The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll with an introduction by Alexander Woollcott and the illustrations by John Tenniel |
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 | ACROSTICS, INSCRIPTIONS, AND OTHER VERSES |
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 | The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll |  |
922
ACROSTICS, INSCRIPTIONS, AND OTHER VERSES
ACROSTIC
[Little maidens, when you look]
Little maidens, when you lookOn this little story-book,
Reading with attentive eye
Its enticing history,
Never think that hours of play
Are your only HOLIDAY,
And that in a HOUSE of joy
Lessons serve but to annoy:
If in any HOUSE you find
Children of a gentle mind,
Each the others pleasing ever—
Each the others vexing never—
Daily work and pastime daily
In their order taking gaily—
Then be very sure that they
Have a life of HOLIDAY.
Christmas 1861.
923
TO THREE PUZZLED LITTLE GIRLS, FROM THE AUTHOR
(To the three Misses Drury.)
Three little maidens weary of the rail,Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale,
Three little hands held out in readiness,
For three little puzzles very hard to guess.
Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide,
At three little scissors lying side by side.
Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend,
For one little book, he undertook to send.
Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day—
In three little weeks is very hard to say.
August 1869.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC
(To Miss E. M. Argles.)
I sing a place wherein agree
All things on land that fairest be,
All that is sweetest of the sea.
All things on land that fairest be,
All that is sweetest of the sea.
Nor can I break the silken knot
That binds my memory to the spot
And friends too dear to be forgot.
That binds my memory to the spot
And friends too dear to be forgot.
BlufF
On rocky brow we loved to stand
And watch in silence, hand in hand,
The shadows veiling sea and land.
And watch in silence, hand in hand,
924
AnchoR
Then dropped the breeze; no vessel passed:So silent stood each taper mast,
You would have deemed it chained and fast.
BroccolI
Above the blue and fleecy sky:Below, the waves that quivering lie,
Like crispèd curls of greenery.
BarquE
“A sail!” resounds from every lip.Mizen, no, square-sail—ah, you trip!
Edith, it cannot be a ship!
AppreciatioN
So home again from sea and beach,One nameless feeling thrilling each.
A sense of beauty, passing speech.
ChilD
Let lens and tripod be unslung!“Dolly!” 's the word on every tongue;
Dolly must sit, for she is young!
OdiouS
Photography shall change her face,Distort it with uncouth grimace—
Make her bloodthirsty, fierce, and base.
MontH
I end my song while scarce begun;For I should want, ere all was done,
Four weeks to tell the tale of one:
BelzonI
And I should need as large a hand,To paint a scene so wild and grand,
As he who traversed Egypt's land.
EditorshiP
What say you, Edith? Will it suit ye?Reject it, if it fails in beauty:
You know your literary duty!
On the rail between Torquay and Guildford, Sep. 28, 1869.
925
THREE LITTLE MAIDS
(To the three Misses Drury.)
Three little maids, one winter day,
While others went to feed,
To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play,
More wisely went to—Reed.
While others went to feed,
To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play,
More wisely went to—Reed.
Others, when lesson-time's begun,
Go, half inclined to cry,
Some in a walk, some in a run;
But these went in a—Fly.
Go, half inclined to cry,
Some in a walk, some in a run;
But these went in a—Fly.
I give to other little maids
A smile, a kiss, a look,
Presents whose memory quickly fades;
I give to these—a Book.
A smile, a kiss, a look,
Presents whose memory quickly fades;
I give to these—a Book.
Happy Arcadia may blind,
While all abroad, their eyes;
At home, this book (I trust) they'll find
A very catching prize.
While all abroad, their eyes;
At home, this book (I trust) they'll find
A very catching prize.
PUZZLE
(To Mary, Ina, and Harriet or “Hartie” Watson.)
When . a . y and I . a told . a .. ie they'd seen a
Small .. ea . u . e with . i ..., dressed in crimson and blue,
. a .. ie cried “'Twas a . ai . y! Why, I . a and . a .y,
I should have been happy if I had been you!”
Small .. ea . u . e with . i ..., dressed in crimson and blue,
. a .. ie cried “'Twas a . ai . y! Why, I . a and . a .y,
I should have been happy if I had been you!”
Said . a . y “You wouldn't.” Said I . a “You shouldn't—
Since you can't be us, and we couldn't be you.
You are one, my dear . a .. ie, but we are a . a .. y,
And a . i ... e . i . tells us that one isn't two.”
926
You are one, my dear . a .. ie, but we are a . a .. y,
And a . i ... e . i . tells us that one isn't two.”
THREE CHILDREN
(To Miss Mary Watson.)
Three children (their names were so fearful
You'll excuse me for leaving them out)
Sat silent, with faces all tearful—
What was it about?
You'll excuse me for leaving them out)
Sat silent, with faces all tearful—
What was it about?
They were sewing, but needles are prickly,
And fingers were cold as could be—
So they didn't get on very quickly,
And they wept, silly Three!
And fingers were cold as could be—
So they didn't get on very quickly,
And they wept, silly Three!
“O Mother!” said they, “Guildford's not a
Nice place for the winter, that's flat.
If you know any country that's hotter,
Please take us to that!”
Nice place for the winter, that's flat.
If you know any country that's hotter,
Please take us to that!”
“Cease crying,” said she, “little daughter!
And when summer comes back with the flowers,
You shall roam by the edge of the water,
In sunshiny hours.”
And when summer comes back with the flowers,
You shall roam by the edge of the water,
In sunshiny hours.”
“And in summer,” said sorrowful Mary,
“We shall hear the shrill scream of the train
That will bring that dear writer of fairy-
tales hither again.”
“We shall hear the shrill scream of the train
That will bring that dear writer of fairy-
tales hither again.”
(Now the person she meant to allude to
Was—well! it is best to forget.
It was some one she always was rude to,
Whenever they met.)
927
It was some one she always was rude to,
Whenever they met.)
“It's my duty,” their Mother continued,
“To fill with things useful and right
Your small minds: if I put nothing in, you'd
Be ignorant quite.
“To fill with things useful and right
Your small minds: if I put nothing in, you'd
Be ignorant quite.
“But enough now of lessons and thinking:
Your meal is quite ready, I see—
So attend to your eating and drinking,
You thirsty young Three!”
Your meal is quite ready, I see—
So attend to your eating and drinking,
You thirsty young Three!”
Apr. 10, 1871.
TWO THIEVES
(To the Misses Drury.)
Two thieves went out to steal one day
Thinking that no one knew it:
Three little maids, I grieve to say,
Encouraged them to do it.
Thinking that no one knew it:
Three little maids, I grieve to say,
Encouraged them to do it.
'Tis sad that little children should
Encourage men in stealing!
But these, I've always understood,
Have got no proper feeling.
Encourage men in stealing!
But these, I've always understood,
Have got no proper feeling.
An aged friend, who chanced to pass
Exactly at the minute,
Said “Children! Take this Looking-glass,
And see your badness in it.”
Exactly at the minute,
Said “Children! Take this Looking-glass,
And see your badness in it.”
Jan. 11, 1872.
928
TWO ACROSTICS
(To Miss Ruth Dymes.)
Round the wondrous globe I wander wild,Up and down-hill—Age succeeds to youth—
Toiling all in vain to find a child
Half so loving, half so dear as Ruth.
(To Miss Margaret Dymes.)
Maidens, if a maid you meetAlways free from pout and pet,
Ready smile and temper sweet,
Greet my little Margaret.
And if loved by all she be
Rightly, not a pampered pet,
Easily you then may see
'Tis my little Margaret.
929
DOUBLE ACROSTIC
Two little girls near London dwell,
More naughty than I like to tell.
More naughty than I like to tell.
TurF
Upon the lawn the hoops are seen:The balls are rolling on the green.
RiveR
The Thames is running deep and wide:And boats are rowing on the tide.
IcE
In winter-time, all in a row,The happy skaters come and go.
NoD
“Papa!” they cry, “Do let us stay!”He does not speak, but says they may.
AfricA
“There is a land,” he says, “my dear,Which is too hot to skate, I fear.”
930
ACROSTIC
[“Are you deaf, Father William?” the young man said]
“Are you deaf, Father William?” the young man said,
“Did you hear what I told you just now?
“Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
“Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
“A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
“Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
“Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
“Entitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark?’”
“Did you hear what I told you just now?
“Excuse me for shouting! Don't waggle your head
“Like a blundering, sleepy old cow!
“A little maid dwelling in Wallington Town,
“Is my friend, so I beg to remark:
“Do you think she'd be pleased if a book were sent down
“Entitled ‘The Hunt of the Snark?’”
“Pack it up in brown paper!” the old man cried,
“And seal it with olive-and-dove.
“I command you to do it!” he added with pride,
“Nor forget, my good fellow, to send her beside
“Easter Greetings, and give her my love.”
“And seal it with olive-and-dove.
“I command you to do it!” he added with pride,
“Nor forget, my good fellow, to send her beside
“Easter Greetings, and give her my love.”
1876.
ACROSTIC
(To the Misses Drury.)
“Maidens! if you love the tale,
If you love the Snark,
Need I urge you, spread the sail,
Now, while freshly blows the gale,
In your ocean-barque!
If you love the Snark,
Need I urge you, spread the sail,
Now, while freshly blows the gale,
In your ocean-barque!
