, and beg thee a tomb in it!’

The Convent bell tolls, hung with black are the porches there,
Come tall black pall-bearers and pages with torches there,
Then the bier,—and thereon
The pale youth dead and gone!
And behind, grim as Death, weeping sore, goes Clerk John!
And the chapel is dark, as the bearers pace slow in it,
And all the black nuns stands with lights in a row in it.

Ah! chill is the chapel, the great bell chimes weary there,
Black bearers, black nuns, and black pages look dreary there;
The youth lies in death,
Not a syllable saith;
But the tiny frost-cloud on his lips is his breath!—

And the shroud round his limbs hath bright armour of steel in it
And his hand, gloved in mail, grips the sword it can feel in it!

Ho, she screameth,—May Margaret! kneels by the side of him !—
‘White Mary above, be the guardian and guide of him!
They plighted us twain,
Yet we parted in pain,
And ah! that so soon I should clasp him again!’
Wan, wan, is her cheek, with dim torchlight the while on it—
Does she dream? . . Has the face changed? . . and is there a smile on it?

She holds his cold hand to her heart, and doth call on him,
Drop by drop, warm and scented, her tender tears fall on him;
The nuns, sable-gown'd,
Chanting low, stand around;
Clerk John bites his lips, with his eyes on the ground . .
‘Dear heart, that we meet but in woe such as this again!’
Then she kisses his lips!—Does she dream? . . Did he kiss again?

Who opens the door with a terrible shout at once?—
A great wind sweeps in, and the lights are blown out at once!
The Abbess screams low,
Moan the nuns in a row,
Thro' the porch sweeps the wind and the sleet and the snow,
But the moon thro' the quaint-colour'd windows is beaming now,—
And wonderful shapes round the bier gather gleaming now!—

The sable pall-bearers and pages are new-arrayed,
In armour that glitters like golden dew arrayed!
How chill the moon glows!
How it blows! how it snows!
Yet May Margaret's cheek is as red as a rose!
And ‘a miracle,’ murmurs the Abbess so holy now,
For shiningly vested the dead rises slowly now!

He draweth May Margaret's sweet blushing cheek to him,
She kisses him softly, yet strives not to speak to him;
The nuns sable-gown'd
Shiver dismally round,
As he lifteth the great sable pall from the ground,
And turneth it deftly, and flingeth it over her,—
And a mantle of ermine doth clothe her and cover her!

On the floor of the chapel their foot-falls sound hollow now,
Clerk John and the rest very silently follow now . . .
Hark! is it the beat
Of horses' feet?
Or the wild wind whistling in snow and in sleet?
Down the aisles of the chapel the wild echoes die away,
While fast in the snow-storm the happy ones hie away!

‘Saints,’ crieth the Abbess, ‘pour down your dole on us!
To take our sweet sister the devil hath stole on us!’
And the nuns, in a row,
Murmur slyly and low—
‘Ah! would he might come unto us also!’
And they look at the bier, with the tingle of sin on them,
And the moon blushes faintly, still glimmering in on them.

Ay, fast in the snow-storm gallop the lovers now!
Young Roland's warm castle their merriment covers now!
To the bower they have run,
For the bridal is done,
And the jolly old priest hath made them one:
‘May all who love true,’ cries the youth, ‘win such kisses, dear,
Die such death,—and be tomb'd in a bower such as this is, dear!’

THE BALLAD OF THE WAYFARER.

(OLD STYLE.)

O'er the cheerless common,
Where the bleak winds blow,
Wanders the wan Woman;
Waysore and weary,
Through the dark and dreary
Drift-bed of the Snow.
On her pale pinch'd features snowing 'tis and sleeting,
By her side her little Son runs with warm heart beating,
Clinging to her wet robe, while she wails repeating:
‘Further, my child, further—further let us go!’

Fleet the Boy doth follow,
Wondering at her woe;
On, with footfall hollow,
O'er the pathway jagged
Crawls she wet and ragged,
Restless and slow.
‘Mother!’ now he murmurs, mid the tempest's crying,
‘Mother, rest a little—I am faint with flying—
Mother, rest a little!’ Still she answers sighing,
‘Further, child, and faster—further let us go!

But now she is sitting
On a stone, and lo!
Dark her brows are knitting,
While the Child, close clinging
To her raiment wringing,
Shivers at the snow.
‘Tell me of my father! for I never knew him
Is he dead or living, are we flying to him?’
‘Peace, my child!’ she answers, and the voice thrills through him;
‘When we wander further—further!—thou shalt know.’

(Wild wind of December,
Blow, wind, blow!—)
‘Oh, but I remember!
In my mind I gather
Pictures of my father,
And a gallant show.
Tell me, mother, tell me—did we always wander?
Was the world once brighter? In some town out yonder
Dwelt we not contented?’ Sad she seems to ponder,
Sighing ‘I will tell thee-when we further go.’

