 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
II. VOLUME II
1
POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION.
MUTABILITY.
I saw two children intertwine
Their arms about each other,
Like the young tendrils of a vine
About its nearest brother:
And ever and anon,
As gaily they ran on,
They looked into each other's face
Anticipating an embrace.
Their arms about each other,
Like the young tendrils of a vine
About its nearest brother:
And ever and anon,
As gaily they ran on,
They looked into each other's face
Anticipating an embrace.
I saw these two when they were men,
I watched them meet one day,
They touched each other's hands—and then
Each went on his own way.
There did not seem a tie
Of love—a bond or chain,
To make them turn the lingering eye,
Or grasp the hand again.
I watched them meet one day,
They touched each other's hands—and then
Each went on his own way.
2
Of love—a bond or chain,
To make them turn the lingering eye,
Or grasp the hand again.
This is a page in our life's book
We all of us turn over:
The web is rent,
The hour-glass spent,
And, oh! the paths we once forsook
How seldom we recover.
We all of us turn over:
The web is rent,
The hour-glass spent,
And, oh! the paths we once forsook
How seldom we recover.
Our days are broken into parts,
And every remnant has a tale
Of the abandonment of hearts,
Which make our freshest hopes grow pale;
And when we talk of Friendship mutter,
We know not what it is we utter.
And every remnant has a tale
Of the abandonment of hearts,
Which make our freshest hopes grow pale;
And when we talk of Friendship mutter,
We know not what it is we utter.
I weep not that our fate is dark,
I quail not that the wild winds hark
About our heads, and miseries mark
Their victories on our brows:—
But though the dynasty of Fate
Doth make our words a feather's weight,
Doth mark our pledges with derision,
And force us into indecision,
And feigning of our vows—
I care not that our lore may be
Deep as the everlasting sea;
When will the falling of a star,
The darting of a sun-born beam,
Compare with what our spirits are?
And what unto ourselves we seem,
Is tinctured with a life so small,
So wretchedly ephemeral,
As thrills our phantom-like communions—
No fellow-soul's fraternal unions.
I quail not that the wild winds hark
About our heads, and miseries mark
Their victories on our brows:—
But though the dynasty of Fate
Doth make our words a feather's weight,
Doth mark our pledges with derision,
And force us into indecision,
And feigning of our vows—
3
Deep as the everlasting sea;
When will the falling of a star,
The darting of a sun-born beam,
Compare with what our spirits are?
And what unto ourselves we seem,
Is tinctured with a life so small,
So wretchedly ephemeral,
As thrills our phantom-like communions—
No fellow-soul's fraternal unions.
4
TO A CHILD WITH BLACK EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR.
When first, on that fair morn of May,
Thou cam'st across my pilgrim way,
My joy was shaded by much fear;
Thy hair, all made of very light,
Seemed almost too supremely bright
For earth,—I asked Why wert Thou here?
Thou cam'st across my pilgrim way,
My joy was shaded by much fear;
Thy hair, all made of very light,
Seemed almost too supremely bright
For earth,—I asked Why wert Thou here?
But when I watched those eyes below,
So clear, yet darkling like the flow
Of waters in a silent cave;
I felt they were of human birth,
Of Earth, though of the best of Earth;
Quietly lucid, sweetly grave.
So clear, yet darkling like the flow
Of waters in a silent cave;
I felt they were of human birth,
Of Earth, though of the best of Earth;
Quietly lucid, sweetly grave.
Dear child! by Nature double-dowered,
Thee I would surely deem empowered
A great ensample-work to do;
To show that Man, however crowned
With rays of Heavenly Love, is bound
To Earth's serene Affections too.
Thee I would surely deem empowered
A great ensample-work to do;
To show that Man, however crowned
With rays of Heavenly Love, is bound
To Earth's serene Affections too.
1832.
5
CARPE DIEM.
Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace
Thy even way,
Thou pantest on to win a mournful race:
Then stay! oh, stay!
Thy even way,
Thou pantest on to win a mournful race:
Then stay! oh, stay!
Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain;
Loiter,—enjoy:
Once past, Thou never wilt come back again,
A second Boy.
Loiter,—enjoy:
Once past, Thou never wilt come back again,
A second Boy.
The hills of Manhood wear a noble face,
When seen from far;
The mist of light from which they take their grace
Hides what they are.
When seen from far;
The mist of light from which they take their grace
Hides what they are.
The dark and weary path those cliffs between
Thou canst not know,
And how it leads to regions never-green,
Dead fields of snow.
Thou canst not know,
And how it leads to regions never-green,
Dead fields of snow.
Pause, while thou mayst, nor deem that fate thy gain,
Which, all too fast,
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain,
A Man at last.
Which, all too fast,
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain,
A Man at last.
1833.
6
THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.
No, though all the winds that lie
In the circle of the sky
Trace him out, and pray and moan,
Each in its most plaintive tone,—
No, though Earth be split with sighs,
And all the Kings that reign
Over Nature's mysteries
Be our faithfullest allies,—
All—all is vain:
They may follow on his track,
But He never will come back—
Never again!
In the circle of the sky
Trace him out, and pray and moan,
Each in its most plaintive tone,—
No, though Earth be split with sighs,
And all the Kings that reign
Over Nature's mysteries
Be our faithfullest allies,—
All—all is vain:
They may follow on his track,
But He never will come back—
Never again!
Youth is gone away,
Cruel, cruel youth,
Full of gentleness and ruth
Did we think him all his stay;
How had he the heart to wreak
Such a woe on us so weak,
He that was so tender-meek?
How could he be made to learn
To find pleasure in our pain?
Could he leave us to return
Never again!
Cruel, cruel youth,
Full of gentleness and ruth
Did we think him all his stay;
How had he the heart to wreak
Such a woe on us so weak,
He that was so tender-meek?
How could he be made to learn
To find pleasure in our pain?
7
Never again!
Bow your heads very low,
Solemn-measured be your paces,
Gathered up in grief your faces,
Sing sad music as ye go;
In disordered handfuls strew
Strips of cypress, sprigs of rue;
In your hands be borne the bloom,
Whose long petals once and only
Look from their pale-leavèd tomb
In the midnight lonely;
Let the nightshade's beaded coral
Fall in melancholy moral
Your wan brows around,
While in very scorn ye fling
The amaranth upon the ground
As an unbelievèd thing;
What care we for its fair tale
Of beauties that can never fail,
Glories that can never wane?
No such blooms are on the track
He has past, who will come back
Never again!
Solemn-measured be your paces,
Gathered up in grief your faces,
Sing sad music as ye go;
In disordered handfuls strew
Strips of cypress, sprigs of rue;
In your hands be borne the bloom,
Whose long petals once and only
Look from their pale-leavèd tomb
In the midnight lonely;
Let the nightshade's beaded coral
Fall in melancholy moral
Your wan brows around,
While in very scorn ye fling
The amaranth upon the ground
As an unbelievèd thing;
What care we for its fair tale
Of beauties that can never fail,
Glories that can never wane?
No such blooms are on the track
He has past, who will come back
Never again!
Alas! we know not how he went,
We knew not he was going,
For had our tears once found a vent,
We' had stayed him with their flowing.
It was as an earthquake, when
We awoke and found him gone,
We were miserable men,
We were hopeless, every one!
Yes, he must have gone away
In his guise of every day,
In his common dress, the same
Perfect face and perfect frame;
For in feature, for in limb,
Who could be compared to him?
Firm his step, as one who knows
He is free where'er he goes,
And withal as light of spring
As the arrow from the string;
His impassioned eye had got
Fire which the sun has not;
Silk to feel, and gold to see,
Fell his tresses full and free,
Like the morning mists that glide
Soft adown the mountain's side;
Most delicious 'twas to hear
When his voice was trilling clear
As a silver-hearted bell,
Or to follow its low swell,
When, as dreamy winds that stray
Fainting 'mid Æolian chords,
Inner music seemed to play
Symphony to all his words;
In his hand was poised a spear,
Deftly poised, as to appear
Resting of its proper will,—
Thus a merry hunter still,
And engarlanded with bay,
Must our Youth have gone away,
Though we half remember now,
He had borne some little while
Something mournful in his smile—
Something serious on his brow:
Gentle Heart, perhaps he knew
The cruel deed he was about to do!
We knew not he was going,
8
We' had stayed him with their flowing.
It was as an earthquake, when
We awoke and found him gone,
We were miserable men,
We were hopeless, every one!
Yes, he must have gone away
In his guise of every day,
In his common dress, the same
Perfect face and perfect frame;
For in feature, for in limb,
Who could be compared to him?
Firm his step, as one who knows
He is free where'er he goes,
And withal as light of spring
As the arrow from the string;
His impassioned eye had got
Fire which the sun has not;
Silk to feel, and gold to see,
Fell his tresses full and free,
Like the morning mists that glide
Soft adown the mountain's side;
Most delicious 'twas to hear
When his voice was trilling clear
As a silver-hearted bell,
Or to follow its low swell,
When, as dreamy winds that stray
Fainting 'mid Æolian chords,
9
Symphony to all his words;
In his hand was poised a spear,
Deftly poised, as to appear
Resting of its proper will,—
Thus a merry hunter still,
And engarlanded with bay,
Must our Youth have gone away,
Though we half remember now,
He had borne some little while
Something mournful in his smile—
Something serious on his brow:
Gentle Heart, perhaps he knew
The cruel deed he was about to do!
Now, between us all and Him
There are rising mountains dim,
Forests of uncounted trees,
Spaces of unmeasured seas:
Think of Him how gay of yore
We made sunshine out of shade,—
Think with Him how light we bore
All the burden sorrow laid;
All went happily about Him,—
How shall we toil on without Him?
How without his cheering eye
Constant strength enbreathing ever?
How without Him standing by
Aiding every hard endeavour?
For when faintness or disease
Had usurped upon our knees,
If he deigned our lips to kiss
With those living lips of his,
We were lightened of our pain,
We were up and hale again:—
Now, without one blessing glance
From his rose-lit countenance,
We shall die, deserted men,—
And not see him, even then!
There are rising mountains dim,
Forests of uncounted trees,
Spaces of unmeasured seas:
Think of Him how gay of yore
We made sunshine out of shade,—
Think with Him how light we bore
All the burden sorrow laid;
All went happily about Him,—
How shall we toil on without Him?
How without his cheering eye
Constant strength enbreathing ever?
How without Him standing by
10
For when faintness or disease
Had usurped upon our knees,
If he deigned our lips to kiss
With those living lips of his,
We were lightened of our pain,
We were up and hale again:—
Now, without one blessing glance
From his rose-lit countenance,
We shall die, deserted men,—
And not see him, even then!
We are cold, very cold,—
All our blood is drying old,
And a terrible heart-dearth
Reigns for us in heaven and earth:
Forth we stretch our chilly fingers
In poor effort to attain
Tepid embers, where still lingers
Some preserving warmth, in vain.
Oh! if Love, the Sister dear
Of Youth that we have lost,
Come not in swift pity here,
Come not, with a host
Of Affections, strong and kind,
To hold up our sinking mind,
If She will not, of her grace,
Take her Brother's holy place,
And be to us, at least, a part
Of what he was, in Life and Heart,
The faintness that is on our breath
Can have no other end but Death.
All our blood is drying old,
And a terrible heart-dearth
Reigns for us in heaven and earth:
Forth we stretch our chilly fingers
In poor effort to attain
Tepid embers, where still lingers
Some preserving warmth, in vain.
Oh! if Love, the Sister dear
Of Youth that we have lost,
Come not in swift pity here,
Come not, with a host
Of Affections, strong and kind,
To hold up our sinking mind,
If She will not, of her grace,
Take her Brother's holy place,
11
Of what he was, in Life and Heart,
The faintness that is on our breath
Can have no other end but Death.
1833.
12
ON LEAVING A PLACE WHERE ONE HAD DWELT MANY YEARS.
There are some moments in each life
With strange and wayward feelings rife,
When certain words and certain things
Strike on the heart unwonted strings,
And waken forth some solemn tone
Their nature yet has never known:
And it is thus—when from some place,
As from a long familiar face,
Though you may wish the chain to sever,
Still are you sad to part for ever.
With strange and wayward feelings rife,
When certain words and certain things
Strike on the heart unwonted strings,
And waken forth some solemn tone
Their nature yet has never known:
And it is thus—when from some place,
As from a long familiar face,
Though you may wish the chain to sever,
Still are you sad to part for ever.
Perchance 'twas an unlovely spot,
Perchance too that you loved it not,—
Perchance that in that place had been
Dramas of many a cloudy scene,—
That there the first fresh tear was wept,
Or youth's impatient vigil kept,
That not a day you there had spent
Held its unchequered merriment
Marked by the free heart's earliest throes,
And chronicled by childhood's woes,—
Though soulless men may wonder why
You heaved the involuntary sigh,
And how the loss your soul oppress'd
Of that ill-cherish'd when possess'd,—
Yet when the twinkling eye has cast
One look, and knows it is the last,
And while that look is fixed behind,
In every melancholy wind
A myriad sorrowing voices come,
The sighs of a remembered home,
A long and terrible farewell
Pronounced by lips invisible:
When many an eye with rapture gleaming,
And many a smile with joyance teeming,
That may have saved you from despair,
Or lightened up your sojourn there,
By after-misery sorely tried,
In death embalmed and sanctified,
Have a new life within your brain,
And seem to gaze and beat again.—
Then thoughts of pain are all forgot,
But pleasure's memory passes not:
Yet this by some distrotion strange
Its very being fain must change
Using a stern reflective power,
To dim with gloom that parting hour,
As the low trembling spirit strays
Amid the smiles of other days.
These are the eras of Existence,
The seasons these when all resistance
To time and fate must ever seem
A futile unconsoling dream.
So much of life, we feel, is past,
Whene'er we murmur forth “the last,”—
So nearer are we to the shore,
Where time and things of time are o'er,
Where all is Present, and the Past
Of aught can never be the Last.
Perchance too that you loved it not,—
Perchance that in that place had been
Dramas of many a cloudy scene,—
That there the first fresh tear was wept,
Or youth's impatient vigil kept,
That not a day you there had spent
Held its unchequered merriment
Marked by the free heart's earliest throes,
And chronicled by childhood's woes,—
13
You heaved the involuntary sigh,
And how the loss your soul oppress'd
Of that ill-cherish'd when possess'd,—
Yet when the twinkling eye has cast
One look, and knows it is the last,
And while that look is fixed behind,
In every melancholy wind
A myriad sorrowing voices come,
The sighs of a remembered home,
A long and terrible farewell
Pronounced by lips invisible:
When many an eye with rapture gleaming,
And many a smile with joyance teeming,
That may have saved you from despair,
Or lightened up your sojourn there,
By after-misery sorely tried,
In death embalmed and sanctified,
Have a new life within your brain,
And seem to gaze and beat again.—
Then thoughts of pain are all forgot,
But pleasure's memory passes not:
Yet this by some distrotion strange
Its very being fain must change
Using a stern reflective power,
To dim with gloom that parting hour,
As the low trembling spirit strays
Amid the smiles of other days.
14
The seasons these when all resistance
To time and fate must ever seem
A futile unconsoling dream.
So much of life, we feel, is past,
Whene'er we murmur forth “the last,”—
So nearer are we to the shore,
Where time and things of time are o'er,
Where all is Present, and the Past
Of aught can never be the Last.
1829.
15
YOUTH'S FAIR RESOLVE.
Dear friend, I would that our free life should be
Like the red blood that bounding from the heart
Speeds onward through each ministering artery,
Bearing fresh force to each remotest part,
And stagnates never,
Till Death's uncouth and wintry mastery
Dams up the river.
Like the red blood that bounding from the heart
Speeds onward through each ministering artery,
Bearing fresh force to each remotest part,
And stagnates never,
Till Death's uncouth and wintry mastery
Dams up the river.
Is it because our fellows are depraved
That we should leave our work and be like them?
No,—if the laws of love and truth are braved,
From peasant's cap to jewelled diadem,—
The more's the pity;
“Ten righteous men,” the Patriarch says, “had saved
The heaven-cursed city.”
That we should leave our work and be like them?
No,—if the laws of love and truth are braved,
From peasant's cap to jewelled diadem,—
The more's the pity;
“Ten righteous men,” the Patriarch says, “had saved
The heaven-cursed city.”
The hermit sage an ancient anchorite,
Who went to wilds and made the wolves their friends,
Even they perchance had fought a better fight,
And served more righteously their being's ends,
Had they remained
In the world's pale, and kept, with perilous might,
Their faith unstained:
Who went to wilds and made the wolves their friends,
Even they perchance had fought a better fight,
And served more righteously their being's ends,
16
In the world's pale, and kept, with perilous might,
Their faith unstained:
Had they abandoned ev'n the commune high
Which oft in solitude they held with God,—
The lonely prayer, the speechless ecstasy
In which the angel-paths of Heaven they trod,
And sacrificed
Upon that altar which saw Jesus die,
What best they prized.
Which oft in solitude they held with God,—
The lonely prayer, the speechless ecstasy
In which the angel-paths of Heaven they trod,
And sacrificed
Upon that altar which saw Jesus die,
What best they prized.
And I—oh! think you not I too have known
'Tis sweet to muse beneath the old elm tree,
While night lets loose her drapery's spangled zone,
Or watch the sun-god woo the western sea,
With rich parade,
And send my thoughts, to brave adventure prone,
On strange crusade?
'Tis sweet to muse beneath the old elm tree,
While night lets loose her drapery's spangled zone,
Or watch the sun-god woo the western sea,
With rich parade,
And send my thoughts, to brave adventure prone,
On strange crusade?
Or else with you a' strolling hand in hand
Break lances in a tournament of rhyme,—
Dispute about the tints of faery-land,—
Or, by some heritage which olden Time
Has left the wise,
Bid wondrous pageants, as by sorcerer's wand,
Before us rise.
Break lances in a tournament of rhyme,—
Dispute about the tints of faery-land,—
Or, by some heritage which olden Time
Has left the wise,
Bid wondrous pageants, as by sorcerer's wand,
Before us rise.
17
If life were all like this to you and me,
How would it matter to be young or old?
Where is the privilege of youth's buoyancy,
Could we thus turn Time's iron scythe to gold?
The pleasures given
To man were all too great, and there would be
No want of heaven.
How would it matter to be young or old?
Where is the privilege of youth's buoyancy,
Could we thus turn Time's iron scythe to gold?
The pleasures given
To man were all too great, and there would be
No want of heaven.
Let us go forth, and resolutely dare,
With sweat of brow, to toil our little day,—
And if a tear fall on the task of care,
In memory of those spring-hours past away,
Brush it not by!
Our hearts to God! to brother-men
Aid, labor, blessing, prayer, and then
To these a sigh!