“English Maidens love renown,
Enterprise, and fuss!”
Laughingly those Maidens frown;
Laughingly, with eyes cast down;
And they answer thus:
Enterprise, and fuss!”
Laughingly those Maidens frown;
Laughingly, with eyes cast down;
And they answer thus:
931
“English Maidens fear to roam.
Much we dread the dark;
Much we dread what ills might come,
If we left our English home,
Even for a Snark!”
Much we dread the dark;
Much we dread what ills might come,
If we left our English home,
Even for a Snark!”
Apr. 6, 1876.
ACROSTIC
[Love-lighted eyes, that will not start]
Love-lighted eyes, that will not start
At frown of rage or malice!
Uplifted brow, undaunted heart
Ready to dine on raspberry-tart
Along with fairy Alice!
At frown of rage or malice!
Uplifted brow, undaunted heart
Ready to dine on raspberry-tart
Along with fairy Alice!
In scenes as wonderful as if
She'd flitted in a magic skiff
Across the sea to Calais:
Be sure this night, in Fancy's feast,
Even till Morning gilds the east,
Laura will dream of Alice!
She'd flitted in a magic skiff
Across the sea to Calais:
Be sure this night, in Fancy's feast,
Even till Morning gilds the east,
Laura will dream of Alice!
Perchance, as long years onward haste,
Laura will weary of the taste
Of Life's embittered chalice:
May she, in such a woeful hour,
Endued with Memory's mystic power,
Recall the dreams of Alice!
Laura will weary of the taste
Of Life's embittered chalice:
May she, in such a woeful hour,
Endued with Memory's mystic power,
Recall the dreams of Alice!
June 17, 1876.
932
TO M. A. B.
(To Miss Marion Terry, “Mary Ann Bessie Terry.”)
The royal MAB, dethroned, discrownedBy fairy rebels wild,
Has found a home on English ground,
And lives an English child.
I know it, Maiden, when I see
A fairy-tale upon your knee—
And note the page that idly lingers
Beneath those still and listless fingers—
And mark those dreamy looks that stray
To some bright vision far away,
Still seeking, in the pictured story,
The memory of a vanished glory.
ACROSTIC
(To Miss Marion Terry.)
Maiden, though thy heart may quail
And thy quivering lip grow pale,
Read the Bellman's tragic tale!
And thy quivering lip grow pale,
Read the Bellman's tragic tale!
Is it life of which it tells?
Of a pulse that sinks and swells
Never lacking chime of bells?
Of a pulse that sinks and swells
Never lacking chime of bells?
Bells of sorrow, bells of cheer,
Easter, Christmas, glad New Year,
Still they sound, afar, anear.
Easter, Christmas, glad New Year,
Still they sound, afar, anear.
933
So may Life's sweet bells for thee,
In the summers yet to be,
Evermore make melody!
In the summers yet to be,
Evermore make melody!
Aug. 15, 1876.
MADRIGAL
(To Miss May Forshall.)
He shouts amain, he shouts again,
(Her brother, fierce, as bluff King Hal),
“I tell you flat, I shall do that!”
She softly whispers “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
(Her brother, fierce, as bluff King Hal),
“I tell you flat, I shall do that!”
She softly whispers “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
He wistful sighed one eventide
(Her friend, that made this Madrigal),
“And shall I kiss you, pretty Miss!”
Smiling she answered “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
(Her friend, that made this Madrigal),
“And shall I kiss you, pretty Miss!”
Smiling she answered “‘May’ for ‘shall’!”
With eager eyes my reader cries,
“Your friend must be indeed a val-
-uable child, so sweet, so mild!
What do you call her?” “May For shall.”
“Your friend must be indeed a val-
-uable child, so sweet, so mild!
What do you call her?” “May For shall.”
Dec. 24, 1877.
LOVE AMONG THE ROSES
ACROSTIC
“Seek ye Love, ye fairy-sprites?
Ask where reddest roses grow.
Rosy fancies he invites,
And in roses he delights,
Have ye found him?” “No!”
Ask where reddest roses grow.
Rosy fancies he invites,
And in roses he delights,
Have ye found him?” “No!”
934
“Seek again, and find the boy
In Childhood's heart, so pure and clear.”
Now the fairies leap for joy,
Crying, “Love is here!”
In Childhood's heart, so pure and clear.”
Now the fairies leap for joy,
Crying, “Love is here!”
“Love has found his proper nest;
And we guard him while he dozes
In a dream of peace and rest
Rosier than roses.”
And we guard him while he dozes
In a dream of peace and rest
Rosier than roses.”
Jan. 3, 1878.
TWO POEMS TO RACHEL DANIEL
I
[“Oh pudgy podgy pup!]
“Oh pudgy podgy pup!Why did they wake you up?
Those crude nocturnal yells
Are not like silver bells:
Nor ever would recall
Sweet Music's ‘dying fall.’
They rather bring to mind
The bitter winter wind
Through keyholes shrieking shrilly
When nights are dark and chilly:
Or like some dire duett,
Or quarrelsome quartette,
Of cats who chant their joys
With execrable noise,
And murder Time and Tune
To vex the patient Moon!”
Nov. 1880.
935
II
FOR “THE GARLAND OF RACHEL” (1881)
What hand may wreathe thy natal crown,
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down
Into this Earth's cold bosom?
O tiny tender Spirit-blossom,
That out of Heaven hast fluttered down
Into this Earth's cold bosom?
And how shall mortal bard aspire—
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden—
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,
A pure and perfect Maiden?
All sin-begrimed and sorrow-laden—
To welcome, with the Seraph-choir,
A pure and perfect Maiden?
Are not God's minstrels ever near,
Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?
Which shall we summon, Baby dear,
To carol forth thy praises?
Flooding with joy the woodland mazes?
Which shall we summon, Baby dear,
To carol forth thy praises?
With sweet sad song the Nightingale
May soothe the broken hearts that languish
Where graves are green—the orphans' wail,
The widow's lonely anguish:
May soothe the broken hearts that languish
Where graves are green—the orphans' wail,
The widow's lonely anguish:
The Turtle-dove with amorous coo
May chide the blushing maid that lingers
To twine her bridal wreath anew
With weak and trembling fingers:
May chide the blushing maid that lingers
To twine her bridal wreath anew
With weak and trembling fingers:
But human loves and human woes
Would dim the radiance of thy glory—
Only the Lark such music knows
As fits thy stainless story.
Would dim the radiance of thy glory—
Only the Lark such music knows
As fits thy stainless story.
936
The world may listen as it will—
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still
For very joy of singing.
She recks not, to the skies up-springing:
Beyond our ken she singeth still
For very joy of singing.
THE LYCEUM
“It is the lawyer's daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
She costs me, in one evening,
The income of a year!
‘You can't have children's love,’ she cried,
‘Unless you choose to fee 'em!’
‘And what's your fee, child?’ I replied.
She simply said ------
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
She costs me, in one evening,
The income of a year!
‘You can't have children's love,’ she cried,
‘Unless you choose to fee 'em!’
‘And what's your fee, child?’ I replied.
She simply said ------
“We saw ‘The Cup.’” I hoped she'd say,
“I'm grateful to you, very.”
She murmured, as she turned away,
“That lovely [Ellen Terry.]
“Compared with her, the rest,” she cried,
“Are just like two or three um-
“berellas standing side by side!
“Oh, gem of ------
“I'm grateful to you, very.”
She murmured, as she turned away,
“That lovely [Ellen Terry.]
“Compared with her, the rest,” she cried,
“Are just like two or three um-
“berellas standing side by side!
“Oh, gem of ------
“We saw Two Brothers. I confess
To me they seemed one man.
“Now which is which, child? Can you guess?”
She cried, “A-course I can!”
Bad puns like this I always dread,
And am resolved to flee 'em.
And so I left her there, and fled;
She lives at ------
To me they seemed one man.
“Now which is which, child? Can you guess?”
She cried, “A-course I can!”
Bad puns like this I always dread,
And am resolved to flee 'em.
And so I left her there, and fled;
She lives at ------
1881.
937
ACROSTIC
[Around my lonely hearth to-night]
Around my lonely hearth to-night,
Ghostlike the shadows wander:
Now here, now there, a childish sprite,
Earthborn and yet as angel bright,
Seems near me as I ponder.
Ghostlike the shadows wander:
Now here, now there, a childish sprite,
Earthborn and yet as angel bright,
Seems near me as I ponder.
Gaily she shouts: the laughing air
Echoes her note of gladness—
Or bends herself with earnest care
Round fairy-fortress to prepare
Grim battlement or turret-stair—
In childhood's merry madness!
Echoes her note of gladness—
Or bends herself with earnest care
Round fairy-fortress to prepare
Grim battlement or turret-stair—
In childhood's merry madness!
New raptures still hath youth in store.
Age may but fondly cherish
Half-faded memories of yore—
Up, craven heart! repine no more!
Love stretches hands from shore to shore:
Love is, and shall not perish!
Age may but fondly cherish
Half-faded memories of yore—
Up, craven heart! repine no more!
Love stretches hands from shore to shore:
Love is, and shall not perish!
DREAMLAND
When midnight mists are creeping,
And all the land is sleeping,
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
And all the land is sleeping,
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
Lo, warriors, saints, and sages,
From out the vanished ages,
With solemn pace and reverend face
Appear and pass away.
