Ernest :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ernest

The Rule of Right. Second Edition [by Capel Lofft]

Lofft, Capel (1806-1873)

[section]

ERNEST:

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

ERNEST:

THE RULE OF RIGHT.

INTRODUCTION.

I

Poesy, thou wert once the true soul-king—
Glowing with godly aims and energies;
The spirits' inmost spirit, wakening
Man's dull heartstrings to heavenly harmonies;
Cheering what else were cold, and quickening
Faintness with the warm blood of enterprise;
They told me thou wert lofty, good and free;
And truly I believed, and soothly worshipped thee.

II

And the weird charactery thou hast writ,
And all the soul of thy aspiring song
I took it to my heart and cherished it,
Studying deep, and meditating long.
Alas! the weakness of unworldly wit!
The fond believer's faith! Thy fairy throng
Belie the Truth, and are not what they seem—
I woke, and they were fled—a fair fantastic dream.

III

And there I stood, like the lone Laplander,
When once his Northern glamouring lights are gone—
Shuddering at the aspect, cold and drear,
Of the unlovely land he looks upon—
Yes—thou too hast a flame such as might cheer
With light and warmth earth's gloomiest region:
Virtue most gracious, might Electrical—
But in wild lightning gleams still dost thou spend it all.

IV

What! was thy childhood manlier than is
Thy full and manlike age? There was a time,
(Alas! how distant and dim-seen from this)
When he, the loving high-souled bard sublime
Made of thy breathings a harmonial bliss,
Creating order from a waste of crime;
And then thy spirit was the breath of life
To man's society; composing it from strife,

V

Charming the soul of froward savageness
To civil union and fair ordinance.
Such in old Time thou wert, and now no less
If thy good grace were in good governance;
If only thy true drift thou wouldst redress
From idle aims and silly dalliance:
From their brain-sickly fond imaginings
Who call thy glories down on conquerors and kings.

VI

And Oh! as many such have prayed to thee,
And thou hast condescended to their prayer;
So hear me now, thy latest votary,
And rise with me to realms of purer air:
And shed thy lustre on the majesty
Of a great Hero, great beyond compare;
The sovereign people—arise—redress his wrong—
Worthiest, tho' yet unsung—of thy heroic song.

VII

But wherefore rake the rotten historic heap
To find a soul? their glory doth but shine
Foully, as charnel filth; no—let them sleep
In darkness, only take them not for thine—
'Tis from another fount, holy and deep,
Thou must draw forth thy effluence divine;
Nor look for life among the dead, who then
When living, cared nor did aught for their fellow-men;

VIII

And how shall good spring from their memories?
Oh no! but we must take another aim
Unto another end: 'Tis from the skies
Thou shalt achieve an everlasting flame
That fable old truly to realize.
And with a fiery spirit shalt thou frame
To wondrous energy man's loutish clay—
And spread the Truth abroad till its dawn grow to day.

IX

E'en as God erst of His Almighty will
Breathed thro' His prophets the Poetic fire;
Be thou the handmaid of Religion still,
And flash a holy lightning from thy lyre:
So thy high destiny thou shalt fulfil—
For therefore with thy love doth God inspire
Each state of man, savage and skilled, that so
Uprising with thy wings, to greatness he may grow.

X

Yes, Poesy, I know thee, and thou art
Faith's harbinger, thy quickening rays unrol:
The self-wrapt blossom, the hard natural heart,
Swelling it to a spiritual soul—
Ah, wherefore are ye two so long apart?
But now, e'en now at last into one whole
Be blent each wild poetic melody,
Full streaming in a deep religious harmony.

XI

Making one Faith of many phantasies,
Of many flaunting colors one true light—
One soul of many sensibilities,
One high-throned reason to rule all aright.
That peace and joy may crown man's destinies,
And glory be to God on Heaven's height:
A righteous consummation—hence along
Fair Poesy, and breathe thy spirit thro' my song.

BOOK I.

The storm is in the sky—drear is the night—
Distinction lost in darkness—starless all
Heaven and earth all gloom—dismal the air—
The wild winds wolf-like howling:—Ruin is rife
Havock and blinding uproar—Woe to thee,
Thou lonely wayfarer, in such a time—
A dreary time—forward—bestir thee—else doubt
Cowers darkling, and then sinks in deepest slough
Despondent—for not only is outward sense
Lost 'neath the dark night-pall—but e'en the heart
Steeped in the like sad shadows, is subdued
To the gloom surrounding it. Then shrinks the spirit,
Like a chill fog, back to its fen. On slumps
The tramper, with storm-blinded downcast eye,
Cumbered, not clad, with heavy rain-soaked clothes;
And as he turns his dripping head askance,
Looking for comfort where no comfort is,
E'en in the void and waste of wretchedness—
And feels himself alone, where save himself
None feels beside; unkindly all! then each
Stock and each stone he envies, for they feel
Nothing—“Would I were stubborn senseless too—
Weather and rough roads, so I'd weary out
Your spite—better the clay that cleaves to the feet
Than the mired man that tramples it.” So fared
That night, a lonely wanderer thro' the waste,
Frederick Hess, weary and woe begone,
And struggling hard to overmatch the storm.

But grief and mirth are bastards of the soul
O'erweening slips of idleness—weeds—no more—

Self springing here and there from the rank mind:
The wanton overshoots of that self-same
Will, whose right offspring and determinate end,
When wedded to its true belonging faith,
Are calmness, strength, surety, and happiness.
Away then, both alike:—the master mind
But slights ye, and with forward will confounds
Your weakling fancies—that is Truth confest—
And he, the wanderer, truly felt it so—
“Henceforth do I forswear it—this child's mood.
For I've a feat to do, and that same feat
Must be done strongly, or fail utterly:
For whoso begins faintly so forebodes
His end—from that half life a whole weak death,
With blood curdled to whey. Ah—womanish!
Nay—woman is far 'bove such mannishness.
Howe'er—my heart—beat not so bashfully—
But rouse thee—why should'st not. I trust in God,
Then wherefore fear?

He spoke; and as good cheer
Is oftentimes the herald of good chance,
So was it then; for starlike, far in the gloom,
Suddenly showed itself a cottage light
Coyly, its gleam now twinkling and now lost—
Yet, tho' faint flickering, to his weary sense
Livelier than the sun when liveliest,
And welcomer: long had he looked for it:
But the long grievousness of that delay
Was lost in gladness of the sudden sight
When first he saw it—for it spoke to his heart
Of fond hearth-faces and home-happiness:
Dear always—dearest to his plight forlorn.
He peered within—there, by the fire, she sate
Plying her needle—watching her boys play—
Rocking to sleep her cradle's fretful cry,
Or listening to the Gospel, slowly spelt
By her girl, yet so sped home, no less, to the heart;
With each word weighed in due deliberate wise;
So best, for unlearned faith. Meantime the blaze
Fitfully streaming from the high-piled heap

Kist each coy nook—enriching the walls round
With golden gladness. The old oaken chest
Was softened to a smiling radiance;
Crackled the logs, and the huge chimney growled,
As some churl mastiff o'er his mumbled bones,
Its gruff complacence: the familiar cat
Purred at her ease, basking with dozy eyes,
In the homely sunshine—all is happy here,
As Happiness herself had lit the lamp
And shed her soul around—all but the wife—
Yet sure she, too, compassed with ambient bliss,
Should feel its boon, and render up her heart
To that soft influence—e'en as her mate
Takes sorrow home, and mirrors on his soul
The sad surrounding sky—reason 'twere thus—
Prompture there is and argument enough
In such suggestion. Nature wills it so:
But thought must ever play its thralling tricks
Over our sense: marring its gushy joys
With a considerate grief; looking away
From bliss before her spread, and wilfully
Forth hastening to meet each threaten'd ill.
Herein the witless soul, the very child,
Whose heart is open like a flower in the sun
To every wooing kindly influence.
Taking the milk of nature soothly, as a babe,
Is wiser than the wisdom of the sage,
Studious oft times, but to sad prejudice:
Self-crossed with care: subliming his sound food
To curious vapour, and thence distilling tears:
Curst Alchemy—e'en as that loving wife
Misdeemed the happiness that wooed her there
In wholesome certainty and shapes of sense,
And sent her moody speculation forth
To dwell in the dark with goblins; till, in words
Most woful, she gave utterance to her thoughts:—

Where art thou, my husband?
And did'st thou not say
That sure I should see thee
Ere fall of the day?

And the sun is far down,
And high up is the moon,
And thou wide asunder;
Oh, turn to me soon.
Go tell me, my Lucy,
Look forth in the air:
Is the storm yet abroad?
Is the night foul or fair?
“Alas! dearest mother,
I looked but e'en now;
And yet the night vapour
Is chill on my brow:
And I marked, when I told thee,
Thy sighs and thy pain:
And why should I make thee
Such sorrow again?”
Ah! well hast thou said, child,
And so had I thought;
But we who feel sorely
Bethink us of nought,
And thou, darling baby,
How sadly would show
My widow'd dark weeds
With thine, white as snow!
Oh! grief is not only
In coldness and hate—
Love, too, hath its anguish—
And haply as great.
But list there—ah, vainly,
Would I hearken or see;
My heart beats so wildly—
Oh, Heaven, it is he.

The latch was raised, he entered, and they met:
But who shall lay such load upon his pen
To write their meeting? Happy they who feel,
And all as irksome he who strives to tell.
And they are breathing warm, soul into soul,
Confused in melting joy; locked in embrace,
As though they held their pledge of happiness
By that dear clasp. Where is it fled, the woe
That late overwhelmed them? Nay, what heightens bliss,

Call it not woe—for our ills do but wait
Upon our blessings, as the Ethiop
Swart Eunuch on the Sultan's sunless fair,
Making Grace goodlier. Praised be Providence
For such distinction of our darksome life
With gleams of joy and light constellative.
E'en so that loving pair were then made glad
From out their gloom: there stood the man, fordone
With toil, rain-reeking: from her eager embrace
Shrinking, bedraggled as he was—while yet
His heart up-yearned to meet it. “Stay, dear soul,
Thy welcome is too warm—befits thee not,
Nursed as thou art in household tenderness,
To catch my damp contagion. So, one kiss,
Then to thy chair—for much have I to tell—
Would 'twere a traveller's tale; but, oh, it stormed,
As it would storm the mountains from their stand,
And drive the stars ablast—but I am here,
Here and with thee—this evens all my odds;
Out of a thousand griefs making one joy.
Why not? black billets these—but yet they burn
To a blaze. He took his wonted hearth-side seat:
But she, his watchful wife, for his health's sake
Forbad him. Nay, five minutes, 'tis soon done,
To put thy damp dress off, and clothe thee afresh
In comfort; therefore, having 'scaped one ill,
To risk another, and yet worse—ah, no.
All is set forth—thy fire alight for thee.
Go then, refresh thee, and so hither again
To our warm welcome. So, as the wife said,
The husband did—he strode wearily up,
Marking with miry blotch each several step,
To his bright bed-room. His broad frame he bared,
And doffed the clinging dankness of his clothes;
Next with the freshening water washed away
His cloggy faintness and foul weathery stains:
Then like the eagle plumed to a new youth
Came forth, cleanly arrayed, lightsome of step
And mood: as gladly toward him uprose
His conjugal dear comfort, beaming forth
From her countenance the fire's reflected light,

And yet a kinder radiance of her own,
Lit from the lamp of love. Then overflowed
Husbandlike rapture, joy in disarray,
Tearful endearment true—long ere he freed
His wife from the soft bond of his embrace,
And turned away, there to distribute his love
Where 'twas next due; redoubling kiss on kiss
'Mong prattling lips: asking and answering
All in one breath. Their mother left them awhile
(For womanhood is fitful, soon upstirred)
And knelt at her bedside, by her heart gush
O'erpowered, in deep pensiveness of prayer:
So her thanksgiving doubled to her heart
The blessing that it owned: then briskly uprose
For his meal's need—since not, till now, had she spread
Her board, as loath his presence to presume,
And rue him so, being absent, all the more.
For disappointment with a writhing scourge
Scores out the account of hope: and love forebodes
Gloomily—yes, where light is liveliest,
Shadows are darkest—

But now, all being ripe;
And fearful, wishful, hope substanced in bliss,
Her nimble spirit thro' each finger ran
O'erquickening the delay; serving each need
Fairylike, with her swift and noiseless skill—
The work true to the will. What tho' the fiend
Of gluttony bestrode not their slight board
With lubbard belly? Tho' no sweltering spilth
Were there to drown the spiritual soul,
And choke the drawling utterance—no lamps
Drunk with their oily swill, flaring away
Above the guests with spendthrift revelry;
Yet had they that one need for happiness—
Home-comfort. Smoothed awhile were elder brows,
And childish faces gazed upon the fire,
E'en as its fascination held them fast,
Smiling they knew not why—as the young smile,
And the old sigh. Anon the kettle breathed
Its invitation to familiar rites:

First softly murmuring with rise and fall
And pause, as who preludes before he plays:
Then blowing a more moody and deeper blast
As summoning its strength; till, in full heat,
Brooking no more delay, it boils amain,
Impatient, bellowing from the fiery goad.
The housewife heard, and from its flow half-filled
A silver vessel, wrought with costly skill,
Her grandsire's bridal gift, memorial
Of wealthier circumstance, and happier years,
Hopeless again—for youth's fresh joyance dies,
And dead revives not; but instead of it
The silver and the gold of eldership
With heartless mockery of leaf, tendril and grape,
Must stand for flowers and fruit: the sudden steam
Dimmed the bright vase; then in each cup she poured
The purifying influence, and from its nook
A chest produced, whose odorous potency
Within, o'erpowered its cedar scent without.
Its lid disclosed, the fragrant spirit out flew
With smell betokening taste—charily next
She doled the precious herbage, spoon by spoon,
And poured thereon the penetrative stream
Once and again—then a short pause, by talk
And mirth made shorter, ere she 'gan dispense
Her gracious drink: that gracious drink transfused
Into its cognate cups of far cathay
And blended there with cream, soft temperature,
Its virgin harshness lost in a gentler kind
Soothing the taste—nor needed urgency
To strain the willing welcome; as when erst
Mad revelry, with stress that more beseems
The hangman with his rope, or poisoned cup,
Would force its swilling potion down the throat
Of the abject drunkard—

Merriment was rife
'Neath that low thatch: the minutes winged their way
Like a glad dream—sportive as fairy sprites
Dancing at eve with feet that but provoke
The springy grass to rise against their tread,

And no trace left. Their joy blazed as a star,
Needing nought else to feed it: from each brow
To each reflected, glancing eye from eye,
Well did it lustre every nook of the room,
Fairer than that fire-gleam. Howled the fierce storm,
Shaking the stanchions, beating 'gainst the door,
Like to a maniac—aye, howl away,
In baffled fury; for that din the more
Endears our warm security within;
We hug our joy the closer; so awhile
Their mirth held holiday, for childish fun
Once kindled, lacks not fuel; but elderhood
Hath cares, and cares will cloud the brow, as then
That man's; and as the fire he gazed upon
Subsided from its blaze to a darkling heap,
So did his temperature and pitch of soul
Fall from its height: nor was she not aware,
That loving thoughtful wife, of what she saw,
But heeding all, spake not her sense of it:
Why should she? for that cloud, haply chance strayed
Across his light, may fleet as quickly away
And all be clear—so she essayed awhile
By tidings late and question manifold
Graced with her liveliest cheer to stir his faint
Spirit—but vainly—for the moody cloak
Will not disclose what it conceals within
To any lamp, tho' gently asking it—
She saw and felt, and thus in winning wise:—

“What ails thee Frederic, tell me now,
And why this darkness on thy brow
Some drooping sorrow mars thy cheer—
And I—must I sit idly here?
Scarce could that merry boy beguile
His father's sadness to a smile—
Nor the hearth blaze with cheerful play
Drive sorrow from thy brow away.
Oh thou art wont in yonder bed
On this fond heart to rest thy head.
E'en so, thy soul should now repose
On my true bosom all its woes.

For wherefore hast thou chosen me
Thy own dear wedded wife to be—
But that each one should so partake
All sorrow for the other's sake?
Thy hopes and fears, thy woe and weal,
Whate'er of burden thou dost feel,
It is not all thine own to bear,
But I thy consort claim my share:
Then be my husband now indeed,
And tell me all thy utmost need,
Confess thy sorrow in mine ear,
And be absolved from further fear—
That so our grief may be our gain;
'Tis sympathy best softens pain—
Such faith is the one needful thing:
The jewel of the marriage-ring—
But wherefore should I wander thus?
Misgivings ne'er belonged to us—
No—by this loving hearty kiss—
I know thee all too well for this—
And thou wer't e'en about to say
What evil chance hath fallen this day”—
“Yes, darling, thou hast judged me well,
And I was thinking how to tell—
But thou wast happy sitting here,
And loath was I to mar thy cheer—
Then for the cause—thou guessest true—
As he good faith is like to do,
Who reckons in a world like this,
Full often bale and seldom bliss—
Yes—the storm bellowed o'er my path
Like any other devil's wrath—
The weather fiends were all abroad—
But, t'was not that made drear my road.
No—it resides not in the air—
The mind alone makes foul or fair.
Aye—for home-kindness hath a charm
That freed me from all fear of harm—
And round about me played the while
This hearth's glad blaze and thy sweet smile.
That tramp, I knew would soon be past,

And all is well that's well at last—
But now, storm 'scaped as I sit here
With nought to cross, and all to cheer,
A darker cloud o'erhangs me still,
The shadow of a coming ill—
For know it—'tis thy right to hear—
Know what my forethought knew whilere.
Our shepherd hath sent down some new
Food for his silly sheep to chew—
A scroll beyond my shallow wi —
Must yet be scanned—a lawyer's writ—
Lawyer—and father too of it—
Aye faith—'tis e'en in such disguise
This dove descends upon our eyes,
As like a rascal robber kite
As ever stoop'd from Harzberg height—
But Hermann wherefore tarries he?
'Twas ne'er his wont so late to be—
Lucy my love, look up and say—
Was not his promise for this day?”

He asked, but she who should have answer'd him.
The simple maid, confused of faculty,
As one who flings away on sudden assault
His arms, so did she miss her woman's wit
Surprised to rosy shame—with lurking love
Beneath, heightening its hues—blushes and smiles
Vying with coyness—even such a look
As she who dares not own, nor will deny
Her bosom stamp, the seal by some sly shift
Tricked from her safeguard, and in sudden show
Urged home upon her conscience, must needs wear.
Wear it, as did the queen of beauty and love
Her meshy vest; captive confusedly,
Struggling to hide her heart—for so disguise
Doth ever hamper and perplex itself
In the folds of its own cloak: to speak she essayed—
But her soul's fluctuation swayed her words,
And found no utterance—she paused—and when
Her father with kind speech would fill that pause,
Another voice than his, dearer no less

To her ears, was suddenly heard at the door,
Loud shouting, craving housal from the storm.

'Twas he—Hermann indeed—his coming shone
Like a fresh billet flung among the brands,
Rekindling the spent fire—Oh then was haste
And pressure of the hands, and loving looks
Claiming like pressure for commutual lips.
Bliss not to be—for love hath oft hard toil
With nought but hope for his hire—out lengthening
The patriarch's service, tho' that patriarch's span
Of life, wherefrom all service draws supply,
Is shrunk from centuries to scores of years.
Sad minishment—so creeping age usurps
The hope of summer, and with evening shades
Wedlock is overclouded—drear the waste!
Where it spreads growth must wither, motherhood
Become a mummy, and the spring a pool.
With our whole manhood standing on one rank:
Till that one rank be dwindled to one man,
And death over his latest meal say grace—
No more—dying himself upon that word
For lack of food, and nought else left behind,
Only a black oblivion. They loved true,
That goodly pair; but, for they had no sure
Homestead, nor any hearth might serve their love
For his altar, therefore the pure flame they brought
Availed them not; and all they offered him
Being but sighs, and hopes, and promises,
He wafted coldly on them back again,
“Must wait and wither.” Yet that youthful guest
To any coarse beholder rating him,
Had no such fascination in his form
To fix love's eager and most restless eye
In starlike constancy, with devout grace
Subduing girlhood; chastening the rash blood
To brook delay, and dream the interval,
Trance-like, all else forgetful—a prize so high
As like that same star thro' the pitchy dark,
Makes itself present to the wishful sight,
Foreshortening widest distance. There he stood

Wearing no outward stamp of sovereignty,
Beyond his deep-eyed earnestness of look:
But radiance of beauty none; to light
The soul of love thro' the eye's sympathy;
Stately nor strong, but rather weakly of frame;
Early upstarted in his spindled growth,
And now a drooping stature; at each fair
And merrymaking clownish holiday
'Mong thousands you might watch him, and each one
For outward manhood, strength and gamesomeness,
Likelier than he: who had looked hastily,
Had sure so cheapened him—but shrewder eyes
Saw that within him which shone clearer forth,
And nobler, like the true adamant light,
From nearer view: that vase was highly wrought
And purely: and its inner lamp so bright,
As shed upon it a yet paler show
To seem more virgin-like and soft than it was.
And yet it was a burning, searching spirit,
Tho' heavenly and holy, very intense,
Like lightning—where it blazes, it may blast:
Take heed of it. Oh, 'tis a fearful thing
When the proud soul rebels 'gainst the poor bounds
That would confine it, and, for it disdains
To be barred by them, rather dares all risk
To die assailing them—such was his will—
For he was come of lowly fatherhood,
A tiller's son, if that be low, but no—
For such was our first father, and God so made
Mankind to win their bread by their hand-work,
And so content; no higher earthly aim—
Lest worldly wants hinder their one true hope,
Uprising evermore from lowly life
Toward Him in heaven.

A Ploughman was his sire.
But one not so enslaved unto his toil
As to bedrudge his spirit; not clod-bound
Serflike, but duly rendering to life's need
His daily toil, and what remained to him,
His freewill time, giving to Gospel-lore:

A glad soul-gift—there, where the heart-spring wells
The grass is green, promise luxuriates,
And produce outgrows hope. Thus his mind waxed
While his years wasted: and long-time between
His work and will he fairly halved himself;
To each its share; enduring what he must;
Enjoying what he might. But will is doom:
And this our drift of energy within,
Like the earth's bias, still, but very strong,
Speeds its own orbit—So, when vacancy
Gave his hope room, and rumour quoted him,
From every tongue, as worthy of his wish,
That wish came home to him—he left his plough
To crush its clods beneath another's sway;
And for his dull ox-team, plodding deep thro'
Clay—slow tilth—stiff hard drag—he undertook
A school of clownish urchins. There he sate
Above his rueful scholars, stern to see,
But lived among his books—forging quaint forms
In his quick fancy—unhinging much safe-framed
Knowledge, and on its staple, hanging instead
Queer mystic meanings: e'en as upstarts use,
Unwont to rule, and plagued with ceaseless itch
To prove their power; turning settlement
To stir and trouble, fain to catch with change
The learned and unlearned rabble's idle gaze,
And leaving nought, save their own sovereignty,
Free from their meddling shifts; so, from timefast
Roots, to bear fruit in State conservative.
Such was the sire, a maggot maze of brain,
But such was not the son. His father's mind
Belike, when darkling he began to be,
Was far in dreamland, for his body and soul
Owned not one parentage. Those black wrangling books
Were hateful to his taste—wormwood not food,
He left the dark forbidding tangled wood,
And strayed to look for flowers—many he found
Wreathed into garlands fair by Poesy;
And many an old romantic warlike tale
Or lay of love, set all his soul aglow
With wilful fire; such fuel did he find

In the ivy-grown old Hall, which mid yon woods
Proud as the family that dwelt in it
Looked down on its domain: but that house owned
A churlish lord; for high place draws not up
The soul to its height; and wealth doth oft belie
Most foully, with its own self-shaming dross
Its stamp of worldly worth. Young Hermann went
For helpmate to his sons, in games and books
Alike: to upbuoy their heaviness, and gar
Their slowness overtake the forward way,
And their fog catch his fire,—such their sire's hope.
And the likelihood took shape—their darkness oped
Its slumberous dullard eyes, and became dawn
Harbinger haply of day—meantime that boy
Wore the unhomelike habit of squire life,
And in its high-day brightness pranked himself
As tho' 'twere his own inbred quality,
No less than to the leopard its gay skin,
So born and so to die—alas for him
And his fond dream—build not your home on sands,
Your faith on fair show—

On a time it chanced
As streams run swifter and more rashly foam
Near the springhead—and so in boyish blood
E'en as the humour stirs doth the tongue speak,
And the hand strike—a fit of moodiness
Twixt him and one or other of his mates
Blew their old friendship up: to it they went
In blind outrageous onset. That old boast
Of blood is but a braggard—the ring knows
No scutcheons—in this truth was the young squire
To raw defeature battered and bruised so,
That his own mother met and knew him not.
Such was their boyish broil: but the sire's wrath—
That was the harder meeting. “Thankless cur,
Starveling, and beggar's brat;” this and yet more
The din of oaths, and lash of vengeful whip,
So hailed they home the victor—against that storm
He stood like a dull tortoise in its shell,
Defying wrath to its worst—but the brunt o'er,

When stubbornness had sullenly stood out,
Then rage took turn—he hied him forth like a wild
Beast from its cage outbroken, knowing not
Nor heeding whither—only its keeper's rod,
And threats, and taunts, it brooked not: rather all
Wretchedness elsewhere, than a pamperling there.
So in self-curse he wandered, branded worse
Than was Cain's brow, a deep heart-brand: so out
Faced and out-dared the blast to sweep him away—
The worse the welcomer. Oh how he longed
To fling off manhood, and be the rover hawk
Wheeling o'er head; owning no lord, no friend,
Nor fellow.—For his home he loathed, and the tale
He must tell there of that most shameful scourge.
But where need rules, man must—and hunger of bread,
Starving the proud will, else untameable,
Beggared him back again—home he returned,
If home it be, where no home-feeling is,
And the hearth itself lacks heart: no kindred love,
No kindliness. The lying dream was gone
That tricked him with a thousand vanities,
And nothing true—only its shadow left,
And darkly 'neath that dreary pall he dwelt—
For so doth grief build its most lasting stern
Monuments on the ruins of our joy.
Thence was his life one silent shame—but what
Pride will not say, shrewdness oft sees; and one
There was, his father's kinsman, who loved him more
That others scorned him; such true inkling he had
Of what the hulking clowns but taunted and jeered—
The lad's lone spirit; meet for issues high,
But seeming all ungainly to such louts.
And so he pitied the sad soul—whose stream
Dammed to stagnation, bred but vapour and fog.
That man was but a needy shopkeeper
In a starved, hopeless town, dealing out slight
Wares, almanacks, childbooks, child-dainties, toys—
Traffic but trivial. With much ado
He hired young Hermann to that sleepy shop
With hope—no golden one—when it were void—
(And when was it aught else? for its busiest

Stir was from slumber to a rippling doze,
From dark to lighter shades of vacancy)—
Then to become its owner, and so confront
That owl-eyed Mandarin, partners in death-life,
And growing each day liker—

Hither he went
Not willingly, but wilfully aloof,
Hiding him in obscurity from scorn,
And making a monk's cell of that small shop,
For lonely stillness: but deep minds love shade.
And there his spirit brooded on its thoughts;
Of essences to make existences,
And strengthen shape to substance: happy, thrice
Happy, the youthful mind, with its food fresh
To the palate, and the palate to its food,
When love doth rule the feast: then what is great
And good draws to it the ingenuous soul
E'en as the waking eye yearns toward light
From slumber: then romance of olden tales,
Wars and distressful love, and chivalry
Victorious o'er caitiff villany;
These glories, and more glorious yet, the stern
Patriot memories of Greece and Rome,
Upstarting in fresh fervour from the page
Of the old Chœronean once again;
These did he worship more than man's faith should
His fellow-men; and in that love he read
The dawn into noon-day, the noon to deep
Night—for he felt his soul must wither else
Without such food. Then again suddenly
Would he roam forth, and be the boy once more,
Fresh with his dews of dawn—for in bygone
Time, from his childhood's earliest consciousness
His mould of mind was Nature's mystic cope.
The vault-like sky, and broken uplands wild
Where first he felt his being. Man is made
From what surrounds him; all that he beholds
Consciously: sense with spirit doth conspire
To his full meaning—so the mind grows on
Unheeding how or whence: and 'twas his hap

To feel and welcome heavenly influence
That raised him above earthly. Oft would he roam
Alone upon the mountain-top with God,
Free from contagion,—and with yearning faith,
As any babe upon its mother's breast,
Return to Nature—making hills and woods
His beloved comrades; poring o'er the brook
In its untrodden haunts, listening the voice
Of the wild flashing reckless waterfall.
Then would his heart bethrill him as he looked
Down from his loftiest pitch on other hills
O'ertopped by him—and shout and clap his hands,
Glad as a bird uncaged: here I am free,
But am I worthy of freedom? Then again
Would exultation sink to deep still thought,
And all he read of late, bright images,
Heavenly aspirations, all he saw
Around him, and felt fervently within,
Kindled his heart's glow—not as heretofore,
To boy-like wishfulness, but earnest will
Reforming life's frame. So he brooded o'er
Full many fancies, and brought one to form,
First obvious, last approved—the fellowship
Of strong men, lovers of their country, each
For all, and all for each,—a wise forecast,—
For union truly is strength. But where's the bond
Wherewith to bind so frowardly a will,
So manifold a being as man is?
Made up of countless contrarieties,
A thousand passions and perversities,
Depraving Reason: seek it not on earth:
The will that oversways all selfishness
Must needs be heavenly.

So was his own.
He lit his torch from heaven, and with its blaze
Kindled all hearts.—The poor look gladly on high;
Having scant comfort here—first one of them
And then another his endeavours drew—
Until he gathered them to hear his word,
A lowly congregation and a small,

But a godly preacher: from his truthful deep
Soul pouring out the light that Heaven poured in,
A glorious warm flood, a lustrous power;
Unworldly, even as it came from God—
Shaming all artifice as the sun shames
Those earthly lights that shine only at night,
And thro' the darkness. Ah! but they were blest
The souls that waited on young Hermann then,
To drink his doctrine—nay—to bathe their life
In waters welling from that rock of faith
Whence he drew daily; and he wrought on them
As the light works abroad, with no far-fetched
Book-learning, or new fangling nicety,
By Truth and earnestness—reaching the head
Thro' the heart. No gnawing fears, no stones for bread:
Leaving deep lore in its dark holes to grub,
Scattering, like chaff, high clouds. Faith, Freedom, and Love,
These three he preached, with the Gospel for their code.
So disentangling souls; clearing God's Word
From knots and snares by priestcraft set in it.
Thence he beheld in earth one commonwealth
Level as ocean. Truly he preached with power—
And wondrously that power waxed and took wing,
An angel of good tidings: for he hoped
To win all hearts with peace and gentleness.
That even Privilege, having the hope
Of better things, graced with a godlier grace,
Would feel its excess worthless, strip its silly
Unmanly lendings off, hold fellowship
On a free level, and forgetting old dreams
Forego itself. Alas! fond Faith, thou'rt but
A saintly dove against the serpent guile
That doth infest thee—yet it harms thee not:
For 'tis not they who trick thee win at last,
But thou who art confessed from 'mid their tricks
An upright godly Truth: Such was the man
Who cheered himself by that familiar fire,
Hermann, a kingly soul—for whom a throne
Of loftier verse than this were worthier;
There to hold state, and rule immortally
Over the farthest realms of memory;

Throughout Time's shoreless tract—Oh! be his soul
The spirit of this song, e'en as this song
Is but a fainter echo of his fame.
There was security and plenteous cheer,
The blaze of the oak-fire, and loving hearts
To make its warmth yet brighter. Sure if joy
Be not found here, 'tis nowhere else on earth—
Nay then—in heaven alone go look for it—
For here they feel it not—in spite of glad
Seemings outside, the gnawworm works within—
For the sad tale their father had just told
Of the unlovely law, troubled them so,
That they must look away from their home-bliss
To scan the skyline for a far-off woe.
That dismal day, their meeting brighten'd it,
But sad its parting gloom—Oh had that night
Instead of sweeping her skirt over them,
And so disclosing them again to day
And daily care, hurried them sheer away
Enveloped in her mantle's dreamless fold,
To go with her revolving wheel along,
Nor see the sun once more—so had it been,
Happier were they—for now—e'en sleep, with dreams
Of upstart trouble, racked them—yet no less
The day-spring bright as ever, dawned abroad;
As if each thought of darkness to drive off
With darkness self—so loving Nature would—
But we will not. Alas! that wilful man
Should rather choose strangely to fret himself
Than love his Maker: and in that one love
Forget all hints of spite and hatefulness.

BOOK II.

There is a loveliness in the young day
Unearthly: a bright spirit, simple and pure
As faith and feeling, yet deep-souled as they.
As Nature had then risen from her rest
In the refreshment of some heavenly dream,
And waking, stream'd from her o'erflowing eyes
Thro' earth and air that dreamy radiance.
Up then and out—for where's the mud-born man
Would doze his prime ingenuous life away,
His yearning tide of youth? the freshening stir
Of the early stream, knowing nor feeling not,
But when its spring is deaden'd, its clear flow
Clogged on the world's foul level to a pool,
Then to wake slumbrously, and doze his life
'Neath sullen scum: this none so dull would do—
But whoso flings away his morning pearl
Doth all as strange a thing—making a blotch
Of that most fair virgin-like radiance,
With self-forbidding darkness; lagging out
The freshness and the new-born fragrancy,
The silvery light and glistening dewiness,
The sweet contemplative calm of the dawn,
Till its young life be tainted a death-taint,
In dust, and heat, and din of the noon-day.
When man is rife, and nature, half fordone,
Blent in his troublous being, seems almost
To lose her own—but thou—be not so foul:
But spring up blithely, and look forth, and breathe,
And walk abroad in thy soul's blessedness.
Oh sad! this happiness we all might have,
But many will not.—What! think ye to see

Landscapes of green fields, waters, and deep woods
In the charnel-house, when death shall fling ye there
To lie and rot? No—Time is short, unless
With wakeful love ye lengthen it—both early
And late—for both the rising and setting sun
Outstretch man's span-like shadow. And Grace, too,
Beneath their thoughtful dew, grows toward Heaven.
Go then; in that cool air refresh your sense,
But first, open your soul, and learn God's love;
'Tis the best lore—for love bestowed by you
On Nature, she requites a thousand-fold
With grace and blessedness—look to her then,
And do her suit, as a liegeman, dutiful,
With early duty; awake, arise—nor sell
The privilege and first-born hope of the day
For a foul mess of dreams. Up and away—
To the heavenly aspiration of free air,
So your soul, bathed in Nature's purity
Shall 'scape awhile the worldly taint—the plague
That wasteth at noon-day. So shall it live
Its true self-life, as clearly circumstanced
As stars in ether: even as they did,
Hermann and Hess, forth issuing that day
From their hot beds into the wholesome air,
The garden's lively cool luxuriance,
To drink the morn; and in the Eastern sun's
Mild hope, and cheering earnest of their aim,
To pace their pleasant path—communing things
That startled e'en the ear of privacy
They were so fearful. “Hermann,” thus began
The host, “I know thee good and true—a man—
No mere clay-mouldling—one who walks the world's
Trivial ways, o'er selfish narrow ruts,
Not following nor heeding then, but forth
Right to his own high ends. Thou'rt a true soul—
Of loftiness so soaring as transcends
The very sight and not the scope alone
Of the world's mole-eyed grubbers—else their dust
Would bedim e'en thy brightness, diamond-like
Forth shining: such I greet thee; as worthiest,
To partake, aye, and lead a plot, which e'en

Whispered sounds dreadful, and proclaimed is the blast
Of the war-trumpet—Hermann, thou dost love
My daughter—nay—no word of complement.
A father's feeling hath so told it me.
For ever the young soul speaks forth by signs
Truer than any tongue. Better 'twere so—
For, if thou lov'st her not, then hast thou been
Since first thy welcome wont haunted our hearth
Home-like, our ever inmost bosom-guest,
A live-long lie—becomes thee better then,
The prompture of young blood, than the snake-guile
Of colder hearts, self-coiled: beshrew thy life—
Well is she worth the price thou prizest her:
Needs no fair phrase to set thy judgment right—
That ne'er had wrong: enough—no more of this—
Nor had I touched it in so light a key
But that I deemed it good, ere thou wert launched,
To warn thee whither; to advise thee well
Thro' what a stormy night that bridal star
Faintly and far off, glimmers on thy hope—
Know then, her life and mine linked in one chain,
Stubborn as fate e'er forged—constraint too stern
For that soft dove-like darling, that sweet girl.
Aye, a curs'd chain hath dragged me down thus low—
An iron weight; hard to uphold, much more
To wield; thou beardless stripling say,—would'st bear
Thy share? Behoves thee then to be hardier
Than man—than my steel'd manhood—look thou here:
Thou hast attached in fondness of love's faith
Thy fortune to a home which, how it stands
And who its indwellers, thou knowest not;
More than some sorcerer had whirled thee away
Within a Tartar's hut—may'st ask the stars
For counsel—who we are—whence and why here.
Well, Fame hath rumoured us—outdone herself—
And made a thousand of her hundred tongues
And each a liar; houseless runaways—
Loose swindling loons—whose clever handicraft
O'er reached the dull thick walls should hold them in;
Forgers of coin, writers who wrote the names
Of others in so business-like a way

That now they must be strangers to their own—
Briefly, all felon styles and qualities
Cling to us, with strange surmise, like the cloud
That caps yon hill—my fe on's cap—say'st thou?
Nay—their own foolscap; but thy faith stood fast,
No cronish tongue could shake it—Well—the truth,
Tho' men misdeem it much, is yet itself,
And now bespeaks thy ear; listen it through.

Thou see'st me now, grey, woe-begone; tho' still
A man, wiry, upright—far other once
Years back. I muse and wonder at myself,
How such a change should be: sure I dream'd then:
Or else dream now the being I'm become,
So shrunk from the old man: as sad in late
Years as in earlier frolic and free
When sunshine filled the sky. My spendthrift life
Foamed over, and failed, wastefully for-done,
Ere half out-reckoned: were that all—would t'were!
Another flow might overflush that ebb,
Recovering the bare strand: we had been friends
Fortune and I, nor yet were wholly foes:
Nor had disorder so unstated me;
But timely thrift could set me up again
More steadfast from that fall. I could have paid
For wisdom the fool's price, and thankful so;
As knowing well, what rashness plucks in the flower
It ne'er can taste in fruit—then had I giv'n
My remnant means for a fresh harvest hope,
Bidding thrift eke what waste scanted me,
And stamped the steel, purer from minishment,
Its dross of riot being purged away,
With seal of earnest proof—Yes, I had borne
Worse ruin, and acknowledged it my due,
But for the oppressors iron in my soul,
Sharpened by law and pointed—law—aye law—
By Satan turned to his craftiest snare: should be
To righteousness a shield and guardian;
Yet was suborned against me to such wrong
As the assassin's knife were welcomer
And fairer too—so sudden sharp a stroke,

That like the clown afield, smitten to earth
With the lightning flash, and to one senseless heap
Confounded with his oxen and his plough,
I rose half-stunned, and looked strangely around:
Whether 'twere truth or glamour—how that stroke
Was stricken, why, whence, hearken me now:

My father left me a fair heritage—
I undertook to till it—'twas a farm,
Might draw the keenest citizen from change
To wed a country life—I cherished it,
(Changing my bookish lore for busy toil)
As tho' my happiness were rooted there:
For still methought, thro' losses, revelry,
Loose fellowship, like a kind loving wife,
It brightened all my hopes and soothed my cares,
Forgiving much to earnest husbandry.
But Paradise were not itself indeed
Unless a fiend should haunt it—well then—a wolf—
As we soon found him but too bitterly,
Tho' in show, lamb-like seeming—so he walked
'Mong us, our preacher, clergyman, Church-head—
Our incubus—know you the spot, my friend?
Holzheim; a wealthy country—a deep land—
That nursed our thriving stock from sire to son
Thro' far tradition. Sorer be his curse
Who drove me thence—aye, tore me body and branch
Uprooted. Now, beshrew me, but I think
That horn of plenty was no idle tale,
And there 'tis emptied out: wood, meadow, corn,
Orchard, and garden, and the tendril hop,
O'erpeering more the vine in lovely show,
Than yielding to it in poetic vaunt
And goodly worth. There many a river and brook
Runs winding as for pastime, round about:
Seems loth to quit the land. You may thread too,
And thither, for the pleasure of such walks,
Were time well spent, full many a field-side path,
Lone, and unwonted, stealing shily on,
And half o'ergrown, as doubtful of itself;
Lest haply lord or squire, jealous belike

Of nature, that she loves to sweeten toil,
And gives not all her blessing to themselves,
Should start some catch of law, and so shut out
From the poor dust-choked peasant the one way
That leads him on to her communion
And God's: forthshadowed to the soul more deeply
In Nature's wild and solemn loneliness—
Howe'er such paths were many around us—one
Too many—so our shepherd said, and so
Fulfilled his saying, for he wasted not
His love upon his neighbours; but self-spent
Deemed it safest bestowed: he pitched his stake
There in the parsonage, and set his soul
So earnestly to frame it to his will,
As 'twere his everlasting all in all,
And heaven but a fool's tale. Some straggling fields
He bought to be an ample skirt and train
To that small manse, homely content erewhile:
Pleasant they were e'en to the clownish eye,
Much more the musing mind. Southward they sloped,
Their deep green flooded with the golden sun,
And evermore in spring their glowing growth
Showed teemingly the token of his love,
With earliest blade and flower. Such a lone path
Threaded those happy fields, not speeding through
Straight forward, as for furtherance of haste,
But sauntering on, a fairy-footed wild
Shy fancy, heedless quite of aim or end;
Purposed to take its pleasure, and in vague
Careless diversion all indefinite
Fulfil its sense of the scene. Oh! I have trod
That path from child to man, times beyond count,
And followed thro' its maze the deepening year
From spring to winter—had it led to heaven
I could not love it more: and all alike,
The folks that owned our church, elders and young,
No less—the child for its own cheerful sake;
The old, for once it was their lovers' walk,
And now in darkness and decline of age
A soothing memory—but what were this,
And all the soul of gentleness beside

To the cold spirit that only loves itself
And hates whate'er may balk it in self-love?
The way was needless, wasteful, better far
Outdone, and the highway taken: loiterers
Only could like its loneness; whispering hints
Of danger to warm hearts. Courtship is safe
Only 'neath eye of elders—idle haunts
Beget an idle life. Enough—so said
Our ghostly guide, whose cat-like walk brooked not
Our hobnail noise—first fairly, by kind words
Friend-like and neighbour-like, hinting his wish:
Next darkly surmising rectorial rights,
And how the law might help him against us
If here we hindered him: but when all else
Was wasted, threats and bribes alike—he broke
All bars with overbearing outrage of sheer
Will: would doway the path: cross'd it with fence
Hindrance ne'er seen before, nor longer then
Than a few hours to blaze it all abroad
Then smite it down: 'twas a stout gang of us
Put hands to work. I stood there—who but I
At the head—stood, nay—but stirred me, and them too
Until their heat seethed over. Down it came,
And such a shouting uproar over it,
As drowned the crash of downfall. So again
Wide open as the sea the pathway stood
Greeting each comer. That was nobly done—
The nobler, that it ran a dangerous risk,
To be paid off in evil coin—my farm
Held proudly its own produce—free from tithe—
That tribute to old Satan. I saw him once
At the tithe-feast, grinning behind our host
O'er his shrewd bargain: well he may, for it gives
To him all Christian brotherhood—faith, peace,
Good-will, to make his sport of them; and leaves
The parson, flock, and field to decimate:
So the Church hardens to a cold stone-heap,
Graceless, unlovely. Soulless but for spite,
A burden of dead weight on the groaning land
That doth uphold it. 'Tis a galling ill
To many, and a crushing one to me.

For likelier scourge none did he find—I mean,
Not Satan, but that other kind black friend,
So ready to his hand,—the law, the law,
He touched the spring, and gave the engine way
Which brays, like the Indian car, to bloodless heaps
The crowd of wretches whom their craziness
Hath set across its path. 'Tis a short tale.
He challenged my exemption from his due,
Would have my proofs set forth: I who knew nought,
Nor had no title save by olden truth
From sire foregone delivered down to son;
And plain good faith and price of privilege
Paid to the height of its worth: I, poor lost soul,
Was madden'd, to seek truth from lawyers, grace
From hell: to hire, he against me, and I
'Gainst him, some scrabbling, bloated, spider-men
Bewigged, begowned; to read thro' spectacles
My right, clear to each neighbour as sunbeams,
From old crone-skins. That was no fair man's fight:
I felt befooled by their law-jargon, and fain
Would rid me of such cramping uncouth suit,
And so have done—but death and fury, it stuck
E'en to my substance like a venomous shirt,
And parted, only with my flesh withal,
Leaving me bare to the bone: my wealth ground down,
And scatter'd to the winds: my livelihood
Outcast from that fair land where I was born:
Myself beggared to rags—my home laid waste—
And if my fortune run her course to the end
Even so frowardly as thus far forth,
My sons turned thief, my daughters prostitute:
Have you then any heart for sympathy?
Prithee laugh with me, as the fiend doth now,
At such a merry upshot: such kind care
From shepherd to his sheep. Ah, yes, good Church,
I'll give thee thy full due, if I withhold
One curse of all I owe thee,—nay but no
Word curses—I am strong and they are weak.
'Tis my wrath, seething, heaves them uppermost.
Listen, a sadder strain—so when the damp
Prison had quite diseased my wonted health,

And in its stead set a strange fever up
To ride aspur, and quicken my poor blood
To a mad heat; till nature sank downright,
Hopeless to rise again: then the kind souls
Seeing the vampire had so sucked my veins,
And left me but the shell of my own self,
Pith-hollowed; when their bitterness with short
Delay must have delivered me to death,
And so been mercy indeed; this they withheld:
But sent me forth, outcast, to beg my bread,
Or starve for lack of it: see'st thou yon books?
The one lone precious remnant of that wreck—
Aye, take them down; read, learn, and cherish them.
For they are such as priests and lordlings hate,
And free souls love—my father's teachers erewhile,
Now mine—well, books are living things; and I—
I'm not quite dead—but this bare life! with no
Livelihood—such thou see'st me—a naked man
With hardly a breadcrust beside—but here
To chew the cud of wrath, and sour-sweet dear
Revenge—so rate me—then bethink thee well.
Is it a home like this, so bare and waste,
Open to each onswoop of misery
Thro' breaches of most ruinous beggary:
E'en from the roof to the foundation-stone
Conflicted with all elements of wrath,
That thou would'st trust to hold a dog of thine
For one half-hour, much less thy livelong hopes,
Thy heart's most delicate innermost ware,
Thy wife and babes and all. Ah, well, I see
The warm assurance beaming from thine eye,
And lighting what were else wholly forlorn
With a wild lustre of joy. Yes, 'tis nought else,
Love and thy youthful blood are so.—Ah, well,
But stay—one word—may bid thee yet, beware.
Thou hast heard much of ill, but not the worst—
Listen it now. Fortune hath hunted me
To this my last poor hold, my hearth, my home,
And stabbed me there: look now around, and see
How blithe the cheer she has left me. Come what will
She's still my foe; her hate with its own spite

Feeds itself—not from me: she's gnawed me bare
To these hard bones: but, Hermann, mark me this.
She haunts my home no more—so help me Heaven
I'll leave my house to the rats, and march forthright
To meet her warrior-like, on some far field
She little wots of: for mark this again.
I've wrestled with the law, and chance or craft
Hath flung me a shrewd fall: howe'er, not so,
Like the angel with the patriarch of old,
As to unstring my sinews—no; sheer strength
Laid me thus low, and by sheer strength again
I'll raise me sure as I stand here, I'll stake
My life on't: aye, stake this torn paper scrap
Against the world, for its whole wealth to win.
That fire hath scoured my rust, cleared me to steel—
'Tis in me, and shall out—what tho' no more
Fair weather'd fortune dally with my sail,
Yet may the blast of hate speed me as well,
Raising a surge so stormy, as may bear
The daring helmsman over shallow and sand,
Gathered or left, to bar free way: for so
Fraud heaping lumber and dead hindrance up
Then calls it law—what's that? a name, no more,
And scarce so much—for that good holy name
Belongs not to time-hallowed rotten wrong.
But wherefore this to thee? Thou, my young friend,
Wast never thus woe-worn; this gnawing grief
Is strange to thee, and all these stormy wild
Workings, sheer madness: yet forgive it me.
The dullest pool if stirred unto its depth
Breathes forth its vent in foam. My rage has clenched
My fist, but to a fair dispassioned palm
Thus I disclose it—read, if can'st, its lines.

My fall—'tis so far good—it frees me—I've set
My life and its belongings, my whole state,
At a straw's worth—e'en so, and that same straw
So worthless, I devote it unto fire,
That the world may blaze from it. Oh! 'tis most true—
We weaken as we widen: the will works
Strongest where narrowest: when my wealth lived

At large, it flagged in bounds it could not fill:
Now in small space, self-shrunk, like embers thrown
Aheap, my spirit gathers to a heart
Of pulse so mighty, as shall speed life-blood
Thro' the universal Man. Feel thou my hand—
Methinks I'm steel'd from flesh to adamant;
Or is it but my soul's intensity
That sets each sinew astrain. Nay—tis much more—
For the sharp trials I have undergone
Have burned each weaker element to smoke,
And left but metal—it drives me from within,
To the trial—Ah! thou shak'st thy head; and that
Dooms death—to this mad fit—for so—would'st speak,
Had'st called it—Well—howe'er by others called,
'Tis Truth and Manhood known and felt by me—
Here, where behoves in the heart—Aye, boy, 'tis that,
Wars me against the world—But I am one:
And many more were needed for this great
Onset, which eastward and to west, shall spread
Its angel wings, high-flying, wide as the world,
Atoning all mankind, scattering light,
Blessing where'er it goes. But what are words
Written on water? what is Truth to him
Who hath a soul of sand-like quality,
Inconstant to such seal? you loremen, so
I've found 'em, are weak-willed. Tell me then first
How art thou tempered? does thy spirit aspire?
Thy blood run warm? Hast thou a heart to dare?
A hand to do? and that for the deed-sake,
The only good of man, and glory of God;
Not for self-love? if thou say'st no, I say
Get thee another wife to nurse thee at home:
Thou graftest not thyself upon my stock,
Being of such a strain. For I am one
Will have no meddler come within my range—
Must wholly work my will; look to my aim,
And by it shape their own: well it behoves
Where all is war without, to hold within
The bond of fellowship, all under one.

Howe'er, lest passion blind thee, and hot blood
Hurry thee to rush on unwittingly,

Where wariness should scan the stakes, and weigh
The likely loss against the gain of them;
I'll give thy judgment footing where to stand
And take her level—If hope have room enough
To build, and means withal ready to hand,
Or else despair be wisdom; much, erewhile,
I've told thee of my meaning, but in shadow
Alone—now since I trust thee, its whole truth
I'll show thee, blood and bones, body and soul.

Thou'st wonder'd what far chance should fling me here,
Like a lone bird stormed by the hurricane,
Clean from its climate and winged fellowship
To pine on the ocean rock. The dry leaf drifts
As the wind drives it—that is daily Truth:
And if thou wert a stranger to my faith
So would I foil thy question—but disguise
To cowards—I need it not. 'Twas pride—one word—
That brought me to this haunt of poverty:
I would not hang my rags on that same staff
Whence my brave silken flaunting flag e'erwhile
Lorded it o'er the level—that were good
Cause, tho' none else—for Man's but a child still
Within opinion's sway: behoves him first
Unshackle her unreasoning fetters, then
Forth freely—thoughts too wider, deeper, I had
Hither—for while my wrongs were bitterest,
And anger, with the hot knife in his hand
Whisper'd me, up, and strike—then did I think
Of what full often I heard formerly,
That here, amid these hills, more than elsewhere
Throughout our Fatherland, Gospel Truth sways,
And the foul sham that men miscall the Church
Stands but on law, not love; feeds to fat rot
Its hirelings—takes the fleece, and the hate withal;
Leaving the flock to follow and love their own
Shepherd—here then, methought for my main works
Fulfilment, is the fellowship of hate
Doughtier for all upbreak to be done,
Than fellow-love. Here is the field for me.
Here I may sow, and reap my harvestage

When ripe, if hearts and hands be towardly,
And luck befriend me—here I stand—and hence
I start—but whither—Ah! that needs much thought.
The compass and the drift of our design,
Its hope of good, its method, and its means;
What likelihood doth beckon thee ahead
To dare the travail for the birth from it,
And what fear whispers, listen, if thou wilt.
But first, my friend, behoves us look around
From the platform we now hold to the end we aim.
How best to shape our forecast—first then—and last—
I see no comfort of the things that are,
But only a far hope of what may be,
If manhood drive on the determinate mind,
And wish ascend to will—for look but forth;
How this world's body hath o'ergrown its soul;
While dwindling all as swiftly, happiness
Hath lost its life-blood: shrunk away—to a shade—
A skeleton—hung up in the Sophist's shop
For show, for our shame too—whose but our own
Is this most bitter blame? self-made, self-marred
Is the man—in olden times, now fabulous deemed,
Because our souls are shamed beneath their truth;
Ere rapine was yet rife within the world,
Each had his own; each held and handed on
To his son's toil the homestead and the plot
From the main folks-land cantled out to him.
And when that main was parcelled—then all off—
All sons, but one, to farther, wilder lands;
And so life waxed and waxed: Nature's free boon
Man partook thankfully, wrought thence his need,
Then freely quitted it to who came next.
Nor yet had self-love, stealthily at first,
Till strengthened by self-law; then proud and high
Handed in right of its own wilful wrong,
Claimed 'gainst the need of other landless men
More than its hand could hold or righteous toil
Improve to profit—so diswarranting
Nature's own right and God's most earnest law
That man shall earn his daily bread by sweat
Of his own brow: first starving industry

Then heaping with her fruits the listless lap
Of luxury, that looks but how to waste
In whims that idly haunt her vacancy
What toil had hardly won: till riches, so
Foully o'erheaped but turn to rottenness,
Stinking in their fastidious owner's sense,
Choking each outlet of his working will,
And clogging his life-blood and wealth alike
From stream to swamp. Ah! how this Giant World
Most like a craftsman of besotted soul
Reels drunkenly from wasteful wantonness
To lack of bread and household beggary!
Swilling in one most swinish hour a year's
Home-gladness—in untoward wild excess,
Staggering: hither first, then thither away
Never to hold the mean. Yes, selfishness
Hath grown among us from a peevish child
To a giant; so strangely o'erstriding us
That his huge presence confounds East and West.
Feeding himself on a thousand lowly rights
To the one proud wrong he is: usurping all
Earth in a dismal shadow of eclipse,
And nothing said, but gainsayers o'erawed.
So doth man curse his brother with Cain's curse
To be a castaway: no rightful home
Freehold; no rest for his foot; but the son born
Strange to his mother, and forbid to draw
From her full bosom his hard-earned sustenance
And birthright: No—bedrudge thee—boy and man
Toiling; toil out the marrow from thy bones
That I may waste thy fruits in riotous
Wassail, and fling thee husks for all thy hire—
So pride ordains him, and so, day by day,
His life, a twofold hardship, toil and want,
Grows to the grave, till Death composes him
From his low fever, a lagging comforter.
But who should say such things as these should be—
If any, call him not a man, unless
Mankind that was be new-named Selfishness.
Selfishness puffed to pride by oppression's foot,
Which o'er this wind-blown world to assert its will,

Crushing the many down, raises the few
To bloated pomp and ill pre-eminence.
Ah! I have grieved at this till grief became
My very soul and true essential self.
Yes—Hermann, the whole heart is sick, and the head
As faint—but we, the body, oh had we,
Instead of Patience to outwear our wrongs,
Courage to right them—but to wish is weak
And womanly—the earnest will it is,
Ever onworking till its goal be won,
That marks the man. Then thus—all life doth grow,
Since witchcraft lost its trick, and Nature thence
Thro' the wide world went steadily her way,
From a small spot to full development.
Therefore behoves us a beginning first
To be the germ of the end. But where to find
The man and means, the time, and circumstance,
Of such a fit concurrence all in one,
To hit our 'scope? Where is the goodly stone
Of such true everlasting quality
To serve our revolutionary wheels,
For centre and for stay.—Lo, here I am—
You see me. I am he—one man—but one
Who will abide all brunt, out-face all foes,
Strive onward against doom and death itself,
Aye, and go snatch his purpose from hell fire,
Than miss it. Sure, so set, and strained to the head,
Never to fail, unless the string snap short,
And life fail first. Well,—'tis a stalwart will—
Could I but find the way. Nay—that some way
Shall wait on that same will, which oft, with swift
Outshot, straightforward, and determinate,
E'en as a spider shooting on its game,
Out of itself doth frame itself a path,
And so outdoes impossibility:
Fooling surmise, leaving security
Aghast, and blear-eyed wonderment agape,
Welding unlikely ends, and safe across
Bridging the deep sea. Trust me, who outwills
Outworks. And be this true, then truly I'm born,
I, even I, to crush this crazy old

Clay-world, and frame it to new honor and use.
To redress laws—to darken palaces
And thrones with shadow of a giant force
Striding amain to his end—shuffle the lots
Of high and low, lordling and underling,
Then deal them out anew. Lastly, set up,
The Gospel, for life's light and governance,
Upon the ruins of that charnel Church
Wherefrom the soul—save some slight spark—is fled
From among skulls and bones. But spirit will breathe,
And light will shine; and so, e'er the end come,
Truth ever gives the token of herself
And makes her flame of the foul rubbish-pile
Wherewith obstruction would have stifled her.
Must blaze itself instead. What say'st thou, boy?
And is not this a project thrills e'en fear
With faith's own glow? a purpose holier
Than prayer, a wafture of the coming good
More godly than all incense? Nay, no word—
I see full well the burden your mind bears:
And what your tongue's forbidden, your looks speak
Swifter and surer. You tell me, 'tis a deed,
Brimful of danger, such as craziness
Might dream, but to endeavour it, beyond
Madness itself: as well might the mole strive
To unsettle yonder mountain from its stand
And build another hundreds higher fold
Than I to rear a fabric such as this
With my best power—power—nay feebleness—
A feebleness arrayed 'gainst giant strength
On the other side: such forecross barrier
As dwarfs the highest that daring ever dreamed,
And whoso undertakes it, should climb heaven
For foreproof of his work—which if fulfilled
Were a miracle, and hardly then believed;
Since by it worldly wont were all belied.
For what can will 'gainst power and privilege
And that substantial wealth which backs with its weight
The edge of energy, and so drives home
Many an onset, which else were but a reed
Launched 'gainst a tower of brass? so much for the hope:

Which reason, howsoe'er she strain her eye
On the utmost verge of faint-edged likelihood
Beholds not. Yet doth wilfulness, which sees
Whate'er it wills, presume them here at hand.
Vouching for Truth her idle phantasies,
Her marsh-lights gleaming but in dark. Fond dreams
Of peace and plenty, love and levelhood,
Such as ne'er had fulfilment, nor e'er will,
Till earth shall become heaven—so would'st thou
Make hope a fool, and zeal a maniac,
The old trick of power, strong in privileged
Possession—needs but brazen forehead and lungs
To abash her gainsayers, and scare away
The searcher—answering each asker, as doth
The surly upstart huffing driver his slave,
“Obey nor reason why.” Well, the gagged cock
Is easy overcrowed: but words are words
Tho' they ape God's thunder—aye, and arms are arms.
Look on them, hanging idly by that wall,
Not always destined so: no, for right well
I've learned their deadliest skill, and thoroughly
Enured me. Come a hundred bayonets
Against this hut, loopholed and stiffly barred;
They shall spend many hireling lives for one—
And feel their gain but loss—needs but once so
Proven, forthwith the people will rise up
In fiery courage from that cowardice,
Which holds the soldier slave for more than man,
And the freeman less—enough, and now to works,
Since words on either side are spent in vain.

