Under Cross and Crescent :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nestled beside a wood where larch and pine
Tow'r tall against the sky, and where, beneath,
Nature has spread a carpet of pink heath
And velvet mosses; guarded by a line
Of cypress-sentinels, from over-seas,—
Press'd into foreign service, like to Scot
Or Switzer of old time,—this is the spot
Where now my kindly neighbour takes his ease.

His windows look upon a garden, gay
With many roses, which a terrace-wall
Divides from park and lawn, where, over all,
None but the very fairest winds may stray

(My neighbour will'd it so), and where a gray
And lichen'd dial marks the passing hours,
Whose graven motto, half effaced by flow'rs,
Warns us to gather rosebuds while we may.

Here might an autocratic will control
And change each rural feature. He might set
His seal upon the land as never yet
Upon the human mind, for he could roll
The hill into the valley, plant the waste,
And fell the forest: dot the distant lake
With fairy Crusoe-isles, and mar, and make,
And mould the face of Nature to his taste.

But, since he is so travell'd and so wise
And temperate of spirit,—that, although
It is not given unto us to know
What his creative fancy may devise,—

What tow'rs and temples, pointing to the stars,
What grots and bow'rs, as year to year succeeds,
Or whether goat-foot gods, half hid in reeds,
May not pour rivers forth from earthen jars;—

I feel he will not ruthlessly upheave,
Or hew, or devastate. By Nature's aid,
His pleasure will be, rather to persuade
With a benign insistence, and achieve
Each end by gentle means and patient skill,
So that the tutor'd tendril, as it grows,
Or the diverted streamlet, scarcely knows
It is not wand'ring at “its own sweet will.”

Hence, no impetuous spirit of unrest
Disturbs the sylvan quiet, though a sure
And gradual evolution shall mature
And lure each thing of beauty to its best,

Yet never can complete achievement bring
Its wonted curse, since, ev'ry changing year,
Shall some fresh fancy be engender'd here,
And some new wonder wake with ev'ry Spring.

AT FRAMLINGHAM

Here, on the castled keep that rose of old,
Queen Mary, ere she earn'd her hateful name,
Planted her royal flag, when hither came
To do her homage, thirteen thousand bold
And loyal gentlemen, who here enroll'd
Themselves beneath her banner, and the same
Marching with her to London, with acclaim
There crown'd her Queen, in robes of red and gold.

So, these high castle-chambers only knew
A gracious Princess, one in whose dispraise
The very voice of calumny was mute
Throughout the realm of England, ere they too,
Encompass'd by the tide of evil days,
Fell into ruin with her good repute.

THE GRAIN OF MUSTARD-SEED

Kisagotami, Buddhist legends tell,
Had scarcely realised a mother's joy,
Ere on her head life's keenest sorrow fell,
And cruel Death deprived her of her boy.

But after she had watch'd him droop and fade,
With sad, despairing spirit, o'er and o'er
She conn'd some mystic words that, when a maid,
A sage had said to her, and grieved no more.

“When thou hast lost the being thou lov'st most”
(So ran the sentence), “in thy bitter need
Go seek some neighbour's house, and ask the host
For just one single grain of mustard-seed.

“This to the one that lies all lifeless give,
Set it between his lips; this, and no more,—
When straightway thou shalt see that he will live,
And be as he was wont to be before.

“Yet this one fact remember,—only one;
The house must be a mansion through whose door
No master, slave, or husband, sire or son,
Hath e'er been carried to return no more;

“A house ne'er shadow'd by the wings of Death”
(Such were the seeming words of saving grace).
So, as her infant breathed his dying breath,
She cross'd the threshold of her dwelling-place,

Bearing him, Indian fashion, on her hip,
Too fond to deem he could be dead indeed,
And ask'd, with falt'ring voice and quiv'ring lip,
For this one precious grain of mustard-seed.

But when she question'd those who freely gave,
Awaiting their reply with bated breath:
“Hath husband, son, or father, friend, or slave,
Pass'd through these portals to the house of Death?”

“Lady,” they made her answer one and all,
“The loss you mourn for have we suffer'd too;
Death is alike the guest of great and small—
The dead are many and the living few.”

Thus pass'd she wearily from door to door,
Bearing her precious burden, till she came
Beyond the town to the lone edge of shore,—
On ev'ry side the answer was the same!

There, 'neath a jambu tree, she sat her down,
And watch'd the dying glory of the sun,
And saw the lights that twinkled from the town
On the far plain, extinguish'd one by one.

Then watch'd the eighty thousand stars arise
In the blue vault above, and grown dismay'd,
Knelt unto Him of the ten hundred eyes,
And lifted up her feeble voice and pray'd.

Then, in a vision, came the heav'nly guide,
The Buddha of the twice five points of space,
With all the gifts of manhood glorified
Reflected from the radiance of his face.

And, in an instant, to her mind reveal'd
The dread inevitable first decree
Which, for some undiscover'd purpose, seal'd
Man's doom on earth to all eternity,

E'en whilst it chill'd her spirit to the core,
Brought her new wisdom, and she understood
The fellowship of grief, which, evermore,
Creates an universal brotherhood,

Teaching us all, in charity to cling
To what must surely perish, and forgive
A world of bitterness and heart-burning,
Begot of evil that can never live.

So this poor mother, 'neath the jambu tree,
Kiss'd each cold cheek and listless baby-hand,
Bow'd low to the inscrutable decree,
And hid her darling's body in the sand.

Oh, for that magic grain of mustard-seed,
To make dead Love arise again and live!
Sad is my loss, and bitter is my need,
Give to a weeping heart-sore suppliant, give!

In vain, in vain! his grave is wide and deep;
Blinded and deafen'd, he nor sees nor hears,
Safe in the solace of eternal sleep,
Proud in his cold immunity to tears!

It matters not 'neath what celestial sign
The sun-god of to-day pursues his course,
Dying beyond the equinoxial line,
As lamb or lion, ram, or solar horse.

Love that has liv'd and died is dead indeed,
No pray'rs or weeping shall restore his breath,
Nor would he wake could e'en that mystic seed
Be brought him from a home that knew not death.

Better to bear him where no eye may see,
Kiss his cold cheek and press his listless hand,
Bow low to the inscrutable decree,
And bury him for ever in the sand!

Old fancies fade away, old idols fall
From crumbling altars, yet for ever new
The tear-stain'd truth survives: “Death comes to all,—
The dead are many and the living few.”

“SOMEBODY'S DARLING”

An old Jew dwells by the river strand,
Who deals in treasures beyond compare;
At least so he says, as his dirty hand
With its diamond rings, he will wave to where
The lumber is piled to the very top
Of the dingy room at the back of the shop.