From out the vanished ages,
938
Appear and pass away.
The blaze of noonday splendour,
The twilight soft and tender,
May charm the eye: yet they shall die,
Shall die and pass away.
The twilight soft and tender,
May charm the eye: yet they shall die,
Shall die and pass away.
But here, in Dreamland's centre,
No spoiler's hand may enter,
These visions fair, this radiance rare,
Shall never pass away.
No spoiler's hand may enter,
These visions fair, this radiance rare,
Shall never pass away.
I see the shadows falling,
The forms of old recalling;
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
The forms of old recalling;
Around me tread the mighty dead,
And slowly pass away.
1882.
TO MY CHILD-FRIEND
DEDICATION TO “THE GAME OF LOGIC”
I charm in vain: for never again,
All keenly as my glance I bend,
Will Memory, goddess coy,
Embody for my joy
Departed days, nor let me gaze
On thee, my Fairy Friend!
All keenly as my glance I bend,
Will Memory, goddess coy,
Embody for my joy
Departed days, nor let me gaze
On thee, my Fairy Friend!
Yet could thy face, in mystic grace,
A moment smile on me, 'twould send
Far-darting rays of light
From Heaven athwart the night,
By which to read in very deed
Thy spirit, sweetest Friend!
A moment smile on me, 'twould send
Far-darting rays of light
939
By which to read in very deed
Thy spirit, sweetest Friend!
So may the stream of Life's long dream
Flow gently onward to its end,
With many a floweret gay,
A-down its willowy way:
May no sigh vex, no care perplex,
My loving little Friend!
Flow gently onward to its end,
With many a floweret gay,
A-down its willowy way:
May no sigh vex, no care perplex,
My loving little Friend!
1886.
A RIDDLE
(To Miss Gaynor Simpson.)
My first lends his aid when I plunge into trade:My second in jollifications:
My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish
To pictorial representations.
Answer. Copal.
A LIMERICK
(To Miss Vera Beringer.)
There was a young lady of station,“I love man” was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried, “You flatter,”
She replied, “Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation.”
940
RHYME? AND REASON?
(To Miss Emmie Drury.)
“I'm EMInent in RHYME!” she said.“I make WRY Mouths of RYE-Meal gruel!”
The Poet smiled, and shook his head:
“Is REASON, then, the missing jewel?”
A NURSERY DARLING
DEDICATION TO THE NURSERY “ALICE,” 1889
A Mother's breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
See how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm—an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King,
In Love: for Love is Rest.
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
See how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm—an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King,
In Love: for Love is Rest.
A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, their message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of Heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, their message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of Heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
941
MAGGIE'S VISIT TO OXFORD (June 9th to 13th, 1889)
(Written for Maggie Bowman.)
When Maggie once to Oxford came,
On tour as “Bootles Baby,”
She said, “I'll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be.”
On tour as “Bootles Baby,”
She said, “I'll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be.”
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.
The sights that it was rich in:
And first of all she popped her head
Inside the Christ Church kitchen.
The Cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled
Those Cooks began to sing—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
Stood waiting in a ring:
And every time that Maggie smiled
Those Cooks began to sing—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Roast, boil and bake,
For Maggie's sake:
Bring cutlets fine
For her to dine,
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat—
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
For Maggie's sake:
Bring cutlets fine
For her to dine,
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat—
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
Then hand in hand in pleasant talk
They wandered and admired
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie's feet were tired:
They wandered and admired
The Hall, Cathedral and Broad Walk,
Till Maggie's feet were tired:
942
To Worcester Garden next they strolled,
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old,
Their devious way they take.
Admired its quiet lake:
Then to St. John, a college old,
Their devious way they take.
In idle mood they sauntered round
Its lawn so green and flat,
And in that garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussy-Cat!
Its lawn so green and flat,
And in that garden Maggie found
A lovely Pussy-Cat!
A quarter of an hour they spent
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
The Cat was sure to go—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
In wandering to and fro:
And everywhere that Maggie went,
The Cat was sure to go—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Maiow! Maiow!
Come, make your bow,
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr,
To welcome her,
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
Come, make your bow,
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy-Cats!
And purr and purr,
To welcome her,
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
So back to Christ Church, not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
For them to go and see
A Christ Church undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
Next day she entered with her guide
The garden called “Botanic,”
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic:
The garden called “Botanic,”
And there a fierce Wild Boar she spied,
Enough to cause a panic:
943
But Maggie didn't mind, not she,
She would have faced, alone,
That fierce wild boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone.
She would have faced, alone,
That fierce wild boar, because, you see,
The thing was made of stone.
On Magdalen walls they saw a face
That filled her with delight,
A giant face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might.
That filled her with delight,
A giant face, that made grimace
And grinned with all its might.
A little friend, industrious,
Pulled upwards all the while
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
Pulled upwards all the while
The corner of its mouth, and thus
He helped that face to smile!
“How nice,” thought Maggie, “it would be
If I could have a friend
To do that very thing for me
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end.”
If I could have a friend
To do that very thing for me
And make my mouth turn up with glee,
By pulling at one end.”
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy, that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
With joy, that Maggie brings
Some bread a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
They flock round Maggie without fear:
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer—
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer—
Still, as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Yes, Deer are we,
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all rejoice
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie's bread ...
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
And dear is she!
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
944
At Maggie's voice:
We all are fed
With Maggie's bread ...
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
They met a Bishop on their way ...
A Bishop large as life,
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”
A Bishop large as life,
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”
Maggie thought not, because, you see,
She was so very young,
And he was old as old could be ...
So Maggie held her tongue.
She was so very young,
And he was old as old could be ...
So Maggie held her tongue.
“My Lord, she's Bootles' Baby, we
Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford Town.”
Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford Town.”
“Now say what kind of place it is,”
The Bishop gaily cried.
“The best place in the Provinces!”
That little maid replied.
The Bishop gaily cried.
“The best place in the Provinces!”
That little maid replied.
Away, next morning, Maggie went
From Oxford town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
From Oxford town: but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
The train is gone, it rumbles on:
The engine-whistle screams;
But Maggie deep in rosy sleep ...
And softly in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.
The engine-whistle screams;
945
And softly in her dreams,
Whispers the Battle-cry of Freedom.
“Oxford, good-bye!”
She seems to sigh.
“You dear old City,
With gardens pretty,
And lanes and flowers,
And college-towers,
And Tom's great Bell ...
Farewell—farewell:
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
She seems to sigh.
“You dear old City,
With gardens pretty,
And lanes and flowers,
And college-towers,
And Tom's great Bell ...
Farewell—farewell:
For Maggie may be
Bootles' Baby!”
MAGGIE B---
(To Maggie Bowman)
Written by Maggie B---Bought by me:
A present to Maggie B---
Sent by me:
But who can Maggie be?
Answered by me:
“She is she.”
Aug. 13, 1891.
946
THREE SUNSETS AND OTHER POEMS
THREE SUNSETS
He saw her once, and in the glance,
A moment's glance of meeting eyes,
His heart stood still in sudden trance:
He trembled with a sweet surprise—
All in the waning light she stood,
The star of perfect womanhood.
A moment's glance of meeting eyes,
His heart stood still in sudden trance:
He trembled with a sweet surprise—
All in the waning light she stood,
The star of perfect womanhood.
That summer-eve his heart was light:
With lighter step he trod the ground:
And life was fairer in his sight,
And music was in every sound:
He blessed the world where there could be
So beautiful a thing as she.
With lighter step he trod the ground:
And life was fairer in his sight,
And music was in every sound:
He blessed the world where there could be
So beautiful a thing as she.
There once again, as evening fell
And stars were peering overhead,
Two lovers met to bid farewell:
The western sun gleamed faint and red,
Lost in a drift of purple cloud
That wrapped him like a funeral-shroud.
And stars were peering overhead,
Two lovers met to bid farewell:
The western sun gleamed faint and red,
Lost in a drift of purple cloud
That wrapped him like a funeral-shroud.
Long time the memory of that night—
The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed,
The form that faded from his sight
Slow sinking through the tearful mist—
In dreamy music seemed to roll
Through the dark chambers of his soul.
The hand that clasped, the lips that kissed,
The form that faded from his sight
Slow sinking through the tearful mist—
In dreamy music seemed to roll
Through the dark chambers of his soul.
947
So after many years he came
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same,
But those he sought were there no more:
His burning words, his hopes and fears,
Unheeded fell on alien ears.
A wanderer from a distant shore:
The street, the house, were still the same,
But those he sought were there no more:
His burning words, his hopes and fears,
Unheeded fell on alien ears.
Only the children from their play
Would pause the mournful tale to hear,
Shrinking in half-alarm away,
Or, step by step, would venture near
To touch with timid curious hands
That strange wild man from other lands.
Would pause the mournful tale to hear,
Shrinking in half-alarm away,
Or, step by step, would venture near
To touch with timid curious hands
That strange wild man from other lands.
He sat beside the busy street,
There, where he last had seen her face;
And thronging memories, bitter-sweet,
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place:
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.
There, where he last had seen her face;
And thronging memories, bitter-sweet,
Seemed yet to haunt the ancient place:
Her footfall ever floated near:
Her voice was ever in his ear.
He sometimes, as the daylight waned
And evening mists began to roll,
In half-soliloquy complained
Of that black shadow on his soul,
And blindly fanned, with cruel care,
The ashes of a vain despair.