BOOK III.

Freedom, Love, Light, and Truth, these are four things
That waste nor wane while they impart themselves;
Nay—rather wax the wider for each help
They lend to a weak neighbour.—And yet we—
We narrowlanders—kindly, enlightened, free,
(Self-bragging so, and so by onlookers
Not quite unworthily nor wrongfully
Forthholden), tho' we love mainly that fair
Holy and happy fourfold sisterhood
(Bating the many who hate it; the slave souls,
The worldly wealthy, coward grovellers,
Who love but their own swine-like grovelling selves),
Yet even we—the friendlier bulk—we love,
Not well, but too self wisely; we love Truth
And freedom, not as any flower loves light,
But—as gripers love gold: for our self-sake
And against others: I want it—give it me—
To hold in my own hand. So the babe cries
For its toy—so man for freedom. Thus tho' we love—
Nay—that's a holy word—but tho' we like
Freedom for ourselves, we hate not tyranny
O'er others—Why? for that dull foil lends life
To our free jewel—makes us feel ourselves
Manlier some and mightier than our slave
Neighbours—in freedom's fair and flowing robes
We walk forth proudly among wretches whose rags
Hide not their chains—nay—but true freedom is love
Self-spreading—come then who will, I welcome ye—
Come one, come all—come beggars, maimed, halt, blind,
Come to this earthly gospel of free grace,
And from it frame ye for that heavenly one.

Only before we free ye for the main
Folks-rule, each for self-rule, should free yourselves.
From slavery of sensual swinishness,
Lust, drunkeness, to mindful self-control.
From idleness, and grovelling begging want
To self-dependence thro' good steady work.
From taking rated help to giving it.
So private worth proves public—why should the hedge
Beggar about the state-house busy him
Ere he has built his own? in its self-men,
Whoever, few or many, high or low,
Its standards, its upholders, stands the whole state,
Else by their rottenness or weakness, falls.
Thence, whosoe'er by his own working will
Becomes self-free, we'll make him state-free too
With franchise—while the public burden he shares—
For choice of his state-rulers—but for that
How prove his fitness? needs not—livelihood
Is likelihood—no better proof needs be.
Who from his steady earnings makes and holds
His home, and helps his country, further pledge
He owes it not: may claim from it free rights—
So should the franchise mark the man from the mob
With signal stamp: e'en of the rabble, some
Might feel it, drawing them up towards it
As with magnetic virtue—from their foul
Sensual sty to cross the bar, and take
Manlier stand and rightful fellowship.
But they, whose will is but to grovel in mire
There leave them—what to them is the cause of Christ
And country? what the franchise but a free
Ticket, to swill their day, or wreak their spite
Against their hated betters; and in fiend
Glee hand them over to some faction's yoke
Or tyrant's? 'Tis an easy downward slope
From recklessness of rabble rule, to the foul
Self-sway of despots,—the state-rot, death-cold,
For it kills all folk-life.

We, then, who draw
The state-car, will, if wise, while yet in time,
Hold back against such downfall to mob-rule

Strongly and sternly as when erst we strove
Uphill—hardly, and with slow strain, forthright
For freedom. Time for wheels, and time for drag,
Which of the two, needs wisdom. Else that slope
Once taken, hard the stress, so old Truth sang,
To rise again from hell—from man's self-mire
Yet harder—for hell-pains were stings and spurs.
But ah! what hope when swinish herds give sway
To him who but once stuffs and swills them, and takes
Their grunted ayes in payment? of ought higher
What care they? kick them and cudgel if he will,
Fling all filth o'er them, hurt nor shame is theirs,
They feel it not. But like their old compeers
Circean, they bethrong their keeper's court,
Awaiting the coarse slush he throws to them,
And hustling back those who feel, know, and hate
Their wrong and foul wrongdoer, and as men
Would right it: e'en these few are fewer each day,
And fainter. The old Roman virtue is dead,
Tyrannicide: the heroic godly will
Herculean, that smote howe'er it could
The bloody, lewd, self-bloating atheist
Usurper, drunk with felony forsworn
And all his followers—that hateful brood
Bred with him from corruption's slimy swamp,
Smote him, not with law's doom, for how? like the old
Scyrian, he lopped the law—hands and feet off
Then with fiend jeer, “Now strike me;” no then, not
With his self-law garbled for his self-ends,
But with its sturdy downright stalwart club
Dashing to dust his treason, in spite of shams
And all pretences. So the heroic will
Freed the old Greek and Roman fellowships,
And so, its work fulfilled, won its reward,
By thankful Truth throned everlastingly
High up in heaven.

But, thou, flunkiest
Of folks, he called thee so, who knew thee well,
Fulfil thy calling: kicked and cuffed as thou art,
Nay, cringing dost submit thyself to be:

Bruised, gagged, tax-ground, soldier'd to slavishness.
Lie down—low in thy mire—thy cowering choice—
Ye've drawn those dregs—must drink them. Ye chose a wolf
For your shepherd's dog. Howe'er, ye suffer him:
Yield ye then to your yoke—spend, slay, at his beck:
Shout for him, pray for him, where public prayer
May hope good payment; but shout loudly, and so
Sham out, or at least, sham over, your heart's hate,
And fear, and shame, all your true feelings; of them
And him, make one huge sham with babbling breath.
Then chew your slave-cud—but Tyrannicide—
Think not, nor talk, much less try that stern thing,
It needs a high heroic pitch of soul
With Milton, Tully, Locke, and o'er them all
God's holy writ for vouchers. Shame them not
By thy half-headed and half-hearted shams—
Lift not thy hand so loftily: poor frog?
'Tis not thy braggart breath will swell thee out
To their bold bulk.

Then, in those days, were men.
But now, ah, no! their mould is broken, and we
Can but pick up and handle, and scan the bits—
Forsooth, sound ware, clear, strong, fire-clean: but ours,
Why so much weaker? There's the murdering wretch,
But where's the man? The hour is come, but the man—
Cowards! why wait him? alas, wait we must
Till he rise, our star, our sun, till the old folks' right
Shall find a new forefighter—a Hercules
Fresh soul'd and steel'd for freedom: fearless and strong
Alike to smite the giant, to clean out
The filth-heaped stalls of state-craft, and to crush
The wily self-coil'd many headed snake,
Killing the country with corruptive bloat
Of poison. Hark to the giant! he screams out
He, whose maw gloated o'er man, woman, and child,
Now that the Hero's club darkens his head,
He screams out “Murder”—and the hissing snake—
Smitten too sharp for wiles and fangs to work
Shrieks murder—and the tyrant—he, too, who heaped
These and all hellish crimes on his own head

With fire, and sword, and poisonous tropic bogs
Deadlier than Lernœan; he who stabbed
In the dark, behind her back, the commonweal
Which to uphold so foully he forswore;
Slaying her faithful sons and followers
With the very weapons that she trusted him
To ward wrong from them; he whom treachery
Where else most hateful, must yet blush thro' its worst
Blackness to feel itself out-done by him;
Now, with the avenger's shadow in night dreams
Scaring his wolfish eyes, he, too, yells out,
“Murder, forbear me, to kill me is crime—
But I—my thousand murders hallow me.
I'm dipped so deeply in that hellish Styx
To immortal holiness.”

Hark the fiend's laugh,
Echoes his scream: but steel and shot, ah no!
Nor e'en the rope, 'twould shrink with shame from such
Carrion: then hold thy hand, Tyrannicide,
That name means warlike weapons—no such blood
Shall sully them—the cool deliberate law
When man returns to it—as surely he will,
After full hearing and well witnessed search,
Shall doom thee to fit fellowship with those
Thou didst suborn—to the soldiers' jakes—deep down,
To be smothered in its foulest—there be thy true
Congenial home, and self-wrought monument;
For thee and for thy memory—so thy last
Scene shall fulfil late justice; and thy death
Betoken and reward meetly thy life,
So God's dark ways were justified to men.

Thence were all thankful—all but flunkeydom,
With its pale sobs and shrieks—“What! murder a king!
Eh, Flunkey! dost so hate king-murderers?”
“Yes, surely!” “Well, thou'rt right. Here, then, hate him—
He's the king-murderer; of murderers
The King—the Emperor—but comfort thee—
We give him but one drop from his own cup,
Whence thousands, scores of thousands, by that foul

Wretch, whom Hell—ah! but to the ears polite
Of Flunkeyhood, Hell is too horrible—
Thou'rt all aghast at it, and he—but, no—
Enough of that rank stench—stir it no more—
Only a word to thee: Thou'rt in high place—
Flunkeyship is a ladder of many steps;
Thou hast thy servants—suppose then, thy steward:
Thou giv'st him thy whole household to control,
As Pharaoh to Joseph. He forecasts
His plan, forelays his train, bribes thy men, creeps
Around at midnight, clutches all he can,
Murders thy sons who stand for duty and thee;
Others, away to prison and tropic swamps,
Gags all the rest—thee too—squanders thy wealth
On wanton strife, pomp, riot, and ruffian
Followers; or wasteful works, meant but to bribe
Thy workmen.—Thou, meantime, pining in slave
Wretchedness; should the thought arise to thee,
Must I for ever live this foul sewer-life?
Can I not free me? Shoot him, stab him down!
How unmanly were thy thought, how wicked! Eh,
Flunkey? Should leave him, say'st thou, to the law—
What to his own law—his own hireling gang—
His own self-judgment—his own balloters,
Prefects and Mayors, correcting to his own
Self-sacrificing will, the waywardness
Of universal suffrage? Oh most wise
Flunkey! Yes, for such law is good enough
For thee, no better thou deserv'st—but we—
We're not all Flunkeys.”

That guest listened his host:
A swirling speech of wormwood bitterness.
I've said, my aim is lofty. Nothing less
Than happiness thro' fellowship to man
In all that laws, framing his outward life,
Make for his good or ill. So high to build
Behoves me from the ground self to begin.
For, Hermann, mark me this; much have they erred
The patchers of each crazy polity,
Looking to selfishness of severalty

More than the folks' main good; taking no heed,
Ever as fresh materials come to hand
By growth of men and wealth, traffic and skill,
To frame them in after the primal plan
Lopping the rank outgrowth of greediness
Down to proportion and fair ordinance.
Reducing all to the original rule
Whate'er accrued: and so throughout their task
Keeping their eye still on the central Truth,
To truthen their whole work; but they, instead
Tampered their high trust, deeming it enough
Could they but hold what others handed them,
However blindly: reckoning the far
Following ages of their fellow-men
For nothing: crowded in a ciphers' round.
Thus heartless arrogance o'erstrode the space
Wide all enough for thousand worthier needs
With one self-usurpation—evermore
Spreading and towering, till the giant pile
Strong in o'erbearing bulk, defied the hate
That scowled on it, to stir it from its stand.
And scorned the helpless scowler. Thus mankind
Is a body plagued with boils: bloating themselves,
Starving the sinews: till the heart of health
Sickens, the blood is tainted, the life droops.

Thus the old rule bewrays us; and its lines,
Crooked and crazy, serve but to contrast
Reason's strait project, strait and true—I mean
No other—not as worldly statesmen are wont,
Dotards of old tradition, to grope on
Their aimless twisted way; sideling, aslant,
Or backward, as selfcraft finds likelihood,
But to retrace our forefathers vague maze
And start from Truth's first stand: they were bewrayed
Thence, and went wrong; we must now speed aright.
Surer to win from that foreloss—since dear
Experience is wisdom. The old wall
Is down on those who daubed its rottenness
With their raw mortar—so let it e'en lie.
Away with statecraft's saws, bury the dead,

And let the quick live their own life; heed not
The blear-eyed mumblers who would cripple us
To their own slowth; level all privilege—
And boil our canker'd constitution up
To fervency and fulness of young blood
In the fierce caldron of democracy.
But hold, all this sham thunder, thou wilt say,
Betokens nought but brazen hollowness:
See then the substance—first, we must lay well
Our ground-work: nay, 'tis there, already laid,—
The folk-stone, the yore-rock—the good land-self
That underlies all manhood and all life;
That rock, as we were hewn from it, so now
Return we to it, to our broad deep base.
Else how should revolution e'er have end,
Unless the land's strong substance stay its wheel,
And giving body to its theory,
Fix fast its airy scheme—all project else
Is but a cheapjack's whirligig, may wheel
In air, but never work in this stiff world.

So they miss'd aim, the word-wise drivellers,
Statecrafty, who erst stamped their seal on France,
Marring a likely metal. There, as here,
Would'st have the people stand up steadfastly,
Give them the landstead—given but once, no fear
Lest old prescription wrest it back from them;
Or frame another fraud, having no ground
But only the thin air to build upon.
But they, the dolts, wise but in words alone,
Set for a bolt, a feather on their string,
And shot their game away—the folk came on
To that loud call, and conquered ere they came;
But when, at last, none had a crust the more
Of bread for his belly, or a rag for his back,
Each looked at the other, and saw fruitless hope
And rage, reflected from his brother's face
Upon his own. Then that same hollow trash
Of husks and windbags taken in fair words,
They threw it back in curses; leaving all
They'd done for whoso listed to undo,

Their beacon blouted, their faith fooled, their shouts
A hiss of scorn, their framework all ungeared;
Till Freedom, helplessly fluttering, from her height
Fell down; fell through mere void, and lack of stay
Should give her wings their purchase—but this lack
Now in this land shall hinder us no more;
No! that manhood may live—unstunted, unthralled,
The old foreright must die; the Lord's accursed
Landlock—shall be henceforth a grandsire's tale,
For scorn and wonder to his staring sons.
Justice shall speak in the universal shout,
Startling the noisy din of arrogance
To a faint crouching fear: drowning all else,
Curses, complaints, and spiteful selfishness
In its stern whelming utterance of folks'-will.
And only in such outbreak have we hope,
For what is our disease? The custom and course,
Nay, ingrown curse of law: which lawmongers
Are likelier far to aggravate than heal.
No, manhood must unshackle and uplift man
To a stateholder—from the state alone—
Free on freeland—no idle ownership—
But our kind mother earth shall thence bestow
Her wealth on whoso wins it by his work,
Not on the robber of God's general gift,
Who looks but on, feeding his humours foul
Of idleness from the salt sweat of serfs.
Hard bread, no thanks. This done, the folk is freed.
For so the Giant Alazonocracy
Sundered from hold on earth—which bred him first
And ever pampers him—whereon indeed
Is strung the very navel of his life,
Shall dree though late his death-dole. Freedom and hope
Shall cheer the working swain and townsman too,
The one reaping his toil, the other assured
Of his toil's worth, disfettered and dearth free,
Buying two loaves of the sturdy husbandman
For what the greedy landlord grudged him one—
So making plenty, erst as strange to him
As angels upon earth, his housemate now,
Homely, as o'er his hearth his own goodwife,

Nor craving aught beside.—This were a stroke
Indeed, not here and there a bough trimmed off,
But the root severed. Such upbreak must be—
For without Revolution true reform
Is none—no other hope for old crazed states.
Who crosses rotten ground, tangled with briars,
Broken with stub and stone, bogged with foul ooze,
Corrupt, behoves him with high hand to smite
Those breasting brambles, with high striding foot
To o'erstep bog and plashet; hindrances
Which to get through by any lawful path,
Trial and time were hopeless.

Hear me once more.
What fear deems hardest, is oft easiest
To the determinate strong stubborn will:
And desperate to the brave is bravest hope.
For safety dwells not in the shallow sands
Of statecraft, but in mid-sea depth, where sails
The ship as free and fearless as its wind,
Tho' dotards ween it dangerous. Strike, I say,
The heart, each limb at once feels the death-stroke
And falls—would'st hurl the bull and hold him down,
Grapple him by the horns. So with strong hand
If we be wise, must we drag privilege
Down from its throne, and set up right instead:
Without all parley, will it please or no.
All this to do is but to free the ground
Godly enfranchisement. That toil, so stirred,
May rise and ply amain its thousand arms,
Thrashing to chaff and scattering to wind
Whoever dares withstand it. Then this land
From squire and parson freed, a kind of men
Akin to the black slug and cankerworm,
Shall trample that incarnate curse—ah no—
For flesh and blood it bares from off our bones—
Well then, that barebone cornlaw, Hell's own child.
Next, to crown free welfare with holiness
This Church, now standing, but as a monument
Only, of death and mouldering bones within,
Instead of Faith and Love; shall be renewed

Loftier in lowliness than erst in pride;
Abated from its height, but all the more
Outspread in compass of its heaven-like cope,
Lovingly to embrace all Christian souls,
One fold, one shepherd: and Christ's ministers,
No more masks, parsons, shams; but with free love
Offering free grace—bestowing heavenly gifts,
And taking earthly: behold this and say—
Was ever since the dawn of Paradise,
Or the thousand years of bliss the prophet saw
A sight so holy—as foreseen, e'en so
Fulfilled, may heaven vouchsafe it—such is my end.
And to that end behoves us to make sure
The means—but how and where—what call hath power
To compel those strong spirits from the deep?
Well, when I need them, I will call, and they
Shall come: but man is his own might: can work
His needs, or else forego them—Hermann, I say,
There dwells a witchcraft in the vehement will
That brings the world to its wake; sailing the sea
In a cockle-shell, and riding the thin air
On a straw's edge. The strong man makes his means
Which weaklings cannot wield when made for them.
My means, lad, are my men: for hearts there are
Of glowing temper whom I know and trust,
Will hazard all for such a hope, and hold
(Whene'er their country's welfare calls them on)
The greatest daring for the goodliest deed;
Deeming no height above their enterprise,
No pitch too shrewdly strained, if but the prize
Warrant the peril—and by godliness
They are transformed outright from sense to Faith,
Already in their hearts to hold the end
Ere the beginning: now, like herds with like:
And those I know of such a quality
May draw in others of their bias and bent,
To bide alike whate'er befal. So well—
And so my circle spreads: yet haply hope
Belies me, whispering that the brotherhood
Is heartwhole in this cause with God and me.
Say, is that hope o'erweening. Thou well know'st.

Oh! were they mine, then would such men, linked in
Shiver the foeman's sword, both edge and thrust,
Like a mail-coat: this stick against that wall—
See, there the bits lie broken—e'en so speaks
My trust: and that same trust were thoro'-steeled
If thou wert one with us—for such a one
Makes many more—thou'rt young, and should'st be bold
And thy warm heart streams swiftly from thy tongue,
Stirring dead souls to life—so thou art famed—
And I—no less I've found thee—less—nay more;
A lofty spirit towering above
This low-lived world—prone to dare overmuch
Than leave undone the least that duty is called
By its country's claim. Moreover, thou hast means
Such as thy godly function gives to thee,
To strike thy stamp upon thy followers,
Who hold thee for their very seal of faith;
Look to thy likeness for all worth—nor own
No other witness. Go then, dedicate
That function to whose bidding it is due
Without all drawback, wholly unto God.
So may the Gospel breathe its life again
From the dead book it is. Take to thyself
The cross of this great trial, holiest
(Since He, our Saviour, bent beneath his load)
That man hath undergone—be thou but one—
And many others shall make up our host
To a full power—speeding, like mighty winds,
To fill each void. Then shall this land hold up
Freedom's fair standard for all folks beside,
And our loud blast be echoed thro'out earth
With like results—Kings, at the sound, shall creep
Each from his throne, and hide his sceptre away
For fear of coming wrath; glad to lose all
Beside, and keep his life—lordliness, too,
Shamed of its silly self, helpless as the owl
Sitting abrood upon its addle-egg
In sunshine, shall then doff its borrowed shams,
Loathing to live aflaunt in tawdriness,
Like a crazed jade. “Nay, but I'll be a man
Among my fellows:” who so death-like dull

But feels that freshening spirit, who but hopes
That Christian Love may thence become the truth
Of its name now?

But Hermann, tell me not,
The hazard is beyond all reach of hope,
The means but straws; and the utmost worth of them
To make a forlorn blaze in dead of night,
Shewing the pitch of darkness—a short while—
Then once for all darkly devoured in it.
Nay—construe me not so—rather say thus—
All other means and shifts, manifold shapes
Wanting but substance only, have been tried,
And trial has still failed, till hope has pined
To a ghost—wonder, it were, if otherwise.
For the main good thus built on privilege!
Aye, yonder mountain set on its snow-peak
Would stand as surely—perish such fool-dreams
Henceforth as heretofore. But for new ends
Behoves us a new aim—and when old hopes
Have been tried thro', and witnessed worthlessly,
Then from their shadows, as they fleet away
We turn unto the substance left behind,
To give it trial—aye—substance it is—
God's land is broad, and deep, and strong. Who builds
Thereon, nor he nor yet his work belongs
To the dream-world. Ho! a new faith—and I
Its prophet.

Hermann, yes. I am the first
To bid the folk; “Bestir ye for yourselves:
Build your own welfare on your own sure ground.”
Leaving fond lies, offspring of quibbling brains
To chase each other like the clouds away,
And no man heed them—helping each the whole—
Scoffing alike that old witchcraft, and this
World-wisdom, older yet and crazier.
Upholding simple sense alone for sure
Truth; leaving learned windings for strait roads.
Levelling those rotten walls of privilege
That stand in bugbear show, by sufferance,

Not their own strength—already undermined
And crumbling inwardly—a giant frame
Clay-footed; weak, as any wizard's straw
To keep the strong man out. This to fulfil
Needs only stir the leaven and raise the mass;
For what the folk wills earnestly, that God
Wills too—'tis doomed and done.

Thou hast heard all.
And are thy ears the portal of thy soul,
Or but a sink of waste? so heedfully
As thou hast listened to the word of hope
Wilt thou drive on the deed as forwardly?
Enough of talk—why more! a single breath
Kindles the aspiring spark, and that same one
Blows its dull fellow out; how shall Truth's words
Prevail with a sheer worldling; one stone dead
To glowing faith and love? Only behold
What is before thee: and sure then thy soul
Eager as the unwavering wild hawk
Will follow on the view—honour to thee
And thine; and the renowned inheritance
Of such a name as history will take
Thoughtfully to her bosom—love and free
Welfare for all mankind—once won, ne'er lost,
Blent with the air we breathe.

Oh say thou art
A man indeed, willing to dedicate
Thy soul to such a holiness of aim,
Or else avow thyself one of the beasts
That perish—born to fatten, and die, and rot,
And so thy duty done. Well—come what will—
I too have done my deal—uttered my whole
Conscience—'tis thine henceforth—nor would I take
Unto myself the glory and the grace
That should belong to thy own forward will
By urgency and ondrift more than needs
To a free spirit—no, be thou thyself
Unto thyself thy soul of enterprise;
For other counsellor thou needest none,

Being the man thou art. Go, and farewell.
Time speeds—we meet again; but thou meanwhile
Ponder my words—then tell me, once for all
What is their worth, how in thy scales they weigh.”

So spoke the unbending stern Republican,
Nor waited answer: but on his last word.
Sudden as fleeting ghost, its tale once told,
Turned back; with but a clasp of his guest's hand.
No other phrase. Man, thro' each shifting mood,
Clear or else clouded, gay or sorrowful,
Doth to his fellow intimate himself:
And sternly, his host's mind hinting his own,
And self-collected, so did Hermann too
Go homeward his lone way; betraying nought
In outward show of what he felt within,
But wearing his old wont. Then, as he went,
Many unruly clashing energies
Forth issued in the darkness of his soul,
Like lions from their lair; glaring around,
Where, save their glare, no gleam of light was else
In the wild waste. Ambition, dreamy and rash,
As tho' but needed to stretch out the hand
And grasp the stars; showing its glamour afar,
Fleeting, and flashy, but yet gorgeous
As yonder cloudy ridge, where the sun sets.
But bubbles, howe'er bright, must burst: and then,
For youth and passion are most swift to change,
E'en as his spirit had mounted dizzily,
Downward it sank as deep; and on its fall
Danger upreared his giant hideousness,
Growing in stature like a thunder-cloud,
Sudden and strange; till all was darkened o'er,
E'en the last star of Hope. “Yes, true it is.
Ours is a land angels must weep o'er it,
And fiends exult: where to make other abuse
Tho' foulest, fair by contrast, the rich man
By his poor brother pamper'd to pride's fill,
Yet robs him for all thanks of half his bread,
And then, with that sour scorn, “'tis for thy good
This dearth,” embitters the scant half he leaves.

Tyranny 'bove the utmost of the Turk
To dare it, yet here done by Christian men.
Alas! how shall such outrage 'scape the fire
It heaps on its own head? and yet, tho' hard,
Man must forbear; vengeance is God's—for me,
Long time I've studied to frame life afresh,
And give to manhood rightful self-command.
But with fair means and suasive gentleness,
Abhorrent from all outrage—with Truth's light
By knowledge lit, burning so heavenly bright,
That men must follow it: working its change
Most like the sun, with a mild energy,
But nothing violent—for the Lord comes
Not in the whirling wind, earthquake or fire,
But in the still small voice. So He o'ercomes
Evil with good: this ring—this seal—is my faith's
Stamp—ano cato—my own words on it,
Strong words—so I gar'd grave them—but to me
They mean—not upside down, wild anarchy;
But Cato up. The strong stern thoro' state
Pruner, with sharp relentless knife—shall clear
The excess of rank corruptive growth, reduce
Waste to the straitest rule of thrift, and leave
None but fruit-bearing branches. Such was my hope.
Or if by Revolution I could sum
In one full smooth equation a score terms
Each knotty, cross, and sorely fought; thro' which
Reform, slowly and hard struggling, yet scarce
Fulfils man's hope 'gainst selfish hindrances,
And oftener is baffled, so 'twere well.
But such a swoop as this, why 'tis more wild
Than e'er the dreams of lawless wilfulness
E'er dreamt—'tis Satan, the old Anarch, himself.
I thought to win by Love, Faith, Righteousness;
And what these fail shall robbery fulfil,
With rank rebellion? foul the sore—but no
Such rash discharge can help it; true, they're strong,
If bulk be strength, the folk he reckons on:
So is the sea-sand too—but, for it lacks
Steadfastness, and hardbound consistency,
Men may not build with it. With it, oh no,

Nor yet upon it. 'Tis too clear for words.
This outbreak for its wickedness must lose—
And even were it rightful, from its own
Weakness—no more—die, word and deed—thought too—
Unuttered.”

So his gloom o'erclouded him
Awhile, but be the clouds black as they may,
The sun will shine again; and all the more
Forthgleaming in that dark and stormy sky
Did Love's warm light excel in loveliness.
It looked upon him like a soft-eyed star
Shining alone at night; and well he deemed
He could outfight a peril worse than e'er
Yawned in the surging wave, or howled in the blast,
Beneath the radiance and guiding hope
Of such a comforter. They are a pair,
Danger and Love, well matched in wrestler's strife
When earnest. Sorely then they strove in him.

“Dost deem me a stranger?
Dost spurn me aside?
What doubt'st thou of danger,
With Love for thy guide?
To cheer thro' all weather
Thy maiden and thee:
Then go forth together,
Go forth and be free.”

“Look on the clouds embattled o'er thee,
Hark to the war blast of the wind.
Turn from the raging flood before thee,
To the home-peace thou leav'st behind.
Gaze on the gulf that roars below,
Till dizzy horror dim thine eyes—
For thee and thine it rages so—
Look once, and be for ever wise.”

“That cloud shall pass over,
And then the clear sky
That its curtain doth cover
Shall gladden thine eye.

And the flood that thou fearest
Shall lend thee its force:
Wheresoever thou steerest
Still speeding thy course.”

“But oh! the world's a giant thing—
And what art thou to dare its wrath?
An atom idly combating,
To stay its parent planets path.
Yes, when yon shadowy clouds shall grow
Into yon solid mountain mass,
And shape in stone their airy show—
Then shall thy dreams be brought to pass.”

“And wilt thou for fear
Of the strife may befal,
Leave thy hope basely here,
Love, glory, and all?
My torch's bright flame
Shall I quench it in dust?
And shall thy bright name
Be but canker and rust?”

Oh no! thou'rt known and tried: it may not be
To speak of baseness in one breath with thee:
Such fire as thine, when adverse blasts do blow,
Stirred by their spirit all the more doth glow.
Why is the young blood warm, its yearnings high?
But to dare all, and do what ne'er shall die.
Go then, assert thy privilege of youth,
Tread down misgivings 'neath high-minded Truth.
For see, ambition, love, and earnest hope,
All spur thy will, and speed thee to thy scope.
What tho' that scope be distant? look and see
We love yon sunny hills tho' far they be:
We love them more than all we see around:
These dreary moorlands, and this marshy ground,
Then for thy life—its highest worth were this—
To stake the bubble against lasting bliss.
On then—forthright—nor heed what dastards say,
Such fire as thine will ever win its way.

And oh! that maiden, couldst thou live and see
A bolder rival's love preferred to thee?
Bolder than thou to dare and to endure
All perils prompted by her soul so pure.
That soul so pure as justifies the wrong
And sanctifies the right where'er it doth belong.
Yes, thou could'st bear her hate, but ah! her scorn!
So deemed of her thou wert indeed forlorn.

Such were the thoughts, shifting and shadowy,
That hope and fear, untoward counsellors,
Whispered within him. Toss'd between the two,
He went his way, fitful and heedlessly,
Deaf of his ears, blind of each idle eye:
Bemused and senseless in his depth of soul.
So doth the rush of passion overbear
From within, outward shapes. Forward he strode
Hurriedly—but with many a pause between—
The bar of some cross thought.

Ere this the sun
Had climbed the slope of heaven, and seemed there
To pause awhile in height of power: as a King
Glad to look down on lowly happiness,
And feel his warm reflexion—Hermann then,
Body and soul yearned from the heat to shade,
And coolness—both he found on a grass-knoll
Planted with five small trees and evergreen,
Both with their waving full-leaved overgrowth
And the refreshment of a hidden spring,
That gathered there its waters deep below,
And gave that verdant token of its life
Unseen but not unfelt. Thence was he wont
Erewhile, what haste soe'er might drive him on,
To dwell with calm delight upon the fair
Landscape that spread before him far away,
Far as the eye could reach: stealing its thoughts
From the tired mind, and stirring in their stead,
Soul-feelings, such as sweeten solitude.
There thro' that vale Nature in loose half wild

Loveliness, lay awaiting husbandry
To quicken her to birth, and the far hills
Within their frames her pictured wide delight
Confined, where farther had been weariness,
O'erstraining the intent eye—all alike,
Meadow and wood, and the clear sky above
Was blended in the harmony of joy,
Save where, perchance, man's spirit mixed itself
To jar the gracious whole with its own grief.
Shame on thee, manhood, froward that thou art!
Thou, the world's crowning glory, last of all
Created, for perfection of the work,
Yet oftener dost but mar it. Sad yet true—
And none more sadly ever felt the truth
Than did that lonely lad. The golden light
Served but to show his gloom yet gloomier:
For the sun makes the shadow.

He was wont
Oft as his evening duty reached that height,
And but an eyeshot between him and home,
To stay fond gazing, and send on his sight
To gather his first fruits of glad return,
And fill his heart. There was each homely thatch,
Orchard and garden, and rough fir-stemmed porch,
Whereon the climbing rose and eglantine
Like wilding flowers upon a village maid,
More sweetly showed decking rusticity,
There they stood yet, nor to their loveliness
Lacked aught but the enlivening radiance
Shed over all from the beholder's soul
Yearning towards them. Alas! where that should be
Was but a void—a dreary void. There sank
His spirit, and in that same drooping mood
He laid his weary body down at length.

Yes, ye far mountains, ye are still the same:
I loved to look on ye in days bygone:
But then there seemed a soul within your frame:
And now 'tis a cold corse I gaze upon.

Nature, a queen thou seemest, and art none.
For 'tis not thou, but fancy, queens it still:
Thou waitest as a vassal at her throne:
And she doth grace thee, and disgrace, at will.

Oh! ye fair friends, where is your faithfulness?
Yet looked ye, as your love could know no change.
But now I seek ye home in my distress:
And find ye cold and heartless as things strange.

Yes, the soul grieves when pleasure doth depart,
And when pain comes then doth it grieve again:
But most it grieves, when in the bitter heart
What once was pleasure is transformed to pain.

And thou too, Love, I chose thee for my light,
To be my hope and joy unto the end:
Then wherefore hast thou quenched thy torch so bright
And art my foe that wert profest my friend?

For thou could'st rule me in all amity;
Both of the lord and of the liegeman too—
Then why so prove thy power in tyranny?
Harrowing evermore a heart so true.

For 'tis no evil for myself I fear
From this or other perilous emprize:
But that her happiness I hold most dear;
Dear to my heart as light unto my eyes.

And I could dare all danger to the death.
Bidding to fear defiance for her love:
But that my spirit inly shuddereth,
To send among the storms that gentle dove:

Where is no olive branch nor sheltering ark:
And but a fearful hope, a lightning gleam
To guide our passage thro' the trackless dark,
Where life itself is but a wild death-dream.

Alas! in loving her that I must hate
Duty; and bear my own, or else her scorn:
Oh most perverse misprison and hard fate!
But come what may it shall be bravely borne.

Away ambition—much I cherish thee—
But may not trust thee with her happiness,
Honour and Truth, hence I'm atoned to ye,
And yield my self-love, since ye will no less.

But why, my soul, art troubled? Why droop so?
Be holy, earnest, happy. 'Tis God's will
And man's whole duty—why distrust it? No
All else may stagger. Truth is steadfast still.

BOOK IV.

So did that youth choose Duty before Love:
And so determination drove away
The doubts that held him with ungainly check
Wavering—for the will, manhood's life-stream,
Runs in its working channel swiftly forth,
Or else being stagnant, straightway is corrupt
To births unwholesome and dank noisomeness:
New fangling the one healthy life it was
Into a thousand most brain-sickly shapes,
That live, but in such hideous kind, as death
Were welcome to outdo them—

Awhile that lone
Stripling, as a stranded ship, lay buffeted
By fierce conflicting waves, helpless to do,
And dreeing all the more. But as that ship
Thro' lustiness and manhood of the crew,
Sudden, by a strong effort hard, 'gainst hope,
Uprising from her sunken bed bears up,
Stemming the surging breakers, boldly ahead,
And overrides each billow, like war-steeds,
Snorting and foaming: while the winds must miss
Her wreck, but fill her sails and swell her pride
With power triumphant—thus it fared with him,
As in his wilful mood he started up
And went his way. “There is my goal—must on
To reach it—leaving all, e'en Love itself,
For conscience's sake.”

Happy the man who knows
The holy comfort of a righteous will—
To be for once, and oh! if once for all

Godly and true: to strike as angels do
Straight to their aim, and embassy of good:
And feel the while an angel's spirit and wings
Speeding our way: leaving far down below
The mazes of this world, for the clear path
That conscience rules, and keeps it steadily
Without all fear, by Faith upholding her,
But wherefore talk to worldlings of such bliss
As but God's children know? or show him pearls
Whose soul wallows in mire—grovelling there
For all that it believes—swine-like belief—
And such is natural man. Sure he who erst
(As poets tell, fabling, but truthfully,)
Stole fire from heaven to animate our clay
Was but a scanty thief; who, having spent
His daring on that danger, lacked at last
The wit and will undazzled to behold
And readily to grasp the prize he'd won;
But fled, dispurposed by preposterous fear,
Leaving his work undone; and bringing down
But some sad ashes where true fire was dead,
And only a scant lingering lukewarmth
O'erlived to be our soul. Else had that fire
Been but itself, true to its godly source,
How holy then were man? Surpassing all
That his hope now aspires to or heart feels,
Far as the sun that glorifies our heaven
Excels the marshborn foggy meteor.
But truly whoso first devised that tale
Told it not for a memory of things done,
But for a hope of what remains to do:
That so regret of an old dream might stir
A new desire to compass the thing dreamt:
Hinting to Nature what she needeth most,
Not what she hath: that man, so stirred, might rise
Godward, all selfish lost in that sublime,
And get the spirit he lacks; by exercise
Of heavenly visions high contemplative,
Such as draw down, communing to and fro,
The holy flame to his soul; the flame that erst
Prophets, and patriots now; else a dark death

Foredoomed them: for themselves and all their hopes,
And the commonwealth of man.

But why such waste
Of wholesome words? sooner shall this dull earth
Which, as born thence, our being doth partake,
Stay its unresting and most eager whirl
To listen the high spheral harmony;
Than man, in moil and hurry of this life
Give wisdom, between whiles, hearing and heed,
Tho' but to read her writ and show her seal;
His stamp from whom she came. No, each man treads
The track his fathers trod ages bygone;
Till deep and deeper to a rutway worn
Downward—so deep—they see but the dull mounds
Cramping them in: there ever at the heels
Of their foregoers, driven by the lash
Of law, in clogs and shackles of world-wont,
They plod their weary life, hopeless, since here
Drudgery is endless. Nor once think to hold
Council—and well consider the true chart
That wisdom, from her height viewing awide
Sets forth—man's will to wisen, and so speed
His work—but thereto needs the reasoning soul
And man is mainly brutish—needs withal
For that same soul the mood it seldom owns—
Such fearless stirring fiery forwardness
As shall enforce its visionary right
To a reality—Hermann had both.
But in such wise as hitherto would burn
Only within the temple of his mind—
A light to teach his hearers; not to blaze
Beacon-like, earnestly, for warlike work,
Upstir and outbreak: haply, for he found
No field; or else he deemed this drivelling time
Hopeless, and waited the high driving tide:
Or, if the hour already were at hand
Yet must some other dourer and doughtier
Fulfil that mighty project—what was he
To undertake it? Thrusting himself through
The bold presumptuous throng. “Come, follow me,

I am your leader:” how put others by
Born to the craft, of wilier, likelier skill,
Seize this world's steerage—this huge hulk that drifts
Helplessly, aimlessly, with wind or tide;
Fling overboard its shamming selfish state
Pilots, who mindful only of their pelf,
In straits and shallows keep it craftily
Pretending hidden danger on each side—
Then boldly hands to work—and the ship's head
Amain, forthright o'er ocean, freely in full
Sail, while the baffled breakers foam behind
In shallow rage.

But he,—since old world wont
Had tangled our State-threads so crazily,
Behoved a stronger hand to wield the sword,
Must cut the knot. This and the ruinous wreck
That seemed to lower from the enterprise
On his own home and hers, his fellows too,
And followers, his whole country and its hope—
Rivetted his denial—as right sure
That such a project, how true-aimed soe'er,
Like a child's silly cannon, must portend
Danger to the fool that fired it, not the foe.

Thence he sped onward, in more cheerful mood
From that determination, all the while
Chaunting his hopes and fears, fancies and thoughts
In under tone—for such his walk's lone wont,
Conning them so, to leave the Evil One
No room. And now his calmness imaged back
The landscape's ripening richness, as a shawl
Persian or Ind, in soft reposing show
Outspread—with smile for smile he thanked his God
That he could feel the season's graciousness
Darkened of late by his soul's cloudiness,
Feel, and requite it with adoring Love.

And now the air breathed on him genially
From his birth-home: he pass'd the village thro',
Straggling and far between; broken with wood,

Orchard and garden, meadows, lanes, oatfields,
Plenteous, nor pleasant less—and door by door
He uttered to the inmates his heart's grace,
Prized none the less for its small cost—such dew
Tho' slight, is yet refreshful; so good-will
Returns to the giver; and in endless chain,
Coming and going friendliness revolves—
Blest interchange! without it the world's wealth
Were but a beggar—this the old dame felt
Basking in the sun beside her spinning-wheel,
Intent on work, nor yet so wholly intent
As not to greet him coming with blithe looks
And bless him leaving: the old shepherd, too,
Who best loves serious talk; and she who most
Needs it, the saucy maid, pretty but pert:
Secure yet how unsafe. All had their turn
Of kindly word or smile—so on he pass'd,
Gladdening with the sunshine of his heart
The radiance of that sweet scene: until,
Tho' lingering as loath to shorten it,
He reached his Father's house. Him he found there
'Scaped from his scholars' impish noisomeness;
Taking his solace in the sunny ground
He tilled with his own hands: and tilled it so,
That scarce could a born spadesman of them all
Better his work. Faith, if he only wrought
Those urchin minds withal so winsomely,
They pass'd all praise. It seemed some kindly sprite
Had taken there his turn as gardener
For show of thoro' work. The rounded beds
Were swelling to their birth. The stately flowers
Rose daintily, as ladies of the soil,
Clean from the level mould. The gravel'd path
Showed like a golden stream, bright glistening
Through grassy slopes. The earth smelt summer-like;
The hedges in their shapeliness of trim
Were smoothed from their wild growth, with off-set green
Against the glittering sun. Thro' the whole space
The soul of summer shed its influence
And not a weed was there, foully to mar
The sweet society of herbs and flowers.

Hermann stood gazing not unwishfully
And inly thus he said—“Old man, thou'rt blest
Both in thy toil and the reward of it;
And I, in thy example, were blest too,
Did but the sire descend unto the son,
As like should beget like—but oh, harsh Fate,
And harsher Love!” So, as he thought, he paced
Evermore on, self-wrapt in thoughtfulness,
Till, at his sound of step, the old man turned
Hastily, and with like haste, thus began.
My Son—welcome once more—give me thy hand—
My own is all toil-stiffened; yet I feel
Its stiffness soften in this pressure of thine:
Truly—a glad grasp—for my boys, an hour
Earlier I gave them riddance—better so.
My wandering spirit, I could but feel it such,
Were ill for teacher's task—but prithee, why—
Why art thus late? Ah, well—no odds of that.
Look up boy—a clear blue—and not a cloud—
Would it were so with me: but 'tis the mind
Makes its own—ah! you know Milton's wise words.
And I—but 'tis a darksome tale, unfit
For sunshine. Come then—yonder bench by the brook,
With fir-gloom high o'erarched, deep in its death
Stillness, be it our seat—there receive thou
The overflowings of my troublous heart
Into thy own—for much would I fain say—
Much that unsaid were better for us both—
If so undone.

Hermann 'tis such a tale,
As the echo frightens me at every word.
Confounding with the fear of what is said
All that remains to say: not a man else—
Not e'en in death—shall be my trust-fellow
Of what I whisper thee: but thou'rt my son,
And in that title—well, title or no—
Listen; for I must tell thee.

Thou hast marked—
For to thy searching eye not even hearts
Are hidden—thou beholdest th' inward man

Through show and seemliness—that these late days
I've been—witness me what—cross as spleen's self.
Fickle and spiteful as the winds in March.
Some fit—some oncome—be it what it may—
Unearthly quite. The Devil himself in man's
Shape—and that man her father whom thou lov'st:
E'en so—e'en Hess. 'Tis he hath crazed my brain—
Haunted my dreams—and by some hellish sleight
Bewitched me, heart and soul, unto his will:
Nay, never fear, for thus I fling him off—
And stamp him down—his head beneath my heel—
The old serpent, for he tempted me—how think ye?
With what fiend-wiles? whither to follow him?
Why to o'erthrow State-rule, law, ownership
Itself, beneath mob-sway. Such his game is.
And on that game to let his hell-hounds loose,
The rabble that he holds in slip: shall scour
Earth like a whirlwind, rob, slay, burn, leave nought
But reeking havock. Look, boy—look around
How beautiful in plenty is the earth,
And how she doth give freely all she hath,
All this full summer flush. And shall her sons
For the one token of their thankfulness
Mar her free grace with war, and brother kill
Brother on his mother's bosom?

My dear son,
Others may marvel at this, if wildest rage
In these dog-days be wonder—others may—
But I myself who've thought the thing—the deed—
And sworn an oath to do it—I, alas!
Can only wonder at my sinful self;
Which, thus, I throw sheer off—loathing its thought
Like pested rags—'twas only yesternight,
Starting from sleep in sudden consciousness.
I seared this finger in the burning lamp
To try, whether or no I were a fiend,
Fire-proof—such as my dreams—ah, dreadful! yet why
Haunt thee with fancies: hear then the sad truth.

'Tis a short tale—he came, I know not whence,
A stranger, with but scant welcome from me;

Until, so wilily he wrought on me,
That formal greetings grew to fellowship;
And that to friendship often did we meet;
Such meetings as, not seldom, o'erlived night
Into the following day; and the ember heap
Died a cold death while yet our talk was warm—
First of slight gossip—neighbourly surmise—
Tillage and crops and haps—manifold fleet
Images, mirror'd in his lively mind
From outward show and surface of man's life.
Then books—soul—matter. There would I have stay'd,
In that safe stay I knew and loved the best,
But he would not. Next was Church, State, and Law
Searched with unfriendly eyes, till—having tried
His ground, and sounded me and mine—so far
As shallowness sounds depth—having found where
My patriot warmth was eagerest, and most
Careless of caution—thence he 'gan lay siege
With most deliberate craft, day after day,
Against my constancy and wiser mind.
Plying all sleight of reason—hope or fear—
As best might help his turn: stirring my bile
By presentation of the parson's tithe,
Beggaring my scant fare: puffing my pride,
Praising my learned proof: stuffing me full
Of perilous conceits; until my mind,
Like to some fireworker's accursed shell,
Crammed with all havock, waited but a spark
To burst amain in spiteful recklessness,
And wrack all round it.

But the screw wrought slow
That wrung me up thus to the topmost round:
No spring, but many steps. So, like a dram,
I sipped my danger: at first loathing it;
But, after while, needing the poignant fiend,
Whom bosom'd once, we hardly banish him:
Such a regretful thirst he leaves behind,
Unquenchable—with ever zestier stir
Hankering his recall. Thou know'st me well,
My words, my thoughts, all my behaviour,

For years bygone—so thou'rt aware that he
Spoke ever, to my mind, truest and best,
Who spoke the level folk-right uppermost,
And priestcraft lowest—high church down—low up.
How, when our parson, most ungospel-like,
Would grasp his flock, not with a helping hand,
To guide them, but to bleed and strip them bare,
Then did I give my counsel, hand, and means
To the revolters, and stood there foreright,
Braving all chance might come: and such a din—
Ah, yes—the peal I rang startled them all,
And frightened him—this thou canst vouch—and hast
This pledge, that all I've done, aye and forborne,
'Twas the main welfare prompted me—that ground
Here failing, why, I'm free—so, for my faith,
Be the past a token for the time to come.

Now, look, my son, how Heaven o'errules man's craft
To trick itself. He lured me ever on,
Giving the promised glory all to me.
My little means—puffing them mightily,
For his main end—what I could do myself,
And how draw others on. Sure, if I would,
To be the foremost man of all—the head
To the huge body of our enterprise:
And, truly, had he holden that first aim,
Then had he hit the mark: and the old thrall
Wherein this land now dotes so drowsily,
Were but a dream: then had dead things sloughed off,
And a new life come on—a quickening
Dawn, on the ashy dulness of that night,
Bright as a beacon blaze: to be caught up,
And sped around, till e'en the starry sky
Had marvelled at earth's brightness. True—most true—
I only, of all men, bore in my brain
The seeds of human hope and happiness:
Sure in that soil to flourish and bear fruit;
Aye, and as sure, elsewhere, in the slight sand
Of other souls, to give but shallow growth,
Withering away—but this truth, howsoe'er
Wholesome, stirs bitterly other men's bile,

Those most, whom most behoves to welcome it:
Therefore they love it not.

Yes, boy, that man
Whom it was Heaven's own will that I should lead,
And he but follow me—that clown—that Hess.
What think you? Why, when late I claimed my due,
What did he, but half chiding half scoffingly
Open strange eyes, and lend a wondering ear
To upright Truth—liking full well my work,
So 'twere mere task-work to his Lordship slaved,
But never to acknowledge me his head,
And hardly e'en his helpmate. Why, that dolt
Were best befitting, over the rear rank,
To drive the hindlings on—a lout—as raw
Compacted as the clay that fouls my feet
To tread on it—nice difference he knows none—
Laughs at book-lore—and he forsooth must be—
Will deign no less—our leader; must rule all,
And some would yield it him. Well, let who list,
Only not I—sooner shall yonder stream
Run in yon ditch, than I follow his lead,
Save for his downfall—and what, thinkest thou,
Doth he first purpose? why, to beggar us,
To make us outlaws—stripping off the old
Protection, whence this garden, orchard, field,
Requite my toil: for the mob's sake, and cheap
Outlandish bread, which if they got, they'd so
Glut, with such grace, as swine o'er their mast-fall
And acorns—now being dear, they know its worth:
And better so—much better careful dearth
Than thankless riotous plenty—then for his crown,
His fool's cap, our new temple—man's main hope—
On the old rotten rubbish he would build
On it, nay with it: clothe his mannikin
In the offcast Christian cloak—in Gospel faith—
That cloak so threadbare worn, that every eye
But the blear dotard, sees through its flimsiness,
Clear as the light: lasting but from disuse,
Like an old scutcheon; falling to dust
When handled. What! cram down our throats the stuff
They've loathed so long, and bid us thrive by it?

Nay, rather to the Gipsies for my faith—
To the relic bones for worship. Heaven save”—

“O yes, my Father, Heaven save us both,”
So Hermann broke upon his words, “from such
Utterance—for its feverish wild heat
Doth but the more chill me with shuddering fear
For the issue—too outrageous are thy words—
Their reckless wind blows death—whelming downright
Where it should waft along. Nay, breathe not aught
Of our religion save religiously,
For all the evil thou can'st say of it
Doth but enhance its holiness the more,
Being, in truth, but black detraction
Flung on a field of snow—showing what's fair,
More lovely 'gainst the foulness of its foil.
Father, I owe thee much—my life—tho' that
Is little, if unworthily it lives,
And thus I would requite thee: Come and share
This godly comfort with me if thou wilt.
Cherish this Faith, wear it and walk in it
As a white robe that beggars all things else,
Even the highest-plumed kingship and pride
Below an offcast rag.

But if thou'rt slaved
Out of thy loyalty unto our Lord
Into a harsher bondage, hard to bear,
And hardest to shake off—an iron yoke
'Stead of the Grace should guide thee: if such thou art,
But oh! Heaven grant thee—grant us both alike—
To be far other—then I ask of thee
What thou art nothing harmed to allow, but I
Happy to hold it—leave me then at least,
This faith which is indeed my soul of life,
And take away whate'er thy bounty gives
To eke my scanty means: for all else lost
Enhances the pearl left. Behoves us not,
Father and son, to wrangle with fierce words,
Therefore whate'er within I'm stirred to say,
I set the seal of silence on my lips;
And oh—do thou the like—to other ears,

As to mine own.—Forgive me, oh God, that I
Contend not 'gainst my sire on thy behalf;
And thou, much more, my sire, forgive me again,
If I forsake not God and God's own Truth
To follow thy stray will. Thou knowest me now—
Would I could know thee too, not as thou speak'st,
But as my will would have thee—so wert thou
Renewed in happiness; and I, how blest,
Sharing my Faith with thee!”

“Well, as thou wilt;
'Twere all as hopeful to go teach the wind
That bloweth where it listeth, as thus strive
To free the soul from its self fantasies
By Truth. Whoe'er makes Faith his idol, fools
His reason—go then—go drink hellebore,
And purge the bile that so beclogs thy brain—
So dims thine eyes. Clear thy own mist away,
And then thou wilt be early all enough
To show others the Truth—so much for thee.
Now, for myself—my purpose is fast staked—
I leave yon crafty madman and his crew,
As I've good cause: first, for his wiliness
Taking from me the sceptre of leadership—
And tendering me then a staff, a flail—
To handle in its stead—such a dull thing,
As sure the biggest bumpkin would wield best.
The clownish weapon of one who hath no head
To unthrall his horny hands from drudgery.
But this were little—then he would foresay
Our free Philosophy and reasons rule,
And patch the old priestcraft up—make man a child.
Aye, worse—a drivelling crone—last, to sum all,
The curse of treachery is on his cause,
Blighting it, root and branch. Truly, my son,
I were the offcast e'en of castaways,
Could I hold troth with him.

No, my best aim
Thus far gone forth with them is further on:
Redeeming by new righteousness my wrong,
Thro' use of what were sin being employed
'Gainst other men, but godliness 'gainst him,

Like a marsh meteor, to bewray them first,
Then leave them floundering. Beshrew their hearts,
But they shall feel me for their sharpest foe,
From late their fastest friend. Oh, could I wring
Into my tongue the hate that's in my heart,
Each word were poison. Yet, I tell thee again—
Once did I wish them well, and my heart glowed
With thought of the upshot—then I whisper'd thee
Some hopeful words, and thou did'st answer me
In chilling wise—thou did'st abhor it then,
And now much more—if thou'rt my son indeed,
And not undutiful to the warm blood
That did beget thee: or say—heart thou'st none
To feel my wrongs—yet 'tis not mine alone—
But thine no less. They love thee well—that man,
And his fair daughter—so thou readest them—
And thou lov'st too—so loving and so lost—
Fool'd and flung by; seethed in thy own soft milk,
Thro' the fond lure that they hold forth to thee,
Their maiden's beauty—but that lure is spread,
(For look ye, their kind unreserving will
Would see two men made happy rather'n one)
To other lusts than thine—nay, start not so,
Better look thro' the truth with earnest eyes,
Tho' it do blast thy sight. Mark them, I say,
Mark them: and that young Linsingen, mark him.
Needs no more said—be not blind wilfully—
'Tis but to ope thy eyes—then what thou see'st,
If it fall short one hair of what I've said,
Forswear me for thy father, write me down
A liar; and the love I forfeited
Bestow on them.”

