Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb]

With Portrait engraved by E. Stodart ... in two volumes

Fane, Violet (1843-1905)

[epigraph]

VOLUME THE FIRST

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1. VOLUME THE FIRST

1872. EARLY POEMS.

------To sit alone
And think for comfort how, that very night,
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face,
With sweet half listenings for each other's breath,
Are reading haply from a page of ours,
To pause with a thrill (as if their cheeks had touch'd)
When such a stanza, level to their mood,
Seems floating their own thought out—“So I feel
For thee—and I for thee.”------
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

TO HIM.

I dedicate these few poor lines to Him,—
Love of my Life! Dearest of my desires!—
The one who kindled in my breast those fires
Which neither time nor tide can dull or dim.

Some written in the dew of earlier tears
Than longings for his love have caused to flow,
And others written in the sunny glow
Of years which he has bless'd,—thrice happy years!

I give Him not alone the thoughts I frame,
With them, the erring heart from which they sprung,
And all the dearest accents that my tongue
Can kiss into the music of His name!

Oh, could I write out on a golden scroll
The essence of my being! I would then
Leave but my hollow shell for other men,
And give Him, with my Life and Love,—my Soul!

WRITTEN ON SAND.

I wrote upon the shining sands
The name that I loved the best,
Ere I saw the sun, in a glow of light,
Sink down in the distant West.

Then the wild sea-breeze blew loud and shrill,
Yet I linger'd by the shore,
Till the waves crept over the written word,
And I saw that name no more.

And tho' it was only a written word,
Yet I would that it had stay'd,
For I learnt a lesson true and sad,
As I watch'd those letters fade;

And I wonder'd if there were a land,—
A far-off heav'nly place,—
Where the letters traced on the heart's warm sand,
Time's waves would not efface!

“OH, SING THAT SONG YOU SANG BEFORE!”

Oh, sing that song you sang before
When Life seem'd bright and fair!
Before the mem'ries and the tears
Of alter'd times and after years
Had risen bleak and bare;

And like a wall, between our hearts
Had shut out Hope and Truth,
And tinged the brightest years of Life
With darker thoughts, and keener strife,
Than well became our youth!

Oh, sing that song you sang before,
And as its notes shall ring
I'll close my eyes and dream once more
That I am as I was of yore
When last I heard you sing!

“SPEAK OF THE PAST.”

Speak of the Past, for ever flown,
It is not often that we may;
Thy words seem like stray blossoms blown
From those dead flow'rs of yesterday,
Or like the feathers from the wings
Of angels that have pass'd away!

To dream on what was but a dream,
To wait and watch, in vain, in vain!
To long in darkness for a beam
Of that past hope which now is slain;
To look and long, to watch and pray,
For that which cannot be again;

This is the madness of my soul,
Thy love can never reach as far,
There are two halves in every whole,
But these, in Love, unequal are;
And when I know how great is mine,
I feel, perforce, how small is thine!

“FOR EVER AND FOR EVER!”

I think of all thou art to me,
I dream of what thou canst not be;
My life is curst with thoughts of thee
For ever and for ever!

My heart is full of grief and woe,
I see thy face where'er I go;
I would, alas! it were not so
For ever and for ever!

Perchance if we had never met,
I had been spared this mad regret,
This endless striving to forget,
For ever and for ever!

Perchance if thou wert far away,
Did I not see thee day by day,
I might again be blithe and gay,
For ever and for ever!

Ah, no! I could not bear the pain
Of never seeing thee again!
I cling to thee with might and main,
For ever and for ever!

Ah, leave me not! I love but thee!
Blessing or curse, which e'er thou be,
Oh, be as thou hast been to me,
For ever and for ever!

THE SECRET.

The words I dare not tell to thee,
To Earth and Sky, to flow'r and tree,
I softly breathe: the Summer's shine
Has warm'd those whisper'd words of mine,
The Winter's snow, the Autumn's blast,
Have guess'd my secret as they pass'd;
The sparkling waves of tideless seas
Have learnt it of the murmuring breeze;
Yet all unchanged,—no Summer glow
E'er thaw'd thy breast, oh, Winter Snow!
At those warm words! Oh, sunny sea!
Thou art as thou were wont to be!
Thy fickle wavelets kiss the shore,
Then lose themselves for evermore.
The blast unheeding, hurries by,
No meteor flashes through the sky,
As, leaning from my casement's height,
I tell my Secret to the Night.

Oh, if, like Nature, all unmoved,
Thou, too, couldst learn how thou wert loved,
If what thy heart may long have guess'd
Raised no emotion in thy breast
But that felt by the wanton child
Who breaks the toy on which it smiled;
If, having gain'd it, this poor prize
Should seem the poorer in thine eyes,
And grow more worthless worn and won,—
Then am I right to breathe to none
Save Earth and Sea, and Sky above me,
The words, “I love thee, oh, I love thee!”

A THOUGHT.

At night, as lying half awake
I muse upon my soul's desire,
Out of the embers of the fire
There seems to glide a glitt'ring snake.

Sucking my life, with poisonous hate
That serpent coils till morning's rise,
And whispers, “On his bosom lies
A dearer form—a warmer weight.”

Oh, if from coiling near my heart
That viper would become my friend!
If its soft gliding tongue would end
This aching wound from which I smart;

Then I would call it by some name,
Love or Despair (which would be best?)—
And pressing it unto my breast
Would fondle it, and make it tame!

BURNING LETTERS.

Burn, burn, oh, burning letters!
Alas! and as ye fade away,
So shall the love that once inspired you,
So shall the heart that once desired you,
Before the breath of Time decay!

Oh, words that have been warm'd with kisses!
Oh, words that have been wet with tears!
Oh, words that have been bless'd and cherish'd!
What will remain, when ye have perish'd,
To light me in the coming years?

How shall I know my darling loved me,
Oh, by what sign, since kisses die?
Since lips grow silent, and cold faces
Learn to forget the burning traces
Of love which has been long put by?

Oh, dear blue eyes that I have lived for!
You look'd upon this written line!
Oh, hands that traced these tender phrases,
Oh, lips that once could sing my praises,
How fondly you have clung to mine!

How can I burn what he has written,
What I so long have hidden here?
How can I banish thus completely
All these dear words, which sound so sweetly,
All these sweet names, which are so dear?

Yet oh, 'tis better they should burn now,
Whilst his warm heart still beats for me,
Than that, upon some dark to-morrow,
I should gaze on them, in my sorrow,
And say, “These words are warm—not he!”

For though I would for ever cherish
Each word that he could write or say,
I would not that these letters only
Should be the sad memorials lonely
Of something that had pass'd away;

I would not read the words I loved so,
Knowing their meaning gone and dead,
A bitter mockery of pleasure,
The echo of a joyful measure
After the melody had fled!

Then, whilst I still can hope he loves me,
Then, whilst his love may last, I pray,
As warm, as passionate, as this is,
Go! wet with tears, go! warm with kisses,
Into the flames, and fade away!

HIS NAME.

Oh, for some new-coin'd name by which to call him!
Oh, for some name no other lips can give!
“Love” has been said by those who loved so coldly,
“Life” has been said by those who could not live!

“Darling,” the sweetest name without a meaning,—
“Soul,” often said to many a soulless thing,—
“Dearest,” to that which is not always dearest,
“Treasure,” to what is not worth treasuring!

Oh, I would have his new-found name mean “Beauty,”
And I would have his new-found name mean “Love,”
And I would have it also mean “For ever,”
While there is Earth beneath and Heav'n above!

And I would have it also mean “a Blessing,”
And I would have it also mean “a Shrine,”
And I would have it also mean “a Longing,”
And it must also mean that he is mine!

And I would have it also mean “my Idol,”
And I would have it also mean “my breath,”
Life of the very life I live and breathe from,
Soul, that will even warm my very death!

Where shall I find this magic name to give him?
How shall I learn to spell this hidden word?
Oh, shall I find it cradled on the zephyr?
Or lurking in the wood-notes of the bird?

Or, far away, where yonder pink horizon
Lures on the night with many a golden streak,
There, whisper'd in the clear-toned notes of Angels,
Oh, some day, shall I find the name I seek?

THE COQUETTE.

I listen'd, scarcely knowing that I listen'd,
It nestled in my unsuspecting breast;
I mark'd its plumage fair, its eyes that glisten'd,
And smooth'd with careless hand its golden crest;
I call'd it now a curse, and now a blessing,—
I fondled it, I tortured and caress'd,
Till, wearied of my teasing and caressing,
It flew away, and yet I never guess'd! . . .

It flew away, and as I watch'd it flying,
And saw its pinions fluttering above,
I stretch'd my arms towards it, wildly crying
“Return! and be again my captive dove!”
But from its gentle voice came no replying,
In vain to lure it back to me I strove,
And all the voices of my heart are sighing,
“Ah, it was Love!”

“I LIVE MY LIFE AWAY FROM THEE!”

As the sad sighing of the wind that blows
Outside the windows that we firmly close
Against its breath, or as the distant sea
Murmurs afar, and is not always heard
But only when no louder sound is stirr'd,
So, under all, through all, my being flows
This song, “I live my life away from thee!”

What matter, if the years bring good or ill?
What can they hope, who ever hope on still
Against all Hope? And after Hope is dead?
Oh, lost, lost, Love! Oh, bitterer than this
Love I have known,—Love I have loved to kiss
Yet cannot hold! Love, I have loved my fill
Yet thirst for now! What shall I love instead?

Oh, Love! oh, Life! will it be always so,
Through my whole life, and wheresoe'er I go?
Oh, how so fair the sights that I may see,
What will they profit me? Thou art not here,
And ever, ever, ringing in mine ear
I seem to hear, in accents sad and low,
The words, “I live my life away from thee!”

What takes his place that is worth harbouring,
Love the Immortal! Love, the only King
Time, the great leveller, can ne'er dethrone?
What may we clasp, whose arms have closed on him
Who can rule soul, and breath, and life, and limb?
What other leader is worth following?
Who can know other loves, him having known?

Oh, in the sea of such a dear delight
Let me be buried deep and out of sight!
Drown'd in the waters of that sweet warm sea,
Clinging to lips that living, I may lose,
Dying the happy death that I would choose
Were it e'en given us to die aright!
But ah! “I die my death away from thee!”