With sweat of brow, to toil our little day,—
And if a tear fall on the task of care,
In memory of those spring-hours past away,
Brush it not by!
Our hearts to God! to brother-men
Aid, labor, blessing, prayer, and then
To these a sigh!
1832.
18
THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE.
Le bon Dieu me dit—“Chante,
Chante, pauvre petit.”—
Beranger.
Chante, pauvre petit.”—
Beranger.
I have no comeliness of frame,
No pleasant range of feature.
I'm feeble, as when first I came
To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;
But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.
No pleasant range of feature.
I'm feeble, as when first I came
To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low whene'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;
But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.
The trivial part in life I play
Can have so light a bearing
On other men, who, night or day,
For me are never caring;
That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,
I know that I am tempted less,—
And that is consolation.
Can have so light a bearing
On other men, who, night or day,
For me are never caring;
That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,
I know that I am tempted less,—
And that is consolation.
The beautiful! the noble blood!
I shrink as they pass by,—
Such power for evil or for good
Is flashing from each eye;
They are indeed the stewards of Heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!
I shrink as they pass by,—
Such power for evil or for good
Is flashing from each eye;
19
High-headed and strong-handed:
From those, to whom so much is given,
How much may be demanded!
'Tis true, I am hard buffeted,
Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;
But then I think, “Had I been born,—
Hot spirit—sturdy frame—
And passion prompt to follow scorn,—
I might have done the same.”
Though few can be my foes,
Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;
But then I think, “Had I been born,—
Hot spirit—sturdy frame—
And passion prompt to follow scorn,—
I might have done the same.”
To me men are for what they are,
They wear no masks with me;
I never sicken'd at the jar
Of ill-tuned flattery;
I never mourned affections lent
In folly or in blindness;—
The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking, kindness.
They wear no masks with me;
I never sicken'd at the jar
Of ill-tuned flattery;
I never mourned affections lent
In folly or in blindness;—
The kindness that on me is spent
Is pure, unasking, kindness.
And most of all, I never felt
The agonizing sense
Of seeing love from passion melt
Into indifference;
The fearful shame, that day by day
Burns onward, still to burn,
To'have thrown your precious heart away,
And met this black return.
The agonizing sense
Of seeing love from passion melt
Into indifference;
20
Burns onward, still to burn,
To'have thrown your precious heart away,
And met this black return.
I almost fancy that the more
I am cast out from men,
Nature has made me of her store
A worthier denizen;
As if it pleased her to caress
A plant grown up so wild,
As if the being parentless
Made me the more her child.
I am cast out from men,
Nature has made me of her store
A worthier denizen;
As if it pleased her to caress
A plant grown up so wild,
As if the being parentless
Made me the more her child.
Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
I fall into the dewy grass,
And cool my fevered cheek;
And hear a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,
A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.
To be so poor and weak,
I fall into the dewy grass,
And cool my fevered cheek;
And hear a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,
A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.
My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,—
But yet I always run,
As to a father's morning kiss,
When rises the round sun;
I see the flowers on stalk and stem,
Light shrubs, and poplars tall,
Enjoy the breeze,—I rock with them,—
We're merry brothers all.
But yet I always run,
As to a father's morning kiss,
When rises the round sun;
21
Light shrubs, and poplars tall,
Enjoy the breeze,—I rock with them,—
We're merry brothers all.
I do remember well, when first
I saw the great blue sea,—
It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;
My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow,
I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.
I saw the great blue sea,—
It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;
My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow,
I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.
The Lamb that at its mother's side
Reclines, a tremulous thing,
The Robin in cold winter-tide,
The Linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,
And love my slender hand,—
For we are bound, by God's decree,
In one defensive band.
Reclines, a tremulous thing,
The Robin in cold winter-tide,
The Linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,
And love my slender hand,—
For we are bound, by God's decree,
In one defensive band.
And children, who the worldly mind
And ways have not put on,
Are ever glad in me to find
A blithe companion:
And when for play they leave their homes,
Left to their own sweet glee,
They hear my step, and cry, “He comes,
“Our little friend,—'tis he.”
And ways have not put on,
Are ever glad in me to find
A blithe companion:
22
Left to their own sweet glee,
They hear my step, and cry, “He comes,
“Our little friend,—'tis he.”
Have you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend
Your eyes to one particular light,
Till it became a friend?
And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far
Or more or less, it mattered not,—
It still was your own star.
And found it joy to bend
Your eyes to one particular light,
Till it became a friend?
And then, so loved that glistening spot,
That, whether it were far
Or more or less, it mattered not,—
It still was your own star.
Thus, and thus only, can you know,
How I, even scornèd I,
Can live in love, tho' set so low,
And'my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,
The meanest, lornest, thing of all—
Still owns its right to love.
How I, even scornèd I,
Can live in love, tho' set so low,
And'my ladie-love so high;
Thus learn, that on this varied ball,
Whate'er can breathe and move,
The meanest, lornest, thing of all—
Still owns its right to love.
With no fair round of household cares
Will my lone hearth be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs
Will touch a loving breast;
No darling pledge of spousal faith
Shall I be found possessing,
To whom a blessing with my breath
Would be a double blessing:
Will my lone hearth be blest,
Never the snow of my old hairs
Will touch a loving breast;
23
Shall I be found possessing,
To whom a blessing with my breath
Would be a double blessing:
But yet my love with sweets is rife,
With happiness it teems,
It beautifies my waking life,
And waits upon my dreams;
A shape that floats upon the night,
Like foam upon the sea,—
A voice of seraphim,—a light
Of present Deity!
With happiness it teems,
It beautifies my waking life,
And waits upon my dreams;
A shape that floats upon the night,
Like foam upon the sea,—
A voice of seraphim,—a light
Of present Deity!
I hide me in the dark arcade,
When she walks forth alone,—
I feast upon her hair's rich braid,—
Her half unclaspèd zone:
I watch the flittings of her dress,
The bending boughs between,—
I trace her footsteps' faery press
On' the scarcely ruffled green.
When she walks forth alone,—
I feast upon her hair's rich braid,—
Her half unclaspèd zone:
I watch the flittings of her dress,
The bending boughs between,—
I trace her footsteps' faery press
On' the scarcely ruffled green.
Oh deep delight! the frail guitar
Trembles beneath her hand,
She sings a song she brought from far,
I cannot understand;
Her voice is always as from heaven,
But yet I seem to hear
Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.
Trembles beneath her hand,
She sings a song she brought from far,
I cannot understand;
24
But yet I seem to hear
Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.
She' has turned her tender eyes around,
And seen me crouching there,
And smiles, just as that last full sound
Is fainting on the air;
And now, I can go forth so proud,
And raise my head so tall.—
My heart within me beats so loud,
And musical withal:—
And seen me crouching there,
And smiles, just as that last full sound
Is fainting on the air;
And now, I can go forth so proud,
And raise my head so tall.—
My heart within me beats so loud,
And musical withal:—
And there is summer all the while,
Mid-winter tho' it be,—
How should the universe not smile,
When she has smiled on me?
For tho' that smile can nothing more
Than merest pity prove,
Yet pity, it was sung of yore,
Is not so far from love.
Mid-winter tho' it be,—
How should the universe not smile,
When she has smiled on me?
For tho' that smile can nothing more
Than merest pity prove,
Yet pity, it was sung of yore,
Is not so far from love.
From what a crowd of lovers' woes
My weakness is exempt!
How far more fortunate than those
Who mark me for contempt!
No fear of rival happiness
My fervent glory smothers,
The zephyr fans me none the less
That it is bland to others.
My weakness is exempt!
How far more fortunate than those
Who mark me for contempt!
25
My fervent glory smothers,
The zephyr fans me none the less
That it is bland to others.
Thus without share in coin or land,
But well content to hold
The wealth of Nature in my hand,
One flail of virgin gold,—
My Love above me like a sun,—
My own bright thoughts my wings,—
Thro' life I trust to flutter on,
As gay as aught that sings.
But well content to hold
The wealth of Nature in my hand,
One flail of virgin gold,—
My Love above me like a sun,—
My own bright thoughts my wings,—
Thro' life I trust to flutter on,
As gay as aught that sings.
One hour I own I dread,—to die
Alone and unbefriended,—
No soothing voice, no tearful eye,—
But that must soon be ended;
And then I shall receive my part
Of everlasting treasure,
In that just world where each man's heart
Will be his only measure.
Alone and unbefriended,—
No soothing voice, no tearful eye,—
But that must soon be ended;
And then I shall receive my part
Of everlasting treasure,
In that just world where each man's heart
Will be his only measure.
1833.
26
THE VIOLET-GIRL.
When Fancy will continually rehearse
Some painful scene once present to the eye,
'Tis well to mould it into gentle verse,
That it may lighter on the spirit lie.
Some painful scene once present to the eye,
'Tis well to mould it into gentle verse,
That it may lighter on the spirit lie.
Home yester-eve I wearily returned,
Though bright my morning mood and short my way,
But sad experience in one moment earned
Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day.
Though bright my morning mood and short my way,
But sad experience in one moment earned
Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day.
Passing the corner of a populous street,
I marked a girl whose wont it was to stand,
With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet,
And bunches of fresh Violets in each hand.
I marked a girl whose wont it was to stand,
With pallid cheek, torn gown, and naked feet,
And bunches of fresh Violets in each hand.
There her small commerce in the chill March weather
She plied with accents miserably mild;
It was a frightful thought to set together
Those healthy blossoms and that fading child :—
She plied with accents miserably mild;
It was a frightful thought to set together
Those healthy blossoms and that fading child :—
—Those luxuries and largess of the earth,
Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man,
And this poor sorry weed cast loosely forth
On Life's wild waste to struggle as it can!
Beauty and pleasure to the sense of man,
And this poor sorry weed cast loosely forth
On Life's wild waste to struggle as it can!
27
To me that odorous purple ministers
Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee,
While meanest images alone are hers,
The sordid wants of base humanity.
Hope-bearing memories and inspiring glee,
While meanest images alone are hers,
The sordid wants of base humanity.
Think after all this lapse of hungry hours,
In the disfurnished chamber of dim cold,
How she must loathe the very scented flowers
That on the squalid table lie unsold!
In the disfurnished chamber of dim cold,
How she must loathe the very scented flowers
That on the squalid table lie unsold!
Rest on your woodland banks and wither there,
Sweet preluders of Spring! far better so,
Than live misused to fill the grasp of care,
And serve the piteous purposes of woe.
Sweet preluders of Spring! far better so,
Than live misused to fill the grasp of care,
And serve the piteous purposes of woe.
Ye are no longer Nature's gracious gift,
Yourselves so much and harbingers of more,
But a most bitter irony to lift
The veil that hides our vilest mortal sore.
Yourselves so much and harbingers of more,
But a most bitter irony to lift
The veil that hides our vilest mortal sore.
1837.
28
ON MY YOUTHFUL LETTERS.
Look at the leaves I gather up in trembling,—
Little to see, and sere, and time-bewasted,
But they are other than the tree can bear now,
For they are mine!
Little to see, and sere, and time-bewasted,
But they are other than the tree can bear now,
For they are mine!
Deep as the tumult in an archèd sea-cave,
Out of the Past these antiquated voices
Fall on my heart's ear; I must listen to them,
For they are mine!
Out of the Past these antiquated voices
Fall on my heart's ear; I must listen to them,
For they are mine!
Whose is this hand that wheresoe'er it wanders,
Traces in light words thoughts that come as lightly?
Who was the king of all this soul-dominion?
I? Was it mine?
Traces in light words thoughts that come as lightly?
Who was the king of all this soul-dominion?
I? Was it mine?
With what a healthful appetite of spirit,
Sits he at Life's inevitable banquet,
Tasting delight in every thing before him!
Could this be mine?
Sits he at Life's inevitable banquet,
Tasting delight in every thing before him!
Could this be mine?
29
See! how he twists his coronals of fancy,
Out of all blossoms, knowing not the poison,—
How his young eye is meshed in the enchantment!
And it was mine!
Out of all blossoms, knowing not the poison,—
How his young eye is meshed in the enchantment!
And it was mine!
What, is this I?—this miserable complex,
Losing and gaining, only knit together
By the ever-bursting fibres of remembrance,—
What is this mine?
Losing and gaining, only knit together
By the ever-bursting fibres of remembrance,—
What is this mine?
Surely we are by feeling as by knowing,—
Changing our hearts our being changes with them;
Take them away,—these spectres of my boyhood,
They are not mine.
Changing our hearts our being changes with them;
Take them away,—these spectres of my boyhood,
They are not mine.
1838.
30
FRIENDSHIP AND LOVE.
If I could coldly sum the love
That we each other bear,
My heart would to itself disprove
The truth of what was there;—
Its willing utterance should express
Nothing but joy and thankfulness.
That we each other bear,
My heart would to itself disprove
The truth of what was there;—
Its willing utterance should express
Nothing but joy and thankfulness.
Yet Friendship is so blurred a name,
A good so ill-discerned,
That if the nature of the flame
That in our bosoms burned
Were treasured in becoming rhymes,
It might have worth in after-times.
A good so ill-discerned,
That if the nature of the flame
That in our bosoms burned
Were treasured in becoming rhymes,
It might have worth in after-times.
The Lover is a God,—the ground
He treads on is not ours;
His soul by other laws is bound,
Sustained by other powers;
We, children of a lowlier lot,
Listen and understand him not.
He treads on is not ours;
His soul by other laws is bound,
Sustained by other powers;
We, children of a lowlier lot,
Listen and understand him not.
31
Liver of a diviner life,
He turns a vacant gaze
Towards the theatre of strife,
Where we consume our days;
His own and that one other heart
Form for himself a world apart:
He turns a vacant gaze
Towards the theatre of strife,
Where we consume our days;
His own and that one other heart
Form for himself a world apart:
A sphere, whose sympathies are wings,
On which he rests sublime,
Above the shifts of casual things,
Above the flow of time;
How should he feel, how can he know
The sense of what goes on below?
On which he rests sublime,
Above the shifts of casual things,
Above the flow of time;
How should he feel, how can he know
The sense of what goes on below?
Reprove him not,—no selfish aim
Here leads to selfish ends;
You might as well the infant blame
That smiles to grieving friends:
Could all thus love, and love endure,
Our world would want no other cure.
Here leads to selfish ends;
You might as well the infant blame
That smiles to grieving friends:
Could all thus love, and love endure,
Our world would want no other cure.
But few are the elect, for whom
This fruit is on the stem,—
And for that few an early tomb
Is open,—not for them,
But for their love; for they live on,
Sorrow and shame! when Love is gone:
This fruit is on the stem,—
And for that few an early tomb
Is open,—not for them,
But for their love; for they live on,
Sorrow and shame! when Love is gone:
32
They who have dwelt at Heaven's own gate,
And felt the light within,
Come down to our poor mortal state,
Indifference, care, and sin;
And their dimmed spirits hardly bear
A trace to tell what once they were.
And felt the light within,
Come down to our poor mortal state,
Indifference, care, and sin;
And their dimmed spirits hardly bear
A trace to tell what once they were.
Fever and Health their thirst may slake
At one and the same stream;
The dreamer knows not till he wake
The falsehood of his dream:
How, while I love thee, can I prove
The surer nature of our love?
At one and the same stream;
The dreamer knows not till he wake
The falsehood of his dream:
How, while I love thee, can I prove
The surer nature of our love?
It is, that while our choicest hours
Are closed from vulgar ken,
We daily use our active powers,—
Are men to brother men,—
It is, that, with our hands in one,
We do the work that should be done.
Are closed from vulgar ken,
We daily use our active powers,—
Are men to brother men,—
It is, that, with our hands in one,
We do the work that should be done.
Our hands in one, we will not shrink
From life's severest due,—
Our hands in one, we will not blink
The terrible and true;
What each would feel a heavy blow
Falls on us both as autumn snow.
From life's severest due,—
Our hands in one, we will not blink
The terrible and true;
What each would feel a heavy blow
Falls on us both as autumn snow.
33
The simple unpresumptuous sway,
By which our hearts are ruled,
Contains no seed of self-decay;
Too temperate to be cooled,
Our Passion fears no blast of ill,
No winter, till the one last chill.
By which our hearts are ruled,
Contains no seed of self-decay;
Too temperate to be cooled,
Our Passion fears no blast of ill,
No winter, till the one last chill.
And even then no frantic grief
Shall shake the mourner's mind,—
He will reject no small relief
Kind Heaven may leave behind,
Nor set at nought his bliss enjoyed,
When now by human fate alloyed.
Shall shake the mourner's mind,—
He will reject no small relief
Kind Heaven may leave behind,
Nor set at nought his bliss enjoyed,
When now by human fate alloyed.
1838.
34
THE FRIENDSHIP-FLOWER.
When first the Friendship-flower is planted
Within the garden of your soul,
Little of care or thought is wanted
To guard its beauty fresh and whole;
But when the full empassioned age
Has well revealed the magic bloom,
A wise and holy tutelage
Alone avoids the open tomb.
Within the garden of your soul,
Little of care or thought is wanted
To guard its beauty fresh and whole;
But when the full empassioned age
Has well revealed the magic bloom,
A wise and holy tutelage
Alone avoids the open tomb.
It is not Absence you should dread,—
For absence is the very air
In which, if sound at root, the head
Shall wave most wonderful and fair:
With sympathies of joy and sorrow
Fed, as with morn and even dews,
Ideal colouring it may borrow
Richer than ever earthly hues.
For absence is the very air
In which, if sound at root, the head
Shall wave most wonderful and fair:
With sympathies of joy and sorrow
Fed, as with morn and even dews,
Ideal colouring it may borrow
Richer than ever earthly hues.
But oft the plant, whose leaves unsere
Refresh the desert, hardly brooks
The common-peopled atmosphere
Of daily thoughts and words and looks;
It trembles at the brushing wings
Of many a careless fashion-fly,
And strange suspicions aim their stings
To taint it as they wanton by.
Refresh the desert, hardly brooks
The common-peopled atmosphere
Of daily thoughts and words and looks;
35
Of many a careless fashion-fly,
And strange suspicions aim their stings
To taint it as they wanton by.
Rare is the heart to bear a flower,
That must not wholly fall and fade,
Where alien feelings, hour by hour,
Spring up, beset, and overshade;
Better, a child of care and toil,
To glorify some needy spot,
Than in a glad redundant soil
To pine neglected and forgot.
That must not wholly fall and fade,
Where alien feelings, hour by hour,
Spring up, beset, and overshade;
Better, a child of care and toil,
To glorify some needy spot,
Than in a glad redundant soil
To pine neglected and forgot.