He ended so his speech;
For Nature failed him; and his faculties
Were strained beyond their strength. Motionless there
He sate in mere exhaustion, until tears
Came to refresh the fever of his soul
Parched up by passion. His much wondering son
Had watched him thro' the maze of his discourse,
And saw the glittering snake fiery and bright,

And swollen to the full with venomous pride,
Unfold his deep-coiled wily tortuousness,
Development most hateful: eager he was
To break the treacherous curse threading that speech
Ere it had spent itself. Yet he forbore,
As having still, even in his despair,
A little ray of hope that the end might be
Better than the outset gave him warranty;
And then those tears, as falling down a face
Long wont for him to wear the smile of love,
Quite overcame him. He sprang up, and grasped
That wither'd hand so warmly, as brought back
The blood to the cold veins whence it had ebbed
As if to flow no more. Remorse of a sight
So piteous had choked up all reproach,
And turned his tide to childhood.

“My own dear
Father, how much better doth lowliness
And such a sorrow as thou showest now
Become thy years and their ripe wisdom mild,
Than what thy lips late spoke—unlike thyself:
Whirling out reason as the hurricane
Blasts a torchlight away. Much I do joy
That such a spirit is gone forth from thee,
And oh! if once for all! That thou dost turn
From the steep ruin of this enterprise
I blame thee not—but thy new zeal might give
A worthier proof than so to brand those men
Whom late thy own sworn faith partook with them.
Sir, in plain utterance, that is not well.
Nay, rather, parting, tell them thy whole mind:
Thy truth—their hopeless danger—such kind phrase
As haply may yet draw them after thee:
That mischief may be curbed by thy rebuke,
E'en at its moment gather'd for the spring,
And live for likelier aims; but thus—to shape
Their drift to ruinous downfall, from the end
Whereto ye now stand plighted, each and all:
What is it, but to wind their trust of thee
E'en as a halter round about their necks,
Forswearing faith, twisting the true friends' knot

Into the hangman's? Such a thought, if thine
It were, 'twould choke me but to utter it:
And being done—but why discourse of it,
As of a thing that hath substance and shape
To bear surmise—'tis a mere monster—and so
It should be strangled in its utterance
Without or name or note: for thy fellows' fault
'Tis only that too hotly they urge on
What urged aright were then most righteous.
Therefore soft words winning o'er wilfulness
Is the fit way to slack their eagerness
Not the sharp axe. What tho' they be misled,
Men use not to knock error on the head,
Should rather breathe thro' it Truth's kindly soul
Unto salvation. Father, I know well
Thy inmost mind is ever unto good,
Yet hath it something now, some wronging mote
Within—that thou should'st rid forthwith—will else
Harass thy vision sore and spitefully
To view all things awry. 'Tis written, Wrath
Worketh not righteousness: forgive me then
If thus perchance, I show my love to thee
In, seemingly, unloving wise—nor hence
Misdeem me, to fall short of what I should
In thy behalf of duty and reverence,
Because I tender thus my counsel unasked
Against thy bent of will. No—'tis but Truth
Prompts me to this sour office, Truth alone,
Thankless—nay, rather if hurtless, thankful so.
For when the iron is so raging hot,
He who would quench it with the cooling stream,
Let him beware—'tis danger. All I've said,
It's sum is short: hold thyself at the rate
That others deem thee, who best know thy worth.
So shalt thou shame all slander: and whate'er
Having well poised the weights, for and against,
Thou shalt herein determine were best done,
Believe me thy true son: will ne'er hold back
While thy behest cries, “Forward:” daring the height
Of the highest undertaking; so much more
As the more danger shall frown forth from it.

BOOK V.

So did the sire and son hold their discourse,
Meeting in love, but haply e'er they left
Wishing a wider room between their lives
For their love's likelier growth—lest having lost
Already its main substance, it should lose
Even its show, in bickering sullenness,
Sinking from chill to cold—meeting thenceforth
As shadows meet, darkly, ungenially,
And so pass scowling by.
Ah! who can look
Upon such passages in life as this,
'Strangement of blood from blood, father 'gainst son,
Satanic eld 'gainst youth, fraud against faith;
Nor blush for manhood? Ah, man's worshipful grace,
Grace or grimace, both worshipful alike!
And oh the ape's grin, yet more worshipful
And worthier! for it shams no feeling, and speaks
No lie; nor slaves itself to any ape-gang
In manacled companionship, where each
Being bound by such shrewd ties as cut to the quick
Whome'er they bind, must bear both gall and jar
When his gang-fellow, starting frowardly,
Or swerving waywardly from his right line,
Or flinging himself foully on the path,
Drags the whole chain awry.
How shallow then
The dreamy Turk, who asked and got that sad
Soul gift of insight, to scan thoro'ly
Each worldling's heart. Alas! that sight once seen

In its fair-seeming whited hideous
Foulness, no kindly man would look again.
Much rather would he tear the memory
From his mind, and fling it back where it belongs
To the soul-sewer, unknown, unregister'd.
But conscience hath no fellow, save itself—
Communes with none beside. God willed it so—
Else could belief ne'er be—for that means love,
And who can love what's hateful? drear were life?
If man with man were conscious: but now Faith
Covers our brethren's sins with seeming worth
For charity to cherish. Ignorance
Most blissful! for our faith in other men
Outwardly working doth reflect from them,
Tho' all unworthy, its radiance on ourselves.
For godliness and kindness as they work
So grow. 'Tis thus Faith leads wandering souls,
Others perhaps, howe'er its own, from the world
To God, with holy life quickens the dead,
Hallows that world itself to Eden, and hearts
From fiend to angel; spreading heaven-like,
O'er earth: for heaven is theirs who live from it.
They, in mean time, the inmates of that house,
Were busied with much care: Hermann that morn
In tremulous hurry had bidden them farewell
And homeward sped. Faith, a short stay, for one
Whose heart was rooted there: but why such haste?
Was it that Time was slow within those walls,
And therefore he would shorten it? or did stress
Of needful business overbear his will,
Bidding him far away? or did the brow
Of that fair maiden frown upon him then,
Erewhile so gracious? or the radiance
Of one yet fairer did it light his hope
Another way? No matter—little avails
To guess what none may know. Only he's gone:
And if that parting hour to him was sad,
'Twas tearful sorrow to a softer heart.
The careful mother marked her daughter's brow
Woefully drooping, and thus asked her why:—

“Lucy, the sun is golden bright,
The sky is azure clear,
And all is full of joy and light—
Oh, be of better cheer—
And tell me, whither hast thou been
To catch thy fit of care?
For in thee only is it seen,
And all is gay elsewhere.
Prithee, is aught upon thy heart?
For sure if crosses fall
A guileless maiden as thou art,
Should tell her mother all.”

“Mother, thou knowest all I know—
I've often heard thee say,
There's many a cloud that will not go
However bright the day.
And sometimes we are like to smile,
And then to weep again;
Unknowing wherefore all the while,
In pleasure as in pain:
And I felt something of distress;
Some dark and dismal fear;
And, for I knew it foolishness,
I came to hide it here.”

“Nay, Lucy, hide what else you will,
But hide not truth from me:
For truth beseems a maiden still,
Whate'er the trouble be.
For thou hast wept, and in thine eye
I see the glistening tear;
And when a girl weeps silently,
A mother must needs fear.
The clouds upon a virgin face
Full lightly come and go;
But tears, and thine have left their trace,
Spring deeper from below.”

“Yes, Mother, I will tell thee true,
And I have wept full sore;
And let me weep, 'tis sorrow's due,
Or I must grieve the more.”

“Ah, then thou lovest—sure 'tis so—
For nought but love could bow
A pretty maiden's heart so low
As thine is bent e'en now;
But when did love become a crime?
A thing of shame and scorn?
'Twas not so rated in my time—
Or thou had'st ne'er been born.
And other youthful hearts are light,
And why should'st thou despair,
With brow so high and eye so bright
And golden flowing hair?
And soon will Linsingen be here—
And he hath much to say—
Will sound like music in thine ear,
And grief will then away.”

“But he is come of lofty line:
And, courteous tho' he be,
Yet never can I call him mine:
He may not stoop to me.
No—never can he share our lot—
Then wherefore dream in vain?
Oh leave me to this lowly cot,
And name him not again.”

The maiden ceased: the mother looked on her
With such a look as thro' the shrinking eye
Pierces the heart in penetration keen:
Angrily at the first, then earnestly;
So to discern by the significance
Shown in that proud face, scorning subterfuge,
What spirit prompted that unwelcome speech.
She feared, for much it had misgiven her
(Since her child lost her mirthful laugh, nor spoke
Her feelings, only now and then a sigh,
Swiftly suppressed, by stern self-gathering will),
That there lay something lodged within her heart
Too deep for words.
Oft had that dame discoursed
(For sorrow from its darkness loves to look
Up to the slightest chink that lets light in,

And with it hope,) of the young Linsingen,
His wealth, his youth, his looks, his forefathers,
All that commends to man in the eyes of world
Wisdom: she spoke; and her fair daughter heard,
And, haply, listened; but, it might well be,
Felt not at all; or feel whate'er she might
'Twas no such feeling as her mother would.
Enough. Her after woes will trace their way
Clearer than words. Only thus much is sure.
That this most wary mother, knowing well
That Love, when scant, is but a beggar boy,
And, likely, wretched in his beggary,
Wretched the more as waking from rich dreams;
This having learned, as trial taught her truth,
Not knowingly alone, but feelingly,
In daily desolation of her heart;
Fain would she compensate her own sad chance
With a golden wedlock for her child achieved;
Its substance for her child, and for herself,
Its rich reflected radiance, happier yet,
To be the comfort of her later life.
Therefore on Hermann, so bethinking her,
Cold was her countenance, as being one
Who must win wealth, if ever, by self-will
And strength, no other likelihood—but then
His lofty hopes, o'erlooking his own ends,
Aimed mainly at the welfare of mankind,
A mark tho' fair, yet barren, cold, far off,
As a lone glacier—rich with many rills
To fertilize and bless the nether earth,
But fruitless for itself.
From such a man
Her eager eyes would turn to Linsingen,
As to an angel; should take, once for all,
Her darling's hand, and lead her, both but one,
To Paradise. Howe'er, to a worthier home
From her hard father's house: leaving that house
No blank, but a rich blessing in her stead:
Not lost, but gained. So did the mother hope:
And as she hoped, she trusted too awhile.

“For is not my pale Girl, tho' proud, and oft
Self-wrapped in her broad forehead's thought, yet most
Gentle, and to my will, as a gentle boat
To its own wilful stream; stirring not, save
From that stream's influence?” Such her self-sure dream;
Else, her lone maiden to choose frowardly,
Like any strange wonder, had startled her,
Shocking all forecast—
Thus foreweeningly
Had she set up her trust for the whole truth;
Rating all other unwelcome likelihood
At a straw's rate: nor minding that the young
Eye, from its rash self-will beholding all,
Not with the artifice and glass of Eld;
Eager, but inconsiderate of search,
Doth oft forerun wisdom with wishfulness,
Taking for gold sand-glitter, a wild hope
For toil-won harvestage. Such is youth's law.
But, for that law is not calf-bound in books,
Nor by the crier trumpeted abroad,
The hopeful matron never heeded it,
When 'twere most need. Yet something, of late time,
Had she mistrusted in the things she saw,
Watching more warily—and this out-flash,
So sudden, from her daughter's cloudiness,
And speechless sighs, lighted suspicion in
Where surety slept so long—she set herself,
Forthwith, to wring the spongy secret out;
And so had done; for with such hope at stake
A mother's head is hard, and maiden hearts
Are all as soft: so, what she could, she would,
Tho' with it she had wrung the life-blood forth
To its last drop. But he, on whose behalf
She was solicitous, sudden appeared,
While yet his noble name was in their ears,
Himself in nobler presence to their eyes,
Her life, her joy her own pride—Linsingen.
His coming was unseen—but, ere he came,
The watch-dog bayed his welcome: that was enough

To hint him near at hand: for the dame's mind
With his loved likeness was so wholly filled,
That any far slight token seen or heard
She had asked, is it he? then were glad looks,
And words made kinder than their inhold was,
By the heart-breathing voice: greetings and smiles
Profuse, as from a mother to her son,
Long lost and late restored: high is the worth
That such sweet tokens of affection bear;
And yet, as Linsingen then reckoned them,
One only jewel tear, glittering in the eye
Of the soft maiden who stood silent there,
O'erpriced them all. That tear rose suddenly
From her troubled heart, as bubbles from the wave,
Betokening inward stir—but of that stir
Showing no sign, wherefore or whence it came,
No more than doth the rainbow. Yet 'twas a tear
Such as bedews the burning cheek of Love,
And being so, to Linsingen's belief,
It was not such alone; but the self-same—
So Love would have it. Well—Hail to thee, Faith,
For thou art happiness; thou feel'st in the heart,
What ownership weighs coldly in the hand,
And he who hath thee is blest—blest against all
The world without, as Linsingen was then.
For his head, what was it, but his glowing heart,
Brimful with its warm flood; and gushing o'er
Whither his fond faith willed. Truly could worth
Here in this world give warranty to man
Of welfare, then his faith had been fulfilled,
And would it were! Then Fortune, if for once
Her bandage were unblinded from her eyes
Could show no surer proof of random luck
Changed to discernment and considerate doom,
Than by her sanction of a soul like him
Crowning his highest hope—
He was a man
Of high nobility, yet simple too,
As any lonely loreless shepherd's boy,
And careless of self-claims; giving much grace
To his high house, but needing none therefrom,

As living from that true and inward light
Which shames the false: so, in self-stand, he scorned
Rotten hearse-trappings of dead mouldering dust,
A manly soul, strong in his manliness—
Prouder without pride's plume. He'd felt erewhile
The gripe of neediness, and fought against
Her iron claws barehanded—friends were few—
Kindred far off, and nature but a name—
Nor common blood scarce more compassionate
Than the cold water of the common pool.
So they were nought to him, nor he to them,
And in his bitterness oft his heart yearned
For the chill blank that Aristocracy
Offered him, bloodily to blot it out.
So were the world well rid. But hate and scorn
Howe'er they nurse them in the inmost heart
Keep not the body warm—nor drive the wolf
From the door. What 'vails, against his spiteful teeth
And fangs, to show our own.
So having spent
His all, save one poor plank to outride the wreck,
To that same plank he did commit himself,
Swim or else sink—leaving behind him nought
But emptiness for who came after him,
And curses for his kin—so he launched forth:
Wishing no other terms with those he left,
But a far offing: and a little farm
That in its littleness had been o'erlooked,
When ruin smote the rest, he made his home:
Reckless, as any swallow, of the world
He left behind: Then he flung clean away
The thought of what so lately he had been,
As 'twere the cobbler's dream of pageantry;
And that high flying spirit now kept wing
Evenly, with this new life's lowliness.
Thus his safe level he found; and having thrown
His silly foolish lendings off from him,
'Stead of the puffy feathery things he was
Stood up, a stalwart stripling. Thence, unthralled
From idleness, and highborn beggary,

He found his loss the greatest gain of all,
From follies clear'd, a fair free opening field.
Aye, and no lack of wholesome growth, from farm,
Orchard or garden; till he came to love
That boor-like swilth more than his lordly fare;
Since truly earned by toil—nor yet his sports
Did he forego, nor pastime, wont of old,
But what was then a spendthrift gulf he made
Gainful, with gun and dog ranging his fields
While overwatching his hired hands withal.
Thence striding often straight away to the wild
Neighbouring moorlands, trackless, boundless, bleak;
No trace of toil, nor token of ownership:
Unhindered, thus he followed, year on year,
His wilful way, till—a most luckless time—
There came among the mountains a strange man
And claimed them to be his. As the babe cries,
“My toy, give me my toy;” for were they not
As truly now and lawfully his own
As they were once God's who created them?
And he was asked, how were those mountains his
More than the sea or sky, who ne'er had tilled,
No, nor e'en trodden them: and then he showed
For all his answer an old wither'd skin
O'erwritten with strange words: some wizard sure
Had traced them; for “here,” so he said, “I hold
In hand, aye in these sheep-skins, yon whole ridge
Of mountain, east and west; yes, these are those,
And those are these; three skins cover them all,
From the whole world to me—who says me nay,
Better in words keep his denial close,
Nor act it out.” All this to Linsingen
Seemed idle, as a drunken dotard's dream,
Nor better worth a thought: so on he held,
Heeding no more such stay than a witch's straw
To bar his path—but danger, when least deemed,
Her deadliest weapons oftentimes doth wear
(Even as Treason hath been crafty mad,)
'Neath an uncouth disguise. That owner's ill
Words ripen'd to worse deeds: for wilfulness,
Whate'er it doth for pleasure, suffers more

In pain. The law, which slept not, tho' for years
It seemed to sleep, sharp as a snare of steel,
And subtle, caught him in the open act
And held him fast, spite of his hands and teeth,
Till she had wreaked on him her uttermost—
A galling shackle; wrung him sorer yet
Striving to rid it; vainly, what he bore:
Ill, he must rue the worse—and the after-thought
Was very bitterness. So did his pride
Beget upon his hate a hatefully
Proud issue: and the old disdain, that stem
Of evil, that was slowly dying out,
Now, pruned by the law's knife, sprang up afresh
With many shoots. Sad upshot! for thenceforth
He mated him with reckless fellows wild,
Whose deeds were not of day, but such as gave
To night a darker shadow than its own:
Poachers on river, over moor, in wood,
As chance seemed likeliest; smugglers, or they
Who share the smuggler's risk of loss or gain;
Selling uncustom'd wares: those and the like,
With wilfulness akin to wickedness,
He took unto him, not for their own sakes,
But for they outraged those who hated him;
Whom yet, as a good Christian, he should love,
And would he had—but did not—
So he lived
Awhile; and all that life was broken law,
Confounding rule with riot; bursting bounds,
Daring the worst of danger, day by day,
Till daring became feverish hankering thirst,
With danger for its diet—so high-strained
Is but short-lived—outrage and penalty
Crossing so often must needs meet at last:
As he ere long had felt. But Fortune's sun,
Suddenly shining, cleared his outward cloud—
But not his own worse vapours from within—
However, luck befriended him—if that
Be friendly to pour down on him a flood
Where only showers were needed. Such a gush
Of wealth, so strange, as hurried his life-stream

With swirling glut to overswell its banks—
Nor did he long contain him—for that turn
Of fortune turned his thought and working will
From his late wont of riotous recklessness
To a stern earnest aim. “This wealth—'tis mine—
How best avail it? as a lever, so
To raise me to their level?—ah no! in hate
I left them, and in hate must turn on them;
For this new hate is bitterer than the old,
Since it hath better means to wreak itself.
No, then; this lever—'tis to overthrow,
Not raise—o'erthrow their pride—then huddle them
Aheap—and tread them with their frippery
Of straw and feather in the main mixed clay—
Make bricks of them—ah, good!”
So all his means,
Friends, talents, time, and utmost faculties,
He flung them, coldly, in that darkling gulf
To swell the flood. Such was the man, who then
Left Treason for awhile to follow Love.
“Welcome, honoured ladies dear,
I have sought ye far and near;
Orchard, house, and garden round,
Sought ye far, but nowhere found.
First they said, in gipsy mood,
You were wandering thro' the wood
For wild strawberries and flowers—
There I lost—how many hours!
Next—should find you without fail
With th' old widow in the vale.
Then—but endless 'tis to roam—
Happiness is here at home.
So, I greet ye, ladies dear,
Your true knight, befal whate'er,
And my page doth follow me,
Childe of donkey chivalry,
Spurring without fail or fear,
With banner'd, no—but panier'd cheer.
Wine and wassail—but to me
Slight their worth to what I see,

Lucy, that fruit, found by thee—
Gather'd by thy hand—yes, thine—
Take all this, but that is mine;
But, 'tis time we should be gone,
See, the hours are speeding on,
And the sun and summer sky
Speak more winningly than I.
We shall find our baskets spread
There by the lone fountain head:
And this pony, safely tried,
Lucy, 'tis for thee to ride:
Only let me be his guide—
Thine too—and ere the close of day
This one guerdon wilt thou pay—
As we go, of hill and sky
To ask their hospitality,
Playing so the gipsy's part—
Look thou prove their witching art.
Read my Fate, my Fortune tell,
For thou only hast that spell.
With the yet more happy skill,
To frame that Fortune at thy will.”
Gaily he spoke, yet earnestly, to both
Aloud—but his heart's feeling to his own
Dear maiden's ear. Yet had he put those words
Into a trumpet blast, and sounded them
Till echo's self were stunned, not so had he told
His tale more clearly to the matron's mind
Than by that soft suppression; that betrays
Thro' silence, surer than the shrillest sound.
The love that thrills the daughter's heart, gives too
Some token to the mother's head, that what
One feels the other knows. That chord outlives
The severance of birth, binding the two
By consciousness—communion, happy indeed
Where mutual wills meet in one kindly bond
With common knowledge. Else, if they stand off,
Sundered, as oft betides, and wholly averse,
Most comfortless. Oh Love, where wert thou schooled?
Who taught thee such a stretch of tyranny,

That thou must brag thy strength against their tried
Kindness, before whose wiser eldership
That strength should bow down, and forego itself,
Biding rebukal. Wherefore dost set up
Fathers and dearest friends, to stand for foes,
Only to strike them down? Vaunting thyself
Therein most wantonly, where pity were
Indeed but Nature; and the unnatural
Only are pitiless—pluming thy pride
E'en with those tender plumes which the parent birds
Plucked from their bosom for the homely nest
Which thou dost scatter in air—avaunt—away.
Ere this the sun was high, and the time ripe
They should go forth—so forth gaily they went,
The mother and the daughter, lover and sire—
One kin—if minds alas! were kindred too—
With them the old serving-man, grafted, years back,
Upon their stem, when the sun shone on them,
And growing evermore, weather alike,
As there home-born. Nor went they all alone—
For kindness loves communion of its joy;
But with them from their neighbours' friendly homes
Three merry village maids pranked in their best,
And five stout lads, unfashioned, yet with hearts
Warm as the ruddy colour of their cheeks
And manhood all as true;—brothers, or yet
Dearer to them than brothers, for love's sake.
In faith, a joyous train: enough of glee
Already to fulfil their holiday
Tho' it should bring none else. So they sped forth
Afoot, astride, or on the panier'd ass
Chancewise, blithe caroling: a motley throng
As the outlandish gipsy wanderers
Shifting their tawny canvas, ever on,
With careless change.
“My friend,” cried Linsingen,
Shouting above their jovial noisy talk;
“'Tis mirth is now the matter of our day,
And music is mirth's kin—but music self
In these wild hills would hardly know itself

If the harp were wanting. To the harpers, then,
'Tis but a short while round, and he—his worth
Hath earned us all, right well.” So said so done.
There lay the hovel in sight, and soon their speed
Had overrun that space. The greybeard sate
In his trim garden, glad of the sun's warmth,
Vital as to his flowers, so to him,
In his chill years. He heard their mirth afar,
Strangely, for mirth and he were strange long since,
And wondered what it meant; nor wondered long:
For Linsingen, forth spurring, in few words
Spake his kind wish, and the old man answered him.

I

“Yes, gladly will I go with thee:
For, Master, thou art dear to me:
And be it sun or be it snow,
With thee full gladly will I go.

II

For ever cheerly do I play,
When thou dost listen to my lay:
And there my fancy's liveliest,
Where thou art bidden for a guest.

III

For thou art come of high degree,
A royal spirit breathes from thee;
And lines of kingship I might trace,
Ere vision failed me, in thy face.

IV

Then on that face I loved to look,
Like one who reads an old-world book:
And now I love thy voice to hear,
It tells old histories to my ear:

V

And be the strain whate'er it may,
Ever thou feelest as I play:
For thou hast fire within thy heart:
But others are not as thou art.

VI

No—for tho' many a one doth call
The lonely harper to his hall,
That he may be a stranger's show,
Yet, Master, am I loath to go.

VII

For 'tis not that they love my skill;
But their pride wantons so its will;
And they would welcome all as well
Some trickster with his wizard spell.

VIII

Nor e'er, as they sit idly by,
Doth the fire kindle in their eye:
They would but mock the gifted glance
Of the wild spirit in its trance.

IX

For, tho' such tale be strange to tell,
I know it for a truth full well:
There dwells a Spirit in these strings,
And when I strike the Spirit sings.

X

It sings—and if the guests among
It find an answer to its song,
Ah, then, how raptured is the lay!
Else must it sink and die away.

XI

And when it dies, then all is dead;
My heart within me droops to lead:
My fingers, like the idiot lad,
Play idly while my heart is sad:

XII

Yes—in the corner be it flung,
This harp where hearts are tamely strung:
For sooner fire may live in snow,
Than Harper breathe his spirit so.

XIII

Oh, then my soul was blithe and gay,
When Honour spirited my lay,
And every silver piece I told
Was changed by courtesy to gold.

XIV

But I am not in honour now—
And thou my harp—yes, even thou—
In my disgrace must bear thy part—
Oh, shame on them who scorn our art.

XV

Their largess is a very loss—
Their choicest gifts to me are dross.
For poor I am, yet proud of soul,
And brook but ill their beggar's dole.

XVI

They flout me like a crazed old wife,
For my attire and wandering life:
Sure I were better in its stead
To break my harp and beg my bread.

XVII

Oh gentle Sir, thy heart had glowed
To see our festivals of o'd
A hundred harpers in the hall—
And I was crowned the chief all.

XVIII

Now perished is the dyke should be
'Twixt clownish men and high degree:
The nobles cherish us no more
Than did the dullest churl of yore.

XIX

Noble—ah no—for they are gone—
And only churlish blood lives on—
And men who know not their own sires
Now lord it from their furnace fires.

XX

Our breezes speak not of their fame;
Our mountains answer not their name:
In blood and tongue and spirit strange—
Oh what sad chance hath brought this change?

XXI

Nor love they mountain, tower, or rill:
Nor heed they of the harper's skill:
And tho' they prized it e'er so much,
Yet not for them were its true touch.

XXII

Oh for Llewellyn's stirring strain,
To wake the dead to life again!
A Spirit starting from the stone,
To rise and strike and seize its own.

XXIII

And kindle patriot souls like thee,
To bid their Fatherland “be free,”
Free as the burst of my own song;
As yon wild torrent pours along.

XXIV

Then, tho' that sight were doomed for me,
The latest of my life to be;
Welcome—for gladly would we die
In that heart-glow, my harp and I.”

The old man ceased: and as speech failed, his tears
Like a soft shower when the gust is stilled,
'Gain filled his furrowed cheeks—genuine tears—
Not such as dotards—but a heart-fresh spring,
Forth from the smitten rock. His listener
Stood fixed in wonder how that mouldering stem
Should beget leaves so green: had hearkened him
Thro' all that fitful outbreak, wilful and wild,
Nor hearkened only, but the truths he heard
He felt them, as their woes had been his own

Stamped on his heart. There is full often a soul
In silence, and the words that feeling speaks
Are quick and penetrative thro' and thro',
That the heart thrilled by them, answers them not
Again—no outward answer, but as true
Kindred, without all question takes them home
To con them there within—so silently
Surrendering itself to sympathy;
Felt but unsaid. Conception hath no voice,
Nor sense—a life-shoot only, sudden and strange
Striking throughout. Thus Linsingen spake not
When that outflush of warmth flooded his soul,
But inly brooded all—how his high birth
Might further his high ends: for it behoved
His fancy such, and his ambition more—
If hope should e'er bear fruit—
But time is swift;
Too swift for lingering dreams. Then Linsingen,
Ere their dim wings had quite o'ershadowed him,
Scattered them with a start of energy,
To flee amain, like ghosts at the cock-crow,
Betokening day astir. He clapped the hat
On that grey head—handed the staff—then all
Forward—the young o'erbrimming with their glee,
The old rejoicing in their children's joy—
That kindly source, oft the lone one, that springs
In Eld's dry wilderness.
Sweet was the scene
As they streamed onward o'er the russet hills,
Those hills that smiled in sunshine, a warm smile
Of welcome. All beheld, and all were pleased:
Some that they felt sorrow more soothingly.
And other some, pleasure more pleasingly,
For Nature, like the holy mother, looks
Upon her children with a tempering look,
Calming all passion: and whate'er they feel,
Subduing it to take a milder tone,
Whether of joy or grief: still doth she show
Some soul of sweetness in her saddest hour,

Some shade of sadness in her sweetest smile:
As knowing all must fade, how bright soe'er—
Fade and then flower afresh.
Thus they went on,
Now in strait thread, now winding it, far round,
As the hills opened or else barred their way,
Nature's stern warders; following here some wild
Swift stream, tho' wayward, yet a cheerful guide;
There toiling up the steep, painful and hard:
Doubtful of footing, and that footing lost,
Sure of a headlong ruin, deep below,
Thundering down together, horse and man,
Crushed into one. That height, slowly attained,
With many a suspiration of hard breath,
And aching bones, straining on sullenly,
“For why should we be tasked so toilsomely
In such unwonted wise of holiday?”
Then would they halt awhile—halt, and look forth
Afar—beyond distinction of the eye;
Till dimness brooded under the sky-line,
And the end confounded all. Towers and spires
Looking in grey and mournful constancy
O'er the bright corn-fields' changeful livery;
Ruins mid Nature's ever-living green:
Wide waving forests frowning o'er the whole.
Orchards and parks, homesteads and hazy towns,
Scattered abroad like ships in boundless sea,
Such tiny motes as seem to magnify
The main. They looked, once and again; then turned,
In the eagerness of other gazing eyes,
And fellowship of gushing friendliness
To find fresh buoyancy and sparkling will
For fresh delight—like a tired thirsty man
Drinks from the spring, unsparely, draught on draught,
His much demanding more. The air of the hills—
Or Heav'n—for born between, it partook both,
Coursed like an elfin spirit thro' their blood,
Playing its frolic fancies on each brain,
Witching each heart; till merriment o'erflowed
With its own foam: they laughed and clapped their hands,

And age was youth, and youth was boyishness,
Bubbling and frothing in wild revelry,
As erst at its springhead.
So fared they all—
All save that pensive girl. Young Love, men say,
(But all such sayings mark but each one mood
Of manifold swift-fleeting fancy) is shy
And fitful—wild as the wind—dashing sunshine
With tears, and with bright hues, drawn from the two,
Spanning both sky and earth; winding his course
Waywardly; mocking his own end and main
Will, with bye-aims and off-start wilfulness.
Such, then, was Lucy's mood—as her mother hoped,
Fondly; for sagest surmise, hope or fear,
Love fools them all.
They tarried there awhile—
Long while, yet short, since winged by gamesomeness:
Until their frolic from its zesty height
Sank down, self-spent—onward was then their wish—
And peering eyes looked o'er the beetling cliff
Which way were likeliest: warily then
They tried each foothold on the nether steep,
Oft shifting th' unsafe trial—craggy heights
Have craggy falls—ambition drudges up
With yet worse danger down. So envying
The bee his humming-winged security,
As from heath-blooms his honeydew he sucked,
They stepped from mound to mound, from stone to stone,
Or where green hussocks seemed to meet their tread,
Springing from pressure—or the bushy when
Gave a hand-grasp, where else the turf, tho' soft
Yet slippery, had played traitor to the foot,
Beguiling with smooth show. Love is himself
Then most, and then his spirit most a-glow,
When he hath charge to watch o'er loveliness
And ward all harm from her. Then is he swift
As his own shafts, sportively glancing here,
And gleaming there. Then, too, most beauteous
Is woman's beauty, and her grace shown forth

Most gracefully, when like a dove she flies
To the warm bosom she hath chosen her
For trust and for home-shelter.
Laughter and screams
Confounded each with each—the sudden shriek
Belied as suddenly in mirth, and shouts
And frolic fun: as tho' the merry sprite
Had taken them for playmates of his own,
And flashed upon them on his bright-hued swift
Rainbow—such glittering gladness was shed through
Their souls. So they sped down, here scrambling, there
Sliding the easier slopes—at the hubbub wild
Hushed was the stone-chat, as by hawk o'erhead;
The lark shrank low, and trusted not the air
Frenzied so strangely. The old shepherd-dog
Astart, sprang from his lair, pricked his wild ears,
And watched with muzzle keen and keener eye,
Low growling at the throng—what may it mean—
Some fearful stir, or idle foolery,
A noise or an alarm? There stood the flock
Thick huddled, broad black heads gazing aloof—
Weighing each fit of folly and merriment—
In their sage scales of doubt.
Now, o'er the dank
Morass, they picked their path, and the steep hill
From haughtiness began to condescend
Toward the level; in like grade their course
From cripple and halt ran out into a race
Of easy smooth descent. Onward they pass'd,
Their shadows shortening now on the hill,
Then rippling on the brook; until its shoals
They forded, threading next the lovely dale.
Thence, sudden, at a turn, young Linsingen
Waving o'er head his hat—“Look, there it is;
Ten minutes more, Lucy, we're home—nay then,
Say me not, no: What wilt thou wage?—a crown?—
A kiss?—nay, but forgive me, frown not so,
But soften thy brow's sadness to a smile,
To greet—not me then—but the old Tower.”

100

They looked
And saw the spot as their guide pointed it:
But such a spot as seemed meeter to hail,
Not with uproar and laughter, but still deep
Complacence, softly musing. A wood-ring
Rounded the hill, else bare; with straggling trees,
Stunted, the most, and dwarf, but wearing yet
A flushful cloak of fresh rich foliage,
Screening their ragged stems: with, here and there,
Some few uptowering in statelier growth
To crown the copse. A castle, trenched around,
Signalled that lovely spot in the yore days
With warlike stamp; frowning o'er the landscape fair,
Like helm on maiden's brow. But time, allied
With Nature and her elements 'gainst man,
Had bared those stone walls first to a skeleton,
And then mouldered the bones: confounding all
Its forlorn glory into one rude heap,
To witness, as a shattered trophy, his might
To men; but of those thrilling warrior days
Leaving the Painter little to record,
But all enough to the Poet, who lacks no
Monumental mass to frame his images,
But shapes dead stones to stately towers again
With Theban incantation.
A small spring
Betrayed by the green life surrounding it,
Had slaked of yore the thirst of many a knight
That held the fortress—now it nursed the copse
And brambles, that o'ergrew trenches, mounds, slopes,
And harboured the shy hare: 'mid primroses
And cowslips, blending spring and summer in one,
With the soft sweet suffusion of their hues
And their breath's melting fragrance. There they met,
Sweet trysting place: they and a fellowship
Of true like-minded friends from far and near:
Good cheer and luck and gladness to them all.

101

BOOK VI.

Nature they wrong thee much, and they wrong Truth,
Who from the name believe thee but to be
The birth of things, the God-given world-life—
Nor feel in thee, beside that teeming power,
God's grace—through goodly work betokening
His gracious will: they wrong thee who doubt this,
And wrong themselves—forsaying all thy soul
Of goodness, breathing forth from thee to them.
For Truth and Calm, and Love and Happiness,
These are thy inward spirit, as the world
Thy outward work—that work is wrought in their
Spirit, and whoso loves thee feels them all,
And is beloved by them—happy whoe'er!
Happy in what he is: and happier yet
In what he hopes, most happy in their sad
Contrast—the worldlings—who resemble him least.
For they forsake their mother—thou'rt no less—
A mother worth more than all worlds to him,
Whoe'er with child-like heart yearns towards thee.
And with the mother's language of true love
And kindly looks ever thou greetest him—
Such language as speeds home, needing no ear
To carry its sweet message to the soul,
But, e'en in silence, saying many things,
To flesh unutterable, deep soul-truths—
Yes, for thou breathest Faith's own spirit—a breath
That hallows Earth from Heaven.

Yet man lives
Of this great good unmindful—a heart self-sunk—
Soulless—of all above him careless quite:

102

Mire-born, and thither turning swinishly,
To wallow. For how else? How should men rise
Sundered from Nature, and from Nature's thoughts
Atoning him with God? Must so become
A thing—dry, spiritless, and dead—a stake
Torn from its root and stem—a brand—a dull
Stopgap, yearning no more for upward growth
Or genial enlargement—would we then
But free our life, somewhile, from artifice,
And live as, in old time, our forefathers,
Loving the sunshine more than chimney-smoke!
Unswaddling us, if only now and then,
And breathing freely abroad—as from its nest
The unreluctant bird, so we from our home,
By reason meant mainly a weather-fence,
But made by luxury a prison-house,
Where she doth hold us most unwholesomely
Shut in from Nature. So is the poor soul
Inured to bondage from her budding years,
Until she shrinks from the inborn instinct, felt
Expansively, in yearning loftiness,
That else might swell through the whole vault of Heaven
To the poor proportions of a chamber or two:
Growing but to the ceiling 'bove our heads
And stunted there. What art thou, mannikin?
A man? No—a man-monkey—wouldst thou try
True manhood? strip thy lendings, make thy own
Life—'tis most shameful to bemask thee so
With its silly sham; made up for thee by cooks,
Snippers, upholsterers, gamesters, jockeys, pimps,
Tricksters, newsmongers—after all, thy life
Is but one huge and heartless vacant yawn
Which they can never fill: leave them their own,
Give them not thine—break loose—else will their bonds
From silken become steel; out on them all—
Bestir thee as becomes a man—go forth
From the hot stuffy breath of thy house-stoves
And breathe free air; till thy fields, watch thy woods,
See to thy cots and farmsteads; poor or rich,
Help or befriend thy neighbour; above all,
Look up to Heaven: the rock whence thou wert hewn,

103

Turn to it, God and Nature: thence become
What thou wert meant, and art bewrayed from: a man—
So she first made thee and may make thee again,
Tho' strangely now unmade from her—wilt only
Unbar thy life and live with her. Needs thus
For Lordliness, lest it fall sick and die
Of rottenness—much more would it achieve
Loftier ends. Yes—for high sentiment
Springs not from trivial sights; and godliness
Should enter the young soul first through the sense,
Dilating so its self-shrunk narrowness
By glorious beholdings to become
A tabernacle fit for glorious thoughts.
Would'st thou then rise to loftiness of soul?
Go, live alone with Nature—some short hours
From worldly days—some minutes—blend with her's
Thy being—from her sun expand thy spark
Until thy swelling spirit glow with it.
While Pride, to its palace moulded, can but rise
Thro' self-conceit, by mirrors multiplied,
Up to its hodman's height—as far below
The soul that holds all Nature for its home,
As that proud palace to the Universe—
Paltry elaboration. Hast thou a heart?
When Nature smiles go fling thee in her arms
Like her own child; visit her loneliness;
As of a mother who hath given thee all,
And asketh in requital but one due,
Her children's love. Such due as doth enrich
The payer, and as surely beggars him
Who would withhold it. Go, then, drink thy fill
From the fount springing in that solitude
Which, but to barren minds, is barrenness:
Then, turning home, bring with thee a large heart,
As sure thou wilt from such soul-fellowship,
To fill that home with kindliness and joy,
And holy comfort.

Such had'st thou felt then,
(For Nature in her own aspect is best
Commended, better far than by fair words)

104

Amid the glories that surrounded them,
Those play-mates: theirs the thrill of early day
In early summer—fleckered was the sky
With clouds light sailing to the brisk cool breeze:
Veiling sometimes, and tempering the sun,
But scarce obscuring him: from many a blue
Island he shed his gentle radiance,
Till the air throbbed with living joy. Hill, wood,
Meadow and corn, cattle and rivulet,
And much beside that language utters not
Unskilled of colour—all by the warm light
Were blended feelingly to loveliness,
Soul of the landscape: seemed—to look on it—
Too heavenly for the painter: must fling by
Pencil and pallet—for they could but mar
What Nature meant for joy not mimicry.
The thankful heart were wiser.

As the day,
So were their spirits—bright and glad—with mirth
Quick-gleaming; and their feelings tuned to the height
Made music, true, tho' artless, to their souls.
And frolicsome blithe talk, laughter and fun,
Tho' none had bidden them, came ne'ertheless,
To sport on their high tide: surest to come
When least solicited. Dance, too, and song
Quickened their hours, glancing in merriment
Sprightly as summer-flies—instinctive joy
Suddenly felt—swift fleeting.

That old Tower
From hollow crumbling ruins, haunt of the owl,
And vocal only with his weird night-scream
Now echoed, strangely, their shrill holiday,
Unwonted: but the shadows on the slope
Were lengthening to mealtime, and their keen
Spirits had quicken'd thirst—so from the brook
They drew them water, making sport of the task,
With many a saucy splash: hurry thenceforth
Was rife, and busy clatter, cloaks outspread,
Service of awkward lackeys, inexpert,

105

Mirth upon strange defaults, strangely supplied,
All humours mixed in one, and glee o'er all,
Sparkling the surface: but sharp hunger makes
Short feast; soon each stiff dish, and dainty slight,
Vanished alike, as water spilt on sand,
No trace of it. Then rose the spirit of glee:
Ever most full in fulness of the flesh,
O'erflowing from their mugs. Wassail was King.
And healths and merry tales, carousing blithe,
Ere drink had tripped their tongues—

But the Harper old,
Slow heretofore and sad to look upon;
And while their mirth was fresh, like a dead ash
'Mid the green copse, strange to their fellowship
In aspect, and in spirit stranger yet:
Now that the fiery mixture of his cups
Had blended its rash spirit with his blood,
Upstarted into life—rapt in that hot
And heady tide against his course of years
Back to his spring—of youth and phantasy—
Alas! that he must never see it again,
But in the sudden momentary dream,
Flashing, as even now, across his eyes;
Lighting him up from darkness unto dawn,
Wizarding back the dead: so, 'mid their mirth,
Sudden, as tho' the spirit of song from high
Had stooped on him, and seized his soul entire;
Sweeping away with gushy rapturous rush
All careful hinderance, and swelling out
His breast to such a fulness as bards feel;
He caught his harp in hand, and without phrase
Or prelude, or one word of preface said,
Launch'd forth his spirit on its strain of song.

I

I love thee well, thou hoary tower,
For I have known thee long,
And gathered from thee many a flower,
And sung thee many a song.

106

II

And I have brought my children dear
On many a sunny day;
And 'mong thy giant bulwarks here,
Thou gav'st them leave to play.

III

I love thee for thy olden fame
From darkness gleaming down,
I love thee for thy later shame;
O'ershadowing that renown.

IV

I love thee—for my strength is past,
And even so is thine;
And thy huge frame is wasting fast,
In fellowship with mine.

V

Yes—dear to me is thy decay—
For thou wert better far
To fall downright in dust away,
Than see the things that are.

VI

See the proud stranger hold command
Our pleasant hills among;
The harp forgotten from our land,
And mute our father's tongue.

VII

Yes, I shall love and cherish thee
E'en to the utmost end;
Old wont hath made thee unto me
For a familiar friend.

VIII

And I can draw thy echoes out,
As none beside me can:
Thou heed'st my whisper more than shout
Of any idling man.

107

IX

For ever I have felt for thee
More than my fellows may:
So for thy bard thou welcom'st me,
And lovest my wild lay.

X

But ye—the sons of stalwart sires,
From mountain dale and hill;
Ye ashes of forgotten fires—
Say—are ye lifeless still.

XI

Ah! there's a soul in all we see—
A spirit in this stone—
Yon swirling brook runs feelingly
But ye are dead alone.

XII

Yet could but others feel as I,
Then surely were it done—
But ye are many standing by,
And I a forlorn-one.

XIII

Still fain to fawn upon your Lords—
But dare not to be free—
Ah, who can say such shame in words?
And must it ever be?

XIV

Then lay it low, that time-worn tower,
Nor let one record stand
Of home-born pride or home-born power,
The glory of our land.

XV

The glory of our Father's land—
But oh! our own disgrace—
How shall the coward heart and hand
Hold such high dwelling-place?

108

XVI

Then never harp or harper's name
Henceforth be heard again;
Too heavy is my country's shame
For burden of my strain.

'Tis only the faint spirit that men scorn—
Boldness hath ever praise; or, if not praise,
Wonder and earnestness, gazing spellbound.
And so the old man, albeit of bearing strange,
Yet was his strangeness of so high a soul,
E'en the clown stooped to him; giving him space
And silence to fulfil his glowing speech.
Fulfilled, each one upon his neighbour looked,
Distrustful of himself—till at the last
Did admiration murmur itself forth
In utterance more soul-like than of words,
And all was still again—stillness, not such
As throws her cloak o'er inward emptiness;
But she—the brooding mother of deep thoughts—
Slow ripening—and then swift-winged, to soar
Abroad—they knew, by hearing most—but some
Pledge-bound unto the plot, of straws and sparks;
And, deeper yet, of dark conspiracy—
Dagger'd and cloaked and masked: standing await
With match in hand to fire the sullen train,
Whene'er its bell should toll. Something they knew,
And those who knew not all, fancied much more—
As ever a dim hint stirs the soul through
Stronger than full display and circumstance;
For day but darkens starlight. Fancy hath lynx
Eyes, liveliest in dusk. So their thoughts wrought:
And even so their leader meant they should:
For thus the leaven awhile must gare within
Ere it can raise the lump—and cleared too soon
Is marred for ever; a distempered drink—
Unwholesome—racks the drinker.

As Graybeard
Ended, and overwrought, sate down again,
Sobbing in spirit, and half veiled by his harp;

109

His hands mantling his head; sudden there shone
A glory from the Heaven, a strange sun-flush,
As tho' his blazing banner he unfurled
To stream athwart the sky. Sudden it struck—
So sudden, that surprise came over all,
Smit by that gleamy shaft: then Linsingen,
“Welcome this high forebodal here below!
The sun hath shone, and the Harper hath said truth,
And light avoucheth light. Hail thou old man,
And hail thy stirring skill—tho' 'tis not the harp
But the very heart-strings of each one of us
Thou hast so thrilled. Long may'st thou live, until
Thy patriot hope ripen to happiness,
Till this thy land be in full freedom blest,
And thou in her! And now—drink we, my friends
His life and health—and all his hopes beside—
Both his and ours: aye, and our Fatherland's—
And as I spill this laggard drop in dust,
E'en so be his blood spilt in sorrow and shame,
Who shrinks to give it freely and forwardly
To the main good. Ah, well! once more—that shout
Came cheering from the heart—and now, again
To our dance—we'll challenge night a second round,
Which of the two flag first.”

So much he said:
But said not all he meant—for his mind was
To whet their eagerness with but a hint
Of his aim—a sudden light from 'neath his cloak
Half shown and not half seen—lest, certainty,
Should dull the forward will, upbuoyed on clouds,
And sinking in clear air. Question he waived,
Lest, being satisfied, it should pall so—
But left Imagination there astrain,
Its shaft upon its string. Quick at his word
That merry throng fulfilled it with a will:
And Treason, for the nonce, 'stead of its own
Dark windings, tried the mazes of the dance,
Open and gay—light-tripping careless feet
For bloody hands—but from that happy ring
Those gloomier few, the leaders first, and then

110

In broken bands, the whole conscious plot, strike off
Across the moor, and thence over the hills,
Whether for deeper talk, or wider sway
For sight. They overtake the ridge, and on,
Stalking against the sky-line, giant-like,
And ever on—but why such greedy haste,
Baffling the spirit, and forbidding the eye
To range at ease? forsooth, such kindly fair
Landscape, while man with Nature shall be like,
Mooded, and one heart-tie bind mother and son,
Were worth a friendlier stay—yet they sped on
Darkling, as o'er the heath the scudding clouds,
And all as careless of the things they o'ersped.
Nor wonder—for one dour black drop on the heart
Upstirred, dims Nature's mirror: inward strife
Sees nothing fair without. So forth they fared
As tho' the beauty round them were a blank;
Broaching their dark designs—nor stopping, save
When doubt or fiery zeal of gainsayers
Drew itself up, or overweening will
Would strike its sentence home—upward or down
As wayward hill or moorland baffled them;
A course so craggy and untowardly,
Perplexed by bog and briar, and yawning leaps,
As imaged to the life their purposed aim,
Had they so heeded it—omens to read
As written. Yet why should they? an' doom write down
Whate'er she will, yet Faith fulfils herself,
Making her cross her anchor.

Ere this the sun,
His height o'erreached, and westward course begun,
Shot down his fierest shafts. The still air throbbed
Visibly in the fever of his fire;
And Nature, crouching 'neath the tyrant's rage,
Lay like a lark, fearful of the hovering hawk—
No breath, no stir, no utterance.—Yet they won
Their toilsome way to where a wide pine wood
Darkened and shagged the forehead of a hill
Else bare—that wood frowned its defiance forth
Sullenly, in despite of the warm sun

111

That made of all the air one brilliant blaze
Save there alone. “Hark ye, my friends,” said Hess,
“Ye're young—the marrow yet slickens your bones:
But mine are hard and dry; rest we then here:
The respite that I need, may soothe you too,
Who need it not. Here let us sit a-shade,
And look into the sun, a luxury
Of Nature, such as costliest artifice
Were mean beside it—or else on—to the hut—
Ye see it there—where the old fisher dwells—
He of our brotherhood—ye know him well—
And hear what news—whether our venture yet
Be noised abroad—what these folk think of it—
Who likely, for or 'gainst.” “Aye—thither on,”
Cried Linsingen—“behoves him, who goes forth
On such a threatening business as ours now—
Bestir him early and late. We have a world
To win, with only zeal and fiery will
To help us win it: therefore, stay not here—
But thither, where our stay hath likelihood
To worthen it—And he—I know him well—
His wish is with us, tho' his strength of arm
Be past its working time; and what we need
Of tidings true and safe advertisement,
If the common eye look coldly on our cause,
Or if we may hope comfort hereabout,
Whate'er it be, he'll warrant—on—away—
'Tis scantly a half-mile”—

He had sprung up,
And given the example ere his word:
And—forward yet—his comrades followed him,
Drawn in his wake. A stiff descent; half bog,
Half briar; then the stream with its log-bridge:
These hinderances o'erpast, in miry plight
They reached the fisher's home: ere yet within,
A ragged boy carried his grandsire word,
“Strangers are come”—nor slacken'd the old man
To meet his guests—“Sirs, I had blushed for shame,
But that my shame in sorrow is all lost,
To give you welcome in so crazy a hut:

112

I who have oft cross'd hands with you ere now
Over the threshold of a worthier house,
For guests like you—but whate'er be—life's short—
I am no worse a man burden'd like this,
Nor he a better who so burdens me.
Time and God's grace will do us right at last,
Tho' our own means fail.”

“And who dares say they shall,”
Thus Linsingen broke in upon his word.
“Who talks of failure when his hopes are full,
With will and strength to warrant them each one
To the uttermost? No, my good man, God's aid
Is for him only who dares aid himself
In spite of danger—hands we have, and arms,
But have we hearts withal for life to them,
Or are we but mock-men—mere apes—no soul—
Only in words? No—not so mean are we.
Such mud—so would I stamp it.” The old host
Amazed, looked up, and smiled, and shook his head;
“Aye, Master, youth is warm and full of hope:
And once my head, as yours, was golden bright;
But Time turns all to grey. 'Tis not my will,
But the sharp pinch of need makes me so sad—
Oh do but show me a light—I'll follow it
Thro' fire and water. Aye, Sir, think what 'tis—
To be a sterling householder one day—
And a gaol-rogue the next—to be dragged off—
My fishing gear, and all my livelihood
First seized before my face. Sheer beggary—
Homeless and breadless: and not I alone—
But these poor children too who have done no harm,
But to be come of me, that they must starve,
And I forsake 'em—No—but fail 'em now—
And leave 'em friendless. Sure 'twere a blest job
Could I but dig their graves. Sir, you're book-learned—
And tell me, is it sinful to wish death,
In such a wreck? A sinner! throw that too
On the heap of all my wretchedness—Aye, boys,
Well may you stare; for oncome such as this
You never saw in your old grandsire yet.

113

Had fished yon stream for living, scores of years,
And now—gaoled up—for a poacher.”

More had he
Outpoured, for anger swept him, with fire-flood,
But Linsingen snatched out his reckless flask,
And “True—we've all our hardships—more'n enough—
But we've strength too, thank God, for their redress:
And that same strength we're minded to put forth,
Each for all sakes. What—is't thou only? ah no—
I've borne it and we all, yet worse we must—
Or this hag-law must lay strong hands on her,
To muzzle and gag her. Here, old friend, drink this—
'Tis freely born, as free as the hill dew,—
No curs'd exciseman for its godfather,
But a bold ungauged spirit.—Drink it down,
And drink this too.—‘Down to such laws, and those
Who ever made them.’—Old age is childishness.
Unsteadfast, ever like to shape itself
To a stronger spirit's sway.” That tottering man
Straightway forgot all else, and was full fain
To do the jovial bidding of his guests,
A changeling to their humour.

Much they asked,
And heard, and still their bosoms swelled to hear:
For he told them how the heart of the whole folk
Was like the autumn heather on the hill,
Needing no more to burst into a blaze
But the first kindling spark—their tide of talk
O'er eyes and ears had deepened over them,
Unwitting of all else; when, on the door
Sudden there smote a strong and heavy hand,
That the house quaked to hear. Hermann rose up
As it belonged to him, nearest the door,
And drew it open. There the old shepherd stood,
Shaggy and wild, yet thoughtful of look—for broad
And lofty was that weather-beaten brow:
Stood as a wooden stock grown to the ground
Staring his unsaid speech.

114

“Sir, from this hill
I saw you, so his words at last found way,
Brokenly, 'tween the catches of his breath,
I saw you, and I knew you—for none else—
And down I hurried for such news to tell
As never known were better for us both;
But Truth must speak—for she's a spirit of light
Speaking, but kept within, a smouldering fire;
So you once taught us. Now, Sir, I'll teach you—
Your father hath another kind of faith
Than you and I; and what he helped to do,
That he would now break up, ere it be done—
The frame first thing, and then the framer's heads,
With its broken bits. For our undertaking, Sir,
I know not if ye stand our friend, or if
This plot hath reached but to your ear; tho' then—
These thy mates here—I understand it not—
But now—thus much: If ye be one of us
Then meet this mischief for the sake of all;
Or, if your safety be not bound to ours,
But only your good faith; then for Faith's sake,
Look that your father do not such a deed
As needs must shame his son. He 'th been with me,
That I should vouch him before witnesses
For the truth of what he said. But I would not—
Nay, rather would I brain him with this crook
And be hanged after. Ah, Sir, I'm o'erwarm—
But thou art of an upright spirit, and know'st
The workings well of such another one—
I mean not quite so much. Sir, the folk now
Is gathered on yon hill—and the young squire,
He and his stranger friend were bound to me,
To see me in my lonely dwelling first,
Ere they made open meeting with the main.
And then I meant them—what I've told thee now.
But seeing thee one of their fellowship,
Methought such hearing were for thy ear first—
To con it. This, Sir, is my eager haste—
And now that stuff—since my heart's light of it,
Do thou what needs thereon—Soon shall we meet.
Meantime, take home the matter to thy mind.”

115

He spake and went his way: but Hermann, there
Stricken with wonderment, stood as spell-bound.
Passion oft furthers work, streaming the will,
But there it came in such a swirling flood
As overwhelmed the wheels it should drive on,
Clashing all steadiness. Awhile he stood,
Like to a lion bayed by many hounds,
Doubtful which first. Then did his vehemence,
Wavering at first, self-gathered into strength,
Hurl itself, suddenly, all in one stroke,
Downright upon its doom. So grew his thoughts
To issue, and flashed forth in fiery words.

“Yes—'tis e'en so—
The deed is done—'tis smitten—the foul blow.
Come then, I know thee well, thou ill-starred hour,
Come to thy own.
E'en as a reed before thy stormy power
I bow me down.
'Tis thy stern shadow that I see—
It darkens still—all hail to thee!
Hark! I hear thy rushing pinion—
I bend me to thy dark dominion—
Come and sweep me hence away
In thy full resistless sway;
I am thine—and so—I've said my say—
Once I strove, but strive no longer,
I feel me strong—but I confess thee stronger.
Yet tell me, wherefore art thou so
Tricked in hope's delusive show?
Ah no! I see thee truly, what thou art—
And lo! my breast I bare:
We meet—this once—for never shall we part—
I and despair.
And thou hast done all this, my sire, e'en thou!
And how could'st thou fall off; oh tell me how?
Were it in the face of day,
Were it after battle fray,
Were it mid beholding men;
Better had I borne it then:
There is a majesty of might

116

In the full-swaying vengeful sword,
But by all spirits, treacherous sleight,
But by the Tempter, is abhorred.
The rebel may be bold and true,
And he may win a glorious name:
But Faith forsworn—its doom—its due—
Is shameful death and deathless shame.
Oh! 'tis indeed a fortune most forlorn,
Where fain we would love well,
To feel our love disnatured into scorn,
Our heart, our home, turned to a traitor's hell.
But no—thou art my father still—
Duty overbeareth will—
Till the severance of our tie—
Then thou art free, and so am I.
Aye—be it so—and so be each as free
As the sear branch I shiver from this tree.
Tear it off and fling it far;
To lie wide sundered as we are,
See—it is done—
Alas! thou fool—thou'rt still thy father's son.
Where then is he—the friend—
The true one—faithful to the end?
See—here I bare my arm—bare thou thy knife,
And coldly drain
Each shrinking vein
To its last drop of crimson life.
So my sire's blood may pour its hideous blot
There on that heather, and I own it not.