Because most seeming loves are calm and cold,
Bought for a song, and all as lightly sold,
Let not the ones who know Love as he is
Fling him away! Of all that has been given,
Love is the gift that brings us nearer Heaven
Than any other gift the world can hold,
And perfect Love is nearest perfect bliss.

Then let me lose myself in his sweet ways,
Or let me die, before these golden days
Die, or the pleasure of them dies in me!
Oh, sweet were death, if only, half in death,
I could but silence that sad, sighing breath,
That even then, I fear me, would upraise
The wail, “I live and die away from thee!”

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

1871.

As, in a month, alternate days
Are bright with sun, or dark with storm,
As some are chill, and some are warm
With southern winds, and sunny rays—

So, in men's lives, the changing years
Bring mirth or sorrow, joy or pain,
Some heralded with merry strain,
Some with a passing-bell, and tears;

But as those years, that now are gone
With drooping heads, and folded wings,
Into the dusk of bygone things,
Resembled not this new-fled one—

So, to the hearts that now are sad,
May come new hopes of joy and peace,
So, to the gay, fears lest they cease
Those joys that made the past year glad!

To thee and me, the uncoin'd hour
May bring a world of change unguess'd
(Save to that love, which in my breast
Blooms like some fair immortal flow'r).

For thee I wish each coming day
May bring upon its bosom fair
Some hidden blessing, and that care
At its light step may haste away!

And as for me, no greater bliss
I ask of Time, than that he may
Bring thy heart nearer mine each day,
And my lips nearer to thy kiss!

Or, if, to both, the coming years
Are bound in equal share to bring
New pleasures, and new sorrowing,
Take thou the smiles, leave me the tears!

MY KING.

Of this poor heart you ask me who is King,
Since to your eyes so many seem to reign;
Alas! the kingdom is so small a thing
That, like the unaccepted throne of Spain,
Methought my little crown had gone unclaim'd,
Or scorn'd maybe, if I had ever named,
Who was the King.

Both old and young pretenders oft have strove
To plant their alien banners and be King;
And all the hot artillery of love
With mad acclaim, has echo'd, thundering
Its perilous appeal through all my heart,
But of that stronghold, or its meanest part,
They were not King.

Yet on that hidden throne a King is set,
A tyrant, a more arbitrary king
Than erst was Tudor or Plantagenet,
And to this rebel kingdom did he bring
Such dear destruction, such sweet sophistry,
That if it could it would not now be free
From such a King.

At first it would not own his tender sway,
And feared to call the dear usurper King,
But all its trusted bulwarks broke away,
Where they had seem'd the strongest, and the ring
Of “Victory!” resounded through the air
Before the vanquish'd knew the foe was there,—
And he was King!

Oh! trebly crown'd as with a papal crown!
Of heart, and soul, and all my senses, King!
Giver of all the bliss my life has known!
Sharer of all worth my remembering!
Creator of so many thoughts and schemes,
Of this, my bond slave heart, and all its dreams
You are the King!

1870.

IN YEARS TO COME.

The years to come may sweep away
What now we prize, and turn to grey
This curly dark brown hair,
The years may dim these ardent eyes
And turn to tender memories
These moments that seem fair.

Yet, if they leave me still your kiss,
All else they steal I shall not miss,
And folded in your arms
The voice I love will sound as sweet
As now, whilst kneeling at my feet
You praise my youthful charms!

Our eyes may be too tired to read,
But book or pen we shall not need,
Since, echoing in each breast,
Will linger still the tender truth,
The history that in our youth
We used to love the best!

Then bless these moments ere they fade
(For, Curly Head, this song is made
For you and only you!)
And whilst your heart is young and light,
And whilst your hair is brown and bright,
And whilst your eyes are blue,
Lay up a store for future hours
Of fleeting love's departing flow'rs
Which I will treasure too!

SO LATE!

My happiness has come to me so late;
Had it come earlier, I had almost fear'd
That long ere this the thunderclouds had near'd,
Bearing some fatal bolt to compensate.

For, like those Indians, who, when joy is near,
Bow to the earth, and fear to be too glad,
Lest their offended god should make them sad,
So I, too bless'd by you, seem half to fear.

But since my bliss has come to me so late,
I hope the while I fear, postponing yet
My dread anticipation of the debt,
That Love has made me feel I owe to Fate.

LOVE IN WINTER.

The ground is white with driven snow,
“How cold!” say they who do not know
For warmth and shelter where to go—
(I know! I know!)
Cling to me! Love me! Kiss me, so! . . .
And warmed by Love's delicious glow,
Forget that there is Death or snow!

“HE WILL NOT COME!”

He will not come! The dire deserted street
Is black and silent, save when, now and then,
The passing feet, alas, of other men,
Deceive my aching heart and make it beat,—
He will not come!

Ah, who is it that makes him break his tryst,
And almost her poor heart who waits him now,
Pressing against the window-pane the brow
And longing lips he has so often kissed? . . .
He will not come!

He will not come! . . . and somewhere, far away,
His ears may hear the echo of my moan,
His eyes may see me watching here alone,
His heart may guess my anguish as I say
“He will not come!”

“He will not come!” the words are like a knell,
I drop the curtain that with hopeful hand,
I drew aside, yet linger where I stand,
All loth to bid his memory farewell,
He will not come!

He will not come! ah, absent one, good night!
Good night, sad street, good night, dear shelt'ring tree;
Good night! good night! to all that breathes of thee;
One more last look—good night to love and light!
He will not come!

ON A GLOOMY DAY.

The year is past, and you and I
No longer tread life's path together,
And clouds are gathering in the sky,
That seem'd so bright in ev'ry weather!

For, folded to my darling's breast,
I could not turn aside to know
If winds were blowing east or west,
Or clouds were dealing rain or snow!

I did not think of north or south,
I heeded not the angry skies,
But breathed my zephyrs from his mouth,
And saw my summer in his eyes!

Oh, near the heart that seem'd so warm,
I did not feel this chilling blast,
And I have smiled at rain and storm,
And mock'd the tempest as it past!

But now, alas! I am alone,
And I can see the drifting rain,
And I have time to hear the moan
Of tempests that are here again.

Ah, you who plant my life with flow'rs,
And make all skies to seem so blue,
Come back to me and light the hours
That darken at the loss of you!

Ah, could we end this weary strife,
And soul to soul, and heart to heart,
Be each the sunshine of the life,
That fate now bids us live apart,

Then might the ceaseless torrents pour,
And lightnings follow ev'ry kiss,
I should not fear the thunder's roar,
Or dread a day as dark as this!

MY RECORDS.

The words that are spoken are soon forgotten,
Music is played, and then dies in the air;
But all these my children—my soul-begotten,
Will live to me longer than tune or pray'r.

The lines that are written, and sealed, and treasured,
May breathe of too much, or may seem too cold,
Whilst these that are written, and rhymed, and measured,
Can tell far more tenderly what they have told.

Ah, and far more plainly than old tunes playing,
And far more distinctly than pictured scroll,
These words that the voice of my heart is saying
Will bring my love of you back to my soul!

In days that fear neither loving nor losing,
In days that are dawning or may not dawn,
The breath of my songs will keep from closing
The darkening curtains that Time has drawn.

And from ev'ry page, like a faded blossom,
Whose colours are dimm'd, but whose fragrance clings,
These written words that once lived in my bosom,
Will tell their old home of departed things;

Till out of the Past, as I gaze in sorrow
On records of love that was loved in vain,
The dream of my youth, in that dim to-morrow,
Will seem to come back to my arms again!

LONDON.

I like to think that when your love has waned
London will still stand on, and be to me
The noisy echo of your silent voice!
I like to think of all the streets and squares
Where once your shadow fell, or did not fall
When I have watch'd for it!

Ah, woods and fields,
And forest-glades, will tell me much of you,
But Nature changes more than these dim walls
Into the which your memory seems built
To gild them, like a sunbeam, till they fall;
And far away from all those sylvan scenes
I cannot hear your laughter in the brook,
Or trace your pathway in the broken fern,
Whilst here a hundred dark and stone-paved ways
Re-echo to my heart the step of Love!

I like it to be thus, and often think
“Ah, here, or there, my heart will always beat
A little faster, e'en in after years;

Here is a spot my eyes will never see
Without in fancy seeing what they loved
Above all else!”

Ah, desolate to me
Will then seem all these many-peopled streets
As those of ancient cities, hid away
For thousand years beneath the lava-flood,
And brought to light when all their life has fled!

I hardly dare to think upon such days
Whilst yet the glamour of a rising sun
Makes all this mist seem mingled pink and gold;
But now and then a shiv'ring passing form,
And all the loveless looks of other men,
These tell me that, to many heavy hearts,
London is now a city of the dead,
Peopled with wanderers amongst the tombs!

To such as these I have not time to turn,
(My life is such a hey-day of delight!)
But, going to and fro, at morn and eve
Betwixt my happiness and my regret,
I meet these pallid forms and pass them by,
Yet after, conscience-like, they haunt my dreams,
And all the impotence of woman's life,
With all its small desires, and vain resolves,

And loves (maybe as vain!) like a reproach
These haunt me too!

Oh, London, many-voiced!
Great city, where my love has lived and breathed,
Live on, and reign the dusky Queen of Towns!
Had this hand strength, thine unabolish'd wrongs
Had been redress'd, and all thy fever-fogs
Dispersed, as with a fairy's magic wand!
Live on, dear city! for my darling's sake,
Live on, when this poor voice is mute to bless
The heedless witness of my youth and love!
And bright as all thy streets seem now to me
Would they could be to all thy chequer'd world!

“TOUT VIENT À QUI SAIT ATTENDRE.”

All hoped-for things will come to you
Who have the strength to watch and wait,—
Our longings spur the steeds of Fate,—
This has been said by one who knew.

She loved you when your heart was cold,
Her eyes said “yes” when yours said “nay,”
You love,—her heart is turn'd away
And beats no longer as of old!

He sang to her at early dawn,
She turn'd away and would not hear;
She seeks him now, he is not near;
She craves his love—his love is gone!

She pray'd for yours—you long for hers;
Hers lived last year, yours lives to-day;
His lived, but now has pass'd away,—
And when she calls no answer stirs!