And evening mists began to roll,
In half-soliloquy complained
Of that black shadow on his soul,
And blindly fanned, with cruel care,
The ashes of a vain despair.
The summer fled: the lonely man
Still lingered out the lessening days:
Still, as the night drew on, would scan
Each passing face with closer gaze—
Till, sick at heart, he turned away,
And sighed “She will not come to-day.”
Still lingered out the lessening days:
Still, as the night drew on, would scan
Each passing face with closer gaze—
Till, sick at heart, he turned away,
And sighed “She will not come to-day.”
948
So by degrees his spirit bent
To mock its own despairing cry,
In stern self-torture to invent
New luxuries of agony,
And people all the vacant space
With visions of her perfect face.
To mock its own despairing cry,
In stern self-torture to invent
New luxuries of agony,
And people all the vacant space
With visions of her perfect face.
Then for a moment she was nigh,
He heard no step, but she was there;
As if an angel suddenly
Were bodied from the viewless air,
And all her fine ethereal frame
Should fade as swiftly as it came.
He heard no step, but she was there;
As if an angel suddenly
Were bodied from the viewless air,
And all her fine ethereal frame
Should fade as swiftly as it came.
So, half in fancy's sunny trance,
And half in misery's aching void,
With set and stony countenance
His bitter being he enjoyed,
And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.
And half in misery's aching void,
With set and stony countenance
His bitter being he enjoyed,
And thrust for ever from his mind
The happiness he could not find.
As when the wretch, in lonely room,
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world—
So all his manhood's strength and pride
One sickly dream had swept aside.
To selfish death is madly hurled,
The glamour of that fatal fume
Shuts out the wholesome living world—
So all his manhood's strength and pride
One sickly dream had swept aside.
Yea, brother, and we passed him there,
But yesterday, in merry mood,
And marvelled at the lordly air
That shamed his beggar's attitude,
Nor heeded that ourselves might be
Wretches as desperate as he;
But yesterday, in merry mood,
And marvelled at the lordly air
That shamed his beggar's attitude,
Nor heeded that ourselves might be
Wretches as desperate as he;
Who let the thought of bliss denied
Make havoc of our life and powers,
And pine, in solitary pride,
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate.
949
And pine, in solitary pride,
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate.
And so it chanced once more that she
Came by the old familiar spot:
The face he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not;
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.
Came by the old familiar spot:
The face he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not;
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.
And pity filled her gentle breast
For him that would not stir nor speak,
The dying crimson of the west,
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.
For him that would not stir nor speak,
The dying crimson of the west,
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.
Ah, let him wake! The moments fly:
This awful tryst may be the last.
And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye,
Had fallen on him ere she passed—
She passed: the crimson paled to gray:
And hope departed with the day.
This awful tryst may be the last.
And see, the tear, that dimmed her eye,
Had fallen on him ere she passed—
She passed: the crimson paled to gray:
And hope departed with the day.
The heavy hours of night went by,
And silence quickened into sound,
And light slid up the eastern sky,
And life began its daily round—
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.
And silence quickened into sound,
And light slid up the eastern sky,
And life began its daily round—
But light and life for him were fled:
His name was numbered with the dead.
Nov. 1861.
950
THE PATH OF ROSES
[_]
(Florence Nightingale was at the height of her fame when this was written, after the Crimean War.)
In the dark silence of an ancient room,
Whose one tall window fronted to the West,
Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine,
The sunset-glow was fading into night,
Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands
Upon a great clasped volume, and her face
Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed,
But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek,
And her low-panted sobs broke awefully
Upon the sleeping echoes of the night.
Whose one tall window fronted to the West,
Where, through laced tendrils of a hanging vine,
The sunset-glow was fading into night,
Sat a pale Lady, resting weary hands
Upon a great clasped volume, and her face
Within her hands. Not as in rest she bowed,
But large hot tears were coursing down her cheek,
And her low-panted sobs broke awefully
Upon the sleeping echoes of the night.
Soon she unclasp'd the volume once again,
And read the words in tone of agony,
As in self-torture, weeping as she read:—
And read the words in tone of agony,
As in self-torture, weeping as she read:—
“He crowns the glory of his race:
He prayeth but in some fit place
To meet his foeman face to face:
He prayeth but in some fit place
To meet his foeman face to face:
“And, battling for the True, the Right,
From ruddy dawn to purple night,
To perish in the midmost fight:
From ruddy dawn to purple night,
To perish in the midmost fight:
“Where hearts are fierce and hands are strong,
Where peals the bugle loud and long,
Where blood is dropping in the throng:
Where peals the bugle loud and long,
Where blood is dropping in the throng:
“Still, with a dim and glazing eye,
To watch the tide of victory,
To hear in death the battle-cry:
To watch the tide of victory,
To hear in death the battle-cry:
951
“Then, gathered grandly to his grave,
To rest among the true and brave,
In holy ground, where yew-trees wave:
To rest among the true and brave,
In holy ground, where yew-trees wave:
“Where, from church-windows sculptured fair,
Float out upon the evening air
The note of praise, the voice of prayer:
Float out upon the evening air
The note of praise, the voice of prayer:
“Where no vain marble mockery
Insults with loud and boastful lie
The simple soldier's memory:
Insults with loud and boastful lie
The simple soldier's memory:
“Where sometimes little children go,
And read, in whisper'd accent slow,
The name of him who sleeps below.”
And read, in whisper'd accent slow,
The name of him who sleeps below.”
Her voice died out: like one in dreams she sat.
“Alas!” she sighed. “For what can Woman do?
Her life is aimless, and her death unknown:
Hemmed in by social forms she pines in vain.
Man has his work, but what can Woman do?”
“Alas!” she sighed. “For what can Woman do?
Her life is aimless, and her death unknown:
Hemmed in by social forms she pines in vain.
Man has his work, but what can Woman do?”
And answer came there from the creeping gloom,
The creeping gloom that settled into night:
“Peace! For thy lot is other than a man's:
His is a path of thorns: he beats them down:
He faces death: he wrestles with despair.
Thine is of roses, to adorn and cheer
His lonely life, and hide the thorns in flowers.”
The creeping gloom that settled into night:
“Peace! For thy lot is other than a man's:
His is a path of thorns: he beats them down:
He faces death: he wrestles with despair.
Thine is of roses, to adorn and cheer
His lonely life, and hide the thorns in flowers.”
She spake again: in bitter tone she spake:
“Aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour,
Or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn,
But flung aside and withered ere the night.”
“Aye, as a toy, the puppet of an hour,
Or a fair posy, newly plucked at morn,
But flung aside and withered ere the night.”
And answer came there from the creeping gloom,
The creeping gloom that blackened into night:
“So shalt thou be the lamp to light his path,
What time the shades of sorrow close around.”
The creeping gloom that blackened into night:
“So shalt thou be the lamp to light his path,
What time the shades of sorrow close around.”
952
And, so it seemed to her, an awful light
Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew,
Until all passed away—the ancient room—
The sunlight dying through the trellised vine—
The one tall window—all had passed away,
And she was standing on the mighty hills.
Pierced slowly through the darkness, orbed, and grew,
Until all passed away—the ancient room—
The sunlight dying through the trellised vine—
The one tall window—all had passed away,
And she was standing on the mighty hills.
Beneath, around, and far as eye could see,
Squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts,
Ranked as for battle, mute and motionless.
Anon a distant thunder shook the ground,
The tramp of horses, and a troop shot by—
Plunged headlong in that living sea of men—
Plunged to their death: back from that fatal field
A scattered handful, fighting hard for life,
Broke through the serried lines; but, as she gazed,
They shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin—
Grew pale as ghosts when the first morning ray
Dawns from the East—the trumpet's brazen blare
Died into silence—and the vision passed—
Passed to a room where sick and dying lay
In long, sad line—there brooded Fear and Pain—
Darkness was there, the shade of Azrael's wing.
But there was one that ever, to and fro,
Moved with light footfall: purely calm her face,
And those deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom:
Still, as she went, she ministered to each
Comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow
With softest touch, and in the listening ear
Of the pale sufferer whispered words of peace.
That dying warrior, gazing as she passed,
Clasped his thin hands and blessed her. Bless her too,
Thou, who didst bless the merciful of old!
Squadron on squadron, stretched opposing hosts,
Ranked as for battle, mute and motionless.
Anon a distant thunder shook the ground,
The tramp of horses, and a troop shot by—
Plunged headlong in that living sea of men—
Plunged to their death: back from that fatal field
A scattered handful, fighting hard for life,
Broke through the serried lines; but, as she gazed,
They shrank and melted, and their forms grew thin—
Grew pale as ghosts when the first morning ray
Dawns from the East—the trumpet's brazen blare
Died into silence—and the vision passed—
Passed to a room where sick and dying lay
In long, sad line—there brooded Fear and Pain—
Darkness was there, the shade of Azrael's wing.
But there was one that ever, to and fro,
Moved with light footfall: purely calm her face,
And those deep steadfast eyes that starred the gloom:
Still, as she went, she ministered to each
Comfort and counsel; cooled the fevered brow
With softest touch, and in the listening ear
Of the pale sufferer whispered words of peace.
That dying warrior, gazing as she passed,
Clasped his thin hands and blessed her. Bless her too,
Thou, who didst bless the merciful of old!