And this old Jew, in spite of his rings,
And his dirty hands, and his cunning eye,
And the musty, fusty, smell that clings
To the dusty den where his treasures lie,
Is, nevertheless, a friend of mine,
Whom I often visit when days are fine.

And he welcomes me with so broad a smile,
And brings forth his wares with so good a grace,
That I like to believe, for all the guile
I read in each line of his wrinkled face,
That of all his buyers he likes me best,
And cheats me less than he cheats the rest.

So, to-day, because it was bright and dry,
And a gnawing memory gave me pain,
Till, in self-defence, I was bound to try
Some sort of an antidote for my bane,
I set forth early, and took my way
To the tumble-down shop where his treasures lay.

For it may seem strange, but to some strange minds
There is no such balm for an aching heart
As the thrill of triumph with which one finds
Some truly historical work of art,
Or even some worthless, inferior thing
To do with a hero or favourite king.

Just think! in one's very own hand to take
And hold for ever, as priceless prize,
The fork that once toasted King Alfred's cake,
Or the irons that put out Prince Arthur's eyes,—
The cup that was drain'd in Fair Rosamond's bow'r,
Or the pillow that smother'd the lads in the Tow'r!

(I may state at once I possess all these,
And a good many more that I need not name,
And that man indeed must be hard to please
Who should cast aspersions upon the same,
Or doubt the authentic historical worth
Of anything else I may chance to unearth!)

But to-day, not much of a “find” was there;
Just a shred from the Field of the Cloth of Gold,
And a wisp of the young Pretender's hair,
And a portrait of Charles the First (when old),
And a scrap of the great Napoleon's heart,
(I believe that a rat ate the larger part).

But I got them cheap, so I turn'd about
And took my way to the low street-door,
Whilst the fresh-stirr'd memories elbow'd out
The ghosts that were haunting my heart before,
When, ere ever I reach'd the door of the shop,
The voice of my Jew-friend bade me stop.

“Here's the very thing! I had nigh forgot! . . .
Just as good as new, in a splendid frame,
And so like real that I call him ‘Spot,’
As one never can know his proper name.”
And he took from a shelf in a secret place
A little stuff'd dog in a cracked glass case.

“You're so fond of dogs, and I make no doubt
That this one has been a regular pet,—
There's a stain on his collar that won't come out,
But the bell's real silver, and tinkles yet.
And then look at the sense in his head and his face;
Why, he's just like Shakespeare in Hamilton Place!

“And observe the fire that he's got in his eyes!
And they're both of a most expensive make—
At the Crystal Palace he'd win a prize
For his eyes alone, and he'd ‘take the cake’
From all the rest! You may mark my word
He's an animal fit to belong to a lord!

“. . . His hair comes off?. . . Why, of course it do!. . .
And so would yours in a place like this!
But just you take him and comb him through,
And pat him, and pet him, and give him a kiss;
And he'll grow in beauty ever so much,
And get quite life-like under your touch!”

So he rattled on: “See his tail,—that pert! . . .
He's the prettiest creature you ever saw,
Worth his weight in gold, and as cheap as dirt;
And look at the turn of that right-hand paw,
Held out so natural,—ready to shake,—
He's been somebody's darling and no mistake!

“And he's one as any one ought to afford,
For he pays no tax, and he eats no stew;
And you see he's been stuff'd by Mr. Ward,
Who charged twenty pound, if he charged a sou;
Yet, with all his beauty and all his sense,
You can have him now for eighteenpence!”

Thus spoke my friend, nor would be denied,
So I bought that dog, and I brought him here;
As a capital cure for the sin of pride,
I shall brush and pepper him twice a year,
Whilst I muse on the ups and downs that may
Come to somebody's darling every day.

“Somebody's darling and no mistake!”
(The old Jew's accents ring in my ear,)
And all of “a most expensive make”
(A joyous life that was bright and dear!).
To think that what once possess'd beauty and sense
Should go for so little as eighteenpence!

IN A TORTURE-CHAMBER

(Seville, 1500)

The Chief Inquisitor speaks:—

“. . . So you were caught red-handed in the fact! . . .
You, one of Dona Inez' pious house,
Serving her Saintliness as handmaiden,
Are seen, by moonlight, stealing out of doors,
What time all honest women are abed,
Are watch'd by Dona Inez' only son
(Himself abroad upon some godly quest),
And follow'd,—Whither? . . . To a cursèd den
Down in the Calle de la Moreria,
Where herd the votaries of false Mahound,
Intent on hellish orgies, heralding
Their prophet's birthday. Wherein having bode
The live-long night, at peep of early dawn

Behold you once more threading through the town,
Bound for the pious home wherefrom you came,
Which, entering, by a purloinèd key,
You lie you down and simulate sound sleep,
Then rise, and do your service, ignorant
That any wotted of your evil ways.
But Retribution, with unfailing feet,
Follows on impious deeds! Your lady's son,
After much goodly precept and wise talk,
Meant to allure your spirit back to God,
Seeing the evil rooted, and your soul
In nightly peril through your own misdeeds,
Informs the Holy Office of your crime,
In which I, humble servant of the Lord,
Hold high authority; when, having pass'd
Through the appointed Interrogatory
(Whereof the purpose is, to move the mind
And loose the flood-gates of veracious speech
By wholesome maceration of the flesh),
How do you seek to palliate your sin? . . .

By that which aggravates the first offence
And adds a slander to your heresy!
(You, that are barely fifteen years of age,
To show such contumacy!)—You declare
That your own mother, when you were a babe,
Deserted by her paramour, your sire,
Enter'd the service of a wealthy Moor,
Who, presently, enamoured of her charms,
Added her to the company of slaves
He call'd his wives. That this same wealthy Moor
Had you instructed in whate'er you know,
Was second father to you, in a word,
And used you tenderly. That, some time since,
Your mother lying at the point of death,
He privily inform'd you of her state,
She calling out to see you once again,
Whereon,—not many times, as is averred,
But only once, and this through filial love,—
You sought her side, and had her blessing thus,
Wherein is aggravation of offence

For divers reasons: First, that, being bound
To pious Dona Inez of pure fame,
You broke the promise made her, and in stealth
Sought out your mother that was twice accurst
In that her life of infamy was crown'd
By one which through so foul association
Brought her the wherewithal to live at ease;
And, secondly, that, having done this deed,
You neither made confession of the same,
Sought absolution, nor display'd remorse,
Nor hearken'd to the pious exhortations
Your master utter'd of his good intent.
And, furthermore, what say you in defence,
And what in accusation? . . . That this youth,
Vincenzio, good Dona Inez' son,
Has tried to lead you into evil ways,
Importuned you with proffers of his love,
Which, being scorn'd, he straightway forms a plan
To compass your destruction! Some, no doubt,
Had credited your tale, and set your word