How make it well for him—for her?
How clip the pinions of her heart
To give to his the longer start?
For whom the rein?—to whom the spur?

Ah, darling! could we run this race
(This race of loving), side by side,
I should gain knowledge how to ride
To keep our hearts at equal pace!

But ah! betwixt us sea and plain
Are stretch'd afar in dreary line,
And if your longing equals mine,
Or if your loving wax or wane,

I know not, for I cannot see,
So far from mine your pathway lies,
In vain I strain my weary eyes,
Your life is lived away from me!

Ah! rare, indeed, if heart to heart,
If soul to soul can cling and turn,
If love for love can breathe and burn
When each is torn so far apart!

Ah, “All things come to those who wait”
(I say these words to make me glad),
But something answers soft and sad—
“They come, but often come too late!”

“AFTER LONG YEARS.”

As I stand upon the pathway where I saw you standing last,
I look vainly for your footprints, for so many more have pass'd;
They have press'd upon those dear ones, and have trodden them away,
And these others, that came after, will be trodden out as they.
Then I think “Life is a pathway, and the footprints are the years,
Where our sorrows mock our laughter, and our smiles efface our tears,
As with living, so with loving, changing figures come and go,
Sweeping out each other's footmarks with their flittings to and fro.”
Ah, my darling, then I wonder if at sunset, when you gaze
O'er the country you have travell'd, with its sad and pleasant ways,

Will you mark where fell my footsteps on your pathway for a space,
'Ere the coming feet of others shall have swept away their trace?
Can I think it? dare I hope it? when together hand in hand,
For a little while we journey'd,—when our shadows on the sand
Seem'd as one for but one moment, and alas! then two again,
Dare I hope that any record of my passing will remain?
Or, when in your mem'ry's mirror, all your vanish'd loves shall pass,
Will my shadow linger longer than the others in the glass?
With a look half sad, half mocking,—half in smiles and half in tears,
Will my lips waft something to you like the kiss of bygone years?
When I vanish, who will follow? Will you loose or hold her fast?
Will she linger as I linger'd? Will she pass as others pass'd?

In the dim uncertain future, who shall come you may not guess,
She may sweep me from your mem'ry with the trailing of her dress;
You may loose me in her beauty, and forget me in her smile,
And her breath may fade the picture that you cherish'd for a while.
Hast'ning past those days of sunshine, when our lives seem'd merged in one,
From the sunshine you may hurry to the presence of the sun,
For it may be that the moments were but wasted loving me,
Or only the foreshadowing of happier ones to be!
But ah! if they love more fondly (future love or future wife),
If my living was not loving—if my loving was not Life,
Oh, then drive my trembling spirit from the threshold of your heart,
Let me hear you taunt and mock me as I shudder and depart!
Let me see the eyes I worshipp'd on another shed their beams,

And then let me fade forgotten to the chilly land of dreams!

Ah, I fain would drop the curtain on my wand'ring thoughts that range,
For here nothing can be certain but the certainty of change;
Dare we promise, or un-promise, to remember or forget,
Knowing all the changeling changes that the Future may beget?
But the Present is our own still, and I hug and hold it fast,
As the sailor in a tempest fastens wildly to the mast;
For I know not, if I loose it, what my future fate may be;
Are the waters sweet or bitter of that dim unfathom'd sea?
Till our “Never” is “For ever,” till “To-morrow” is “To-day,”
Till all Future things are Present, till our Present fades away;
Dare we plan or dare we promise? All the voices of my mind

Seem to say, “Beware and tremble, lest to-morrow be not kind;
Lest your Heaven be not Heaven—lest your Idol should depart;”
But “I love you, oh! I love you!” say the voices of my heart.
Oh, forsake me, and forget me, oh, be cruel and unkind;
I forget it—I forgive it! round your life my love is twined;
You have made my world a Heaven, you have fill'd my soul with bliss,
And the thirst of all my being is forgotten in your kiss!

Ah, my darling, on the pathway of the life that I have trod,
Deeply printed are your footsteps, like the footsteps of a god;
Treading out all fainter traces—seal'd for ever in the sand,
Marking which were pleasant places in that unforgotten land!
And your shadow, not as others, will it fade away and pass?

I shall stretch my arms towards it when I see it in the glass;
I shall cling to it and kiss it,—I shall whisper to it, “Stay!”
For your memory shall be my love, when love has pass'd away!
Oh, then love me for a little, for I live but for your smile!
Betwixt coming loves and going, let me linger for a while!
If you leave me can I blame you? Shall I hunger for you less?
No forsaking makes forgetting! In my haunted loneliness
I shall bow before the Power that reclaims what has been given,
And live upon his memory who made the earth seem Heaven!

COMPENSATION.

To those who may have fail'd to gain
The treasure that I prize to-day,
Lest they should envy me, I say
How long I strove for it in vain;

How dark and dreary were the years,
Lest they should deem my life all bliss,
Before at last I won the kiss
That dried the fountain of my tears.

How months and weeks and days pass'd by,
And how the lonely loveless night
Seem'd but to come to show that light
Had faded from the sullen sky.

How sleep seem'd sent me to forget,
And how my dreaming was a dread,
How daylight dawn'd and darkness fled
As sadly as the daylight set.

And how a dull and weary ache,
The thought that nothing good could be,
Came like a death-chill over me
When first I saw the morning break.

And then there came the dismal round
Of all the fruitless barren hours
Scatter'd like handfuls of fresh flow'rs
That wither wasted on the ground.

Alas! the Winter's dreary gloom,
The aimless yearnings of the Spring!
The Autumn's silent withering,
And all the blinding summer bloom!

Long years of hopelessness, and how
Unsunn'd, unnourish'd save by tears,
My heart beat on thro' all the years
That, thanks to you, are brighten'd now!

Yet, lest to those whose lives have been
Less sad, and now may seem less bright,
My life should hold too much delight,
Too much of what they have not seen;

And lest they envy me the glow
Of sunshine that my sun has shed
Upon a path they may not tread,
I say, “It was not always so;”

That they may know these golden years
Which Love has made to seem so bright,
Were heralded by darkest night,
And earned in bitterness and tears.

BEFORE AND AFTER.

Before I knew my soul's delight
How often have I watch'd alone
The garden glades, that blooming bright,
In all their summer glory shone;—
The fern that feather'd fresh and green,
The tall ox-daisies in the grass,
The fragrant smelling eglantine,
And only sigh'd, “Alas, alas,
Oh, wasted hours! oh, wasted days!
My heart is sadden'd as I gaze!”

Even the shadow of a bird
Upon the daisy-spangled lawn
Each secret pulse within me stirr'd;—
The dewy freshness of the dawn
Seem'd profitless and good for naught,
And when the soft, warm day had waned,
Its beauty grieved me, for I thought
“To-day is lost, and what is gain'd!
Oh, wasted hours! oh, wasted days!
My heart is sadden'd as I gaze!”

Oh, days that fled I know not how!
So slow, and yet withal so fleet!
The bud seem'd scarcely on the bough,
Scarcely the rose's breast was sweet,
Before the leaves grew crisp and sere,
And all the earth was damp and chill,
Whilst Autumn winds seem'd ev'rywhere
To make the same sad murmur still—
“Oh, wasted hours! oh, wasted days!
My heart is sadden'd as I gaze!”

Each thing of beauty seem'd to me
A mockery,—a vain deceit,—
The promise of some joy to be
Which never would be mine to meet;—
Or else the echo of a strain
Of some such music as mine ears
Had long'd and listen'd for in vain
Thro' all the waiting, weary years,—
“Oh, wasted years! oh, wasted days!
My heart is sadden'd as I gaze!”

Yet when, at Christmas-tide, the bells
Rang mournful joy-proclaiming chimes,
They sounded like the fun'ral knells
Of what were almost happy times;

And as I thought “Another year,
Another wasted year has flown!”
A thousand mocking voices near
Echo'd from city spires the moan—
“Oh, wasted years! oh, wasted days!
My heart is sadden'd as I gaze!”

But even as I mused and dream'd
The old life faded quite away,
And all the golden sunlight stream'd
And warm'd my being with its ray.
Ah, then for me, the garden glow'd,
Ah, then for me, a silv'ry voice
Sang in the river as it flow'd,
And whisper'd to my heart, “Rejoice!
The days of Death are gone and past,
And Life and Love are here at last!”

Ah, sailing now on sunny seas
With such a new and dear delight,
My heart grows light again, and these
(The days of darkness and of night)
Seem far behind our golden sails,
Fill'd with the breath of Love's sweet voice,
Whilst over sea-bound hills and dales
I hear the echo'd words, “Rejoice!

The days of Death are gone and past,
And Life and Love are here at last!”

Oh, when you read the words I sing
(Should those sweet eyes but glance them o'er),
Your heart will guess what hidden spring
Inspired my simple metaphor,
And you will know who spread the sail,
Who made the world so bright to glow,
And ah, in pity, do not fail,
Dear Love, to try and keep it so!
Then will the days of Death be past,
And Life and Love be ours at last!

NOW.

Toys, tears, and kisses—then a few more tears—
This is the burden of the changing years,—
And after,—should our journey reach as far,—
The land where neither toys nor kisses are,
And further still, the loveless, listless years,
Too cold for kissing and too tired for tears,
(Ah, spare me these!) and then, a dawning Day
Or closing Night? Alas, we cannot say!

My toys are broken now, and all put by—
My Queen of dolls is now a Queen no more,—
Or lost, or litter'd on the dusty floor
In some forsaken lumber-room they lie.

My toys are gone, but still I have my tears,—
These linger with us for a longer while—
Yet whilst I weep, I know that I can smile—
I smile and weep, maybe, some few short years;

I have reach'd kissing; here my steps are slow,
So pleasant seems the pathway with its flow'rs—
A few more kisses for a few more hours,
And then I reach a land I do not know.

For I have only travell'd yet as far
As where the roses and the kisses cling,
And I can only dream of these, and sing
Of such as these, well knowing what they are!

Anon my heart may warm to colder things,
But now I mark with half-unconscious eye
The current of events that rushes by,
Upraising Empires and dethroning kings.

Oh, linger long, ye glad unfetter'd hours!
How far the sun-glow spreads I cannot say,
I feel it warm within my heart to-day,
I see the pathway blinded with its flow'rs!