So prayed the Lady, watching tearfully
Her gentle moving onward, till the night
Had veiled her wholly, and the vision passed.
Her gentle moving onward, till the night
953
Then once again the solemn whisper came:
“So in the darkest path of man's despair,
Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth,
Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow
To pass through scenes of horror and affright
Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her
All things are sanctified, for all are good.
Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care:
Nothing so great, but she may bear her part.
No life is vain: each hath his place assigned:
Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God.”
And there was silence, but the Lady made
No answer, save one deeply-breathed “Amen.”
“So in the darkest path of man's despair,
Where War and Terror shake the troubled earth,
Lies woman's mission; with unblenching brow
To pass through scenes of horror and affright
Where men grow sick and tremble: unto her
All things are sanctified, for all are good.
Nothing so mean, but shall deserve her care:
Nothing so great, but she may bear her part.
No life is vain: each hath his place assigned:
Do thou thy task, and leave the rest to God.”
And there was silence, but the Lady made
No answer, save one deeply-breathed “Amen.”
And she arose, and in that darkening room
Stood lonely as a spirit of the night—
Stood calm and fearless in the gathered night—
And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears
Upon her face, but in her heart was peace,
Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away!
Stood lonely as a spirit of the night—
Stood calm and fearless in the gathered night—
And raised her eyes to heaven. There were tears
Upon her face, but in her heart was peace,
Peace that the world nor gives nor takes away!
April 10, 1856.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH
Hark, said the dying man, and sighed,
To that complaining tone—
Like sprite condemned, each eventide,
To walk the world alone.
At sunset, when the air is still,
I hear it creep from yonder hill:
It breathes upon me, dead and chill,
A moment, and is gone.
To that complaining tone—
Like sprite condemned, each eventide,
To walk the world alone.
At sunset, when the air is still,
I hear it creep from yonder hill:
It breathes upon me, dead and chill,
A moment, and is gone.
954
My son, it minds me of a day
Left half a life behind,
That I have prayed to put away
For ever from my mind.
But bitter memory will not die:
It haunts my soul when none is nigh:
I hear its whisper in the sigh
Of that complaining wind.
Left half a life behind,
That I have prayed to put away
For ever from my mind.
But bitter memory will not die:
It haunts my soul when none is nigh:
I hear its whisper in the sigh
Of that complaining wind.
And now in death my soul is fain
To tell the tale of fear
That hidden in my breast hath lain
Through many a weary year:
Yet time would fail to utter all—
The evil spells that held me thrall,
And thrust my life from fall to fall,
Thou needest not to hear.
To tell the tale of fear
That hidden in my breast hath lain
Through many a weary year:
Yet time would fail to utter all—
The evil spells that held me thrall,
And thrust my life from fall to fall,
Thou needest not to hear.
The spells that bound me with a chain,
Sin's stern behests to do,
Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain,
A heavy burden grew—
Till from my spirit's fevered eye,
A hunted thing, I seemed to fly
Through the dark woods that underlie
Yon mountain-range of blue.
Sin's stern behests to do,
Till Pleasure's self, invoked in vain,
A heavy burden grew—
Till from my spirit's fevered eye,
A hunted thing, I seemed to fly
Through the dark woods that underlie
Yon mountain-range of blue.
Deep in those woods I found a vale
No sunlight visiteth,
Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale;
Where never comes the breath
Of summer-breeze—there in mine ear,
Even as I lingered half in fear,
I heard a whisper, cold and clear,
“That is the gate of Death.
No sunlight visiteth,
Nor star, nor wandering moonbeam pale;
Where never comes the breath
Of summer-breeze—there in mine ear,
Even as I lingered half in fear,
I heard a whisper, cold and clear,
955
“O bitter is it to abide
In weariness alway:
At dawn to sigh for eventide,
At eventide for day.
Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone:
The brightness of thy day is gone:
What need to lag and linger on
Till life be cold and gray?
In weariness alway:
At dawn to sigh for eventide,
At eventide for day.
Thy noon hath fled: thy sun hath shone:
The brightness of thy day is gone:
What need to lag and linger on
Till life be cold and gray?
“O well,” it said, “beneath yon pool,
In some still cavern deep,
The fevered brain might slumber cool,
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim
Are draughts of healing, stored for him
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,
Who prayeth but to sleep!”
In some still cavern deep,
The fevered brain might slumber cool,
The eyes forget to weep:
Within that goblet's mystic rim
Are draughts of healing, stored for him
Whose heart is sick, whose sight is dim,
Who prayeth but to sleep!”
The evening-breeze went moaning by,
Like mourner for the dead,
And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh,
The tree-tops overhead:
My guardian-angel seemed to stand
And mutely wave a warning hand—
With sudden terror all unmanned,
I turned myself and fled!
Like mourner for the dead,
And stirred, with shrill complaining sigh,
The tree-tops overhead:
My guardian-angel seemed to stand
And mutely wave a warning hand—
With sudden terror all unmanned,
I turned myself and fled!
A cottage-gate stood open wide:
Soft fell the dying ray
On two fair children, side by side,
That rested from their play—
Together bent the earnest head,
As ever and anon they read
From one dear Book: the words they said
Come back to me to-day.
Soft fell the dying ray
On two fair children, side by side,
That rested from their play—
Together bent the earnest head,
956
From one dear Book: the words they said
Come back to me to-day.
Like twin cascades on mountain-stair
Together wandered down
The ripples of the golden hair,
The ripples of the brown:
While, through the tangled silken haze,
Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze,
More starlike than the gems that blaze
About a monarch's crown.
Together wandered down
The ripples of the golden hair,
The ripples of the brown:
While, through the tangled silken haze,
Blue eyes looked forth in eager gaze,
More starlike than the gems that blaze
About a monarch's crown.
My son, there comes to each an hour
When sinks the spirit's pride—
When weary hands forget their power
The strokes of death to guide:
In such a moment, warriors say,
A word the panic-rout may stay,
A sudden charge redeem the day
And turn the living tide.
When sinks the spirit's pride—
When weary hands forget their power
The strokes of death to guide:
In such a moment, warriors say,
A word the panic-rout may stay,
A sudden charge redeem the day
And turn the living tide.
I could not see, for blinding tears,
The glories of the west:
A heavenly music filled mine ears,
A heavenly peace my breast.
“Come unto Me, come unto Me—
All ye that labour, unto Me—
Ye heavy-laden, come to Me—
And I will give you rest.”
The glories of the west:
A heavenly music filled mine ears,
A heavenly peace my breast.
“Come unto Me, come unto Me—
All ye that labour, unto Me—
Ye heavy-laden, come to Me—
And I will give you rest.”
The night drew onwards: thin and blue
The evening mists arise
To bathe the thirsty land in dew,
As erst in Paradise—
While, over silent field and town,
The deep blue vault of heaven looked down;
Not, as of old, in angry frown,
But bright with angels' eyes.
The evening mists arise
To bathe the thirsty land in dew,
957
While, over silent field and town,
The deep blue vault of heaven looked down;
Not, as of old, in angry frown,
But bright with angels' eyes.
Blest day! Then first I heard the voice
That since hath oft beguiled
These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice
This heart with anguish wild—
Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known;
So soon she left me here to moan—
Left me to weep and watch, alone,
Our one beloved child.
That since hath oft beguiled
These eyes from tears, and bid rejoice
This heart with anguish wild—
Thy mother, boy, thou hast not known;
So soon she left me here to moan—
Left me to weep and watch, alone,
Our one beloved child.
Though, parted from my aching sight,
Like homeward-speeding dove,
She passed into the perfect light
That floods the world above;
Yet our twin spirits, well I know—
Though one abide in pain below—
Love, as in summers long ago,
And evermore shall love.
Like homeward-speeding dove,
She passed into the perfect light
That floods the world above;
Yet our twin spirits, well I know—
Though one abide in pain below—
Love, as in summers long ago,
And evermore shall love.
So with a glad and patient heart
I move toward mine end:
The streams, that flow awhile apart,
Shall both in ocean blend.
I dare not weep: I can but bless
The Love that pitied my distress,
And lent me, in Life's wilderness,
So sweet and true a friend.
I move toward mine end:
The streams, that flow awhile apart,
Shall both in ocean blend.
I dare not weep: I can but bless
The Love that pitied my distress,
And lent me, in Life's wilderness,
So sweet and true a friend.
But if there be—O if there be
A truth in what they say,
That angel-forms we cannot see
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here,
I dimly feel her spirit near—
The morning-mists grow thin and clear,
And Death brings in the Day.
958
That angel-forms we cannot see
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here,
I dimly feel her spirit near—
The morning-mists grow thin and clear,
And Death brings in the Day.
April 1868.
SOLITUDE
I love the stillness of the wood:
I love the music of the rill:
I love to couch in pensive mood
Upon some silent hill.
I love the music of the rill:
I love to couch in pensive mood
Upon some silent hill.
Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees,
The silver-crested ripples pass;
And, like a mimic brook, the breeze
Whispers among the grass.
The silver-crested ripples pass;
And, like a mimic brook, the breeze
Whispers among the grass.
Here from the world I win release,
Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,
Break in to mar the holy peace
Of this great solitude.
Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,
Break in to mar the holy peace
Of this great solitude.
Here may the silent tears I weep
Lull the vexed spirit into rest,
As infants sob themselves to sleep
Upon a mother's breast.