Yet when, at last, by human slight,
Or close of their permitted day,
From the bright world of life and light
Such fine creations lapse away,—
Bury the relics that retain
Sick odours of departed pride,—
Hoard, as ye will, your memory's gain,
But leave the blossoms where they died.
Or close of their permitted day,
From the bright world of life and light
Such fine creations lapse away,—
Bury the relics that retain
Sick odours of departed pride,—
Hoard, as ye will, your memory's gain,
But leave the blossoms where they died.
1838.
36
FAIR-WEATHER FRIEND.
Because I mourned to see thee fall
From where I mounted thee,
Because I did not find thee all
I feigned a friend should be;
Because things are not what they seem,
And this our world is full of dream,—
Because thou lovest sunny weather,
Am I to lose thee altogether?
From where I mounted thee,
Because I did not find thee all
I feigned a friend should be;
Because things are not what they seem,
And this our world is full of dream,—
Because thou lovest sunny weather,
Am I to lose thee altogether?
I know harsh words have found their way,
Which I would fain recall;
And angry passions had their day,
But now—forget them all;
Now that I only ask to share
Thy presence, like some pleasant air,
Now that my gravest thoughts will bend
To thy light mind, fair-weather friend!
Which I would fain recall;
And angry passions had their day,
But now—forget them all;
Now that I only ask to share
Thy presence, like some pleasant air,
Now that my gravest thoughts will bend
To thy light mind, fair-weather friend!
See! I am careful to atone
My spirit's voice to thine;
My talk shall be of mirth alone,
Of music, flowers, and wine!
I will not breathe an earnest breath,
I will not think of life or death,
I will not dream of any end,
While thou art here, fair-weather friend!
My spirit's voice to thine;
My talk shall be of mirth alone,
Of music, flowers, and wine!
37
I will not think of life or death,
I will not dream of any end,
While thou art here, fair-weather friend!
Delusion brought me only woe,
I take thee as thou art;
Let thy gay verdure overgrow
My deep and serious heart!
Let me enjoy thy laugh, and sit
Within the radiance of thy wit,
And lean where'er thy humours tend,
Taking fair weather from my friend.
I take thee as thou art;
Let thy gay verdure overgrow
My deep and serious heart!
Let me enjoy thy laugh, and sit
Within the radiance of thy wit,
And lean where'er thy humours tend,
Taking fair weather from my friend.
Or, if I see my doom is traced
By fortune's sterner pen,
And pain and sorrow must be faced,—
Well, thou canst leave me then;
And fear not lest some faint reproach
Should on thy happy hours encroach;
Nay, blessings on thy steps attend,
Where'er they turn, fair-weather friend!
By fortune's sterner pen,
And pain and sorrow must be faced,—
Well, thou canst leave me then;
And fear not lest some faint reproach
Should on thy happy hours encroach;
Nay, blessings on thy steps attend,
Where'er they turn, fair-weather friend!
1843.
38
LONELY MATURITY.
When from the key-stone of the arch of life
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,—
Man his ascent with earnest eyes surveys,
Sums and divides the steps of peace and strife,
And numbers o'er his good and evil days,—
If then, as well may be, he stand alone,
How will his heart recall the youthful throng,
Who leapt with helping hands from stone to stone,
And cheered the progress with their choral song!
How will his heart recall the youthful throng,
Who leapt with helping hands from stone to stone,
And cheered the progress with their choral song!
How will sad memory point where, here and there,
Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate,
From him or from each other parted were,
And love sometimes become the nurse of hate!
Friend after friend, by falsehood or by fate,
From him or from each other parted were,
And love sometimes become the nurse of hate!
Yet at this hour no feelings dark or fierce,
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.
No harsh desire to punish or condemn,
Through the grave silence of the past can pierce,
Reproach, if such there be, is not for them.
Rather, he thinks, he held not duly dear
Love, the best gift that man on man bestows,
While round his downward path, recluse and drear,
He feels the chill indifferent shadows close.
Love, the best gift that man on man bestows,
While round his downward path, recluse and drear,
He feels the chill indifferent shadows close.
39
Old limbs, once broken, hardly knit together,—
Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine;
Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather,
Experience tests and mars the sense divine;
Seldom old hearts with other hearts combine;
Suspicion coarsely weighs the fancy's feather,
Experience tests and mars the sense divine;
Thus now, though ever loth to underprize
Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears,
Still worthier seems to his reflective eyes
The Friendship that sustains maturer years.
Youth's sacred passions and delicious tears,
Still worthier seems to his reflective eyes
The Friendship that sustains maturer years.
“Why did I not,” his spirit murmurs deep,
“At every cost of momentary pride
Preserve the love for which in vain I weep;
Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside?
“At every cost of momentary pride
Preserve the love for which in vain I weep;
Why had I wish, or hope, or sense beside?
“O cruel issue of some selfish thought!
O long, long, echo of some angry tone!
O fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught,
Alone to linger and to die alone!
O long, long, echo of some angry tone!
O fruitless lesson, mercilessly taught,
Alone to linger and to die alone!
“No one again upon my breast to fall,
To name me by my common Christian name,—
No one in mutual banter to recall
Some youthful folly or some boyish game;
To name me by my common Christian name,—
No one in mutual banter to recall
Some youthful folly or some boyish game;
“No one with whom to reckon and compare
The good we won or missed; no one to draw
Excuses from past circumstance or care,
And mitigate the world's unreasoning law!
The good we won or missed; no one to draw
Excuses from past circumstance or care,
And mitigate the world's unreasoning law!
40
“Were I one moment with that presence blest,
I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain,
I would invade the soul I once possest,
And once for all my ancient love regain!”
I would o'erwhelm him with my humble pain,
I would invade the soul I once possest,
And once for all my ancient love regain!”
1844.
41
PAST FRIENDSHIP.
We that were friends, yet are not now,
We that must daily meet
With ready words and courteous bow,
Acquaintance of the street;
We must not scorn the holy past,
We must remember still
To honour feelings that outlast
The reason and the will.
We that must daily meet
With ready words and courteous bow,
Acquaintance of the street;
We must not scorn the holy past,
We must remember still
To honour feelings that outlast
The reason and the will.
I might reprove thy broken faith,
I might recall the time
When thou wert chartered mine till death,
Through every fate and clime;
When every letter was a vow,
And fancy was not free
To dream of ended love; and thou
Wouldst say the same of me.
I might recall the time
When thou wert chartered mine till death,
Through every fate and clime;
When every letter was a vow,
And fancy was not free
To dream of ended love; and thou
Wouldst say the same of me.
No, no, 'tis not for us to trim
The balance of our wrongs,
Enough to leave remorse to him
To whom remorse belongs!
Let our dead friendship be to us
A desecrated name,
Unutterable, mysterious,
A sorrow and a shame.
The balance of our wrongs,
Enough to leave remorse to him
To whom remorse belongs!
42
A desecrated name,
Unutterable, mysterious,
A sorrow and a shame.
A sorrow that two souls which grew
Encased in mutual bliss,
Should wander, callous strangers, through
So cold a world as this!
A shame that we, whose hearts had earned
For life an early heaven,
Should be like angels self-returned
To Death, when once forgiven!
Encased in mutual bliss,
Should wander, callous strangers, through
So cold a world as this!
A shame that we, whose hearts had earned
For life an early heaven,
Should be like angels self-returned
To Death, when once forgiven!
Let us remain as living signs,
Where they that run may read
Pain and disgrace in many lines,
As of a loss indeed;
That of our fellows any who
The prize of love have won
May tremble at the thought to do
The thing that we have done!
Where they that run may read
Pain and disgrace in many lines,
As of a loss indeed;
That of our fellows any who
The prize of love have won
May tremble at the thought to do
The thing that we have done!
1844.
43
THE MEMORY OF LOVE.
Religious Love! it is most sure and true,
That Man, before he felt the dank night-air
Of this our nether birth, thy kingdom knew,
And bathed his Spirit in the day-spring there.
That Man, before he felt the dank night-air
Of this our nether birth, thy kingdom knew,
And bathed his Spirit in the day-spring there.
Else could world-withered age and flippant youth,
Minds of unloving and unlovely mould,
Who hold the “ancient lie” for solid truth,
And prize its wretched life-dross all as gold,—
Minds of unloving and unlovely mould,
Who hold the “ancient lie” for solid truth,
And prize its wretched life-dross all as gold,—
Could these, the minions of the dust,—even these,
Descant of thee as a familiar name,—
Detect thy signs, revere thy mysteries,
And, godless else, adore thy altar-flame?
Descant of thee as a familiar name,—
Detect thy signs, revere thy mysteries,
And, godless else, adore thy altar-flame?
And Poets too have been, who boldly own
They never felt thy influence o'er them shine,
But whose high Art has built thee many a throne,
Where thou canst fitly sit, confessed divine.
They never felt thy influence o'er them shine,
But whose high Art has built thee many a throne,
Where thou canst fitly sit, confessed divine.
Remember then, oh Pilgrim! and beware,—
Thou, with that Memory for a master-key,
Wilt open Heaven, and be no alien there,—
For as thou honourest Love—so will Love honour thee.
Thou, with that Memory for a master-key,
Wilt open Heaven, and be no alien there,—
For as thou honourest Love—so will Love honour thee.
1839.
44
LOVE AND NATURE.
I.
“Thou, that wert wont at Nature's shrine
To worship all the year,
Say are her features less divine,
Her attitudes less dear?
Or if her beauty's still the same,
Then thou art dull and slow:
She must be sooth a gentle dame
To let thee woo her so.”
To worship all the year,
Say are her features less divine,
Her attitudes less dear?
Or if her beauty's still the same,
Then thou art dull and slow:
She must be sooth a gentle dame
To let thee woo her so.”
“'Tis not, sweet friend! that I forget
The charms of vale and hill:
Sunset and dawn are lovely yet,—
But thou art lovelier still:
I prize the talk of summer brooks,
The mountain's graver tone;
But can I give them thoughts and looks
That are of right thine own?”
The charms of vale and hill:
Sunset and dawn are lovely yet,—
But thou art lovelier still:
I prize the talk of summer brooks,
The mountain's graver tone;
But can I give them thoughts and looks
That are of right thine own?”
45
II.
The Sun came through the frosty mist
Most like a dead-white moon;
Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,
As voices in a swoon.
Most like a dead-white moon;
Thy soothing tones I seemed to list,
As voices in a swoon.
Still as an island stood our ship,
The waters gave no sound,
But when I touched thy quivering lip,
I felt the world go round.
The waters gave no sound,
But when I touched thy quivering lip,
I felt the world go round.
We seemed the only sentient things
Upon that silent sea:
Our hearts the only living springs
Of all that yet could be!
Upon that silent sea:
Our hearts the only living springs
Of all that yet could be!
III.
Till death the tide of thought may stem,
There's little chance of our forgetting
The highland tarn, the water-gem,
With all its rugged mountain-setting.
There's little chance of our forgetting
The highland tarn, the water-gem,
With all its rugged mountain-setting.
Our spirits followed every cloud
That o'er it, and within it, floated;
Our joy in all the scene was loud,
Yet one thing silently we noted:
That o'er it, and within it, floated;
Our joy in all the scene was loud,
Yet one thing silently we noted:
46
That, though the glorious summer hue
That steep'd the heav'ns could scarce be brighter,
The blue below was still more blue,
The very light itself was lighter.
That steep'd the heav'ns could scarce be brighter,
The blue below was still more blue,
The very light itself was lighter.
And each the other's fancy caught
By one instinctive glance directed:
How doubly glows the Poet's thought
In the belov'd one's breast reflected!
By one instinctive glance directed:
How doubly glows the Poet's thought
In the belov'd one's breast reflected!
IV.
There is a beechen tree,
To whose thick crown a boy I clomb,
And made me there a birdlike home
To sing or ponder free.
To whose thick crown a boy I clomb,
And made me there a birdlike home
To sing or ponder free.
There is a jasmine bower,
Whence you did see me trembling tear
One spray to mingle with your hair,
And loved me from that hour.
Whence you did see me trembling tear
One spray to mingle with your hair,
And loved me from that hour.
Nature has odours none
Like these to me: let some of each,
Of jasmine flowers and leaves of beech,
Adorn our house alone.
Like these to me: let some of each,
Of jasmine flowers and leaves of beech,
Adorn our house alone.
47
V.
Where'er about the world we roam,
With heart on heart, and hand in hand,
Each dwelling has the face of home,
Each country is my native land.—
With heart on heart, and hand in hand,
Each dwelling has the face of home,
Each country is my native land.—
With glad familiar looks I greet
Places and sights unseen before:
And wandering brook, and winding street,
I follow as if passed of yore.
Places and sights unseen before:
And wandering brook, and winding street,
I follow as if passed of yore.
But if some chance or duty calls
Thee from me; then how great the change!
I hardly know my father's halls,
My mother's very smile is strange.
Thee from me; then how great the change!
I hardly know my father's halls,
My mother's very smile is strange.
Dead word become the books I read
With most delight while thou art near;
I seem thy present love to need,
My dearest friendships to endear.
With most delight while thou art near;
I seem thy present love to need,
My dearest friendships to endear.
VI.
When long upon the scales of fate
The issue of my passion hung,
And on your eyes I laid in wait,
And on your brow, and on your tongue,
The issue of my passion hung,
And on your eyes I laid in wait,
And on your brow, and on your tongue,
48
High-frowning Nature pleased me most,
Strange pleasure was it to discern
Sharp rocks and mountains peaked with frost,
Through gorges thick with fir and fern.
Strange pleasure was it to discern
Sharp rocks and mountains peaked with frost,
Through gorges thick with fir and fern.
The flowerless walk, the vapoury shrouds,
Could comfort me; though best of all,
I loved the daughter of the clouds,—
The wild, capricious, waterfall.—
Could comfort me; though best of all,
I loved the daughter of the clouds,—
The wild, capricious, waterfall.—
But now that you and I repose
On one affection's certain store,
Serener charms take place of those,—
Plenty and Peace, and little more.
On one affection's certain store,
Serener charms take place of those,—
Plenty and Peace, and little more.
The hill that tends its mother-breast,
To patient flocks and gentle kine,—
The value that spreads its royal vest
Of golden corn and purple vine;
To patient flocks and gentle kine,—
The value that spreads its royal vest
Of golden corn and purple vine;
The streams that bubble out their mirth
In humble nooks, or calmly flow,
The crystal life-blood of our earth,
Are now the dearest sights I know.
In humble nooks, or calmly flow,
The crystal life-blood of our earth,
Are now the dearest sights I know.
49
LOVE-THOUGHTS.
I.
All down the linden-alley's morning shade
Thy form with childly rapture I pursue;
No hazel-bowered brook can seek the glade
With steps more joyous and with course more true.
Thy form with childly rapture I pursue;
No hazel-bowered brook can seek the glade
With steps more joyous and with course more true.
But when all haste and hope I reach my goal,
And Thou at once thy full and earnest eyes
Turnest upon me, my encumbered soul
Bows down in shame and trembles with surprise.
And Thou at once thy full and earnest eyes
Turnest upon me, my encumbered soul
Bows down in shame and trembles with surprise.
I rise exalted on thy moving grace,
Peace and good-will in all thy voice I hear;
Yet if the sudden wonders of thy face
Fall on me, joy is weak and turns to fear.
Peace and good-will in all thy voice I hear;
Yet if the sudden wonders of thy face
Fall on me, joy is weak and turns to fear.
II.
Think not because I walk in power,
While Thou art by my side,
That I could keep the path one hour
Without my guard and guide.
While Thou art by my side,
That I could keep the path one hour
Without my guard and guide.
50
The keeper left me once alone
Within a madhouse hall,
With gibber, shriek, and fixèd smile
About me,—madmen all!
Within a madhouse hall,
With gibber, shriek, and fixèd smile
About me,—madmen all!
The horrid sense which then I felt
Is what my life would be,
If in this world of pain and guilt
I once lost sight of Thee.
Is what my life would be,
If in this world of pain and guilt
I once lost sight of Thee.
III.
Oh! let not words, the callous shell of Thought,
Intrude betwixt thy silent soul and mine;—
Try not the choicest ever Poet wrought,
They all are discord in our life divine.
Intrude betwixt thy silent soul and mine;—
Try not the choicest ever Poet wrought,
They all are discord in our life divine.
Smile not thine unbelief. But hear and say
All that Thou will'st, and then upon my breast
Thy gracious head in silent passion lay
One little hour, and tell me which is best.
All that Thou will'st, and then upon my breast
Thy gracious head in silent passion lay
One little hour, and tell me which is best.
Now let us live our love; in after-hours
Words shall fit handmaids to sweet Memory be,
But let them not disturb these holier bowers,
The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy.
Words shall fit handmaids to sweet Memory be,
But let them not disturb these holier bowers,
The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy.
51
IV.
Dream no more that grief and pain
Could such hearts as ours enchain,
Safe from loss and safe from gain,
Free, as Love makes free.
Could such hearts as ours enchain,
Safe from loss and safe from gain,
Free, as Love makes free.
When false friends pass coldly by,
Sigh, in earnest pity, sigh,
Turning thine unclouded eye
Up from them to me.
Sigh, in earnest pity, sigh,
Turning thine unclouded eye
Up from them to me.
Hear not danger's trampling feet,
Feel not sorrow's wintry sleet,
Trust that life is just and meet,
With mine arm round Thee.
Feel not sorrow's wintry sleet,
Trust that life is just and meet,
With mine arm round Thee.
Lip on lip, and eye to eye,
Love to love, we live, we die;
No more Thou, and no more I,
We, and only We!
Love to love, we live, we die;
No more Thou, and no more I,
We, and only We!
V.
I would be calm,—I would be free
From thoughts and images of Thee;
But Nature and thy will conspire
To bar me from my fair desire.
From thoughts and images of Thee;
But Nature and thy will conspire
To bar me from my fair desire.
52
The trees are moving with thy grace,
The water will reflect thy face;
The very flowers are plotting deep,
And in thy breath their odours steep.
The water will reflect thy face;
The very flowers are plotting deep,
And in thy breath their odours steep.
The breezes, when mine eyes I close,
With sighs, just like mine own, impose;
The nightingale then takes her part,
And plays thy voice against my heart.
With sighs, just like mine own, impose;
The nightingale then takes her part,
And plays thy voice against my heart.
If Thou then in one golden chain
Canst bind the world, I strive in vain;
Perchance my wisest scheme would be
To join this great conspiracy.
Canst bind the world, I strive in vain;
Perchance my wisest scheme would be
To join this great conspiracy.
VI.
I will not say my life was sad
Before it stood fulfilled in Thee;
The happy need not scorn the glad,
Thy subjects need not mock the free:
Mine was the moment's natural boon
Lighting at will on these or those,
Pleasures as constant as the moon,
And Loves eternal as the rose.