(You, base-born daughter of a courtesan!)
Against an honest man's; but not so I,
Who know right well (not being born a priest)
What manners gallant gentlemen assume
To serving-wenches that are fair of face!
A jesting word, a compliment, maybe,
So far, so good! . . . Vincenzio himself
Denies not this; but you, in arrant spite
And desperation, knowing yourself known,
Seek victims for your malice! . . . Mark me, girl,
This sland'rous falsehood works you direr ill
Than any of your previous misdeeds!
E'en as the scorpion, ring'd about with flame,
Directs its venom'd sting upon itself,
So do your words recoil upon your head! . . .
Then, what is this that furthermore you say
Of seeking to convert your mother's mind,
And bring her back, when on her dying-bed,
To the one only true and living Faith
Wherefrom (you likewise say) she bade you mark

She never had departed, which, to prove,
She drew from off her neck and hung on yours
A jewell'd cross, your caitiff father's gift,
Which, even now, is hidden in your breast? . . .
‘Jewell'd’? . . . Why, know you not that all your goods,—
Those silver pins, the coral in your ears,—
Whate'er you own'd, is now your own no more,
But confiscate, and forfeit, till we prove
(If prove we may!) you clear of all offence? . . .
Give me the cross! . . . Nay, girl! no holding back!
The Holy Office may not be defied! . . .
Mother of God! What do mine eyes behold! . . .
These nine square table-rubies, and the pearl
That, like a tear-drop, hangs about the base! . . .
Your father's gift? . . . Given your mother, when?
Before your birth,—some sixteen years ago?
You are sixteen, or near it? God in heaven! . . .
That is your proper age; you have not lied?
Yes! Hers the lips, the chin, the rippling hair;

But whose the eyes that seem to hurl defiance
Even at me? Methinks I know them too! . . .
Ah, Caterina! . . . (Said you not her name
Was Caterina?)

. . . Nay, child, take it back!
My fingers shake with ague,—it may fall!
Your silver hair-pins and your coral drops—
I do not want them,—you may keep them too!
Beneath this great carved Justice, with her sword
And scales, and bandaged eyes, I cannot find
You wholly guilty in the sight of God;
This is a first offence,—you, but fifteen! . . .
Now see old Dona Inez use you well;
If not, redress is handy. . . . As for him,
Her son Vincenzio, with his milksop face,
It were an easy matter to contrive
His prompt translation to a better sphere.
Yet, should he promise marriage, it were wise,
Knowing him Dona Inez' only child,
And she so well endow'd with worldly goods.

Nay! we can force him to make this amends
For finger-screw and foot-rack! . . . Mark my words,
He shall be forced! . . . Be, like the serpent, wise;
Enwind this foolish fellow in your toils,
Remembering, if evil come of it,
I stand your friend, through good report and ill!
He shall not serve you as your father served
Poor Caterina! . . . (who, you say, is dead,
Having about her comforts to the last? . . .
Died too, you tell me, in the one true Faith? . . .
God has dealt mercifully! . . .)

. . . All my limbs
Shake as with palsy! This accursèd crypt,
Whose walls, in parching summer, reek with damp,
Strikes ice into the marrow of my bones
And makes me fully feel my fifty years! . . .
(So, she is dead! She did not beg or starve. . . .
—Died in her bed, and in the one true Faith! . . .
God has dealt graciously with me, His servant!)
Bless you, my daughter! Go, and sin no more!”

THE RED EARL

“The heron fishes in the reeds,
The sun is sinking low,
The lake, between its tangled weeds,
Reflects a lurid glow;

“The rooks, above the hoary elms,
Go circling round and round;
Soon may I leave these gloomy realms
And tread familiar ground,

“Where those who late frequent the road
Will pale at sight of me,
Whilst owl, and bat, and creeping toad
Shall bear me company,

“To those old grey ancestral halls,
The cradle of my race,
Upon whose oaken-panell'd walls
My portrait had its place,

“Along with many a knight and dame
In raiment rich and rare;
But lo! when yesterday I came,
Both walls and floors were bare;

“The arras hangings were pull'd down,
The Persian rugs uptorn;
My precious tomes had gone to town
Upon that very morn.

“Where were the tables and the chairs?
The broider'd beds of State?
My ivories and ancient wares?
My gold and silver plate? . . .

“My Grecian statues, where were they?
My old Italian busts?
The armour, that, in many a fray,
Had borne such dints and thrusts?

“All, all was desolate and bare;
Food, fuel, there was none,—
The rats and mice had grown so spare
I scarce could see them run.

“I glided here, I glided there,
As 'tis my wont to glide,
When, by-and-by, I found a pair
Were sitting side by side.

“Henchman and serving-maid were they,
They sipp'd some steaming brew;
Though now grown palsied, bent, and grey,
Their lineaments I knew.

“There, crouching by the hearth-stone, low,
Where burnt a feeble flame,
In tearful tones they told of how
All this misfortune came;

“Of failing banks and falling stocks,
Untoward droughts and rains,
Of unproductive farms and flocks,
Broad lands that brought no gains;

“Of lavish folly, sinful waste,
In one that bore my name;
Then dice and debts, and trust misplaced,
And infamy and shame;

“Then came to pass, to men's dismay,
A new succession tax;
‘'Tis the last straw’ (I heard them say)
‘That breaks the camels' backs!’

“They wept anew, and wrung their hands,
My grandson died in jail;
His boy had fled to foreign lands,
The place was all for sale.

“The peacock-yews were lying prone
Among the garden-plots,
Whence plant and flow'r alike were gone,
The Park was sold in lots.

“Amongst the elms and hoary oaks,
From dawn to setting sun,
You heard the lusty woodman's strokes
Whose task would soon be done.

“The ancient henchman beat his breast,
His looks were full of woe—
‘'Tis time we follow'd with the rest;
We and the rooks must go!’

“‘Alack!’ then sigh'd that ancient dame,
‘That I should live to see
The fouling of so proud a name;
Alack! and woe is me!’

“I glided in as still as Death,
As 'tis my wont to glide;
They only felt an icy breath
And shiver'd as they sighed—

“(Since all had gone so much amiss
That none might spare or save,)
‘If the Red Earl could know of this
He'd rise from out his grave!’”