Lull the vexed spirit into rest,
As infants sob themselves to sleep
Upon a mother's breast.
But when the bitter hour is gone,
And the keen throbbing pangs are still,
Oh, sweetest then to couch alone
Upon some silent hill!
And the keen throbbing pangs are still,
959
Upon some silent hill!
To live in joys that once have been,
To put the cold world out of sight,
And deck life's drear and barren scene
With hues of rainbow-light.
To put the cold world out of sight,
And deck life's drear and barren scene
With hues of rainbow-light.
For what to man the gift of breath,
If sorrow be his lot below;
If all the day that ends in death
Be dark with clouds of woe?
If sorrow be his lot below;
If all the day that ends in death
Be dark with clouds of woe?
Shall the poor transport of an hour
Repay long years of sore distress—
The fragrance of a lonely flower
Make glad the wilderness?
Repay long years of sore distress—
The fragrance of a lonely flower
Make glad the wilderness?
Ye golden hours of Life's young spring,
Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright, beyond all imagining,
Thou fairy-dream of youth!
Of innocence, of love and truth!
Bright, beyond all imagining,
Thou fairy-dream of youth!
I'd give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life's decay,
To be once more a little child
For once bright summer-day.
The slow result of Life's decay,
To be once more a little child
For once bright summer-day.
March 16, 1853.
960
BEATRICE
In her eyes is the living light
Of a wanderer to earth
From a far celestial height:
Summers five are all the span—
Summers five since Time began
To veil in mists of human night
A shining angel-birth.
Of a wanderer to earth
From a far celestial height:
Summers five are all the span—
Summers five since Time began
To veil in mists of human night
A shining angel-birth.
Does an angel look from her eyes?
Will she suddenly spring away,
And soar to her home in the skies?
Beatrice! Blessing and blessed to be!
Beatrice! Still, as I gaze on thee,
Visions of two sweet maids arise,
Whose life was of yesterday:
Will she suddenly spring away,
And soar to her home in the skies?
Beatrice! Blessing and blessed to be!
Beatrice! Still, as I gaze on thee,
Visions of two sweet maids arise,
Whose life was of yesterday:
Of a Beatrice pale and stern,
With the lips of a dumb despair,
With the innocent eyes that yearn—
Yearn for the young sweet hours of life,
Far from sorrow and far from strife,
For the happy summers, that never return,
When the world seemed good and fair:
With the lips of a dumb despair,
With the innocent eyes that yearn—
Yearn for the young sweet hours of life,
Far from sorrow and far from strife,
For the happy summers, that never return,
When the world seemed good and fair:
Of a Beatrice glorious, bright—
Of a sainted, ethereal maid,
Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light,
Cheering the poet that broodeth apart,
Filling with gladness his desolate heart,
Like the moon when she shines thro' a cloudless night
On a world of silence and shade.
Of a sainted, ethereal maid,
Whose blue eyes are deep fountains of light,
Cheering the poet that broodeth apart,
Filling with gladness his desolate heart,
Like the moon when she shines thro' a cloudless night
On a world of silence and shade.
961
And the visions waver and faint,
And the visions vanish away
That my fancy delighted to paint—
She is here at my side, a living child,
With the glowing cheek and the tresses wild,
Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint,
Yet stainless and bright as they.
And the visions vanish away
That my fancy delighted to paint—
She is here at my side, a living child,
With the glowing cheek and the tresses wild,
Nor death-pale martyr, nor radiant saint,
Yet stainless and bright as they.
For I think, if a grim wild beast
Were to come from his charnel-cave,
From his jungle-home in the East—
Stealthily creeping with bated breath,
Stealthily creeping with eyes of death—
He would all forget his dream of the feast,
And crouch at her feet a slave.
Were to come from his charnel-cave,
From his jungle-home in the East—
Stealthily creeping with bated breath,
Stealthily creeping with eyes of death—
He would all forget his dream of the feast,
And crouch at her feet a slave.
She would twine her hand in his mane:
She would prattle in silvery tone,
Like the tinkle of summer-rain—
Questioning him with her laughing eyes,
Questioning him with a glad surprise,
Till she caught from those fierce eyes again
The love that lit her own.
She would prattle in silvery tone,
Like the tinkle of summer-rain—
Questioning him with her laughing eyes,
Questioning him with a glad surprise,
Till she caught from those fierce eyes again
The love that lit her own.
And be sure, if a savage heart,
In a mask of human guise,
Were to come on her here apart—
Bound for a dark and a deadly deed,
Hurrying past with pitiless speed—
He would suddenly falter and guiltily start
At the glance of her pure blue eyes.
In a mask of human guise,
Were to come on her here apart—
Bound for a dark and a deadly deed,
Hurrying past with pitiless speed—
He would suddenly falter and guiltily start
At the glance of her pure blue eyes.
Nay, be sure, if an angel fair,
A bright seraph undefiled,
Were to stoop from the trackless air,
Fain would she linger in glad amaze—
Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze,
With a sister's love and a sister's care,
On the happy, innocent child.
A bright seraph undefiled,
962
Fain would she linger in glad amaze—
Lovingly linger to ponder and gaze,
With a sister's love and a sister's care,
On the happy, innocent child.
Dec. 4, 1862.
STOLEN WATERS
The light was faint, and soft the air
That breathed around the place;
And she was lithe, and tall, and fair,
And with a wayward grace
Her queenly head she bare.
That breathed around the place;
And she was lithe, and tall, and fair,
And with a wayward grace
Her queenly head she bare.
With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye,
She met me on the way:
My spirit owned the witchery
Within her smile that lay:
I followed her, I know not why.
She met me on the way:
My spirit owned the witchery
Within her smile that lay:
I followed her, I know not why.
The trees were thick with many a fruit,
The grass with many a flower:
My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,
In that accursëd hour.
The grass with many a flower:
My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,
In that accursëd hour.
And, in my dream, with silvery voice,
She said, or seemed to say,
“Youth is the season to rejoice—”
I could not choose but stay:
I could not say her nay.
She said, or seemed to say,
“Youth is the season to rejoice—”
I could not choose but stay:
I could not say her nay.
She plucked a branch above her head,
With rarest fruitage laden:
“Drink of the juice, Sir Knight,” she said:
“'Tis good for knight and maiden.”
With rarest fruitage laden:
“Drink of the juice, Sir Knight,” she said:
“'Tis good for knight and maiden.”
963
Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace—
Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed—
The mocking smile upon her face,
The mocking voice of greed!
Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed—
The mocking smile upon her face,
The mocking voice of greed!
I drank the juice; and straightway felt
A fire within my brain:
My soul within me seemed to melt
In sweet delirious pain.
A fire within my brain:
My soul within me seemed to melt
In sweet delirious pain.
“Sweet is the stolen draught,” she said:
“Hath sweetness stint or measure?
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:
What bars us from our pleasure?”
“Hath sweetness stint or measure?
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:
What bars us from our pleasure?”
“Yea, take we pleasure while we may,”
I heard myself replying.
In the red sunset, far away,
My happier life was dying:
My heart was sad, my voice was gay.
I heard myself replying.
In the red sunset, far away,
My happier life was dying:
My heart was sad, my voice was gay.
And unawares, I knew not how,
I kissed her dainty finger-tips,
I kissed her on the lily brow,
I kissed her on the false, false lips—
That burning kiss, I feel it now!
I kissed her dainty finger-tips,
I kissed her on the lily brow,
I kissed her on the false, false lips—
That burning kiss, I feel it now!
“True love gives true love of the best:
Then take,” I cried, “my heart to thee!”
The very heart from out my breast
I plucked, I gave it willingly:
Her very heart she gave to me—
Then died the glory from the west.
Then take,” I cried, “my heart to thee!”
The very heart from out my breast
I plucked, I gave it willingly:
Her very heart she gave to me—
Then died the glory from the west.
In the gray light I saw her face,
And it was withered, old, and gray;
The flowers were fading in their place,
Were fading with the fading day.
And it was withered, old, and gray;
964
Were fading with the fading day.
Forth from her, like a hunted deer,
Through all that ghastly night I fled,
And still behind me seemed to hear
Her fierce unflagging tread;
And scarce drew breath for fear.
Through all that ghastly night I fled,
And still behind me seemed to hear
Her fierce unflagging tread;
And scarce drew breath for fear.
Yet marked I well how strangely seemed
The heart within my breast to sleep:
Silent it lay, or so I dreamed,
With never a throb or leap.
The heart within my breast to sleep:
Silent it lay, or so I dreamed,
With never a throb or leap.
For hers was now my heart, she said,
The heart that once had been mine own:
And in my breast I bore instead
A cold, cold heart of stone.
So grew the morning overhead.
The heart that once had been mine own:
And in my breast I bore instead
A cold, cold heart of stone.
So grew the morning overhead.
The sun shot downward through the trees
His old familiar flame:
All ancient sounds upon the breeze
From copse and meadow came
But I was not the same.
His old familiar flame:
All ancient sounds upon the breeze
From copse and meadow came
But I was not the same.
They call me mad: I smile, I weep,
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
What better than to die?
So that the grave be dark and deep.
Uncaring how or why:
Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,
What better than to die?
So that the grave be dark and deep.
To die! To die? And yet, methinks,
I drink of life, to-day,
Deep as the thirsty traveller drinks
Of fountain by the way:
My voice is sad, my heart is gay.