Before it stood fulfilled in Thee;
The happy need not scorn the glad,
Thy subjects need not mock the free:
Mine was the moment's natural boon
Lighting at will on these or those,
Pleasures as constant as the moon,
And Loves eternal as the rose.
I prize the humblest ancient hour,
When winged with light my spirit flew
For honey's sake from flower to flower,
Nor even asked where amaranth grew;
Each creature's simple Providence
Sufficed me well, until one day
Thy presence roused in me the sense,
How sure wert Thou, how frail were They!
When winged with light my spirit flew
53
Nor even asked where amaranth grew;
Each creature's simple Providence
Sufficed me well, until one day
Thy presence roused in me the sense,
How sure wert Thou, how frail were They!
That instant Nature seemed a dream,—
Thou waking in the midst alone,—
And life her fast unpausing stream
Contrasted with thine island-throne.
Ah, why to me of all was given
That only step of conscious pain,
From joyous Earth to glorious Heaven,
Scarce dead before I rose again!
Thou waking in the midst alone,—
And life her fast unpausing stream
Contrasted with thine island-throne.
Ah, why to me of all was given
That only step of conscious pain,
From joyous Earth to glorious Heaven,
Scarce dead before I rose again!
VII.
All fair things have soft approaches,
Quiet steps are still the sure;
It were hard to point aright
At what instant morning light,
Shy and solemn-paced, encroaches
On the desolate obscure;—
Who can read the growth of flowers
Syllable by syllable?
Who has sight or ear to tell,
Or by moments or by hours,
At what rate the sappy tree,
Full of life, and life in spring,
Every sleekest limb embosses
With the buds its vigour glosses,—
At what rate the buds with glee
Burst, and show the tender wing
Of the leaf that hardly dares
Trust to inexperienced airs?
Who can measure out the pace
Of the smiles on Nature's face?
Quiet steps are still the sure;
It were hard to point aright
At what instant morning light,
Shy and solemn-paced, encroaches
On the desolate obscure;—
Who can read the growth of flowers
Syllable by syllable?
Who has sight or ear to tell,
54
At what rate the sappy tree,
Full of life, and life in spring,
Every sleekest limb embosses
With the buds its vigour glosses,—
At what rate the buds with glee
Burst, and show the tender wing
Of the leaf that hardly dares
Trust to inexperienced airs?
Who can measure out the pace
Of the smiles on Nature's face?
Thou loveliest of the thoughts of God,
Creation's antitype and end!
Thou treadest so the vernal sod
That slimmest grasses hardly bend;—
I feel thy presence sensible
On my ideal supervene,
Yet just the moment cannot tell
That lies those two bright states between:—
No memory has an arm to reach
The morning-twilight of our thought,—
The infant's use of sight and speech
Is all unchallenged and unsought;
And yet thou askest, winning one,
That I should now unriddler be,
To tell thee when I first begun
To love and honour Thee!
Creation's antitype and end!
Thou treadest so the vernal sod
That slimmest grasses hardly bend;—
I feel thy presence sensible
On my ideal supervene,
Yet just the moment cannot tell
That lies those two bright states between:—
No memory has an arm to reach
The morning-twilight of our thought,—
The infant's use of sight and speech
Is all unchallenged and unsought;
And yet thou askest, winning one,
That I should now unriddler be,
To tell thee when I first begun
To love and honour Thee!
55
VIII. WRITTEN AT THE BATHS OF LUCCA.
The fireflies, pulsing forth their rapid gleams,
Are the only light
That breaks the night;
A stream, that has the voice of many streams,
Is the only sound
All around:
And we have found our way to the rude stone,
Where many a twilight we have sat alone,
Though in this summer-darkness never yet:
We have had happy, happy moments here,
We have had thoughts we never can forget,
Which will go on with us beyond the bier.
Are the only light
That breaks the night;
A stream, that has the voice of many streams,
Is the only sound
All around:
And we have found our way to the rude stone,
Where many a twilight we have sat alone,
Though in this summer-darkness never yet:
We have had happy, happy moments here,
We have had thoughts we never can forget,
Which will go on with us beyond the bier.
The very lineaments of thy dear face
I do not see, but yet its influence
I feel, even as my outward sense perceives
The freshening presence of the chestnut leaves,
Whose vaguest forms my eye can only trace,
By following where the darkness seems most dense.
What light, what sight, what form, can be to us
Beautiful as this gloom?
We have come down, alive and consciöus,
Into a blessèd tomb:
We have left the world behind us,
Her vexations cannot find us,
We are too far away;
There is something to gainsay
In the life of every day;
But in this delicious death
We let go our mortal breath,
Nought to feel and hear and see,
But our heart's felicity;
Nought with which to be at war,
Nought to fret our shame or pride,
Knowing only that we are,
Caring not what is beside.
I do not see, but yet its influence
I feel, even as my outward sense perceives
The freshening presence of the chestnut leaves,
Whose vaguest forms my eye can only trace,
By following where the darkness seems most dense.
What light, what sight, what form, can be to us
Beautiful as this gloom?
We have come down, alive and consciöus,
Into a blessèd tomb:
56
Her vexations cannot find us,
We are too far away;
There is something to gainsay
In the life of every day;
But in this delicious death
We let go our mortal breath,
Nought to feel and hear and see,
But our heart's felicity;
Nought with which to be at war,
Nought to fret our shame or pride,
Knowing only that we are,
Caring not what is beside.
57
FAMILIAR LOVE.
We read together, reading the same book,
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace,
So that each shade that either spirit took
Was straight reflected in the other's face:
We read, not silent, nor aloud,—but each
Followed the eye that past the page along,
With a low murmuring sound that was not speech,
Yet with so much monotony,
In its half-slumbering harmony,
You might not call it song;
More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices,
Than any customed mood of human voices.
Then if some wayward or disputed sense
Made cease awhile that music, and brought on
A strife of gracious-worded difference,
Too light to hurt our soul's dear unison,
We had experience of a blissful state,
In which our powers of thought stood separate,
Each in its own high freedom, set apart,
But both close folded in one loving heart;
So that we seemed, without conceit, to be
Both one and two in our identity.
Our heads bent forward in a half embrace,
So that each shade that either spirit took
Was straight reflected in the other's face:
We read, not silent, nor aloud,—but each
Followed the eye that past the page along,
With a low murmuring sound that was not speech,
Yet with so much monotony,
In its half-slumbering harmony,
You might not call it song;
More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices,
Than any customed mood of human voices.
Then if some wayward or disputed sense
Made cease awhile that music, and brought on
A strife of gracious-worded difference,
Too light to hurt our soul's dear unison,
We had experience of a blissful state,
In which our powers of thought stood separate,
Each in its own high freedom, set apart,
But both close folded in one loving heart;
58
Both one and two in our identity.
We prayed together, praying the same prayer,
But each that prayed did seem to be alone,
And saw the other, in a golden air
Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne,
Beckoning the kneeler to arise and sit
Within the glory which encompassed it:
And when obeyed, the Vision stood beside,
And led the way through the upper hyaline,
Smiling in beauty tenfold glorified,
Which, while on earth, had seemed enough divine,
The beauty of the Spirit-Bride,
Who guided the rapt Florentine.
The depth of human reason must become
As deep as is the holy human heart,
Ere aught in written phrases can impart
The might and meaning of that extasy
To those low souls, who hold the mystery
Of the unseen universe for dark and dumb.
But each that prayed did seem to be alone,
And saw the other, in a golden air
Poised far away, beneath a vacant throne,
Beckoning the kneeler to arise and sit
Within the glory which encompassed it:
And when obeyed, the Vision stood beside,
And led the way through the upper hyaline,
Smiling in beauty tenfold glorified,
Which, while on earth, had seemed enough divine,
The beauty of the Spirit-Bride,
Who guided the rapt Florentine.
The depth of human reason must become
As deep as is the holy human heart,
Ere aught in written phrases can impart
The might and meaning of that extasy
To those low souls, who hold the mystery
Of the unseen universe for dark and dumb.
But we were mortal still, and when again
We raised our bended knees, I do not say
That our descending spirits felt no pain
To meet the dimness of an earthly day;
Yet not as those disheartened, and the more
Debased, the higher that they rose before,
But, from the exaltation of that hour,
Out of God's choicest treasury, bringing down
New virtue to sustain all ill,—new power
To braid Life's thorns into a regal crown,
We past into the outer world, to prove
The strength miraculous of united Love.
We raised our bended knees, I do not say
That our descending spirits felt no pain
To meet the dimness of an earthly day;
Yet not as those disheartened, and the more
Debased, the higher that they rose before,
59
Out of God's choicest treasury, bringing down
New virtue to sustain all ill,—new power
To braid Life's thorns into a regal crown,
We past into the outer world, to prove
The strength miraculous of united Love.
1835.
60
POETRY AND THE POET.
When, in a frame of liquid verse,
I read you how pure Love's delight
Is turned to Life's consummate curse,
By woman's pride and hard despite,—
Full many a sympathising chord
Vibrated all your soul along;
You trembled at each poignant word,
And wept ere I had closed the song.
I read you how pure Love's delight
Is turned to Life's consummate curse,
By woman's pride and hard despite,—
Full many a sympathising chord
Vibrated all your soul along;
You trembled at each poignant word,
And wept ere I had closed the song.
But when, in rude and broken prose,
I laid my heart before you bare,—
Dared the deep misery to disclose,
Which you had long awakened there;
A trivial laugh, a pitying look
(Yet half of scorn) was all you gave,—
You bent before the lifeless Book,
Though loth a living Heart to save.
I laid my heart before you bare,—
Dared the deep misery to disclose,
Which you had long awakened there;
A trivial laugh, a pitying look
(Yet half of scorn) was all you gave,—
You bent before the lifeless Book,
Though loth a living Heart to save.
My Art is not a vulgar craft
To work some passing Pleasure-spell,—
There is no virtue in the draught
For those who desecrate the well:
Proud Loveliness! retain your sway,—
Leave me to suffer as I can,
But do not seem to love the Lay,
And mock the Poet and the Man.
To work some passing Pleasure-spell,—
There is no virtue in the draught
For those who desecrate the well:
61
Leave me to suffer as I can,
But do not seem to love the Lay,
And mock the Poet and the Man.
1836.
62
PARTED AND MET.
I.
I know not, whether such great power
Is in despair,—it may be so,—
But, Myrrha, ere this ebbing hour
Is over, I will try to go:
Once more the glory of your form
Shall fall upon my path,—once more!
And fear not lest the inner storm
Should burst the bounds it kept before.
Is in despair,—it may be so,—
But, Myrrha, ere this ebbing hour
Is over, I will try to go:
Once more the glory of your form
Shall fall upon my path,—once more!
And fear not lest the inner storm
Should burst the bounds it kept before.
I have one last, light boon to pray—
Do not be mercilessly kind;
Hold back your hand, and turn away
Those splendours I must leave behind;
Or arm your eyes with chilly glare,
(Though wont to be so burning-bright)
Like their far sisters of the air,
Which light, but cannot warm, the night.
Do not be mercilessly kind;
Hold back your hand, and turn away
Those splendours I must leave behind;
Or arm your eyes with chilly glare,
(Though wont to be so burning-bright)
Like their far sisters of the air,
Which light, but cannot warm, the night.
But most of all, I could not bear
From you that mocking word, “Farewell!”—
How well my riven heart will fare,
I think I have not now to tell.
Be silent, passionless—the ghost
Of your own self—a solemn shade,
Whose form, to others wholly lost,
In my deep soul, as in a grave, is laid.
From you that mocking word, “Farewell!”—
How well my riven heart will fare,
I think I have not now to tell.
63
Of your own self—a solemn shade,
Whose form, to others wholly lost,
In my deep soul, as in a grave, is laid.
II.
My spirit staggered at the sight,
So painful and so strange,
I could not think that years had might
To work such fearful change;
And ere I ceased from wondering,
My tears fell fast and free,
That wretched, stricken, hopeless thing,—
I dared not call it Thee.
So painful and so strange,
I could not think that years had might
To work such fearful change;
And ere I ceased from wondering,
My tears fell fast and free,
That wretched, stricken, hopeless thing,—
I dared not call it Thee.
If I had heard that thou wert dead,
I hastily had cried,
“She was so richly favourèd,
God must forgive her pride;
My heart lay withered, while the crown
Of life was fresh upon her,—
I linger still, she has gone down
In beauty and in honour.”
I hastily had cried,
“She was so richly favourèd,
God must forgive her pride;
My heart lay withered, while the crown
Of life was fresh upon her,—
I linger still, she has gone down
In beauty and in honour.”
But now, to see thy living death,—
Power, glory, arts, all gone,—
Thy empire lost, and thy poor breath
Still vainly struggling on!
Alas! a thought of saddest weight
Presses and will have vent:
“Had she not scorned my love,—her fate
Had been so different!
Power, glory, arts, all gone,—
64
Still vainly struggling on!
Alas! a thought of saddest weight
Presses and will have vent:
“Had she not scorned my love,—her fate
Had been so different!
“Had her heart bent its haughty will
To take me for its lord,
She had been proudly happy still,
Still honoured, still adored;
The weak love-ties of face and frame
Time easily may sever,
But I had thought her still the same,
As beautiful as ever.
To take me for its lord,
She had been proudly happy still,
Still honoured, still adored;
The weak love-ties of face and frame
Time easily may sever,
But I had thought her still the same,
As beautiful as ever.
“She had then felt no shame or sorrow,
At seeing fall away
The slaves who mock the god to-morrow,
They worshipped all to-day;
While I preserved, with honest truth,
Through every varying stage,
Her image which adorned my youth,
To glorify my age.”
At seeing fall away
The slaves who mock the god to-morrow,
They worshipped all to-day;
While I preserved, with honest truth,
Through every varying stage,
Her image which adorned my youth,
To glorify my age.”
And do not treat this thought as light,
Nor ask with taunting sign,
“Has then thy life-course been so bright
That thou canst scorn at mine?”
Myrrha,—the name of Misery
Is clear upon my brow,
Yet am I not, nor e'er can be,
So lorn a thing as Thou.
Nor ask with taunting sign,
65
That thou canst scorn at mine?”
Myrrha,—the name of Misery
Is clear upon my brow,
Yet am I not, nor e'er can be,
So lorn a thing as Thou.
He, who for Love has undergone
The worst that can befall,
Is happier thousand-fold than one
Who never loved at all;
A grace within his soul has reigned,
Which nothing else can bring—
Thank God for all that I have gained,
By that high suffering!
The worst that can befall,
Is happier thousand-fold than one
Who never loved at all;
A grace within his soul has reigned,
Which nothing else can bring—
Thank God for all that I have gained,
By that high suffering!
1830.
66
UNSPOKEN DIALOGUE.
Above the trailing mignonette
That dressed the window-sill,
A Lady watched, with lips firm-set,
And looks of earnest will:
Four decades o'er her life had met,
And left her lovely still.
That dressed the window-sill,
A Lady watched, with lips firm-set,
And looks of earnest will:
Four decades o'er her life had met,
And left her lovely still.
Not to the radiant firmament,
Not to the garden's grace,
The courses of her mind were bent,—
But where, with sweetest face,
Forth from the other window leant,
The Daughter of the place.
Not to the garden's grace,
The courses of her mind were bent,—
But where, with sweetest face,
Forth from the other window leant,
The Daughter of the place.
Thus ran her thoughts: “O, wretched day!
When She was born so fair;
Well could I let my charms decay,
If she were not their heir:
I loathe the sunbeams as they play
About her golden hair.
When She was born so fair;
Well could I let my charms decay,
If she were not their heir:
I loathe the sunbeams as they play
About her golden hair.
67
“Yet why? She is too good—too mild—
So madly to aspire—
He is no Boy to be beguiled
By sparks of coloured fire;
I will not dream a pretty child
Can mar my deep desire.
So madly to aspire—
He is no Boy to be beguiled
By sparks of coloured fire;
I will not dream a pretty child
Can mar my deep desire.
“Her fatherless and lonely days
Are sere before their time;
In scenes of gaiety and praise
She will regain her prime,
And cease to haunt these wooded ways,
With sentimental rhyme.”
Are sere before their time;
In scenes of gaiety and praise
She will regain her prime,
And cease to haunt these wooded ways,
With sentimental rhyme.”
On to the conscious maiden past
Those words without the tongue;
Half-petulantly back she cast
The glistening curls that hung
About her neck, and answered fast,
“Yes, I am young—too young.
Those words without the tongue;
Half-petulantly back she cast
The glistening curls that hung
About her neck, and answered fast,
“Yes, I am young—too young.
“Yet am I graver than my wont,
Graver when He is here;
Beneath the glory of his front
I tremble—not with fear,
But, as I read, Bethesda's font
Felt with the Angel near.
Graver when He is here;
Beneath the glory of his front
I tremble—not with fear,
But, as I read, Bethesda's font
Felt with the Angel near.
68
“Must I mate only with my kind,
With something as unwise
As my poor self, and never find
Affection I can prize
At once with an adoring mind,
And with admiring eyes?
With something as unwise
As my poor self, and never find
Affection I can prize
At once with an adoring mind,
And with admiring eyes?
“My mother trusts to drag me down
To some low range of life,
By pleasures of the clamo'rous town,
And vanity's mean strife;
And in such selfish tumult drown
My hope to be his wife.”
To some low range of life,
By pleasures of the clamo'rous town,
And vanity's mean strife;
And in such selfish tumult drown
My hope to be his wife.”
Then darker round the Lady grew
The meditative cloud,—
And stormy thoughts began to brew
She dared not speak aloud,
For then, without disguise, she knew
That rivalry avowed.
The meditative cloud,—
And stormy thoughts began to brew
She dared not speak aloud,
For then, without disguise, she knew
That rivalry avowed.
“What is my being, if I lose
My love's last stake? while She
Has the fair future where to choose
Her woman's destiny,
Free scope those means and powers to use
Which Time denies to me.
My love's last stake? while She
Has the fair future where to choose
Her woman's destiny,
Free scope those means and powers to use
Which Time denies to me.
69
“Was it for this her baby arms
About my neck were flung?
Was it for this I found such charms
In her uncertain tongue?
Was it for this those vain alarms
My mother-soul unstrung?
About my neck were flung?
Was it for this I found such charms
In her uncertain tongue?
Was it for this those vain alarms
My mother-soul unstrung?
“O horrible! to wish my child—
My sole one left—unborn,
And, seeing her so meek and mild,
To hold such gifts in scorn:
My nature is grown waste and wild,
My heart with fury torn.”
My sole one left—unborn,
And, seeing her so meek and mild,
To hold such gifts in scorn:
My nature is grown waste and wild,
My heart with fury torn.”