Curse on ye all—ye dreams of idleness!
I know ye not—back to your nothingness.
No! I will redeem the shame
Of our foul dishonour'd name.
Now that name thro'out the land
Is charactered in felon brand;
Soon it shall be fair and bright,
Written in the sunbeam's light:
Uttered in the thunder's voice—
Hear it and quake, my foes, and ye my friends, rejoice;
For there shall live a spirit in that name:

117

Who breathes it forth shall breathe a lightning flame:
Strong to comfort and to save,
To cheer the faint, to steel the brave.
Alike in council and in loud
Outburst of the acclaiming crowd:
Soul of the battle shout,
Rallying here and scattering there in rout.

But what strange cloud o'erhung my brow
That I was blind till even now?
I saw it not, tho' shining there
That star-like truth, so heavenly fair.
Vain alike were love and hope
Pointing to this godly scope;
Vain was freedom's thrilling cry—
Each for all—to do or die.
Till another counsel came
Muttered in my ear by shame;
Yes, Honour, unto thee
I bow my knee:
To outdo the foul disgrace
Lowering o'er my name and race.
Thy bidding shall be done
So be the sire forgotten in the son.
Oh yes—a thousand thanks, my sire, to thee!
'Tis all thy gift—the glory that I see.
Not now a vision, but a truth indeed;
For Fate's own hand hath written what I read.
I see it all—I see the opening sky—
Oh yet one glance—one more—enough, 'tis by.
But no—that sight once seen—lives everlastingly.
All is one blazing Truth, clear'd to my eyes
Of worldly foul foredrift and priestly lies.
The giant people, the all-sovereign sun
Waked up in glory his glad course to run;
Quenching the chilly lustre of each star,
That ruled the sky while yet he was afar.
Claiming our worship, tho' they shine but so,
Their own vain-glory 'mid the night to show;
Their glory, and the general gloom of man:
But who shall clear that gloom? They neither care nor can.

118

Nor light nor warmth is theirs; and earth and sky
Must bide in darkness while they blaze on high:
Bide darkling still that they may shine more bright—
Then come thou sovereign sun, and reassert thy right;
Give the warm grace those lordly things deny,
And bid them fade before thy fiery eye.
Fade in avoidance like a flashy dream;
They know thy power, they tremble as they gleam.
See! darkness faints in day, the pitchy night
Bursts into brilliance at one touch of light:
And mid that light doth Truth ascend her throne,
Beckoning to man, and men asserts his own.
Wondering to see, where erst he was so blind,
A clayey mass enlightened to a mind.
And what he wills that will is now the Lord,
And what he says the deed fulfils the word:
Despots crouch shuddering down, for he hath drawn his sword.
Then doth resistance weakly faint away,
E'en as those darksome clouds dissolved in day:
Threatening the eye, and thundering to the ear;
But to the grasp a foolish empty fear.
So right is 'stablished and old wrongs redressed,
The few abated, and the many blest.
But oh! the joy, the rapture, the surprise,
One voice, one will, one world in ecstasies,
Ne'er felt by earthly heart, nor view'd by earthly eyes.
Yes, 'tis decreed,
I've seen the sight, now, forward to the deed!

As thus he spake, his glove was in his hand:
And, for his spirit so found utterance,
He flung that badge of his defiance down
So sharp, that the earth rang with the sharp stroke
As from a gauntlet of steel; “I fling thee there,
Let who will take thee up: from this time forth
This hand is bare till it hath done its work,
E'en till the crown consummate the work done.”
He said, and striding in, thus to his men.
“My friends, the loud occasion summons us
As with a trumpet blast: no tarrying time
Have we here: up then, to the hills; if aught needs said,

119

We'll say it on the way.” Their talk was then
Of earnest things debated earnestly;
But such a soaring spirit spake from his lips
As overruled them to hear nought beside,
Only itself—none answered him a word:
But each man looked first in the speaker's face,
Then in his fellows, wondering whence that soul
So girl-like, had found wings to fly withal,
And to such towering pitch.

But the high mind
Rules from its height: and so their weaker will
Bowed to the sterner sovereignty of his,
That they must do his bidding. Forth they went,
Leaving the old fisherman to follow them
As best he might, in backwardness of years.
Silently they strode on, lest a light word
Should cross their forward thought—waded the brook;
And strained each eye to see their gathered host,
Now nigh, but by a ridge hindered from sight;
When Hermann, whose hot haste, as goaded on
By spur within, his fellows had forevanced,
Suddenly turning stayed them, brow to brow,
And thus began; fierce and impetuous,
'Stead of his calm deep want. As a stream smooth
Gliding, till by some craggy startling edge
Confronted—respite none, nor to retreat,
Forthright determined, leaps its desperate doom
One flash, one plunge—a foaming cataract
Self-hurled; then onward, shooting, sweeping on,
Reckless—“My friends, we go, for what? to hear
And speak—if t at alone, 'tis some—not much—
But why not more? Say then to strike. How then?
Good faith, that latest word pleases me best:
For sure it speaks a strong and daring sense
Akin to our spirit—aye—now ye wonder me;
And reason that ye should. Ye see me changed:
E'en so—what late I was, ye knew me well;
But now—ye look upon another man.
A change that needs no mask—for it turns not
On self, nor sneaks, nor skulks, but looks to the cause,

120

The good cause only—and now—I tell you all—
The sum without the account. For we stand here
On the sword's point, and reason is, our talk
Should run no wider range. We are betrayed—
Nay, start not, for the danger of that word
To meet it, needs stern will—rather must strain
Our nerves and knit our brows. I say, betrayed—
And who hath done it? Nay, ask me not who,
Lest the name choke me in the utterance;
Only thus much—I will atone the deed
With all my utmost means, and blood, and life,
Being his son. But mark me this, my friends;
Doubtless his aim is level to his end,
And we in dangerous range: but to that end
Behoves a twofold treason, he 'gainst us,
And we against ourselves; if we flinch now—
Then were we all as well each man of us
To make a halter of his handkerchief
There on that tree. But we have hearts, I trow;
And there's no spell can bind us to sit still
While the headsman whets his axe. Then what more needs?
To the cannon's mouth and slay the cannoneer
With match in hand. Go, play the devil at brag,
Outbrave each danger, and o'ertop it still
With a yet louder and more daring one.
Else must we die the death, as traitors' ta'en
With sword half out of sheath, short of the deed,
But far beyond forgiveness for the thought.
Oh bare it then at once—our brave outbreak,
Thus—even thus outflash it to all eyes—
Joyous to start from its dark scabbard forth,
And feel the glow of fight. Must dare and do—
Thoro' goes thro' it.

Those same lawyerlings
Are ware of us, and they, with their shrewd wits,
If tidings lie not, would fain snap us up,
And make our treason a fool—Ah, but we'll crush
Their fingers in their own most cunning trap,
And their necks after. Up then friends—be bold!
Be bold! write that one word, deep on your hearts.

121

For so ye have a talisman, be sure,
Safe as the ground ye tread—aye, we know well—
Who would win this success, must snatch her first,
In the grasp of forward fiery confidence;
Be sure, she takes for her lord her ravisher—
Whoever dares it. But which way? what means?
Ah! 'tis well asked—cudgels, I say stones, flails,
Pitchforks—strong-wielded, they are strength enough:
So be our hearts our only fire-shooters,
Needs now none other—'tis but a rough fray—
When danger comes, we'll meet him, dangerously,
Armed to the teeth. But yet, the time is not—
Bludgeons will serve this bout.

My trusty friends,
What I have said, I think to say again
In face of all the people gathered there,
Our own, whole-hearted, whole-bound, brotherhood.
If then it be your mind, as awhile since
You gave your word, now to strike hands with me,
The time is on us—else if to some faint
Relishes this same dish seem over-hot,
Then make your meal aloof—leave me alone—
And I will do the work of other men,
With Him—for helper. Stand you there awhile,
And make up each his mind: strike or forbear.
For I must to the shepherds' a half-hour,
And so God speed us—all we have in hand.”

122

BOOK VII.

He ended—and his speech from one so mild
And maiden-like, amazed them utterly,
As who should see a flash of lightning start
From a blue sky. Long they stood wondering
And witless what to do, much less to say;
The sudden danger yawning at their feet
So startled them. The first, on his return,
Was Linsingen, to frame his mind in speech
From that surprise. “Hermann, what you have said
It is not words but a sheer wonderment.
Do I behold thee indeed—art thou thyself?
Give me thy hand—ah, well—but why then lock
This counsel from thy friend? Beshrew us both—
Holding so high a stake upon this game
Methinks I have full right to know its plan—
And have my hand too in the play of it,
And Hermann, either you did flatter me,
Or this our undertaking, I am its head.
The head as I once thought, and others too
Upheld me for no less—but now it seems—
This your new—something—hath made nothing of me:
And I'm the empty skull, that other brains
Supply me—

I've risked all, my means, my life,
My pleasures, ah! how genial to enjoy!
But I have whistled them away to the winds.
And stand myself here on this dizzy edge,
Where none but madmen have foothold for their hope—
And how 'tis doomed in Heaven, Heaven only knows.
But, for the worldly rate, all affluence
Of Honour, how full swoll'n soe'er, were but

123

A thing of straw against this waste of wealth.
E'en tho' 'twere safe—such honour—not what 'tis—
Reeling its wild round like a gamester's ball—
With but one hopeful hit 'gainst misses amain,
And then all lost—bare as I was erewhile,
Better and braver so 'gainst winter and winds,
Than my new flush of leaf, which gives no strength
Against the storm, but larger hold and sway
To its sweeping onset—Hermann! this from thee!
If such thy friendship, what were my foes' hate?
How should they e'er screw the rack high eno'
When their time comes to wreak their will on me.
'Fore Heaven, I fear not danger, all I wish
Is to be first and foremost meeting it—
Nor am I such a plodder, if I know
Myself, so like an overburden'd ass,
That any other man need trip my heels,
And, so supplanted, take my room himself,
Shouting for hotter speed—a will-o'-wisp—
To flash in front of them—only take heed
Lest such a leader land you in a bog,
And so fulfil your hopes.

Well—I care not—
What I have done I mean others should rue,
Not I myself: nor is my heart so poor,
So brain-sickly, as sot-like, to puke now,
When wassail leaves him muddled on its ebb
From his high fit. No, be ye false or true,
Shifter or trimmer, I am none—hold fast
What I take up—neither an underling
Nor upstart over others—save what they
Were free to give, and I worthy to take;
But of my own merit becomes me not—
Withhold its meed who will”—

“Nay—'tis thy right,”
With heart o'erflowing Hermann answered him,”
“Freely and faithfully I yield it thee—
Take it and hold—'tis earnestly thy own.
But oh no word—e'en whisper'd—of mistrust—

124

Thou know'st how little a damp may check the train—
Must so miss fire—and a two-headed plot
Is but a monster of no lasting life,
How stoutly limbed soe'er. Then think no thought
But that we hold thee our acknowledged head
To lead us all, and we to follow thee.
What late I said, trust me, that utterance
Was but a fainter echo of thy own,
Thy spirit—tho' by me outspoken amiss.
Then no more words—rather the proof of them.
That proof, so let it come, welcome whene'er,
We will fulfil it. Only command thou
Boldly—and we will back thee all as bold,
That the head shall have no cause to say to the hand
‘Thou coward.’ Whate'er thy call, we answer it—
Forward or back? which shall we? speak the word.”
“Forward in name of God,” cried Linsingen,
Fired as with sudden lightning. “Whate'er be,
We will abide it. See—on the slope there—
By Heaven, a goodly muster: if they be
As strong in daring as they seem in show,
No more were need”—

They reached that sundering
Ridge, and there stopping, waved their hats on high
For friendly token: Those awaiting them
Beheld and knew and gladly answered it;
Greeting them with so hearty loud a shout
That the lone lapwing wheeling o'er their heads
Started aside, as from the fowler's shot,
At that so sudden alarm: soon were they met
With hasty earnestness and grasp of hand:
Not such as holiday meetings are wont,
Mirthful and light; but as when man with man
Is leagued to do some danger, and hands clasp
Consciously, in fast-bound conspiracy;
Suppress'd, yet strong.

Sudden a murmur ran,
A birth without a father, thro' the crowd,
Stirring its surface up into a swell,

125

Bodal of storm: and as that crowd was swayed
This way and that by fitful eagerness,
So by the shadow of their coming cloud
With wild unwonted feelings hearts were stirred
Swelling to meet it. Linsingen awhile
Left their deep smouldering warmth to work in them
Each upon each; till the glow spread throughout,
Threatening to burst in flame. Then he strode forth,
And mounted on a hillock there hard by;
Heaped up of yore for warriors' burial.
“Haply my forefathers—and haply I—
If those who grind us now—Vengeance thou'rt slow
To come, but thy beginning brings their end—
Here Kings are buried, and here Freedom is born,
In this birth-hour. Hail to her! So 'twere well;
Happen what may to me.” He stood on the mound,
And suddenly that tumult became still—
An awful stillness, ere the hurricane
Utter its wrath.

“Friends, neighbours, countrymen,
Ye were a happy people 'mong these hills
'Neath my sires' sway: and so would be again,
If Nature were herself, unmarred by Man:
And ye might welcome her free from the scourge
Of these raw rulers—Ah! it grieves me sore—
So sore; that for this bitter wide-spread grief
I relish not God's special gifts to me.
True—I am wealthy—and you—the yoke-bearers
Are but poor men: Yet are we all alike
One kind—still closer, for that faithful tie
Between our forefathers. Ah! happy days!
When Right and Nature ruled—She gave to them
Her wealth, who gave to her their livelong toil,
(So once our clan laboured these common lands)
And the idle hand she left it empty too.
And so should we; but for their selfishness—
Their kind and gentle selves—the Aristocrats—
The rats—a true name, taken by the tail—
So call them—for why lengthen in the mouth
The bitter tang—But we might bear e'en this—

126

If this alone: but bad begets still worse:
And I'yranny, where once it makes a sore,
Must fret and gnaw it to an angry foul
Ulcer—with cankering claws.

We were content
To till God's free gift Earth for our hard bread;
And pay for leave to do it: Yes, Industry
Pay Idleness the grain and best of the chaff
For leave to be itself. This had we borne—
But then comes one demanding what our toil
Hath earned to buy its bread and eat in peace,
For wars to wage therewith—in Christian love—
And so Christ crucified again—hewn—shot—
Drown'd in a gore of blood—by us, his sons,
Against ourselves and him—Can this be well?
Oh no—and what is next betters it not,
But makes the wormwood venom. Ye all know
How, striving in scant hope, our sturdy toil
Hath yet improved that hope to harvestage,
And waste to wealth—hath tamed yon rugged hills,
Made conquest of their stubborn barrenness,
And set its golden sheaves for trophies up
Over the field. Methinks, who did so much,
Deserves a better quittance for the deed
Than beggary and gaol. But toiling worth
Is but a silly ass—must do drudge-work,
And then—eat thistles. Well, our fields are full.
Down comes the parson—like a crow at scent
Of carrion, and claims the law of us:
He who ne'er lent a hand at time of need,
To put it in then first at harvest-tide,
Taking his tenth—so leaving us our loss,
To live on it. A man strange to us all,
A lone black raven, croaking hatefully,
Whose doctrine was ne'er heard or known to us,
Or known but for the off-curse of our souls.
What followed on that claim is deep in your hearts,
I will not brand it deeper by my words.
Let woe go weep in silence. My dear friends,
Are ye already full to the overflow,

127

Or needs there one drop more? Said I a drop?
Oh! 'tis indeed a flood doth threaten us
With rage most ruthless. Aye—yon hills—yon streams—
Ours and our forefathers, our inborn right,
Which to tear from us 'twere as well tear out
Our eyes from out our heads—these must they have—
And we must shrink within our dull clay-walls:
For if we peer beyond them, well I ween
'Tis outright treason. Such a thing as this
Burdens us worse than man can bear—the back—
And harder yet, the heart: gores our whole life.
Whoso but thinks of it, his thought straightway
Must lash itself to madness. But what boots
To think, or talk, or mutter, or aught else
But rise and strike forthwith. 'Tis all is left:
The one good hope that sets us wretches above
The toad in harrow—aye, and with this one
We may requite our loss, with gain thereto;
Else be forlorn of all.

My friends, this tale
I've told it truly, as an earnest man;
Truth without aggravation. For what needs
To flare up Hell with fireworks, or fire-words?
Besides—my heart—its outswell chokes my speech:
What more I should—forgive me—better I were
At sword-stroke, my sires wont. Hermann, stand forth
And speak our wrongs as thou well knowest them;
And if thou can'st devise some milder means
To quench this fever without flow of blood,
I'll hold thee for a healer above price,
And bless thy skill: else we must draw the sword,
E'en as our foes compel us, and God wills.”

That speech was Truth, but, utter'd brokenly,
It died in air, seeking an answering shout,
But finding none in that full meeting of friends:
Faltering halfway; e'en as a miner's train
Broken, before the lurking magazine
Hath caught its flash, and with a burst of wild
Uproar, outblown all round. Yet, what he spoke,

128

Twas not unknown, nor unapproved to them:
They willed none other: but the many are like
Tinder, soon firing, if the flint strike swift
And strongly on the steel, and the sparks fall
Streamingly—else dull, cold, and dark: for light
And heat they have but scantly in themselves;
Must from without. The forward faculty
Of words, to wield them, cannily, at will,
Never did Linsingen give heed to it
And lacked it now—with his cramped utterance
Baulking their zeal—as a flagging sail bemocked
By gusts untoward. Oh words! air-words! how much
Stronger than substance are ye over will!
Who would be great must con and ken ye well
To help his greatness. Linsingen stood back;
And Hermann, thus, calmly at first, began:
“My friends! my brethren of this Fatherland,
I thank ye, that ye're met thus earnestly;
And these same thanks your children shall repeat
To bless your memories; and what erewhile
I wondered, that your patience was so tame,
That wonder is rebuked, and your wise truth
Self proven from its fruit; else were this birth—
This outbreak, now so hopeful, since ripetimed,
Abortive from rash hurry. What ye've heard
Of evils by our leader here rehearsed,
Doubtless you've felt them also deep within,
Worse than the bitterest words. The man that writhes
Beneath a whip, needs none to whisper him
‘This smart is true, thou dreamest not.’ But ye—
Have ye so felt, that feeling hath become
A flame, and with its sufferance fed its strength
For self-redress? For me, my calling is God's—
A Gospeller, a shepherd of men's souls:
And I have striven that my working life
Should earn itself that name—not that the name
Should throw its cloak of falsehood o'er my life.
And in this truth, as I have walked in it,
So, have I taught ye evermore the like,
To practise faithfully and earnestly
What ye profess. Such faith should give its own

129

Proof, in forbearance of wrongs done to it.
So, I beseech ye, undergo in Christ
Each his own burden, wreaking not himself:
But for his neighbour and the commonweal;
Impatience of their wrongs is all as true
Righteousness as to bear meekly our own.
Aye, and I tell ye, the one lives and grows
Out of the other's death. All we forego
Of indignation, each on self-behalf,
We hoard it for our brethren and country's need
To crush her outragers.

That warrants us
Thus rising to redress her rightfully.
For 'tis not restiveness 'gainst public wrong,
But passiveness beneath it that keeps back—
Nay—but stamps down—Man's welfare. When without
Cause, did e'er folk revolt? 'Tis not the curb,
But the spur, they need. Selfishness fears to stir—
Will rather suffer—(so short-sighted is wealth,
So coward, so mean)—than help uphold the main
Fence with its several stake. Thus doth each man's
Default lay open the whole All-man's field
To one man's rule.

Look round—how many huge
Nations, whose hugeness might be great, if free,
Are sunk in slavery? Age after age,
Father to son. 'Tis fear and faint distrust
Of his fellow, so dooms man to cowardly
Forbearance—'neath the Tyrant's wilful yoke—
Wrongful howe'er: those tyrants—that distrust
Upholds them—and they too uphold it in turn
Most foully—what care they for sighs and groans?
'Tis shot and steel and trusty fellowship
Of Patriots must stir them—but that sharp
Avenging Angel, few and far between
Are his onslaughts—Godly and glorious whene'er.
Hallowed each Marytyr who in righteousness
Answering that angel-call by high behest
Uprises to resist and sternly smite
The evil Ruler, worst of wrong-doers—
Fighting 'gainst him, for God—

130

This had ye done
Many years since, then had much sin been spared
To your Rulers, and much sufferance to you:
And yet 'tis well—since that sour leaven hath raised
Your souls to Freedom; and your meekness spurned
Warrants ye by sheer force to win, what Truth
With lowly prayer protesting, is but paid
With mockery: from robbers to preach back
Their prey! How humble! how hopeful!

No—our Lords
Make famine law; and we must quit them home,
Making Rebellion duty—look to the wise
Statesmen of the West—one penny, wrongfully
Taxed on their tea, to them was a just war—
They fought and won it—glorious thenceforth—
And we—our bread—our life—thus clipped! dear friends,
I do beseech ye for the good of all
Abate the wrongful few; drown Flunkeydom
In the gutter—plush and all—lace, puff bag, plumes,
Put Manhood in its place—Wreak your short wrath—
That lasting peace may 'stablish on sure grounds,
Our rights, our lives, our fortunes of us all.

For me—ye've known me long, and what ye know
Be it my witness; if tried hitherto,
True in all else, staid—earnest—free of self—
Then trust me this: and oh! misdeem me not
To think I and my office are at odds
For that, since this sore mischief gnaws our life,
I counsel ye—but what 'vails counsel? whom sheer
Stress of misrule doth drive us to such deeds—
As else I would not, for all worlds to win.
But now both Need and Conscience cry us on
And Faith—for know ye brethren what Faith is?
No sluggard thing, but like the air we breathe,
Which feeds our life with its calm influence,
But yet can storm foul things away; and stir
This world's pool, with its healing angel-wings.
Yes, it comes down to win us peace on earth

131

Thro' its own warfare—for what Christ himself
Said, that He cast a firebrand light 'mong men,
That must we do: preparing the Lord's way,
Straightening the crooked paths, smoothing the rough,
Filling each valley, levelling each hill.
So shall all flesh see God's salvation wrought,
And Faith fulfilled. This for my function's sake:
Lest ye should deem I wrong its holiness,
To bless thus boldly and hallow your outbreak.

Next, since with force outright meet them we must—
Our force, what is it, in amount and plight,
How willed, how weapon'd, how enured to war?
Why brethren, neither witch nor wizard am I,
Nor have no spell to make our weakness strength,
Nor their strength weakness—only—we are men—
And in our manhood must we strongly win,
Or sternly die. Ah! but if that be our aim,
There have been others have essayed the like:
And how they sped, their history is writ
In their own blood—the headsman's axe fulfilled
Its sharp behest more surely than their sword.
True, they fared ill—most true, they died half-way,
Whom this low world, that they should live in it,
Was all unworthy. Martyr, hangman and judge
Are dead alike; the loss of life, the odds
Of a few years, Time hath made even now.
But there's an after doom all must abide:
And there are three men and three several hopes,
And which think you the best and fairest one?
Oh! I've strong faith their earthly doom stands not
In Heaven—Sure for the good fight they fought,
Wrestling 'gainst principalities and powers,
The rulers of the darkness of this world,
There is laid up for them a righteous crown
By the Lord's grace—So for the heavenly hope:
Now for the earthly one. They failed and why?
'Twas their will first, and then their shaft, fell short.
For what is he but a fool, the man who fain
Would shoot thro' a steel plate, and strings his bow
With a silk thread, and draws it silken-like,

132

Most girlish? but on their ruins we climb,
O'er the dead body of their enterprise;
The mouldering bone-heaps—their sad witnesses
Of downfal, our shrewd warning for success.
But how succeed, what hope, what means, which way?
Why, brethren, 'tis but first to know yourselves—
How strong—so knowing, and so manfully
With your known strength working your righteous will.
For ye are the main body, sinew, bone,
Blood of this land: and what ye will, ye shall,
Spite of your lords: whose strongest power is but
An idle plume, that waves on the steel cap,
And idly waving fondly brags itself
To guard the head and crown it over-flaunts:
A show for courtly sunshine, joy and pride,
To swell the flunkey soul, but in the crash
Of fight, 'mid flashing swords and cloven helms,
Where is their vaunt?—gone!—for the feather it is,
Fluttering down the wind.

Friends, what ye will
That shall ye have, so ye will earnestly.
But such an earnest will needs earnest worth
For motive. There they erred, who fondly dreamt
Their brain-born constitution had some charm
That full contentment needs must follow it.
A thing without heart, life, or likelihood,
With ink for all its blood—a birth still born—
In the printers' winding sheets. That idol fell—
Fell, flat as Dagon. The folk's eager will
'Gan wane, and then, wrathful to feel itself
So fooled, broke out, self-maddened; till in that
Mad fit, it stormed all strength away, then sank—
Sank down, weakly and listlessly, to wear
The old fetters.

But for us, a better wit
Guides us a better way; and, be ye sure
The spirit that we raise we'll feed it too—
Fail it shall not for food. Rash say ye—how so?
Come forth the man who said it. Yes, erewhile

133

I was discreet in counsel and in deed;
But well I know boldest decision now
Is best discretion. What, again? brute force,
Say'st thou, brute force? why yes, my feeble friend,
'Tis truly to be dreaded: but by whom?
By those whose wrongful weakness withholds aught
From rightful strength: look to our sires! long years
They wasted arguing, then armed and won.
E'en so must we likewise; since peace is a plague,
Gird we our loins for war. Ye, who've no sword
Sell each his coat and buy one; for know this:
The devil of selfish sway will rend us sore
Ere he quit hold of us—scabbard away—
He hath no ears for parley—and best so—
For in old abuse compromise is no cure,
Better off-sweep it with high-handed sway.
Self-willed: which asks no warrant from times past,
And those that shall come after, gives them none;
Since sprung from the sword's point, not the Law's pen.
Needing no curious adjustment nice,
No purblind charters; nor fears shallows or straits,
Since steering the main sea—so were all safe:
So should our revolution go full round,
Smooth as the earth revolving in mid-air,
No partial cheek nor jar—selfish concerns
Confounded in main change: no struggle or spite,
Quibbling, that frets against small tampering shifts,
But wonder and dumb awe—e'en prejudice
Once launched, losing all hold of olden things
Must needs along, must cling to Freedom's ark,
Foregoing its fond trappings, or else drown
In Freedom's flood—nor bicker against doom,
But undergo the yoke.

True the folk's will
Is slow to kindle, heavy to upraise,
But set our lever once on the land's self,
We'll heave it high enough. Then if your will
Hold fellowship with mine, resolve we thus.

Since wrongfulness hath overridden of old
Our hard-earned rights, our welfare, freedom, and faith,

134

Well nigh to the extinction of all three;
The poor man by the rich outlawed of bread,
The Law depraved, the Church careless of Christ.
And since this folk, forbearing hitherto,
But stirred at last for Truth's sake and their own,
Hath sought redress of grievance and found none.
But rather hath been mocked of scornful men,
Called, but untrue, the representatives
And working body of the people's will:
Who yet in truth do none the smallest thing
Whereof that people would. Therefore 'tis thus
Agreed, and thus resolved by those met here.
'Tis good and fitting that the commonalty
In might and right of its own majesty,
Seeing that selfish lords unanswerable
To its Law, have hitherto trampled it down,
Should undertake itself its own self-rule,
And frame its tide, its life-blood, in its true
Channel, to run straightforward from its source:
From its side-issues feeding its side-fields.

Begin we then from God's own Truth, hat man's
True life is mainly self development,
Which cannot be without self-government.
And as the man's life, so the folks' likewise
Must be self-framed thro' its own mind's forewill,
Else were that life some other's, not its own.
Hence must the folk's will settle the folk's law
Not for the gain of few, but the main good,
Likeliest reached by self-rule; since no folk
Willingly wrongs itself; or at worst, when known,
Will sure redress the wrong. Thence, how folk-rule
Were best fulfilled, 'tis our main need to know.
Therefore divide this land into new shires,
Thirty or more, with each a million souls,
And forty representatives for each,
Whereof the greatest rentowners shall name
Eight, and the greatest taxpayers eight more.
Each class, on stated qualifying votes
And rents, the higher having plural rates;
The highest, ten, those intermediate

135

As council shall deem best; the lowest two—
All below these three several standards, one.
Next the learned callings, those allowed, shall name
Four steadmen; and the other rate and tax
Payers shall last name twenty; since the highest
Stands not without the lowest; and the higher
A State is reared, it needs a broader base.
Besides, no safeguard else the workman hath
Upholding all, but oft down-trodden himself.
But those unrated, who earn wages, or else
Have means, shall pay a poll-tax, and be called
Pollmen, and any three of them may choose
To vote for them, by secondary voice,
One steadman, who shall give one vote for the three.
So none shall be denied free choice, but those
Who live by idle alms or theft, nor pay
E'en the poll-tax—such have no part with us.
For bulwark some must be 'gainst rabble rule:
Since only the warm working blood can build
The body; which rejects or excreates all
Dull or dead offal as unfit for its frame.
Hence only those should choose State-rulers who bear
State-burdens—so shall worth have steadying weight.
Such forty steadmen, making the shiremote,
Shiremotes-men shall be called, and rule the shire:
Which so, shall be self-governed in its own
Concerns, a lesser State within the main.
Choosing its headmote for executive,
Committee-men for reference and report,
And Senate for revisal, fifteen men,
Who shall vote first in the main body, and then
Revise its sanctions. This shiremote shall have
Large powers, but local only, and e'en these
Subject to regulation by the main
Landmote; but such control to countervail
These lower motes shall choose that highest one.
Thus—each of the twelve hundred from the shires
Shall name, for the main, one hundred, women or men.
At large, no local limit: for so worth
Shall likeliest get its due reward, and so
May lofty minds, tho' few and far apart,

136

Combine their rays to one true central choice,
And thro' such concentration reach their ends
Hopeless from trivial suffrage. And of those
So named, the hundred on whom most votes meet
Shall serve—thus mainly—but some specialties
Omitted here, must riper counsel adjust—
Then, as the shiremotes, the mainmote likewise,
Its process shall ordain and settle its state,
Thro' headmote, senate, and committee-man:
Thence, single and supreme shall rule the whole land,
From this its constitution: which shall ne'er
Be changed, unless by two-thirds of its own
Motesmen, and also, of the joint shiremotes—
From such safeguards Democracy hath hope,
And so, its fearful name forgotten, and fierce
Nature foregone in righteous mild folk-rule,
It sets more truly forth the fable old:
To belly and limbs adding head and heart—
Its heart the folk's will—the lawmote its head—
Its belly the main toil-won wealth—its limbs
The workmen. Thus the whole, fitly compact,
May grow up one true body, one live Church,
Atoned in Christ to God. A body now
Hugely uncouth and brutish; but henceforth
Within its stalwart fabric, sound and safe,
Confining and compressing its own force—
May guide from its head-counsel its heart-blood;
Tho' swirling oft, never o'erswelling in wild
Excess: and haply so shall speed its hope—
But thereto needs stedfast conservative
Channels, a strong-boned life-stead to frame blind
Hot-blood: for loose power works no good, but waste
Only, until in due limits coerced—

Thus be the State-rule settled: and, henceforth
The rule of property should be redress'd
From its wrong bias unto its right aim—
Which is, indeed, to comfort industry
As sure it doth, where Reason limits it—
Tho' oftener, self-seeking greediness
Hath wrested it, to pamper idleness:
Resolve we then this foremost—the land's growth

137

By God's grace given, belongs only to those
Thro' whom, by work or wages, skill or means
'Tis grown; hence on each farm be the farmer's stock
Rated, and for its use a yearly hire
Be paid him on that rate from the land's growth,
And for his management a further share;
Also some quittance to the owner of late,
And for State-tax; the rest, they who have toil'd
Shall share, by rule of overseers ordained
To allot hands to work, and judge debates;
But for the landlord 'tis an impious name,
By man usurped from God—name and right too
We forsay wholly and bury them for dead.
Henceforth the State shall hold their ownership,
Paying them compensation, lest they starve:
The less as they have taxed the more our bread
For many years, and now must quit the account.

But since high-birth with breeding, hath some soul
Of goodness, specially its own, tho' oft
Self-shamed—and courtesy, which, more than speech,
Lifts man above brutes, should belong to it,
Thence in that hope, Gentry we will uphold
For sake of the whole folk more than its own;
Nor will we only uphold, but strengthen it,
On its landstead, deep-rooted from old time.
Erst as landowner, hence as landholder—
For such landlordship courteous and high-born
Is Aristocracy; when true, a truth
Lovely, not hateful; tho' some hate its name:
But lest it sink to Alazonocracy
In dronish proud self-will, we must find means
How its good leaven may work thro' the loaf—
Therefore each shire in hundreds shall be split,
And these in tithings—and each tithing choose
From its indwellers, motes-men for its own
Friendsmote, and for the main friendsmote of the whole
Hundred, one steadman. These friendmotes shall be
For social ministration, as lawmotes
For legal—or as crime and causemotes, each
For its calling. Shall State ordinance, choose heads,

138

And divide functions: taking cognizance
Of what belongs to them; friendly concerns
Improvement, pastime, furtherance of whate'er
Helps welfare; soul or body; science, art,
Skill, culture; comfort, social and spiritual:
'Bove all, of their poor brethren's need—their main
Mighty undertaking, unwieldy to all else
But Christian Love, which hence shall supersede
The hateful iron Poor Law, enforced no more.
And of these friendmotes, bye and main, the chief
Landholders in the country, and in towns,
The foremost townsmen shall be senators:
And with them others, whom professional
Skill, trade and wealth shall name, each from its bulk.
That choice may overrule ill chance: and thence
Those that were hitherto but forestanders
Shall be foredoers—each to undertake
What best becomes him and belongs to him
After his calling—so a circle wide
Of Christian work were open to each will—
But that were little—common erst as air,
And no more prized—but now—'twere much to feel
The spur of special duty, and the glow
Of fellowship: to swell the cheerful shout
Of progress, lend an earnest helping hand
'Gainst Satan's tottering throne, and do the work
Of a new manly, Christian, godly world—
Not of the old self-hacknied worldiness.
To be God's fellow-workers—That were much—
These friendmotes mean and hope it. So our new
Landholders shall become a living power
From a dead ownership. Leading aloft,
Not like a kite's tail, all unwillingly
Draggling and wriggling after. So shall speed
What now they clog—each in his several range
Mainly, but helping others, where he can,
For social, moral, and material good.
O'erseeing the poor, schools and hospitals;
Furnishing in fair halls at public cost
For mote-days their friend meetings, for folk-days
Teachings and recreations; helps for art,

139

Skill, science; music, lectures, manly games
In parks and gardens; welcoming the folk
With kindly hospitable holidays.
So best may Aristocracy assert
Itself, and, haply, blend thro' handicraft
And drudging toil some gentler feeling and grace,
And love of fair refining fellowship.
With hope to make these slow grades stepping-stones
To the all-atoning altar crowning them.

So may such shire-motes, friendmotes, magistrates
With weighty ballast steady the State-ship.
Else, danger, lest the folk, drops multiplied
To an ocean, each self-weak, but mighty in main,
Should if self left, by Conscience uncontrolled
Within, be drawn by influence from without
Thro' thoughtless fellowship, or mooning wild
Agitation and attraction, to break loose
In reckless wild excess, unknowing why—
Or if known, wrongful—from hate, envy or greed.
Therefore we need standards of weight and worth
O'er the low level upreared loftily,
For popular respect to look to them
In Love, Faith, Reverence; and so lift itself
Above itself to the height it contemplates.
And that such standards be not lightly stirred,
Like pyramids, self-sure in their own strength
Majestic, tempering glare with shadowy awe,
And staying what they o'ersee, the shifting sands,
Which else from blind instinctive surging drift
Make all one desert, barren as themselves.
These standards, in each shire, as magistrates
Shall advise, arbitrate, conciliate,
In all Life's knotty needs, not Law alone;
Guiding in simpler cases untaught minds
Thro' legal forms and process; then what kind
Counsel avails not, shall decide by Law.
Beside all this, for the land's management
The landholders shall be land-ministers;
For God and the main good: for their own too:
Accounting each to the State; whose steadman he is.

140

And for that purpose they shall hold in each
Tithing their farmmotes, weekly, as may seem,
Or monthly, rendering their reports therein
To the head-mote and council—o'erlooking work,
Employing, paying workmen, buying too
And selling 'neath the farm-council's control—
Which, if skill, health or honest earnest will
Fail him, shall name some fitter in his stead.
And of his pay as working landholder
Abate one half: its full amount being fixed
On thoro' inquisition by the State.
Which, shall hereafter be sole landowner.
Leaving each landholder his own homestead
With its park, garden, all appendages,
On a light yearly quittance. Paying all rent,
And taking, in corn-worth; reserving too
These and all other questions for its own
Revisal, and full final settlement.
Taking good heed that landholders shall rue
Little, if at all, their loss of ownership.

But as their management, must their meed be,
This scanted if that slacken'd. To these ends
Be the land's native worth valued, and on
That value be assessed a fixed State-rent,
To be new settled once in twenty years.
Thereafter labourer, farmer, landholder
(Who may himself be farmer, finding stock),
Shall each be paid from sale of the year's growth,
On scale of graduation 'tween two terms,
Highest and lowest—the most gainful years
Shall so supply the scantiest—and leave, too,
Beside that surplus some for other needs—
Thus all shall gain from improved management—
And things most needful shall be dealt from stores,
That weekly wage may be less needed; and these,
Managers, one from each class, shall control.
For cheapness both and goodness—and withal
To keep off filching meddlers from the fund.
We need not so much counter-sleight—against
All comers. This same council, in three sets

141

Shall class, and pay its workmen by their worth
On larger farms: for the smaller, what one man
Can till, that let him hold—paying State-rent
Only—double for grass, single for plough—
Thus mainly—but full rules of management
From riper thought, shall our chief council ordain.

Next for the Law: 'tis much in fault—behoves
To bring it back to Truth, whence 'tis bewrayed.
Untwisting all the wiles of crookedness
To open-handed clear straightforwardness:
But so to settle rules of right and wrong,
Strong minds, not lawyers' craft is needed—as well
Ask foxes to guard geese. 'Tis a stiff task—
Who undertakes it, must well heed these truths.
Law must be stern and strict; since Law and Love
Were ever, and are, twain: and for Man's weal
The characters of evil against good,
Black against white, by slackness now o'erslurred,
By justice must be deeply branded in:
That wickedness may rue, goodness rejoice.
But since the Law hath lost much of its dread
Thro' silly sentimental maunderers,
Who cherish evildoers, it shall now
Be sharpened, to smite sorely, as of yore.
That Sin may see and shudder—Hence, slow pains
Shall precede Death, more fearful than itself,
Foreshadowing to the sinner his own Hell.
For who but fools deem all murder alike?
Some from hot blood—some prove the murderer
Self-sold to Satan, should thence bear his brand.
For the evildoer, hard work, hard fare; short scourge
Nor other comfort than the hope to escape
Here and hereafter, by behaviour fair
Proven thro' lingering trial, the sour lot
He abhors, nor likely its return will risk.
Sorrow and steady toil starve guilt: The known
Prison scares sinners more than the unknown Hell.
Next, longer doom must punish each relapse,
That lengthened toil may beget skill, and each
Prison from its inmates work sustain itself—

142

Further, to shorten suits and strife, all debt
By sale, shall be of faith, not law—who will
May trust—else take a pledge: sue he shall not.
So each man to himself were law enough
And safeguard—but who wilfully runs risk,
Let him rue it—nor crave help from Law, meant only
A shield 'gainst others, not against self-wrong.
Then honesty, again, as erst, were high
Honour, and life's path cleared of thousand thorns.
Next, lawyers shall be all law-officers,
Under the sword, as clients under the shield
Of State; which shall receive all fees from these
After its settled standard, and pay those
A yearly salary; also a fixed
Per-centage on fees earned for it by them.
One such law-officer shall the State name
For every district, who shall keep the maps
Of all its parishes, with properties
All numbered in a triplicate register
For him, the parish church, and State, one each,
Lest the State be defrauded of its dues.
Nor any advocate shall be allowed
Unless for party's disability.
Or for transcendent import of the cause:
But law-clerks of the State, one for each side,
Shall frame all pleadings into written form.
But this foreprocess, in civil suit; shall be.
The magistrate, whoe'er belongs, shall hear
The parties, and if need be, witnesses,
To hinder, by atonement, hateful strife,
And if thence reconcilement grow, so good,
Else, the gainsayer, if cast, shall pay a fine.
And if such magistrate shall deem the plaint
Doubtful, the plaintiff shall give bail for costs,
Then be the suit to another magistrate
Carried; to one for small; to three or four
Jointly, for greater stakes; to the full court
For revisal, on appeal. Such courts shall search,
Settle and instate the resulting right,
Whether of law, or fact, or both, without
A jury's blundering blockheadedness.

143

Thus for all civil suits, and if the change
Work well, for criminal too—only in State
Trials, for treason, libel, or sedition,
And also libel and slander between men,
The jury shall decide: and, five of six
Shall condemn, else the culprit shall go clear.
For Freedom's life is free discussion in speech
Or writ: and State-power needs much counterpoise.
For selfish men, the many, of folk-right
Reck not: would let the shepherd wrong the sheep.
Thence whoso 'gainst State-wrong sounds the alarm,
Deserves much honour for his zeal, slight blame
For haste—forbear him then, or give him at least
A jury of his countrymen for judge;
Husband and wife shall answer each for self,
Not the other; and hold severally each their own.
No suit shall be for marriage unfulfilled,
Save on betrothal registered in form;
Nor for seduction any civil suit,
But criminal. No man for his agents' acts
Shall answer, (under stress of law) unless
Specially ordered, or needfully implied.
Traders shall not be sworn to try trade debts.
Game, where'er found, shall be the landowners,
And poachers doomed as thieves. Laws shall be fram'd
'Gainst drunkenness and those who foster it.
A tenant holding over after due
Notice to quit, shall be deemed a trespasser,
And for the owner, any constable
Entry may force, and reinstate his right.
Better so shortly at first, than troublously
At last, as now. Judges shall mend mistakes,
Unless misleading the main cause. No quirks
Technic shall thwart Truth, nor entitle fraud.
No minor's debt shall ever bind him, unless
For plain clothes, food, and shelter, lest he starve.
Nor lords be bound for more than working men.
Nor shall e'en marriage give a right to more.
And since what once was sport is poison now,
Running, like wildfire, yearly worse and worse,
Thro' our country's blood; no horse shall run in race

144

Under four years, two miles, and ten stone weight;
To try swift strength, not sleight of jadish speed,
Else, be horse forfeit—owner and rider fined.
None shall take other than his father's true
Birth-name, but on State leave, and a thousand pounds
Paid down—the same for every month, if un-
Licensed; to strip the swindler's self-plumed show.
These and what other changes may seem good
To shorten, cheapen process, amend, improve,
Fit council shall revise, settle, decree.
Thus shall Law wield, not only scourge and sword,
But an olive-branch withal; may heal the sore
She now but wrathens. Not as hirelings do,
Warping, belying, juggling right and wrong,
Clashing with cunning drift, each against each,
Two self-wills, blindly to be crushed or bruised,
But standing fair between, to balance both.
So tempering doom with grace: not without hope
To renew Christian brotherhood, from strife
Not wholly unfair, hateful, or ruinous.

Further, the State shall help, or even compel
(If need be, failing other helpful means)
Co-operation between hirer and hired;
By partnership of profits: binding so
Master and man to the only union true,
Of mutual gain or loss, trust and goodwill.
Abating here self-pride; there envious spite.

And since short weights and measures are to God
Abomination, and a crying curse
To Man, from buyers wronged, sellers depraved;
Henceforth, for all such dealers be dealt back
The felon's doom, foreiture, gaol, hard work,
So should worst thieves worst rue their thievery.
For those too who sell silver and gold, debased
Below mint-standard, or adulterate food.

And be it resolved—the Church is naught—a thing
Rotten throughout, essence and ordinance:
No true Church, for the Lord dwells not therein,

145

But a foul den, sheltering many thieves,
And money-changers, trafficking men's souls
With hire and sale, instead of saving Grace.
Being one half or nigh to their own flocks
Foreigners, knowing them no otherwise
Than feeding on their flesh, clothed with their fleece.
Truly, a sin to draw damnation down
Not only on them but us who suffer them;
As God will sure require it at our souls—
Therefore let this huge scandal be pulled down,
And then reframed in frame apostolic
After old Wickliffe, his right earnest wise.
That so the clergy first be Christianized.
Thence shall each congregation rule itself
Without all bias of authority
In things of Faith save the free Bible alone.
Choosing its elders, and they choosing again
Deacons and preachers of the Word; whereof
Each preacher; so he profess faith in Christ's
Teachings, shall be his own interpreter.
No other forms of creed imposed on him.
And tithes shall cease, and each Church bear its charge
They who own none being taxed in aid of all—
Not without profit to themselves—for God's
Worship much hinders Satan's wasteful lures.
But since by holy writ we have one Priest
Only, and one Faith-founder, Christ alone,
And since the only words spoken by Christ
For rule of worship forbid public prayer
And ordain private—stand we brethren fast,
Whatever others may ordain, by Christ's
Standard—bound man with man in covenant
Thereto: nor take from preacher nor from book
Our prayers: such strange dry stuff, like painted sticks,
Kindle not, warm, nor stay the soul within;
Which from live inward growth alone can bear
Faith's fruit, and knowing its own needs, in its own
Ground rooted, by its own Conscience convinced,
Shall find its one sure comfort in self-prayer.
This to unfold, not others nor his own
The preacher should intend, leaving between

146

His sermons, readings, hymns, some awful space
Of silence: for soul-prayer, each 'gainst his heart's
Evil, and for its good 'neath stated heads,
Some time allowed for each, but thereto needs
For minds unskilled to inward homily
Earnest foretrial and self-tasking Truth.
These should the preacher quicken, and each Church
Thro' Faith's sore troubles, by communion and class
Help its own children. So may worship and work
Be blent together in true Christian life.

And be it resolved that everwearing toil
Befits not man, being brute drudgery;
Unless, which few men can, he raise his work
To worship, doing all he doth for God.
Else must such hardship stunt his nature, born
Earthly, but yet for self-development
To Heaven, a little lower than angels are.
And from this rule the working-man hath right
Of leisure and appliance to enlarge
His span of life; toiling to live, and not
Living to toil, as need o'erstrains him now:
Barring all spiritual exercise,
Stunting all holy growth, and robbing so
His soul of its unprized, tho' God-given
Birthright, its means of grace, and hope of Heaven.
Then to forfend this evil, and gain this good,
Let fitting recreation be foreseen,
Both for refreshment of Man's weekly toil,
And holy comfort after worldiness.
But, since vice ever grows from vacancy,
Therefore let needful aids be minister'd
To occupy in sport or seriousness
The space that else the evil one would fill.
And be those aids varied for various needs.
Gardens and spacious shades, where the weary sense
In their cool freedom may refresh itself;
And contemplative leisure study God
By Nature's help, his best interpreter;
Besides, what ground for pastime may seem meet
Whenever thronging toil hath holiday,

147

For lusty games, and proof of manliness.
Next, since Man sins only from lack of true
Knowledge, mistaking evil for his good;
And as he learns, e'en so he practises,
Practising only what he first hath learned;
Therefore it much behoves the common good
And common right that each man be taught well:
Lest evil discipline lead to ill deeds;
And then the Law rising up wrathfully
Albeit itself worthier far of blame
In its default, than was the man in his act,
Do bloody vengeance on the deed foredone:
Making much evil in its slothfulness,
And mending it with more in its hastiness;
To punish eager, as careless to prevent:
Rather a hangman than good governor:
For to him kindly grace and love belongs—
Therefore be there provided public schools,
Industrial for good behaviour, toil,
Love, godliness: to strengthen body and heart
First, and then soul and mind to earnestness.
Thither shall those within that school-range send
Their children, or else prove their time well-spent
For earnings—since work teaches better 'n books:
There shall each girl be taught things useful and good,
Deftly to sew, then read, write, cypher—and what
Of household work schools can; but far 'bove these
Conditions gentle and gracious, kindness, truth,
Reverence for elders, willingness to work,
Holiness; but the boy, if born to toil
Yet like to learn, as one in twenty may,
Let him be taught: up to accounts: for trade
And skilled handcraft: thence, if his bent of will
Drive him toward learned callings, give him aid
For his whole mind fully to unfold itself.
Else, if dull, froward or untowardly
For books, (as worthiest workers often are,
Since stolid implies solid, muscle and bone,
In them more prominent than nerve and brain)
Then teach him to love God, and those who in life
Belong to him; to do biddings; work well.

148

No more—for Manhood needs no wider ring—
Such lowly wisdom shames the sharpest wit.
And what he lacks of learning, if his wife
Own it, he loves her, his helpmate, all the more;
Each from the other getting what each needs
Kindly commutual; his strength with her skill:
Thence to the weaker wife shall respect grow
In wedlock: Hence the mother to her own
Standard will strive to bring her children up.
So childhood shall be taught—but when, toward noon,
Youth ripens into manhood, let free-will
Be kindly aided to take up the aim
By discipline foregone at her due time.
And to that end the friendmotes may help much.
Somewhat perhaps by books—but more by talk,
Cheerful, and teachings of the living tongue,
With pictured illustration; and not least
Concerts, for friendly order and accord,
Games, singing, dancing; for such lively hints
Tune not alone the body, but the mind,
In moving harmony. So Grace, too, grows;
And finer sentiment so to the soul
Attempered, may teach fitness to the uncouth,
And subdue sinful lust to heart-blending Love.
Or, first in comelier spirits, somewhat o'er self
Prevailing, may from them reach and redeem
The low coarse clay from utter loutishness.
But since all gifts and grace beside, without
Godliness, leave man where they found him, low
As the dust whence he was drawn, so culture's first
And latest aim must be that godly one—
For Nature needs thoro' development
Mostly in man, her highest and best work,
When fulfilled—else if stunted, lowest and worst.
Being then a mannish brute—more mischievous
Since strengthened with man's organs for brute lust.
And such development cannot stop short
At self, but spreads thro' social and politic,
And rises by devotion unto God.
Therefore behoves us practically in man
To prosecute God's project, and unfold

149

The hard-coiled heart to expansive sympathy
Outward; with Faith upward and holiness:
From its central spot to a wide circumference
Of kind concern, from sense to godly soul,
Public from private, patriot from self-love.
So Freedom may run happily between
Law and Religion, steadfast continents.
And so Man's earthly spirit may sum itself
In heavenly: from such beginnings small,
Thro' fellow-feeling trained, by daily wont
Of duties, social, politic, devout,
To God at last—woe to who hinders it,
But how best help, needs counsel wiser 'n mine.
Next, council should advise, how best to make
Wedlock, life's stem, where its roots meet, and whence
Its branches, leaves, fruit, grow, a well-earned high
Reward of steady worth: a holy tie,
Not a chance huddled knot, tangled too oft,
And brangled; also how train boy and youth
To wholesome awe and deference worshipful
For elders, teachers, masters; seldom now
Proven, but blackguardly self-will instead
With outlash wild shaming our slack outleave.
Needs sharp strict curb: else riot will rule all.
And be it resolved, soldiership shall not be
A special calling, but all men alike
Enured in arms, to help defensive need.
And be it resolved, 'tis an unholy thing
To make a general dearth for gain of few.
Therefore what other lands can send, be ours
Free to receive, save the State's needful dues.
But by this law: the rule that other lands
Apply to us, shall we apply to them.
First then, we tax a tenth of its worth here
On produce of all countries that take ours
At a like rate or less—if they exact
More, so will we; by rule reciprocal.
Else, if they send us their excess, yet shut
Their market against ours, free-trade is none:
Nor any reason why we should so help
Their efforts to outdo our skill with theirs

150

By giving them all vantage, taking none.
Besides, 'tis good by fostering home growths
To save the cost of transport, and to shift
Some part of our State-load on aliens.
Who else with riper clime and working means
And lower wage would overbear our own;
Making our land a sink for all their cheap
Superfluous offal, and thence heading back
Our course of home-trade, as full dykes stop drains:
Sickening our field-growth and handicraft,
Till by that flooding refuse stifled and sunk
In swamp-like sour stagnation it droops and dies.
Then, from all rivals freed, that foreign cheap
Stuff becomes dear, as practise sadly proves.
Words then we trust not, but till trade be free
Indeed, we deal with others as they with us.
And since to what we've holden long we hold
Most, from old wont—but what comes suddenly
Is surplus, and what's taken thence, is felt
Less sorely, likelier spared; therefore the State
To prompt men to live kindly, not die rich,
Shall take one third of a dead man's ownership:
One half if he die childless—all he owned
Within his last year, being reckoned his:
Unless on sale for worth—all who partake
Must disclose all; whoe'er hides or abets
Shall forfeit his whole share with prison and fine.

Further, the old straightforward course of trade
Is now sore cursed with meddlers—middle-men—
Brokers—or fitlier, breakers—hopeless whoe'er
Is stranded 'mong them: whence trade's even tide
Is wabbled up and down, trust oftentimes
Betrayed—fraud rife—traffic demoralized.
And by shrewd selfish concert needful goods
Forestalled, and prices screwed; that the poor man's mites
May swell the griper's millions. True, all this,
So the blockbook-heads tell us, is all right—
We feel it a sore crying wrong; and as such
Smite it; thus: all stocks, shares, debentures, bonds,
Bills, values, funds of states or companies,

151

Or chartered bodies, shall be sold to buyer
By owner, with no middleman between,
Or else by public sale, at foreset time
And place; daily or weekly, as seems good.
And any middle man on brokerage
Of other goods and values shall pay two
Per cent. of the sale's import, to the State:
(Unless such sale be public: 'tis then free.)
With penalty of twice the value's amount
Half to the State, half to the informer due,
By the delinquent broker to be paid.
Further, all copyrights, monopolies
And patents, are alike unwarranted.
For Man's work ne'er can be original,
Since all suggestions spring from former ones,
And no self-called inventor but from the old
Store takes a hundred fold more than he adds.
Freely he took, and freely let him give.
And if he choose to publish let him not
Think counter things, to publish privily.
But each mind drawing from the main should drop
Therein its small dew-driblets, sprung therefrom.
Besides what one found many more might find.
Why, then, so block the many for the one.
Thus with law-traps and thorns to beset the paths
'Tis as tho' some explorer happening first
On Darien's narrow neck should thence forbid
Both continents to after comers, tho',
From their own onset, taking the same track.
Such froward doltish hindrance we forbid—
Better, for signal merits, give State-meeds
But few and sparely, after thoro' proof,
Well weighed—for worth is, mostly, its own reward.
And since, the greed of hasty gain is Man's
Main curse, and State-example lavishing
Its public pay, kindles and feeds that greed.
Hence should the State, as doth the Gospel, stamp
Christ's simple pattern on its followers,
Content with little—neither exacting much,
Nor spending—since to wring from toil its hard
Earnings for idle waste, is wickedness

152

Most wanton—such taxation is twice curs'd,
To giver and taker; sparingness is thrift,
And savingness salvation to State-weal.
Needs too, a strong curb on official sway—
Manhood's sore canker and curse,—whence likeliest,
Freedom becomes corrupt, e'en to self-loss—
Better one lord, lion, nay wolf, than swarms
Of vermin, crawling, teasing, stinging our blood;
Making the common wealth a common waste
For ass, goose, swine, by their base selfish greed
Fast bound in braying, cackling, grunting league
Against all earnestness of thriftier tilth.
But like an ulcer, drawing from the whole
Body, its lively working blood, to swell
Their lazy foulness—So the mischief grows.
And so self-life, self-help, self-will, self-worth
Are lost, and self-love only left: to live
Jew-like, by jobbery, shams, o'erreaching wiles—
Therefore resolve we that the standard of pay
For all State-hirelings, high or low, shall be
The ploughman's daily wage reckon'd in wheat:
And other work, as each, compared therewith
Hath more or less of hardship, skill and worth,
So be it paid proportionate thereto.
Statesmen or judge by the units multiple,
Service unskilled or slight by its minuple:
But higher than tenfold no rate shall be,
Unless our after Council otherwise
Ordain, for offices of special charge.
And since a private master gives not pay
To former hirelings, neither shall the State:
Which to all ruled by it should show a true
Pattern of thrift—not, as oft seen, of waste.
The head betraying to a vermin horde
The body—but henceforth wage is for work
Alone, unless for wounds disabling it—
But, lest thrift fail, one twentieth from all pay
Shall be abated for a pension fund.
And since Man's greed is but a blind snow-ball
Gathering wealth, not for its worthy use
And comfort; but for self-pride—so to say,

153

Behold—admire me—biggest of snow-balls—
Nay—of dung-heaps—corruptive, when close-piled,
Productive, when spread fairly—We must hence
Further this fair spread: taxing bloated wealth
With rising graduation—that gold-greed
Be checked; land-greed, yet worse, we've rooted out.
And Poor-rates shall be drawn from Christian Love,
Not Law—so shall that Love slumbering now,
Since superseded by forced doles and thence
Less needed, yearn to its renewed strong need;
Free from Law's iron bars and hateful screws—
Thence willing hearts quickening helpful hands,
May bind in kind communion wealth to want,
And Faith, thro' works, feel her way heavenward.