AFTER READING SOME LINES BY A POET ACCUSED OF OBSCURITY

I read what a great poet wrote of yore,
Read and re-read, nor wholly understood
His hidden thought, yet, as sap lurks in wood
Or jewel in a mountain's rugged core,
Or fly in amber, knew each sentence bore
Some shrouded thing, which, whether bad or good,
Might be discover'd, in all likelihood,
Did I but probe and puzzle more and more.

Now, with how proud and jubilant a cry,
After long patient groping in the dark,
Know I my earnest effort duly crown'd!

Lo! through its clouded amber looms the fly,
The vital essence flows beneath the bark,
The jewel sparkles, delved from under-ground!

AH-CHING

One whom I knew, and who had pass'd his youth
Amongst Celestials, vouching for its truth,
Told me this story, which I give you here;
He paid Ah-Ching some thirty pounds a year
As cook and housekeeper, who did his best
To satisfy his master's just behest.
Though somewhat portly and accounted sage,
Ah-Ching display'd no outward signs of age,
Was call'd “the Boy,” and, ever spruce and keen,
Scrubbed at his pots and kept his kettles clean,
Active and “merry as a marriage bell;”
So, for a while, all went supremely well.
But, one fine day, at pipe of early bird,
Sounds of discordant chattering were heard,

Banging of doors and clattering of clogs,
Mingled with barking of the household dogs.
Then, when my friend uprose, and, looking out,
Strove to discover what 'twas all about,
Behold, a crowd of pig-tails in a row,
Ranged by Ah-Ching outside the bungalow,
Waiting to see the master. “Who are these?” . . .
Whereon Ah-Ching (only he spoke Chinese)
Made answer thus: “These are my next-of-kin,
My father's relatives;” then, with a grin,
“They come to bear me hence before I die—
My brother's son, Ah-Foo, will tell you why.”
On this Ah-Foo advanced: “You see,” he said,
“Where we to wait until Ah-Ching was dead,
'Twould come so very hard upon us all
To bear the outlay of his funeral.
Perhaps you know not what we most desire
Is, to repose in peace, when we expire,
Beside the other members of our race
Within our own ancestral burial-place.

Now, as it happens, where our kindred lie
Is miles away, upon the Wi-hai-wi.
Ah-Ching is getting on,—past sixty-five;
'Twere most important he should go alive,
And travel, thus, at less expensive rate
Than if convey'd as parcel, charged by weight.
He feels this strongly, so to-day we come
To bear him, living, to his final home,
Where, just without the wall which fences in
The place of tombs pertaining to our kin,
He can, with other patient souls, await
What cannot fail, ere long, to be his fate.
Pay us his wages, which shall go to swell
His list of comforts at his last hotel.
This time's convenient to us; he must go!”
Ah-Ching smiled blandly: “It is even so!”
In vain remonstrance; with his bundles made
Ah-Ching departed, not one whit dismay'd:
“I weigh quite sixteen stone,” he laugh'd; “'Tis clear
If they had waited I had cost them dear!”

Years pass'd away, and then, I know not why,
My friend moved northward, near the Wi-hai-wi,
When, being of a most inquiring mind,
He set himself industriously to find
Ah-Ching's last resting-place, if but to look
Upon the tombstone of his former cook.
His patience was rewarded, but this pain
Spared to his heart: he saw Ah-Ching again,
Grown somewhat stouter (for, as now his weight
No longer influenced his future fate,
What need to stint?); he drove a thriving trade,
And even there, in sight of pick and spade
Stuck in the quicklime heap outside the gate
Which barr'd him still from sharing the estate
Apportion'd to his sleeping kith and kin,
Had married a new wife, and kept an inn,
Where other pilgrims, on like errand bound,
Could cat and drink whilst waiting above ground,
And then, a placid countenance to keep,
Puff at the pipe which yields the “poppied sleep”

And gives a foretaste of that perfect rest
Which waits them in some few short years at best.

My friend laugh'd gaily as he told his tale,—
It seem'd so strange that, just without the pale
Dividing quick from dead, this man should dwell,
Take him a wife, and set up an hotel,
Where those condemned, as he was, did not shrink
From taking pleasure in their meat and drink
Amidst such grim reminders of the end.
“It shows their stolid nature,” said my friend.
“Yet what” (I asked him) “can the diff'rence be
Between these poor Chinese and you and me,
Who, likewise, for a while, without the gate
Of Death's dark citadel are doom'd to wait,
And who should strive, with calm, contented mind,
To make the best of all the good we find?
Surely this is the wisdom of the wise!”
“I see” (laugh'd he) “you wish to moralise!”

AT CHRISTIE'S

They scowl and simper here in rows,
Or seem to look with pleading eyes
Upon the crowd that comes and goes,
And talks and stares, and bids and buys;

Brave knights and squires, and belted earls,
In boots and spurs, and coats-of-mail;
And ladies fair, in lace and pearls,
And ruff, and coiff, and farthingale.

The founders of a noble race,
Whose blood in righteous cause was shed,
Find here a brief abiding-place,
Exiled and disinherited.

Kinsman and kinswoman are they,
Brother and sister, bride and groom,
All waiting here in brave array
To meet their unexpected doom;

For they that did so long abide
Beneath one roof, by right of birth,
Must now dissever and divide,
And be as wand'rers on the earth.

In what hot haste they came to town
From their long sojourn in the shires!
And as they sped by dale and down,
And flash'd past rivers, fields, and spires,

I wonder, did they, in amaze
At such swift progress, call to mind
Those good old jog-trot pillion-days
That seem to lie so far behind?

And (for they all have human eyes
That from these walls look sadly down)
I wonder, did they realise
The purport of this trip to town?

Or merely deem some lucky chance
Released them from their dull abode,
And sent them forth to dine and dance,
And see the plays, and learn the mode?

In mouldy vault, 'neath sculptured tomb,
They sleep who bore these forms in life,
Kinsman and comrade, bride and groom,
Brother and sister, man and wife.

But since their bones are brown and bare,
And worms have spun across their eyes,
And holland sarks are what they wear
In lieu of all these braveries,

And since they turn not in their graves
For very horror and dismay,
To see themselves, like negro slaves,
Set up for auction here to-day,

Whilst these, their sad-eyed portraits, gaze
With looks of passionate appeal,
As though regretful of the days
When arm could smite and heart could feel,

I hold these for the truer men,
More keen of soul, more clear of sight,
In closer touch with human ken
Of what is wrong and what is right.

“MEN WERE DECEIVERS EVER”

Ah, here it is! “Greetings at Christmas-time,”
And “I wish you a Happy New Year,”
With a bunch of mistletoe frosted with rime,
And a Cupid armed with a spear;

And a verse underneath about “hearts and darts,”
And the love that never can die,
And of how a poor exile in foreign parts
Longs e'en for an English sky.