Then let me sing the glories of these days,
Let those who follow me, or go before,
Tell of the country they are passing o'er,
I know not now the pleasure of their ways!

Oh, sweet green garden in this life of man!
Oh, Youth! Oh, Love! Ah, hasten not away;
Ye pass before my voice can murmur “Stay!”
A star, set in the lifetime of a span!

Yes, almost ere this ink of mine is dry,
Whilst yet this scroll seems warmer from my hand,
The restless atoms of appointed sand
Have trembled through the hour-glass, and we die!

These written words, these thoughts of Life and Death,
These few sad rhymes I write to Love and you,—
These all,—what are they? and my loving too?
A little incense, rising like a breath!

Yet take it! Ah, and if in after years
This page, then long forgotten, meets your eye,
Think once on her, before you lay it by,
Who gave you all her kisses and her tears!

1876

THE SHRINE OF THE THREE KINGS.

I.

Beneath a grey cathedral's dome,
Which ev'ning mirrors in the Rhine,
Within a richly jewell'd shrine,
The bones of these three kings of old
At last have found an honour'd home.
King Barbarossa gave the gold,
And noble ladies of the land,
For love of Christ, when Faith was young,
Their rows of costly pearls unstrung,
And gave them with a lavish hand
To glorify the shrine, and mix
With onyx and with sardonyx,
And graven gems and rubies red,
With scroll-work all enamellèd,
And one great topaz at the head
Seeming almost a mimic sun
In size and lustre. Thus begun,
This costly shrine with ev'ry year
Grew bright with offerings, for here,

Laid side by side on their pillow of gold,
Repose the bones of those kings of old,
The three wise men who saw the star,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar.

II.

It seems a mockery to me
That you should sleep on thus, you three,
Pillow'd upon one pillow; for
Tho' all of you at once adored
Before the manger of Our Lord
The Prince of Peace, it may have been
That fires of discord crept between
In the after-years, to part you three.
Some simple cause, maybe, of strife,
Plunder of grain, or raid of herd,
Or love of one or other's wife
The breath of discord may have stirr'd,
Kindling dissension and heart-burning
Between you three at a later day,
Of which we have neither legend nor word,
For that you went back by a different way,
To baffle the malice of Herod the king,
Is all we are told in the good old Book;—

Yet you may have waged intestine wars,
And may bear on your bones the bloodless scars
Cleft by the hand of the king your brother,
When, wildly glaring at one another,
Your dark eyes fierce with a murderous look,
To the wolfish gnashing of those white teeth,
How may have flash'd from without its sheath
The jewel-hilted scimitar,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar!

III.

And then to lie on thus together,
Thro' years of dark and sunny weather,
In this, your narrow golden bed!
So narrow, that each poor old head,
Eyeless, and polish'd by Time, and brown,
Crown'd each with its circlet of diamond crown,
Almost touches the head of his brother king—
As tho' they were each one whispering
Some secret of State in the fleshless ear!
Their secrets would be strange to hear,
If ever those tongueless mouths find tongue,
And after the midnight mass is sung,
And after the midnight bell is rung

From the grey cathedral's growing spires,
They speak like their patriarchal sires,
Maybe in the language of old Judea!
Speak they as comrades, destined to share
A couch of state enrich'd with care
By King and Kaiser of after-time,
By knight and pilgrim and lady fair?
Or as foemen bound in the self-same cell,
Under the clang of a Christian bell,
'Midst an alien race, in a colder clime?
Was there peace betwixt you, or was there war,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar?

IV.

Ah, all these years, ye silent dead,
How many prayers around you said
Had seem'd to you of purport strange,
Could ye have heard them! Change on change,
As stone upon stone has upraised this spire,
So change upon change, and desire on desire,
Ambition, and rapine, and hunger and blood,
The gold of the vile and the tears of the good,
Have built up this fabric which men call “Faith,”
With its flicker of life 'midst an odour of death,
As here, in this gilded chamber, are spread

These jewels and gold o'er the bones of the dead!
Do you mourn, you three, as you hear the knell
Of our hopes in heaven, our fears of hell,
And long for the days when faith was strong,
When daylight was measured by shrift and fast,
And matins and vespers and evensong?
Do you mourn for the days ere our faith had past—
For the palmer with wallet and cockle-shell,
And sandal shoon, and oaken staff?
Or then did you mock to yourselves, and laugh
At the twisted errors and crookèd saws,
And the Mother Church, with her ravenous jaws
Fang'd and open and eager for blood,
Like some monster that preys on her own tame brood,
Or an idol with victims under its car,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar?

V.

Yet, if it chanced that ye did smile
At stolèd priest in fretted aisle,
At the sacred feast of the Eucharist,
Or at Christians marring the words of Christ,
To dupe the poor and to flatter the great,

And to keep the power in the hands of the priest,
Bethink you, in all this fraud and guile,
You three, lying here in your bed of state,
Rich with the treasures of early art,
Have taken your place, and have play'd your part!
You were bribed with the jasper and amethyst,
And the carven gems of the days gone by—
The gifts of the noble and chivalresque,
Wrought over in emblem and arabesque—
With the bended knees of the lady fair,
And the grey-beard pilgrim with fast and prayer;
'Twas this faith that seems now so feeble and old
That encircled your hollow brown brows with gold,
And that made you this shrine for your mouldering bones,
Wherein you might rest and act a lie,
Bright with the glimmer of precious stones,
And that carried you hither from lands afar,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar!

VI.

“To act a lie!” for who are ye?
Ye three impostors! Answer me!
What do ye here in a Christian shrine,
Dragg'd from the city of Constantine

To deepen the letter of Scripture's truth?
Who and what were you? In your youth
What were your pastimes and who were your loves?
Did you camp among spicy Arabian groves,
Or dwell under the gilded minarets
Of the glittering city of Ispahan?
Were you Jew, or Affghan, or Turkoman,
Dealers in amber and amulets,
Or seed of the loins of anointed kings?
Ah, who would not smile if it were to be found
That you three skeletons, shrined and crown'd
With your shining chaplets of diamond rings,
Were only some poor old pagan bones,
Brought hither to preach in solemn tones
The grand old legend you did not know!
To be worshipp'd by Christian lips and knees
In this sacred fane, till the overthrow
Of man or the Church! . . . With such thoughts as these
Do I gaze on you now; but the sacristan
Seeks for the mediæval key
To lock you up in your narrow home
(The consecrated golden shrine
Beneath that grey cathedral's dome,
Which ev'ning mirrors in the Rhine),

So, handing to the worthy man
His anxiously expected fee,
I leave you, wondering who you are,
Caspar, Melchior, and Baltasar!

Cologne, August 16, 1875.

A LAWLESS CREED.

(IRIS TO THE WHITE CHIEF. )

“I desire no future that will break the ties of the past.” George Eliot.

If there is anything that will not die
When this, the “I” you knew, has pass'd away—
This slave of sun and shade, this helpless thing,—
Yet dreaming of some vague immortal germ—
If the dim fancy that my soul may live
Is but a dear delusion, nursed by Time
And made by habit more familiar still,
Yet not more possible; if never more
Myself, (the half of you), my form, my face,
My tender love of you, may live again,
Nor take some semblance of the shape they wore—
Then may my foolish yearnings go for naught,
And all my emmet castles in the air
Fall to the dust of vain imaginings!

Yet, if the voice that whispers to my heart,
“Something in thee there is that will not die,”
Be not the echo of a self-made creed,
And if some essence lives when I am gone,
Dispersed, or whirl'd away by storms of air,
Or lurking in the misty river-spray,
Or hiding in the chalice of the rose—
Then will I join myself again to you,
And breathe upon your brow and fan your cheek,
And I will cling to you in spray and mist,
Or you shall see some flower and think of me—
Your very thought, absorbing half my being,
Shall breathe my spirit home again to yours,
And I will mingle with you as of old—
This is the only Immortality
For which I hunger; and when you, my life,
Have pass'd away into some other phase,
Then can we cling together in the storm,
And mingle in the light of summer days,—
This is the lawless creed of one who loves;
Yet could I deem it all a fond deceit,
Then would I say, “Give me the ‘poppied sleep,’
And let my spirit fade away and die!”

From “The Idolaters” (unpublished).

THE KISS.

(FROM THE SAME.)

I watch'd you sleeping, lying in your arms,
And drank in, with mine eyes, in that half-light
The dim and shadowy profile turn'd aside:
Whilst breathing with you, 'twas as tho' I shared
Half of your life, and gave you all of mine.
I was so close—so close, so wholly yours,—
Yet suddenly I, waking, seem'd to feel
So separated from you by your sleep,
So jealous of the people of your dreams,
That o'er me stealing (tho' so near—so near!)
A sense of desolation, with a kiss
I call'd you back again to life and me.
Darling, forgive me for that coward kiss—
I trust too little, loving all too much,
To bear the thought of losing what I love.
Would I could see again that half-turn'd face,
And lie once more in those enfolding arms—
Would I could feel but jealous of a dream,
And kiss away all rivals on those lips

THE PLAIN WOMAN.

“I was not born to crown of golden hair,
Or wealth of deeper brown with russet tips,
Nor was the fashion of my body fair,
Nor did the hue of roses rich and rare
Hang on my lips,—

“Which parted not upon an even row
Of orient pearls, with dimple at the side,
Seeming to say, ‘Come, kiss me!’ in the glow
Of conscious blush; nor was I arch'd of brow,
Or starry-eyed.

“I painted some who were as fair as this,
For God had given me the power to limn
Both men and women; neither did I miss
The grace of colder Nature—lights that kiss
The ocean's rim,

“Or deep black shadows under forest trees!
And I could gather wealth of flowers and fruit,

And lay them down on canvas at my ease,
And I had power to subjugate and seize
Both bird and brute.

“I read of women who were fair, and wept
To know the world so deafen'd to my song
Because of this rough lyre, wherefrom had leapt
A grateful music, could one hand have swept
The cords among!

“Or, sometimes sleeping, did I falsely seem
As fair as were the fairest; then indeed
I wept at waking, for athwart my dream
Had flash'd a fairy prince 'neath evening's beam,
On prancing steed.

“He was a prince so like that king of men
Who pass'd me on the road, and let me lie
At youth's lone midway milestone; it was then
I cursed these faulty lines of Nature's pen,
And pray'd to die.