I drink of life, to-day,
Deep as the thirsty traveller drinks
Of fountain by the way:
My voice is sad, my heart is gay.
965
When yestereve was on the wane,
I heard a clear voice singing
So sweetly that, like summer-rain,
My happy tears came springing:
My human heart returned again.
I heard a clear voice singing
So sweetly that, like summer-rain,
My happy tears came springing:
My human heart returned again.
“A rosy child,
Sitting and singing, in a garden fair,
The joy of hearing, seeing,
The simple joy of being—
Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair
That ripples free and wild.
Sitting and singing, in a garden fair,
The joy of hearing, seeing,
The simple joy of being—
Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair
That ripples free and wild.
“A sweet pale child—
Wearily looking to the purple West—
Waiting the great For-ever
That suddenly shall sever
The cruel chains that hold her from her rest—
By earth-joys unbeguiled.
Wearily looking to the purple West—
Waiting the great For-ever
That suddenly shall sever
The cruel chains that hold her from her rest—
By earth-joys unbeguiled.
“An angel-child—
Gazing with living eyes on a dead face:
The mortal form foresaken,
That none may now awaken,
That lieth painless, moveless in her place,
As though in death she smiled!
Gazing with living eyes on a dead face:
The mortal form foresaken,
That none may now awaken,
That lieth painless, moveless in her place,
As though in death she smiled!
“Be as a child—
So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath—
So shalt thou wait thy dying,
In holy transport lying—
So pass rejoicing through the gate of death,
In garment undefiled.”
So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath—
So shalt thou wait thy dying,
In holy transport lying—
So pass rejoicing through the gate of death,
In garment undefiled.”
966
Then call me what they will, I know
That now my soul is glad:
If this be madness, better so,
Far better to be mad,
Weeping or smiling as I go.
That now my soul is glad:
If this be madness, better so,
Far better to be mad,
Weeping or smiling as I go.
For if I weep, it is that now
I see how deep a loss is mine,
And feel how brightly round my brow
The coronal might shine,
Had I but kept mine early vow:
I see how deep a loss is mine,
And feel how brightly round my brow
The coronal might shine,
Had I but kept mine early vow:
And if I smile, it is that now
I see the promise of the years—
The garland waiting for my brow,
That must be won with tears,
With pain—with death—I care not how.
I see the promise of the years—
The garland waiting for my brow,
That must be won with tears,
With pain—with death—I care not how.
May 9, 1862.
THE WILLOW-TREE
The morn was bright, the steeds were light,
The wedding guests were gay:
Young Ellen stood within the wood
And watched them pass away.
She scarcely saw the gallant train:
The tear-drop dimmed her e'e:
Unheard the maiden did complain
Beneath the Willow-Tree.
The wedding guests were gay:
Young Ellen stood within the wood
And watched them pass away.
She scarcely saw the gallant train:
The tear-drop dimmed her e'e:
Unheard the maiden did complain
Beneath the Willow-Tree.
“Oh, Robin, thou didst love me well,
Till, on a bitter day,
She came, the Lady Isabel,
And stole thy heart away.
My tears are vain: I live again
In days that used to be,
When I could meet thy welcome feet
Beneath the Willow-Tree.
Till, on a bitter day,
She came, the Lady Isabel,
967
My tears are vain: I live again
In days that used to be,
When I could meet thy welcome feet
Beneath the Willow-Tree.
“Oh, Willow gray, I may not stay
Till Spring renew thy leaf;
But I will hide myself away,
And nurse a lonely grief.
It shall not dim Life's joy for him:
My tears he shall not see:
While he is by, I'll come not nigh
My weeping Willow-Tree.
Till Spring renew thy leaf;
But I will hide myself away,
And nurse a lonely grief.
It shall not dim Life's joy for him:
My tears he shall not see:
While he is by, I'll come not nigh
My weeping Willow-Tree.
“But when I die, oh, let me lie
Beneath thy loving shade,
That he may loiter careless by,
Where I am lowly laid.
And let the white white marble tell,
If he should stoop to see,
‘Here lies a maid that loved thee well,
Beneath the Willow-Tree.’”
Beneath thy loving shade,
That he may loiter careless by,
Where I am lowly laid.
And let the white white marble tell,
If he should stoop to see,
‘Here lies a maid that loved thee well,
Beneath the Willow-Tree.’”
1859.
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR
[_]
[“After the death of Dean Swift, there was found among his papers a small packet containing a single lock of hair and inscribed with the above words.”]
“Only a woman's hair!” Fling it aside!
A bubble on Life's mighty stream:
Heed it not, man, but watch the broadening tide
Bright with the western beam.
A bubble on Life's mighty stream:
968
Bright with the western beam.
Nay! In those words there rings from other years
The echo of a long low cry,
Where a proud spirit wrestles with its tears
In loneliest agony.
The echo of a long low cry,
Where a proud spirit wrestles with its tears
In loneliest agony.
And, as I touch that lock, strange visions throng
Upon my soul with dreamy grace—
Of woman's hair, the theme of poet's song
In every time and place.
Upon my soul with dreamy grace—
Of woman's hair, the theme of poet's song
In every time and place.
A child's bright tresses, by the breezes kissed
To sweet disorder as she flies,
Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist,
Flushed cheek and laughing eyes—
To sweet disorder as she flies,
Veiling, beneath a cloud of golden mist,
Flushed cheek and laughing eyes—
Or fringing, like a shadow, raven-black,
The glory of a queen-like face—
Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back
In wild and wanton grace—
The glory of a queen-like face—
Or from a gipsy's sunny brow tossed back
In wild and wanton grace—
Or crown-like on the hoary head of Age,
Whose tale of life is well-nigh told—
Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage
To Bethany of old.
Whose tale of life is well-nigh told—
Or, last, in dreams I make my pilgrimage
To Bethany of old.
I see the feast—the purple and the gold;
The gathering crowd of Pharisees,
Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold
Yon woman on her knees.
The gathering crowd of Pharisees,
Whose scornful eyes are centred to behold
Yon woman on her knees.
The stifled sob rings strangely on mine ears,
Wrung from the depth of sin's despair:
And still she bathes the sacred feet with tears,
And wipes them with her hair.
Wrung from the depth of sin's despair:
And still she bathes the sacred feet with tears,
And wipes them with her hair.
969
He scorned not then the simple loving deed
Of her, the lowest and the last;
Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed
This relic of the past.
Of her, the lowest and the last;
Then scorn not thou, but use with earnest heed
This relic of the past.
The eyes that loved it once no longer wake:
So lay it by with reverent care—
Touching it tenderly for sorrow's sake—
It is a woman's hair.
So lay it by with reverent care—
Touching it tenderly for sorrow's sake—
It is a woman's hair.
Feb. 17, 1862.
THE SAILOR'S WIFE
See! There are tears upon her face—
Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried:
Close, in an agonised embrace,
She clasps the infant at her side.
Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried:
Close, in an agonised embrace,
She clasps the infant at her side.
Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes,
Those parted lips that faintly smile—
Peace, the foretaste of Paradise,
In heart too young for care or guile.
Those parted lips that faintly smile—
Peace, the foretaste of Paradise,
In heart too young for care or guile.
No peace that mother's features wear;
But quivering lip, and knotted brow,
And broken mutterings, all declare
The fearful dream that haunts her now,
But quivering lip, and knotted brow,
And broken mutterings, all declare
The fearful dream that haunts her now,
The storm-wind, rushing through the sky,
Wails from the depths of cloudy space;
Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry
When death and he are face to face.
Wails from the depths of cloudy space;
Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry
When death and he are face to face.
970
Familiar tones are in the gale:
They ring upon her startled ear:
And quick and low she pants the tale
That tells of agony and fear:
They ring upon her startled ear:
And quick and low she pants the tale
That tells of agony and fear:
“Still that phantom-ship is nigh—
With a vexed and life-like motion,
All beneath an angry sky,
Rocking on an angry ocean.
With a vexed and life-like motion,
All beneath an angry sky,
Rocking on an angry ocean.
“Round the straining mast and shrouds
Throng the spirits of the storm:
Darkly seen through driving clouds,
Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.
Throng the spirits of the storm:
Darkly seen through driving clouds,
Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.
“See! The good ship yields at last!
Dumbly yields, and fights no more;
Driving, in the frantic blast,
Headlong on the fatal shore.
Dumbly yields, and fights no more;
Driving, in the frantic blast,
Headlong on the fatal shore.
“Hark! I hear her battered side,
With a low and sullen shock,
Dashed, amid the foaming tide,
Full upon a sunken rock.
With a low and sullen shock,
Dashed, amid the foaming tide,
Full upon a sunken rock.
“His face shines out against the sky,
Like a ghost, so cold and white;
With a dead despairing eye
Gazing through the gathered night.
Like a ghost, so cold and white;
With a dead despairing eye
Gazing through the gathered night.
“Is he watching, through the dark,
Where a mocking ghostly hand
Points a faint and feeble spark
Glimmering from the distant land?
Where a mocking ghostly hand
Points a faint and feeble spark
Glimmering from the distant land?
971
“Sees he, in this hour of dread,
Hearth and home and wife and child?
Loved ones who, in summers fled,
Clung to him and wept and smiled?
Hearth and home and wife and child?
Loved ones who, in summers fled,
Clung to him and wept and smiled?