Further the people's danger is not now,
From ruthless tyrants or from plundering mobs,
But from their own corruption, idleness,
Rankness, place-hunting, and place-holding rot—
Whereby the many are bribed to make the few
Their rulers, who turn privilege to pelf:
By secret sale of contracts, offices,
Ownerships, till the plague corrupts the whole blood,
Slackens the body, deadens working will:
While wens like those claim pay and honour as heads.
For who would strive when he could sit at ease
And watch the storm-blown seamen from the shore
Of calm official sham? This deadly sap
To stay, behoves stern will and iron strength;
For those blood-sucking swarms are keen, and they
Who watch them, waiting to suck after them
Yet keener—to this root must the axe be laid.
First by low salaries, next by Law's sharp lash,
Scourging wrong-doers—then competitive
Foretrials, then by sifting choice of men,
Earnest to serve the country for its sake,
From zeal and conscience of their calling, as now
Godly men serve Christ; asking not so much
High wages, as a field for high-aimed work.
Also be 'stablished shrewd committee-men,
Strong-willed, stern, earnest, watchful against all

154

Corruption, as fendykes-men against rats.
Tax-pruners, to sift narrowly all new
Outlay, and to report what can be saved
And spared from the old. No new charge shall be set
Unless two thirds of them shall vote for it.
Nor any old retained by less than half.
Nor shall the mainmote cancel their report
By fewer than three-fourths of their full vote.
So haply from its hirelings may the State
Get as good work as private masters do,
Not shammed or slurred as now—a deadly shame—
Since from State-models others take their mould.
Next, standard embassies, that stir more strife
Than e'er they still, shall be forbidden—and then
And there, where needs arise, Statesmen be sent.
And since, from hasty greed Fraud daily grows
More rife, in trade, companies, bankruptcy;
And since such roguery is worse than sheer
Unblushing theft, more wasteful and dangerous:
By sterner pains be all such frauds repress'd.
And the old wholesome laws gainst usury
From mawkish purblind sophistry repealed
Be they renewed, with further stringency
And strength, intensive and extensive too—
That thrift may plod on steadily as erst,
With small gains, helping trade, not spendthrift waste.
Further, lives fleet like leaves, nor can the now
Rule the after; hence the State, for wholesome check
On loans, shall stake against them taxes, enough
Ere twenty years, to clear them—so no son
Shall bear his father's burden—for thence grow
Wars, and all waste—who charged must discharge too—
Further, since arts, professions, offices
Are hugely overpaid, and greed in these
More than in land-rents, field-work, handicraft,
Trade-gains, and interest on public loans,
Outswells the wise wont of our forefathers;
And their high pitch mars the main harmony,
As in a globe, which rolls not evenly,
If here down-trampled, there to airy pride
Puffed out—be such excess reduced to rule.

155

With field-work for a standard, whence to pay
All these their worth comparative, more or less:
So may their rate keep compass, as of old,
Nor claim pounds now where pence were welcome then—
This let the State begin, others will thence
Follow—and so the middle class, that holds
And binds to a whole, the extremes, lofty and low,
Trafficking 'twixt the two, partaking of each,
And by its tempering means steadying both,
May keep its level, nor forego as now,
Rising too high, its means conservative.
For the central stay of rest once shifted, each pole
Swings wildly about, and chaos comes again.
Lastly, no time shall run against folk-right.
But fraud or wrong, when found, shall be redress'd,
Tho' centuries come between: else proofs are rife
(Since what concerns all, often concerns none)
That scoundrels in high place will scoop this land,
Finding means, openly or stealthily,
To draw from it an everlasting drain—
Then the catch-pipe once set, they call their wrong
A vested right; the more they 've plundered us
The less our claim to wring them. Thus have Kings
Burdened their misbegotten lustling sons
On our hard earnings—Thus by juggling tricks,
Leases of folk-lands, sinecures, sham-suits,
Exactions by law-makers for law-leave,
Has many an idle wretch fatten'd on the blood
Of our main body—and what one blood-sucker
Gets, many covet; and sell body and soul
For shameful hope of it—deep and wide-spread
This plague—must smite it sternly, root and branch:
Nor only tear from our State-oak such foul
Funguses, but withal make them disgorge
From their back gains what can be got from them—
Therefore for thrift and against fraud, be named
Shrewd and stern men, trustworthy from tried Truth,
To watch and ward, sift thoro'ly, and vouch
Or brand as bad all public claims—each year
Reporting what's ill-spent, what can be spared.
And public frauds shall feel the sharpest scourge

156

Of Law; with wrongful gains repaid tenfold;
That Fear may check whom Conscience never could.
My friends these truths to me are sure—if so
To you likewise, 'tis yours to make them rules.
But take them not on trust for me—they need
A stronger warrant. To wise councillors
Must be committed, and by them reframed.
Lastly, since these and other righteous dues
Are yet withholden from us by our Lords,
With whom nor Right nor Reason availeth aught:
And patience of their heavy oppression
Doth but provoke them to heap wrong on wrong,
As this poor land hath proved, under their power,
Groaning and travailing in pain till now:
Therefore be it resolved, there is strong need
That we rise up from our long listlessness
In arms, and so redress ourselves to right
Manfully, as behoves good and true men.

Brethren, ye have my conscience, my full mind,
No learned trickery, but earnest Truth;
For I've bestowed my whole life searching it.
Ye've heard it in full meeting now, and singly
Erewhile.—Each man with me and wiser heads
Weighing it well—in bulk, and bit by bit:
And this my thought's hasty deliverance
Hath been the offspring of slow ripening time.
Then why stand here to make more words of it?
Ye've heard the whole, answer me, aye or no;
Is it your will? Do ye determine so?”

He ended: and the throng that listened him
So by his words were borne beyond self-will,
That answer was spell-bound—all utterance lost
In the eager audience. And, his speech done,
After him came a billow-like heart-thrill
To fill the void. Then a dark high-browed smith,
Grimy, but stalwart, skilled of timely stroke
To weld the iron in high flush of heat,
Upcried, with his deep thunder of assent;
And upon that, a shout tumultuous,

157

Conclaiming, like a battery's general peal
After the signal shot. It spoke a strength
Manifold more in spirit than in show,
That hundreds might seem thousands; and so strong
Against the surly mountain side it struck
As every voice had been a living thing,
Yearning for utterance. Then a glad fire
Kindled in Hermann's eye, to feel their hearts
Swelling to meet his own; pulse against pulse,
Deep answering deep; and thus his soul spake out:

“Brethren and friends, 'tis well—
Ye've said it—and what power can gainsay?
Not all the host of Hell
Shall now withstand your will, or bar your forward way.
We're risen up, and where's the mighty hand
Shall smite us down?
We're risen up to win unto this land
Her old renown:
Her high blood-bought prerogative
To teach the nations how to live:
Erst it was an idle boast,
Least vouchsafed when vaunted most;
But the lie is now made true,
Thanks to ye and honour due,
Due to ye all, and to your patriot worth,
And to the blessed land that sent ye forth.

Yes, hail to thee, my glorious motherland!
For glorious shalt thou be,
Thou that hast borne this holy brother band,
All hail to thee!
Men shall look to thee from far
As to some lone shining star,
Shining in the dead of night
For a lofty guiding light.
Now the patriot-glow I feel,
Now the thrilling burning zeal
Never felt for thee before,
Vassal'd as thou wert of yore.
For who in his most fond imaginings
Could love thee, crouching then

158

Beneath those curs'd o'erlording creeping things
Instead of men?
Things that had crawled unto their height
Thence to rule thee in the right
Of their fangs and poisonous power.
But, thanks to God, they have fulfilled their hour.

Mother of Freedom, yes, I greet thee now,
Thy travail o'er;
There beams a high soul'd beauty from thy brow,
Was not before.
And ever brighter glance thy fountains;
And ever higher swell thy mountains;
And all for pride that thou art grown
To stand amid the world alone:
Stand aloft while others bow
To thee above them, for their Queen art thou:
And before thy full-orbed sway
Lesser lights must fade away.
I greet thee with clasped hands—and ye around
Bare ye your feet, for here is holy ground:
And mark the spot and set a sign thereon,
A stedfast sign, to bide when ye are gone:
Some stone-heaped altar on the lone hill-side
Young Freedom's monument, and the far pilgrims' guide.
And see—this day—how brightly doth it shine!
A heavenly token, yes, a goodly sign!
But brighter yet, and yet more heavenly clear
Its future radiance foredestined for each year:
As now on us, so on our memories then—
A day of thanks to God, of gladness among men:
In holy honour second but to one,
That blessed day that gave the Saviour Son:
Saviour alike and leveller of man,
Godly Reformer, Arch-Republican:
For what are we but workers of His will?
As He foretold e'en so do we fulfil.
Then in this surety gird ye each his sword,
And in your swelling souls receive the Lord;
Receive Him there, and there He will abide,
A saving power, Almighty on our side.

159

Oh! 'tis a heavenly mission that we claim;
Your scope is high, and be your souls the same:
Fearless of all such fear as worldlings feel,
Each dread, each doubt, consumed in blazing zeal;
A zeal that never cares, tho' well it knows,
Of perils swarming on the path it goes:
Looking but to its glorious end on high,
And flashing back that glory from its eye:
Whate'er befal enduring all alike,
Hate, hardship, death, will suffer or will strike.
Careless of gain—aye—counting all for loss—
All else but Christ, His crown, but first, His cross.

Such is the spirit, that must speed us on
Another way than other men have gone.
Yes, brethren, mark me well—another way—
And further, straighter, surer, too, than they.
Ah! if it were not so, the thought were vain:
But one link more to lengthen out our chain.
That chain—'twas the fiend took the blacksmith's trade,
And wrought it from each broken patriot blade
Shivered how madly, 'gainst the strong State-tower;
But what we purpose, none e'er dared before:
Then who shall say our truth is vainly tried?
Others have passed away, our standard shall abide.
The flimsy traitor-fools this land hath known
Were frighted at the shadow of the throne,
And fell, uncared of all, who cared but for their own.
So dastard fear is father to its fate,
But rebel greatness must be boldly great:
Brethren, we know it well—and what we know
Our knowledge in our daring must we show.
Ours is no stealthy plot, no swindler's prize
For thievish hand-sleight and for slavish lies—
Away all tangled tricks—none such do we devise.
No—let the mighty mass display its power,
Broad as the banner o'er some sovran tower:
The mighty mass that never raised its head
While factions squabbled, and while lordlings bled;
But now, resentful of its stolen right
Shall brandish its high hand and rush into the fight.

160

Then, its foes scattered, on its sword shall rest
In conscious strength, to Freedom self-redrest.
A lion majesty, whose mood none dares molest.

Hark! hear ye not? 'tis the free angel's sweep,
Stooping to stir the fountains of the deep:
And lo! a mighty flood shall level all,
New powers arise, and olden empires fall,
Joy to ye, brethren, joy—for many are they
Whose livelong spirits yearned to see this day,
And saw it not, but past in frustrate hope away.
That sight—that holy work—is all our own,
By God's free grace.
O let us give Him worship kneeling down
Here in this place.
We have been a brotherhood
True and holy, fast and good:
I, your Minister, and ye
Children of my ministry:
Hearers of the Word I preach,
Livers of the life I teach,
Zealous of the Gospel cause
'Bove the world and worldly laws.
So, of late, I deemed ye all—
Is it now the time to fall?
Shamefully to fall aloof
Bidden thus to bide the proof?
No—it would grieve me sore—
Shall this our house on God's rock edified
Fall loosely, as on some sandshore,
Cowering to the onset of the tide?
Full often have I preached and prayed with you,
Communing, soul and mind:
And now, the time is come that we should do
What we designed!
Up, my troth-fellows, and fulfil
What ye profess'd, your patriot will.
This paper that I tear
And scatter it in air,
'Tis our foe's proclamation—away, their old
Rag-rule—but our new folk-sway—look, behold—
Its glorious fresh banner thus do I unfold.”

161

Fervency, thou'rt indeed a god-like gift,
Kindling the whole man to one glowing heart,
For soul to meet in sympathy with soul:
Melting the mass, else rough, to thoro' flow,
And blending many men to a whole mind—
Strange sorcery! such fervent faculty
Had Hermann—first, to take, then spread the fire
From the live torch he was. In the orator
Nature is chiefest art; and the flowing soul
Bears all away in its flood. That multitude
Mixed of so many unlikely men, now breathed
But one conspiracy. The brotherhood,
Nine hundred souls and more, faithfully tried,
Long tried, and trusted late, drunkard scarce one,
Gambler or spendthrift; bound together in bonds
Of holy love and zeal, stronger than iron,
Warmer than blood, more trusty than all oaths,
They were the foremost hope: in spirit alike,
And in strength too—next, some much ranker stuff,
For where is there a river flows so clear
But hath some mud at bottom? Loutish men,
Of loutish clay—a clay trodden to mire
In the world's foul traffic, living as a scab
Upon the surface and coarse skin of life.
Whoso were skilled to read man's character
Had scarce misread them then as they stood there,
Wearing their souls outside: outscorning scorn
That fain would fasten on their raggedness,
By daring of their eye and weather'd brow,
Bronzed beyond blushing shame: smugglers some few,
And poachers more, branded by Law, but thence
Among their fellows enhanced all the higher
For hardihood. 'Tis evil when the Law
Blows 'gainst the folks' tide, chafing and swashing it
To billows. Such were they—a rough alloy
Haply may harden that pure gold for work;
For such worn offcast iron is doughtier
Since hacknied in world-ways: needs not o'er-nice
Hand-tools to mar the old stuff, and mould the new.
Truly our low-lived lungs cannot away
With such bright air as nobler spirits breathe

162

Aloft: the purest Truth, yet if it flow
Down from a height more heaven-like than earth,
Doth lose to worldly sense its likelihood,
And seems but falling vapor. To coarse maw
Behoves coarse diet; but words are only words:
Time with the deed tries all. So did it them,
And sooner than they thought.

In their mid gush
Of joy, while yet it sparkled as wine outpoured,
With busy greetings and warm clasping hands,
All in a wild upstir tumultuous,
None knowing to what end—sudden there ran
A catchword thro' that crowd, darkening brows,
Compressing every lip. “They come—See there:
The redcaps—Yes”—so shouted Linsingen,
Looking where other eyes were all agaze;
Then, as he turned, flashing from 'neath his brow
Defiance yet more dangerous than he spoke;
“Yes—'tis no less—and would it were much more—
A hundred pikes outfought were more renown
Than a score shatter'd staves. Let them come on:
And we—we'll break their sticks upon their backs,
And kick them home again. What? are we babes?
Or yon poor scurvy fellows, whom ye all know,
Are they grown giants? And who leads them on?
'Tis he—the very man—the bull-frog squire—
Who wronged me foully—we'll now square it off—
Yet mark me—stir nor shout as they come up—
Let them begin.”

So bidden so they stood,
That noiseless stern self-trusting brotherhood:
Not long—for on they came, the sheriff's band,
Slowly as in solemnity of Law,
Steady and slow: that the uproarious crew
Might break away, and flee, striking no stroke,
Self-routed by their fear: e'en as they came
Boldly, those brethren stood abreast to them
Nothing abashed—halted the main, within
Half-gunshot; and their leader, riding forth

163

Till his restive horse stopp'd short before the staves,
Thus spoke. “What means this sudden meeting here,
By Law unwarranted? Well—if ye're dumb,
'Tis I must speak—away then—to your homes—
Else must I do what would displease me much,
And ye, who must abide it more. Beware—
Once more then, to your homes”—He paused and stood,
Looking in hurried wonderment around
Who first should answer him—Answer was none,
But such a shout of laughter as 't might seem
A mob of jeering devils and not men
That stood before him.

He had armed himself
Against whate'er of outrage might befal;
Screwing determination to its height
To abide the worst. 'Gainst danger he was steel'd—
But scorn—Ah no—“What, are ye rebels then,
Ye ragged scoundrels?—but I tell ye this—
I bear the Law's commission: dare ye aught
Against me, ye shall rue it and right soon.
I forewarn those”—

“What,” shouted Linsingen,
“What mean ye with your silly dangling scrap?
Go, tell your master that he send a man
If ever he would deal with us again,
Not such an angry chattering ape as thou—
Dost think to swagger our free manhood down
With thy big words? away and hold thyself
Lucky for that good leave.” Ere he had said
He snatched the reins, forth springing suddenly,
From the rider's hand; and with a forceful wrench,
And sharp compression of the curb, forced back
Upon his haunches the unruly horse
Uprearing at the alarm. Then that proud soul
Was all one flaming rage. He raised his hand
To strike, but younger blood foresped his aim,
And ere that hand its earnest could fulfil
The head that prompted it was smitten down
By a sharp bludgeon stroke—from his horse he fell,
And lay, unlike with life to rise again,

164

A senseless length of limb. Wild was the outery
Fierce the uproar that rose upon that deed,
Ere yet full done. Up rushed those followers
Up to their fallen leader, to help his fall,
Help or avenge. Then came the clash of staves;
Conflicting skulls and stones—bruises and blood—
Curses and oaths—onshout and wild dismay—
Struggle bewildering on that rugged ground.
All the fell spirit of strife. But what are reeds
Encountering spears? How should a few score men
Backed and embolden'd by the Law alone,
How should they stand 'gainst many hundreds' strength,
A strength inflamed to deepest dourest glow
By its own fire. That force, when highest strained
Was but a stone flung 'gainst the mountain side,
In overweening rashness, suddenly
Stopped. They fall back, o'erborne by the onward rush,
They, erst so haughty and loud, now in wild flight
Or downcast, body and soul alike, in mire,
Can but cry mercy—as woman in her throes,
With faint beseeching moan.

But victory
Hears only what wrath thunders in its ear,
And nought beside: then had their prayers been
The heralds of their spirits unto death:
But what was best and noblest in that throng,
Hess, Hermann, Linsingen, many more, rushed
To hinder ruthless bloodshed, sudden in,
Quick as the outcry called: they stayed the hands
Uplifted o'er those helpless struggling heads;
O'erawed rash fierceness with calm earnestness,
Raised the down-stricken, and back commending them
To go the way they came; “When ye come next
Be ye either furnished with a better force,
Or else prepared to meet a worser doom.
And look to him your leader—he's but stunned—
And now himself again; aye, and we hope
A wiser man than ever yet he was:
Go, take him with ye.”

All lowly and forlorn,
From their late bravery bruised into pale
Bloody dismay; hurried and shamefelly

165

They left that field, cursing it as they left.
While e'en their foes, tho' victors, yet, as ceased
The strife, their spirits did subside with it,
From fire to smould'ring smoke; as a pale child
Shrinks back aghast from fording the strange flood;
And the few steps he hath adventured it,
Feels not so much of hope from their success,
As cold discouragement from danger, seen
Widening still to his eye, and deepening
Suddenly: in such fear had the many failed
But for the few. Like some lone Alpine peak,
Eiger or Jungfrau, or the horn of Aar,
In twilight, when all little things are dimmed,
Itself high-towering stands against the gloom,
Then clearest, and most stern determinate
Of project; so they stood, those leaders there
Armed against Fate, each in his own soul-fire:
Linsingen, rash as lightning, of wealth and life
Alike profuse, as the heart of its own blood:
Wrathful 'gainst those who scorned him formerly
When weak, and now must fear: dreaming high dreams
By the Harper hinted him. Hess, a stern soul
Madden'd against the idol of his hate,
Writhing 'gainst wrong, and gnashing spiteful teeth
To wreak it. Next, the unselfish devout faith
Of Hermann, spirit of grace, whom Nature reared
Child-like, in her soul-strengthening solitude;
And with lone prayers, and feeling thoughtfulness
Hallowed him unto God: whose glory he aimed,
And good of man—nought else—in their success
Sure of his own. So, tho' unlike, those lamps
Yet shone together, comforting the folk,
And they were comforted. God speed them on;
As sure, his hand hath strengthened them thus far.

166

BOOK VIII.

Oh, mighty Man! lord of this goodly earth!
Thy lordship but shows forth thy littleness;
For thy low life dwarfs down even the huge
And stately globe that doth belong to it,
To the sand-grain, that's all in all to it—
Such as it is, against the Universe,
E'en such thou art, against what thou should'st be.
Oh! if angels could laugh, what merry shouts
Would shake the vault of heaven; to see this ball,
This wondrous ball, rolling in endless room,
With such a pigmy bragging from its perch,
This power and glory is mine—yet 'tis not that—
To be the dwindled body that thou art,
I scorn thee not: for greatness is in good,
Not good in great; but thou'rt a dwarf in soul,
'Fraid of thyself with a most silly fear:
Yes, truly, afraid of thy most silly self—
Nay—but thy shadow—for in very truth,
The world's Opinion, unsifted, is nought else—
A shadow, yet in dark o'erruling awe,
Most strong, although its substance is so weak.
Truly, when God gave Reason for thy gift
He knew thee well—a trimmer—a weathercock,
Unworthy of so high godly a grace;
And so withal He gave thee something else
Beside the Reason that thou could'st not rule,
And would'st not listen when it should rule thee—
Something might suit thee better, a half-thing,
Nay, unthing—nought but a name—Opinion—
Much liker truth to call it apishness;

167

However called, a grovelling slave in kind—
Slave of the Alazonocracy, self-styled
Aristocrat: yet crawling from slave bonds
As other eunuchs do, to sovereign sway.
Such is Opinion, also called the public:
Flimsy and fickle; yet by noodledom
Upcried for surety and substance—liar!—avaunt!
The public—what is that—the people! ah, no—
But floating o'er it, like a lazy scum
O'er the wholesome working stream: a flighty cloud
Of many hues, no shape—shifty and slight;
Begotten by light newsreadings on brains
Yet washier; idle and wayward, cowardly
And selfish, for so wealthy leisure is wont;
Sick of its own stagnation, and for lack
Of wholesome working channels to drive will's
Stream onward, craving like a froward child,
Ever some new strange and sense-stirring show;
Slander or ruin, earthquake, gossip-toy,
To draw its soul from its own sink: and hence
Tho' fearful, it loves war for excitement's sake,
And loathes, as mere stagnation, steady peace.
Would'st have a sample of its soul? look there,
On yonder crowd of helpless countrymen,
Untaught, yet teachable, kind-hearted, mild,
Most patient under most oppressive rule,
Summoned as wrongdoers, for their good work
Wrought on waste ground in faith of their full right;
They stand, unarmed, unware, thinking no ill,
Wayworn, in loose talk waiting the award:
But see—that sheet of fire, that storm of shot,
Those shrieks, those yells, this sudden slaughter strange,
What means it? it means nought but the coward hate
And outrage of bloodthirsty, rancorous hearts,
Madden'd by their own panic. Those who o'erlive
Flee wildly—find and seize weapons hard by.
Turn on the trampler and slay the slaughterer.
Was ever rage more righteous? but no—Rulers
Can ne'er be wrong; resistance never right.
Tho' a drunk soldier strike ye all down—who cares?
Must drown their manly spirit in their blood—

168

Up then, cries cowardly State-flunkeydom,
Up—play the devil in God's name—shoot, smite,
Burn all the country—homes—crops—havock all—
Spare none—whoe'er flees from ye shoot him down,
Guilty or not—no odds—only make one
Hell of the whole black country—turn not, ere
Ye've done that duty. Well, they did it—clean
And clear—wondrously well—glory to God!
There then Opinion! there thou Public! swill
Thy full—they have set running for thy thirst
Hogsheads of bloody excitement—at the news
Up they throng—noodles, doodles. The whole soft
Handed, hard hearted Alazonocracy,
With its flunkeys, clinging, draggling at its tail,
And proud to be so fouled by it. In they rush
Gloating on cheap thrilling bloodstir—“Ah, good,
Why this is talk indeed—stirs us right thro'.
Worth living for—they got it well, those slaves—
That dared kill back—but the heroes—hip-hurrah.
True Tories—scrunched the workmen—Tories true.
They've given us a week's sensation—a month's.
Crowns and white robes for them—make them knights, peers.
Spout, pray for them—shout, sing, subscribe for them.
Aye, well ye may, so doth the Devil too—
But God, o'erseeing all, overlooks none—
And when the day comes, as come surely it will,
And the black man in manhood shall uprise
Backed by his warrior brethren, conquerors
Of the south, to avenge sternly this hell-blotch;
Then will the noodle public look aghast;
Draw a faint, fearful breath, and each in the slouched
Ears of his brother; “that sensation of ours
So cheap, looks now as tho' it might come dear.
What, war, and soldiers among Christian men,
Bloodshed, and six-pence more of income-tax!
And those our heroes, now so unhero-like!
Ah horror! who'd have thought it?” Nay thy thoughts
Thou noble noodle, to sound deepest truths,
Are something shallow. Thine is no thought-brain:
Its emptiness but echoes noodledom
Needlessly.

169

To thy brethren then, away!
Doodle and Foodle, Poodle, Toodle and all—
We want the stage clear for the working-man—
We'll none of them, nor thee—nor of this same
Most puffy public, that now monkey-like
Oe'rrules the people: and thou, Noodledom,
For thy idols fear not—thou hast set them up—
We too—upset them—weep not; for thy mud
Heroes, mud-daubed with blood, are easy made.
But hence—avaunt—with thy fool trash—for now
'Tis Manhood's time—We must bethink us well—
Henceforth the people's Conscience, how unlike
Public Opinion, that old flaunting jade,
In true self-sure weal-working righteous Faith
Shall lead life onward. So God grant it, and so
Evermore speed it.

But for this we lack
Earnestness—shams to scout, needs to fulfil:
Sheer and straightforward the folks' work to do.
No fear, no favour—Such is not the world's
Wont, as Opinion sways it hitherto.
Therefore, ye lower kinds, matched against man,
Ye overpeer him: for that goodly gift
Of Mind, ye never owned nor wronged its worth:
Belying Truth by idle phantasies,
Eating the husk, flinging away the fruit
With froward wantonness—unreasoning
Reason, to set world-wisdom on her throne,
As man is wont—foregoing the sun's light,
To walk with smoky lamps—Yes, ye dumb things,
Ye're there our betters, and I bow to ye:
For your poor talent to the full ye avail;
While we, unheeding, sink our lofty one,
In our soul-slough.

'Tis no fond tale men tell
Of an Evil Angel that o'ersways this world;
And thou Opinion, art he. Ah! who can tell
How great a sum of good thou'st blown away
With thy fool's breath? How oft, when souls have yearned

170

To do some Truth, which Reason prompted them;
Opinion hath looked coldly on their warmth,
Blighting it in the bud: or else hath worn
So withering a devil in its sneer,
That Virtue hath shrunk back from manly choice
To silly childhood—fearing to do well,
Lest men should deem it ill: taking for judge
Fashion instead of Conscience. Thou mak'st Man
A huge machine, moved by some outer will,
Weening strange vanities—a monkey, an ape,
Looking unto his neighbour's to begin
And lend his soul its start. Yes, poverty
Of means and money, knowledge and of hope,
Hath chilled some hearts—hundreds—thousands may be—
Their lofty aspirations to forego,
But thou hast stifled many millions.
Stifled them with the drouthy high-way dust,
Flinging it in their eyes, and mouths, and ears
That they must neither see, nor hear, nor speak
Save thy own trash.

Yet is there not a thing
Men call Religion, lives it not and breathes,
And do not worshippers bow down to it?
Then wherefore? but to free us, once for all,
From the world to God. Set then Religion up,
And pull Opinion down: ruling new lines
From our new centre. What the heathen once
Upheld, for lack of higher worthiness
This silly law and sillier fear of the world,
Away with all that rubbish! In its stead
How goodly high a building shall arise,
One Christian temple, a worthy dwelling-place
For the Holy Spirit?

But for this, needs first
That every man look up to God's right rule,
Not to his crooked neighbour's; holding world
Wont for the blind child of its blind foredrift,
And parent of world-wisdom; mud and mire
And muck—such parentage, such progeny.

171

But then shall Truth ask boldly, is this good?
Careless of all skulking complacency
With foes of Right and Freedom. So shall Man
Become a being of high impulses,
And true self-searching will, as meant by God,
Unslaved from worldly sway! steering his course
By his own helm, not wildly blown adrift,
The waif of trivial wont. A man indeed,
And no machine. Then shall that fashion vain,
Misnamed Opinion fade from Reason's light,
E'en as a cloud dissolved in a blue sky.
Wisdom shall walk abroad and cry aloud,
And the unbelieving scoffer, assailing her,
Shall blunt his last shaft on her heavenly shield,
And chattering his vain rage shall flee Man's face—
Aye—good: go herd with apes. Thenceforth, no more
Shall Man fear Man, most wretched in his fear,
But, loving God, be happy in his love.
Happy to love, and happier yet to do
What loving Wisdom bids him. Then, tho' he stand
But one against a host, he will stand fast
And ne'er give back: as knowing that Highest One,
Stronger than all the millions of this world,
Who upholds him that hath a righteous cause,
And abides boldly by it. Such is he,
So main of might, who feels such faithfulness
In strength of Truth, and of his sturdy self
To meet the blind old giant, Prejudice.
And such were they, who then, on that hill-side
Reckless of fears and losses, smiles and frowns,
Of bayonets, swords, death; caring no straw
Of what men said, but only what God willed;
Set up the standard of Truth, Freedom and Love,
Sure stars for Faith to steer by. Which shall win,
The world or they? He who foresees afar,
He only knows: well, be it whiche'er may,
Only God speed the right: as surely He will,
And all the more, if righteousness 'gainst wrong
Struggling, shall need His aid for furtherance.

And they were in that stress: and that high hand
Came to their help. Their foes' discomfiture

172

They had wrought out boldly and manfully:
And next, that sorry and unseemly flight
They witnessed, as befitted Manhood best,
In calmness of disdain, no ruffian
Outbreak, nor boyish shout, nor laugh or jee ;
Rather with brow and lips sternly compressed
Against what next should come: knowing this bout
Was but a trial of fence with blunted foils,
Preluding pointed danger and bloody death
To some or all. Such upstir is hard to keep
Screwed to its pitch, from downfal. But being cheer'd
By those brave leaders, then came thoro' will
To comfort them—they stood, strong and high-manned
Beyond whate'er before their warmest Faith
Deemed itself possible. Conversion strange,
Yet sure to true souls—for their daring spirit
Outlives the daring deed; and the plunge made,
The glow comes after it—sleeping erewhile
At the heart, but now upspringing to the head,
And spreading vivid life thro' the whole frame.
So they, scatter'd in clumps, or crowding round
To hear some earnest speaker, held their rede,
What next they should essay. “We've lucked it here,
And will hereafter—but now—shall we push
Or wait the proof?” Must wait; for sudden, in sky
The hurrying clouds met, as forewarned to meet,
Each in its lightning instinct rushing on
To make one massy darkness overhead:
Else a clear blue all round—one thunder-stroke,
And then a profuse deluge bursting down,
In gush full spouted; as tho' all the air
Were turned to water. “Ha! friends! what may 't mean?
So shouted a strong voice amid the din:
One onset we stood out, and beat it off,
But here's a stronger yet and fiercer one.
Well, we're but men; and here 'tis Heaven itself
Proclaims we should be gone; therefore away,
Each to his home or shelter wheresoe'er:
For counsel speaks not in such storm as this,
Nor hears—where next we meet soon shall ye know.”
'Twas Linsingen that spake—so spoken and done—

173

For all, with first one cheer for their good cause,
Went several ways; in clusters, ten or twelve,
Home-thronging: for the weaker soul stands not
In its own strength; but in the threatening hour
Must lean for comfort on some friend beside,
Or fall—but higher minds suffice themselves,
Needing no talkmates but their inward thoughts:
And the work they finish in society
They love to frame that work in solitude.
Hermann was such a soul; and in such wise,
While the other men, in noisy fellowship
Went each his homeward way; secret and still,
As the unquiet hare winds her shy stealth,
So did he wind his own round the hill's brow,
Threading the thickest heather, and gorse, and fern.
Where only some sheep-tracks left their faint show,
Wide of the vulgar.

Far as his eye could
Was wild, and ever wild, and wilder still,
As he were the last man: no hovel near,
No shed, nor sheltering tree—nor needed much.
For the head long rain, ere this, had spent itself,
Swift as a diver's plunge. And now from her sleep,
A living fairy spirit of fresh green,
Daughter of the giant storm, breathing like balm,
Jewelled with sundrops, looked out lovingly,
With soft yet sparkling smile. Hermann smiled too—
Despite his doom—and, as he gazed around,
Suddenly the bright beauty of that scene
Lit up with lustre his sad countenance
In like complacency. 'Tis a blest turn
Away from moody and turmoiling man
And from our selfish taskmistress the World,
To our mother and nurse—to thee, Nature, for thou
Art both those tendernesses in one word.
He who hath aught of feeling must feel this—
And he who feels it not—no more of him—
That soul is dead.

So in his buoyancy
Hermann strode on, touched by the seraph fire
In heart, not tongue: storing the golden gifts

174

Nature poured in—staying anon to look
With lingering Love; as one who lived the fair
Landscape—he drew, that eve, a deep, pure draft
From the bosom of the mother that he loved:
A draught that did refresh his inmost soul
Sick of its daily trash: and his soul grew
With that good diet an expansive growth,
Swelling as it would burst its bars of flesh
And so be free: living a heavenly life;
Communing with its Maker there aloft,
Above the world of men: heeding them not,
Neither their promises nor puny threats,
As being in higher presence. Who would rise
Above his fellows in his spirit's height,
And do great deeds in lofty daringness;
Let him go leave awhile their fellowship,
Betake him to the mountain or lone wood,
And sitting soothly there at Nature's feet
Feel her great truths: look upward unto her,
Then down upon the world. Thus Hermann then:
And whatsoe'er doubt had misgiven him,
It vanished from his soul like to a mist
In the sun's radiance.

So he wound his way
Thoughtful—until he came to a lone tree—
A kingly oak, so deeply rooted in Eld,
That who would trace it back to its acorn birth
Was lost in unknown years. Men paid to it
Weird reverence, and fancy deepen'd the awe
That Nature had enveloped it withal,
As with a prophet's mantle. On that wild ridge
It stood, standard of Eld; springing alone
From its own shade, that seemed to shadow forth
Its dark Druidic birth: one left of all:
All that wild mystic worshipful old wood
That once bore sway of the hills; its brethren's pride
Erewhile, but now their mournful monument,
Left in its lone bereavement but for note
Of boorish bounds. He saw it, and he sighed:
For yet, tho' rugged, it brought back to him

175

Not unrefreshfully his child-like mood;
Reliving those gay far-off holidays,
When clownish revelry 'neath these wide boughs
Was wont to celebrate its summer wake;
And he among the throng of revellers
A laughing boy. That old tree spake to him
Soothingly, as some fairy tale first told
To the boy, and heard again after grey years
By the careworn man. E'en so it spoke to his heart;
And his heart answered it: he turned aside
From the pathway, and sat him underneath
On a huge bole forth bulging from its stem,
There to ponder the past.

'Tis a sad thing
To retrace step by step our mazy life,
And find, what should have been a forward track
Straight as an arrow started from the string
To be a wild self-cross'd perplexity,
A hurry without speed: and at the end
Farther from its mark than the beginning was:
Farthest of all from its good. To see it, Hope
Sickens, and Faith is fool'd. Therefore we're blind
Wilfully: none looks home within—but on—
Doggedly on; never bethinking him
Whither and why, but ever round and round
Narrowly reeling in the self-same ring,
As wise as any other whirligig.
Such is our folly; and to reframe his life
By rule of righteousness from man to God,
That were our wisdom—but, oh—Wisdom and Man—
Who yokes ye both together, he is a fool,
For ye're no yoke-fellows—but why more words?
Alas! our folly speaks itself too plain.
And Hermann's thoughts were dark—deeply he mused
So deeply, that desire o'erflowed in tears,
Dreaming those days—wishfully breathed his spirit
And wildly, more than words can utter it.

Lone old Oak, and how is it with thee?
Tell me—for thou
Years ago did'st overshadow me—
Dost mind me now?

176

Mind me—no—thou'st shelter'd and forgotten
Far better men:
Better far than I are dead and rotten,
To dust agen.

But thou! in my heart thy memory
Hath deeper root:
Manhood kneels before thy majesty
With homage mute.

Dear old Oak—I love and worship thee—
For on thy rugged bark
Thousand years lost in eternity
Have left their mark.

Here thou standest, while they fleeted o'er:
Then in thy prime
Heeding not the whetting tusk of boar:
Nor now the scythe of Time.

Would I had thy arms of giant-might
To embrace thee now—
I—the dwarf—can but uplift my sight
To thy dark brow.

Prithee, say; tho' thou regardest not
Such things as I,
Where are all the hours that on this spot
I idled by?

Ah, that falling leaf whispers—they're on—
They might not bide—
On and upward I too should have gone
Upon their tide.

Thither, for the haven of God's bliss,
Far, far away—
Their report of me is only this;
Here would he stay—

Lingering here behind them listlessly—
Ever 'mong these
Hills and woods loitering in dreamery—
Like a vague summer breeze;

177

Sighing here, and sinking there to sleep;
And then again
Waking up, and 'mid the woodlands deep
Shouting amain.

Nature, all I had I gave it thee.
Tell me, wilt thou
As I gave it freely, even as free
Requite me now?

Vainly else this world do I defy
If in the end
'Gainst so fierce a foe thou dost deny
To be my friend.

Vainly else I've haunted wood and hill
Wandering far:
If I must be poor in spirit still
As others are.

Other worldlings who drag wearily,
Yet hug their chain:
All unfeeling of Faith, Love and thee
And call it gain.

Gold and silver, all that men do prize
I left behind:
So thro' thy communion I might rise
To height of mind.

Height of mind above the worldly man,
And worldly aim:
I've fulfilled my promise and my plan.
Do thou the same.

Give the proof of this thy discipline:
That men may see
All their thoughts are dwarfish things to thine,
As they to thee.

What I am ten thousand purple forms
Glorious and free,
Sunshine, thoughtful shade, and sea, and storms
Are summed in me.

178

In each hopeful dawn, each high noon sway
I saw my sign.
In the dying glory of the day
I welcom'd mine.

They are gone—but their deep memories
Ever remain;
Blent thro' all my heart in harmonies
Of soul-like strain.

For I gazed upon thy glory and strength
Treasuring it so,
Till I deemed it all my own at length—
Is it or no?

'Mong thy lonely hills I wrought me steel,
And a sword I made.
A strange potency thou did'st reveal
To bless that blade.

Now I go to prove that potency,
If it be true:
Thou hast taught me, wilt thou strengthen me,
And guide me through?

Yes—thou wilt—for lo! I look around
Thy lofty range—
Still thou art, as ever thou wert found—
Brooking no change.

Still thy mountains are as towering high,
Thy woods as green:
Still thy soul thro' river, moor, and sky
Is felt and seen.

And that same high spirit I then knew
Doth comfort me:
Man is false, but thou art ever true—
I trust in thee.

He spoke those words, and rose, in their glad spirit;
And rising, heard a sound borne on the air
So still and sunny gentle until then,

179

As of a wind in woods. “So spoke the Lord
To David—holy token—hail to thee
Thou dost bespeak me fair.” The sound grew on—
And, as it grew, clearness grew out of it,
To mark its meaning: a faint sough in the air,
At first, and then a rush as of chafed waves,
Lastly, the distinct clattering certainty
Of horses gallop. He looked forth, and his eye
Affirmed his ear: e'en up his track they came
Some three-score men, spurring on eagerly,
Loose-reined, careless of soldierly array,
'Mid panting steam of lather'd bloody horse flanks,
As speed to them were surety—of their foes
No reckoning, but forward—on they rode,
Reckless, out-galloping the hearing first,
And then the sight—Hermann gazed after them
From 'neath his sheltering oak, a stone's-throw wide,
And saw their meaning clear as the men selves:
“Lord, in thy hands we're safe: all thanks to thee.
Thou didst come down to us in that sharp storm,
Scattering our strength—betokening favour there,
Wherein some fainter spirits foreboded fear—
And so those men sent forth to hew us down,
Or bind us, chains and death, baffled of blood
Must back. May we, as surely, under Thee,
Speed forward to our hope. Thou'st willed it, and I
Worship thy will.”

He knelt and prayed; then on
Calm in his conscious faith—a godly calm—
To his destined end; the cottage, whither Love
Led him, for her dear sake who dwelt in it:
Nor only Love, but his most fearful need
For her sire's counsel. For where danger is great
And strength but small; behoves shrewd skill, to quit
The odds—and truly, Danger frowned on them
So deadly, seemed not Danger now, but Death
Outright; with his self-shadow, dark Despair,
To the chilled soul foreboding him—but God's
Trust is so sure and thoro' in self-proof,
That whoso feels it, reckons all alike

180

Danger and devils and the mumbling witch
With her cross-straws. Such trust Hermann then felt
And well behoved him to be strong in it,
His only strength—

He went, ever along
O'er vale and wood, moorlands and craggy heights,
Where years ago his childish wonderment
Would gaze itself to visionary awe,
Hour after hour, spell-bound: but Nature shows
A mirror to reflect upon the soul
Its changeful self: and Mind, the maker, hath power
To give to what it will, what shape it will,
After its likeness and own mood within,
From God's creation—So, walking those hills
In lofty gait and stateliness of soul,
They did seem changed from what his childhood deemed;
Changed in his spirit's change o'er-towering them;
Dwarfed down as vassalage to majesty
Beneath the wide projection of his thoughts.
“Ye proud snow-peaks, ye're but a footstool—a base—
For pride like mine to fly from.”

So he spake,
Rebuking his own o'erweening hopes,
With show of self-scorn: scoffing his soul's deep
Earnestness—Danger thou art drear for who
But looks on thee—Yet he—the patriot man
Who boldly handles thee, and breathes thy breath,
Thrilling throughout him, blent in thy embrace,
For him that drearness becomes dour: he makes thee,
(Yes, e'en of the foul incubus thou wert
To those who lay supine beneath thy weight),
A fiery winged-horse, to carry him
High o'er the heads of men, upturned to gaze
On his career in wonder from below—
Aye—and tho' he fall short of the topmost height
To be a glory and guide star there above
Fixed as the firmament in deathless fame—
Well—and what then? He fails not, tho' he fall—
Danger, thou'rt ice unto the shivering skin
But a doughty dram to the heart. Hermann drank deep,
And so found comfort where erst faintness was—

181

'Twas evening; and Nature languidly
As tired by steep toil of the summer day
Sank down—the sloping sun was seen, as the ghost
Of one about to die by Highland Seer,
His winding sheet outstretched e'en to his throat,
Soon to foreclose the whole. So but an are
Of the fire-globe shone yet—the rest cut sheer
Away by the sharp edge of the sky line;
When Hermann, late to come, came there at last,
Whither his heart forewinged him all the way,
To his dear Lucy's home. 'Twas a blest time
For such a soul as heretofore was he,
Full of sweet silent thoughts, and feeling soothly
In summer eve their fond congenial flow:
There was a graciousness in th' air, might soothe
Any stray devil to forget himself,
And feel an angel's joy: joy in his God
And in the sight of others' blessedness
By fellow-feeling adopted for its own.
It seemed, as tho' all light, colour and shape
Had then been fresh created for that show
They shone so bright. Hermann looked up to Heaven,
And round on Earth's sun-glowing loveliness;
“And all this happiness, so peaceful and fair,
That an angel messenger, his duty done,
Might gladly tarry here, and oft look back
Wishful, tho' heavenward winged, why should my rash
Unruliness upstir it?”

Sagely he asked;
But froward Will ne'er starved for lack of words:
And whate'er Reason asks, that froward Will
Hath answer ready on its own behalf,
Self-wise, self-warranted. “Aye, true 'tis good
And wondrous fair, this world wherein we live,
And therefore is more need to raise Man up
To a height worthy of his dwelling-place;
Lest like the Egyptian ape, the grovelling god
Shame his great temple. Manhood to uplift,
That is my work—on with it”—

There is a state
Wherein the lover of Nature often lives,

182

Oftenest in the evening dream-light:
Confounding sense with soul: each blent in each,
Neither wholly itself—no soul, no sense,
But a calm joy made of their confluence;
Receiving on its surface many hues,
And back reflecting then as it receives,
Taking none to its depth. Then doth the eye
Communicate its office with the mind,
The mind with the eye; and sense and thoughtfulness
Are mingled in one spiritual being;
And all is feeling. So did Hermann's soul,
Floating in airy rapture, deeply drink
Those evening forms and colours, like some cloud
Dyed with the crimson sun; long-lingered he,
Or e'er he broke the bonds of that sweet dream,
For still something of doubt o'erruled the love
That led him onward: so he sate awhile
Wavering like the breezy grass around,
O'erlooking that dear home: till a quick step
Startled him from behind, and turning round,
Old Walter's greeting startled him yet more
With a fear, tho' fanciful, not wholly false.
For Fancy, shooting many a random shaft,
Doth sometimes hit the truth; and where Love is
Thither doth Fear still haunt him like a shade,
Darkening his brightness.

“Sir,” said the old man,
“Five minutes earlier here and ye were lost—
E'en now, scarce saved: there have been yeomen here,
Have ransacked all this house, cellar to roof,
For search of you—but for God's providence
That led you round to take the wilder way,
Sure they had met you, as they skurried hence
Ten minutes back. The dust they raised in the house
Flies yet—their oaths are tingling in my ears.
Well, we're well quit of them for this one turn:
For the rest—hence away—one twinkling here
May hold within it your whole life to loss—
May gar you caught and shortened by the head—
Or—but where best, you should best know—for me,
That harm should come to you, 'twere a sore grief:

183

And there is one whose grief were worse for you.
Aye, you have guessed me right. 'Tis even she—
My dear young mistress—well—if you must meet—
Be it a minute only; there she is—
I left her in the garden even now,
By the brook-side: but mark me, 'tis not I
Would tell love-tales—You guessed it first yourself;
And whate'er fall, the praise or blame is yours
You two—not mine—well—be what may; we're men:
Heaven guide it for the best: give me your hand—
A happier meeting when we meet again—
And so—God bless you.”

These were earnest words.
And stirred the hearer, as sound of rushing shot,
The danger past, yet dreadful: but when Hope
Showed him the end his love so fondly yearned,
The sight which but to see was to be blest,
Her presence, and the pressure of her hand:
Then was his trouble turned into bright joy,
Running afresh. He sped, swift as Love's shaft,
Thither, to that untoward lonely spot;
And found it, lone still, save her lovely self.

“Lucy, how happy! thus to find thee here—
My prayer hath place:
And what chance gives, oh, be not so severe,
To gainsay its grace.

'Tis but a minute's stay, danger is near,
And I must far away.
Nay, speak me kind, and smile on me while here,
'Tis but a minute's stay.

Yet a small light will gleam thro' a far space—
And such a smile
Would cheer me thro' all danger and disgrace
A weary while.”

“Oh doubt it not—most glad am I
That thou art safe and free,
'Scaped from each evil enemy,
But what were this to me?

184

For thou art fallen off from us,
I heard it but this day:
And wert thou then so treacherous?
And is it as men say?

Oh yes, my mother told it me,
She told me all she knew;
But then these troopers seeking thee—
Say, is it false or true?”

“Treacherous and fallen off and false or true!
What are these words to me?
I who have dared the worst, and will dare through;
Lucy—who told it thee?”

“Ah then—above all trickery
I trust one look of thine—
They did thee wrong, and so did I,
The misery be mine.

And thy good name from that foul blot
Is brighter than before;
But my lost peace returneth not—
'Tis gone for evermore.

Forgive their fault and my belief—
Alas! I may not tell—
And yet the tale would soothe my grief—
Farewell—and oh! farewell.”

She spoke and kissed his hand, and gliding away
Left him in spell-bound gaze. Strange things befal,
Ghosts have been seen, and mountebank feats done,
And witches proven and burnt: and people have stared
As tho' the wide expansion of their eyes
Would make the wonder less. So wise is the world.
But when since wonderment belonged to it,
Did wondrous chance e'er strike on witlessness
With such a stunning and astounding stroke
As then on Hermann? He had hoped—but Hope—
Why prate of her? had hoped and now despaired
And his despair was wiser than his hope—
Man's surest wisdom. There he stood, stock-still,

185

As tho' her touch had frozen him to ice,
His blood stiff as his bones—but a girl's will
Is not God's doom, stedfast, unstriveable;
And who is driven amain by its wilfulness
Haply he needs but wait the tide's return
To waft him back again in graciousness.
For earthly Love hath a boy's waywardness,
Gaming at high and low—else, were all flat,
So were he too—smooth paths are not for him:
To walk belies his wings. Hermann thought not
One whit of these sound truths, but he acted them.
His scattered wits first gathering, then to the house,
As an engineer, after a startling burst,
What it might mean.

But other wills, meanwhile,
Were there at work and counter to his own:
And where he would fain go and search it thro'
Prevention barred his way. As he strode up,
There met him one, forthright, tho' cripple and halt,
Yet brisk, the goodman's mother of that home—
A careful soul—much did he owe to her
Of reverence, and duly rendered it;
But what he owed her of Love, let us e'en hope
'Twas little; else if great, 'twas greatly more
Than e'er he paid. Yet 'twas well done of her,
Courteously well, to meet her guest half-way:
A gracious show—and that rare grace from her
And toward him, commended it the more—
Alas! 'twere well for the world if show would tell:
Wages were then earned cheaply—our beads, pearls,
Our bosom vices become virtuous:
Good deeds plenty as dirt. Why in Heaven's name,
Why hath not Man the trick of Government,
To make his paper gold? How wealthy of soul
He were! how many million millons then
The devil his debtor! yet what needs for pay
E'en paper? Lo! our ghostly ministers
Quit them in words—they read from out a book
And their task's done. Well then, if words will clear
The score as well, they clear it better too—
Better and cheaper by the paper's worth:

186

Wherefore such waste? Look to it, financiers.
And make cheap cheaper; save your paper, and pay
In words, as do those holy devout men
Who've studied the truth most, and must know best.

“Sir, said that Dame, belike 'tis strange to you
To see me thus—strange and unneighbourly;
Sure you must feel it so—but where need is
To meet an old friend with new countenance,
'Tis better at the threshold than the hearth.
And Sir, it grieves me much to tell you so,
But grief is an ill thing to keep at heart,
And I've no secret but may well be said:
So, in plain truth, we have been friends awhile;
And, if it be your will, friends will we part.
Lest else our friendship, as my father 'd say,
Poor soul, he's dead and gone, far e'er your time.
Lest friendship, rubbing as 'twere thus—cross-wise,
And not too smoothly, should soon wear away.
'Tis better so, good Sir, much better so—
Much gainlier, tho' it were the dearest limb,
Cut clear away, thou hang but by the skin.
'Twill smart us some, yet off, rather 'n half on.
Sir, ye are loremen, both of ye, book-learned,
Both you and my good son; and I, please God,
Am a plain homely wife: yet such a one
May tell a plain tale—nay, let me say out,
For the least hinder'd is the soonest done.
'Tis not for me you're here, I know it well;
But for a dearer sake—forbear me then
Awhile—it burns me till I utter all.
Well then—Count Linsingen hath been with us:
And what he might chance say to Lucy, and how
She answered, is no gossip's tale for us—
Only thus much—enough too—They're betrothed
For man and wife—Now, Sir, I warrant ye,
And ye've more wit than needs to be so told;
When once the trinket's bought, the buyer forthwith
Takes it from the shop-window and broad gaze,
And treasures it away to his heart. Is that
Enough? or must I tell ye, our dear good girl,

187

For she is mine too, and but once removed,
She is that darling jewel: and once 'gaged,
It suits not with good manners and good grace,
That other friends than the one, lovers mayhap,
Tho' of good likelihood, should haunt her so
As when in freer”—

“Oh my worthy Dame,
Why so much more, when so much less would serve.
I do beseech thee, give me grace of it—
And tell me, art thou thine own counsellor,
Or hath another prompted thee thus far?
Her father, haply?”

“Yes, for I'm not else
So meddlesome, to take o'ermuch on me.
Tho' truly Reason were that my advice
Were asked and had, ere aught were stirr'd in it:
Yes, it is they so willed it—and, poor souls,
They would fain hide their hand from you, and leave
Untold, tho' meaning you right well; lest you
Take it amiss—So, what was theirs to do,
I've made it mine: there is my say said out:
And since my days of school and copybook,
And that is threescore since, I've left all use
Of flourish at beginning and at end,
Writing or speaking; and 'twere now full late
To try the trick again. So all I've said,
I've said it in all kindliness and faith,
And you, Sir, take it home as kindly too:
Or if offence must come—why—come it must;
But not of me—Why, plague of my old head,
I had well nigh forgot—see—here they are,
The letters from them both—the kind soft souls;
Look if you will; tho' yet there is no word,
But I have said it more outspokenly
Than they, poor hearts, could bring themselves to write.”

As she ended, so she held the letters forth;
And Hermann looked on them—he could no more—
But looked and looked, till to his ghostly sight
They seemed like living things with spectral eyes
Gazing upon him. She, in purblind sense,

188

Unwitting, thrust them on his half-clenched hand.
He took and opened, but read not at all.
Tho' he seemed to read—only a word or two
Seared his dull eyeballs, as 'twere written in fire,
And his sight shrank from it. “Yes, you are right—
Right, said I, right? Oh no, 'tis a foul wrong;
They know it, who plotted, and shall answer it:
But no, God bless them all—her most—and me—
Sure never man needed His blessing more.”
He said, and turned, and slow walked his sad way.
While back she hobbled, in hurry of mumbling joy.

189

BOOK IX.

Rebellion, Patriotism, Loyalty,
Ye are three words, bigger than most beside,
Of portly presence, and bold seemliness:
Well stuffed and padded: truly ye deserve
Your crowd of silly gapers, for ye look
So burly 'mong your fellows; matching e'en
The great puff bag, the soul of flunkeyhood.
For me, I'll none of ye, but blow ye away
Scornfully, for the chaff ye are—yet some
I ween, will welcome ye most lovingly,
Being so great of bulk, and filling well
Their blockhead's emptiness—albeit that bulk
Is but a bladder, swollen of fond conceit,
The biggest then, when readiest to burst.
I wonder what so windy addled a brain
Could have begotten ye—yet I know not—
Looking upon ye nearer, I stand in pause—
A pause of earnest doubt.

Oh pardon me!
The fault is all my own—I see it now—
And see ye clear of it. I did ye wrong:
Forgive me, for my true confession's sake.
Yes, truly, I disgraced your dignity,
Unfairly scoffing, unfitly likening ye.
Ye are no roky bladders, nor foul fluff—
No—nor yet words alone, but a live thing.
Of shifting life; one off and the next on:
A changeful shape, a threefold unity—
Shortly, all three, ye are of larval kind:
A single substance, but with several forms;
One while a grub—lies still, stirring no jot:

190

And gives no inkling of life, tho' fire should burn,
Or water drown it, or pins prick it through;
But just so much as this, to shrink from the hand
That worries it, and shudder a wee bit.
Ah! then indeed, 'tis a praiseworthy grub:
Then is its grubbish nature glorified
Within a letter of a royal name;
Men cry it up and call it loyalty.
Blunderers as they are: for loyalty
Means love to Law; to right; not to the King;
He may be log or stork: that were fool's faith:
Howe'er, our grub is now the throne's foot-stool;
And kingly pride upon its patience treads;
For 'tis a neutral; has no soul of self;
A passive noodledom between two lives.
It was not always so. Once swiftly it stirred
Its twenty feet, living at large, at will,
And feeding on its foes, their fields and fruits;
Therefore earth's rulers sorely hated it;
They called it lawlessness, rebellion,
To look to its own likings, not man's law;
And cursed it for its free self-helpfulness,
But, for it wanted strength, and crawled aground,
Having no wings to fly, so 't was soon crushed:
For their foes had but to set foot on them.
Thus not unrightfully did men stamp out
Rebellion; who fails there is in deadly fault:
Must win—for that's his only warrant—else die,
Haply a noble death—must die, howe'er.
His Truth may save his Conscience, not his life:
No! 'tis success alone is currency.
So fared our rebel caterpillar; died
Or dwindled to a grub—a heartless dull
Thing, prisoned in its murky self-spun maze,
Helpless and hopeless.