“A little more of lavish light and shade,
A little less of that or more of this—
Here tints that glow, or there the hues that fade;
Such subtle nothings as these few had made
Me good to kiss!

“A careless slip by careless Nature made—
A faulty measurement, a loaded brush
Or empty palette; I, who make a trade
Of seeking out the haunts of light and shade
Would almost blush

“To paint so poor a face! Yet from within
(Unlike the faulty failures on these walls,
The rough first sketches I did but begin,
Then flung aside), above this mundane din,
A voice there calls,

“Which says to me, ‘Thou art not wholly base
Since thou canst work and suffer.’ Ah, my soul!
Thou hadst been fair hadst thou but been a face,
Since thou canst bear the burden of this race
Without a goal!

“Nature hath warn'd me that I may not share
The pastimes of a brighter heritage;
Peacocks and daws peck not the same parterre,
Nor sigh yon homely wives of Chanticleer
For gilded cage,

“Wherein may sing some captive, on whose breast
Lingers, in mockery, the sunset glow

Flash'd through the green savannahs of the west,
Whereof he sings in sadness. It were best
That each should know

“All may not match in plumage with the hues
Of tropic birds upon their varied wing;
Each hath her sep'rate mission and her use,
And those endow'd with song-notes cannot choose,
But pipe and sing.

“For me to weep: yet with how rich a dow'r
Of woman's highest gift, serene and pure
As is the folded chalice of a flower,
My soul had met his love! With wondrous power
Giv'n to endure.

“‘Endure!’ Too cruel word! too cruel fate!
Seal'd from the dear emotions of the blest;
A thing too meaningless—beneath the rate
Whereat we measure common love and hate,
And doom'd to rest

“(I, who had gloried in a treasure-trove!)
Nursing a barren mem'ry all my life,
Proving the love he did not e'en disprove.
Ah! will the lissom lady of his love,
His promised wife,

“Bring him the treasure of so good a thing? . . .
I know not; for bright insects oft deceive,
Flitting upon the zephyr, murmuring,
And seeming all so fair of form and wing
That none believe

“They bear a sting; and women who are fair
Are often counted false—so many seek
To win their favours—flatter'd ev'rywhere—
Till love and change seem in the very air
They breathe and speak.

“I hope for him, yet fear. . . . Oh! if a day
Should dawn when he may know this aching pain,
This thirsting after waters turn'd astray,
This longing for those blossoms blown away
To bloom again,

“Then may he think of one whom long ago
He pass'd in silence by!” . . . She turn'd aside,
And down her cheek in blighted sadness flow
The tears that none compassion; whilst her brow,
(Not “starry-eyed,”)

Seem'd clouded o'er with mists of sullen thought;
Then, turning to her work, she lightly drew

An armèd knight, his breast-plate all enwrought
With steel and gold; her cunning pencil caught
His eyes of blue

And backward-blowing plume. This picture lay
With many a change of posture and half-light,
About her chamber: she would e'en portray
The careless look with which he rode away
Out of her sight.

Thus ended her sad song; and all unmoved
The careless swallows twitter'd as she grieved:
The fairy prince was gone. It is unproved
If by the lissom lady that he loved
He was deceived;

Perchance, the course of true love runs not smooth—
And we are told such things have often been:
Yet this I somehow learnt—a bitter truth—
At that lone midway milestone of her youth
He had not seen

That hapless lady of the faulty face;
Nor, if his life had sorrows, did he deem
Those sorrows sprung of any want of grace
In her or him, in any earthly place
Or in a dream.

He rode away, nor look'd to left or right,
Nor guess'd his passing made the sole romance
Of that poor loveless life, nor knew the night
Ensuing on the evanescent light
Of his one glance!

Should he have linger'd, and with eagle eye
Discern'd the pearl hid in so rude a shell?
Alas! if woman's love were deep and high
And sweet as is the spice of Araby,
This had been well!

Or if it were a thing as passing rare
As is the mystic death-note of the swan,
Then women who are plain, or others fair,
Would seem but varied blossoms, sweet to wear
And gaze upon.

But woman's love is oft a lighter thing
Than is the gold dust on the butterfly,
Brush'd with too eager pressure from the wing,
And losing by too careful treasuring
Both light and dye.

And thus it is, maybe, that on Life's road
Men will not tarry to unearth the gem

Lurking behind the eyelids of the toad,
When such a heaven of starry lights have glow'd
And shone for them.

And so they seek the facile, and prefer
The fairest first, nor slack their bridle-rein—
As I, who heard this lonely murmurer,
Turn to some brighter theme, away from her
Whom God made plain.

REST.

I am weary, I am weary! though the happy springtide voices,
Hope-inspiring, fear dispelling, are re-echoed on the breeze;
Sad and drooping is my spirit, nor awakens nor rejoices,
But it longs for rest, and babbling streams, and shadows under trees.

Yes, to lie beneath a walnut-tree, or cedar, in a garden,
Quaint, old-fashion'd, shut away from all the murmurs of the crowd,
Of whose gate some sculptured figure, Love or Time, should be the warden,
And where only voice of singing-birds should dare to breathe aloud—

Where a sun-dial would seem shrinking, chaste and chilling, from the kisses
Of the tender clinging clematis and star-like passion-flower;
And the tremulous convolvulus, whose closing blue eye misses
That faint shadow on the dial that foretells the evening hour.

Yes, and tho' I long for Nature, yet I long and long for ever
For a bowling-green which cypress shall environ on all sides—
Kept and clipt from times departed into peacocks, urns, a river
Too, with swans and water-lilies, and a lurking boat besides.

Are you jealous? Nay! with you, love, sun and shade, and flowers and cedar—
All with you, love! oh, my true love!—floating swans and lily-leaves;
Cypress hedge with urns and peacocks—oh, my lover, lord, and leader!
All with you, with you for ever, in these dreams my fancy weaves!

100

Yes, my darling,—yes, with you, dear, shut away by iron gateways
From the murmur, and the bustle, and the slander of the world;
Yes, with you beneath the walnut-tree, near sunlit grassy pathways,
By the dial round which the clusters of convolvulus are curl'd;

Where the swans await their feeding by the lazy, reedy river,
Where the boat lies moor'd away amongst the lilies by the shore:
Ah, with you, love! oh, my true love! would for ever and for ever
I could rest and dream and love you, and awake to life no more!

101

THE RIDDLE.

I ask not now, as once, what these things mean,
This earth, these seeming trees that branch and bear,
This good and evil, with this foul and fair,
All things perceived with those that are unseen
May go their ways, I neither ask nor care
What these things mean.

Once, as a pensive child, left all alone
In some sad chamber on a rainy day,
With an intricate puzzle for his play,
Whereof the key or clue was lost and gone,
I mused and marvell'd, trying every way
What these things mean.

102

Now I have thrown the puzzle in a heap,
Go, painted plaything! thus I fling thee by.
Either thou art too low or else too high
To waste my care on. Vainly did I try:
Now I am weary. Maybe by-and-by
My dreams may tell me, when I fall asleep,
What these things mean!

103

A MEMORY.

Where was the place? . . . Here are the wild white roses
And clinging honeysuckle, and here a pathway
Traced in the tall red fern. Alas! the changes
Which break so many hearts, at least have mended
That bent and broken bracken! So that surely
These bleeding stems and leaves were not by thee, love,
Thus crush'd to earth, but by some forest cattle,
Some antler'd stag, or timid fawn when sleeping—
Yet I had almost said thy vanish'd footprints,
And mine of long ago, had mark'd for ever
To memory sacred, this our place of trysting.

104

The years—the years! . . . Each crowding generation
Of tall green fern has risen (quaintly twisted
And crook'd at first, like crozier of an abbot),
And turned to russet, and the scythe has mown them,
Laying their straight brown stems upon the green sward,
For twenty autumns since that fateful autumn;—
No vague transmitted legend, no tradition,
No faintly floating mem'ry of that evening
Is whisper'd by this heedless generation
Of feath'ry bracken, when the ev'ning breezes
Sway all the pigmy forest. E'en the roses
Deem not their faded forefather is sleeping
So near my heart! These twining honeysuckles
Are not the pink and amber witnesses
Of my first love, but fair, forgetful offspring
Of those that tangled in my shining tresses
Ere they were grey: I dare not say, my darling,
What thou wert then to me, or how thy shadow
Seems standing o'er me now as on that ev'ning!
Alas, the years! the years! . . . How strange the bracken

105

Should thus be crush'd and broken! Has the phantom
Of our dead love held revel here by moonlight
In bitter mockery? . . . The wild white roses
Are here as then, the break amongst the bracken,
The clinging pink and amber honeysuckle—
This was the place. . . .

106

TO TIME.

Oh, Time! show mercy to me, and unwind
This tangled web, or tear the strands away
That twist and knot, and cause so great delay
In this fair work I fashion'd to my mind,
Help me, old Time!

My hands are helpless; I have toil'd so long;
Mine eyes are dim, my bobbins seem possess'd,—
They will not twist the right way and the best,
So all the texture will be netted wrong,—
Help me, wise Time!

This seems to thee, no doubt, a trivial thing;
A woven shred, that will endure, alas!
As short a while as on thy shifting glass
Lingers the echo of Death's cross'd-bones' ring;
Help me, good Time!

Shuffle the strands aright; thou art too great
To smart with envy at the little bliss
So poor a worm as I may gain by this,
Be on my side, and let us laugh at Fate;
Help us, dear Time!

107

TO A GARDEN.

Oh, happy Eden! where I roam'd of yore
In that sweet innocence I long for now,—
No childish innocence of fruited bough,
For I had bit my apple to the core;

But when the golden fruit seem'd doubly sweet,
(Unlike the tempter of a bygone day,)
A serpent came, and bade me fling away
What once he bade those first poor lovers eat.

Oh, had I never bent that magic bough,
And tasted of the sweetness that it bore,
My heart had been as careless as before,
And all these bitter tears unfalling now!

I curse the cruel hand that pointed where
My golden apple show'd a bitter flaw,
And his malignant eye, who smiled and saw
My best illusions melting into air!

108

But garden,—garden where I used to rove,
I bless thy orange groves and sunny sky,
I bless thy feath'ry palm-trees tow'ring high,
That overshadow'd what seem'd then my love!