“Reeling sinks the fated bark
To her tomb beneath the wave:
Must he perish in the dark—
Not a hand stretched out to save?
To her tomb beneath the wave:
Must he perish in the dark—
Not a hand stretched out to save?
“See the spirits, how they crowd!
Watching death with eyes that burn!
Waves rush in ---” she shrieks aloud,
Ere her waking sense return.
Watching death with eyes that burn!
Waves rush in ---” she shrieks aloud,
Ere her waking sense return.
The storm is gone: the skies are clear:
Hush'd is that bitter cry of pain:
The only sound, that meets her ear,
The heaving of the sullen main.
Hush'd is that bitter cry of pain:
The only sound, that meets her ear,
The heaving of the sullen main.
Though heaviness endure the night,
Yet joy shall come with break of day:
She shudders with a strange delight—
The fearful dream is pass'd away.
Yet joy shall come with break of day:
She shudders with a strange delight—
The fearful dream is pass'd away.
She wakes: the gray dawn streaks the dark:
With early song the copses ring:
Far off she hears the watch-dog bark
A joyful bark of welcoming!
With early song the copses ring:
Far off she hears the watch-dog bark
A joyful bark of welcoming!
Feb. 23, 1857.
972
AFTER THREE DAYS
I stood within the gate
Of a great temple, 'mid the living stream
Of worshippers that thronged its regal state
Fair-pictured in my dream.
Of a great temple, 'mid the living stream
Of worshippers that thronged its regal state
Fair-pictured in my dream.
Jewels and gold were there;
And floors of marble lent a crystal sheen
To body forth, as in a lower air,
The wonders of the scene.
And floors of marble lent a crystal sheen
To body forth, as in a lower air,
The wonders of the scene.
Such wild and lavish grace
Had whispers in it of a coming doom;
As richest flowers lie strown about the face
Of her that waits the tomb.
Had whispers in it of a coming doom;
As richest flowers lie strown about the face
Of her that waits the tomb.
The wisest of the land
Had gathered there, three solemn trysting-days,
For high debate: men stood on either hand
To listen and to gaze.
Had gathered there, three solemn trysting-days,
For high debate: men stood on either hand
To listen and to gaze.
The aged brows were bent,
Bent to a frown, half thought, and half annoy,
That all their stores of subtlest argument
Were baffled by a boy.
Bent to a frown, half thought, and half annoy,
That all their stores of subtlest argument
Were baffled by a boy.
In each averted face
I marked but scorn and loathing, till mine eyes
Fell upon one that stirred not in his place,
Tranced in a dumb surprise.
I marked but scorn and loathing, till mine eyes
Fell upon one that stirred not in his place,
Tranced in a dumb surprise.
973
Surely within his mind
Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore
Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind,
Whose kingdom is no more.
Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore
Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind,
Whose kingdom is no more.
Surely he sees afar
A day of death the stormy future brings;
The crimson setting of the herald-star
That led the Eastern kings.
A day of death the stormy future brings;
The crimson setting of the herald-star
That led the Eastern kings.
Thus, as a sunless deep
Mirrors the shining heights that crown the bay,
So did my soul create anew in sleep
The picture seen by day.
Mirrors the shining heights that crown the bay,
So did my soul create anew in sleep
The picture seen by day.
Gazers came and went—
A restless hum of voices marked the spot—
In varying shades of critic discontent
Prating they knew not what.
A restless hum of voices marked the spot—
In varying shades of critic discontent
Prating they knew not what.
“Where is the comely limb,
The form attuned in every perfect part,
The beauty that we should desire in him?”
Ah! Fools and slow of heart!
The form attuned in every perfect part,
The beauty that we should desire in him?”
Ah! Fools and slow of heart!
Look into those deep eyes,
Deep as the grave, and strong with love divine;
Those tender, pure, and fathomless mysteries,
That seem to pierce through thine.
Deep as the grave, and strong with love divine;
Those tender, pure, and fathomless mysteries,
That seem to pierce through thine.
Look into those deep eyes,
Stirred to unrest by breath of coming strife,
Until a longing in thy soul arise
That this indeed were life:
Stirred to unrest by breath of coming strife,
Until a longing in thy soul arise
That this indeed were life:
974
That thou couldst find Him there,
Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee,
And from thy heart pour out the passionate prayer,
“Lord, let me follow Thee!”
Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee,
And from thy heart pour out the passionate prayer,
“Lord, let me follow Thee!”
But see the crowd divide:
Mother and sire have found their lost one now:
The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide,
Whispers, “Son, why hast thou”—
Mother and sire have found their lost one now:
The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide,
Whispers, “Son, why hast thou”—
In tone of sad amaze—
“Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing?
Behold, thy sire and I, three weary days,
Have sought thee sorrowing.”
“Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing?
Behold, thy sire and I, three weary days,
Have sought thee sorrowing.”
And I had stayed to hear
The loving words, “How is it that ye sought?”—
But that the sudden lark, with matins clear,
Severed the links of thought.
The loving words, “How is it that ye sought?”—
But that the sudden lark, with matins clear,
Severed the links of thought.
Then over all there fell
Shadow and silence; and my dream was fled,
As fade the phantoms of a wizard's cell
When the dark charm is said.
Shadow and silence; and my dream was fled,
As fade the phantoms of a wizard's cell
When the dark charm is said.
Yet, in the gathering light,
I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake,
Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night
For that sweet vision's sake.
I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake,
Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night
For that sweet vision's sake.
Feb. 16, 1861.
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FACES IN THE FIRE
The night creeps onward, sad and slow:
In these red embers' dying glow
The forms of Fancy come and go.
In these red embers' dying glow
The forms of Fancy come and go.
An island-farm—broad seas of corn
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn—
The happy spot where I was born.
Stirred by the wandering breath of morn—
The happy spot where I was born.
The picture fadeth in its place:
Amid the glow I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.
Amid the glow I seem to trace
The shifting semblance of a face.
'Tis now a little childish form—
Red lips for kisses pouted warm—
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.
Red lips for kisses pouted warm—
And elf-locks tangled in the storm.
'Tis now a grave and gentle maid,
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.
Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm,
When first I saw that fairy-form,
Her dark hair tossing in the storm.
When first I saw that fairy-form,
Her dark hair tossing in the storm.
And fast and free these pulses played,
When last I met that gentle maid—
When last her hand in mine was laid.
When last I met that gentle maid—
When last her hand in mine was laid.
Those locks of jet are turned to gray,
And she is strange and far away
That might have been mine own to-day—
And she is strange and far away
That might have been mine own to-day—
That might have been mine own, my dear,
Through many and many a happy year—
That might have sat beside me here.
Through many and many a happy year—
That might have sat beside me here.
976
Ay, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of “might have been.”
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of “might have been.”
The race is o'er I might have run:
The deeds are past I might have done;
And sere the wreath I might have won.
The deeds are past I might have done;
And sere the wreath I might have won.
Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze:
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The pictures, with their ruddy light,
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.
Jan. 1860.
A LESSON IN LATIN
Our Latin books, in motley row,
Invite us to our task—
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there's one verb, when once we know,
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above—
We've learned “‘Amare’ means ‘to love’!”
Invite us to our task—
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there's one verb, when once we know,
No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above—
We've learned “‘Amare’ means ‘to love’!”
So, hour by hour, from flower to flower,
We sip the sweets of Life:
Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes
Proclaim the dawn of strife:
With half a smile and half a sigh,
“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.
We sip the sweets of Life:
Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes
Proclaim the dawn of strife:
977
“Amare! Bitter One!” we cry.
Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
“Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn”—
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
“No thorn without a rose!”
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!
“Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn”—
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
“No thorn without a rose!”
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!
May 1888.
PUCK LOST AND FOUND
ACROSTIC
[_]
[“Inscribed in two books ... presented to a little girl and boy, as a sort of memento of a visit paid by them to the author one day, on which occasion he taught them the pastime of folding paper ‘pistols.’”]
Puck has fled the haunts of men:
Ridicule has made him wary:
In the woods, and down the glen,
No one meet a Fairy!
Ridicule has made him wary:
In the woods, and down the glen,
No one meet a Fairy!
“Cream!” the greedy Goblin cries—
Empties the deserted dairy—
Steals the spoons, and off he flies.
Still we seek our Fairy!
Empties the deserted dairy—
Steals the spoons, and off he flies.
Still we seek our Fairy!
Ah! What form is entering?
Lovelit eyes and laughter airy!
Is not this a better thing,
Child, whose visit thus I sing,
Even than a Fairy?
Lovelit eyes and laughter airy!
Is not this a better thing,
978
Even than a Fairy?
Nov. 22, 1891.
Puck has ventured back agen:
Ridicule no more affrights him
In the very haunts of men
Newer sport delights him.
Ridicule no more affrights him
In the very haunts of men
Newer sport delights him.
Capering lightly to and fro,
Ever frolicking and funning—
Ever frolicking and funning—
“Crack!” the mimic pistols go!
Hark! The noise is stunning!
Hark! The noise is stunning!
All too soon will Childhood gay
Realise Life's sober sadness.
Let's be merry while we may,
Innocent and happy Fay!
Elves were made for gladness!
Realise Life's sober sadness.
Let's be merry while we may,
Innocent and happy Fay!
Elves were made for gladness!
Nov. 25, 1891.
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