Now to date it, and seal it, and send to post,
With a guilty, feverish speed,
And a foolish dread lest a shuddering ghost
Should rise and denounce my deed.

Nay! back to your bed in the cold churchyard!
And she?—she will never know
That I send her a second-hand Christmas card
That came to me years ago!

THE TRUE STORY OF PARSON WRIGHT (OPTIMIST)

As told by Mrs. Betsy Birch (Pessimist)

“My name, kind Sir, is Betsy Birch,
I am a poor old body now,
Dependent on my grandson Bill;
But, thank the Lord! I'm hearty still,
And mostly pass my time in church
(Though soon I'll rest outside, I trow!).

“For 'tis my place to clean and air,
Shake all the hassocks, dust the pews,
Wage war on spiders' web and moth,
See to the plate and altar-cloth,
And mark the place of psalm and pray'r
In those great books the parsons use.

“Sabbath and week-day, many a year,
I've hearken'd to God's Holy Word,
And ever since my early youth
Have known so well my Bible-truth
That e'en in dreams I seem to hear
The congregations praise the Lord;

“And this is why I can't make out
Why I should be a sinner still,
Unsettled-like, in soul and mind,
Who should be piously inclined,
Or have the heart to harbour doubt,
Who should bow meekly to God's will!

“But there's so much that's veil'd and mask'd,
To vex the spirit here below,
And though I've read the Holy Word
Since parsons pray'd for George the Third,
And sought for light, the things I ask'd,
Seem somehow still unanswer'd now!

“The Lord's so artful in His ways,
That is the worst! He has you here,
He has you there; you can't tell why! . . .
He sets a clam to trap you by
Just when you'd think to swell His praise
And lay a pound your path was clear!

“‘Do good,’ they say; but certain-sure
As e'er I strove with hand or purse
(I'm telling you a gospel-fact)
To do a kind or friendly act
To old, or young, or rich, or poor,
It brought about a special curse!

“Explain this, Mister, if you please?
And this: Why, if to evil ways
We chance to turn (the ‘old man's’ strong
At times!), we seem to get along,
Prosper and thrive, and live at ease,
And win the world's esteem and praise?

“To say the least, it's passing queer,
But my experience, I say!
Ask others; if they tell you true
You'll get the same old story too.
I often think what happen'd here
Just forty year ago, come May.

“I've seen the parsons come and go
As you may guess, in such a span
Of changing years, a life to some! . . .
I've seen them go, I've seen them come,
The old, the young, the ‘High,’ the ‘Low,’
The bachelor and married man,

“But never one like Parson Wright! . . .
(Yes; even then the artists came,
Like you, kind Sir, and never drew
None of those monuments that's new,
But good Sir Thomas and his dame
That's lying here in noseless plight,

“I'm sure I'd set their noses on,
Poor gentlefolks, if I were you,
And trim them up! . . .) Well, Parson Wright
He was descended from this knight,
The second son of old Sir John,
Who sold the Hall in 'twenty-two.

“I think I'm now the only one
That can remember him! You see
He's well-nigh perished out of mind;
So, if so be as you're inclined
To hear his story, said and done,
You'd better hearken unto me,

“Because I'm bound to tell you true,
Being so old! . . . (Yes, Sir, this rail
Has been restored. Our new Squire, there,
Who put the church in good repair,
Pull'd down the nasty rusty pale
And set up this, all gold and blue!)

“Well, there was once a witless maid
That kept the geese below the hill;—
So witless that she scarcely knew
The gander from the cock that crew,
Yet took she this for task and trade,
And none wish'd simple Janet ill.

“Down by the grassy water-meads
She drove the grey geese day by day,
And watch'd the moths with downy wings,
The frogs, and flies, and creeping things,
That croak and buzz amongst the reeds
By where the river wends its way.

“Gaffer and gammer used her well,
So bite or sop she did not lack,
And although orphan'd, crazed, and poor,
Her neighbours' bounty would ensure
A woollen shawl about her back
Before the early frosts befell.

“But though the worthy farmer said
That she might bide in barn or byre
What time the ev'ning winds blew chill,
She oft would wander to the hill,
And there would make her lonely bed
Amongst the fern beneath the briar.

“For days and nights she often stray'd,
Yet no one gave her thought or care;
Her ways, we knew, were not our ways,
And always, after sev'ral days,
Ere we had time to grow afraid,
We looked, and lo! poor Jane was there.

“Yet once it chanced in early Spring,
When bud and bloom were on the spray,
And all the birds began to pair,
When she had wandered, none knew where,
To morn succeeded evening,
And still she chose to stay away.

“After the welcome April rain
Came Summer, white with dust and glare;
Then Autumn, wild with storm and blast;
And then the Winter came and passed,
When many a good grey goose was slain
And roasted for our Christmas fare.

“But still the goose-girl came no more!
Good Farmer West he shook his head,
And some there were that did incline
To think the brownies of the mine
Had lured her to the mountain-core,
Whilst others feared she must be dead.

“Poor Janet! So the days went by
Till they had gone to make a year;—
A year and more, and now again
Fields are aglow with golden grain,
Unscathed as yet—upstanding high,
And harvest-time is drawing near.

“Then came the reapers, one by one,
And went to Farmer West for hire,
Because all knew his good repute;
For kindly both to man and brute
Was Farmer West, and worthy son
(As I can vouch) of worthy sire.

“A wretched, wan, dishevell'd thing
There was, that came amongst the rest;
Tatter'd and torn, and hungry-eyed;
‘'Tis crazy Jane!’ the farmer cried;
Then added, greatly marvelling,
‘And with a baby at her breast!’

“'Twas true enough; and, what was more,
The child was lusty, hale, and strong,
Whilst something queer about his eyes
Seem'd to bespeak him wondrous wise.
Then all of us were vexèd sore
To find out who had done her wrong.

“But Janet was so strange and dull,
Nothing she seem'd to understand;
Where she had been, by whom beguiled,
Who was the father of her child,
Or why she join'd the reaper-band;
Her mind was all so void and null!

“They fix'd on this one, then on that;
On drunken Dick that drove the wain,
On soldier-Jack, and crazy Dan
(To crazy maid a crazy man!),
Ned Carpenter, with paper hat,
And coupled them with crazy Jane.

“What should be done to all of these? . . .
Tar? feathers? horse-pond? stocks? or what? . . .
The village honour was at stake!
'Twere best to take a rope, and make
(And that as quickly as you please!)
A rare example of the lot!