There are two of them,
Being yet but one. The lawless rebel worm,
And the loyal grub: the third is yet behind.
Holding a kindred nature with these two,
But a strange name. For his life, be none so bold
To tell it, but the truest man of the world,

191

Lest he be deemed a liar: 'tis no life,
But a miracle; for Nature at his birth,
Frolicsome, flung her wonted framework by,
And played the fairy. Thus it was—our grub,
After long durance dull, bethought him at last,
That patience of all evil for evil's sake,
And not for any good should come of it,
Is but a loutish wisdom; wise enough
For Man, but for the grub too grovelling.
“Therefore behoves me to be hence alarge—
But how, and to what hope? aye, there's the knot.
For I remember while I was a worm,
That my free life was but a straw 'mid fires,
And hundred times I was about to die
Such hobnail death as my kin-fellows died,
And why? for, being weak, they went abroad,
A silly folk. Therefore, ere I win out
From this constraint, first will I get me wings
To fly withal. So counsell'd and so done—
He got him wings, and then wrought his way forth,
Wise as Wisdom herself from her sire's head,
Like her too, weaponed well 'gainst dangers abroad,
A wilful flashing whizzing dragon fly,
Lived as he liked: no man could master him.”
“The world is mine—earth, air, water!”

He bragged
Truly, and flew his own free flight, and as
He flew, so all eyes gazed in wonderment;
Yes, he, the worm of that same kind as men
When they would crush it, call Rebellion;
And when they have coerced it to a grub,
Name it anew nought else but—Loyalty.
Now, for the same ends issuing, only in pomp
And power instead of crawling feebleness;
Wending his way, whithersoe'er he will,
Oh, then his power doth make him patriot.
Rebellion, Patriotism, Loyalty;
Ye're larval masks, hiding beneath three names,
Man's one self-nature. They who cry ye, cry
But a vain noise—should speak their silly souls
Into a cheap-jack's trumpet—blowing a full

192

Blast, no nice difference—'twill mean as much
And sound yet louder. Nay, but Fame's own trump
Whereby the Despot blows himself abroad,
What is it but a cheap-jack's—only yet
Viler? a penny paper trumpet, of foul
Rotten rags: but, thou Despot, why dost need
Either? thou rid'st an ass. Patience—who brays
Tho' mire-drudged, sorely galled, o'erladen, half dead,
In pride of his brass trappings—thine, not his.
So let him bray thy fame, thy glory. Yes that
Is thy true trumpeter.

Of these big names
Hermann was each, and all, and none of them.
Rebel or Patriot, as Fancy's glass
Coloured him. Loyal, but for his own sake
Not for his rulers—first, let true Law rule,
Then Loyalty is truth. Are men but sheep
For wolf and tiger? No, but Manhood's worst
Danger is not the rebel but the slave
Spirit; look Europe round, see how brute hosts
Wherever despots sway, trample and grind
The country. Then behold each free-folk. Swiss,
Belgian, Dutch, Dane, and Norse, all else that are free.
Their Freedom is their welfare: look and blush
Thou coward cur, still cringing 'neath the lash,
Rather than rise for God's right and thy own
Against thy whipster. “Ah, but he's a King—
Emperor—we're but men.” Men! say ye so?
Curs, carrion, swine. Who treads ye into mire
Fouls it—well—words are waste.

Dark was that night
And wild the way that Hermann went thro' it;
But wilder yet his own bewilderment,
Darker his thoughts: cold, cheerless, comfortless,
As when the wintry swain, belated and chill,
Finding the warm bright blaze that should have been,
Dull ashes, feels self-shrunk to a pin's-head.
As he too, with his fire, if alike dead,
Were happier ended. He had steeled himself,

193

Had Hermann, to a pure high quality;
But yet that vaporous breath blown on his steel
Clouded it longer time than his purity
Gave promise. 'Tis not matter alone, but mind
Also, must gravitate unto the mass:
For soar however loftily it may,
Yet is a check behind to draw it back
To the low level and the centre of all.
True, he had offered himself freely up
To help his country—but that gift he gave
More heartily, for her, the Priestess' sake
Who served the altar: for her smile he hoped,
Fair hope: which else, without it, was nought left
But the outflash of the fire, and slayer, and axe,
Most terrible; but no, 'twas only a cloud
That chills but craven hearts—keeps off the sun
Without, not the in-glow.

“Dastards, weak thoughts,
Thus I forswear ye; so he shouted out
Fierce, as he felt the quickening influence,
And waved his staff on high. Ye're but the thin
Mist that I scatter; likelier to hope,
And manlier, much more: 'tis a strong ground
This granite, and yet stronger this my cause:
But thou my Faith, dost stumble and waver now,
Ere thou are fairly forth? no—but straight on
Boldly, for sooner shall these mountains quail
Than thy religious rock of righteousness
Shall slip from under thee:” thus as he spoke,
His spirit rose e'en to the height of his speech;
Aye, and above it: words are wondrous things:
Begotten of thoughts they beget other thoughts
And words—like lightning—flashing into works.

And so did Hermann don the shield of Faith
Against the brunt of doom: 'twas wisely done,
For Doubt is danger—better sleep in the hearth
Chair, than out fearfully to fight the storm,
Tho' for a kingly venture. He strode on,
As if a giant's strength were in each stride,

194

Upright and bold: whither to steer his way,
While yet his spirit's light was in eclipse,
He knew not, knowledge waits on will—but now
He felt his destiny drawn out forthright
So fast and strong, as he could walk on it
Unswervingly, no sidelong look or thought,
But only on.

First, to his shepherd friend:
In the like faith as who commits his hand
To his own glove; for he knew the man of old,
Truthful and simple-minded as his trade.
Thither he went: and as he went, the day
Was westering downward: while the unwieldy dull
Self-thwarting earth, that brooks not the full light
But, as Truth gains on him, so turns himself
Wilful, to darkness on the other side
Away: slowly and blindly upheaved his bulk
Darkening with its shadow all our day.
And the heather that erewhile shone in the sun
Goldenly, now put off its gaudiness,
Disrobed by darkness; changing its gay cloak
To russet and again to gloomier yet
In sad gradation—as that gloom grew on,
Hermann stopp'd short to listen and look out;
But nothing could he see, save the huge hills
In distance dimly swelling 'gainst the sky;
Or an owl with white wings deepening the night,
As slowly it sailed in large and larger wheel.
He looked again—nought else—listen'd and heard
Nothing save his own breath: then, while without
All was shut against sense, he looked within;
And there his thoughts burnt up so blazingly,
They were good cheer and light and warmth to him.
So buoyant, they upraised him above earth,
Treading, not feeling it. He gave them free
Opening to flow, and thus did they flow on.

“Lucy, once I was thy lover:
Thou wert mine, as thou didst say;
Now those sunny days are over,
Coldly now thou turn'st away.

195

Be it so—for so thou provest
Faithless kind in faithless vow:
Woman-like thou liv'st and lovest:
I must prove my manhood now.

Lucy now I'm but thy brother.
Manhood asks no selfish meed:
Now my spirit is none other
But the Patriot's indeed.

Fool I was—far gone in madness
Thus to sow the shifting sand:
Now I reap my seed in sadness:
A lone outcast here I stand.

Yet 'tis well—for surely never
With a soul so rent in twain
Had I reached my high endeavour.
Half a wish is wholly vain.

I am sworn to o'erthrow the tower
Of old majesty and might,
To uprear the people's power—
Is that labour all too light?

Is it but a toy of pleasure?
And must Love come flaunting in,
As on some fond maiden's leisure,
Balking all that I begin?

No—I dreamed, and in my dreaming
Saw familiar lovely things
Of heart-soothing, home-like seeming,
Bright fireside imaginings.

Now I wake—the dream's past o'er me—
Wafted wizard-like away:
And I see the truth before me,
Marshalled in war's stern array.

Boyish love thou art a stranger,
Girlish troth thou art belied.
I must marry me with Danger:
Tell me, wilt thou be my bride?”

196

“Nay, I know not,—Wilt thou woo me,
Thou must sue with thy good sword;
Only he who can subdue me,
Will I take him for my lord.”

“Be it so—thou glorious creature!
There is lightning in thine eye;
Thou art strong and fierce of feature
Yet I front thee fearlessly.

To my sword thou shalt surrender
Thy stern beauty for a bride:
High renown and stately splendour
Shall spring to me from thy side.

Life and fortune, all I cherish,
Thus I fling them 'mong my foes—
To the rescue—or they perish—
Help me Heaven, here we close.”

He spake; and as the word prompted the deed
He launched his staff forward, a strong arm's launch,
Among the heather. Even and straight it sped,
Making small stir in the air, but piercing deep
As with a point of steel in the hard ground;
Quivering there as doth a bristling beast
His teeth clenched in his game. Hermann came up
Following his aim. “Faith 'tis a goodly throw,
And shews a goodly strength. If I drive home
The intent whereon my soul is now astrain
But half so manly, then may I strike through
The heart of foemanship, ere head can warn
Or arm can ward its danger.” Fair was the hint,
And glad the man that 'twas vouchsafed to him.
“Oh, Lord may my hope's speed be straight as this,
As straight, and steady, and strong. I ask no more,
And no more needs.”

By this the sky and air
Were an ocean darkness of unfathomed depth.
Hardly o'er a steep hill he clamber'd up,
Blindly to peer below. There stood the hut;
The shepherd's lonely home, unseen itself,
But by the token of unsteady light

197

Flickering within. There on the height he staid,
Resting upon a hillock, to forecast
What he must soon propose. He sate, his head
Pillowed upon his hand, deep sunk in thought:
A short half-hour. Then up again and on;
But as he started forth there shone a light
Sudden amid the gloom—what might it be?
Fancy or lonely fear might deem it a lamp
Of prowling foes, rounding most warily
Their nightly search—but a few steps toward it,
He saw—“poor worm, thy glow is starlike bright,
And yet who heeds it? I and thou, we're mates,
For I too bear a light, and I trust well
It is both true and holy as thine is:
And I go forth to shine in the dark world:
Yet haply will the world heed me no more
Than it doth thee—nay but 'twill shiver me
To atoms, for the searching light I bring
'Mong its malignant vapours. Look up there—
Look to yon starry host shining above.
What thinkest? Shine they not brighter than thou?
Yet none regards them—a lost light—I too—
'Twere well I should take home the lesson I teach—
For hath not God himself come down on earth?
A grace much greater truly than that star
Yonder, that one, the mightiest of them all,
Should stoop from Heaven to that lowly hut
And take the rushlight's turn. Yes, they scorned Him—
They smote Him, and they slew Him and what then?
Why truly then there is much likelihood
That they should hearken me.

Well, as they will,
If they requite me evil for my good,
Then—quicker death is sooner happiness;
So be it—for till then strife, danger, and hate
Bestorm me, till the bloody atoning end.
Welcome—for death makes dearth—so patriot truth
Reaps glory. Thanks to thee, good glow-fellow,
For these good thoughts.”

He said, and he was there:
There at the door; yet staid awhile, his hand

198

Upon the latch; for boisterous uproar
Of many tongues was hurtling from within:
It seemed guests were enow by that fireside,
Needed no stranger more. “What were they all?
To keep wassail so late, carousing o'er
His cups was not of old the shepherd's wont,
Nor likely now. What if the Philistines
Were ambushed there awaiting who should come
Within their mischief? Nay, the deadly pool
Is noiseless. Howe'er, doom is doom; 'tis I
'Gainst Danger—truly, a deep game we play,
And desperate—I stake my life 'gainst Hope
And Honour: would I win—must dare and do
Outright—nor shrink from th' upshot, happen howe'er,
Friends or foes, I confront them.”

As he spoke
He did. That door creaked on its crazy hinge—
He stood within. Our fears are mostly clouds.
There were his own trust-fellows, brethren, friends,
Bound to him, whether holy or world-ties,
But all fast bound. Ere he could lift his hat
They hailed him, hopeless seen, with such a shout
Joyful, such sudden shout of eager joy,
As blew the cobwebs from the black roof-beams
A witch-like network. Good, tho' seldom, it is,
In this cold icy clime, where manners live
Alone, having outthrust the natural man,
To see the spirit glow, and the heart's blood
Gush to the forehead; e'en as then their hands
Met hastily, but parted not so soon,
From their warm grasp.

“My friends, I like ye well,
Ye and your greeting—a glad issue it bodes;
But sit ye down, and I will tell ye all,
Both hear and tell.” “Nay, be thou seated first,
Said the good shepherd's wife, homely and kind,
For sure thou hast most need: and art thou clear,
Clear o' those lion claws—and our gloom turned
To glad surprise? much I misdoubted thee,
And fretted sore, and ever in and out,
To look o'er the hill side, and then to search

199

For crumbs of comfort in the blessed book.
For a poor silly woman that I am,
Fearing where no fear was—Ah, Sir, good Sir,
The best of us are faulterers in the Faith,
Sad falterers—shame and sin both! to set
Man's fear above God's faith: praised be His name.
But, Sir, thou'rt come. Heaven love thee evermore,
Dear as we do and bless and cherish thee,
Sure as the blessing thou hast brought us all.
But come, sit there, by the fire. We are poor folk;
Yet what we can—such store as God hath sent,
Bacon and bread, and eggs, aye, and drink too—
Thou art no hireling, thou, yet well hast earned
A better hire than any we can give.
A blessing on thy heart, it makes me glad
As I were a young girl, to see thee again,
Glad of thee safe, as late of thy fear sad.
There so, 'tis well.”

Hermann sate down and ate,
Till he was comforted with meat and drink;
Then they took turn, asking and answering;
Matter enough—the day and its fresh deeds,
And what should come of them—how each had 'scaped
That rough encounter, and all other spite
Of the Evil One, by guidance of the Lord:
Surely a special grace. Then what was next
To fear, what earnest likely of their hope:
Eager each Conscience to communicate
How now for furtherance.

“Sir,” said one man,
A sallow blear-eyed cobbler from the town;
“Much have I wrestled with these thoughts, few more;
And what ye've undertaken, I like it well,
In main: and for its sake I'll on as far,
As any here will dare to follow me.
But, Sir, in this your forecast there's one flaw,
Frights me to think—a gap Sir—yawning wide
As the jaws of Hell. What of the Papists, Sir?
Aye—what think ye of them? for to my mind
'Tis a clear truth, and I'm as sure of it
As tho' God's own angel had told it me,

200

'Tis they have brought the curse into this land,
Plagu'ing it with their damned idolatry.
And 'till we fling them from our bosom forth,
Stone them, or burn, or slay them with the sword,
That curse will cleave to us. Sir, ye well know,
Last season was a dearth within the land,
A murrain 'mong the flocks—all things at odds;
And business slack and handicraft heart-sick;
Why Sir, I sate a week, my hands thus like,
Across my bosom, for sheer lack of work,
And fire to keep them warm: no other pay,
Nor hope, nor pastime, but to chew our ills
And the black cause of them.

Why should this be
But for a token of wrath? and why such wrath
But for that idol Sin? These things were not
In our forefathers' time; or only then
When in such wise they sinned as we do now
And suffered all the same. Therefore we're curs'd
With fire, and tithes, and evil government;
With fornication and all deadly sin;
With drought for rain, and rain when drought were need,
Drowning the harvest. 'Tis clear truth, all this,
Written outright as any printed book,
That he who runs may read it. Therefore, Sir,
To outdo this deep damnation from the land,
I bid ye in God's name not only—”

“Oh, yes,”
Herman replied, “I know what ye would say
And have: and there are other godly men
Think e'en as thou, and yet haply 'twere best”—
“Aye true, it were much best to bide on it,”
Said an old clownish toper, sharp and shrill,
“Ere we do aught. Heaven is a far way off,
And who shall say which is most near to it?
Each thinks his own the gainer path—for me
I never spoke nor did them any good
Those Papists—yet my corn rotted no less
Than theirs, who, as folks say, worship the Priest
Instead of God—but there's a something, Sir,
Hampers us nearer home—the curs'd Law-suit

201

About our common-right: and many say,
They see not why, if that same mischief needs
Must hold, and be the mischief that it is,
They see not in that case why they should stir
To stake both limb and life. Now, Sir, mayhap,
You may see good to satisfy us all,
(For truly we are many of that mind)
That we shall have and hold the land for our own:
Common and close e'en as Hess promised us:
And who would hinder us, to make quick end,
Gar hang him up straightway—no Law-leave asked,
But the thing done; that were both wisdom and right
Where now is neither.”

“This,” Hermann replied,
“Is not for me to rule, but for the main
Meeting—however, trust me, whatsoe'er
Is reason, shall be law; only forbear
Some little of full right; and mark God's word.
The land shall not be sold, for it is mine:
And ye are strangers there and sojourners.
And mark this too-first must we free the land—
Else is our Freedom hopeless: but take heed—
Lest, when ye would but clear ashes and dust
For thoro' draft, ye rake the whole fire out,
Reckless, as wrath is wont—be heedful then.”
“Sir, by your leave,” so said a sturdy hind
Slow rising—“may I be so bold—a word
About a cow of mine that my neighbour Helst,
Down in the hollow, hath wronged me—but the Law
They say, will bear him thro'. Now, I've heard talk
That ye're about it, bettering the Law,
And that's bad need. Sir, I'm a Gospeller,—
I've followed you, since my old mother ailed,
And sent me in her room, lest prayer should fail
Out of the house. Sir, you would glad her heart,
I warrant her, poor soul, to stand our friend?
And mine no less. I'd follow ye, be sure,
Thro' fire and water.”

Hermann heard and smiled,
Then turned to a fresh call. “But Sir, the Jews,”
'Twas a young man that spake, knightly of blood,

202

Courtly of bearing, fair to look upon,
But steeped in riot, as his drunken eye,
And luscious lips, and thick voice witnessed him.
“Papist or Puritan who cares one curse?
What boots all else if the Jews must suck our blood
Henceforth as heretofore? They've screwed me back
Hundreds for every score they doled me out.
They've swindled me, aye, plucked me bare as a board.
Me—thousands too beside me. Now why keep
Such vermin on God's earth? why let them live?
Can any tell me why—vermin—nought else—
That foully overrun, tease, plague, and drain
Us Christians—our whole body, with more zest
Plundering us from spiteful hate of us.
Yet we forbear them—why? who ever heard
Of any good a Jew ere did till he died?
Who ever saw a stroke of work by them?
Or a kind deed on any Christian. Ah, no!
Their life is but one smouchy, sneaking lie.
Let their law try them—usury is death—
So Moses—to the old Jew—and why not
These later too? there I'm true Jew myself.
Then scourge them, stone them, slay them, or if that
Seem harsh to mawkish minds—then drive them out,
And rid—”

“Aye rid thee from them,” Hermann said,
“That sures thy will—for not to deal with them
Is death to them: but mind—they walk right well
In their own way, live in true brotherhood—
Let us likewise, we Christians, learn of them
That gracious lesson—then, if we can, scorn
Our teachers: but till then—”

Ere he could end,
Uprose another speaker—up he sprang,
A man broad and huge-boned, and big of limb,
But most ungainly; in his sprawling gait
Belying his frame's burly likelihood.
His face, 'twas heavy-jowled, black-brow'd, mud-hued,
As tho' life blood had never healthen'd it.
No more than featured clay—a dull damp mask,
No seeming soul: self-gather'd, there he sate

203

Like to a man o'erwhelmed with his own weight,
Stifled and sunk in his flesh—for all his life
Seemed run into his eyes wild fiery light—
Two wondrous bright lamps, flaring fitfully
Thro' the night fog, hither and thither whirled
By the spirit's wind within him. His coat hung
Loose on his back, as a gipsy mother's brat,
In uncouth heap: dishevelled bushy hair
Misshaping his huge head and tangling o'er
His forehead's square bold breadth.

Such was the man,
Christopher Ernst: he had besought awhile
To be a preacher in the brotherhood:
And for his gifts, they fell not short, some said
They overreached that height: and many there
Did deem his glowing speech inspired of God.
But, for he looked but to his own inlight,
Nor made his reason of the worldly rule,
Therefore, the more denied him what he asked,
Counting him mad. Madness! that name belongs
Likeliest to them, who take so crooked a stick
As the world's custom for their canon of right
And judge thereby—but the wise man were oft
Wiser, to hide his deep wisdom away
'Neath shallow worldly wit: so let him do,
Else will men deem him a fool.

“Brethren and friends,”
So spoke the stern enthusiast, glowering round
Slowly, a wild and visionary glare:
“For so I call and cherish ye, tho' some
Answer with evil my good will; we've heard
Much, a great heap of little things, more meet
For alehouse talk than for our mighty aim,
Cows, commons, and benighted Romanists.
All idle, yea, my friends, all idle alike,
And green as the sick fancy of a girl.
I nill 'em—nill 'em wholly, whisk 'em away.
And is it for such shallow silliness
We're bound, and sworn never to loose our bond,
Until the full achievement give us leave?
Is't not as easy to say all as the half?

204

Why, if we stake our lives, why should we not
Make peril glorious with its high prize?
Aye, why indeed? Have ye not the more strength
And the better right? are ye not millions?
And they, your gainstmen what are they? Some few
Stragglers, some fopling idlers here and there,
Of no account, or only of so much
To make your bulk of body seem more big
By their thin show.

What! do ye know your wills?
Then what ye will, 'tis ready to your hand,
Take it, make much of it, and thrive by it:
And take it all. Nor leave no corner or hole,
Whence the old spider may 'gin spread again
His cunning usurpation. Are ye men?
Aye, surely: why then fear a scold's foul words?
No, what the lawyer and priest, the thieves, 'twixt whom
Sitting in state this people is crucified,
Themselves best due; what they for their own ends
Have so perplexed that none may loose the knot;
Cut thro' such question with the edge o' sword
Making all sheer: down with them—down in the dust
There leave them: as these gin-drops, last of my cup,
That I fling there, foul spirits, down in the ash,
To hiss their life out; but are ye such dolts
To spend your eager spirit and flower of prime
Idly puzzling to make atonement there
Where God and Truth have both made severance
'Twixt Law and Reason? patch not with new cloth
The rotten coat—sow not 'mong thorns—but since
'Twas Satan doomed, for Man's original sin,
His body, soul, ownership, commonweal,
To leech-craft, priest-craft, law-craft, office-craft,
Which office means obstruction, truly named,
Now let Christ's grace free us from Satan's law.

But, my friends, hearken me—dreams I've oft dreamt,
And visions I've beholden, haply true,
But this, the latest trance vouchsafed to me
Is truth itself. An angel yesternight

205

Visited me, an angel of the Lord.
Nay, start not, 'twas indeed, a glory of Heaven.
I knew it surely, not by my eyesight,
But by my soul's own feeling. Thus it was:—
My wife and little ones were all a-bed,
And I left there to brood upon my thoughts,
Dim as the dying embers. Suddenly
There shone a vehement light thro' all the room,
As tho' a thousand suns were lit at once,
So bright, it outdid all beside: I looked,
But my sight failed me, and a-blind I stared—
Yet was I conscious of a presence there
Spirit-like, strange, unearthly, a soul-sight
No tongue can tell.

Past wonder there I stood
Astounded, and this truth burst forth on me,
No sound, nor breath-born utterance of words,
But the spirit's self, ‘I come to thee from God,
He 'th chosen thee to be His voice to man.
Then speak thou thus to those with whom thou'rt leagued,
As God speaketh to thee. They who rule now
He suffered them long time, but hence no more,
Their cup is full—must drink its lowest dregs
There was a time for Grace, they let it go;
For Mercy, and they took no heed of it;
Now is the hour of wrath. Go, from their height
Abate them—sternly, not bloodthirstily.
For they are an abhorrence in my sight
For the evil they have done; and once o'erthrown
So leave them—lift no earthly lordship up;
For God alone is Lord; man's privilege
Is but a root of all perversity.
Outdo it, root, stem, branch: lest slackening
Ye draw their vengeance down on your own heads.
Go forth; I've said—fulfil thou thoro'ly.
I heard no more—for lo! sudden again
A horror of deep darkness fell on me.
Brethren, these words—this bidding—'tis the Lord.
That thunder's utterance fain would I seal up
Deep in my soul, but 'tis forbidden me.
They've starved us, have these men, of half our bread,

206

For two loaves, a scant one—they've made our Church
A den of thieves and hirelings, fouler far;
And Law, a two-edged blade, no handle or hold,
Wounding his hand, whoe'er asks help from it,
Worse than his wrong: therefore I call on ye
Go, gripe those scoundrel throats to upgorge our spoil
Tho' it come with their hearts' blood. Slaughter whoe'er
Withstands ye—make clear work—and of their bones
Rear up a pile high as the Pyramids,
For a sign and wonder.”

He ended, and sate down.
The big sweat glistening on his brow like steam
On the cauldron's side when water seethes within.
He was so fervid: all tongues after him
Were hushed, as by a trumpet blast—none spake.
Their marvel was too much; at last one rose
Forth from the brooding silence, a spare man:
So spare, it seemed that thought and lore had been
His only diet: one whom his shrewd look,
Piercing and keen, smiling half scornfully,
Where others looked most gravely, and amid
Reasonings, preachings, prayers, scorn-smiling still,
Bespoke him truly what he was, ere yet
His words declared what he would seem to be.
Bespoke him one who viewed the world as a stage,
Where fools go masked; and who would pick a purse
Must mask him also for a seeming fool,
And thence, a gainful knave—the world a stage,
And all that's played upon it a rank lie,
Where silly folks go feel, wonder, and weep,
While wiser men but whisper 'mong themselves
“Well acted:” and where others reverently
Believe, more reverently would he scorn,
As a zany gaping on his conjuror,
Wearing a deferential wonderment
To mask contempt. He was a gatherer
Of taxes, and of late he had been drawn
Into sore question to clear up his count,
Hence his sharp spite.

“Sir, that we're Patriots,
All worthy men and true, thinking no thought,

207

But for our country's good, that is most sure,
For we have said it, who best know ourselves:
And as we only are the sterling coin,
So they, the other sidesmen, are but trash,
Sheer ruffians, cads and duffers. Well, what then?
Be it so: ourselves good gold—they slag and dross;
What then? ah, truly! if they'll yield us all
For this pure Truth that we profess, t'were well:
But if we must come out to trial of blows,
Then must the stronger o'ermatch the godlier.
My friends, if we be better men than they
Our worth may be rewarded—but not now.
Must die and rot ere trial; happy indeed
That hope, which sees so far and clear in the dark.
But here, just now, 'tis the big muster I want,
And skill and strength: for after all, they, too,
Are some—well—say ye so, I trust it too,
We've ludship against lordship: sticks and stones
'Gainst shot—a thousand bludgeons 'gainst one sword.
Well then, with but one head to a hundred hands,
Those odds, however clownish, are enough:
And so much joy to us for our good cause
And better strength. 'Tis there I hold with you:
For I belong not to the brotherhood—
I stand outside, and am too mild a man
To blend me with their brotherly bickerings.
But, Sir, we're Patriots, and all that's wise
And good and true is uttered in that word:
Else, where it otherwise, much that I've heard
Seemed a moon-stricken dream. Lands some would have
In common—aye, but, friends, a common, at best
Is sorry pasture—scrambling strife wastes all.
Far better each man's earnings for himself,
How scant soe'er—yet, we're much wronged. The priest,
Landlord, and placeman, and lawyer, grieve us sore,
And sorely that same grievance shall they rue,
If we work out our will. To the storm-god
For his first victims the black cattle; and I've
A sauce so highly seasoned, every tongue
Shall cry ‘enough.’ 'Tis a just judgment, Sir,
They starved us then and they shall feed us now—

208

And it shall be, as they've no other means,
With their own flesh—aye, Sir, we'll slay them first,
And eat them after—ah, 'twere a rich treat,
To make the parson of to-morrow's dish,
Say grace o'er the roast placeman of to-day,
And the squire too—they fed on the land's fat,
Must render it in kind; and they, the plague
Of earth, those idolist cursed Romanists,
'Tis they, as being in that skill well seen
Shall light the fire: light it, and when 'tis lit,
Flung in themselves for fuel.

This ye see
Is the strong man's riddle, out of the eater meat,
Thus solved: a good solution—but too mild.
So for the will: now for the way: and first,
I would forewarn ye, ere ye flay this bear,
To master him—for he hath claws and teeth—
And bearhood too—unlike meekly to stand
And let ye pluck them out. Therefore be warned—
And when your enemy is down in the dust
And ye with weapon'd hands stride over him,
'Twill then be time for vengeance, if that be
Your wisdom. Friends, mistake not, that I thwart
Your aims—Ah no! I'm wronged, and hope redress
By your means—go forth and thrive—only I think
Your zeal may chance to be a quality
Fiercer than wiser, burning but for light
To your foes, and to your own bewilderment.
Beware then—keep your fire for the coming fight,
For counsel needs cool heads—no mob—no many
Headed—nay, wince not—hearken but the truth.
For universal suffrage is Bedlam loose.
A foul sewer-flood, worse than the sin-flood was.
Allman is goodman, while he keeps to his work,
Hodman or carman, seaman, ploughman, aught else—
Only not statesman—no good Allman—no—
Beware that craft—it belongs not to thee,
But to thy betters—thou'st no mind for it,
Thou'rt but a body—one that keeps to itself
Its best, its blood, life, sense, warmth; keeps 'em all
Within—what it gives out we welcome not—

209

Nay—shut out eyes and hold our nose from it.
Such voidance means avoidance—to my sense.
Indeed good Allman, not to flatter thee,
Thou art a body, brute, not politic,
And all its utterance is but excrement.
Aye—e'en its most sweet breath of suffrage—e'en that,
For thou'st no mind. Behoves thee a head, and I—
My friends—I've framed so shrewd a plan, will sure
Carry us thro', if ye'll be ruled by me;
And trust me wholly. What then! ye will not!
Not me—some likelier head—ye must go far
To find him—well, keep cool—I'll wait awhile
Your wiser mood. Ye'll need me—I need not you.”

'Mid much outcry of angry gainsayers,
Zimmermann ended. Hermann hastily
Uprising, thus began, for wishful he was
To stop that overflowing waste of words,
Where else had seemed no end.

“Brethren, much free
Outspoken Truth I've listened, and heard much
Well worth the listeners while; righteous complaint
And bold determination to redress
Whate'er is wronged. And if therein were aught
Fiercer than lukewarm statesmanship may like,
Such utterance is but excess of zeal,
And so to exceed, I hold ye worthier praise
Than blame—for man is feeling, spirit and blood
Will resent wrong: but there's a soul of strife
And selfish shrewd detraction, worthier far
Of blame than praise. Treason within our camp!
Beware, 'twere death. What ye've dared hitherto,
Next to your own free spirit and God's will
'Tis partly I have kindled ye thereto:
Blowing with forward breath upon your fire
Which self-reserve had damply stifled else,
Not to surmount its smoke: and now, once up,
Be it good or bad, I who have spirited
Must answer it. So, when I heard e'en now
My purposes upbraided, my truth blamed,

210

Eager I felt to answer in account
For what I counselled: specially, what late
Ye agreed me, but some now gainsay; to enlarge
This land from many shreds of ownership
To one main folkstead, as did Israel's God;
Instead of severalty, envy and strife,
New robbery worse than the old.

Nor would I blout
All lights of old experience, nor efface
Time's landmarks, mindmarks if ye will, deep stamped
With reverence, steep'd in feeling. No, the old
Castle, tho' shattered, the old abbey, old church,
Old oak, old Stemhouse of old family
Renowned, these would I cherish—for some stay
For garish life to pause and look upon.
Lest this hot reckless world be all in all.
For 'tis refreshful, from our dust of noon
With spiteful strife whirling and blinding us,
To stand awhile 'neath the still cooling shade
Of ages. Such communion with the worth,
Tho' time-worn, of time-tried, time-honoured Eld
O'erawes our fleeting upstart pride; can thence
Measure its present littleness against
The huge dark lengthening shadows of the past.
So Reverence grows, deepening and stablishing
Character, first in the man, thence in the State.
Then to this Reverence, our main safeguard
'Gainst rashness of folk-rule, must we train minds,
From child and boy to man. Nature for this
Hath helped us: hear the bard's high utterance.
‘Hail, usages of pristine mould
And ye who guard them, mountains old.’
We, too, must help her. Therefore what is deep
Rooted among us in ground, time or heart,
That would I not upstir it needlessly—
Although its branching shade should overspread
The ploughman: e'en to him a score lone oaks
Far scattered, are more comfort than land's loss.
Take ye that truth to mind, and in it uphold
As landholders your time-tried landowners;
With little loss in wealth—much gain in worth—

211

If they uphold their own state worthily—
But that's a task for council. Much ill-will
I've weathered, for this standard's sake, so main.
Nor from much worse, at need, shall I shrink back:
These things, and many more, fully I meant,
But others in their forward patriot fire,
A mood most praiseworthy, where not o'erwild,
(And much I hope they'll show it elsewhere too)
Forespoke me—many thanks—for what one said
Another did gainsay: each answering each,
And left me to look on and listen—enow
Of words already have been here bestowed;
And this high tower, were building heavenward,
Seems like that Babel from confusion of tongues.
So, since 'twere shame to o'erload your weariness,
For all my speech I'll tell you a short tale.
Listen it, if you will:—

Awhile ago,
But when and where behoves me not to say,
There was a river sweeping proudly forth
From its highlands to the sea: so noble a stream,
As nothing less than the great ocean
Were worthy outlet for such stately life.
And, as beseemed that State, many there were,
Greater or less, rivers and brooks, and rills
Did pay it tribute: bringing in their wealth,
Pouring forth all their channels could contain
But to supply its profuse kingly pride.
And as of old tradition they were wont,
E'en so they did awhile—till some began,
Grumbling their surly ground-swell. ‘What means this?
Strange fools are we—why should we lose ourselves
But for his gain—and he our sovereign,
Who flows but from our flow, lives by our life,
What doth he for it? how requite our love
And purblind loyalty? Why, not at all.
Oh no—for he's the head, and we the tail,
Born but to follow him—and so we do,
Blindly, as all too weak to hold our way
Unless behind him—so he careers round
For statelier self-show, and we poor things

212

Obsequious after him—but Time is a true
Teacher—that head may hence be its own tail—
We'll find a shorter way.’

So said, so done.
They did forsay their faith, shifted their aim,
Gnawed them new channels, and forth venturously
Each as a lonely pilgrim, so to fare
As he might chance to find; but what they found
Erelong, in the wild error of their way,
Much better had they miss'd. Soon is strife sown
And severance made—but severance bears no fruit.
Luck is not lonely—Freedom from the bond
Of union is but dreary helplessness.
Each left his olden way for a straighter one,
But found, for the free blessings they were wont,
Sore curses—all cross and untowardly.
Dykes cut in the alarm and dams thrown up
Against them—worse than all, what seemed forthright,
Nature had barred it. Hills, rivers, and bogs
'Twixt them and their fond fancy—the more toil
And the less hope. Till at the last, what each
Had chew'd awhile, but felt it stick in his throat,
They took to their proud stomach: rendering
Such suit and service as they gave of yore,
With lowly prayer to be ta'en back in grace
Where late they left in scorn: and so again
Filling one channel by their confluence,
And called one name, they did forget themselves
To amity and unity once more:
Making a mighty flood of their blent power,
Which else were impotent—shaping their course
In such large round as they might best take in
Whoe'er would with them; and so, not straight indeed,
But surely, speeding onward to their end
With hourly augmentation.

This, my friends,
Tho' seeming fable is a very truth:
And in their wisdom may ye see your own,
Thither to aim, where is attainable.
Thus only can we thro'; for bond is none
Of surety, without vantage on each side

213

To make the tie. Who would grasp all, must lose
All he would grasp—all that, and himself too;
A silly loss—silly as the dragon's tail
Would lead head, body, and all. Do nothing then
Selfishly: each self-wish must ye forego
To swell the main: nor be so frowardly
Rather to give up all to your worst foes
Than a little to your friends—first make your joint
Hawl, and be sure of it—'twill then be time
How best to sort your fish.”

He ceased, and they
Backed him with one strong shout, that swayed the smoke
Aback from the huge chimney. “'Twas well said,
And should be done. Let each think by himself,
And work with all.” So they resolved, and who
Could teach them better, he were wise indeed—
Wiser to rest on it—for Wisdom knows
Nothing so hateful as the unwholesome wit
Of sneering, bitter wranglers.

Their talk done,
Good cheer and laughter followed thro' the night,
And merry songs, and the brown earthen jug
Crested with foam—then was each rugged chair
Drawn round the fire in friendlier fellowship
And livelier. While thus they caroused there
Hermann, much overstrained, and quite toil'd down,
Wished them, with one glass more, their hope fulfilled,
And staggered to his rest—such sorry lair
As a straw-shed afforded—yet to him
Made happy by the holy spirit of Love
Which to Christ's faith holds the like function
As soul to body. In that same he breathed
And lived and wrought—and it shed over him
There as he slept a holy, balmy joy,
Angelic calm: 'stead of those wildering dreams
Rising from out those other bigot brains
In sullen fumes, checkered with raging flames.

214

BOOK X.

Religion, they who deem thee God's own grace
Hallowing Man to holy happiness,
Deem thee aright: thou art indeed no less.
For like the earth he lives on, so Man's life
Needs both co-active and expansive power,
To keep due course. Law, to curb Nature's lust,
Lest it break loose in wild self-will; and Love
To speed his soul thro' its wide godly range
Of grace: for Love is godliness, and thou'rt
The channel that holds, guides and speeds his spirit,
Else stagnant; but when so straightened, forthright
Streaming—yet some reckon thy heavenly worth
Alone, and wholly miss thy earthly one;
As God's word only, not His work, were thine.
But art thou then unfit for worldly wont
Since hallowed above self? Should holiness
Live coldly aloof? That is worse heresy
Than ever fed the flames: it cuts thy root,
That thou must die and be a barren stock,
Or like a taper o'er the shrouded monk
Burn but to waste. Nay, but 'tis false, as sure
As being true, it were a deadly truth,
For what are Prayer, and Fast, and godly Faith,
But several functions to one end; Man's good?
Fulfilled, not by themselves, but by the spirit
Born of them, the self-spending will for work.
For the Creator's glory is not His own
Praise, but His creatures' happiness; the strain
Of hymns and harps toward Heaven, falls sadly short;
And Creed, without Love, is not then belief.
But from communion with his Father, Man

215

Yearns toward his brethren in true godliness,
In earnest faith—

That Faith is the soul's sight:
And that same sight God hath vouchsafed it us
As in the body, so in the soul too,
Not to turn back upon the Giver His gift,
In still rapt gaze beholding Him, but search
And find, how the good means bestowed by Him
May reach good ends; for Faith is no dull pool
Reflecting Heaven, yet feeling not its Grace;
But most like blood, a sprightly helpful thing,
Cheerful and warm, with all enlivening Love,
Speeding a thousand ways to a thousand ends;
Ever in exercise, yet confess'd more
By duty done, than by profession shown.
He were a madman, who should redden his cheeks
And deem it blood: yet that were all as wise,
As whoso doth some solemn services
And calls it his religion. Aye, 'tis the name—
But, prithee, say, why so superfluous
To give that name, where, save the name itself,
Is nothing? Oh! but we are fooled by our ears
Against the wisdom and witness of our eyes:
And a high-sounding word fills many a gap
Where deeds should be: and such a word art thou,
Religion, as knaves utter, and fools think
To understand thee; but the truthful thing
Which that same word so oft doth counterfeit,
'Tis not as many deem, a shadowy nun,
Unknowing of the world, cloyster'd away
To lonely prayer, and pale contemplative
Sad twilight, cheerless of the genial sun;
Growing from gloom to night, a death-like life:
But rather, a quick stirring quality,
Likest to fire; which is not fire indeed,
Unless it light and warm, enliven and cheer
All things around it. Patriot zeal, 'bove all.
Shame that from this high call thy fainter sons
Shrink, self-distrustful.

'Tis a fresh soul breathed
In the old man, so thoro', as henceforth

216

He feels in darkest danger and distress
The presence and protection of his God,
And in that strength is strangely confident
'Gainst all the world. Would'st thou then take on thee
High enterprise, daring and dangerous,
Be thou religious. Trustfully look up
And boldly down: believing evermore
In Truth, as the helmsman doth in the Pole-star,
And steering thy life-track from thy belief;
So shalt thou turn thy brow to adamant
Against thy gainsayers. Nor doubt, nor dread,
But doing all as from the bidding of God.
“Go, do it.” Our greatness is but in our great
Fatherhood, sprung from Heaven—Nature to Grace,
Man unto God, must be regenerate,
Then from his little self, the worm he was,
Shall feel a sudden strength to wield the whole world
Within him, and rise o'er the world without.
Then as the heaven is high above the earth,
So shall his glowing Faith surmount his fear,
Till the hugest fear show faint as a far cloud.
And the most stormy blast Danger can blow,
He will lay bare his head, open his breast,
To brace his nerves by its breath, “Danger, come on—
Thou threatenest sharply, but must soon flit o'er,
A bitter wind, yet welcome—for thou driv'st
The clouds, and bid'st the man bestir himself,
Girding the tighter his loins. Storm on, I'll strive
In silence stern against thee.”

Such strong tower
Is the Lord's faith, and such, invoking it,
Was the spirit that possess'd young Hermann's soul,
Transnatured, not to be of earth no more.
And in that spirit did he feel more strength
Than twenty thousand men could give to him.
He started up from sleep, as the sun looked
In at his window, wakeful unto work,
Upstarted, but to wilder consciousness
From wildness of his dreams. “Is it I am here,
Or do I dream the man, Hermann by name,
And I another—nay, thou'rt he—but how?

217

Some few days back a mild shepherd of souls
And now a Rebel—headstrong and headlong—
Awful to speak it—and to undertake—
Must change my thoughtful self into a rash
Blaze of foolhardiness. What I essay
Is harder than e'er man, a million-fold.
But have I million'd in myself the means
Of other traitors? To the proof, can I strike
Yon mountain from its stand with my clenched fist?
Wield that old oak for a spear? or by behest
Of wizard power beswarm the moor with men,
Each bush to be a soldier? Can I this?
Aye and much more: the harder, the hopefuller.
Welcome each cross! may kill me, not my cause.
Come whate'er may, I'll meet it in God's name,
And by God's strength.”

Forth from his bed he sprang
As he was wont, with a swift sudden spring,
And washed him, the whole man, from head to foot,
Quickening all his blood into a glow
By the healthy water flush—then to his host:
Whose downward step he heard awhile before
For early household work. “No, all I need
Is an oaten cake and porringer of milk.
This time unwillingly waste on meals—
Or talk—the deed's the word: now is night by,
The sun is up—that sun betokens our own
Forelighting us: our day's at hand; our fire
Yearns forth—and soon this land, late but a huge
Lazy unwieldiness shall blaze with it.
Well, we've the start of them, we're stirred betimes,
And early is half-done. Only 'twere well
We follow what's before us with like speed.
Therefore must sow surmise in the folk's ear
By friendly tongues: scatter intelligence
Not full, but sparks for tinder. Stir their souls
That they be watchful, ready to take arms,
For faith, this lightning time betides no less,
Swifter than e'er our fishermen took oars
When a shoal is shouted. E'en as the course goes,
So further it. For, raise but once our own

218

District, the whole land flashes to a blaze,
Such as shall draw the popular wild breath
With roaring draft to sweep it on. Then shout
Our strongest—they will answer, thunder-like,
Peal upon peal, with rolling, crashing roar
Thro' yonder mountains: but time's scant; I go.”
He gave his hand, the shepherd earnestly
Grasped it, as so with his good angel handfast,
And looking a yet kinder speech than his words,
“Aye, Sir, be sure, I'll back you thro' and thro'
Far as my life will reach. As the old man spake,
The tear, quick glistening, stood on Hermann's eye,
That answer his affection wrang from him,
He gave none else; but striding forth, breathed in
Eagerly that cool highland healthfulness;
Looked on the landscape round, bright, beauteous, calm,
Till summer had suffused his soul; and like
The giant son of earth he felt new life
From Nature's kind communion: then o'er the hill;
Brushing his dewy way thro' tangled grass
And goss: thence downward, where a thin mist-curl
Hovering, marked the windings of a brook,
Itself unseen: a minute more—he stood
Upon its bank: musing his early years:
For he looked on it with congenial love;
So often in that stream his thirsty chance
Had he slaked, and plunged its pools. He paused, for it poured
Over, not gliding smoothly, as heretofore,
But breaking wide, big with the night's rain storm,
Swollen outrageously. He paused and thought:
“My pretty rivulet, whither away
So rashly? thou dost o'erflow with foam
As thou wert mad—is it in truant play,
Or of some wild ambition thou dost roam?
Surely I have a project thou wilt say;
Nay—hold thee—thou'rt best, channell'd in thy home:
There happiest if only feeling so—
For this thy birthland feeds thee from her breast,
Motherly, from her springs and hills of snow;
And in full many neighbouring homes thou'rt blest—
Why then this flooding curse? let the flocks go

219

Freely to drink of thee as they like best.
But thou'rt an idle overweening thing—
Must be more than thyself—and thy proud thought
Hath puffed thee up, fondly imagining,
Not to content thee, working as thou'st wrought;
And that same storm of yesterevening
Hath swollen thy pride full; yet a day's drought,
And thou wilt shrink to thy poor self again.
But, prithee, tell me, what dost hope to win
Of worthy profit from thy wasteful pain?
Why overflow with peril, hate, and sin?
Nay, keep thy course, and blend thee with God's main.
Thou know'st the evil end, wilt yet begin?
Yes, rashling, for thou'rt proud. I pity thee
For thy pride's sake. Yet haply 'tis not so:
And thou art swollen, only to hinder me
From yonder path of danger that I go:
I thank thee much, but there's a destiny
Rules me above, and I must serve below—
Yes—thou and I are fellows in like fate,
And there's a doom driveth us ceaselessly,
That we may never bide in even state.
Well, be it so, and forward fearlessly;
But thou in thy safe bed, my happier mate,
While I, through shoals and rocks, to my storm-sea.”

He staid not, peering, to pick carefully
His passage o'er the stones, huge, but smooth-worn,
That some kind soul, whom Heaven requite again,
Had set them there, instead of a bridge-way,
But rushed into the roaring foaming stream,
E'en thro' its darkest depth. “As I stand now,
No time to tamper nicely with my means,
But boldly on to the end.” He scrambled up,
So minded, as who plunges headlong in,
And must screw on his utmost heart and strength
To struggle thro'. His dripping clothes chilled not,
Nay, but refreshed him; quickly dried with the wind
And his warm blood: e'en ere he reached that door,
Was shut for him last eve; but haply now
May welcome him—such message overnight
Had Hess besought him.

220

He looked round, and all
Was summer-sweetness, fresh as the dawn-dew,
That e'en the smoke seem'd to rise cheerily
Above the glistening thatch: and from their hives
Ranged trimly, southward, the bees, to and fro,
Made merry music. There was jessamine
And mingled roses arbouring the porch;
And in the little garden many flowers
And yet more fruit: glad sight for a glad heart,
But not for his. He turned and raised his hand
Heavily, and knocked heavily on the door,
And he was answered with so heavy a clang
As all were empty and death-cold within,
That his heart sank to hear it: as he knocked,
So did that watchful granddame of the house
Steal from an upper window her shrewd glance,
Wrapt her cloak round, muffled her headgear on,
And straight was hurrying down; but that her son,
Raised by the same alarm, encountered her,
And asked her of that early visitor,
Who he might be. Then at young Hermann's name,
As in shrill peevishness she uttered it,
He stayed her hurry with mild voice and hand,
Himself to give him audience.

“Welcome, Sir,
Most welcome to our house and household too,
Last night I looked for thee—” So said the host,
And his wan guest being seated, thus again:
“You know me, my young friend, you know us all.
You know how our affection holds thee dear,
As the dearest claim of kin: the proof of this
'Tis not words only—our hearts, both alike,
Affirm the faith of it—so much for us—
Now for my daughter—She is maidenly,
Gracious and pitiful, lovely and fair:
And they who see but the outward mood of her
Rate her but so: a low unworthy rate.
I need not tell thee, conscious so thyself;
Whether of my forepattern or God's will,
I may not surely say—but there she is—
A soul so inly glowing for our cause

221

With heat so thoro' and withal so high
As cares for that one thing—nought else in the world,
To see it thro'—and frankly as the child,
So is the father too—vouch me this truth;
For none is so well ware of its as thou:
That I am self-devoted, man and means,
I and all mine, all that I have or hope,
My life and daughter, and everlasting soul,
To this high trial. Now then, in few words:
When I disclosed it to thee awhile since
Thou did'st shrink from it, as it seemed to me;
Or else thy words were of so faint a breath
As fits not our strong fiery fellowship;
Lest what some utter other weaklings feel,
Catching the sick contagion. From that time
The hope I had of thee, fairly to fling
Thy fortunes in among us, was no more:
Therefore when Linsingen outspoke himself
For better or for worse, to be our friend,
If Lucy on that pledge would be his wife;
I made his suit my own—waived thee away—
And all the love I bore thee—all that a sire
Can bear a son, I did surrender it
To another love, yet higher than that one,
The zeal of Christ, my country, and mankind;
And so then faith is plighted on both sides,
And she his helpmate, and he truly ours,
Aye and our leader—for I yielded him,
Nay, not to him but to our need of him,
My headship, hope and all; yielded it up
Freely, as life, when wanted, will I too.
Now if thou'rt wronged in this, why thou art wronged—
And I am the wrongdoer—hold me such—
My conscience quits me, an' if thou condemn:
Only misdeem me not, that selfishness
Or aught unmanly or unworthy swayed me
In this my sacrifice: for 'tis no less:
And what I've done, much gladder would undo,
Since thou art proven of late—having fulfilled
Thy undertaking far beyond thy word:
As lofty minds are wont. It grieves me sore

222

That thus thy merit should fall short of its meed;
Yet can I offer thee no guerdon more
Than thy own conscience hath assured to thee,
Nor no more needs; high-minded as thou art.
Howe'er, 'tis done, and regret looseth not
The bond, that haste, our need, and ill-luck too
Have tied threefold.”

“Sir, 'tis a grievous thing,”
Hermann in faltering utterance answered him:
“To lose what we have cherished earnestly
Is sad in things of lesser dignity:
Much more in this; that once filled my whole heart,
Now waste: 'tis sad, but wrongful—not at all.
No wrongs do I bewail me, nor feel none:
And what must be, I undertake to bear
As a man should: therefore my former love
Is so foregone to me as a fond dream,
Happy, but hopeless, if forgotten e'en so.
But on that other ground, for furtherance
Of Right and Freedom, our fellowship was built:
That ground stands strongly yet, as heretofore,
And there I make my stay. Sir, it may be,
The love by me so cherished, and as I hoped,
Not wholly to your daughter unendeared,
Might well have been a cheering light to me
Along that perilous path, but light or dark,
The path stands open, and I will follow it,
With the like faith if not with the like cheer.
And Sir, that Linsingen hath this new spur
I think it well befallen. He is rich
And noble; and much I feared lest by those two
Dull drawbacks hinderance, he should become
Laggarder in our cause than forwarder.
But now 'tis well. Sir, there's one thing I'd ask:
To see your daughter: and so hear from her
What I have good assurance from your lips,
But yet would fain from hers.”

“'Tis fairly asked,
Wait but her coming.” He went, Hermann alone
Remained—'twas a short time, but wide enough
For thousand wishful thoughts to crowd between

223

Confounded wildly in one; thronging like motes,
Tho' sunless: aimless too. Then all was still
Save the unruly beating of his heart
That broke the stillness—soon another sound
That none might hear save those who listen'd it,
A quick light step, then a soft hand, yet strong,
Upon the door, and gliding thro' the room
A youthful phantom of pale loveliness,
Lovely tho' pale. Thence the more marble-like
Was her stern feature, and thin bloodless lips,
And deep set eyes. She moved as in a dream
For her old love came surging from her heart
And with its deep sorrow enveloped her
As with a cloud. She stood, and had sunk there
Ere she could speak: but Hermann hastily
Uprose, and took her hand and seated her,
In deep heart-anguish drooping speechlessly,
That so she might again gather her mind
From that distress—sadly he gazed on her,
Then broke the sad pause, “Lucy, look on me
And speak, but one word—sure we may be friends.
Such severance hath no likelihood of hate,
But pity—speak to me, and let me hear,
That this dark gulf but sets our friendship apart,
No angry distance. Nay, but weep not so—
Thy grief embitters mine. Oh! answer me—
Only a word—”

“Answer thee! yes, indeed—
But what to say? forgive me—nothing more—
Forgive me now as thou didst love me once,
Wholly—so haply shall my pain be less.
But no—that I deserve not—nor dare hope—
Only forgive me.”

“Lucy, 'tis too much—
Wherefore forgive—no promise and no pledge
E'er bound us, such as broken, had been blame;
Only a dream of hope—no, what thou'st done,
I do commend it for a high-souled deed;
But if thou lovest more the other word,
Then do I tell thee I forgive it all,
Freely as we forgive our dearest friends

224

When seeking our best good. Nay, mark me this—
Had I such hope and earnest, I myself,
I'd done no less. Lucy, I loved thee much—
Truly thou knowest, and no less faithfully
I feel it—yet in patriot eagerness
I had spent a hundred thousand loves like thine
To win but one such man as thou hast gained
On our behalf in lordly Linsingen:
So, prithee, be content.”

“Nay, what thou say'st,”
The maiden answered him with streaming tears,
“It shows thy spirit's greatness greater yet,
And my sad trial sadder than before—
Oh wert thou but my brother! how bless'd then!
How dearly—”

“Lucy, deem it even so:
I am thy brother—we're twin-born in soul,
What would we more? only be thou indeed
My own true sister in this enterprise,
So shalt thou have not only a husband's love
With stately wealth 'bove all I could for thee,
But a brother's also. Yes, and by my faith,
A sister's name is sweeter of the two,
Soother and lovelier—less of earth in it,
And more of heaven. Lucy, 'tis God's grace;
And, for I deem it so, thy forehead I kiss
For a most holy and baptismal sign
That thou art sister'd to me. Ah! 'tis good—
Never was I a brother yet before,
And now I feel the spirit in my heart
Like a winged angel—only do thou too
Hold this heart-faith and cherish it—for now
I leave—a longer stay might not beseem;
Farewell—but yet one word—haply thou knowest
There is a band of soldiers here hard by
In Salzberg—soldiers, but yet men no less:
And not mere stocks for muskets as some are.
There hath been some good seed among those men,
And it hath taken root. Now in that force
Young Edward Linsingen doth hold a charge:
Their standard-bearer—what I know of him,

225

I'd give this right arm he were one of us;
For he's a high-tried metal, might help well
Our hottest work: now Lucy for my sake,
And yours, and Linsingen's, and the good cause,
While yet your husband's love holds its first heat,
Do thou ennoble it, worthy himself,
From passionate to patriot—to stir up
His brother, and work thro' him on those men
To join hands with us, e'en as their hearts are.
Wilt thou do this, the train were fired, the end
Begun—our hope—their downfal. I say, wilt?
For sure the power waits upon thy will:
And never did a woman's will before
Wield a like power to this. Hast thou a soul
Too look beyond thine eyes what shall be done
In after years? Oh thou'll be glorified
So high, that she of Orleans, the French maid,
Shall be but a drab-wench, what she first was,
By thy comparison. Yield us thus much,
I do beseech thee, and so bless us all:
Or rather, yield thine own good spirit its way
'Tis a brave guide.—Then, Lucy, shall I know
What even now I trust thee, that thou'rt true:
And leavest me, not wholly unbeloved,
But for thy country's safe. Oh think of it—
And may the deed—the shot—flash from the thought—
Lest some cross chance marr all. And now I go,
Give me—no, not thy love—thy blessing hence.
Thy own true brother.” He kiss'd her and away,
And she was left in a deep loneliness:
And many thoughts came o'er her cloudily,
Till at the last they fell into this frame:—

Did I behold him
And truly was it he—
All I told him
And all he answered me?

No—for in my blindness
I did him a foul wrong—
Sure such words of kindness
Could ne'er be from his tongue.

226

Ah! thou art parted
Wilt never turn again:
Here, lone-hearted:
Here must I remain.

Were I only
A reckless soldier lad!
But thus lonely!
Better I were mad.

Then were anguish
Lost in stormy strife,
Now I languish
A despairing life.

Oh! it doth grieve me!
Thou visitest me so,
Only to leave me
Deeper in my woe.

While thou art present,
All that we dreamt of yore,
Lovely and pleasant,
I dream it all once more.

Then that home-vision
A very tru h doth seem;
Then my ambition
Shows like a foolish dream.

Yes—its high glimmer
More distant doth appear;
Fainter and dimmer
Whenever thou art near.

There a star lone gleaming
That lights no home on earth:
Here a blaze warm beaming
From our bright household hearth.

Alas! fond hearts are riven
By anger and by scorn:
But so to be forgiven
Is harder to be borne.