Speechless—enchanted to the spot—
The girl could scarce divine
The whole disaster of her lot;
But, without sound or sign,
She cried, “O, mother! Love him not—
O, let his love be mine!
The girl could scarce divine
The whole disaster of her lot;
But, without sound or sign,
She cried, “O, mother! Love him not—
O, let his love be mine!
“You have had years of full delight—
Your girlhood's passion-dream
Was realized to touch and sight,
As bright as it could seem;
And now you interpose, like night,
Before my life's first gleam.
Your girlhood's passion-dream
Was realized to touch and sight,
As bright as it could seem;
And now you interpose, like night,
Before my life's first gleam.
70
“Yet You were once what I am now,
You won your maiden prize—
You told me of my Father—how
You lived but in his eyes:
You spoke of the perpetual vow,
The troth that never dies.
You won your maiden prize—
You told me of my Father—how
You lived but in his eyes:
You spoke of the perpetual vow,
The troth that never dies.
“Dear mother! dearer, kinder, far,
If by my childhood's bed
Your care had never strove to bar
Misfortune from my head,
But laid me where my brothers are,
Among the quiet dead.
If by my childhood's bed
Your care had never strove to bar
Misfortune from my head,
But laid me where my brothers are,
Among the quiet dead.
“Ah! why not die? This cruel strife
Can thus—thus only—cease.
Dear Lord! take home this erring life,
This struggling soul release;
From Heaven, perchance, upon his wife,
I might look down in peace.”
Can thus—thus only—cease.
Dear Lord! take home this erring life,
This struggling soul release;
From Heaven, perchance, upon his wife,
I might look down in peace.”
That prayer, like some electric flame,
Struck with resistless force
The Lady's agitated frame;
Nor halted in its course
Till her hard pride was turned to shame,
Her passion to remorse.
Struck with resistless force
The Lady's agitated frame;
Nor halted in its course
Till her hard pride was turned to shame,
Her passion to remorse.
71
She spoke—her words were very low—
But resolute in tone;
“Dear child!—He comes—nay, blush not so
To have your secret known,
'Tis best—'tis best that I should go—
And leave you here alone.”
But resolute in tone;
“Dear child!—He comes—nay, blush not so
To have your secret known,
'Tis best—'tis best that I should go—
And leave you here alone.”
Then, as his steps grew near and fast,
Her hand was on the door,
Her heart, by holy grace, had cast
The demon from its core,—
And on the threshold calm she past
The Man she loved no more.
Her hand was on the door,
Her heart, by holy grace, had cast
The demon from its core,—
And on the threshold calm she past
The Man she loved no more.
1850.
72
NEVER RETURN!
It was a meeting, such as on this earth
The bonds of time and circumstances permit
Rarely to those who feel and think as one:
A small but “sacred band” wholly made up
Of lovers—of old friends who had not met
For many weary years—of some whose names
Had to each other been familiar sounds,
And who now felt their spirits meet and join
At once, like waters—and of four who formed
Two complete beings, man and woman blent,
Ensamples of connubial unity.
The bonds of time and circumstances permit
Rarely to those who feel and think as one:
A small but “sacred band” wholly made up
Of lovers—of old friends who had not met
For many weary years—of some whose names
Had to each other been familiar sounds,
And who now felt their spirits meet and join
At once, like waters—and of four who formed
Two complete beings, man and woman blent,
Ensamples of connubial unity.
This wondrous concert of internal life
Went on beneath the open infinite
Of an Italian sky, that varied not
More than the peace that dwelt within their souls;
So that when, all at once, before their eyes
The lake grew less transparent, and the leaves
Of the pale olive less distinguishable,
And the hills glow'd like metal, while the snow
First turn'd to gold, then red, then deadly white,
They were astonished at the flight of time
That had not struck one hour within their hearts;
And amid all the riches of that South
They grudged the North its solitary charm
Of long, long twilight, mourning bitterly
That here the day was ravished from their eyes
And bore a world of bliss along with it.
At last one rose, one younger than the rest,
One before whom life lay a glorious stream
Flowing, by right divine, through pleasant lands,
Unconscious of the fatal final sea.
He stood irradiate with that rosy light,
The funeral banner of the fallen sun,
Most like an image of incarnate Hope,
From whom no night can hide the coming morn.
Went on beneath the open infinite
Of an Italian sky, that varied not
More than the peace that dwelt within their souls;
So that when, all at once, before their eyes
The lake grew less transparent, and the leaves
Of the pale olive less distinguishable,
And the hills glow'd like metal, while the snow
First turn'd to gold, then red, then deadly white,
They were astonished at the flight of time
That had not struck one hour within their hearts;
73
They grudged the North its solitary charm
Of long, long twilight, mourning bitterly
That here the day was ravished from their eyes
And bore a world of bliss along with it.
At last one rose, one younger than the rest,
One before whom life lay a glorious stream
Flowing, by right divine, through pleasant lands,
Unconscious of the fatal final sea.
He stood irradiate with that rosy light,
The funeral banner of the fallen sun,
Most like an image of incarnate Hope,
From whom no night can hide the coming morn.
Raising one arm in ecstacy, he cried,—
“Before we leave this consecrated spot,
Before this Day of Days is wholly dead,
Before the dew obliterates all our steps
From this light earth, let us record a vow!
Let us, in presence of these lasting hills,
In presence of this day's delicious thoughts,
That yet are hardly memory,—let us pledge
Our hearts together, that on this same day
Each rolling year shall see us meet again
In this same place, as far as Fate allows.
Some may be held away by cruel chance,
Some by the great divorcer, none by choice;
And thus, at least for a large lapse of time,
One Day shall stand apart from other days,
Birth-day of inward Life—Love's Holyday—
The Wedding-day, not of one single pair,
But of a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys,—
The Saint's-day, in whose fair recurrent round
Each year will circle all its blessedness.”
“Before we leave this consecrated spot,
Before this Day of Days is wholly dead,
Before the dew obliterates all our steps
From this light earth, let us record a vow!
Let us, in presence of these lasting hills,
In presence of this day's delicious thoughts,
That yet are hardly memory,—let us pledge
Our hearts together, that on this same day
Each rolling year shall see us meet again
In this same place, as far as Fate allows.
Some may be held away by cruel chance,
Some by the great divorcer, none by choice;
And thus, at least for a large lapse of time,
One Day shall stand apart from other days,
74
The Wedding-day, not of one single pair,
But of a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys,—
The Saint's-day, in whose fair recurrent round
Each year will circle all its blessedness.”
With more than ready welcome, with loud glee,
Was hailed this happy fancy; each was prompt
To press the other's hand, and, joining round
The founder of this mighty festival,
To seal the sudden contract—all save One.
Was hailed this happy fancy; each was prompt
To press the other's hand, and, joining round
The founder of this mighty festival,
To seal the sudden contract—all save One.
This one had gazed on the impassioned youth
With tender looks, that to the rest had seemed
Fond sympathy,—but had far other sense.
And now he spoke, at first with trem'lous voice,
Softened, as if it passed through inner tears.
“O Friends! dear Friends! do anything but this:
This is a deed to wake the jealous gods
Into a cruel vengeance. We are Men:
We live from hour to hour, and have no right,
Holding no power, to fetter future years.
We may, if Heaven so please, preserve our loves,
We may enjoy our interchange of souls
Long, and in many shapes of time and fate;
But to this spot, the scene of this To-day,
Let us, whate'er befall, never return!
With tender looks, that to the rest had seemed
Fond sympathy,—but had far other sense.
And now he spoke, at first with trem'lous voice,
Softened, as if it passed through inner tears.
“O Friends! dear Friends! do anything but this:
This is a deed to wake the jealous gods
Into a cruel vengeance. We are Men:
We live from hour to hour, and have no right,
Holding no power, to fetter future years.
We may, if Heaven so please, preserve our loves,
We may enjoy our interchange of souls
Long, and in many shapes of time and fate;
But to this spot, the scene of this To-day,
Let us, whate'er befall, never return!
“Never return! If hitherward your path
Should chance to lie, when seeking other lands,
Spare not the time it takes to circuit round
This scene, and gaze upon its face no more.
Say, if you will, ‘It lies amid the gold
The sunset spreads beyond that purple ridge;’
Say, if you will, ‘The atoms of this stream
Flow through the place I value most on earth,
And bear my yearning heart along with them;’
Say, if you will, ‘There rests my Paradise;’
But there, whate'er befall, never return!
Should chance to lie, when seeking other lands,
Spare not the time it takes to circuit round
75
Say, if you will, ‘It lies amid the gold
The sunset spreads beyond that purple ridge;’
Say, if you will, ‘The atoms of this stream
Flow through the place I value most on earth,
And bear my yearning heart along with them;’
Say, if you will, ‘There rests my Paradise;’
But there, whate'er befall, never return!
“Never return! Should we come back, dear Friend!
As you implore us, we should not return:
Came we all back, as Heaven would hardly grant,
There must be faded cheeks and sunken eyes,
And minds enfeebled with the rack of time,
And hearts grown colder, and, it may be, cold.
The sun might shine as gorgeous as this noon,
And yet find clouds between it and our souls;
The lake might rest like light upon the earth,
And but reflect to us sweet faces gone
And pictures mournful as the dead below;
The very flowers might breathe a poisonous breath
Should we, led by false hope, ever return!
As you implore us, we should not return:
Came we all back, as Heaven would hardly grant,
There must be faded cheeks and sunken eyes,
And minds enfeebled with the rack of time,
And hearts grown colder, and, it may be, cold.
The sun might shine as gorgeous as this noon,
And yet find clouds between it and our souls;
The lake might rest like light upon the earth,
And but reflect to us sweet faces gone
And pictures mournful as the dead below;
The very flowers might breathe a poisonous breath
Should we, led by false hope, ever return!
“Trust not the dear palladium of the Past
Upon the Future's breast. The Past is ours,
And we can build a temple of rare thoughts,
Adorned with all affection's tracery,
In which to keep from contact vile and rude
The grace of this incomparable Day.
We may, by heart, go through it all again;
We may, with it, give colour, warmth, and form
To the black, shapeless mountains far away—
Calm down the seething, hyperborean, waves
To the pure sapphire of this lake, and spread
Rose-trellises across the gloomy front
Of blank old dwellings in the distant town;
But we must keep the vision fresh as morn,—
We must not risk that it should ever lose
One of its features of staid loveliness,
One of its sweet associated thoughts.—
Therefore, whate'er befall, never return!
Upon the Future's breast. The Past is ours,
And we can build a temple of rare thoughts,
Adorned with all affection's tracery,
In which to keep from contact vile and rude
The grace of this incomparable Day.
We may, by heart, go through it all again;
76
To the black, shapeless mountains far away—
Calm down the seething, hyperborean, waves
To the pure sapphire of this lake, and spread
Rose-trellises across the gloomy front
Of blank old dwellings in the distant town;
But we must keep the vision fresh as morn,—
We must not risk that it should ever lose
One of its features of staid loveliness,
One of its sweet associated thoughts.—
Therefore, whate'er befall, never return!
“Never return! Time writes these little words
On palace and on hamlet; strife is vain;
First-love returns not,—friendship comes not back,—
Glory revives not. Things are given us once,
And only once; yet we may keep them ours,
If, like this day, we take them out of time,
And make them portions of the constant peace
Which is the shadow of eternity!”
On palace and on hamlet; strife is vain;
First-love returns not,—friendship comes not back,—
Glory revives not. Things are given us once,
And only once; yet we may keep them ours,
If, like this day, we take them out of time,
And make them portions of the constant peace
Which is the shadow of eternity!”
So ended the serene Philosopher;
And to all minds the sad persuasive truth
Found an immediate access: the poor youth
Whose spirit was but now a-fire with hope,
Cast down his quenched enthusiastic eyes.
“Never return!” in many various tones,
All grave, yet none wholly disconsolate,
Was echoed, amid parting signs of love,
As they went on their common homeward way.
Silent above, the multitudinous stars
Said, “We are steadfast,—we are not as Ye.”
Silent the fields, up to the phantom hills,
Said, “We are dreaming of the vanished days
Which we shall see again, but Ye no more.”
So heavy pressed the meditative calm
On those full hearts, that all rejoiced to hear
The shrill cicala, clittering from below,
Call on the fire-flies dancing through the vines.
And to all minds the sad persuasive truth
Found an immediate access: the poor youth
Whose spirit was but now a-fire with hope,
Cast down his quenched enthusiastic eyes.
“Never return!” in many various tones,
All grave, yet none wholly disconsolate,
Was echoed, amid parting signs of love,
As they went on their common homeward way.
77
Said, “We are steadfast,—we are not as Ye.”
Silent the fields, up to the phantom hills,
Said, “We are dreaming of the vanished days
Which we shall see again, but Ye no more.”
So heavy pressed the meditative calm
On those full hearts, that all rejoiced to hear
The shrill cicala, clittering from below,
Call on the fire-flies dancing through the vines.
1847.
78
NOT TO-MORROW!
O terrible To-morrow! that will come
On me, alone and far away from Her,
Who was my day, to-day, and every day:
To-morrow she will not be by my side,
And not to-morrow is as never more.
On me, alone and far away from Her,
Who was my day, to-day, and every day:
To-morrow she will not be by my side,
And not to-morrow is as never more.
As the poor Soul, that images itself
Parted from God, its Father, and its Cause,
Finds in that very parting all its sin,
And in that very parting knows itself
Evil and reprobate, and will not hear
A single utterance of intrinsic hope:
So to my heart the world to-come is blank,
And not to-morrow is as never more.
Parted from God, its Father, and its Cause,
Finds in that very parting all its sin,
And in that very parting knows itself
Evil and reprobate, and will not hear
A single utterance of intrinsic hope:
So to my heart the world to-come is blank,
And not to-morrow is as never more.
I will not sound the possibilities:
I will not ask whether in some far time,
In some far order of the Universe,
In some far destination of myself,
We may not meet again? I only know
The burden of one thought that bears me down:
And that to-morrow is as never more.
I will not ask whether in some far time,
In some far order of the Universe,
In some far destination of myself,
We may not meet again? I only know
The burden of one thought that bears me down:
And that to-morrow is as never more.
79
Ever and Never—foolish play of words—
Dancing before the finite mind of man:
Our Ever is a sweet successive dream
Of wavelets, over which the bounding heart
Goes forward 'mid the shoals and rocks of Time,
Until it crashes on the fronting shore:
Our Never is the Present without Hope,
And my next moment is as never more.
Dancing before the finite mind of man:
Our Ever is a sweet successive dream
Of wavelets, over which the bounding heart
Goes forward 'mid the shoals and rocks of Time,
Until it crashes on the fronting shore:
Our Never is the Present without Hope,
And my next moment is as never more.
Let the serene Philosopher sit down,
Knowing that sorrow is the gift of God,
And bid the streams of consolation flow
Through the dim arid future: so have I
Striven in my time, and conquered in the end.
But how can it be good for me to lose
My better self, my moral sustenance,
One whom I followed in a heaven-ward path,
To which I now can see no other clue?
How can it make me better to be shorn
Of that within me that can claim to be
More than the crystal shining in the rock,
More than the blossom withering at my feet?
How can a man be wiser, if he lose
All sense that makes the difference between
This place and that, this circumstance and that,
Between to-morrow's life and never more?
Knowing that sorrow is the gift of God,
And bid the streams of consolation flow
Through the dim arid future: so have I
Striven in my time, and conquered in the end.
But how can it be good for me to lose
My better self, my moral sustenance,
One whom I followed in a heaven-ward path,
To which I now can see no other clue?
How can it make me better to be shorn
Of that within me that can claim to be
More than the crystal shining in the rock,
More than the blossom withering at my feet?
How can a man be wiser, if he lose
All sense that makes the difference between
This place and that, this circumstance and that,
Between to-morrow's life and never more?
I know to-morrow will be as to-day,—
Sun-rise—bird's chirp—the stolid hours roll on,
Careless of what they crush—without a thought
That in the world there is a man the less,
A mind the less t' engender noble deeds,
A heart the less to beat for other men,
A soul the less to claim eternal life,—
For whom to-morrow is as never more.
80
Careless of what they crush—without a thought
That in the world there is a man the less,
A mind the less t' engender noble deeds,
A heart the less to beat for other men,
A soul the less to claim eternal life,—
For whom to-morrow is as never more.
What is the presence of continuous pain,
Some sharper and some better to be borne,
Calling out courage in the patient man,
Matched with this absence of the power to love,
This loss of that within which can stand up
In the broad face of Heaven, and say, “'Tis I,
Living and suffering for some secret end
Of the mysterious Master of us all:”
Is it that I have given away Myself,
And know not where to look for it again
In any corner of the field of Time,
While Not to-morrow is as Never more?
Some sharper and some better to be borne,
Calling out courage in the patient man,
Matched with this absence of the power to love,
This loss of that within which can stand up
In the broad face of Heaven, and say, “'Tis I,
Living and suffering for some secret end
Of the mysterious Master of us all:”
Is it that I have given away Myself,
And know not where to look for it again
In any corner of the field of Time,
While Not to-morrow is as Never more?
1860.
81
HALF-TRUTH.
The words that trembled on your lips
Were uttered not—I know it well;
The tears that would your eyes eclipse
Were checked and smothered, ere they fell:
The looks and smiles I gained from you
Were little more than others won,
And yet you are not wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
Were uttered not—I know it well;
The tears that would your eyes eclipse
Were checked and smothered, ere they fell:
The looks and smiles I gained from you
Were little more than others won,
And yet you are not wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
You know, at least you might have known,
That every little grace you gave,—
Your voice's somewhat lowered tone,—
Your hand's faint shake or parting wave,—
Your every sympathetic look
At words that chanced your soul to touch,
While reading from some favourite book,
Were much to me—alas, how much!
That every little grace you gave,—
Your voice's somewhat lowered tone,—
Your hand's faint shake or parting wave,—
Your every sympathetic look
At words that chanced your soul to touch,
While reading from some favourite book,
Were much to me—alas, how much!
You might have seen—perhaps you saw—
How all of these were steps of hope
On which I rose, in joy and awe,
Up to my passion's lofty scope;
How after each, a firmer tread
I planted on the slippery ground,
And higher raised my ventur'ous head,
And ever new assurance found.
How all of these were steps of hope
On which I rose, in joy and awe,
Up to my passion's lofty scope;
82
I planted on the slippery ground,
And higher raised my ventur'ous head,
And ever new assurance found.
May be, without a further thought,
It only pleased you thus to please,
And thus to kindly feelings wrought
You measured not the sweet degrees;
Yet, though you hardly understood
Where I was following at your call,
You might—I dare to say you should—
Have thought how far I had to fall.