“For Jane had been a comely lass
Though simple, red and hale with youth,—
And some there were that did incline
To blame the brownies of the mine; . . .
But let such foolish fancies pass!
(Though oft they lead us nigh the truth!)

“Well, all our gossips were astir
To mete out justice for the wrong;
And e'en poor Jane, who scarcely knew
The gander from the cock that crew,
They would have punish'd even her,
Their indignation waxed so strong.

“Then up and rose good Parson Wright,
Who seem'd as wise as wise could be
(A better man did never walk!)—
‘Now what is all this foolish talk,
This goose-cackle from noon to night,
This wagging heads and chins?’ says he.

“‘Poor Jane has hardly strength to crawl;
Give Christian help. What's done is done!
God moves in a mysterious way:
This boy may prove her prop and stay,
And though you'd dub him son of all,
I'd rather deem him son of none,

“‘But some wise miracle of God,
Such as He wrought in ancient days,
What time the widow's son awoke,
And Balaam's ass found voice and spoke,
And blossoms bloom'd from Aaron's rod
So that all men might sound His praise;

“‘And since I have nor kith or kin,
Or wife or child, throughout the land,
And yet (for which I thank the Lord!)
The wherewithal to well afford
To take a needy stranger in,
On this poor lad I'll try my hand;

“‘And as you wot I'm one of those
(Since you yourselves have told me so)
That, on my patch of garden-square,
Can make a broomstick branch and bear—
And turn a cabbage to a rose—
So much of garden-craft I know,—

“‘Who shall deny what wonder now
May not be wrought by skill and care?
And, should he grow a proper man,
Then drunken Dick, and crazy Dan,
And Soldier-Jack, and Ned, I trow,
In his success shall have a share.

“‘Whilst if my human specimen
To flourish and improve shall fail,
Why, then,’ says he, ‘we may incline
To blame the brownies of the mine!’
Whereat all laugh'd outright, and then
He stood them each a pint of ale.

“Ah! he was of the good old sort
Of country clergymen, I ween!—
A gentleman, from hat to boot,
Who always wore a Sunday suit,
And loved his after-dinner port,
And wore his whiskers shaven clean!

“There's few left like him now, methinks! . . .
And many is the time I feel
If, please the Lord, he could but rise,
How he would stand and rub his eyes
To see our parson stride his wheel
And knock the balls about the links!

“Well, years went by, poor Janet died,
(The wisest thing she could have done!);
The parson took the little lad,
And he was better fed and clad,
And had more book-learning, beside,
Than many a downright parson's son.

“They taught him this, and that, and more,—
He almost read before he ran,
And grew so wise with what he read!
You should have then seen Jack and Ned,
And drunken Dick, and crazy Dan,
And how they wink'd their eyes and swore!

“They teach him Latin, Greek, and French,
Each day more learnèd he becomes;
He reads the stars, the sun, the moon—
He'll be a perfect wonder soon!
And still upon the ale-house bench
The gossips wink and spread their thumbs!

“But, now, a change! Who's broken in
And stol'n the good old farmer's pears?
‘All very fine to call it fun!’
And now again he's ‘son of none’—
The foundling, without kith or kin,
No kith or kin, at least, of theirs!

“‘A boyish freak!’ says Parson Wright,
‘A dash of mischief bodes no ill!
Scarce man alive, to speak the truth,
But robbed an orchard in his youth;
You wouldn't have him bookworm quite,
Or “Molly Milksop,” tamer still?

“‘But take these ribstones, Master West,
With two-pound-ten for damage done;
Why, bless my soul!’ (the parson said),
‘When one considers how he's bred,
The boy's a miracle! At best
What could we hope from Janet's son?’

“So years go by; he grows apace;
Well favour'd, too, as all allow;
He takes the prizes in the school
(Whose mother was the village fool!),
He wins the cups at match and race,
His praise, anew, is sounding now!

“‘To do one's duty to a lad—
A lad like this!’ says Parson Wright
(I mark'd his words came sad and slow)—
‘It needs must make the money go!
To stint him now would be too bad,
Just as he's grown a shining light!’

“To college next, with cap and gown,
A braver lad you never saw!
Bright cluster'd curls, a merry eye,
And standing over six foot high,
And now, at length, he goes to town
To see the world and learn the law.

“But Parson Wright to Farmer West
Has sold his orchard for a song,
(That sunny slope of Southern Down
Where Jerry-builders, come from town,
Have planted now that hornet's nest
Of cockney-folk, to do us wrong).

“Wonder on wonder! Chance on chance!
For now the youth is known to fame;
Our worthy parson glows with pride!
And far beyond our country-side,
In England, Scotland, Ireland, France,
The newspapers all print his name!

“'Twas now that quarrel came to pass
'Twixt crazy Dan and Soldier-Jack;—
Seeing he'd grown so wise a man,
The soldier twitted crazy Dan,
Who, having had an extra glass,
Starts up and stabs him in the back.

“They had been comrades many a year,
Through summer sun and winter frost! . . .
‘Well! Life's made up of white and black!’
(Says Parson Wright). ‘Poor Soldier-Jack!
Since I can stand him no more beer,
I'll bear his burial at my cost;

“‘And then’ (says he) ‘I'll do my best
To plead the cause of crazy Dan;
He's scarce responsible’ (says he),
‘And this came all along o' me!’
‘For all his worth’ (says Farmer West),
‘Parson's a very silly man!’

“Now our young gentleman in town
Has some fine lady woo'd and won;—
A lady fair, of name and rank,
With jewels, lands, and gold in bank.
'Twas then the scandal was begun
Which dragg'd our worthy parson down.

“It was my lord, as I've heard tell,
Up at the Hall, a Papist bred,
Who put the story first about;
Says he, ‘There is no room to doubt
This youth's paternity! As well
I might have doubts I wear my head!

“‘This lad’ (says he) ‘a peasant's son! . . .
‘That's too unlikely, Father White!’
(White was his bullet-headed priest).
‘I've never waver'd in the least;
The ‘son of all’! the ‘son of none’! . . .
Why, he's the son of Parson Wright!’

“White spread the tale. It grew apace.
Wright strove his anger to contain,
‘For I'm a man of peace’ (says he).
But, one fine morning, woe is me!
Parson and priest met face to face,
Hard by the turn, in Crab-Tree Lane.

“Then our good parson felt the blood
Go tingling to his fingers'-ends,
And at the Father he lets fly—
‘Take this, and this, Sir, for your lie!’ . . .
Meek as a lamb the Father stood,
And some do say they parted friends,

“But Parson Wright was dish'd and done,
For Father White was black and blue;
The gentry all about the place
Call'd Parson Wright a true disgrace.
‘Well, since they say he is my son’
(Says he), ‘I know what I will do!