227

Yet no—thou'rt vanished—
And my girl-weakness too
Hence be it banished—
Lo! here I rise anew.

Gone is thy loved feature—
But others I see there—
Many a grim stature
All armed around thy chair.

Or, is but a vision
So troubles my poor brain?
No more—this knife—it cuts the knot—decision,
Thus am I thine again!

She cut unmaidenly that silken thread
And rose; and as she rose, her mother came
To comfort her—but what we bear in hand
We may not always lay it on the heart.
No, 'tis the mood within that makes it balm,
Or gall and nettles. Lucy started up,
Hearing the door ahinge; lest some strange soul
In a familiar form should come to ask
Merciless questions in another tone
Than she must answer them. Who feels with us,
He is our friend, father and mother too,
In heart-affliction: and all else soe'er,
Tho' 'twere all kith and kindred met in one,
Are cold as nether clay: yet lovingly
Her mother greeted, and kindly spoke to her:
But 'tis the season brings the flower forth,
The season and conspiring elements,
And not one sun-beam only—

“Lucy, he's gone—
He and thy father parted with kind words:
And they're agreed to meet this day at the fair
In Markstein: so our friendship abides whole:
And faster than before—more than so much
Were all too dangerous. Yes, I grieve for him
Deeply as thou, if not so bitterly:
For he's a goodly youth: nor even then,

228

When most I doubted did I deem him less.
I'll take him to my heart, call him my son,
As long I've loved him—yes, loved him so much,
That 'twere my death, beholding both in one
Both thee and him bound in so crazy a boat
As every wave may wreck it. Ye are all hope
Ye younger hearts, and we as wholly fear:
And 'tis my fearfulness of love speaks now.
But, for this sorrow none could then foreknow,
I did, what yet I may undo. I'll send
To Linsingen—I asked him for this night—
To stay him.” “No, oh no! I'll welcome him
All that I can; only somewhile alone
Leave me, oh, leave me: ere his time to come,
I shall be ready.”

Thus as they discoursed,
Hermann was far away, far o'er the hills
Whither Hope lured, and Danger drove his speed
Hounding him at the heels. As the aged hind
In some wide woodland range, Windsor, or the old
Conqueror's antler'd waste, listens the storm
Shivering in his hut thro' the howling night;
Then forth at break of day glad of his fallen
Fuel for winter fire, gathering in
The wind-strown wrack, and binding to a heap
What he found thinly scatter'd wide away,
Wandering the uncouth wild; so Hermann fared:
Scouring the hills for catchwood far and near
To kindle; and for stout stuff, hearts of oak,
To hold the blaze.

They were as like to burn
As he to fire them; a strong brotherhood,
True Gospellers, so called, and so they were,
Where every man was zealous, not alone
With his own zeal, but with the fervency
Of the whole host. They had been banded long
But wisely: therefore by the lords of the land
They were deemed only what they seemed to be
Preachers austere and godly listeners:
Aiming at Heaven; and for this Earth's estate
How it were ruled, little regarding it,

229

Nor caring to upstir. Thus while they grew
Few watched their growth; none feared it: confidence,
Thou'rt a good striker, but the sword saves not
Without the shield.

And so this brotherhood waxed,
Spreading o'er all the region round about,
Like a fresh fame: that whate'er working-man
Belonged not to them, lived as one plague-sick,
So shunned and evil-eyed. They'd a good cause;
But goodness in this world is likely lost,
As in Missouri's mud the Clearwater.
And so with worldly wisdom's coarser means
They worked to their true ends. No likelier cry
Than of Religion to cry down a State
When rotten: Treason is a fiery sword,
And needs a fiery mood to handle it;
A most enthusiastic eager mood:
And this enthusiasm is a blaze
That feeds on its own smoke—strangely kept up,
If, tho' we starve it of all bodily food,
We diet it with vapours. Who sees clear,
He is no zealot. Light outdoes for him
Those shadowy dim shapes: but where none knows
And each man may believe whate'er he list,
There is the enthusiast the king. Then hail
Religion, nursing-mother of that fire
Shall blaze, like withered tow, our bonds.

Those men
So minded, like stern Cromwell's rugged saints,
Had ever in their mouth the praise of God,
And now war-weapons in their sinewy hands
To execute sharp vengeance: to smite kings
To the ground, and, smitten, bind them fast in chains,
Them and their lordlings too. But, ere they built
Their frame so loftily, they settled first
Their groundwork; broad and deep, tho' without show
In the folk's depth—boldly yet warily
They wrought; with friendly, godly fellowships,
Meetings for furtherance of mind and soul
Thro' teachers, bibles, tracts: covering withal
Far other drift, unsaid, yet understood.

230

Swift stirring, as tho' lightning were life-power
And slackness death to them. So surely it is.
Moorage nor anchorage Rebellion hath none,
Nor haven—must keep course, tide, wind, or steam,
Else stranded. 'Tis the forward throng, the glow,
The shout that draws—not rabble straw and trash
Alone, but worthier wills—the shallowest stream
Quick-glancing, with its wimmer and rash play
Catches the eye more than the deepest pool.
So briskly thro' their body coursed the blood
In many a warm vein; and lest the head
O'erstrained, sicken the heart, and youth, droop faintly
In pale chill learning 'neath the teacher's shade,
Befitting old world-worship and priestwont,
Rather than forward Will; therefore with games
(Meaning much more than gamesomeness alone)
Of force or skill, ball, cudgel, marksmanship,
They strengthened each strong limb and lusty will.
Nor lacked they emissary means, between
The main and its far members, nor discourse
To quicken zeal with words, and shrewdly sift
State things—then songs and music, such as stir
The patriot spirit; earnest newspapers
Whence fame should blow her trumpet blast abroad,
Tidings and teachings, what they breathed in it.
Shadows and seemings these—but oft their show
Works stronger than all substance, shot or steel;
For spirit alone is matter. Tribute too
They had, paid duer, tho' self-taxed, than Law
Can wring from sullen bondsmen—so their life
With thoro' will and conscious fellowship
Glowed warm—one frame, one trust, ordered thro'out,
And organized. Thus strong their sum—the State
Must heed it well, or risk their staggering shock,
And if luck help them, utter overthrow.

Such was the brotherhood, holy at first
Then rebel; but rebellion against man
Is oft loyal to God—and such the hope
And eager meaning of that thronging crowd
Highway and byway toward Markstein fair,

231

A throng but yet no tumult—steady and stern,
E'en as their purpose was: for the fame ran,
A gossamer fame, floating everywhere,
Whence none could tell, that something should be done
That day so signal, and so deeply stamped,
Should overlive the records of yon rocks,
Aye, and the rocks too. The soothsayer's word
Sometimes fulfils itself—the fabled power
With breath to beget body, is none but his.
Faith, if these men, here at the festal fair
Bear them so dourly, how when battle meets
Edge against edge? what then their likelihood?
Such thunder-cloud and lightning never friend
Of mine encounter it.

But, is this land
Harried by war, and the boors hurrying forth,
That so each road is full as a high-tide,
One stream speeding one way? no, not yet war—
But soon may be. 'Tis noon—fairtime and ground—
They meet as did their merry forefathers,
And sure 'tis a full muster—all around
The country is unpeopled, that yon moor
May swarm with a strange life. There are they met
In that soft combe, widening 'twixt rough crag-walls;
And there is all custom traditional,
Caravans, booths, and shows, and antic games,
But no man heeding them. Is mirth clean gone,
Laughter lost from the land? Is eagerness
Of curious presentation and strange sight
Outjostled from Man's mind? 'twere hard to say;
But all things here betoken it e'en so:
For where fair-folks should wonder at his show,
The show-man, all forlorn himself, comes forth,
Wondering what spell kept back the muttering throng
Outside his booth. Whoever then should say
That fun and frolic were dead suddenly,
And gamesomeness frowned down on the boor's brow,
There was enough to warrant what he said,
In what all eyes might see. Considerate groups,
Speakers most earnest, and staid listeners,
Brows downward bent in cloudy seriousness,

232

Instead of careless gay festivity,
As then beseemed them. Is it the world's end,
Or other awful looming prophecy,
They look to see fulfilled—a funeral fair—
Yes sure—with death to many.

Whate'er 'tis,
There is no need conjecture task herself:
Here comes the proof—far on the utmost edge
Of that dark moor, an uproar seethes and swells,
From scouting boys, in fearful skurry wild,
Like some mad shallow torrent foaming in
At corner of a lake—such sudden stir
'Stead of its own deep calm. Who had vantage ground
Looked thither, whence the growing danger came;
And what they saw, interpreted the sight
To those whose tip-toe strained bewilderment
Might not avail to give them their eyes' use.
“Ah! 'tis the yeomanry—yes—sure enough—
See there—and those scared urchins—and men too—
Shame on the runaways. Why against us
Those few score loons are spray against the rock:
Ah, look—they've made a stand—'tis manly done.
Face but about and keep the horsemen off—
Aye—so—they're stopp'd outright—can do no more
Than sheep at a stone-wall—but now—what next—
Why, they're at parley. Ah! 'tis but lost words—
Likely would have our rebel ringleaders
Giv'n o'er to them—to die, I warrant ye.
No, as one fares, so will we all—like work,
Like wage—no odds in fellowship.”

So spake
Some high outlooker to the throng around,
But suddenly, speakers and hearers, both
Confounded, were borne off by the eager rush
Thither upstreaming, where, as seemed most like
Blows should be bandied—rabble-like along,
Coward and bold, in outward drift alike,
For how should a poor water-drop fall back
Against the ocean tide? So the foremost
Where hustled blindly by their followers
'Mong the angry horsemen, struggling helplessly

233

As scattered wreck 'mid rocks. Such strife is cloud-
Born, who begat it, who knows? nor matters much,
When once two flaming brands are laid across
Which catches first the other. Those armed men,
Their ranks so broken, and their horses scared;
First loudly threatening, next with flat swords,
Or with blunt stroke thrust the intruder back:
Thence anger and fierce words, stones flung, arms raised;
'Til last, as gushed the blood forth from a wound
Of yeoman sabre, swift upon the stroke
As thunder upon lightning, a gun-shot
Crashed through the striker's forehead.

“Aye, tis done—
Now is no faltering for us,” cried Ernst,
Bellowing o'er the uproar—“blood for blood,
And life for life—so will their watchword be,
And so must ours. Smite them with the sword's edge
The Philistines, the bloody Amalekites,
Whom whoso spares to slay, sins against God.
The murderous gang, they come to trample us
Beneath their horses' heels, widow our wives—
Well then—our life 'gainst theirs. Yon crag henceforth—
The blood-rock shall men call it. Up, friends up,
Requite them in God's name. Spare no soul home
To tell his comrades slain; smite, I say, smite—
Upon them boldly, as ye see me do,
E'en so yourselves the like.” Ere he had said,
He was already 'mong his foes amidst
Hewing to right and left with an old broadsword,
Laid up since many years: till, on this day,
The crimson flowing blood dimmed the red rust
Was erst upon it. From so grim onslaught
Fearfully they fell back, those yeomanry,
From danger glaring on them, as cur-dogs
When a tiger bursts his den: so did they flee
Not so to 'scape: they looked for stones and staves
Clownish, all weaponless of other war,
Which they who wield them against steel and shot
Are but sheep against wolves—for such they looked,
And what they saw, needed no second sight,
That one sufficed to curdle their hearts' blood.

234

“Woe, woe, we thought no danger, and here we are
Far from our wives and from our merry hearths
In such a whirl of hell.” Those wrathful men
Were in with them, as hewers among wood,
Striking as pitiless—flashed in the air
A hundred guns from 'neath the gray frieze coats
And hissed a hundred shots—yet faintly heard
Amid the cursed uproar and fierce shouts
Drowning all else: then, who had space to flee
Turned each his horse, and with loose rein away
Where outlet was. The rest a wildered throng,
Horses and men, rearing, plunging amain,
Striking or shouting, or dashing down aground;
And there beseeching with their latest breath
Mercy, which asked of God, were their last prayer
Best spent, of Man all hopeless. Oh, that field,
Was such a one devils might look upon
And for their fellows take a lesson away
From Christian proof, of hate fiercer than Hell.
Only there lacked more fuel for that fire
To hold its pitch. Blood-thirstiness was blanked
Ere slaked with slaughter. For the latest feat,
When all resistance else was smitten down,
Christopher Ernst, as 'gainst a dying man
Stretched on the turf aback, he upheaved his sword,
Raging for blood in its hot sympathy
With the hand that held it, sudden his stroke failed.
And his brains, spatter'd by a pistol shot
Sprinkled that trooper; whom the film of death
Had not bedimmed his certainty of eye,
Ere he took aim. “And so doth wrath, o'erstrained,”
Said Hermann, gazing sadly on the corse,
“Foredo itself. And where is thy fire now,
Thou chilly lump of clay? oh, where indeed?
Grant Heaven, as sure it hath gone forth from thee,
And this thy hand is cold, we may be heirs
To what was best of it—thou had'st enough
Were we ten times the number that we are,
To blaze us like dry stubble—but needs not.
Thou'st done thy work already.”

Musing thus,

235

More and more hotly the crowd thronged on him;
Doubting the bloody deeds they heard far off,
Till they could see it. “Hear me, my good friends,”
Said Linsingen, as riot wilder grew,
“Here we have beat them off, and hope no less
Whereso or when, hereafter meeting them:
But not by this road only danger comes,
Our foes are hasting hither, horse and foot,
Wide as from East to West: therefore behoves
Wariness, watchful afar; so every man
Homeward; to tell these tidings and to hear
Others: if aught of threatening likelihood,
Bring it back hither; waiting, until then,
What may befal, with outlook ready at once
If e'er the beacon blaze.”

They listened him
Intent, as wisdom were in all his words,
Then with one cheerful shout went several ways
To do his bidding. He and the other heads
With the main band of thoro' stalwart trust
Having so rid the rabble off from them,
Tarried for trial—doubtful what next should—
Doubtful yet undismayed; and whisted each,
Till others: for that dark stern danger stopp'd
The breath of babblers—then, as all there seemed
To listen than to speak, the old Harper broke
Blindly upon their silence in this strain:—

“My friends, a marvel hath been done,
And ye stand wondering every one,
And reason good ye have therefore
For your clenched hands are grimed with gore:
And shrieks and shouts, and rage and fear
Ring yet within each wilder'd ear:
And so ye stand all silently,
But I must lift my voice on high:
Tho' I have seen strange things likewise,
E'en with these dead and darkling eyes.—
Ye know—I'm blind these many years,
Ye see me in a flood of tears—
That flood—'twas that—brought back my sight,

236

To see one moment of God's might.
Blind as I am, I witnessed all
The shout and onset—flight and fall.
And Ernst and others on our side,
Who dared their death, and fought, and died,
I marked their souls mount up on high
In a strange glory to the sky:
And my dear friends, ye know it well—
Ye felt some sudden spirit's swell
Driving ye thither, wild with zeal
'Gainst death and danger, fire and steel.
Ye knew not what that drift might be,
But it was all revealed to me.
The spirits of your sires were there
Careering 'bove you in the air,
And swelling every patriot breast
Like sails with sweeping winds possess'd:
Waving their country's banner true
And brandishing old arms anew.
A radiant comfort to all here,
But to the foeman a wild fear:
And with the battle's fiercer blaze
Still they grew brighter to my gaze,
Till in one light'ning flash at last
With victory's shout away they past.
My friends, as God hath given me,
E'en so the truth I tell to ye—
For I am old and like to die,
Fiend have me if it be a lie—
Nor is it drink as scoffers say;
No drop hath warmed this heart to-day.
Sure then by such a sign 'tis shown
That God himself is all our own.
E'en the blest spirits for us fight,
How should we falter? on forthright—
Yes—in that Faith go boldly on—
But till your utmost work be done,
I charge ye, by the living Lord,
Lay ye not down your conquering sword.”

“Well done thou brave old man—aye—bravely done—”
Thus the hot blood of Linsingen spake forth.

237

“Why this thy spirit lacks but a young arm,
Then were it worth a thousand men to us
To swell our strength.”

“Nay, but there's more in it,”
Thus Hermann—“be ye sure there's more than seems.
For that heart-glow how could it in that husk
Without God's grace? No—'tis Heaven speaks in him,
No less I hold it.” Then said Linsingen,
“Then will we follow it. What think ye, Sirs?
There lies Count Stolberg, stark and stiff, the corse
Of this right hand; 'stead of his fiery threat
Like whirlwind dust to drive us—there he lies;
And there his castle stands! stately and strong
As he while'er the living lord of it—
What think ye? for the goodwill he hath shown
Were it not meet to give him back as good,
And storm his house—poor body he's but clay.
And whatsoe'er we do it harms him not—
For how? look there upon him—and, for his sons,
Their heritage is fallen ere its time
By many years—and we who've hastened it,
If we withhold it from them, 'twere no wrong.
What say ye, shall we to the assault?” “'Twere bold,”
Said Hermann, “a bold stroke—but better so—
For the rebel's strength is sheer audacity.
We're lost already, if we gain not all.
Then why outwait the tide? if we would hope
First we must dare. Then on, thou mighty man
Of valour, whom the lord is leagued with thee—
Lead us, we'll follow.” “And, so Linsingen,
Defence is a cold word; I like it not.
And see in its cold spirit we stand now
Chilling our flush of warmth: but to attack—
That breathes a hot defiance—blows its own
Sparks to wild-fire. Oh, in the sharp onslaught
There is a will and glowing energy
That twice its numbers may not stand against.
Must overthrow them—sure as these dead heaps;
And so we will. Movement is warmth, and swift
Is strong—turns this dull stone to a cannon ball.
Then forward, forward, bold and lion-like

238

To meet our danger and to grapple it:
Sure we were better so than hunted out
And skulk our doom, hare-hearted—say, are ye such,
To die so slavish? No, brave, friends we'll on,
So will Opinion after us—whose breath
Must fill our banners, idle tho' it be,
Drooping without it.” As he spoke, so all
Shouted their loud accord—look to thyself
Thou ancient Castle, for if manly hearts
And sinewy arms have aught of potency,
There is so much of spirit in that shout,
Bodes thee no good: look to thy strength, I say,
That it be sure; for truly, they who come
Will prove its surety with a most sharp proof.

239

BOOK XI.

Earnestness, thou art Man's true nobleness:
I know not whence begotten, nor how born;
But thou'rt of glowing blood—doughty and dour;
God-like, if aught so be, that to Man belongs.
Worthier of worship than the Persian's fire,
For thou'rt the fire of the soul—or, if thou wilt,
Soul of the fire, kindled high up in Heaven,
That quickens clay to manhood. Yet, in the times
When every knave that would set up a god
And built a temple and called himself the priest,
And took fat gifts, when many of no worth
Were reckon'd worshipful, thou wert ne'er one.
No altar raised, nor incense burned to thee.
For truly, lofty and godly tho' thou art,
Yet the priests love thee not—as guessing well
Thou wert too true and righteous to love them:
Who dost deny to give them what they ask
Due to God only—self-surrendering Faith:
Nay—but rather its show—needs them no more—
True Faith to Fraud were irksome, importunate;
As sound cloth patched on rotten—hateful as light
To darkness—fearful as the forger is
'Mong many false to utter one true coin.
Such fellowship befriends not, but betrays.
Therefore they love not earnest searching Faith,
But its blind counterfeit: priestly belief,
A film darkening the soul, as scum the lake;
Bedulling life; stagnating ever there
Between the lively tide and Heaven's light:
Severing the two; and barring God free grace

240

From Man, tho' it professeth and should be
The atoning reconciler between both.
So, o'er the soul broods priestcraft, deadening
Man's wholesome will, and quickening instead
The swarm of childish fond conceits, on fear
By darkness, slim-begotten. Priestliness
For godliness—this scum our Gospellers
Would clear; and show Faith's surface, that the sky
May shed its own unsullied light on it.
But no—priestcraft is better interposed—
(So the priests say, and so many believe,
For mostly they're good, holy men, and do
Good work, tho' sometimes by ill means untrue),
To bate that lustre; to o'ercloud the clear
Sun, lest it dazzle with excess of light.
Such their kind forethought for our weak babe-eyes:
And therein worldlings, who hate earnestness,
Love priestcraft; crouching in blind cowardice,
Self-knowing, self-distrusting—would forego
All manly choice and conscience, duty and right,
So, slave-like, skulking to shirk Manhood's trust
Of Freedom, and the Will's responsible work.
Such ghostly sires, such earthly sons. Oh come
Some one who dares be true, clear the fat scum
From its surface rule, disauthorize the craft,
And free us all to godly Faith: aye, come,
Whoe'er thou art, and be that burning sign
Which they shall conquer in it, who follow it:
Some Thrasybulus, bold yet wary, a wise
Head, with warm heart and stalwart hand; self-sure
In his self-strength: so watching eagle-like
From Phyle's height, to smite down slavery.
But be thyself, earnestness, be thyself.
Thou—who dost bear Faith's stamp—Manhood's own seal,
Nay, soul—but Manhood—what is that but Will?
And Patriot Will is now but feverish heat
Fitful, self-smouldering in its own smoke.
Come then, be thou the spirit and soul of it,
A fiery spirit, a most eager soul.
Scattering doubt and fear, as darkness flees
Before the high-raised torch: Men look for thee

241

Now, this long time: and when, tho' late, thou com'st,
So eagerly they'll greet thee, thronging up,
As from Hell Heavenward. Only know thyself,
How strong thou art, how weak thy enemies:
The people in all lands how sworn to thee,
To end what thou beginn'st: then do but thou
Pitch thy call loud enough, they'll answer thee
With such full force, so like an ocean flood,
As all resistance must be whelmed in it,
Nor heart nor hand no more. Yes, Earnestness,
Be but thyself, and feel, and prove thyself,
Thou thorough searching fire, tho' but in one
Spark of thy pure and pristine quality,
That were enough—for the rank luxuriance
The o'erweening umbrage of that feudal old
Forest, that cumbers Earth with a few tall trees,
Stately but few; that so o'ershade the ground
With baneful growth, that myriads of more worth
Sicken beneath their shade, and only weeds,
Brambles and vapours live on loathsomely;
That rank luxuriance and those tall trees
Are doated unto tinder; rotten at heart;
And there's a strong wind blows, and stronger yet
Threatens its blast, and that first spark of thine
Where it shall catch, there shall be such a blaze
As Earth hath never seen, no, nor e'er shall,
Till it be caught itself in the fire-clutch
Of some wild comet. Then shall fruitfulness
Grow from the ashes of that old rank growth
And righteousness award the harvestage
For happiness. And can'st thou see such things
Thou daring champion, and not grasp thy sword
To conquer them? but ah! liv'st thou indeed
Or only some faint flickering shade of thee,
Mocking thy manly life? I fear thee much
That thou'rt thyself no more. Oh for one hour
Of the olden time, when patriots wielded swords,
And virtue then meant manhood: now 'tis words,
Words all, and nought but words. Curse on the breath
That doth compose them; its heat is sickening,
And spreads its faintness over the whole world.

242

Clouds without rain, and winds whirling but dust.
Therefore ye slaves who would fain brag yourselves
So loudly into men, be still—and ye
Tyrants, henceforth outtyranize yourselves,
And gag men's tongues: what now we utter in words,
Then were we all the likelier in deeds:
For Silence is a dark but quickening womb
Wherein great thoughts grow to life-truths, and hopes
To harvest home: forth in full shape they come
At their full hour; while speech had scattered them
In its most busy silly impertinence
Abortive ere their time. But, Earnestness,
Thine is the strong hand, not the babbler's tongue:
Therefore thou talkest not, but at the time
Strikest full sore—God speed thee and thy stroke,
That both may thrive—if not, small harm to thee.
Thou'rt strong, and in thy strength can'st outbide more
Than others can inflict.

The sun was low
While yet that conflict raged on Markstein Moor,
And many when outfought, deemed it enough
Of death and of destruction for that day:
And fain had sheathed their swords, and rested there
'Till morrow: but 'tis swiftness, ever on,
Dazzles the foe with changeful alacrity;
And catching many points, now here, now there,
Kindles abroad the outbreak, sinking else,
If not astir; must snatch success from the blaze—
Swiftsure alone is lucky—that bold truth,
They wrought out boldly, those rebellious men,
Mindful that whoso from Law's bulwark stirs
One stone, is guilty—would he cancel his guilt,
Must break right thro'—sternly—a full clear breach,
Outright, victorious—palterers are self-doomed—
Who dares the most rues least. Thoro' wins tho'.
For rebel craft can never square itself
Level to Law—must raise Rebellion o'er Law's
Level.

Ere that first field was fought, the sun
Sloped westward, and with the evening star-gleam
The Stolberg garrison 'scaped from the moor

243

To the strong shelter of their castle walls,
Had looked their latest on both sun and star,
And died a bloody death. 'Twas an old pile,
Fortress and mansion, answering either call
As need might be: tower and battlement,
Drawbridge and moat—such strength as had kept out
The sudden robber in marauding times:
But now, since centuries with their deep calm
Had stilled suspicion to security,
It lay like an armed warrior in repose:
Armed else in thoro' proof from head to foot
Only his gorget off. Surely he breathes
More freely so in such loose luxury;
But surely too in that unguardedness
His throat lies open to the thrust of sword,
Fooling all other trust of his defence
By that one gap. There was the deep dark moat,
Must drown all fording foes, stifled in mud,
Ere stroke of onset—only it was dry.
A traitorous drought; for there the attack made way,
Wolf-like, bursting in wildly, every side—
No other order but their disarray,
No forecast save a twinkling to draw breath,
For one fierce shout hurling defiance forth,
And then fall on—truly, a grim onslaught,
And grimly the defence encounter'd it.
For those within—that was their life's last hold—
And well they knew it. Mercy was far off—
Far as Hope from Despair: for there was due
A forfeiture to death: bound for their lives,
And they or else their foes to quit the bond—
Therefore 'twas sternly fought.

At the first brunt
While those without answered but with their shouts
And heavy strokes the death-shot from within;
Doors were burst thro' and the barr'd windows stay
Out-stormed by dint of axe. Entrance is clear.
Victory won—Oh, where is Mercy now?
Alas! what should she here, or how prevail
O'er the fell spirit of the conqueror,
When e'en the vanquished call her not to come

244

But die despairingly. So ever on
Slaughter hunted her game from room to room
From stair to stair: before her shrieks and groans,
Blood and corse-heaps behind. Ever she smote
And smiting never slacked while any stood
Against her sword: then on the last man's groan
Upheaved in gushing blood, came a short hush;
A stillness all the deeper and deadlier,
For the wild uproar that foreclamour'd it.
Then many went about, muttering low,
With teeth hard set, and swords strainingly clenched,
Whom next to slay: and finding no live soul,
Must hack the dead, savage and butcherly
For lack of other vengeance: for bloodthirst
Is so assuaged by lavish draughts of it
As fire by profuse oil.

Well was it then,
Women and children were all fled that hold,
None left but weapon'd men: for anger once
Kindled, is stirred by the fiend, fiercer to blaze
The more 'tis fed: 'scaping the thought of the past
By raging on; knowing nor practising
No readier means to efface a few blood-drops
But to ensanguine all—bathing its hand
In reeking slaughter thoro'ly embrued
Lest white and red should know distinction,
For one to accuse the other. Cruelty
Thou'rt ever bitter, but then bitterest
When self-called Conscience.

In that home Death swayed
And dumb awe followed, staring haggardly;
But soon was jostled away—for energy
Breathes only in the stirring atmosphere
Where it was born: and recklessness loves not
That its fierce trouble should subside in calm.
Lest so its conscience become clear, its drift
From turbulent declared transpicuous
With guilt at bottom: therefore those stern men,
Their bloody excitement o'er, some other needs
To drive them on: such other was at hand.
For in that hall sulphurous and carcase strown,

245

A feast was spread, viands in plenteous show.
Wine, and what else is of more potency
To fire the blood—strong comfort of faint hearts:
And bold ones too. “Ho! there!” cried Linsingen,
“There's a home-friend shall chase the phantom-mists
That spring from spilth of blood; clearing our brains
Of ugly bugbear shows, cleansing our throats
From the rank gory smack that sticks to them.
Fill up, drink out.”

Sudden they did beset
Those high-piled tables; and drank, shouted, and laughed,
Bemocking in mad glamour those dead men
For drunken mates. All save some nine or ten
Who took but bread and water, scantly too,
In token of cool blood and conscience true;
Feverless, passionless: a holy calm
After a holy deed. So fared those few.
But for the multitude, soon as the blaze
Of their high-flaring spirit had burnt off,
Then earnest conference came, and hubbub wild,
And loud debated strife: some to stay there,
Others, rash onward. Long ere their rough wills
Clashing together, fell into one frame
Of seemly even fitness: long it was,
But so at last: dissonance lower'd its din,
Confusion grew to calm. Then one stood forth,
The shepherd, manly and free as his lone life,
For loneliness begets free manliness,
And to the heads of the assembly thus:
“Sirs, I bespeak your hearing, on behalf
Of these hardhanded fighters, standing here,
And by their bidding—sturdy men—strong erst
At work, and now in war, as their foes proved,
Who live not to give witness of their proof.
But stronger than we are, henceforth we must
To hold our winning hope: marry, the need
Is easy shown, but how to answer it,
There is the stress. Well, Sir, we commoners
Have undertaken to be counsellors
This once, and but thus far—only to say
What best we know, and you may best avail.

246

Sir, we have many sidesmen waiting us
Ashore and inland: miners brooking ill
Their hard bread taxed yet harder; smugglers, too,
Who had as lief blow out the exciseman's brains
As pay his due—no lovers of the Law,
Rather of those who live most lawlessly;
Now, Sir, needs but a breath, a beckoning hand
To stir them up: and for their reckless lives,
Tho' for that cause we now stand off from them,
Yet, Sir, methinks, if stones must needs be thrown,
It were no wise man's way to reject those
Fittest of all and readiest to the hand,
For a little dirt that may chance cleave to them;
Rather beware the rich; Law is not right
Always, nor they worst men who gainsay its wrong,
Tho' hence they bear its brand. Lord £ s. d.
Is a sneaking skulking coward. Such Christ's word,
That wealth is worldliness; But, Sirs, these men—
Linsingen, so we all think, were likeliest
To go among them. 'Tis but to light up
A blaze upon some headland, at dead night,
By scores and hundreds they'll come thronging in.
And once together, what they know of him,
They'll follow him be sure thro' fire itself
To the last upshot. We, if it seem good,
Will look, meanwhile, to Hermann for our head
With no less trust.”

Silence ensued this speech
Boldly delivered, but heard doubtfully,
For Linsingen, to whom it most belonged,
Lent it no willing ear; but with knit brow
And compress'd lips, first scanned the speaker, as pride
Forbids presumption, listening scornfully,
Then looked around for other's utterance
Rather than give his own. They whisted awhile,
For answer deigned he none, by word or show;
Till after parley 'mong the leaders there,
As with much urgency they counselled him,
At last he spoke:—“My friends, were all things else
Belonging to this sudden unasked advice,
Praiseworthy as the will that prompted it,

247

Then well—but 'tis not always the best will
Gives the best warrant. Other duty is mine
Than to trudge round the country. For this need
If such it be, I'll meet it as behoves;
But what ye've given me of authority
As I alone must answer it abused,
So would I hold its use in my own hands,
Wholly—more said were o'ermuch—rule I must,
But not give reasons.” He spoke moodily,
As one much roiled; but while his speech yet filled
His hearer's ears, Hermann rose hastily
'Gainst discord.

“Brethren, I beseech ye, as so
Named, be so found—but what is brotherhood
Aloof from unity? while we are one
So are we stronger than our muster seems,
But severed once, then are we powerless
As were these limbs of mine, torn from their trunk
By bloody violence. Why, my dear friends,
Why was it that we chose us freely a head,
But for his counsel to be ruled by it?
That he might frame and we fulfil the work,
Following him wherever, hope or none.
Then why more words? rather abide on our choice,
Encroach not upon rule. No—for if trust
Be once fly-blown with busy surmises
It turns to a maggot-heap of jealousies,
Feeding upon the substance of their cause
Till utterly consumed. Beware we lest—
But no—the thought—e'en thus I scatter it—
Then be content as I most truly am,
To follow, not to lead: else are we lost.
But for this end to raise those miners up,
I know the men, their likings, ways, and means,
And if it please our noble leader here,
The peril and the hope of the enterprise
I claim it—I, even I. Ye see me here,
And if I have permission, and life hold,
To-morrow's sun shall see me all as sure
On the coast—a dangerous coast—as ye all know.
And those our enemies here upon land

248

Shall rue its dangerous men as fearfully
As ever the seafarer rued its rocks.
Sir, if you think to send such mission forth,
I beg the trust of it—staking my life
For my reward.”

Thus Hermann, and all there,
Stood silent, wondering at his height of soul;
Wonder past utterance—no shout, no word,
But only a still gaze. Then Linsingen,
As quickened by some sharp spur, started up
With warm heart-flush. “Brethren, I give him leave—
Since he gives me—and when he parts from us,
There parts a man, who, if he turn not back,
Our hope were lost in his blank. Go, in God's name,
Thou best and bravest! and, for I care not,
To outlive the chance, may cost thy dearer life,
Lagging behind when thou art in the van
Of peril, therefore, for my share, I choose
An undertaking all as fearful as thine.
No matter what—for why? if it end well—
If not, I say again, no matter still:
For in its failure must we all fail too,
Fortune and life: and this young hope of ours
Suddenly from the brightness it now is,
Shall darken over yet more dismally.
And we must struggle in Death's yawning jaws
Until he close them o'er us. So, if we fail,—
Fail, my dear friends! but be it so—what then?
Why, we shall ne'er live to be ware of it,
We, who are well determined to die first.
And so, my gallant Hermann, let's shake hands:
For there's a spiteful something in sword and shot,
May stiffen them to shake no more again.
But who soars high o'ertops low ambushes,
And thou'rt a towering spirit. Well, I too
Will rise my loftiest—shall ne'er feel my fall,
If Fortune strike me down. Then, if thou must
Go, and God speed thee. Give him all your prayers,
My trusty fellows—for if ye were saints,
And they were blessings every one of them,
He were well worth them all.”

249

Hermann went forth
'Mid earnest feeling of the brotherhood:
Much fear, slight hope—they were so summed in him.
They fell upon his bosom, sore distressed
For what he must encounter. There they stayed
With meat and strong drink comforting the flesh,
The groaning spirit with prayer: and thence he sped,
Having none other comfort but heart's Faith,
Nor needing more. Straight on to the sea-shore.
No difference of brook, mountain or bog,
Valley or level: straight as the sea-fowl
From the howling North, of winter forebewarned
Ere it besiege the icegirt Orcades,
Wing thence their airy wedge. So straight he sped;
So questionless. Night had opposed herself,
One dark immensity, barring his sight;
Therefore his early wont to guide his way
Was his only load-star. So he struggled on
Forlorn, yet hopeful, thro' his thoughts within,
All else a blot: conning dark counsel, how best
To speed the cause. 'Tis fearful so to fare,
Unhomed, unmated, and of outward ken
Helpless as the unborn babe: but doom itself
Stoops to the downright will; and Hermann so
Right forward from his outset reached his end
In manhood true—to the house of Zimmermann—
A host he liked not, but must sue to him
For the cause sake.

To the high spirit of Faith
The scorner's sneer is like the serpent's tooth,
Not hateful only, but of curdling chill
To his warm glow: such scorner was that man,
And Hermann was such warm enthusiast.
Only not warm alone, but high and deep,
And streaming forward strongly: therefore scorn
Was carried down the tide it would fain thwart,
Flushed by its faithful sway. From chill and fog
To a warm homestead is a welcome shift,
If the guest be welcome too. He greeted his host,
And found all things set forth neatly and trim,
An easy plenteous household: “the world's weal

250

Is far too wide; fulfil it I ne'er can:
Better, so thought that patriot good man—
First try a tinier thrift in my own snug home;
And for the rest, wishes and words must serve
Till I've done here.” 'Twas shrewdly meant; more shrewd
Than manly; and yet, in faith, I blame him not:
Much less commend him. Only this be sure—
Mammon is evermore his muck-worm self;
No rebel: something traitorous perhaps,
But yet no rebel: and Milton erred, for once,
That when the angel host fell off from Heaven
He shared their fall. Oh no! for how should he leave
His bags? how take them? Of late Zimmermann
Had chewed the danger he had helped prepare,
And ever as he chewed, that danger grew
Bitterer to his taste. E'en then, that night
As he sat musingly among his books
In chair of ease, and cheerful circumstance,
The oak-embers on his right, on his left hand
A full rich glass, steaming most fragrantly:
And he the while poring upon a hope
Late proffer'd him, so to pass questionless
Of old accounts, proving new loyalty.
“Is ought so hateful in such life as this
That I must leave it? aye, leave such a one
For such another as I must take for it?
Such stormy wild bloody unlikelihood.
Why, I were wiser to go naked forth
From this home-nook to the bleak howling moor,
And pray the stars to warm me: and if they should
It were no great wonder then that one
We fools do hope for.” Oh! 'tis reasoned well,
World-wisely too: and when, good Zimmermann,
Thou didst profess thyself a patriot,
Doubtless thou did'st but look for a lap-dog life
By the fire-side; and they do wrong thee in most
Unrighteous rigour, who ask ought else of thee,
But just to be such a warm patriot
As now thou art.

Hermann so came on him,
Cross-mooded thus: greeted him, and sat down;

251

Told him the tale of all, from the shepherd's hut
E'en to this hour: flashed forth the war again
In fiery words; with brighter likelihood
Than any else could see—so bright and warm,
As Hope had only to stretch forth her hand,
And no such thing as Fear. Zimmermann heard,
And as he heard, his wont of worldliness
Was lost well nigh in feeling wonderment,
While faintly glowed his face from its shrewd smile:
And that same wonderment had been full faith,
Had his white head been browner a few years.
But the old are but the cinders of the young,
And ever they take fire, they hold it not,
But straight are cold again—so was that man.
He answered not, but looked upon the lad
As elders look on the rash thing they love
Doomed to perdition: kindly he took his hand,
And paused—a feeling pause—and spoke to him—
“Yes, truly—fair they are, tho' fruitless quite,
The flowers thou hast shown me, and time was
I might have cherished them fondly as thou:
But now, grey as I'm grown, I know too much:
Who flies so high seldom ends happily.
But thou'rt a Poet—Heaven grant thou rue it not.
And now, a moment's leave, I will say more
When I return to thee,” he said, and rose,
And parted. Hermann leant o'er the bright hearth,
Watching its changeful embers; but much more
Brooding o'er those late words: till thoughtful life
Grew from their germ.

Poet! oh no, that name
Hath more of honour than I dare to claim.
For how should Poesy, that high princess,
Ally herself to my poor lowliness?
No—I never sued to her
Save as a lone worshipper:
Then why, thou foolish man, oh, tell me why,
Confound the virgin with her votary?
Poet! thou nam'st the name,
But where is he
Can claim to be

252

That same.
Not the faint Rhymester who but wrongs
Manhood and speech by silly songs.
But the Seer, who strikes aglow
From his high soul the world below.
For he doth gather many a ray
Of vital Truth else perishing astray,
Within his mighty centring mind to glower
And thence glow forth in lightning power—
Poet—maker—so before
Was the God we all adore.
But on earth is no such one—
A stray spark is not a sun—
Never was—but yet may be—
Only show him unto me—
I'll worship him with bended knee.
Yes—for the haughtiest might well bow down
To him, whom all the glittering stuff
That the world calls its wealth, were not enough
To purchase him his crown.
Such crown of glory, as 'twere meet
Our lowliness should lay it at his feet
And so arise
From that deep reverence, devoutly wise.
But no—Man's happiest frame
Were all too coarse to hold that holy flame.

Nay—Poet—I am none—
Hallow that name—for 'tis a holy one.
So I were that, I would be all beside
All scorn soe'er that mortifies Man's pride—
Blind and beggar'd, crippled, maimed,
Naked and yet not ashamed.
I would leave all else behind,
And go forward with my mind.
For say, doth the lone star lament
Because it hath no store
Of gold or silver ore?
Oh no, it is content
To shed its soul in light,
Tho' nations heed it not, to wake from their dull night.

253

For there is one
That heedeth all, whate'er is done;
And hath delight
In all things true, and high, and bright:
The truer, and the brighter, and the higher
The nearer him—the liker to the Sire.

A Poet—nay, but the
Poet that one must be.
For thousands have put forth the claim,
Hundreds have been called the name!
Souls that from their inward glow
Sparks of Poet-life would throw.
And of these some nine or ten,
Work with some slight power on men.
But that full power belonged but to the one—
The sire gave it to the son.
Made him the maker—Poet true—
To kindle Manhood thro' and thro'
Thrilled with his conspiring faith—
Now needs a new creative breath:
That faith to realize in deed—
Thou Poet-doer—thine is the great work and meed.

Would I were he—for how soon then
Were my name made a marvel among men!
Yes—I would dedicate that fire
To purify this world of mire,
Thrilling atoms from their strife
With electric glow of life—
A fire so searching, it should find
Its way thro' the whole mass of Mind:
Kindling it so
Into an universal loving glow
That man should live in his own light,
And see, and know, and rule himself aright.

The glorious sun, that swayed alone,
While yet creation was a child,
Is sovereign still upon his throne
Undimmed, undarkened, undefiled.

254

They watch and wheel, those mighty spheres,
Still rushing round him at his will,
Thro' boundless space, and countless years,
And he doth list their music still.

And ever, onward as they roll,
He cheers them with his quickening ray—
Yes, they, the things without a soul
Their darkness is redeemed to day.

But the spirit's realm of night,
Where's the sun should give it light?
Where the spheres should circle round,
When shall their sweet music sound?
When shall rise the mighty one
To frame this world in unison?
Law and Freedom to atone
Thro' his sway in Love alone:
While around his radiant State,
All beside shall watch and wait.
Boldly arise
And brightly shine!
So shall the prize
Be surely thine:
Thou, our young creation's sire,
Gifted with that thoro' fire.
Other lights shall then be dim,
Other wills shall wait on him,
Other voices shall be mute,
Other kings shall do him suit.
But be whate'er he will
That godly one must be a Poet still:
Poet in his soul and heart
Tho' he scorn the Rhymester's art,
Tho' his eyes did never look
On the letters of a book;
His ears hearken, nor his tongue
Utter such as bards have sung.
Nor his fingers hold a pen—
A Poet must he be, that monarch among men,
With a spirit and an eye

255

Beholding all things from on high,
So in unity of soul
Worldly fractions to make whole;
Framing them to Truth anew,
From his type of Godhead true.
Not slumping in the downcast drudge's tramp,
Nor watching coldly Theory's pale star-lamp,
So blind and lame were helpless, each of each;
But blending Will and Work, as Truth doth teach,
From faithful Love, his genial Poet-sun,
He doth Man's duty, and rejoiceth when 'tis done.
He hath never walked among
The turmoiling silly throng,
Galling each his neighbour's heel,
Seeing nought but what they feel:
He ne'er wallowed with the press
In the mire of worldliness:
Never shrank from danger yet,
Never feared his fellow's threat:
Be it lord or be it king,
Scornful of each selfish thing,
One scope, and one alone, he deigns to scan
The Church of Christ, the commonwealth of Man.
Oh! well were such a mind
Worthy to sway Mankind,
If only they again
Were worthy subjects of such sovereign.
Alas! 'tis there
Hope darkens to Despair!
Tho' skilled the potter, and tho' clear the flame,
Yet, if the clay be coarse, the vessel is the same.
Strange as the music of the spheres
To clownish dulness of our ears,
Is that which the soul pours along
On the Poet's tide of song.
Hearts and ears are dead alike—
What new string were best to strike?
Oh, that art again were wild,
Oh that Man were now a child,
All enravelment undone,
Then were Hope, where now is none:

256

No, must fuse the bulk again
Else our toil is all in vain.
Melt each stubborn custom down,
Sword and mitre, seal and crown:
Till the mingled masses run
Altogether into one.
Till the dross be cleared away
From its deadening surface sway.

And what tho' his high hope
Should sink in darkness ere she reach her scope?
What tho' the upper air
Be all too thin his essence to upbear?
Then must he fall—
But shall he fail?
And all that he hath done, is all
Of no avail?
Oh believe not what they say:
Truth will live and find her way.
Thousand times hath she been cross'd;
Often miss'd, but never lost.
Yes, in her travail she may droop awhile,
But swift shall be her joy:
And sweetly shall she smile
Upon her new-born boy—
For that same Saviour must be born again—
And Christ revisit earth, thence evermore to reign.

“Beshrew me,” said the host, entering then,
And gazing full on his guest's countenance,
“If I would fit Rebellion with a head
For this mad outbreak, head and heart of it,
Thou art the man—for thou hast fire in thee
To catch men's souls: thine eye glows as 'twould set
The world aflame: and when thou hast done that,
And made a hell of what was earth before,
That will be then thy heaven: but hold—read this—
'Tis from thy father; sage and scrupulous,
E'en as the man himself. That fire of thine
Prithee, whence hast thou it! Sure not from him.
That talk is liker truth that rumours thee

257

A foundling, what, didst never hear it? ah well—
It is but random work done in the dark
Where like begets not like. There look it o'er—
Haply thou can'st unriddle it. He asks
Of Linsingen, whether he hold with us,
Whom he affects—his wont of life—his haunts,
And whole behaviour: would have me keep
The man in daily ken. How? is he mad?
All this to me from him, who knows much more
Than I can guess—and then he styles him too—
What is it? Captain—Ensign Linsingen—
A calling was ne'er his—What, hath your sire
Sat on these thoughts so long and restlessly
Till he hath addled them? and memory
Is blurred and blunt with many clashing cross
Meanings, where one alone were clear enough?
Is it so? or is there something in all this
Of mystery, more than they can foot to the end
Who know not what's before?”

With a quick glance
Hermann o'erran that letter, “Here I see
More written than you told me even now,
My father counsels you to leave our league:
Guessing you like—Ah no! not like himself;
But like some others—ripe to fall away—
Ripe, aye, and rotten too—well, let them fall.
What think you of the counsel?”

“Thou hast asked
Freely, and freely I will answer thee.
I think, nay more, I mean—to follow it:
Taking the hint of a much wiser head
To save my own; nor, howe'er sworn, will I dare
More than man should: to send among the herd
Such spirit, as can but madden them, to rush
Adown the steep. Mischief like that, whoe'er
Else wills, I nill it.” “Well, and if thou art
A coward by compulsion of cold blood
I quit thee; but a traitor is no need.
Beware then—for thou riskest thy own life,
Betraying ours.” Carelessly, as he spoke,
So he rose too, without another word,

258

And from that bright warm ingle strode again
Into the night, unknowing whither next.
But soon a soul like his, so keenly set,
Cuts what no skill untwists. “Where lies the coast?”
Up to the stars he looked, and as he asked,
Straightway they answered him. “What, are ye, too,
Traitors? and dare ye then aid and abet
My traitorous self, pointing my pathway out?
Aye, but ye'll rue it: henceforth the justices
Most loyal, will proclaim ye a curfew-tide
To blout your lights. Else they'll withhold your due
Warrant; must shine no more.” So desperate men
Their desperation wreathe with crazy mirth,
Myrtling the sword: and so on madman lips
Bubbles the foam—betokening wild work
That gares within. He stretched his stiffen'd arms,
A lunge or two—fastened his coat to the chin,
Then on with swelling breast and spirit as high
As that most dismal night were his bridal morn,
And he bound to the church. So a lone hour,
O'er hill and waste, morass, gully and moor,
He filled with those birth thoughts, dark hinted oft
Before and uncared, now more clear to him:
Welcomer yet than clear. Until at last
Nature began to seek her due of him,
For she would wait no longer. All the world
Beside, she held in her soft hold of sleep,
And outleave he hath none.

He flung him down
On a hill, midway between the nether damp
And the cold weathery ridge—his bosom books
Pillowed his head—the Bible—and next in worth,
The stoic Emperor's thoughts, and to relight
His spirit's glow, when fainting, with their own,
Milton's Defence, and Aeschylus—“Thou kind Earth,
Thou Mother Nature, whom I've loved so long,
At least I am no rebel against thee,
Thou'lt shelter me:” he said, and nestled there,
And slept, and dreamt—no idle dream—but strange
As the other circumstance of that wild sleep.
He saw a meteor, or what so seemed,

259

Shoot down the sky, greater as nearer it grew.
Till it stood before him, awful to behold,
An angel fresh from Heaven. “I come to thee,
Bringing the tidings of what God ordains,
And thou must do: forbear all question,
But hearken faithfully what truly I tell.
There are full many whom thou fain would'st see,
But go not near to them—and there are some
Thou hast ne'er known, whom God, a trusty guide
Shall lead thee. Go then, visit them assured,
And what the spirit prompts thee, speak that same.
For the rest, as He wills, so it will be done.
Take thou no thought of it.” The angel spake
And vanished, but his presence left in the air
And the hearer's sense such a sweet influence.
That Hermann slumber'd on, a heavenly trance,
Was never sleep so sweet; and heavenly
E'en as that trance so was the freshness too
Wherein he rose from it, buoyant and light
As the mountain air—lusty of heart and hope,
Like yonder sun now risen brightly up
To light the living—in such spirit he rose
And prayed—“I thank thy goodness, Father and God,
In whom and by whose grace I am what I am,
For all thy blessings—chiefly for this sign
Thou hast vouchsafed me.” A minute more, he stood
Upon the crest of that high beetling cliff
Sublime o'er boundless ocean. Such a look
As beggared all magnificence behind
Spread for the eye by Nature. There he stood
As a vassal, suddenly and in surprise
Encountering the front of majesty,
Speechless with awe, till thus his soul o'erflowed.

“A stately queen is Nature,
But e'en her mightiest stature
In wood and wild is dwarfed by thee
Thou endless wonder, thou huge Sea!
Yes, shamed by thy old hoary
Dominion is Earth's glory.
I seemed erewhile a man of might—

260

But now—I'm nothing in thy sight.
And lo! thy foam is flashing,
And thy huge billows dashing:
And yet art thou, the vast, the wild,
To thy stern Father a meek child.
Thou seek'st not to be greater
Than Him—than thy Creator.
But I, a weak and helpless thing,
Will know no law and own no king.
I call thee—but thou carest
Nought of the voice thou hearest.
I may not bend thee to my will,
Yet would I rule a fiercer still.
Yes thou inhuman ocean
Fiercer than thy commotion,
And wilder and more hard to tame
Is that folk-sea, that flood of flame.
Who fares that sea must rue it
And yet I would subdue it
That lawless one, so fierce and strong,
And what I would I will ere long.
But thou—thou dost inherit
A free and mighty spirit
Untired, untainted, to the end.
Wilt burst thy bounds and be my friend?
Man's lordship was ne'er o'er thee,
Therefore I kneel before thee.
Come, as of yore, come flooding in,
We two will purge this world of sin!
Alas! thy high-sould seeming
Is but fond Fancy's dreaming;
Roll and roar on—thou'rt no ally
Old Ocean, for such things as I.
And yet, how fair thy level deep communion!
So might we frame Mankind to Christian union—
Yes—up and onward—to make Man as free
As thou hast ever been, thou glorious Sea!”

He spake, and mused awhile; then merrily
Adown the hill, toward the fisher huts,
There by the coast: when, as the level he reached,

261

He came to a slight path crossing his line
Eastward and west—'twas strange to him: but yet
Some power that he knew not whence it was,
O'erruled him from his purpose to go on
And turned him thither aside. He followed it,
Unwittingly, but yet undoubting too,
As in a dream: till he beheld a house
Of fanciful adornment, airy and light,
New-fangling our forefathers' Gothic old
Earnestness, mighty arch, tower, battlement
With tinsel trickery; laceman's mimicry,
Stone-shamming, mud-built frippery—that house
Gave him the hint and token what to say,
For he bethought him who its inmates were;
He cross'd the threshhold: “Edward Linsingen,”
After some courteous preface, thus he spake
To her who came to meet him from within,
Young, fair, but for her frailty's forfeiture,
Is of this household?

“Yes, Sir,” a deep blush
Vouching her words, “what would'st thou toward him?”
“I would—well—I'm his friend, no truer one—
And thine no less—for thy faith's sake to him.
Now listen, for my counsel imports both—
Both him and thee: he was betrothed years back
Thou know'st it and her too—his kindred now
Would have him marry her. Yes, painful it is
And pitiful; but who would heal a wound
Must handle it first. Now would'st thou ward away
This deadly mischief from thy heart and home,
(As, doubtless, thou art earnest in that will)
I'll show thee means: how to keep all as sure
Thy hope, thy love, all thy whole life in him,
As else thou'lt lose it. We've an enterprise
Myself and other thousands of my mind,
Which if he undertake his share of it
He's barred forthwith, wholly, relentlessly,
From his kindred—meeting nor e'en message more—
From all but thee—and then—” She gazed on him
Looking her eager soul forth in her gaze,
Till tears suffused her sight: then what she felt

262

Sudden she broke his speech with it, her sobs
Struggling against her words. “Oh Sir, a friend—
None e'er comes now to cheer my loneliness—
Thy kindness—shown so seldom—is kinder felt.
Yet must I tell thee, I deserve it not.
For, Sir, 'tis true, I've walked in perilous ways,
Till what was peril is guilt: and yet, methinks,
If sufferance may atone for our past sins,
More than I've sinned I've suffered. Many are they
Who scorn me—my friends once; cousins—and oh,
'Tis sad to utter it, my sisters too—
Bear it I must from them, but how from him?
No—not from him. Yes, Sir, of those I know,
One only loves me—and think, Sir, what I were
Should that one leave me to their hate and scorn,
Outcast. No, I would die—better before
Than after—but thy words—there is yet hope—
For he's a loving heart—fond as my own—
And no less true—then tell me, Sir, tell all,
And doubt me not, lest I should shrink from it.
Forgive me, I've a heart, and feelings long
Unwonted—now, befriended once again—
Burst forth—for thou dost speak as one who hath
A gentle heart to feel for me, instead
Of a bitter tongue to make me feel myself.
Then tell me, for thus lingering—” What she would
Further than this, she uttered it in tears.
(After a few more hopeful hints from him)
Of purest passion: but they flowed not long:
Soon was her anguish comforted to joy,
For what he told; how that her lover e'en now
(As Zimmermann had made it manifest)
Stood in misprision, with unfriendly eyes
Watching him: wherefore boldest play was like
To be his best, and onward, safer and sage
Than to fall back. This and much tidings more
All to one end, awakening love by turns,
And fear, she heard and did embosom it,
Glad rapture; for when two desires would rush
With warm encounter, each in the other's arms,
Needs not much argument to drive them on,

263

Their meeting is soon made. They were agreed,
Ere their agreement could be said in words,
By their commutual will. Strangers they met,
And parted in full trust, as inmost friends.

264

BOOK XII.

Union, if e'er thy name should mean a truth,
How happy were the nations in that name,
How free! I wonder much that in slave-lands
The censor's pen should leave the word in print
Uncancell'd: raising by its utterance
Such threatening thoughts—for if in thy full strength
As men invoke thee, so thou wouldst stand up,
By Heaven, ere thou wert risen half thy height
Tyrants would fling them prostrate on their face
Before thee—scared into a most sage fear
At sight so startling. Monarchy 'gainst thee
What is it but one straw standing aloof
Against the stack? Were I a king—nay, that
Is not all evil—but a wolf-king, as some,
Thy whisper'd name would fright me more than din
Of thunder in my ears; I should so shrink
To hear it, as at sight of a sudden knife
On upstart slumber gleaming at my throat.
But now thy name is all—a shadowy name,
No more—yet haply, while it lives, or seems—
That shadow may portend a substance too,
Idle portent unreal. Men play with words
As boys with bubbles; and so blowing out
A full round word, think it a glorious thing,
And are content with it: counters for coin:
But where those counters are, the coin is not;
And who wins most is the unluckiest;
Fool's wages—Union, thou art a fair word,
And rife in many mouths; but thou fill'st not
The manly hunger that craves other food
Than wind—away with it—perish the phrase,

265

When that were perished a clear void would be,
And then would men haply bestir themselves
To fill it up with deeds.

Why! what strange dolts
Are we all, we busy bodies of this earth
Struggling, yet overlooking our only means
To make us mighty! We are as elements
Each by itself foredoomed to barrenness
Till all be blent together—Union in them
Is fruitful nature, and in us no less.
Clay, sand, chalk, mixed with mould. But oh thou Man!
Thou fool! That what we endure of general grief
Each of us all should mutter his sense of it
In his own breast! when fellow-utterance
Would swell the fellow-outbreak to a storm,
Such storm as they who will not bow to it
Must break before it. Oh most froward choice!
Choosing to sigh despairingly alone
Than shout triumphantly as patriots should
A bold conspiring shout. But we, ah no—
The might of such an Union was ne'er ours,
Else had misrule been blown away by it
As cobwebs from the trumpet, when its breath
Is louded blasted: thoro' 'twas ne'er yet.
And till it come, our weal must wait for it,
Haply so long, till Manhood pine away
To that poor thing called Patience—a dull sheep
Sheared many times, and slaughter'd last of all
In silly sufferance.