‘Oh, but Mother, listen!
We were rich, I know!
(How his bright eyes glisten!)
We were merry people,
In a town with a steeple,
Long, long ago;
In a gay room dwelling, where your face shone brightly,
And a brave man brought us food and presents nightly.
Tell me, ‘twas my father?’ Now her face looms whitely,
While she shivers moaning, ‘Peace, let us go!’

How the clouds gather!
How the winds blow!
‘Who was my father?
Was he Prince or Lord there,
With a train and a sword there?
Mother, I will know!—
I have dreamt so often of those gallant places;
There were banners waving—I could see the faces—
Take me to my father!’ cries he with embraces,
While she shivers moaning, ‘No, child, no!’

While the child is speaking,
Forth the moon steals slow,
From the black cloud breaking,
Shining white and eerie
On the wayside weary,
Shrouded white in snow.
On the heath behind them, 'gainst the dim sky lying,
Looms the Gallows blackly, in the wild wind sighing.
To her feet the woman springs! with fierce shriek crying—
‘See! Oh, God in heaven! . . . Woe, child, woe!’

(Blow, wind of December,
Blow, wind, blow!—)
‘Thou canst not remember—
Thou wert but a blossom
Suckled on my bosom,
Years, years ago!
Thy father stole to feed us; our starving faces stung him;
In yonder town behind us, they seized him and they hung him!
They murdered him on Gallows-Tree, and to the ravens flung him!
Faster, my child, faster—faster let us go!’

IN SPRING-TIME.

Sweet, sing a song of the May to me,
Sweeten the lingering hours!
Soft comes her whisper each day to me,
See, thro' the green and the gray, to me;
Thrills the faint flame of the flowers.
For the spell of the winter is ended,
The rainbow is seen thro' the showers,
And the May, by fair spirits attended,
Shall smile up the skies, and be ours. . .
Afar away yonder her foot cometh slow to us—
She steals up the south, with her cheeks all aglow, to us!
The blue waters tremble! the rain singeth low to us!
Green stir the blossoming bowers!

THE FISHERMAN.

The sea is moaning, the little one cries,
In child-bed sorrow the Mother lies,
And the Fisher fisheth afar away
In the morning gray.

The drift is dark as the dawn appears:
Is it the moan of the wind he hears—
Is it the splash of the ocean foam,
Or a cry from home?

He fisheth there that the babe may eat—
The wind is whistling in shroud and sheet;
He looketh down from the side of his bark
On the waters dark.

Sees he the gleam of the foam-flake there,
Or a white, white face in its floating hair?—
Sea-weeds salt that are shoreward drifted,
Or arms uplifted?

His heart is heavy, his lips are set,
He sighs as he draggeth in his net—
A goodly gift from the waters wild
To Mother and Child!

The Dawn gleams cold as he homeward flies
The boat is laden, the new born cries,
But the wraith of the mother fades far away
In the morning gray!

THE CHURCHYARD.

(A GENRE PICTURE.)

How slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock's green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God's sleeping ground.

All moves, but nothing here is swift;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot;
The slow stream through the bridge doth stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, piled with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.

All stirs, but nothing here is loud:
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies;
And underneath the green graves rest;
And through the place, with slow footfalls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.

And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait;
The little maidens curtsey deep,
The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.

Slow as the hand on the clock's face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by;
Smothered it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground;
The swifts that built beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.

And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old—
Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.

SEA-WASH.

Wherefore so cold, O Day,
That gleamest far away
O'er the dim line where mingle heaven and ocean,
While fishing-boats lie netted in the gray,
And still smooth waves break in their shoreward motion—
Wherefore so cold, so cold?
O say, dost thou behold
A Face o'er which the rock-weed droopeth sobbing,
A Face just stirred within a sea-cave old
By the green water's throbbing?

Wherefore, O Fisherman,
So full of care and wan,
This weary, weary morning shoreward flying
While stooping downward, darkly thou dost scan
That which below thee in thy boat is lying?
Wherefore so full of care!
What dost thou shoreward bear
Caught in thy net's moist meshes, as a token?
Ah! can it be the ring of golden hair
Whereby my heart is broken?

Wherefore so still, O Sea?
That washest wearilie
Under the lamp lit in the fisher's dwelling,
Holding the secret of thy deeps from me,
Whose heart would break so sharply at the telling?
Wherefore so still, so still?
Say, in thy sea-cave chill
Floats she forlorn with foam-bells round her breaking,
While the wet Fisher lands and climbs the hill
To hungry babes awaking?

EARTH AND THE SOUL.