111

1880.

112

“The years pass on, the seasons go their round,
Hate is o'erpass'd, Love plumes his fickle wings,
Whilst, safe within his plot of garden-ground
Mourning the mutability of things,
The Poet sings.”

113

A REVERIE.

By the side of a ruin'd terrace
I sat in the early Spring;
The leaves were so young that the speckled hen-thrush
Could be seen as she sat in the hawthorn bush,
Falt'ring and faint at the cuckoo's cry;
The cypress look'd black against the green
Of folded chestnut and budding beech,
And up from the slumbering vale beneath
Came now and again the ominous ring
Of a passing-bell for a village death.
Yet a spirit of hope went whispering by,
Through the wakening woods, o'er the daisied mead,
And up the stem of the straight Scotch fir
An insolent squirrel, in holiday brush,
Went scampering gaily, at utmost speed,
To gnaw at his fir-apples out of reach.

114

All seem'd so full of life and stir,
Of twitter and twinkle, and shimmer and sheen,
That I closed my book, for I could not read;
So I sat me down to muse instead,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

Alas that the sound of a passing-bell,
(Only proclaiming some villager's death,)
As it echoes up from the valley beneath,
Should summon up visions of trestle and shroud!
And pity it is that yon marble urn,
Fall'n and broken, should seem to tell
Of days that are done with, and may not return
Whatever the future shall chance to be!
Hollow and dead as the empty shell
Of last year's nut as it lies on the grass,
Or the frail laburnum's wither'd seed,
That hang like felons on gallows-tree!

115

This is a truth that half aloud
We may but murmur with bated breath:
How many sat as I sit to-day,
In the vanish'd hours of the olden time,
Watching the Spring in her early prime
Beam, and blossom, and go her way!
Squirrels that sport and doves that coo,
And leaves that twinkle against the blue,
And green woodpecker and screeching jay,
Ye are purposeless things that perish and pass,
Yet you wanton and squander your transient day,—
My soul is sicken'd at sight of you!
“I had rather be shrouded and coffin'd and dead”
(To my innermost soul I, sighing, said)
“Than know no pleasure save love and play!”
Then all seem'd so full of the odour of Death
(Though I smelt the gorse-blossom blown from the heath),
That I open'd my book and tried to read,

116

Since my soul was too sadden'd to muse instead,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

I wonder now if it could be right
For the Great First Cause to let such things be?
To plan this blending of black and white,—
(I know, for myself, I had made all bright!)
And to mould me, and make me, and set me here,
Without my leave and against my will,
With never so much as a word in mine ear
As to how I may pilot my bark through the night?
Was it well, I wonder, or was it ill,
That I should feel such a wish to be wise,
And dream of flying, and long for sight,
With faltering footsteps and bandaged eyes,
To be blamed the more that I may not see,
As I stagger about in the wilderness,
And know no more than the worms and the flies?
I feel at my heart that it is not right—

117

“Nothing is right and nothing is just;
We sow in ashes and reap the dust;
I think, on the whole, I would rather be
The wandering emmet, that loses its way
On the desert-plain of my muslin-dress,
Than be moulded as either a woman or man.”
(All this I said in my bitterness.)
“Yet who is to help me and who is to blame?”
But just at that moment a hurrying sound,
A sound as of hurrying, pattering feet,
In the dry leaves under the hawthorn bush,
Troubled the heart of the speckled hen-thrush,
Whilst the love-sick pigeon that call'd to her mate,
And the green woodpecker and screeching jay,
Outspread their wings and flew scared away;
And on a sudden, with leap and bound,
My neighbour's collie, mark'd black and tan,
Sprang panting into the garden seat,

118

His collar aglow with my neighbour's name!
So my neighbour himself cannot be far,
Ah, I care not now how wrong things are! . . .
I know I am ignorant, foolish, and small
As this wandering emmet that climbs my dress,
Yet I know that now I had answer'd “Yes”
(Were I ask'd my will by the Father of all);
“I desire to be, I am glad to be born!”
And all because on a soft May morn,
My neighbour's collie dog, black and tan,
Leapt over the privet-hedge, and ran
With a rush, and a cry, and a bound to my side,
And because I saw his master ride,
Laying spurs to his willing horse,
Over the flaming yellow gorse.
Awake, my heart! I may not wait!
Let me arise and open the gate,
To breathe the wild warm air of the heath,
And to let in Love, and to let out Hate,
And anger at living, and scorn of Fate,

119

To let in Life, and to let out Death,
(For mine ears are deaf to the passing-bell—
I think he is buried now out of the way;)
And I say to myself, “It is good, it is well;
Squirrels that sport and doves that coo,
And leaves that twinkle against the blue,
And green woodpecker and screeching jay,—
Good-morrow, all! I am one of you!”
Since now I need neither muse nor read,
I may listen, and loiter, and live instead,
And take my pleasure in love and play,
And share my pastime with all things gay,
By the side of the ruin'd terrace,
In the breath of the early Spring.

120

“GOING SOUTH.”

I came from lands of mist and rain,
And hurried, for one sleepless night,
Through landscapes clothed in wintry white,
And where the bare Burgundian vines,
Like antlers of a buried herd,
Pierced through their chilly counterpane.

Against the windows sleet and snow
Beat, as determin'd to the last
To bear me company: I pass'd
Bleak sandy tracks, where dwarfish pines
And stunted olives, tempest-stirr'd,
Swayed desolately to and fro.

“I journey on to warmth and light,”
I whisper'd to my falt'ring heart,
So lonely at the saddest part
Of this, my voyage to the sun,
Wrapp'd in the curtains of the night,

121

And fearing what the dawn might hold,
Whilst still unto my aching brain
The measured clatter of the train
Echoed, in mocking monotone,
“To warmth and light,” whilst all was cold.

But by-and-by, by slow degrees,
Chill Nature thaw'd to greet the dawn;
The clinging frost and snow were gone,
The sky beam'd blue behind the hills,
The birds were singing on the trees.

The sun rose gaily, all the earth
Seemed warm again with love and Spring,
The olive leaves sway'd glistening
With silv'ry lustre, and the rills
Leapt, frost-freed, to a brighter birth.

A thousand scented southern balms
The zephyr wafted to my brow,
The orange hung upon the bough,
The almond flower'd fair beneath
The tufted majesty of palms.

122

The wavelets of a tideless sea
Crept softly to the rosy shore,—
The overhanging mountains bore
Myrtle and mignonette and heath,
And fragrant tangled bryony.

The aloe raised its pointed spears,
The red geranium blossom'd wild,
Anemones and violets smiled,
The faint mimosa droop'd; above
The rocks were fringed with prickly pears.

'Twas then I felt my soul revive;
The winter chill'd my heart no more;
I look'd upon that sunny shore,
And said, “I come to life and love,—
I come to thee to love and live.”

123

TOO LATE!

In the summer time, ere the grass was mown,
Where the tall ox-daisies grew to her knee,
There wander'd a maiden all alone,
In silken kirtle and golden zone,
By the river that flows to the sea.

And often she look'd down its silvery way,
As she watch'd the wandering swallows skim
The leaves of the lilies, that quivering lay,
Seeming only a span from the glittering bay,
And her day-dreams were always of him.

Thus wander'd she wearily to and fro
Amongst the wavering meadow flowers,
And she watch'd the seasons come and go
Till the white with daisies was white with snow,
And the birds fell asleep in the bowers.

124

But her true love linger'd, and linger'd still,
Till again the earth was awake with spring;
And her heart grew sad, as a maiden's will
Who has waited and watch'd over dale and hill
For a love that is lingering.

But at last, as, shading her eyes with her hand,
She look'd down the river's silvery way,
She 'spied a pinnace that made for the land,
And that glided anon to the flowery strand
That seem'd but a span from the bay.

He has stept to the shore and found her fair,
Yet he was not the hope of her life's young dream;
Still he seem'd like the answer vouchsafed to a prayer,
Ere her own true lover had time to be there,
And he bore her away on the stream.

But her true love will come ere the hawthorn sheds
Its tremulous blossoms of virginal May,
And he'll find but a sprinkling of daisy-heads,
With a broken girdle in golden shreds,
By the river that flows to the bay.

125

A FOREBODING.

I do not dread an alter'd heart,
Or that long line of land or sea
Should separate my love from me,
I dread that drifting slow apart—
All unresisted, unrestrain'd—
Which comes to some when they have gain'd
The dear endeavour of their soul.

As two light skiffs that sail'd together,
Through days and nights of tranquil weather,
Adown some inland stream, might be
Drifted asunder, each from each;
When, floating with the tide, they reach
The hoped-for end, the promised goal,
The sudden glory of the sea.

126

TO A COUNTRY DAFFODIL.

With hanging head and fluted stalk,
A golden herald of the Spring,
Telling how thrushes build and sing
Amongst the laurels in the walk
Where we have also loved and sung,

Come, daffodil, and whisper true,
(Here amongst city fog and smoke,)
What tidings of our trysting oak,
Where squirrels sport and pigeons coo,
As though the world were ever young?

Tell me how all your brethren fare,
Upstanding in the garden beds;
And if the snowdrops' modest heads
Look earthwards yet, or high in air,
And if the crocuses are there?

127

And if the forest-glades are gay
With hyacinths, or silver-strewn
With wood-anemones, too soon
That bow their heads and pass away,
Dying the death of all things fair?

Tell me all this, and something more,
What I would wish you most to tell,—
Say, “He is true, and he is well,
And still he loves you as before;”
Then nestle near me, where you will.

Or, if it please you to be seen
And hold your head above them all
I'll wear you at a royal ball,
Where you may meet a future Queen—
High honour for a daffodil!

128

A MAY SONG.

A little while my love and I,
Before the mowing of the hay,
Twined daisy-chains and cowslip-balls,
And caroll'd glees and madrigals,
Before the hay, beneath the may,
My love (who loved me then) and I.

For long years now my love and I
Tread severed paths to varied ends;
We sometimes meet, and sometimes say
The trivial things of every day,
And meet as comrades, meet as friends,
My love (who loved me once) and I.

But never more my love and I
Will wander forth, as once, together,
Or sing the songs we used to sing
In spring-time, in the cloudless weather;
Some chord is mute that used to ring,
Some word forgot we used to say
Amongst the may, before the hay,
My love (who loves me not) and I!