It only pleased you thus to please,
And thus to kindly feelings wrought
You measured not the sweet degrees;
Yet, though you hardly understood
Where I was following at your call,
You might—I dare to say you should—
Have thought how far I had to fall.
And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised,
I see another's glad success,
I may have wrongfully accused
Your heart of vulgar fickleness:
But even now, in calm review
Of all I lost and all I won,
I cannot deem you wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
I see another's glad success,
I may have wrongfully accused
Your heart of vulgar fickleness:
But even now, in calm review
Of all I lost and all I won,
I cannot deem you wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
1840.
83
ONE-SIDED TROTH.
It is not for what He would be to me now,
If he still were here, that I mourn him so:
It is for the thought of a broken vow,
And for what he was to me long ago.
If he still were here, that I mourn him so:
It is for the thought of a broken vow,
And for what he was to me long ago.
Strange, while he lived and moved upon earth,
Though I would not, and could not, have seen him again,
His being to me had an infinite worth,
And the void of his loss is an infinite pain.
Though I would not, and could not, have seen him again,
His being to me had an infinite worth,
And the void of his loss is an infinite pain.
I had but to utter his name, and my youth
Rose up in my soul, and my blood grew warm;
And I hardly remembered the broken truth,
And I wholly remembered the ancient charm.
Rose up in my soul, and my blood grew warm;
And I hardly remembered the broken truth,
And I wholly remembered the ancient charm.
I watched the' unfolding scenes of his life,
From' the lonely retreat where my heart reposed;
'Twas a magical drama—a fabulous strife;
Now' the curtain has fallen, the volume is closed.
From' the lonely retreat where my heart reposed;
'Twas a magical drama—a fabulous strife;
Now' the curtain has fallen, the volume is closed.
The sense of my very self grows dim,
With nothing but Self either here or beyond;
That Self which would have been lost in him,
Had he only died ere he broke the bond.
With nothing but Self either here or beyond;
That Self which would have been lost in him,
Had he only died ere he broke the bond.
1860.
84
STRANGERS YET.
Strangers yet!
After years of life together,
After fair and stormy weather,
After travel in far lands,
After touch of wedded hands,—
Why thus joined? Why ever met,
If they must be strangers yet?
After years of life together,
After fair and stormy weather,
After travel in far lands,
After touch of wedded hands,—
Why thus joined? Why ever met,
If they must be strangers yet?
Strangers yet!
After childhood's winning ways,
After care and blame and praise,
Counsel asked and wisdom given,
After mutual prayers to Heaven,
Child and parent scarce regret
When they part—are strangers yet.
After childhood's winning ways,
After care and blame and praise,
Counsel asked and wisdom given,
After mutual prayers to Heaven,
Child and parent scarce regret
When they part—are strangers yet.
Strangers yet!
After strife for common ends—
After title of “old friends,”
After passions fierce and tender,
After cheerful self-surrender,
Hearts may beat and eyes be met,
And the souls be strangers yet.
After strife for common ends—
After title of “old friends,”
After passions fierce and tender,
After cheerful self-surrender,
Hearts may beat and eyes be met,
And the souls be strangers yet.
85
Strangers yet!
Oh! the bitter thought to scan
All the loneliness of man:—
Nature, by magnetic laws,
Circle unto circle draws,
But they only touch when met,
Never mingle—strangers yet.
Oh! the bitter thought to scan
All the loneliness of man:—
Nature, by magnetic laws,
Circle unto circle draws,
But they only touch when met,
Never mingle—strangers yet.
Strangers yet!
Will it evermore be thus—
Spirits still impervious?
Shall we never fairly stand
Soul to soul as hand to hand?
Are the bounds eternal set
To retain us—strangers yet?
Will it evermore be thus—
Spirits still impervious?
Shall we never fairly stand
Soul to soul as hand to hand?
Are the bounds eternal set
To retain us—strangers yet?
Strangers yet!
Tell not Love it must aspire
Unto something other—higher:
God himself were loved the best
Were our sympathies at rest,
Rest above the strain and fret
Of the world of—strangers yet!
Strangers yet!
Tell not Love it must aspire
Unto something other—higher:
God himself were loved the best
Were our sympathies at rest,
Rest above the strain and fret
Of the world of—strangers yet!
Strangers yet!
86
A RECOLLECTION.
I knew that I should be his bride,
And to my tearful eyes
Lay that fair future, half descried
Through a divine surprise:
I knew that I should be his wife,
And that his arm would bend
Around me down the walks of life,
As friend sustaining friend:
And to my tearful eyes
Lay that fair future, half descried
Through a divine surprise:
I knew that I should be his wife,
And that his arm would bend
Around me down the walks of life,
As friend sustaining friend:
And yet when I beheld him there,
Amid a joyous throng,
Amid the witty and the fair,
Who knew and prized him long,—
Amid the comrades of his youth,
The kinsmen of his line,
I almost faltered at the truth
With which I called him mine.
Amid a joyous throng,
Amid the witty and the fair,
Who knew and prized him long,—
Amid the comrades of his youth,
The kinsmen of his line,
I almost faltered at the truth
With which I called him mine.
I saw they thought that I was proud
To claim him as mine own,
While all my being inly bowed
As with a weight unknown.
For if I dared my heart to place
Above its own just meed,
I might be distanced in a race
In which the strong succeed!
To claim him as mine own,
While all my being inly bowed
As with a weight unknown.
87
Above its own just meed,
I might be distanced in a race
In which the strong succeed!
But now that years have rolled away,
A variegated stream,
And, one by one, that bright array
Has vanished like a dream;
Now that the very name of wife
Has higher titles earned,
I smile to ponder on that strife
Of feelings undiscerned.
A variegated stream,
And, one by one, that bright array
Has vanished like a dream;
Now that the very name of wife
Has higher titles earned,
I smile to ponder on that strife
Of feelings undiscerned.
Ah! had I known him but as they,
How weary might have been
The intercourse of every day,
The rarely-changing scene,—
The life that over-long may prove
For passion or for power,
But too, too, short for that still love
Which blesses every hour.
How weary might have been
The intercourse of every day,
The rarely-changing scene,—
The life that over-long may prove
For passion or for power,
But too, too, short for that still love
Which blesses every hour.
88
RAPTURE.
Because, from all that round Thee move,
Planets of Beauty, Strength, and Grace,
I am elected to Thy love,
And have my home in Thy embrace;
I wonder all men do not see
The crown that Thou hast set on me.
Planets of Beauty, Strength, and Grace,
I am elected to Thy love,
And have my home in Thy embrace;
I wonder all men do not see
The crown that Thou hast set on me.
Because, when, prostrate at Thy feet,
Thou didst emparadise my pain,—
Because Thy heart on mine has beat,
Thy head within my hands has lain,
I am transfigured, by that sign,
Into a being like to Thine.
Thou didst emparadise my pain,—
Because Thy heart on mine has beat,
Thy head within my hands has lain,
I am transfigured, by that sign,
Into a being like to Thine.
The mirror from its glossy plain
Receiving still returns the light,
And, being generous of its gain,
Augments the very solar might:
What unreflected light would be,
Is just Thy spirit without me.
Receiving still returns the light,
And, being generous of its gain,
Augments the very solar might:
What unreflected light would be,
Is just Thy spirit without me.
89
Thou art the flame, whose rising spire
In the dark air sublimely sways,
And I the tempest that swift fire
Gathers at first and then obeys:
All that was Thine ere we were wed
Have I by right inherited.
In the dark air sublimely sways,
And I the tempest that swift fire
Gathers at first and then obeys:
All that was Thine ere we were wed
Have I by right inherited.
Is life a stream? Then from Thy hair
One rosebud on the current fell,
And straight it turned to crystal there,
As adamant immovable:
Its steadfast place shall know no more
The sense of after and before.
One rosebud on the current fell,
And straight it turned to crystal there,
As adamant immovable:
Its steadfast place shall know no more
The sense of after and before.
Is life a plant? The King of years
To mine nor good nor ill can bring;—
Mine grows no more; no more it fears
Even the brushing of his wing:
With sheathèd scythe I see him go,—
I have no flowers that he can mow.
To mine nor good nor ill can bring;—
Mine grows no more; no more it fears
Even the brushing of his wing:
With sheathèd scythe I see him go,—
I have no flowers that he can mow.
1839.
90
THE TREASURE-SHIP
My heart is freighted full of love,
As full as any argosy,
With gems below and gems above,
And ready for the open sea;
For the wind is blowing summerly.
As full as any argosy,
With gems below and gems above,
And ready for the open sea;
For the wind is blowing summerly.
Full strings of nature's beaded pearl,
Sweet tears! composed in amorous ties
And turkis-lockets, that no churl
Hath fashioned out mechanic-wise,
But all made up of thy blue eyes.
Sweet tears! composed in amorous ties
And turkis-lockets, that no churl
Hath fashioned out mechanic-wise,
But all made up of thy blue eyes.
And girdles wove of subtle sound,
And thoughts not trusted to the air,
Of antique mould,—the same as bound,
In Paradise, the primal pair,
Before Love's arts and niceness were.
And thoughts not trusted to the air,
Of antique mould,—the same as bound,
In Paradise, the primal pair,
Before Love's arts and niceness were.
And carcanets of living sighs;
Gums that have dropped from Love's own stem,
And one small jewel most I prize—
The darling gaud of all of them—
I wot, so rare and fine a gem
Ne'er glowed on Eastern anadem.
Gums that have dropped from Love's own stem,
And one small jewel most I prize—
The darling gaud of all of them—
91
Ne'er glowed on Eastern anadem.
I've cased the rubies of thy smiles,
In rich and triply-plated gold;
But this no other wealth defiles,
Itself itself can only hold—
The stealthy kiss on Maple-wold.
In rich and triply-plated gold;
But this no other wealth defiles,
Itself itself can only hold—
The stealthy kiss on Maple-wold.
1839.
92
SHADOWS.
I.
They owned their passion without shame or fear,
And every household duty counted less
Than that one spiritual bond, and men severe
Said they should sorrow for their wilfulness.
And every household duty counted less
Than that one spiritual bond, and men severe
Said they should sorrow for their wilfulness.
And truth the world went ill with them: he knew
That he had broken up her maiden life,
Where only pleasures and affections grew,
And sowed it thick with labour, pain, and strife.
That he had broken up her maiden life,
Where only pleasures and affections grew,
And sowed it thick with labour, pain, and strife.
What her unpractis'd weakness was to her
The presence of her suffering was to him;
Thus at Love's feast did Misery minister,
And fill their cups together to the brim.
The presence of her suffering was to him;
Thus at Love's feast did Misery minister,
And fill their cups together to the brim.
They asked their kind for hope, but there was none,
Till Death came by and gave them that and more;
Then men lamented,—but the earth rolls on,
And lovers love and perish as before.
Till Death came by and gave them that and more;
Then men lamented,—but the earth rolls on,
And lovers love and perish as before.
93
II.
They seemed to those who saw them meet
The casual friends of every day,
Her smile was undisturbed and sweet,
His courtesy was free and gay.
The casual friends of every day,
Her smile was undisturbed and sweet,
His courtesy was free and gay.
But yet if one the other's name
In some unguarded moment heard,
The heart, you thought so calm and tame,
Would struggle like a captured bird:
In some unguarded moment heard,
The heart, you thought so calm and tame,
Would struggle like a captured bird:
And letters of mere formal phrase
Were blistered with repeated tears,—
And this was not the work of days,
But had gone on for years and years!
Were blistered with repeated tears,—
And this was not the work of days,
But had gone on for years and years!
Alas! that Love was not too strong
For maiden shame and manly pride!
Alas! that they delayed so long
The goal of mutual bliss beside.
For maiden shame and manly pride!
Alas! that they delayed so long
The goal of mutual bliss beside.
Yet what no chance could then reveal,
And neither would be first to own,
Let fate and courage now conceal,
When truth could bring remorse alone.
And neither would be first to own,
Let fate and courage now conceal,
When truth could bring remorse alone.
94
III.
Beneath an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes,
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.
Of other blood reposes,
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.
Beside a northern pine a boy
Is leaning fancy-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.
Is leaning fancy-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.
Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,—
Relaxed the frosty twine,—
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.
Relaxed the frosty twine,—
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.
As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows!
Those dimly-visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows!
95
IV.
She had left all on earth for him,
Her home of wealth, her name of pride,
And now his lamp of love was dim,
And, sad to tell, she had not died.
Her home of wealth, her name of pride,
And now his lamp of love was dim,
And, sad to tell, she had not died.
She watched the crimson sun's decline,
From some lone rock that fronts the sea,—
“I would, O burning heart of mine,
There were an ocean-rest for thee.
From some lone rock that fronts the sea,—
“I would, O burning heart of mine,
There were an ocean-rest for thee.
“The thoughtful moon awaits her turn,
The stars compose their choral crown,
But those soft lights can never burn,
Till once the fiery sun is down.”
The stars compose their choral crown,
But those soft lights can never burn,
Till once the fiery sun is down.”
96
V.
'Twould seem the world were large enough to hold
Both me and thee:
But now I find in space by thee controlled
No room for me.
Both me and thee:
But now I find in space by thee controlled
No room for me.
We portioned all between us, as was fair;
That time is past;
And now I would recover my lost share,
Which still thou hast.
That time is past;
And now I would recover my lost share,
Which still thou hast.
For that old love on which we both did live,—
Keep it who can!
Yet give me back the love I used to give
To God and man.
Keep it who can!
Yet give me back the love I used to give
To God and man.
Give me my young ambition,—my fresh fire
Of high emprize;
Give me the sweet indefinite desire
That lit mine eyes:—
Of high emprize;
Give me the sweet indefinite desire
That lit mine eyes:—
Give me my sense of pleasure;—give me all
My range of dreams;
Give me my power at sunset to recall
The noontide's beams;
My range of dreams;
Give me my power at sunset to recall
The noontide's beams;
97
If not my smiles, at least give back my tears,
And leave me free
To weep that all which man and nature cheers
Is lost with thee!
And leave me free
To weep that all which man and nature cheers
Is lost with thee!
VI.
They tell me I have won thy love,—
That if there be
One man most blest all men above,
Then I am he;
I answer not, resolved no more
To linger here,
And they have bitter words in store
To taint thine ear.
That if there be
One man most blest all men above,
Then I am he;
I answer not, resolved no more
To linger here,
And they have bitter words in store
To taint thine ear.
Did they not mark me dread to speak
When thou wert by?
Did they not watch my quivering cheek,
My streaming eye?
And can they fable none the less
That I disdain
A gift, whose very preciousness
Is all my pain?
When thou wert by?
Did they not watch my quivering cheek,
My streaming eye?
And can they fable none the less
That I disdain
A gift, whose very preciousness
Is all my pain?
'Tis true, that when that fatal hour
Did first disclose
The mystery of my willess power
O'er thy repose,
I felt it was the ordainèd one
That tie to sever,
That only then it could be done,
For once and ever!
Did first disclose
98
O'er thy repose,
I felt it was the ordainèd one
That tie to sever,
That only then it could be done,
For once and ever!
I shall not see thy motive grace
Before me play,
I shall not look upon thy face
One other day!
And yet I swear that I am free
From bond or vow;
What stands betwixt my soul and thee?
Oh! ask not Thou.
Before me play,
I shall not look upon thy face
One other day!
And yet I swear that I am free
From bond or vow;
What stands betwixt my soul and thee?
Oh! ask not Thou.
Time was, when I too had my part
Of wealth divine,
A simple, free, and plastic heart,
Almost like thine,
When lightened sorrow floated up
And died in tears,
And easy joy o'erflowed the cup
Of eighteen years.
Of wealth divine,
A simple, free, and plastic heart,
Almost like thine,
When lightened sorrow floated up
And died in tears,
And easy joy o'erflowed the cup
Of eighteen years.
If fate had then let cross our ways,
Thou wouldst have been
The Una of my nights and days,—
My spirit's Queen;—
Thou wouldst have led me glad and pure
As thy white lamb;
How dare I match this portraiture
With what I am?
Thou wouldst have been
99
My spirit's Queen;—
Thou wouldst have led me glad and pure
As thy white lamb;
How dare I match this portraiture
With what I am?
It seems to me, as if that time,
And I who wore
Its aspect of delight sublime,
Were nothing more
Than visions, which poetic sloth
So oft enjoys,—
As if the Scene and Man were both
Mere Fancy's toys.
And I who wore
Its aspect of delight sublime,
Were nothing more
Than visions, which poetic sloth
So oft enjoys,—
As if the Scene and Man were both
Mere Fancy's toys.
It may be that some help may come
To my soul's need,
My pilgrim thoughts may find a home
In some new creed;
But Thou, whose mind has never gone
One dream astray,—
Couldst thou be my companion,
That perilous way?
To my soul's need,
My pilgrim thoughts may find a home
In some new creed;
But Thou, whose mind has never gone
One dream astray,—
Couldst thou be my companion,
That perilous way?
But I must check my words that flow
Too fast and far;
For worlds I would not thou shouldst know
How such things are!
Thou wilt not change, Thou wilt remain
Serene and sure,—
The touch of Time may well refrain
From things so pure.
Too fast and far;
100
How such things are!
Thou wilt not change, Thou wilt remain
Serene and sure,—
The touch of Time may well refrain
From things so pure.
And now that I have closed the strife,
And view once more
My future of ungenial life
Spread out before,—
To have found favour in thy sight
Will still remain
A river of thought, that full of light
Divides the plain.
And view once more
My future of ungenial life
Spread out before,—
To have found favour in thy sight
Will still remain
A river of thought, that full of light
Divides the plain.
My friend Lord Lyttelton has permitted me to insert his Latin translation of these lines.
Olim virgineum perdiderat decus
Et laudem patriæ (jussit amor) domûs:
Jam tædæ periit gratia mutuæ,
Eheu! nec poterat mori!
Et laudem patriæ (jussit amor) domûs:
Jam tædæ periit gratia mutuæ,
Eheu! nec poterat mori!
At solo in scopulo procubuit gemens,
In fluctus roseum dum caderet jubar,
Tunc “Ah! si, tacito sub pelagi sinu,
Cordis flamma quiesceret!
In fluctus roseum dum caderet jubar,
Tunc “Ah! si, tacito sub pelagi sinu,
Cordis flamma quiesceret!
“Sic lenis solitam Luna manet vicem,
Innectuntque chorum sidera lucidum,
Sed nox ut placidas instituat faces,
Sol componitur igneus.”
Innectuntque chorum sidera lucidum,
Sed nox ut placidas instituat faces,
Sol componitur igneus.”
101
ANIMA MUNDI.
“Anima Mundi”—of thyself existing,
Without diversity or change to fear,
Say, has this Life to which we cling persisting,
Part or communion with thy steadfast sphere?