‘Child of my bosom, babe of my bearing;
Why dost thou turn from me now thou art old?
Why, like a wild bird for passage preparing,
Shrink from my touch with a tremor of cold?’
‘Mother, I dread thee! mother, I fear thee!
Darkness and silence are hid in thy core;
Deep is thy voice, and I tremble to hear thee;
Let me begone, for thou lov'st me no more!’

‘Love thee not, dearest one, son of my splendour,
Love thee not? How shall I smile thee a sign?
See my soft arms, they are kindly and tender!
See my fond face, flushing upward to thine!’
‘Mother, thy face looketh dreadful and ghastly!
Mother, thy breath is as frost on my hair!
Hold me not, stay me not, time speedeth fastly,
Look, a kind Hand beckons softly up there!’

‘Child, yet a while ere thy cruel feet fare on!
See, in my lap lie the flowers of the May;
See, in my hair twine the roses of Sharon;
See, on my breast gleam the gems of Cathay!’
‘Mother, I know thou art queenly and splendid,
Yet is there death in the blush of thy bloom;
Touch me not, mother—my childhood is ended,
Dark is thy shadow and dreadful thy doom.’

‘Child, 'twas I bare thee! child, 'twas I fashioned
Those gleaming limbs, and those ringlets of light,
Made thee a spirit sublime and impassioned,
Read thee the Book of the stars night by night,
Led thy frail feet when they failed sorrow-laden,
Whispered thee wonders of death and of birth,
Made thee the heir of the garden of Aiden,
Child, it was I, thy poor mother, the Earth!’

‘Mother, I know it! and oh, how I loved thee,
When on thy bosom I leapt as a child,
Shared each still pleasure that filled thee and moved thee,
Thrilled to the bliss of thy face when it smiled.
Yea, but I knew not thy glory was fleeing,
Not till that night thou didst read me the scroll,
Sobbed in my ear the dark sccret of Being;
Mother, I wept—thy fair creature, the Soul!’

‘Child, wherefore weep? Since the secret is spoken,
Lie in mine arms—I will rock thee to rest;
Ne'er shall thy slumber be troubled and broken,
Low will I sing to thee, held to my breast.
Oh, it is weary to wander and wander;
Child of my fashioning, stay with me here.’
‘Mother, I cannot; 'tis brighter up yonder;
Dark is thy brow with the shadow I fear!’

‘Child, yet one kiss! yet one kiss, ere thou flyest!’
‘Nay, for thy lips have the poison of death!’
‘Child, one embrace!’ ‘Nay, all vainly thou criest;
I see thy face darken, I shrink at thy breath.’
‘Go, I have wept for thee, toiled for thee, borne with thee,
Pardoned thee freely each taint and each stain.
Take the last love of my bosom forlorn with thee—
Seek the great Void for a kinder in vain!’

‘Mother, I go; but if e'er I discover
That which I seek in those regions untrod,
I will come back to thee; softly bend over
Thy pillow, and whisper the secret of God.’
‘Child, thou wilt find me asleep in black raiment.
Dead by the side of the infinite Sea;
Drop one immortelle above me for payment
Of all the wild love I have wasted on thee!’

A CURL.

(A BOY'S POEM.)

See! what a treasure rare
I hold with fingers aglow!
—'Tis full of the bright
Subdued sunlight
Which shone in the scented hair
Of a maiden I once held fair;
And I puzzle my brains to know
If the heart of the beautiful girl
Hath kept the light of the Long Ago,
As long as the yellow curl?

What matter? Why, little or none!
She is nought to me now, understand;
But I feel less sad
Than tearfully glad,
And a passionate thrill hath run
Through my veins, like a flash of the sun,—
That with so unheeding a hand
I can grasp a small part of the gold
Which dazzled my wits, when I planned and planned
For the love of that maiden, of old.

See! I crush it with finger and thumb,
Half in cruelty, half in jest.—
As she lies asleep,
Doth a shudder creep
Thro' her heart, and render it numb?
Doth a sorrowful whisper come

From afar, while her lord is at rest
By her side, and none else are by?
Doth she shiver away from her husband's breast,
And hide her face, and cry?

Is her heart quite withered and sere?
Are the pledges forgotten yet,
That, with blushing face,
In a secret place,
She breathed in my burning ear,
In the morning of the year,
When, after long parting, we met
By the Sea, on the shadowy lawn,
And spake till the sunset faded to jet,
And moon and stars made a dawn?

As she lies in her wifely place,
The wings of her white soul furled,
Does the cheek at rest
On her husband's breast
Grow scorch'd with the hot disgrace
Of the kisses I rain'd on her face,
When the mists of the night upcurled
From the ocean that night of June,
And make a glamour, wherein the world
Seemed close to the stars and moon?