129

A REGRET.

“Yours be the blame,” she said, and sigh'd;
“Yours be the blame for all I feel”—
She turn'd away upon her heel,
And saw him leave her wonder-eyed;
Then suddenly, with no “Good-bye,”
Before the morrow came he died.

Of what avail then sighs or tears
For spoken words that left a sting?
Will he remember anything
Of that which haunts her thro' the years,
Or hear the echo of her sigh,
Or share the burden that she bears?

“Mine was the blame!” she weeps and cries,
“Oh, love! my love! mine was the blame!”
He does not answer to his name,
Or soothe her now with soft replies,
His form is hid from human eye,
His mind is closed to memories.

130

THE KINGFISHER.

A BALLAD.

I.

Beside the leafy river-bed,
Waving with wealth of willow-weeds,
Poised in the pollard overhead,
We watch'd him from amongst the reeds.

Bright as a jewel to behold,
His bosom flashing tropic hues,—
Purple and amaranth and gold,
With emerald greens and peacock blues.

You held the brambles o'er my head,
And bade me neither speak nor stir;
“Stay still a little while,” you said,
“Or we shall scare the kingfisher.”

The cruel kingfisher stayéd on,
Peering o'er weed and watercress,
Until the lilies one by one,
Folded their leaves for weariness.

131

You held aside the briers and bine;
We did not speak, we did not stir;
But by-and-by your lips sought mine—
We kiss'd, and scared the kingfisher.

II.

Now once again I seek the stream
Waving with purple willow-weed;
A flutt'ring sound, a flashing gleam—
The kingfisher has flown to feed.

There still the water-lilies grow,
Here trail the sprays of brier and bine,
As on that day, so long ago,
When first your faithless lips met mine.

The cruel kingfisher stays on,
Peering o'er weed and watercress;
And now the lilies, one by one,
Fold up their leaves for weariness.

Recalling all I would forget,
I do not speak, I do not stir;
My heart is full, my eyes are wet—
I weep and scare the kingfisher.

132

A WEDDING.

He stands before the altar-rails
To plight his troth to her—a child,
Who had not heard the o'er true tales
Of his rash youth and manhood wild.
And overhead are smiling skies,
As though to augur all is well;
And village swains
Sing merry strains,
And gaily rings the village bell.

She little knows, that lily bride,
What those glad joy-bells said to one,
Who, sitting by her lone fireside,
Nursed tearfully her little son.
Yet overhead are smiling skies,
As though to augur all is well;
To drown the sighs
That may arise,
Sing, village swains! Ring, village bell!

133

“IN GREEN OLD GARDENS.”

In green old gardens, hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,
Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he dies,
Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day;
Where the high red walls, which are growing gray
With their lichen and moss embroideries,
Seem sadly and sternly to shut out Life,
Because it is often as sad as they;

Where even the bee has time to glide
(Gathering gaily his honey'd store)
Right to the heart of the old-world flowers,—
China-asters and purple stocks,
Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks,
Laburnums raining their golden showers,
Columbines prim of the folded core,
And lupins, and larkspurs, and “London pride;”—

Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds,
Grown tame in the silence that reigns around,
Broken only, now and then,

134

By shy woodpecker or noisy jay,
By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay;
But where never the purposeless laughter of men,
Or the seething city's murmurous sound
Will float up under the river-weeds.

Here may I live what life I please,
Married and buried out of sight,—
Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,—
Hidden away amongst scenes like these,
Under the fans of the chestnut trees;
Living my child-life over again,
With the further hope of a fuller delight,
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.

In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,—
Here have I leisure to breathe and move,
And to do my work in a nobler way;
To sing my songs, and to say my say;
To dream my dreams, and to love my love;
To hold my faith, and to live my life,
Making the most of its shadowy day.

135

“IF ONLY WE HAD TIME TO SPARE.”

If only we had time to spare
To taste the glories of the Spring,
How good to leave this noise and glare,
And breathe the blessèd country air,
And hear the songs the wild birds sing,
If only we had time to spare!

Then you should stretch you at my feet
And read aloud, and I should sew,
And now and then our eyes might meet,
And we might murmur phrases sweet,
And blissful hours would come and go,
If only we had time to spare!

But as you toil, and as I pray
For happier and idler hours,
Noon follows dawn, night follows day,
I look, and lo, your locks are gray,
And Winter withers up our flowers
Ere ever we have time to spare!

136

UNDER A LATTICE.

[_]

FROM THE SPANISH.

“Clung round with clematis the lattice stands
Still open, open'd by those vanish'd hands;
Within, a darker day, a lesser light,
Recalls the vision that has taken flight—
A vision of soft eyes and hanging hair,
And all that, until yesterday, was there,
And nestled near my heart, and seem'd mine own,
And loved me yesterday, and now—is flown!

“O empty open window, from above
Send down some dear memento of my love!
Some perfume, sweeter than the clematis,
Some truant echo of a lingering kiss!
Or were it even but one little hair
(Trapp'd in a tendril as she watch'd me there),
How would I treasure in my lonely breast
Such falling feather from our empty nest!”
So sigh'd I, lonely, when an agèd man,
Who, passing, saw my sorrow, thus began
With words of wisdom to reprove my gloom:

137

“My son,” said he, “once in yon very room
I, too, in days which live in fancy yet,
Tasted the happiness you now regret;
And when my happiness had pass'd away,
I, too, stood sighing where you stand to-day.

“But not all neatly shod and gaily dress'd,
My love departed from our nuptial nest
On tassell'd mule, or in a soft sedan,
Wafting an arch ‘Good-morrow!’ from her fan,
And almost surely to return again.—
Wan as a lily-bell, my love was lain
In that poor narrow bed we all must know,
Beside a lesser lily, white as snow
(Ah, sorry bridal bed for one so fair!).
And though my heart broke not with my despair,
Yet was it very weary with my pain,
And weary are these eyes that watch in vain,
And may not see what once they held so dear;
Wherefore, on this one day in ev'ry year,
I seek this hostelrie and here repine:
Know now, my son, my woes outmeasure thine.”

He ended, and in grateful mood I said,
“Thank God, though gone from me, she is not dead!”

138

WAITING.

Pleasant it is to watch and wait
By lone seashore or forest dell,
For some one that we love so well;
We half are glad he comes so late
(When we can count his coming sure).

Since then we taste our promised good
Ere ever he can wend his way
By the blue curve of shining bay,
Or thro' the tangle of the wood,
(For we can count his coming sure).

And earth, and sky, and forest tree,
Or far expanse of silv'ry sand,
Seem touch'd as with a magic wand,
And glorious with a joy to be
(Since we can count his coming sure).

139

'Tis even thus I wait him here,
And scan afar the forest glades,
And wander through the green arcades,
And strive to know his presence near,
(If I can count his coming sure).

But as I watch, and as I wait,
The ev'ning shadows grow apace,
The last rook seeks its roosting-place,
The latest swain goes through the gate,
Ah, can I count his coming sure?

140

THE SILENT PLAYER.

AT “HAMLET,” December 30, 1878.

I meant to write of Hamlet; how he mouth'd
Or did not mouth enough, or how he seem'd
More mad than should a prince in ecstasy,
Or strangely sane: of what was Shakespeare's mind
Concerning Hamlet: Whether 'twas his will
To make him mad, or merely seeming so,
Because he dared not set such lib'ral speech
Into a sane man's mouth in times like his.
And next I meant to cavil at the dress,
The feather'd bonnet, and the silken hose;
Then laud the earnest effort made, and ask
If this were genius, and then reply
I know not wholly what. . . .

Then had I praised,
And more than praised, nor nearly praised enough,
The fair Ophelia, form and voice and face
Seeming a sweet incarnate revelation
Of the great Master's mind. Or, like a saint
Frighten'd from off some high cathedral-pane

141

By sun or moonbeam, essence of a dream,
Too fair for flesh and blood, yet shedding tears,
Real briny tears, for love of mortal man!

Thus had I meant to write; but, looking round
From where I sat in cosy cushion'd chair,
I saw, above, below, in box and stall,
A serried line of critics, with their gaze
Intent and fix'd, all “eager for the fray;”
Dealers of thunderbolts, which, ready poised,
Would fall to-morrow. Then I felt abash'd,
And half-ashamed, and murmur'd to myself,
“Wilt thou, poor poet, lift thy pigmy pen
And pass thy raw opinion on the players,
When even these may fail to read them right,
And blunder with their bombshells?”

So I turn'd
From black-browed Hamlet with his waving plume,
From golden-hair'd Ophelia and her flowers,
From guilty King and “seeming-virtuous” Queen,
From old Polonius, staunch Horatio,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, well-favour'd Osric,
Gravediggers, courtiers, players; I left the lot,
Lacking the nerve to tackle e'en the Ghost,
And went, forthwith, and took the lowest place

142

As critic of the least amongst them all—
A silent actor—only a sad skull,
Upheaved not even from a natural grave.
“Alas, poor Yorick!” He that play'd the part
Of that poor pate of thine play'd passing well,
And spoke, in silence, plainer than the rest!
My heart went out to him, and wonder'd whether
His freed soul watch'd the actors, Hamlet-wise,
And if in anger, or in sympathy,
Gnawing the feathers from a phantom-fan,
Or clapping kindly with his spirit-hands?
And what had been that other part he play'd,
Play'd out (how long ago?) as king or clown,
Soldier or scholar, honest man or knave?
Whether from desecrated marble urn,
Or from the quicklime of a felon's grave,
These bones were gather'd that played here tonight?

There must be cruel choice of dead men's bones
Whilst rulers make new wars, and martyr'd saints',
Whilst men, misnamed of peace, arise, and fan
The smould'ring fires betwixt opposing creeds,
Thinking to do God service.

So, poor skull,

143

It may be that thou hast roll'd hitherward
(Bereft of aureole or warrior's helm)
From the sad cell of some sweet Magdalen,
Or from the furrows of a tented field
Whereon thou wert a victor! Who can say?
But, be thou that which little Peterkin
Found, “smooth and round,” “beside the rivulet,”
A waif from Blenheim, or some virgin's skull
Filch'd from the far-famed thousands at Cologne,
Thou'st play'd thy part right well, and told tonight
An old, old story!