“‘I've now grown friendless, old, and poor;
He's coining money by the bin,
He's shared in all I had to give,
And now I haven't long to live
And he's so prosperous, I'm sure
He'll be too pleased to take me in!

“‘I'll sell my little all’ (says he),
‘Cut the whole lot, and start for town!’
The ‘son of all,’ the ‘son of none,’
Does he repay him what he's done? . . .
Not he! He quickly lets him see
He holds him for a country clown,

“So fine a gentleman he's grown
(The goose-girl's base-born brat, mark well!
Who got his brains the Lord knows how!).
Poor parson's heart's nigh broken now,
He goes upon his way alone,
But where he goes there's none can tell.

“He wanders forth with tott'ring feet,
He feels his strength and courage fail,
His spirit's well-nigh broke at last,
And ere three wretched nights have past
The watchmen find him in the street,
And hurry him away to jail.

“When next I saw good Parson Wright,
He lay upon a workhouse bed;
‘I've one friend left—poor Betsy Birch,
That acted clerk at Tipton Church;
And well I know that, if she might,
She'd come and close my eyes’ (he said).

“'Twas just a fortnight ere he died;
I did my best for him, be sure!
And ‘Betsy Birch’ (he used to say),
‘Satan and man have had their way;
Still, let His name be glorified
Whose mercy ever shall endure!

“‘I don't know why I've come to this;
‘You know’ (says he) ‘no more than me;
The Lord's seem'd wondrous hard, and yet
We mustn't go for to forget
He may have some design we miss,
Some purpose that I cannot see,

“‘So deep it's hid, so blind am I,
For all I strove to read it plain! . . .
Yet whilst I thought I had His praise,
I took such pleasure in my days,
That, if I had a second try
I'd be as big a fool again!

“‘For, mark you, that which gives me pride,
Here, lying on my dying-bed,
Is not the thought of moments glad
Such as we most of us have had;
Self-sacrifice, the joy denied,
'Tis that makes pleasant dreams!’ he said.

“‘Besides, all might have been much worse’
(Says he). ‘We're human, ev'ry one;
And once the Tempter tempts his best
There's few enough withstand the test!
This fellow might have been my son,
And that I'd count a crowning curse!’

“And so, with mind that conquer'd Doubt
In spite of all, poor parson dies
(The last of those old Tipton Wrights,
Descendants of this very knight's);
And when I'd helped to lay him out
And put the pennies on his eyes,

“You never saw a calmer face,
Or one that seem'd so well content!
By which, I take it, he's forgiven,
And if it's not the perfect heaven,
It's quite a decent sort of place
And peaceable, where'er he went!

“But all my faith has been at sea
Since I beheld that just man's fall,
And since it was his tender heart
That brought these ills about, in part,
For fear the same should chance to me,
I never do no good at all!

“(Not likely poor old Betsy Birch
Should have great store to lend or give,
Who, but for something, now and then,
From those few kindly gentlemen
As come to view or sketch the church,
Could scarcely gain enough to live!

“Still, gentle words and looks, a crust,
A drink of water—these I spared,—
But now, no fear! My heart's grown steel,
I've learnt it doesn't pay to feel;
In God and man I've lost my trust
Since I beheld how parson fared!)

“My father and my grandsire, too
(They have been took this many a year,
And scarce I know, now, where they lie,
That have no stone to mark them by,
But somewhere there, beneath the yew),
They always served the Lord with fear—

“And though they've lain so long in grave
(My father went in 'thirty-eight),
I mind their words:—‘You can't afford’
(They says) ‘to mortify the Lord!—
He'll give you better than you gave;
He hits out from the shoulder, straight!’

But when I hear them say in church
That from the Lord no secret's hid,
I feel there's nothing underhand
And that He's bound to understand
The reason why old Betsy Birch
Can't praise Him as her fathers did.

“And so, you see, all's just and fair
And feasible; and ev'ry night
I say, whilst calling in His name,
‘Lord, if I can't seem quite the same,
And if we're not the friends we were,
'Tis all along of Parson Wright.’”

“What, half-a-crown! Why, bless your heart,
You downright take my breath away! . . .
Well, well! 'Tis doubly welcome now,
You see, we've took to keep a cow,—
Bill's had a smash-up with the cart,
And this wet summer spoilt our hay.”

NOT E'EN THE TENDEREST HEART

“Not e'en the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh.” —
Keble, The Christian Year.

I sometimes dream a dream of you—
A dream wherefrom I wake in tears,—
In which I seem to wander through
Lone forest shades and frozen spheres,
Or chambers, stretching far to view,
Dim with the dust of bygone years.

And ever, ever, as I go,
I seek you—in the forest gloom,
In those chill ice-bound realms of snow,
In ev'ry empty echoing room,
Wherein the air strikes faint, as though
From flow'rs that wither on a tomb.

I seek you, but I find you not,
Although, to ev'ry quicken'd sense
A secret consciousness, begot
Of some mysterious influence,
Tells me you linger near the spot,
Or lately have departed thence,

Whilst all as surely comes the pain,
The pain that sharpens to despair,
Of knowing that my quest is vain,
That all is empty, void, and bare,
And that my spirit ne'er again
Can hope to find you anywhere.

I wake, and lo! 'twas but a dream!
Your much-loved presence gives the lie
To phantom fears which almost seem
More dread than stern reality;
And yet it is as though some gleam
Of light was shed to guide me by.

For, as when in that forest lone
I seek the one I love the most,
And find all trace of him is gone,
Or in those dreary realms of frost,
Or those dim halls, whence life has flown,
I wander lonely as a ghost—

In this, the life of ev'ry day,
Your spirit oft eludes me too,
Leaving me lonely by the way
Or fleeing e'en as I pursue;
Whilst even in your arms, I may
Not clasp that which is really you;

A self-created self, whose mind
Should lead and follow, brave and bear,
Know how to conquer and be kind,
To rule and yield, condemn and spare,
And in my soul must read behind
All feigning, what is written there.

Yet can the subtlest human brain
Dependent on the throb and thrill
Of one poor heart, that never twain
Can come to be, for good or ill,
Be ever sure to ascertain
The working of another will?

So something in my life is vain,
And something in my dream is true;
And something, to my loss and pain,
In you there is, which is not you;
And this to you could but be plain
If we were one that now are two!

THE SIREN

“My voice is sweeter than the lute,
My form is passing fair,
My lips are like the scarlet fruit
The coral branches bear.