By this ringlet of yellow hair,
Still full of the light forlorn
Of that parting spot!
Hath she quite forgot
The passionate love she bare,
And the hope she promised to share,
When the ringlet of gold was shorn,
And the flowers felt the sun on the soil,
And the firefly stars went out in the morn,
And I hurried back to my toil?

I could crush it under my heel!
Hath she forgotten the clear
Vision of fame
That died, when her shame
Made my wild brain totter and reel?
Hath she a heart to feel?—
False to her vows in a year!
False and hollow as Hell!
False to the voice that warned in her ear!
And false to her God as well!

This curl that she gave to me
Fell over her brow of snow,
So 'twas near the bright
Spiritual light
That burned in the brain—and see!
I am kissing it tenderly!
She is asking for mercy, I know;
So I kiss it again and again,
For I know some charm makes the wild kiss glow
Like fire thro' the woman's brain!

She cannot choose but atone!
By the brow where this curl once gleam'd!
She must in sin thought,
Against him who bought
The heart already mine own,
And left me weeping alone.
'Tis a charm, and my loss is redeemed!
And the sin 'gainst her lord will be—
To remember how close to the stars we seemed
That night in the mists by the Sea!

She will look on her husband's face,
She will kiss him on the cheek—
She will kiss, she will smile;
And all the while,
In thought no other may trace,
She'll be back in that perfumed place,
Hearing the words that I speak,
Vowing the vow I believe,
While the sunset dies with a purple streak,
'Neath the whitening star of eve.

And the voice of the waves will bar
All sweeter sounds from her ears,
She'll be under the moon
Of that night of June,
And the motion of moon and star
Will trouble her from afar;
And then, when the silver spheres
Fade fitfully out of the skies,
And the red dawn breaks, she will wake in tears,
And shrink from her husband's eyes!

And in time, when again and again
I have kissed the magical gold,
Those same gross eyes
Will be open and wise,
And his heart will be feverish pain,
And a doubt will arise in his brain;
And ere she is grown very old,
He will know she is frail as foam,—
He will see the light of that night in her cold
Face,—and my curse strikes home!

For perchance in her yearning she may
Be bewildered and brought to blame,
By a new delight
So like that night
With its mimical glamour of day,
That she cannot shake it away;
And following it once more,
She will take a path of shame,
While the man blushes red at his darken'd door
As the children utter her name.

See! my passionate lips are warm
On the curl, in a cruel bliss—
In day or mirk
The charm would work!—
While she dreams of that night till her form
Is caught in the eddies of storm!
There's a devil impels me to kiss,
And my blood boils to and fro;
She asks for mercy! shall mercy like this
Be given my darling? . . . No!

With the world, as it ebbs and flows,
My heart is in jarring tune;
Let the memory
Of her beauty be
Furled in a soft repose
Round my heart, like the leaves of a rose.
The faith, which has faded too soon,
I bury with this last cry;
For the curl, still bright with that night of June,
Lo! I tenderly put it by!

As these verses bear a certain superficial resemblance, in subject, to Mr. Tennyson's Poem, ‘A Ringlet,’ it may be as well to state that they appeared in print several years before the publication of ‘Enoch Arden, and other Poems.’

LOVE AND TIME.

This is the place, as husht and dead
As when I saw it long ago;
Down the dark walk with shadows spread
I wander slow.

The tangled sunlight, cold and clear,
Steals frost-white through the boughs around.
There is no warmth of summer here,
No summer sound.

Darnel and nettle, as I pass,
Choke the dim ways, and in the bowers
Gather the weeds and the wild grass
Instead of flowers.

O life! O time! O days that die!
O days that live within the mind!
Here did we wander, she and I,
Together twined.

We passed out of the great broad walk,
Beyond the emerald lawns we strayed,
We lingered slow in tender talk
Along the shade.

And then the great old maze we found,
And smiling entered it unseen,
Half sad, half glad, went round and round
Thro' windings green.

In the bright centre of the maze
A rose-bush grew, a dial gleam'd;
She pluck'd a rose . . . with blissful gaze
Watch'd it, and dreamed.

O life! O time! O days divine!
O dreams that keep the soul astir!
That hour eternity was mine,
Looking at her!

This is the place. I wander slow.
Dark are the shades of shrub and tree,
The dial stands, the leaves lie low,
But where is she?

O life! O time! O birds and flowers!
O withering leaves upon the bough!
Alas, she measures not her hours
With roses now.

The dial stands—the dark days roll—
From year to year the roses spring—
Eternity is in my soul,
Remembering.

The dial stands—the summer goes—
All changeth, nothing dieth, here!
And all reneweth like a rose,
From year to year.