Does thy serene eternity sublime
Embrace the slaves of Circumstance and Time?
Without diversity or change to fear,
Say, has this Life to which we cling persisting,
Part or communion with thy steadfast sphere?
Does thy serene eternity sublime
Embrace the slaves of Circumstance and Time?
Could we remain continually content
To heap fresh pleasure on the coming day,
Could we rest happy in the sole intent
To make the hours more graceful or more gay;
Then must the essence of our nature be
That of the beasts that perish, not of Thee.
To heap fresh pleasure on the coming day,
Could we rest happy in the sole intent
To make the hours more graceful or more gay;
Then must the essence of our nature be
That of the beasts that perish, not of Thee.
But if we mourn, not because time is fleeting,
Not because life is short and some die young,
But because parting ever follows meeting,
And, while our hearts with constant loss are wrung,
Our minds are tossed in doubt from sea to sea,
Then may we claim community with thee.
Not because life is short and some die young,
But because parting ever follows meeting,
And, while our hearts with constant loss are wrung,
Our minds are tossed in doubt from sea to sea,
Then may we claim community with thee.
We cannot live by instincts—forced to let
To-morrow's wave obliterate our to-day—
See faces only once—read and forget—
Behold Truth's rays prismatically play
About our mortal eye, and never shine
In one white daylight, simple and divine.
To-morrow's wave obliterate our to-day—
102
Behold Truth's rays prismatically play
About our mortal eye, and never shine
In one white daylight, simple and divine.
We would erect some Thought the world above,
And dwell in it for ever—we would make
Some moment of young Friendship or First-love
Into a dream, from which we would not wake;
We would contrast our Action with Repose,
Like the deep stream that widens as it flows.
And dwell in it for ever—we would make
Some moment of young Friendship or First-love
Into a dream, from which we would not wake;
We would contrast our Action with Repose,
Like the deep stream that widens as it flows.
We would, indeed, be somewise as Thou art,
Not spring and bud and flower and fade and fall,—
Not fix our intellects on some scant part
Of Nature, but enjoy or feel it all:
We would assert the privilege of a soul,
In that it knows—to understand the Whole.
Not spring and bud and flower and fade and fall,—
Not fix our intellects on some scant part
Of Nature, but enjoy or feel it all:
We would assert the privilege of a soul,
In that it knows—to understand the Whole.
If such things are within us—God is good—
And flight is destined for the callow wing,
And the high appetite implies the food,
And souls must reach the level whence they spring;
O Life of very Life! set free our Powers,
Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.
And flight is destined for the callow wing,
And the high appetite implies the food,
And souls must reach the level whence they spring;
O Life of very Life! set free our Powers,
Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.
Thou! to whom old Philosophy bent low,
To the wise few mysteriously revealed;
Thou! whom each humble Christian worships now,
In the poor hamlet and the open field;
Once an Idea—now Comforter and Friend,
Hope of the human Heart! Descend! Descend!
To the wise few mysteriously revealed;
103
In the poor hamlet and the open field;
Once an Idea—now Comforter and Friend,
Hope of the human Heart! Descend! Descend!
1846.
104
THE VOICES OF HISTORY.
The Poet in his vigil hears
Time flowing through the night,—
A mighty stream, absorbing tears,
And bearing down delight:
There resting on his bank of thought
He listens, till his soul
The Voices of the waves has caught,—
The meaning of their roll.
Time flowing through the night,—
A mighty stream, absorbing tears,
And bearing down delight:
There resting on his bank of thought
He listens, till his soul
The Voices of the waves has caught,—
The meaning of their roll.
First, wild and wildering as the strife
Of earthly winds and seas,
Resounds the long historic life
Of warring dynasties:—
Uncertain right and certain wrong
In onward conflict driven,
The threats and tramplings of the strong
Beneath a brazen heaven.
Of earthly winds and seas,
Resounds the long historic life
Of warring dynasties:—
Uncertain right and certain wrong
In onward conflict driven,
The threats and tramplings of the strong
Beneath a brazen heaven.
The cavernous unsounded East
Outpours an evil tide,
Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest,
The chant of shepherd bride:
How can we catch the angel-word,
How mark the prophet-sound,
'Mid thunders like Niagara's heard
An hundred miles around?
Outpours an evil tide,
Drowning the hymn of patriarch priest,
The chant of shepherd bride:
105
How mark the prophet-sound,
'Mid thunders like Niagara's heard
An hundred miles around?
From two small springs that rise and blend,
And leave their Latin home,
The waters East and West extend,—
The ocean-power of Rome:
Voices of Victories ever-won,
Of Pride that will not stay,
Billows that burst and perish on
The shores they wear away.
And leave their Latin home,
The waters East and West extend,—
The ocean-power of Rome:
Voices of Victories ever-won,
Of Pride that will not stay,
Billows that burst and perish on
The shores they wear away.
Till, in a race of fierce delight
Tumultuous battle forth,
The snows amassed on many a height,
The cataracts of the North:
What can we hear beside the roar,
What see beneath the foam,
What but the wrecks that strew the shore,
And cries of falling Rome?
Tumultuous battle forth,
The snows amassed on many a height,
The cataracts of the North:
What can we hear beside the roar,
What see beneath the foam,
What but the wrecks that strew the shore,
And cries of falling Rome?
Nor, when a purer Faith had traced
Safe channels for the tide,
Did streams with Eden-lilies graced
In Eden-sweetness glide;
While the deluded gaze admires
The smooth and shining flow,
Vile interests and insane desires
Gurgle and rage below.
Safe channels for the tide,
Did streams with Eden-lilies graced
In Eden-sweetness glide;
106
The smooth and shining flow,
Vile interests and insane desires
Gurgle and rage below.
If History has no other sounds,
Why should we listen more?
Spirit! despise terrestrial bounds,
And seek a happier shore;
Yet pause! for on thine inner ear
A mystic music grows,—
And mortal man shall never hear
That diapason's close.
Why should we listen more?
Spirit! despise terrestrial bounds,
And seek a happier shore;
Yet pause! for on thine inner ear
A mystic music grows,—
And mortal man shall never hear
That diapason's close.
Nature awakes! a rapturous tone,
Still different, still the same,—
Eternal effluence from the throne
Of Him without a name;
A symphony of worlds begun,
Ere sin the glory mars,
The cymbals of the new-born sun,
The trumpets of the stars.
Still different, still the same,—
Eternal effluence from the throne
Of Him without a name;
A symphony of worlds begun,
Ere sin the glory mars,
The cymbals of the new-born sun,
The trumpets of the stars.
Then Beauty all her subtlest chords
Dissolves and knits again,
And Law composes jarring words
In one harmonious chain:
And Loyalty's enchanting notes
Outswelling fade away,
While Knowledge, from ten thousand throats,
Proclaims a graver sway.—
Dissolves and knits again,
And Law composes jarring words
In one harmonious chain:
107
Outswelling fade away,
While Knowledge, from ten thousand throats,
Proclaims a graver sway.—
Well, if, by senses unbefooled,
Attentive souls may scan
These great Ideas that have ruled
The total mind of man;
Yet is there music deeper still,
Of fine and holy woof,
Comfort and joy to all that will
Keep ruder noise aloof.
Attentive souls may scan
These great Ideas that have ruled
The total mind of man;
Yet is there music deeper still,
Of fine and holy woof,
Comfort and joy to all that will
Keep ruder noise aloof.
A music simple as the sky,
Monotonous as the sea,
Recurrent as the flowers that die
And rise again in glee:
A melody that childhood sings
Without a thought of art,
Drawn from a few familiar strings,
The fibres of the Heart.
Monotonous as the sea,
Recurrent as the flowers that die
And rise again in glee:
A melody that childhood sings
Without a thought of art,
Drawn from a few familiar strings,
The fibres of the Heart.
Through tent and cot and proud saloon
This audible delight
Of nightingales that love the noon,
Of larks that court the night,—
We feel it all,—the hopes and fears
That language faintly tells,
The spreading smiles,—the passing tears,—
The meetings and farewells.
This audible delight
Of nightingales that love the noon,
Of larks that court the night,—
108
That language faintly tells,
The spreading smiles,—the passing tears,—
The meetings and farewells.
These harmonies that all can share,
When chronicled by one,
Enclose us like the living air,
Unending, unbegun;—
Poet! esteem thy noble part,
Still listen, still record,
Sacred Historian of the heart,
And moral nature's Lord!
When chronicled by one,
Enclose us like the living air,
Unending, unbegun;—
Poet! esteem thy noble part,
Still listen, still record,
Sacred Historian of the heart,
And moral nature's Lord!
109
THE BARREN HILL.
Before my Home, a long straight Hill
Extends its barren bound,
And all who that way travel will
Must travel miles around;
Yet not the loveliest face of earth
To living man can be
A treasury of more precious worth
Than that bare Hill to me.
Extends its barren bound,
And all who that way travel will
Must travel miles around;
Yet not the loveliest face of earth
To living man can be
A treasury of more precious worth
Than that bare Hill to me.
That Hill-side rose a wall between
This world of ears and eyes
And every shining shifty scene
That fancy forms and dyes:
First Babyhood engaged its use,
To plant a good-child's land,
Where all the streams were orange-juice,
And sugar all the sand.
This world of ears and eyes
And every shining shifty scene
That fancy forms and dyes:
First Babyhood engaged its use,
To plant a good-child's land,
Where all the streams were orange-juice,
And sugar all the sand.
A playground of unending sward
There blest the growing Boy,
A dream of labourless reward,
Whole holidays of joy;
A book of Nature, whose bright leaves
No other care should need
Than life that happily receives
What he that runs may read.
There blest the growing Boy,
A dream of labourless reward,
Whole holidays of joy;
110
No other care should need
Than life that happily receives
What he that runs may read.
Nor lacked there skies for onward youth
With wayward will to tinge,
Sweet sunshine overcast by ruth,
And storms of golden fringe:
Nor vales that darkling might evoke
Mysterious fellowship
Of names that still to Fancy woke,
But slumbered on the lip.
With wayward will to tinge,
Sweet sunshine overcast by ruth,
And storms of golden fringe:
Nor vales that darkling might evoke
Mysterious fellowship
Of names that still to Fancy woke,
But slumbered on the lip.
The hour when first that hill I crost,
Can yet my memory sting,
The dear self-trust that moment lost
No lore again can bring:
It seemed a foully broken bond
Of Nature and my kind,
That I should find the world beyond
The world I left behind.
Can yet my memory sting,
The dear self-trust that moment lost
No lore again can bring:
It seemed a foully broken bond
Of Nature and my kind,
That I should find the world beyond
The world I left behind.
But not in vain that hill-side stood,
On many an after-day,
When with returning steps I wooed
Revival of its sway;
It could not give me Truth where doubt
And sin had ample range,
But it was powerful to shut out
The ill it could not change.
On many an after-day,
When with returning steps I wooed
Revival of its sway;
111
And sin had ample range,
But it was powerful to shut out
The ill it could not change.
And still performs a sacred part,
To my experienced eye,
This Pisgah which my virgin heart
Ascended but to die;
What was Reality before
In symbol now may live,
Endowed with right to promise more
Than ever it could give.
To my experienced eye,
This Pisgah which my virgin heart
Ascended but to die;
What was Reality before
In symbol now may live,
Endowed with right to promise more
Than ever it could give.
1839.
112
THE CHRONICLE OF HOPES.
I would not chronicle my life
By dynasties of joy or pain,
By reigns of peace or times of strife,
By accidents of loss or gain:
The Hopes that nurtured in my breast
Have been the very wings to me
On which existence floats or rests,—
These only shall my eras be.
By dynasties of joy or pain,
By reigns of peace or times of strife,
By accidents of loss or gain:
The Hopes that nurtured in my breast
Have been the very wings to me
On which existence floats or rests,—
These only shall my eras be.
Whether they rose to utmost height
And glistened in the noonday sun,
Descending with as full delight
When all was realised and won;
Or whether mercilessly checked
By adverse airs and lowering skies,
They sunk to earth confused and wrecked
Almost before they dared to rise;
And glistened in the noonday sun,
Descending with as full delight
When all was realised and won;
Or whether mercilessly checked
By adverse airs and lowering skies,
They sunk to earth confused and wrecked
Almost before they dared to rise;
With equal love I love them all
For their own special sakes, nor care
What sequence here or there might fall,
Each has its sweet memorial share:
Let but my Hopes, in coming years,
Preserve their long unbroken line,
And smiles will shine through any tears,
And grief itself be half-divine.
For their own special sakes, nor care
What sequence here or there might fall,
Each has its sweet memorial share:
113
Preserve their long unbroken line,
And smiles will shine through any tears,
And grief itself be half-divine.
For not to man on earth is given
The ripe fulfilment of desire;—
Desire of Heaven itself is Heaven,
Unless the passion faint and tire:
So upward still, from hope to hope,
From faith to faith, the soul ascends,
And who has scaled the ethereal cope,
Where that sublime succession ends?
The ripe fulfilment of desire;—
Desire of Heaven itself is Heaven,
Unless the passion faint and tire:
So upward still, from hope to hope,
From faith to faith, the soul ascends,
And who has scaled the ethereal cope,
Where that sublime succession ends?
1842.
114
THE WORTH OF HOURS.
Believe not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of Hours as they go by:
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of Hours as they go by:
For every man's weak self, alas!
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass:
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass:
But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.
Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:
And more,—though free from seeming harm,
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm,—
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm,—
If then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,—
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,—
115
Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be linked again
By all mere Memory can retain,—
Broke off, nor to be linked again
By all mere Memory can retain,—
Upon your heart this truth may rise,—
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies:
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies:
So should we live, that every Hour
May die as dies the natural flower,—
A self-reviving thing of power;
May die as dies the natural flower,—
A self-reviving thing of power;
That every Thought and every Deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future meed;
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future meed;
Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ
Is to develope not destroy,
Far better than a barren Joy.
Is to develope not destroy,
Far better than a barren Joy.
1835.
116
THE LONG-AGO.
Eyes which can but ill define
Shapes that rise about and near,
Through the far horizon's line
Stretch a vision free and clear:
Memories feeble to retrace
Yesterday's immediate flow,
Find a dear familiar face
In each hour of Long-ago.
Shapes that rise about and near,
Through the far horizon's line
Stretch a vision free and clear:
Memories feeble to retrace
Yesterday's immediate flow,
Find a dear familiar face
In each hour of Long-ago.
Follow you majestic train
Down the slopes of old renown,
Knightly forms without disdain,
Sainted heads without a frown;
Emperors of thought and hand
Congregate, a glorious show,
Met from every age and land
In the plains of Long-ago.
Down the slopes of old renown,
Knightly forms without disdain,
Sainted heads without a frown;
Emperors of thought and hand
Congregate, a glorious show,
Met from every age and land
In the plains of Long-ago.
As the heart of childhood brings
Something of eternal joy,
From its own unsounded springs,
Such as life can scarce destroy:
So, remindful of the prime
Spirits, wand'ring to and fro,
Rest upon the resting time
In the peace of Long-ago.
Something of eternal joy,
From its own unsounded springs,
Such as life can scarce destroy:
117
Spirits, wand'ring to and fro,
Rest upon the resting time
In the peace of Long-ago.
Youthful Hope's religious fire,
When it burns no longer, leaves
Ashes of impure Desire
On the altars it bereaves;
But the light that fills the Past
Sheds a still diviner glow,
Ever farther it is cast
O'er the scenes of Long-ago.
When it burns no longer, leaves
Ashes of impure Desire
On the altars it bereaves;
But the light that fills the Past
Sheds a still diviner glow,
Ever farther it is cast
O'er the scenes of Long-ago.
Many a growth of pain and care,
Cumbering all the present hour,
Yields, when once transplanted there,
Healthy fruit or pleasant flower;
Thoughts that hardly flourish here,
Feelings long have ceased to blow,
Breathe a native atmosphere
In the world of Long-ago.
Cumbering all the present hour,
Yields, when once transplanted there,
Healthy fruit or pleasant flower;
Thoughts that hardly flourish here,
Feelings long have ceased to blow,
Breathe a native atmosphere
In the world of Long-ago.
On that deep-retiring shore
Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore
Fiercely beat and mounted high:
Sorrows that are sorrows still
Lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.
Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore
Fiercely beat and mounted high:
118
Lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.
Tombs where lonely love repines,
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines
Through the golden mist of years:
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not, if we could,
Wake the sleep of Long-ago!
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines
Through the golden mist of years:
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not, if we could,
Wake the sleep of Long-ago!
Though the doom of swift decay
Shocks the soul where life is strong,
Though for frailer hearts the day
Lingers sad and overlong,—
Still the weight will find a leaven,
Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the Future has its Heaven,
And the Past its Long-ago.
Shocks the soul where life is strong,
Though for frailer hearts the day
Lingers sad and overlong,—
Still the weight will find a leaven,
Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the Future has its Heaven,
And the Past its Long-ago.
1834.
119
SIMPLE SOUNDS.
O Power! whose organ is the tremulous air,
Thou that not only to the accordant sense
Unfoldest all a world of harsh and fair,
But hast a far diviner influence,
Submitting to inscrutable controul
The finest elements of human soul;
Thou that not only to the accordant sense
Unfoldest all a world of harsh and fair,
But hast a far diviner influence,
Submitting to inscrutable controul
The finest elements of human soul;
O mystic Sound! what heart can keep aloof,
If summoned to acknowledge thy bland sway,
As thou approachest in the golden woof
Of luscious harmonies serene or gay?
But thou hast moods I would not honor less,
Thy simplest forms of moral kingliness.
If summoned to acknowledge thy bland sway,
As thou approachest in the golden woof
Of luscious harmonies serene or gay?
But thou hast moods I would not honor less,
Thy simplest forms of moral kingliness.
How did my childish ecstasy burst out,
When first I found thy Echoes at my call!
What blithe caprice of whisper, song, and shout,
Woke the steep hill and challenged the long wall!
How we did laugh! I needed from that day
Nor other playfellows nor other play.
When first I found thy Echoes at my call!
What blithe caprice of whisper, song, and shout,
Woke the steep hill and challenged the long wall!
How we did laugh! I needed from that day
Nor other playfellows nor other play.
120
Further in life, when thoughts and feelings slept
In my heart's tomb, some one particular tone
Of common bells has stung me till I wept,
And rushed away, oppressed by things foregone;
For though the hours recalled be bright and glad,
Still earnest memory ever will be sad.
In my heart's tomb, some one particular tone
Of common bells has stung me till I wept,
And rushed away, oppressed by things foregone;
For though the hours recalled be bright and glad,
Still earnest memory ever will be sad.
When late I changed the still unpeopled air
Of the clear South for this my mother clime,
I quivered with delight, as everywhere
Sweet birds in happy snatches hailed the prime;
A throstle's twitter made old walks arise,
With lilac-bunches dancing in my eyes.