Would they look round
The many might learn wisdom of the few
Truly to bind themselves for their own good
E'en as their rulers do; for 'tis that ring
Doth make these men within it drivers, and those
Without it burden-bearers: makes them so
And keeps them; when it fails, lordship fails too,
Signally. In such danger, then, were they
Those lordly leaders, there in Gilnau met,
How best boldly, yet wary, to win way
Out of their peril. Thither their best power
Was drawn together; and all little enough

266

If number were the only rate of worth
For such encounter—but the warrior-sword
Hath more decision than a score clown-scythes,
Cumbrous, tho' big, and wielded cumbrously:
E'en in such surety they stood hitherto
'Gainst their ungainly foes: no fear of the end
But only lest that end be far to seek
For lack of a clear issue, and fair field
To fight it out—but later tidings now
Weakened their trust. Seldorf and Falkenstein,
Arenberg, Altheim, Bruhl, and Geisingen
The chief 'mong many others of less note
Met there to raise the mouldering standard up
Of lordly Law, and selfish wilfulness;
To crush Rebellion's head, and drag in dust
Its senseless body at their cannon wheels;
And there they now held council. Not as late
With overweening wrath; but doubtfully,
In earnest doubt, for many flying clouds
Had gather'd to one body, thick and dark
O'ershadowing the late cheer of hopefulness
Most gloomily: and Fame's latest report
Of ill was overlaid, ere an hour gone,
With something worse. Who rubbed their hands in glee
May wring them in grief. Behoved them all their strength
In such a strait as this, and all their skill
To make strength sure. Fearfully were they met,
And Distrust crept, a haggard mutterer,
Thro' that old Justice Hall. Each man of them
Sought comfort from his neighbour's countenance
And found but fear. “How now? thy brow is dark,
Thine, and all others here: haggard thy gaze;
Sure some unearthly mischievous portent.
Look round—what anxious strange alarm is this
That like the stern sway of a thunder-cloud
O'erawes us?” a dark dream—and the truth of it
Yet darker. Thus they felt—nor knew their doom
So feeling it: for the stern spirit o'erhead,
Watching his hour, the avenger of Man's wrong,
They knew him not. Else, 'stead of dumb dismay,

267

They had shrieked out at the sight—for look on him,
His arm is bared, and but one moment more
From darkness he bursts forth in a hurricane
And they, all thunderstricken by his bolt,
In wild tumultuous maddening agony,
Where shall we hide us?

At last, in the eager throng
Dismay composed itself to audience
And Arenberg rose up. Governor late
Of this same province, till War snatched from him
His peaceful rule, o'erbearing Law with its will,
Making its sword the sceptre. “Sirs, we are here,”
So said the calm and worshipful old man,
“Upholders of our lawful authority
Against this uproar. Whether to keep off
Rebellion, at sword's length, till it be slain,
Or else vouchsafe them terms: now, what we would
If our wills wielded it offhand, none doubts
'Tis nothing short of flat submission first
And then the headsman and the hangman's work
To follow after. That is easy said,
And haply, many here will say no less
Many and brave men—I mistrust them not
But he's yet braver who in the hot field
Will vouch the saying—'tis a dangerous proof
I say it steadfastly: most dangerous
As full of danger as the bravest here
Is full of daring to encounter it
This outbreak is no bubble—a week's growth
And now already a giant. This, I trow
Is our third day abiding here on watch
And needs but such a fourth to end us all.
Tidings are traitors, and blow Treason abroad
Blasting us with each breath. Stolberg is kept
In rebel hold, despite our utmost strength
Shivered against it—our worst brunt they bore
And beat it back—six score men lost to us
Worse yet, the devil hath sown tares thro' our best
Wheat, our own hands and arms against us turned
Young Linsingen, beshrew the silliness
That left him with such means of mischief there

268

Only to help his rebel brother's ends
Ere the assault, he and a hundred more
Took Treason's side—frankly went o'er to them
And fought so madly against us as they fight
Who from defeat to death have but one step,
And knowing that, are fain rather to die
In wilful proud defiance of the Law
Than by its doom. Then what ye've heard, how one
Half-crazy cobbler, weapon'd but with knife
And pistols, slew seven soldiers, ere they took
His hut, with his life too—and this for proof
As he harangued his fellows ere the feat
That householder o'er soldier hath the odds,
If will to use them.

Hideous this, but true,
And what seems safe, stands in scarce better plight
Than that clear loss—so spreads the black blood-drop
From the heart thro'. For I have tidings sure
That the more half of those who bide behind
Stay but on tip-toe; and those upbreakers
Have better right than we to call them theirs
Having the heart and soul of the whole bulk
Upon their side. Thus is our keystone gone
Dragging our main dependence after it
Ruining down on us; and all that's left
A show, no surety. Now, Sirs what to do,
That must your wisdom settle and work out
But suddenly; for in such din, such crash
Thundering in our ears, a minute's loss
May become everlasting death to us,
Then let each shortly speak his seeming out,
And mine is this. For war, we're weaker far
Than warrants it. Our strength is rottenness,
Our army falling off from us like flesh
In a fever—to us hollow and hireling-like
But native in heart-yearning to our foes,
A wolf less true to its keeper than its kind
Wilder than safe: long reared and fed by us
But for a rank and idle outlay in peace
In war a deadly home-thrust treachery
Betrayed, by whose sworn faith we trusted most

269

This for our soldiery—a hope, by the wise
Long seen but for suspicion, and which now
The simplest is unfooled of it—what yet
Stands, tho' ill-propped, our power, wealth, patronage
These were strong means when all things else were ours
Before these broils begun, this devil loosed
But now—they're but the golden harvestage
Against the whirlwind flame; feeding its wild
Foe, whom withstand it cannot nor yet flee
My lords—this sudden onflash of rock-oil
How quell it? we must try, being so weak
Some other trial than War's bloody work
Lest so our weakness fail before their strength
And then we stand forlorn—bare poles in the boat
Hands ugly, rigging lost.

Now we've no means
But friendly composition and fair terms
To help us to that end. The world is gone
After them—old things past—all become new;
Therefore the proffered peace we flung from us
In scorn, when pride of power prompted us
As regret vails not to recover it
So neither will I now spite the old sore
Handling it o'er again: only mark this
If ye would treaty rather than sharp war,
Surety than utter downfal, then be warned:
Bid liberal and largely, gainliest so
Else cheapening and haggling ye but give
Time for the tide to o'erreach us, and betray
Alike our fears and niggard narrowness
Paltering them with shams—with a beggar's dole
From the high-heaped wealth, which in plain truth ye hold
As by their toil, so at their mercy too
Poor and precarious—aye, 'tis salt truth
But we must swallow it: and I be sure
As loathingly as any of ye all
But what needs must, why, 'tis best gulped at once
Sour medicine we but embitter more
With our sour looks—therefore our polity
Boldly and without drawback—hear me ye shall

270

Be it the scapegoat of our property
And let the people freely take their turn
To rule us, as they must, despite of us
And so shall Allman's will be Allman's law
Better and safer, whatsoe'er befal
Than Allman's violence. Our lordly sway
Of birthright, burdensome, but gainful, no
E'en as a mantle of state, we must fling off
And meet them hand with hand, and man with man
Lest if we strive to keep it, shirt and skin
Be torn away with it: and the harsh tax
Whereby we now dishearten toil's hard bread
Frankly we must forego it. Church and State
Must be reformed to such a rule of Right
As squares with Reason: and in sacred things
No charge imposed, pain nor privation
'Gainst conscious choice; but where each man approves
There let him pay. More I might show to ye
But this till then: and thus I see some hope
Foregoing much to save more that remains
Sleepening their fire with sunbeams—but let none
Mistake, that yielding thus, we yield to the axe
The handle, whence to smite us, root and branch,
Nay—my good friends—if they be minded so
They've means already to fulfil their mind
Being thousands to one. So, if they're bent
To rob us, why, 'tis sure we must be robbed
But to hold parley with them in such wise
Makes them no stronger robbers than before,
And I have trustworthy intelligence
That there are many 'mong them will fall off
For such fair promise: lessening their force
And swelling ours. Else if we stand for all
We hold, tho' much of it, like a yule-log
In Midsummer, a clumsy stumbling-block
Useless to us, to them a sore offence,
Then were we swept sheer off.”

He ceased, for wrath
Ruffled his hearers, and unwilling spite
To hearken; as when Severn, eddying down
By towering Berkley, embrued with kingly blood

271

Suddenly, 'gainst south western wind and tide
Dashes itself to foam, and high uprears
Its billowy crest—so his mild wisdom chafed
Their reckless will. This Ludwig saw—a shrill
Sharp, most shrewd lawyer. “Sir, the Governor
Says to us, gulp my physic—a dose perhaps
Of salts—well that were not so much—but no
He'd have us drink the whole salt sea—that's hard
To do; were drowned downright, goods, lands, and all
Ere our first draught: but there are ways and means
We need not take the open broad high road
Nor show our game—far better throw some sham
Tub to the wallowing unwieldy whale
That tempests now our ocean—give 'em then
Their Universal Suffrage, the whole hog
Sow, pigs, and all: needs not much nicety
Men, women, children too: for all that can
Duly and solemnly prove the child's ripe
Discretion, pick the plums from the bread cake
And from 'mong marbles snatch the lollipop—
And give each workman too a double vote
One 'gainst himself and fellows, one for us
Nay—never fear—we'll give it, yet keep back,
Keep in our hands the ballot-box: receive
All votes with most religious reverence
And with full faith—in our judicious selves—
Report them, how we will: that's pleasant and fair,
They the vote-dreamers, we the interpreters;
Then throw them that big tub; some others too
Smaller ones—but to hold all—hope it not.
Ye know the boy's tale of some twenty men
Wrecked on a desert isle: two lords, the rest
Workmen. At break of day, ‘work, said the two,
We cannot, ought not, will not. Now, as then,
You must work for us.’ So they did—fed, lodged,
Clothed 'em—but needful livelihood thus foreseen,
Then all took council for the general rule.
But no—you workmen are no councillors:
'Tis ours to rule, yours to obey: so spake
The lordlings; but the craftsmen? no—and thence
So severed, the whole rope ran back—must start

272

All from one level line, each for himself,
Win bread or starve—they grasped o'ermuch, those two,
So will not we, if wise.”

True—but these men
Are but self-wise—upstarted Falkenstein
Hasty and moody, in scornful lordliness;
Haughty of behaviour even as of soul;
Noble, yet abler than nobility's wont;
And deeming of that fond o'erweening dream
As of some high and holy mystery
Faithfully to be worshipped, and no word
Of whence or wherefore. Outwardly withal
Bounteous; scattering largess with free hand;
As feeling, that the giver is glorified
And he who takes beholden unto him
In bounden duty: and so all he gave
It was brought back and laid before his feet
In such a shape as truly his pride loved
More than its pelfish one: worshipful words,
And lowliness and whispered deference:
For gold to him was dirt; trade-stamped; shop-trash;
He scorned and therefore gave it. Long had he marked
And with high-towering fierce disdainfulness,
How sturdily the craftsmen challenged him
And his compeers to prove their privilege
In rightful warrant: setting the Truth up
Against fantastic old Idolatry;
Thronging in lewdly and with prying points
Proving the stately fabrication's self,
That none ahould search too close, but fall flat down
And worship it. A wrathful man was he
To hear their hopes, much more see their success
Upstarting.

“Gentlemen,” thus fiercely he spake,
“If yet distinction be 'tween gentle and churl,
Which some would seem to doubt: and in all faith
As they doubt us, frankly, I doubt them too
That they are bastard—for sure, noble blood
Would ne'er so shame itself—nobles in name,
Addelheads only. We have heard what I
Had sooner torn my tongue up by the roots

273

Than uttered it: and so I trust would ye
Whoe'er is not a traitor. Here's a flood
Of mire, of filthy muck scouring this land;
And we are asked, will we bestir ourselves
To keep it out, or must we give it room
To smother field and home, all that is ours,
E'en to our halls, our hearths, our very beds,
With swinish sewerage—yet more—shall we along
To swell its stream—we nobles! to float down
Upon it, lazy as scum, foul as dead dogs,
Till sunk low under it at last! Why, when
Did insolence, howe'er bloated of late,
Did it e'er dream foreafterly like this,
Which statemanship, oh shame to call it so,
Would now uphold for Truth. Oh yes—for Truth
Herself, once rabbled, becomes rabble-like,
Fouled with her handler's filth. To reason it
I will not: but would fling all reason away
Sooner than give the thought room in my mind,
Tho' but to prove it wicked as 'tis false,
Wilder, than needs wisdom to argue it.
What, shall we do any the dirtiest deed
That e'er polluted earth? Eat our own sires
Rather than bury them? give to the arms
Of some strong hilding churl for his strength's sake
Our dainty daughters? These and the like things
Doubtless keen wits, scornful of the wiser world
Might quibble us why: for waive Nature away,
Nature by knaves and dolts called prejudice,
With pale Philosophy outwrangling her,
They may be holden useful—yet the man
Were a cur, an ape, to trust them—for all talk
Where inborn feeling loathes and starts from it
Is shame confess'd. Therefore to argue this
Were baser than to measure swords with a thief
In question of our honour.

What! is here
Any so craven of heart, but his blood boils,
Tho' but to think such terms? for my own, Sirs,
I'll spill it on the dust to the last drop
Ere I will hearken them. Rather a dog

274

Than such a nobleman. Then what needs more?
Say this king Lud and his brutish followers
Have Reason—well—their own is good for them:
Like their mud-huts—may dabble both alike
With dirty craft. But we—we'll keep to ours,
In theirs we enter not. Pride, say ye so?
Well then—we'll show cause: that stiff underclay
You'd turn it uppermost. No—as subsoil,
It gives our tillage a strong wholesome stand.
But the land's life and growth you stifle at once,
Bringing it on the surface. Howe'er, for us,
Gentlemen, all we would is hold our own:
And that we can and will. When I must yield
My castle and broad lands, my ancestral
Vessels, silver and gold, my shield, my coat,
The very shirt I wear for boorish backs,
To prank them just so sagely as the ape
Its pilfer'd garment; then, too, will I bate
The slightest tittle of my privilege.
No bugbear till such time shall fright me so
But I will hold them fast as my soul's faith;
And they who'd take them must fight hard for them,
To outfight me. Why, Sirs, our forefathers
Had scorned to back a foot, tho' for their lives,
From such a rabble; at the first onset
Had broken them, and then bruised them to bits,
For rotten stuff; and all they doubted of
Had been but this; the lustre of our swords,
Shall we so stoop to dim it with base blood
Instead of rope and cudgel? Oh let us
But dare so much as manfully do that
Which they did scornfully—to arm and fight,
Unless they flee us first, as like they will
Halfway; however, down with them I say,
Down with the bristling upstarts: as I rend,
Scatter and trample in dust this their broadsheet
So will we them as surely.”

Boldly he spoke,
A boldness that caught many hearts beside,
Doubtful and cold before: and their new warmth
Grew next to fiery heat; for, while he spoke

275

All travel-toiled a messenger came in
Bearing glad news. Rebellion had been checked:
The tower of Mittenwald with arms full stored,
Had Weyer, hottest head of the rebel host,
And bloodiest hand, with a band tumultuous
Stirred by himself to the feat, attacked and won;
Won and then lost it with his own life too,
Slain there outright: and other men of mark
His fellows in that plot had rued it alike,
Sharing his death. Needs but a child's hand-shove
To shift the floating vessel; and their minds
Erewhile reeling unsteady to and fro
Caught that light breath and spread all sail to it,
So by the fickle favour of its hope
Steering amain further than eye could see
Across the unfathom'd ocean. Strong emprize,
Feeble assurance! but Hope soars or sinks
Bursting into a blaze, or dying away
From slightest kindling cause, if fuel it find:
And they from any catchword would take fire
As straws from a spark. Then hurried eagerness
Was rife, and greetings glad, and hasty scorn
Foresnatching the main upshot of the wheel
From one slight turn. Swiftly the word went forth
To strike at once home to Rebellion's heart,
Stunned, as likely it would, or much dismayed
By such strong blow. With trumpet then and drum
Was Peace noised off, from pleading her mild prayer;
Then loud and ceaseless stirring was the din
Of bloody preparation: revelry
Swilling the streets—banners aflaunt in air,
All scamps, shacks, blackguards, noble warriors now,
Outrageous license beckoned to come in,
And fill with uproar the scant time between,
Lest Conscience should grow cool, and thoughtfulness
E'en in those reckless souls turn into doubt
Which side were better, challenging free choice
Instead of helpless blindfold slavery.
Then all was soldiership, e'en to the games
Of aping children—and the heavy huge
Unwieldy bulk of war framed in array,

276

To move at instant need: nor only here
Did the hurtling Giant rise, and blow his blast
And bare his murderous arm. Treason and War
Are many-handed monsters, and their works
Manifold—striking with their thunder-stroke
Countries, and seas, and cities far between,
And all at once.

While here hurry was rife,
And Hermann afar off, on the wild coast
Stirred up the dwellers there, desperate men,
To a venture yet more desperate than their wont;
While so he fared, his father sate the while
In depth of a dark night; fearfully sate,
Brow bent toward brow, with Seldorf, that proud Count:
Of all the country around, and of that huge
Grey abbey-pile wherein they met, the lord
And landowner. 'Twas a confessional,
Where they held conclave; or had been—now books
Did the priest's duty and fulfilled his room,
Shelved round the walls, dark wainscoted and carved
With quaintest skill: and the huge oaken-door
Slow creaking, opened thence into a high
Arched hall; the Abbey Chapel aforetime
For the old Faith. They had outwatched the stars:
And the dark low-toned danger of their talk
With shadow of the doom awaiting them
Deepened the midnight gloom. Sure, such a cause,
Whether to stand or fall, and by what means,
Is deep deliberation: and the old man
Being a traitor, would seem something else,
And therefore needed many a round of words
To cloak his purposes: fold upon fold
As on a deep-coiled mummy, and nought at last
But filth and stench within. Long glozing he spake
Ere thus he ended. “Sir, what I have said
Be sure of it; much mischief hath he wrought;
And will much more; 'less he be timely stopp'd,
Nay, clean cut off: 'Twas he in Salfeld there
Having by night thither adventured him,
Stirred up his brother to take traitor arms
Himself, and his men with him, one and all,

277

Whence Stolberg, you well know, was lost. Now, Sir,
To rid him off outright, him your worst fear,
Hearken me how. The bridal is this morn,
This very morn; for look, by yonder clock
We are past midnight, and the way he comes
Is alike sure as his coming certainty.
But for myself, my tidings too, tho' high
Their worth, I ask no hire—only thus much—
The game I start, to see ye hunt it thro'.
So shall Rebellion stagger, and one stroke
Smiting it as it reels, shall smite it down:
And the State, shaken by this wild earthquake,
Shall stand thence steadfast—for me, Conscience alone
Is here concerned. If so atone I may
Truly and well, what I've been ill beguiled
That is my richest hope. For the rest, Sir,
E'en to your hands I do commit myself
To weigh my present worth against my past,
And then—if this my zeal seem worthy of thanks
Or free forgiveness, or yet further grace,
To give it.” So he spake, and parted so
Homeward; in tremulous hurry traversing
The night: as who hopes to escape his cares
Out-speeding them—fond hope—for the hell-hounds
Track not their game behind, but ravin the heart
Within. He hasted on—still on—vain haste!
Then stopp'd. That moment from his brooding thoughts
Upgrew a monstrous horror, awful, huge—
Beyond the boldest Manhood its huge awe.
His Conscience—in fiend-shape confess'd to him,
Leering and jeering—harrowing his soul
Hellishly—front to front, as at doomsday
Bodily. To dissemble then was not:
But in the shade of its dark presence, down
He fell, bowed down, a deadly agony,
Speechless confession: such as Sin needs must
Arraigned to final doom. Oh! then all worlds
Millions and millions he would give them all,
Unhappy man, of his remorse late rued!
For when did ever the fiend quit his prey
Once seized?—sudden he fell—for the evil ghost

278

So with the thundering terror of his voice
Smote him, that all his senses darkly reeled,
Whirled his wild eye-balls—then, with lightning stroke
Branded him thro' the forehead to the brain
Deep blasted. He shrieked out and started away
Wringing his hands, and laughing as he ran
Yet crazier than his shrieks—hedge o'er, ditch thro'
Straight to his door. His daughter open'd it
And saw a maniac gnashing his teeth.
“Father, is't thou? what's this?” Nay, ask not him:
'Tis vain.

That night pass'd off, and the sun rose
Early, to climb his high midsummer hill;
But Linsingen in loving earnestness
Made him a laggard—springing up himself
The brighter and more gladsome of the two:
Ere yet that fiery eyeball overpeered
Above the sky-line. Whither he would go
He told to none, lest some should construe him
More softly than befitted that stern time:
Mistrusting him, lest his red warlike star
Should fade in Love's faint lustre. As he rose,
Loud howled the warning wind. “Aye, howl away
And drive the cowering sheep for shelter there
Beneath yon ridge. I like the augury:
To those who now are drooping, our dear foes,
Foreboding dread; to us, the Conquerors,
A glad heart-glow: for we will sweep this land
With a strength mighty as thine.” So he went on,
Stout in self-will, a bridegroom, hopeful and bright,
Saying no word, taking no friendly leave,
As minding to return thither that day
A faithful husband—so insuring her
Ere he outrisked himself. 'Twas a weary length
Of walk, twelve mountain miles over the moors
That lay before him: but his heart was there
Earlier than himself, and drew him on,
By threads unseen, yet strong as adamant,
No sense of toil. But foemen were abroad:
And tho' his blood were hot, and his spirit high,
He deemed them, that day, better left aside

279

Than to confront them. In that thought he left
The beaten road, and o'er the hills away
To others all unwonted, but to him
Ranging for game, tho' trackless, often tried:
No fear of ambush there, but open and clear
As ocean. In that trust forward he went
Like a brave boat in storm, up the ascent
Down the steep fall—forward so far, until
From a lone crag, oh, welcome! 'tis the Church,
Where he should be a bridegroom that same morn,
And Lucy a bride. He stood and gazed on it
As on Heaven's gates: rested refreshfully,
Still gazing—then arose, and looking round,
“By Heaven, that very moor I tried for game
Some three years since: and but for walking it
And shooting one poor hare, they robbed me at Law,
More than the land's worth: but now times are changed:
And there I'll range, and none shall hinder me.
The Freedom that I fight for, its first fruits
I challenge—can thence take the road—no fear
For that short distance.” Hold, thou rashness, hold,
Act not thy deadly words.

Meanwhile that house
In bridal hope, yet not quite fearlessly,
Awaited him, and filled the growing gap
With dismal pale forebodings—felt the more
At the heart, since driven thither from the face
Which, with semblance of ease and gladsome show
Would fain belie it. Still as the hours waned
So waxed their gloom within; till doubt on doubt
Grew unto darkness: then a flash of light
Showing that darkness deeper than before,
And dreader. Hurried in their trusty old
Walter, would draw his master thence aside:
But as he entered, and each eager eye
Inquired of him, his faculty fell short
To answer falsely what too truly he knew:
And so, missing his purpose he looked round
Wildly, till e'en that wildness lost itself
Confounded wholly in tears. “Why, what is this?
Walter, how now? something befallen ill?

280

But hither, come this way.” So the sire spake,
But she, his earnest daughter, undismay'd
Whate'er it be, speak out, evil or good,
I will know all.

“Aye, truly, so you must:
For such a mischief, hide it we can not
As one would smother a spark—yes, you must know,
But not from me—so kind as thou hast been—
Would sooner die than tell thee. And Sir, indeed,”
Thus he half said, half sobbed in her father's ear,
“'Tis death—they've taken him—there's one killed dead,
But the rest took him there by the moor-side,
And so away with him. Hans saw it all.
But we—how yet to help him?”

To the tongue
Wormwood, and evil tidings to the ear
Are of sharp proof; swift striking on the sense
And biding there. Lucy heard all, tho' meant
Aloof from her. She heard and swooned away,
A deadly swoon: for she had nerved herself
To encounter all of Fate she could foresee
Standing abreast against her; but this chance
Befel her so, with onset so athwart,
It shocked her from her stand. When thence again
Being raised, and in her chamber sadly laid,
She gathered up her soul from that surprise;
Then all her mourning friends, mother and all,
She prayed them to go forth, and leave her awhile
Alone in sorrow: they, tho' doubtfully,
Their bidding did: speechless and shadowy
Passing away from her: then in their place
Her thoughts thronged in, a visionary train.

“Yes, the blow is stricken—the death-blow—
Noble lovers ye are both laid low:
No hope for ye.
I alone, the traitress, yes e'en I,
Who suborned ye most unwomanly,
Why spare they me?

281

Thou art powerful, but just, oh no
Thou high Providence that orderest so!
Nay—peace, vain fool—
Worse than thousand deaths from headsman's steel
Is the lifelong anguish I shall feel,
And righteous is God's rule.

I shall rue it in sore penitence,
Yet 'twas done in truthful innocence
And holiness.
Work more pure was never wrought by men,
So I thought and felt and knew it then
And now no less.

Aye and sure this is no punishment,
But a trial of my true intent
To stand or fall;
Welcome thou strong trial! all I see
Of thy terrors shall but strengthen me
To brave them all.

Hence weak pillow, hence despondency,
'Tis not weeping will avail with me,
I must away.
Thus I rise never again to rest
Till his deadly danger be redress'd,
My Faith—be thou my stay.”

Behind the hills of Engthal the sun sank
Like some old empire, with more gorgeousness
Cloaking his dwindled glory, “He looks on thee
Yes, sure he does, with his pale death-doomed look,
And still thou shinest, heedless of the woe
That thou dost witness. Thou art high and great
But hast no feeling. Oh, go down, go down,
I hate thee for thy brightness. Dost shine yet?
Well, if thou wilt, I'll shut my eyes and weep
Let others look on thee.” It was the voice
Of a lone wandering girl, of Lucy Hess,
Lone but for strength of soul: sore travelled, sad,
Sitting on that heath-rock. For when she rose

282

From the bed where they had left her, sobbing alone,
So she went forth, unheeded of all there,
Leaving no sign behind but a scant scrawl
To show her meaning. Boldly she sped on,
Bold in the surety of her faithfulness
And purposed good. From an old crone, crutch-propp'd,
Homewending with her burden of dry wood
She learnt them, whither away: for Engthal straight:
And having learnt so much, thither she too
Hasted her weary walk—beyond such girl
To win so far—but will is might. It braced
Her slight soft frame harder and stronger'n steel,
More careless of rough ways and thorns and stones
Than the gipsy's horny foot. So, ere nightfall
She stood, with an old higgler by her side
Before the prison gate. “This maiden here,”
So spake her guide, as the wicket at his peal
Was opened, “She comes hither from afar:
And she's betrothed to him ye have in hold—
To Linsingen—fain would she speak with him
Unless such sad leave be forbidden ye—
For me—I know her, and warrant what she says,
My word—life too, if needed.”

The man heard
Dangling his heavy keys, and eyed her askance
Doubtfully, as she stood contemplating
With deep heart-shudder there before the gate
A ghastly stiff death-boding skeleton,
The scaffold. But the speaker with those words
Slipp'd silver in his hand, a fair broad crown,
To pay their passage home. “What I can do
I will—I'm but an underling. All's one—
Must get the order. Wait outside awhile—
I will go see.” He went, and came again,
“Come in; no other warrant than your word
Is needed.” She stepp'd inward—all was dark
As 'twere a hundred fathom underground:
Still as earth's centre, and seemed all as hard
To win the outway. Clung the chilly damp
About her cloak, and every breath she drew
Seemed a choke fog—onward and onward, thro'

283

Round within round of walls; such as but one
Looked a more bulky barrier than need was:
And still the little lamp they brought with them
Showed slighter as they threaded each dim door
Booming behind; till at the mid-hold stopp'd—
Each at the other sadly looked her thoughts,
Too sad for speech. “'Tis here—is it not here?”
“Aye, sure. Well then—you see me what I am,
And know what I would have—a poor lone girl:
And now vouchsafe me with him a short while
Alone—thanks for thy kindness”—with her speech
For oversway she threw a small gold coin
Into the balance. “Well, if so it must—
Lovers—'twere hard—to grudge them their last hope:
There is your way, but mark me, time is short,
I'll wait outside.” The door opened and closed;
And she pass'd on, treading so noiselessly
That of her footfall the stones whispered not
No more than of her thoughts—sudden she stood
And looked and saw—in the far corner there
A light, and by that light a musing man:
Deep musing, careless of whate'er might come
As know ng well to-morrow must end all.
And so he sate, his limbs and body cramped
With his sore wounds, his head weighed on his hand
Despondingly. She stood and gazed on him;
For a still shiver crept upon her soul
And speech. Then in hoarse catches, “Linsingen,
Thy light is flaring out, it wastes apace,
Look to it.” He sprang up at that sweet voice
And in her arms. “Lucy, dear love, is't thou?
Oh, yes, none other than so kind a soul
Had come to see me—a traitor—a rebel—yet thine,
Thine own—if but these chains. Well, is't not sad?
There, in sight of the church, to be so met
When I looked only for thy own sweet smile
And such a meeting. And thou too so near
And yet know nothing. Nay, thou hast heard all:
And thy poor mother who shall comfort her?
Oh, 'tis a selfish joy to see thee here
At her worst need.”

284

“True, 'tis indeed most sad—
My husband, yes my husband, thou'rt no less.
For 'tis no sudden chance that can bereave
Our holy purpose of its holiness.
And I'm thy wife; thy own true earnest wife:
And being so, fain would I grieve for thee
As a wife should—so withering a grief
My heart shrinks in with it. But I must not,
Now is no time for tears—Frank, I am here
Not to weep with thee, but to rescue thee:
Unless thy heart be weaker than a girl
To strike for it. Thou knowest well, our hope
Rests wholly upon thee; and in thy death—
(Ah me! forgive me, uttering that word,
But I feel something gives my soul the strength)
Were all undone. But a minute—we've no more—
Yet time enough. Strip thy apparel off
See, 'tis soon sped. Mark me, I've done't e'en now;
Thy coat and hat, and whate'er needs beside,
And take this cloak of mine and my head-gear
And what thou can'st wear else—oh doubt not now
But do it. A moment's doubt is death to thee
An everlasting death.” “Lucy, art mad?
Sure 'tis dreadful to die, so young, so rich,
So bless'd in all of worldly blessedness,
But such a hope as this—why, e'en despair
Is better and more manlier; do but think:
Wer't only I, yet there's more dignity
In Treason—yes—it is too lofty a thing
To ape the harlequin: to play such tricks
As an urchin school-boy, being caught in them
Must cry for shame. But thou! what would'st thou? Oh Heaven!
The traitor flown, and thou found in his stead
Must pay for him. They'll make a show of thee;
Prick thee to death with pins—hawl thee about
For a mannish strumpet most unmaidenly:
Fling filth upon thy face, and drown thee at last
Down in the sewer—do but think of it!
Worse than the hangman's self were such a shame
I from my flaunting banner now to flee,

285

And leave thee here at upshot of the game
To bide the loss of it. Then, if 'twere not
Beyond the utmost patience of Man's pride
To think of it, 'tis hopeless quite to do:
So prithee, be content, my dearest soul:
I have done boldly, and as luck falls ill
Boldly will suffer.” “Aye, when need shall be
But why before? So would'st thou do, what most
Thy bloodiest enemies would thank thee done.
And, what thou said'st of late, think not of me:
For neither came I here for thee alone
But for the holy cause. Say then, is't I?
Is it my respect that blinds thee from all else,
And in this hindrance is thy daring stayed—
The fear to leave me?”

“Lucy 'tis e'en so,
'Tis e'en that fear—and then the little hope
I have to 'scape in such attire as thine.
What, is there aught of witchcraft in that cloak?
If there be none, then all I see of it
Is but a mummery, and no disguise,
No, not to cheat a babe. What, talk ye of hope?
Despair is the best comforter. Pass only
A few fleet hours, and then—” Stay, Linsingen,
Hark! 'tis the turnkey's call, oh yes, I come,
Yes, I'll go beg a moment's biding more,
'Tis all we need—for the rest, it is our own
If only we've the heart to stretch our hands
And take it.” Saying so, she glided off
Like to a ghost, both for her shadowy shape
And sudden vanishment: but Linsingen
Gazed after her, uncertain of himself:
For all that show did seem so strange to him,
That he 'gan hope his capture, prison, and all,
And bloody imagination of his death
Was but a dream—“Away, ye glamouring fiends,
The dawn shall scatter ye.” So in that hope
He stamped his foot against the heartless stone
In proof of it. “Alas! 'tis indeed I,
A dreamer's stamp is unsubstantial
Nor makes no echo—and his shackles—ah,

286

He feels them not—not quite so gallingly
As these wring me. I am no dreamer—no—
Behoves me then the proof that I am none.
By Heaven I'll give it, and fight the fiend himself
To break my way from Hell.” As thus he spoke
His spirit outdared his speech: swelling his tide
Of blood, that on his forehead each light vein
Was swollen to a snake. Oh! such fierce mood
Snatches ten years of life, and flings them in
To feed a minute's fire. He waited her
That gentle maid, eagerly, but not long
Else had he been distraught.

She turned to him
And how she looked, who had beholden her
Had ne'er dared tell the terror of her looks!
Haggarder than e'er woman, hurrying back,
And deadly pale: as she had gazed on a ghost
And caught its ghastly gleaming: fearfully
She looked behind as blasted by the breath
Of an evil spirit. “See, he's leagued with us!
Hold there—his cloak—take it—he lends it thee
And here his hat and shoes—what doubtest thou?
Oh take them, or I slay myself outright,
Thou need'st them more than he.” Truly she speaks:
Nay, stay not, all thy life is crowded here,
Each minute tolls thy doom. “Oh brave, most brave,”
Linsingen answered, rash and recklessly,
“Whoever said that gaoler's hearts were flint,
Ha, Lucy?” “What! dost ask me? 'twas not I—
His a flint heart! 'twere well for him if 'twere.
Whoever said it, I have made that man
A liar—yes—I've done it—but the deed
Was all for thee—therefore—if blood be shed
What lookest thou so wild? if blood be shed
'Tis not thy right to dab it in my face.
Nay—start not. What? did'st ne'er see it flow before?
Men have been butchers ere now many times
And many thanks to them: yet, 'twixt ourselves,
Fah! 'tis a nasty trade. Who does its work
Needs not white linen. I'll go get me a gown
Of blue, but that—blue—'tis the badge of Heaven!

287

Crimson were best. Crimson, if ye be wise
So were your colour and your works akin,
And neither belie th' other: but look here;
That is too glaring red—oh, much too fierce!
It cries out murder. She who painted it
By Heaven, I would not have her conscience
For all her skill. Who was it, Linsingen,
That should have married her? Tell me, was't thou?
Faith, a bold bridegroom.”

He saw and started back
Gazing upon her: was she that fair girl
So suddenly, by some curs'd wizard's art
Ungirled to a fury?—then outbroke her clasp,
And like a maniac, groping toward the door
Clanking his helpless chains. “Nay, go not there
Unless thou would'st fain die of laughter fit
For the merry sight thou'lt see.” He heard her not
In his wild haste: heard nothing, nor yet saw;
But rushing blindly onward unaware
Stumbled on what was late a living man:
But now, dead as the stones whereon he lay
The cold damp stones. The lamp fell from his hand
And all was darkness. “Lucy, I know it well,
Thou art an angel—else sure none but a fiend
Had wrought this work—but oh! thou dear lost thing
Thy hands are crimson drenched, while yet thy soul
'Tis like thy cheeks, bloodless as they. Come then
Come hither to my arms, and let us forth:
Here are his keys, and there's a light outside—
Must flee, in spite of chains, if hence we can,
With the hangman at our heels. What dost thou there
Dear love, what would'st?” “Nay, prithee, whither away?
Dost know of any better cheer than this?
Show me as good—else I stay here the night—
A gay guest-house. Aye, is it—or if you will
A ghost-house—gayer yet, but for the gloom
And ghastlier. We'd seen it better if thou
Had'st not put out the light—why, what could'st mean?
Ah—well I ween—'twas all for the ghost's sake
He loves not lamps: but we'll make merry now

288

All three of us—a ghost, a shackled man,
And I—how droll! but they chain monkeys, sure,
Not men—a monkey, and so sullen and sad!
Well, if thou wo'nt, he shall make love to me—
A ghost, you know—need not be jealous.” “Heaven,
Madness on the heap of all our miseries,”
Said Linsingen, with frenzy muttering
As he rushed towards her. “Come, take my hand
And from this curs'd place—” “Off from me, off hands
Thou'rt an ice-devil. Why, thy clutch is cold,
Away with thee—oh help me, Linsingen,
Here's a chill devil here would drag me away
And swing me by the hair into hell-flames
And all for thee—murdered thee—dost thou say?
Aye, sure I did; but why, thou silly fool,
Why so superfluous to cry out now?
Then was the time when the knife was at thy throat:
But being dead, thou wert more mannerly
To hold thy peace.” Linsingen stoop'd and kiss'd
Her clammy forehead and her cold white cheek,
Then raised her up, and as she fell again
Huddled her drooping burden o'er his chains
And hurried her away. “Better I too
Were mad—so turn my woe to merriment,
And murder's self to mockery.”

While those
Distressful two, were struggling against hope,
Rescue was near, if timely. On that coast
Hermann so fiercely had stirred the multitude
That they rose up amain, in surge as stormy
As their own sea. Munitions, weapons, men
One on another gathering he had sent
To Stolberg; where their power held chief state
And gave its ordinance. In that turmoil
E'en in the hurry and 'mid storm of it
There came a floating rumour to his ears
And speedily took shape unto his sight
In tokens ever dear to him, but such
As he scarce hoped to see so soon again
Written by Lucy's hand. “Linsingen here
Is prisoner in Engthal, and death-doomed:

289

And this, forgive me, by thy father's means
Betraying him—haste—help us—he dies else
Ere yet another day.” He read that scroll
Delivered to his hand by a strange lad,
And what he read, swiftly he did, as tho'
Her wish had winged him forward. Forth on that
So sudden spur he and some sixty more
Forth galloped as the race were for their lives
To save or lose them all. Soon their hot speed
Had reached a band marching on slacker foot
For Stolberg—“No, cried Hermann, no my friends
Another way and to another end
Is now our need.” They heard his tale, as a clap
Of thunder in their ears, and hastily
Sorrow striving with rage, hope with despair,
And hurried eagerness confounding all,
They shifted, van with rearward, wide away
Whither the danger was. Thick rose the dust
And ever thicker, from their hastier march;
And every man they met, tho' nought he knew
But hearsay, yet his idlest breath heaved up
Their hopes and fears in cross bewilderment
They were so fitful. Last there met them one
A woman. She had seen their friendly approach
And ran to hasten it: “Oh, Sirs, more speed
Or ye lose all. 'Tis but ten minutes' back
There pass'd a many soldiers, a score men
Into the prison: and the neighbours said
Their business was to drag him poor soul forth
And shoot him there outright. Each word she said
Goaded their eagerness to a mad haste,
Their march to a race—all order broken and lost,
And forward, as each could, like a wild herd
Driven agad. So scurrying the mid-way
They burst into the town; the horsemen first,
All with their hottest speed; such an uproar
As in some firewrapt wealthy city's sack
After its storm. So they careered their course,
Those horsemen, wildly, to the market-place,
With shouts and brandished swords. There, the first sight—

290

A guard, quick tramping, with the shackled clank
Of prisoners within—they hailed the hope—
He may yet live; as seen, so pealed at once,
Recklessly from their hot unwitting hands,
A murderous volley. Fled the affrighted foe,
Flinging their arms away. “Hold, stay your fire!”
Hermann had cried to them; but 'twas too late;
Fearfully he rode up, and what he saw
It turned his fear to frenzy. 'Mid a heap
Of wounded soldiers, lay on her father's corse,
Who had so risked himself to rescue her,
Death-stricken, his life, his Lucy.

He raised up
Her drooping head, and faintly breathed her name,
Faintly, for fear she might not answer him.
Fain had she spoken, but her life-blood gushed
Forth with her words, drowning all utterance.
He gazed on her, pale as her deadly self,
So blanched with horror—and while yet heart-stunned,
“Sir,” said a soldier, dying with his words,
“Ye are too late, would ye were earlier come:
For we were loath to do on your friend there,
On Linsingen, the deed we've done perforce,
Shooting him, oh that shot! for our bitterest foe,
Whom his life proved him truly our best friend.
Black minutes were those few—those ye delayed,
Else ye'd been welcome to us soldiers too
As to all else—we'd joined you, heart and hand,
'Stead of this carnage.” Hermann, while he spake,
And Lucy in his arms sobbed her death-sob,
Noted, nor cared nor felt, nothing beside:
But yet one startled glance he looked from her
To that man's tale. Then, as she gurgled away,
He bore her draggling, to a house hard by,
But ere he reached it—Ah! what means that hush?
She sobs no more. Wouldst know her, whither flown?
'Tis not in that clay thou beholdest her,
Raise up thine eyes to Heaven.

He sate there
By the bed-side, brooking no presence else,
A lonely hour; for comfort would he none,

291

Rather some thundering stroke to end him out
He would have welcomed it. He prayed that hour
Fervently, as they said who watched the door:
Then rising sternly from his speechless woe,
To those without—“Friends, forward, before long
I'll follow ye!” So bidden, they obeyed.
Hermann stayed there: and now as that mishap
Cleared of its smoke and stunning din, showed forth
The ruin it had wrought, turning surprise
Of such a sudden strange calamity
To a sad surety: now being alone
Left with her, his one joy in all the world
And that one dead—forlorn quite, half unmanned
He flung himself, recklessly, in the flood
Of his despair, as he would 'scape from the world
In its dark depth. Dismally was he whelmed
Beneath the bitterness that evermore
Broke over him; and he, helpless the while,
Stirring no whit against it: praying not
Nor pondering, but pacing wildly about,
Wild anguish. Suddenly, as thus he fared,
Fell from his bosom a small book to the ground,
A Bible. Stooping to recover it
Some spirit whisper'd him “Open its leaves,”
And there he read—“Flee, save your life, and be
As the heath in the lone wilderness.” Those words,
Many have read them, but none ever felt
As he did then. Straight was restored to him
What grief had troubled, his clear consciousness.
He knew his danger, and with a few drear words
Commending that loved relict to the shroud,
Mounted his horse, and on his fellows' track
Swiftly away; but for a breathing time,
Drew rein upon the brow of the first hill
And backward looked: but dwelt not on that view;
For 'twas a troop of eager yeomanry
Fast spurring up to the death-house he left
To search it thro'. That hint needed no more
So on he hurried: till, ere a mile gone
He met a messenger, riding at speed
As earnest as his own. “Sir, we're well met;

292

For I had thought rather to hear of ye
Waylaid and taken, than to see ye here
So happily; but Sir, no matter of that;
I've much to tell of weightiest worth for you.
Scarce three hours back, (ye've heard Linsingen's death
And how our hopes were well nigh dead with him)
Well, there was question 'mong the main of us
In our full meeting, whether to leave all
For lost; or else who were the worthiest
To fill his room. Then many names were rung
But none agreed: till haply one called out,
(I said it first, and others after me)
“What doubt ye? surely Hermann is the man,
Young Ernest Hermann.” Then was silence there
Each waiting each; till to the hustings front
Suddenly, like one mad, the old Harper rushed;
And such a peal he raised as none e'er heard,
Howyou had earned us; had wrought, first to last,
Faithfully, a most hard and hopeless work;
O'erruling danger with your master skill,
Spiriting skill with boldness. Last of all
He smote a string that thrilled them wondrously,
That you alone are the one man of the world,
The very Ernest of the olden time,
Looked for by their and their forefathers' hope,
Waiting him long in patience, and at last
In joy and triumph welcoming him now:
Whom that old Hermann falsely father'd thee.
Oh, Sir, it told upon them like a spell
Beyond all power of will; that they seemed mad,
Their wits clean gone. Would ye had heard their shout,
Yet better here, out of their over-throng
Crowding to greet their king—for thou'rt no less—
They've made thee king, sure as I make this mark,
No whisper heard against it. 'Tis e'en so,
That is the sum and upshot of it all:
Was ne'er such wonder. “Sir, I bro't the news,
And my poor horse so jaded, had dropp'd else,
But he knew what he was bringing. Sir, if a king
Can think on a poor man like me, then, Sir,
Vouchsafe me.” Hermann scanned him, through and through:

293

“If true, thy tidings are most strange; if false—
But no—hearts up and forward—I'll go see,
Follow me thither.” He rode silently
But swift, as the eagle, stooping on his prey,
'Till from a height of forelook wide—there stood
Each host 'gainst each, glimmering with war's steel gleam.
He viewed them both with watchful wariness,
For strange the sight; and needed warranty
Whether were friend or foe: nor needed long,
For on the spur up galloped, hat in hand
A spatter'd heated horseman.

“Pardon, Sir,
My haste, and deign my faithful short intent,
For circumstance stands not on this sharp point.
Our foes, with their best men, squires, yeomen, lords
Chiefly, since none beside they can now trust
Are here upon us. Well are they aware
How the whole country's up in our behalf,
And therefore would they crush our growing strength
Ere it be stronger—'tis their only hope,
And failing that, they must fail utterly—
The ground from under them—there's our array,
You see it, Sir, stretching along the ridge
Backed with a bigger but half-weaponed bulk,
Fronting to Gilnau: whence the foe comes on
Straight on us—their van—dust and banner—I saw
Far off, but nearer now, e'en while we speak;
And sure, if we haste not, our folk will lack
The comfort of their king. Oh, Sir, 'tis here,
'Tis hard at hand our sharp trial of war.
God speed us thro' it!” Hermann heard not all
Nor waited not to hear; so sharp a spur
Prompted his utmost speed. Thither he rode
To a high ridge, where, as that horseman said,
Their chiefs held council. Respect, ere he reached,
Of eager looks and earnest deference
Fore-welcomed him; heads bare, all stilled; each one
Waived his own will. What had been done, and what
Was there to do, and how the likeliest,
He hearkened, and took counsel, and gave command

294

Coldly, as chilled with his foreshadowing doom,
Whom death, whene'er, were welcome—careless how,
Since it must soon.

Other dispatch being sped,
“Sirs,” he address'd them, “We're a fellowship
As faithful as our cause is righteous,
And they a hireling crew; far fewer men
And damper hearts—then, for their drill, 'tis but
A semblance, their skill too. What, have we a man
So girlish, but can hold and handle a gun?
As any urchin will, who hath scared crows:
No need of hairbreadth cunning; and for our pikes,
We're not so palsied but can thrust 'em home
As sharp as they their clumsy bayonets;
'Tis will, not skill: for other discipline
We need it not—only withstand them here
Stirring no inch. Such stand with our strong ground
And God's help for us, is a better ward
Than their best onset. We have learned full well
That lesson, long inured; we'll prove it now.
But this one charge I do commend to ye
All that I've here but hinted, all these hopes
And vantages, go spread the trust of them
Thro' our whole host; cheerfully colouring
This my cold phrase: so shall fresh comfort spring
To all their hearts. Then, for our ordinance
Behoves us to push forth our sharpshooters,
No scanty show of them, but a full swarm
To infest their march—besetting them, all round,
At every vantage of hedge, mound, or dyke
With hot distraction—but mind warn them well:
To fire from shelter, with cool aim, low, near,
Covering well their mark; but far off shot
Is only for picked marksmen—repeat this,
And send them with the warning in their ears
To give the proof of it. Given, 'twere worth
No more nor less than victory itself,
Else rout and ruin. And now, one word more.
If, as he surely will, the enemy
Being so galled, should send his skirmishers
To sweep them from his side, then let them fall

295

Wide of him, when o'ermatched, only not back
Upon our host—and ever, as they see
Their vantage, so return, and ply him again,
Still with fresh fire and bitterer eagerness
Venging the check. Do but this thoro'ly,
Needs nothing more.” He ended, and they did
As he ordained. Himself, galloping down
Along the array of his armed people rode
From end to end. Then such a shout arose
So loud and long, that a peal of musketry
From twice as many men were faint as a sigh
Against it—sure the applause of myriads
Bestowed so warmly on one, should swell his heart
That heart, so glowing hitherto—but now—
Brightness is none to the film-clouded eye
Where e'en the sun shows dimly. And when grief
Hath made its mourning chapel of the heart,
What profits it that splendour is outside
Promising gorgeousness of kingly pomp,
Wooing the soul of young ambition
With such high hopes that e'en the dullest clay
Might grow to spirit and aspire with them?
Alas! that Man should live on outwardly
When dead at heart; cramped by his sorrow down
With death's lead-cerements. And yet, tho' self-doomed,
Yet he spoke calmly, and that deep stern mood
Strengthened his men far more than hurry and heat
To trust in him.

“I thank ye, my brave friends,
I thank ye from my heart. Ye've chosen me
To be your leader, and ye see me here
Devoted to make good that choice thro' life
And unto death. For the instant brunt of war
How ye should bear it, and how beat it off,
Your chiefs and officers skilled in that kind
Have warned ye: warning needless to report
But now to do it. There's the enemy
Disheartened with sharp checks ere this main brunt,
And many rushing or skulking o'er to us.
Ye see his van, flashing with spiteful shot

296

'Gainst our true fellows? What shall I say more?
Only, quit ye like men. How! can it be
That those your foemen, soulless, hireling slaves
Have staked their life but for their slavery's sake
That they may live in it? and shall not ye
Armed with Truth, Freedom, Right and Godliness,
Shall ye not fight eager as fire itself
As keen and fierce? Now is your proof, e'en now,
To prove your worth. One cheer before I go,
Ah? good—this shout is valiancy, the next
Victory—such clear visions have I seen,
Such surety of God: and for God's sake, thro' whom
Ye conquer, be not ruthless conquerors
But merciful. Once vanquished, all enough
Is then avenged. Meanwhile, stand by your stake—
One hour, and all is yours. ------”

By this, the foe
Slowly and with much loss, more than his gain
Of ground, had won toward the Patriots
Within a cannon's range. His mighty mass
Lay all as open to their showering shot
As a huge bulky ox to the sharp sting
Of hornets on each side assailing him;
Spite of his rage, and what as little avails
His uncouth strength. Many fell slain, yet more
Wounded, and all were sore dismayed at heart
To see what they ne'er looked for: bloody strife
Instead of easy slaughter. There was a ridge
Whereon the rebel host made their main stand,
And yet a lower one, three furlongs forth,
Sea strands of yore; one later, one earlier,
With level ground between. There did the foe
Beneath the shelter of that nether ridge
Stretch out his shattered force: so to redeem
Their disarray to a sound order again,
And in that pause to breathe, and with free breath
Renew their spirit. Then, being so refreshed,
With sudden onset storm the upper range
Forthright to victory. So they devised:
Scattering first their skirmishers abroad
For safety of their rear. Safety! ah no,

297

She shrinks from such a neighbourhood. Those swarms
Deadly as swift, beset them round again,
Ever if driven here whizzing there back
From truce, yet keener and thirstier of blood.
Till Falkenstein at last, that haughty lord,
Thus to his company. “Comrades, what now,
Are we turned popinjays, that we stand thus
To make them sport? No, let us first go clear
Yon harvest from the field, then will we back
To glean these scatterlings. And, hearken me,
No more child's play—no more such silly waste
Of shot and powder; but upon them straight
With the bayonet.” He spoke, and the word ran
Like lightning thro' the line, the bayonet.
Upstarted one and all, some daringly,
Others in frenzy of bewildered fear,
Rushing like sheep to a gate, where but one leads
All following. So they hurtled on, and so
Were slaughtered: for their foes, strong in that stand,
And stronger in their stern surety of aim,
Met them with such a crashing storm of shot
As broke that living wall to a score gaps,
Ruinous carnage. Yet were warm hearts there,
High blood and manly pride. What they failed once
Framing their force anew, they dared again,
And see—their daring wins. Scarce their gun's length
Severed them from their foes: if they break in
They conquer—yes—if death be victory:
They'll know none else—as the foremost drew their arms
Back for the thrust, came such another crash
Deadlier than the first. Oh, hold your hands,
Is life a worthless bubble, idly blown,
To be crushed so recklessly? Then, as they stood
Brokenly, wondering each to stand alone
'Mong his fallen fellows.” “See, they waver; oh, see”
Cried Hermann, “now is time to try our steel!
One rush, they're swept before us as yon smoke
Before the whirling wind.” He spoke, and matched
The saying with the deed; forward they burst
Fierce as mastiffs unchained. But who can tell
The encounter? shouts and groans, and pealing shot

298

Are the only words to speak it: as doomed sprites
Fleeing before their devilish torturers,
So fled those soldiers: and their conquerors!
Ask not if they pursued, if bayonets
Wantoned in blood, if savageness for all
Answer to supplication smote it down
In the act of prayer? No, rather ask of war
What he e'er did of direst memory?
And then be sure thousand such deeds were done
Upon that field.

Slowly the sun sank down,
And murky red, as with rank vapour of blood,
And ever he betokens with the like
Some say, that yearly eve—Vengeance looked back
Smiling a grim smile at the gory sight,
Cursing the night that hindered it to slay
While yet were men for slaughter. Last their way
They wended back, those conquerors, in stern joy,
Great gain, small loss: a few score comrades missed
And the world won. But Hermann, where is he?
Where is the king? Come forth and show thyself,
That loyalty may do thee liege-like due,
And crown thee with a free crown, laurel-wreathed
By Victory. Oh come, they call for thee
Thy faithful people. Shine in their glad eyes,
And be so kingly in thy grace, as they
Are loyal in their love. All ask of thee
Wildly and darkly, in tumultuous wise,
But none may answer them. Why, 'tis most strange,
Strange as the trunk and limbs to stand alone
And the head gone. When was it heard before
A king was lost and no more known of him
More than a beggar's brat? Treason, speak out.
Hast slain him? If thou hast, thou'lt answer it
Fearfully, to such wrath as ne'er raged yet,
The wrath of maddened freemen. But who last
Beheld him—when and where? What circumstance,
What proof? Then many spake, but only one
Was minded, for his grey sadness of speech
Outweighed the worth of other witnesses.
'Twas he, the trusty shepherd, then came forth

299

And said. “I loved him much and honoured him,
And therefore thro' the danger of the day
I watched him close. When we broke out at last
He was ahead of us, cheering us on:
Fearless I followed him, for something he showed
More than belongs to man. He rode foreright
O'er rough and level, hill, brushwood, and bog,
Thro' the wild panic of the enemy,
In midst of danger; as one meaning death
For himself, not others: striking never a stroke,
Firing no shot at all, but with sword hung
Heavily from his hand by his horse flank
As tho' his arm were shattered. So he rode,
And so I followed him—up to the stream,
Or hard upon—when, as he neared the bank,
Down fell my horse, stumbling in the thick furze,
I under him—and there, senseless and stunned,
I was no more; but rising, after awhile,
Looked round, and nought was there in front of me
But the swift river flowing silently:
Behind, and on each side, the din of war
Roaring, as sure ye heard it. I've said all.
Heaven grant us better certainly than this
That I can show.”

Then was much murmuring;
Since that trustworthy tale showed them no light,
But darker doubt—so strange a sudden eclipse,
So awful, as befals no lesser star,
Only the sun. Then was the river, too,
Questioned with drags and with all likely search
To tell the truth. Vainly, for beggar or king
Alike he reckons, and keeps all he can.
And so perplexity, all means being spent,
Stood there with folded arms—but Time past on
Indifferent; and days were heaped on days
To a full month; till, in that while, the folk
Confess'd the hand of God fulfilling all
The olden free faith of their forefathers,
And grew to cheerful calm. Then as they met
Duly, for statement of their ordinance;
And there was question who for their lost king

300

Should rule them in his stead. “No, we'll have none,”
Cried the conspiring universal will,
“No other ruler, only his fatherly
Mind, and the wisdom of his latest words.
But in his empty throne none else shall sit
Till he return. For he but bides his time
As Providence on high hath so ordained:
And as of late he did, no less again
He will revisit us at pinch of need,
Watchful whene'er. Meanwhile we'll honour him,
Our patriot hero, in honour next to God,
With ceremonious due, festal and full,
Thro' yearly celebration of set days;
And with heart-worship, holier than all
And deeper: that the welfare of this land
May ne'er forget the trial whence she rose,
Nor him, the leader and headspring of all.
But hallow evermore her growing weal
With the like growth of godly gratitude.
So be it—and Ernest, when thou com'st again,
As thou would'st find us, so may we be found.”

FINIS.