Moralising thus,
I don my cloak, and clasp a careless arm,
Then drive to supper. . . .

144

DIVIDED.

They did not quarrel; but betwixt them came
Combining circumstances, urging on
Towards the final ending of their loves.
Could they have smote and stung with bitter words,
Then sued for pardon on a blotted page,
And met, and kiss'd, and dried their mutual tears,
This had not been. But every day the breach
Widen'd without their knowledge. Time went by,
And led their footsteps into devious paths,
Each one approving, nay, with waving hand
Praying God-speed the other, since both roads
Seem'd fair, and led away from sordid things,
And each one urged the other on to fame.
He was a very Cæsar for ambition;
And she, a simple singer in the woods,
Athirst for Nature—ever needing her
To crown a holiday, and sanctify
As with a mother's blessing, idle hours.
A bramble-blossom trailing in the way
Seem'd more to her than all his talk of Courts

145

And Kings and Constitutions; but his aims
Rose far above the soaring of the lark,
That leaves the peeping daisy out of sight.
The State required him, and he could not stay
Loit'ring and ling'ring in the “primrose path
Of dalliance;” and so it came to pass
These two, that once were one, are two again.
And she is lone in spirit, having known
A sweeter thing than pipe of nightingale
Or scent of hawthorn, and yet loving these
And clinging to them still, though desolate,
And, like the lady of the “Lord of Burleigh,”
Lacking the “Landscape-painter” in her life.
Thus, all her songs are sad—of wither'd leaves,
And blighted hopes, and echoes of the past,
And early death; and yet she cannot die,
But lives and sings, as he, too, lives and climbs,
Far from the sight of waving meadow-grass,
And so they walk divided.

Were it well
So soon to sever such a tender tie,
With never a reproach and none to blame,
And not one tear? With friendly greetings now
At careless meetings, cold and unforeseen,
As though no better days had ever dawn'd;

146

And all—for what? . . .

Nay, be it for the best!
Who knows, if we love well till we regret
And sigh, in sadness, for a good thing gone?
Thus, all may work to wisdom.

Wherefore, wake
With wind-strewn cuckoo-bloom and daffodil,
Fond foolish love of spring-tide and hot youth
And die when these have perish'd! . . .

147

ANOTHER SPRING.

They are here again, with their mocking notes,
Cuckoo, and linnet, and nightingale—
“Welcome to Spring!” from a thousand throats
That trill and quaver through wood and vale.
Yet there, on his bed, lies the dead man, pale,
And these blossoming limes, in their holiday coats,
Wave over a kingdom of husk and shell,
Of broken branch and of mouldering leaf.
But the young leaves live; so I say, “It is well,—
It is well with an old and a new belief;
There is Death beneath us, and Life above,
And betwixt the two, for a transient spell,
Ere the March-strewn seed shall be bound in the sheaf,
There is lent us a little time to love.”

148

THE PEAR-TREE.

A little garden once I knew
But just outside the city's brawl,
Wherein a twisted pear-tree grew
Above a grey old-fashion'd wall;

And in those days I used to wait
And hunger for a coming tread,
And fifty times would seek the gate
Before the length'ning shadows spread.

And then, against the evening sky,
That tufted pear-tree, in the gloom,
I liken'd to a Cherokee,
With tomahawk and waving plume.

And when his brow seem'd bland and kind,
I said, “I have not long to wait;”
Then once more drew aside the blind,
Or sought again the garden-gate.

149

But if his brow was blurr'd with storm,
And wildly waved his floating feather,
And all the outline of his form
Was rack'd and rent with angry weather,—

I took it for a luckless sign,
Fearing some evil might arise,
And watch'd the gath'ring planets shine
With aching heart and anxious eyes.

“He will be late,” I used to say,—
“Nay, will he even come at all?”
Seeing the Indian's figure sway
Above the old grey garden-wall.

Ah, foolish fancies, past and dead!
Ah, little garden, green and gay!
Who listens now for coming tread,
Or threads your narrow paths to-day?

Once have I pass'd your lichen'd wall
Whereon the tangled creepers climb,
And peep'd within the gate, but all
Seemed alter'd by the touch of Time.

150

And, looking up to where, of yore,
There waved the well-known wishing-tree,
My heart grew doubly sad—it bore
No likeness to a Cherokee!

151

“DOLCE FAR NIENTE.”

. . . So now, my love, what matter when we die,
And leave this world of sorrow-faring men,
Wielders of sword, and drivers of the pen,
Who fret, and fume, and strive, I know not why,
Since all my life is turn'd to holiday!

Here will I rest me, lying in the shade,
And smile to see men toiling in the sun,
The end achieved, the promised guerdon won,
Deep drinking of the draught for which I pray'd,
Whilst all the world seems turn'd to holiday.

Death would be pleasant so, should no sharp pain
Curdle the blood or agonise the mind,
So, hearts united, and so, arms entwined,
We two could fade out from this mortal train
Who find scant space for making holiday.

152

You say 'tis no man's mission to lie so,
Watching the sunlight sifting through green boughs;
You tell of men who breathed heroic vows,
Smote, or were smitten, and were glad to go,
And knew no time for love or holiday.

“Up and away!” you say, “from scenes like these,
Where languid nights succeed the listless days,
Seek out some poor man's good, some good man's praise;
Nor lie, like Samson, at Delilah's knees,
Making all life to seem like holiday.”

Ah! this from thee, Delilah, this from thee!
Who taught the shepherd to forsake his flocks?
Who stole his heart, and shear'd away his locks?
No good man now shall speak good word of me,
So let all life seem love and holiday!

153

AT MIDNIGHT.

A shadow stands outside my door,
Through all the noontide din;
But when the revels of day are o'er
I rise and let it in.

The voices are hush'd, and the lights are dead,
When I open the doorway wide,
And the curtains are drawn around the bed
Where you sleep by my side.

Then I talk to my guest in accents low,
And I live the old life anew
With the ghost of a man, dead long ago,
Whom I loved far better than you!

154

IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD.

Amongst these graves where good men lie,
Mute, ozier-bound, in dreamless sleep,
Above whose heads the browsing sheep
And careless painted butterfly
Pasture and sport in summer grass,

Brown as the blasted Dead Sea fruit,
As bann'd to barrenness and dearth,
Behold yon patch of rusty earth,
Whereon no turf has taken root,
No summer shadows flit and pass;

Whilst here, a garden neat and trim,
All fuchsia-fringed and pansy-starr'd,
With gilded gateways lock'd and barr'd,
And double-daisies for a rim
Surrounds a tomb, with foot and head

155

Guarded by angel-forms that weep
In marble from Carrara's mines,
Whilst Fame a laurel chaplet twines,
And golden letters, graven deep,
Blazon the honours of the dead.

He died as clarions smote the air
To tell of vict'ry and renown;
They brought him to his native town,
Near which the lands and lordships were
That owed him fealty in the west.

She died in those despairing days,
Bow'd down by all the griefs she had,
And only that they deem'd her mad,
They buried her by no cross-ways,
And drove no stake into her breast.

She sleeps beneath yon rusty peat,
Withered as by avenging fires;
Amongst the noblest of his sires
He lies with angels at his feet,
And golden gates to keep secure.

156

And 'twixt the two, all ozier-bound,
Half melted into mother earth,
Scarce two feet long, by one in girth,
A little nameless baby-mound
Pleads for the sins of rich and poor.

157

THE POET.

The poet was not born to teach
A moral lesson to mankind;
He hath no solemn creed to preach,
But, fancy-free and unconfined,
By sunlit glade or grey sea-beach
His lyre wakes to the shifting wind.

And if he be a minstrel true,
Its ev'ry sound should charm your ears,
Of ev'ry cloud the changing hue
Should bear some fruit in smiles or tears,
And all his songs should waft to you
An echo of some voice he hears.

Thus, true to Nature and to Art,
He flings his music on the gale;
And even should its tones impart
But gall and bitterness, and fail
To ease his own o'erburden'd heart,
And prove to yours of no avail,

158

From love of song alone he sings,
And as his mood is foul or fair
His voice in tune or discord rings,
No matter, so the voice be there,
And should his lyre e'en snap its strings
He will not know, he will not care!

159

“TILL ALL THINGS FADE.”

A thousand lilies blossom, unaware,
Here, where the earth seems chill with buried love,
And in the flow'ry arbutus the dove
Still calls her truant mate, who lingers yet,
As though the world were always sweet and fair,
And you and I had nothing to regret
And hope for against hope, and think upon
Till all things fade!

And so your lips may often wear a smile,
And so my heart may leap to music still;
Your soul may fire, and all your being thrill,
And all your manhood lift itself on high
In din of battle, or in sacred aisle;
Yet under all must lurk one memory,
The grieving for a good time that is gone,
Till all things fade!

160

AT TWILIGHT.

The day is ended—this autumn day,
So like to the days that have ended before;
The knock of a friend, maybe at the door,
Who gives his greeting, and says his say,
And then goes his way.

The posts are all in, and the news all read—
There is fighting abroad, and carping here—
We have heaved a sigh, and smother'd a tear,
As we pored o'er the printed names of the dead
Ere the daylight fled.

The flocks are in fold, and the steeds in stall,
And the moon is as red as a rising sun;
Whilst in twos and threes, or one by one,
The ploughmen (thinking of nothing at all)
Pass under the wall.

161

I would I could think of as little as they,
As they whistle along in their holland smocks!
Bound for the home where the cradle rocks,
And the good-wife spreads them their suppertray
At close of the day.

But on us, who wonder and question and think,
Crowd weightier fancies, as daylight sets,
Hungers and thirstings and vain regrets
That may not be sated with meat and with drink,
Or with poet's ink.

Fancies that never may stalk in the light—
Hovering phantoms of profitless hours,
Lingering odours of withering flowers,
Wavings of wings that have taken their flight—
These come with the night.

Yet whilst I can look in a true friend's face,
And thrill to the touch of a loving hand,
I suffer no fear, but can take my stand
And hold myself ready to lie in my place
At the end of the race.

162

To the length of our days this day adds one
(One link the more as the chain grows long);
Let us warm it with kisses and wreath it with song,
And mingle together our sands, as they run
With the days that are done.

END OF VOL. I.