“My teeth are whiter than the pearls
Men seek beneath the brine,
And when I shake my dripping curls
Far brighter jewels shine;

“My russet curls, whose golden tips
Half hide a breast that swells
As pink and pearly as the lips
That laugh on spike-back'd shells;

“My eyes reflect the glimmer cast
When seas lie calm and deep,
Where, under rotting spar and mast,
The silent sailors sleep.

“Oft have I dragged them from the sands,—
They cannot make demur,—
And pull'd the gold rings from their hands:
They neither speak nor stir,

“So stark they lie! Yet one, alone,
Awoke to find me fair,—
(This harp is made of his breast-bone,
Its strings were once his hair!)

“A merry moon we pass'd, and more,
And then upon him came
Some wanton mem'ry of the shore,
He breathed a woman's name;

“Wherefore I made him sleep again,
So sound, he could not stir;
But first I suck'd his heart and brain,
Lest he should dream of her.

“Before he slept he spake strange words;
These were the words he said:
‘Your song is blither than the birds’,
Your lips are ripe and red,

“‘Your breast is white, your eyes are blue,
Yet you cannot understand,
Or love your love as the maidens do
That live upon the land.’

“So, since, whene'er the sun is low,
And length'ning shadows fall,
And straying lovers come and go
Along the grey sea-wall,

“Amongst the rocks I crouch me down
To hear what they may say,
And learn this thing I have not known—
To love the land-girls' way!

“But oft I hear them moan and sigh,
And often weep for woe;
The summer nights are going by,
Yet this is all I know!

“So, mine must be the wiser way,
For all my sweetheart said!
I made far merrier than they
The moon that I was wed!

“And he was mine,—my very own!
I clasp'd him firm and fair! . . .
(This harp is made of his breast-bone,
Its strings were once his hair!)”

TO “NIKO”

(“A crush-nosed, human-hearted dog.”) —Browning.

You came to me in sorrow, when my mind
Dwelt only on Hope's cruel overthrow;—
All uninvited, through a land of snow,
Leaving your painted paper home behind;
You journey'd hither, from the East, to find
Your place amongst us, who were plunged in woe,
Speaking a language that you did not know,
Though welcome-sounding words, and seeming kind.
Out of a bright fantastic realm you beam'd,
And by some pow'r superior to man's,
From that quaint tea-tray world of flow'rs and fans,
Brought sunshine back to ours. With head in air,
And tufted tail, and Kylin-mouth, you seem'd
To laugh at death, and life again grew fair!

NIKO'S FAITH

Niko has perfect faith; he understands
No haunting, sceptic doubts, nor does he need
The sad-eyed mystic's penitential creed
Of Sin and Retribution, which demands
Such shrift and pray'r; and even tho' his sands
Stream thro' so strait a glass, he does not heed
The grisly form bestriding the pale steed;
Guest of his gods, and feeding from their hands!

So, little tyrant of the tripping feet!
Yours is the better part, that, on the brink
Of Death's dark mystery, need never sigh
For joys o'er past, but deeming life all sweet
And love eternal, only eat and drink
And merry-make, and know not you must die!

ILLUSION

My little dog, who loves not solitude,
When living friends forsake him, sits and waits
By the tall clock that throbs and palpitates
Whereof the face bears some similitude
To human face, in kind complacent mood.
There waits he patiently; the clock vibrates,
A sympathetic tremor thrills the weights,
It strikes! . . . He feels consoled and understood.
So, and by some such mere automaton
Have I, in lonely moments, been deceived
With hollow outward show and false pretence;
The human-seeming heart went ticking on,
A voice came forth, and I in truth believed
A clock-work thing possess'd both soul and sense.

IN AUTUMN

Dearest, the winds are chill, the ways are wet,
The golden grain is gather'd in the sheaf,
And, like a wounded bird, the first dead leaf
Falls at our feet, but seems to quiver yet
As with a pang of passionate regret
For days so brief.

Nay, Time, our master, taketh no denial
Whether our skies smile fair, or weep for grief:
Yet as his warning shadow gains relief
When gayest sunshine glistens on the dial,
So brightest days outspeed our days of trial,
Though both are brief!

WAITING FOR SPRING

The sun of summer has shed his rays,
The leaves of summer that danced on the tree,
As brave as the banners of fairy kings
Beneath the flutter of birds' light wings,
Lie low with the whisp'ring meadow-grasses
That ebb and flow, as the West wind passes,
Like the waves of a flower-strewn sea;
And the glory and gladness of many things
Are dead with the days.

For this is the season of berry and burr,
When seed-pods rustle amongst the broom,
And sad grows the heart of the wayfarer
Overtaken by twilight gloom,

As he waits for God's guiding stars to shine
When all the sun-glow has died from the river.
And sad in my breast is this heart of mine
As I wait for the spirit of Spring to stir
The spark that will kindle the crocus-bloom
Set over the heart that is still'd for ever.

TO MY HEART

Oh, heart of mine! why lookest thou beyond?
In what delusion fond,
What castle-builder's unavailing dream,
Ling'rest thou still? The universal scheme,—
The throbbing-space allotted to thy sires,
Is it too narrow for thy vain desires? . . .
See, Youth is over-past; the tripping feet
Tread now demurely; by the garden-seat
New lovers linger, under orchard-boughs;—
The same old vows,
Spoken by other lips, in other ears,
The maiden's blush, the youth's ingenuous fears,
Revive anew with each succeeding spring,
But, unto thee, no fresh awakening

Comes with the seasons! Nay, thou knowest well
The ultimate decay of husk and shell
Whence the full summer-ripen'd grain is shed
Must be thy doom, yet still unquieted,
Thou, unregenerate, misguided heart,
Wouldst have thy part
With summer-time, and love, and wak'ning song,
And all that doth to joyous youth belong,
Regardless of the dark'ning of thy day!
Not in the fray,
In martial combat, or in lover's strife
Hast thou thy life,
But thou canst take thy place, in modest wise,
By Life's obscurer thoroughfare, which lies
Beyond the gardens of the golden fruit.
There, with those mute
And pulseless things, that, without pow'r of speech,
Can warn and teach,
Have thou thy part, and, even as a book,
Wherein, if young impassion'd lovers look,

They straightway learn new wisdom; or a tune
Play'd in sweet bowers garlanded by June,
Which lives again, long after summer's close,
At sight of the still'd lute wherefrom it rose,
So, in thine isolation, mayst thou yet
Earn grateful recollection and regret,
With tribute of dried flow'r, or faded bow;
Since hearts that know,
Hearts that have drain'd the bitter and the sweet,
Have empire over those that break and beat,
So mayst thou sit upon the Judgment-Seat
And have dominion! . . . . .