Of the clear South for this my mother clime,
I quivered with delight, as everywhere
Sweet birds in happy snatches hailed the prime;
A throstle's twitter made old walks arise,
With lilac-bunches dancing in my eyes.
What love we, about those we love the best,
Better than their dear voices? At what cost
Would one not gather to an aching breast
Each little word of some whom we have lost?
And oh! how blank to hear, in some far place,
A voice we know, and see a stranger's face.
Better than their dear voices? At what cost
Would one not gather to an aching breast
Each little word of some whom we have lost?
And oh! how blank to hear, in some far place,
A voice we know, and see a stranger's face.
I never hold my truth to God more leal
Than when it thunders; that monotonous roll
Has after-lightning potent to reveal
Many dark words on Faith's sin-shaded scroll:
Talk with a stormy sky, man! prone to deem
That nothing is, because of thine own Dream.
Than when it thunders; that monotonous roll
Has after-lightning potent to reveal
Many dark words on Faith's sin-shaded scroll:
Talk with a stormy sky, man! prone to deem
That nothing is, because of thine own Dream.
121
And now within the hush of evening waves,
Cast by light force upon a shingly shore,
My Spirit rests; the ruins and fresh graves
That strewed its earthly path here vex no more:
Rocked on the soothing surge, its life is all
One soft attraction and one mellow fall.
Cast by light force upon a shingly shore,
My Spirit rests; the ruins and fresh graves
That strewed its earthly path here vex no more:
Rocked on the soothing surge, its life is all
One soft attraction and one mellow fall.
1835.
122
A PRAYER.
Evil, every living hour,
Holds us in its wilful hand,
Save as thou, essential Power,
May'st be gracious to withstand:
Pain within the subtle flesh,
Heavy lids that cannot close,
Hearts that Hope will not refresh,—
Hand of healing! interpose.
Holds us in its wilful hand,
Save as thou, essential Power,
May'st be gracious to withstand:
Pain within the subtle flesh,
Heavy lids that cannot close,
Hearts that Hope will not refresh,—
Hand of healing! interpose.
Tyranny's strong breath is tainting
Nature's sweet and vivid air,
Nations silently are fainting
Or up-gather in despair:
Not to those distracted wills
Trust the judgment of their woes;
While the cup of anguish fills,
Arm of Justice! interpose.
Nature's sweet and vivid air,
Nations silently are fainting
Or up-gather in despair:
Not to those distracted wills
Trust the judgment of their woes;
While the cup of anguish fills,
Arm of Justice! interpose.
Pleasures night and day are hovering
Round their prey of weary hours,
Weakness and unrest discovering
In the best of human powers:
Ere the fond delusions tire,
Ere envenomed passion grows
From the root of vain desire,—
Mind of Wisdom! interpose.
Round their prey of weary hours,
Weakness and unrest discovering
In the best of human powers:
123
Ere envenomed passion grows
From the root of vain desire,—
Mind of Wisdom! interpose.
Now no more in tuneful motion
Life with love and duty glides;
Reason's meteor-lighted ocean
Bears us down its mazy tides;
Head is clear and hand is strong,
But our heart no haven knows;
Sun of Truth! the night is long,—
Let thy radiance interpose!
Life with love and duty glides;
Reason's meteor-lighted ocean
Bears us down its mazy tides;
Head is clear and hand is strong,
But our heart no haven knows;
Sun of Truth! the night is long,—
Let thy radiance interpose!
1841.
124
THE PAST.
The Past—the Past!—it has a tolling sound,
That solemn syllable, which calls to mind
The prison of the Present rising round,
And all the bonds that Time has power to bind.
That solemn syllable, which calls to mind
The prison of the Present rising round,
And all the bonds that Time has power to bind.
Sounds, sights,—all else the means of sense impart,—
Seem to arouse to grief or joy in vain,
While still it clanks upon the captive heart,
That ever-moving, never lengthening, chain.
Seem to arouse to grief or joy in vain,
While still it clanks upon the captive heart,
That ever-moving, never lengthening, chain.
Is there no art that can an echo make,
To mock the splendid harmonies gone by?
No charm that can the long-dead hours awake,
In ghost-like silence and solemnity?
To mock the splendid harmonies gone by?
No charm that can the long-dead hours awake,
In ghost-like silence and solemnity?
Alas! though Memory, with her wilful wand,
Can shadow forth a faint and vapid show,
What boots the colourless unmeaning band?
'Tis but a dream,—we know it to be so.
Can shadow forth a faint and vapid show,
What boots the colourless unmeaning band?
'Tis but a dream,—we know it to be so.
Of all our spiritual elements—of all
Those powers by which we feel ourselves to be—
Is there not one that can elude the thrall,
True to itself, and as its Author free?
Those powers by which we feel ourselves to be—
Is there not one that can elude the thrall,
True to itself, and as its Author free?
125
Have we no heritage of Father-land?
No ray immortal as the Parent Sun?
No heaven-armed force, that can undaunted stand
Guarding its own eternal garrison?
No ray immortal as the Parent Sun?
No heaven-armed force, that can undaunted stand
Guarding its own eternal garrison?
Yes, we have that which lives a deathless life,
No meagre phantom, spawned by human will,
But strong to meet the Tyrant in the strife;
Time has no rule o'er what he cannot kill.
No meagre phantom, spawned by human will,
But strong to meet the Tyrant in the strife;
Time has no rule o'er what he cannot kill.
The feelings which the Heart has raised to birth,
That holy mother never will disclaim;
She is no hireling minister of earth;
They are no bastard forgers of her name.
That holy mother never will disclaim;
She is no hireling minister of earth;
They are no bastard forgers of her name.
Memorial flashes, transient as intense,
A spirit darting through material night,
Like lightning felt within the vivid sense,
Yet seeming all too rapid for the sight.
A spirit darting through material night,
Like lightning felt within the vivid sense,
Yet seeming all too rapid for the sight.
How we have joyed, when all our mind was joy,
How we have loved, when love was all our law,
Looked with half envy on the rising boy,
And thought of manhood with religious awe.
How we have loved, when love was all our law,
Looked with half envy on the rising boy,
And thought of manhood with religious awe.
How we delighted in a thrice-sung song,
A wilding's blossom, or a speckled stone,
And how we numbered o'er the starry throng,
And chose the brightest to be called our own.
A wilding's blossom, or a speckled stone,
And how we numbered o'er the starry throng,
And chose the brightest to be called our own.
126
Or, when young Passion to excess had ranged,
How conscience met it with her sacred string,
And how we marvelled, what to frowns had changed
The red-rose smiles that tinted every thing.
How conscience met it with her sacred string,
And how we marvelled, what to frowns had changed
The red-rose smiles that tinted every thing.
How, when at first upon the fatal shore,
Listening the murmurings of the waves of sin,
A shivering chill came over us, before
We bared our tender limbs and glided in.
Listening the murmurings of the waves of sin,
A shivering chill came over us, before
We bared our tender limbs and glided in.
And when perchance some random bird obscene
Flew screaming by, and warned us where we stood,
With palsied feet, we turned us back to lean
Resisting those who urged us to the flood.
Flew screaming by, and warned us where we stood,
With palsied feet, we turned us back to lean
Resisting those who urged us to the flood.
—Such thoughts can never die; the fire once kindled
Lies smouldering in the ashes' dusty cove;
Though one by one the tremulous sparks have dwindled,
A flame will burst in times we wot not of.
Lies smouldering in the ashes' dusty cove;
Though one by one the tremulous sparks have dwindled,
A flame will burst in times we wot not of.
1833.
127
THE PALSY OF THE HEART.
I see the worlds of earth and sky
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye—
I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,—
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye—
I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,—
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
Round me in rich profusion lie
Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree,
But what the pleasure, what the worth,
If all is savourless to me!
Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree,
But what the pleasure, what the worth,
If all is savourless to me!
I hear the subtle chords of sound,
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without—around—
But will not enter and imbue:
While harmonies diviner still,
Sweet greetings, appellations dear,
That used through every nerve to thrill
I often hear, and only hear.
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without—around—
But will not enter and imbue:
128
Sweet greetings, appellations dear,
That used through every nerve to thrill
I often hear, and only hear.
O dreadful thought! if by God's grace
To souls like mine there should be given
That perfect presence of his face,
Which we, for want of words, call Heaven,—
And unresponsive even there
This heart of mine could still remain,
And its intrinsic evil bear
To realms that know no other pain.
To souls like mine there should be given
That perfect presence of his face,
Which we, for want of words, call Heaven,—
And unresponsive even there
This heart of mine could still remain,
And its intrinsic evil bear
To realms that know no other pain.
Better down nature's scale to roll,
Far as the base unbreathing clod,
Than rest a conscious reasoning soul,
Impervious to the light of God;—
Hateful the powers that but divine
What we have lost beyond recall,
The intellectual plummet-line
That sounds the depths to which we fall.
Far as the base unbreathing clod,
Than rest a conscious reasoning soul,
Impervious to the light of God;—
Hateful the powers that but divine
What we have lost beyond recall,
The intellectual plummet-line
That sounds the depths to which we fall.
1841.
129
THE WORLD TO THE SOUL.
Soul! that may'st have been divine,
Now I claim and take thee mine;
Now thy own true bliss will be
In thy loyalty to me.
Now I claim and take thee mine;
Now thy own true bliss will be
In thy loyalty to me.
Though thou seemest without stain,
There is evil in thy grain;
Thou hast tasted of the fruit
Of which Knowledge is the root.
There is evil in thy grain;
Thou hast tasted of the fruit
Of which Knowledge is the root.
So I must not let thee rest,
Lull'd on Faith's maternal breast;
Faith and Fancy mar the plan
Of the making of a man.
Lull'd on Faith's maternal breast;
Faith and Fancy mar the plan
Of the making of a man.
So thy tender heart I bare
To Ambition's frosty air;
So I plunge thee deep in doubt,
That thou may'st grow hard and stout.
To Ambition's frosty air;
So I plunge thee deep in doubt,
That thou may'st grow hard and stout.
So I bid the eager Boy
Sense in every form enjoy;
Stinting not the moment's pleasure,
Save to gain some fuller measure.
Sense in every form enjoy;
Stinting not the moment's pleasure,
Save to gain some fuller measure.
130
Thou wilt lose at last the zest,
Thou wilt need some higher quest;
Then I bid thee rise a Man,
And I aid thee all I can.
Thou wilt need some higher quest;
Then I bid thee rise a Man,
And I aid thee all I can.
Fix thee on some worthy aim,
Proving danger, fronting shame;
Knowing only friends or foes,
As they speed thee or oppose:
Proving danger, fronting shame;
Knowing only friends or foes,
As they speed thee or oppose:
Trampling with thy rapid feet
Feelings fond and pleas discreet;
Only for excuses sue
In the great things thou canst do.
Feelings fond and pleas discreet;
Only for excuses sue
In the great things thou canst do.
If what shone afar so grand,
Turn to nothing in thy hand,
On, again—the virtue lies
In the struggle, not the prize;
Turn to nothing in thy hand,
On, again—the virtue lies
In the struggle, not the prize;
Only rest not: failure-curst
Turn to Pleasure at the worst;
That may calm thy conscience-cry—
Death may give thee peace, not I.
Turn to Pleasure at the worst;
That may calm thy conscience-cry—
Death may give thee peace, not I.
131
MOMENTS.
I lie in a heavy trance,
With' a world of dream without me,
Shapes of shadow dance,
In wavering bands about me;
But, at times, some mystic things
Appear in this phantom lair,
That almost seem to me visitings
Of Truth known elsewhere:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
With' a world of dream without me,
Shapes of shadow dance,
In wavering bands about me;
But, at times, some mystic things
Appear in this phantom lair,
That almost seem to me visitings
Of Truth known elsewhere:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
A prayer in an hour of pain,
Begun in an undertone,
Then lowered, as it would fain
Be heard by the heart alone;
A throb, when the soul is entered
By a light that is lit above,
Where the God of Nature has centered
The Beauty of Love.—
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
Begun in an undertone,
Then lowered, as it would fain
Be heard by the heart alone;
A throb, when the soul is entered
By a light that is lit above,
Where the God of Nature has centered
The Beauty of Love.—
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
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A look that is telling a tale,
Which looks alone dare tell,—
When' a cheek is no longer pale,
That has caught the glance, as it fell;
A touch, which seems to unlock
Treasures unknown as yet,
And the bitter-sweet first shock,
One can never forget;
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
Which looks alone dare tell,—
When' a cheek is no longer pale,
That has caught the glance, as it fell;
A touch, which seems to unlock
Treasures unknown as yet,
And the bitter-sweet first shock,
One can never forget;
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
A sense of an earnest Will
To help the lowly-living,—
And a terrible heart-thrill,
If you' have no power of giving;
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
To help the lowly-living,—
And a terrible heart-thrill,
If you' have no power of giving;
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless,
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless:
The world is wide,—these things are small,
They may be nothing, but they are All.
The moment we think we have learnt
The lore of the all-wise One,
By which we could stand unburnt,
On the ridge of the seething sun:
The moment we grasp at the clue,
Long-lost and strangely riven,
Which guides our soul to the True,
And, the Poet to Heaven.
The world is wide,—these things are small,—
If they be nothing, what is there at all?
The lore of the all-wise One,
By which we could stand unburnt,
On the ridge of the seething sun:
The moment we grasp at the clue,
Long-lost and strangely riven,
133
And, the Poet to Heaven.
The world is wide,—these things are small,—
If they be nothing, what is there at all?
134
THE MEN OF OLD.
I know not that the men of old
Were better than men now,
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:
I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of Time to raise,
As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.
Were better than men now,
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:
I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of Time to raise,
As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.
Still it is true, and over true,
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness,
The world has since foregone,—
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone!
That I delight to close
This book of life self-wise and new,
And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness,
The world has since foregone,—
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone!
With rights, tho' not too closely scanned,
Enjoyed, as far as known,—
With will by no reverse unmanned,—
With pulse of even tone,—
They from to-day and from to-night
Expected nothing more,
Than yesterday and yesternight
Had proffered them before.
Enjoyed, as far as known,—
With will by no reverse unmanned,—
With pulse of even tone,—
135
Expected nothing more,
Than yesterday and yesternight
Had proffered them before.
To them was life a simple art
Of duties to be done,
A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and scope
They little cared to know,
Content, as men at arms, to cope
Each with his fronting foe.
Of duties to be done,
A game where each man took his part,
A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and scope
They little cared to know,
Content, as men at arms, to cope
Each with his fronting foe.
Man now his Virtue's diadem
Puts on and proudly wears,
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,
Like instincts, unawares:
Blending their souls' sublimest needs
With tasks of every day,
They went about their gravest deeds,
As noble boys at play.—
Puts on and proudly wears,
Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them,
Like instincts, unawares:
Blending their souls' sublimest needs
With tasks of every day,
They went about their gravest deeds,
As noble boys at play.—
And what if Nature's fearful wound
They did not probe and bare,
For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there,—
For that their love but flowed more fast,
Their charities more free,
Not conscious what mere drops they cast
Into the evil sea.
They did not probe and bare,
For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there,—
136
Their charities more free,
Not conscious what mere drops they cast
Into the evil sea.
A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,
It is the distant and the dim
That we are sick to greet:
For flowers that grow our hands beneath
We struggle and aspire,—
Our hearts must die, except they breathe
The air of fresh Desire.
Lie close about his feet,
It is the distant and the dim
That we are sick to greet:
For flowers that grow our hands beneath
We struggle and aspire,—
Our hearts must die, except they breathe
The air of fresh Desire.
Yet, Brothers, who up Reason's hill
Advance with hopeful cheer,—
O! loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;
And still restrain your haughty gaze,
The loftier that ye go,
Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below.
Advance with hopeful cheer,—
O! loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;
And still restrain your haughty gaze,
The loftier that ye go,
Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below.
137
THE COMBAT OF LIFE.
Ce n'est pas la victoire qui fait le bonheur des nobles cœurs,—c'est le combat.
Montalembert.
We have come out upon the field of Life,
To war with Evil; by some mightier power
Than Memory can embrace, or Reason know,
We were enlisted into this great strife,
And led to meet that unknown Enemy:
Yet not like men brought blinded to a wood,
Who, looking round them, where a hundred paths
All undistinguished lead a hundred ways,
Tormented by that blank indifference,
Rather sit down and die than wander on,—
Not thus, but with a tablet clear and sure,
(Obscure in this alone, that it is graven
On mortal hearts by an eternal hand,)
An ever-present Law, within our Being,
Which we must read whether we will or no,
We are placed here and told the way to go.
The Boy, who feels his foot upon the plain,
And his young fingers clinging to the sword,
For the first time—how loudly he proclaims
The faith of his ingenuous chivalry!
“What is to me that proudly-fronting force?
Am I not brave and strong? Am I not here
To fight and conquer? Have I not around
A world of comrades, bound to the same cause,
All brave as I—all led by the same chief,
All pledged to Victory? Who dares to fear?
Who dares to doubt? Is not the very pulse,
That drives my spirit onward, as a Voice
Hailing my glory?—Yes, the Power of Ill
Shall quail before the virtue of my arm,
And hostile darts fall pointless from my shield.”
To war with Evil; by some mightier power
Than Memory can embrace, or Reason know,
We were enlisted into this great strife,
And led to meet that unknown Enemy:
Yet not like men brought blinded to a wood,
Who, looking round them, where a hundred paths
All undistinguished lead a hundred ways,
Tormented by that blank indifference,
Rather sit down and die than wander on,—
Not thus, but with a tablet clear and sure,
(Obscure in this alone, that it is graven
On mortal hearts by an eternal hand,)
An ever-present Law, within our Being,
Which we must read whether we will or no,
We are placed here and told the way to go.
The Boy, who feels his foot upon the plain,
And his young fingers clinging to the sword,
For the first time—how loudly he proclaims
138
“What is to me that proudly-fronting force?
Am I not brave and strong? Am I not here
To fight and conquer? Have I not around
A world of comrades, bound to the same cause,
All brave as I—all led by the same chief,
All pledged to Victory? Who dares to fear?
Who dares to doubt? Is not the very pulse,
That drives my spirit onward, as a Voice
Hailing my glory?—Yes, the Power of Ill
Shall quail before the virtue of my arm,
And hostile darts fall pointless from my shield.”
Poor youthful Heart! poor noble Self-deceit!
Weak-winged Aspirant!—Step with me aside,
'Tis for a moment, mount this little hill,—
Tell me and tell thyself what see'st Thou now.
Look East and West, and mark how far extends
This vainly mocked, this haughtily defied,
This Might so easily to be laid low!
There is no eminence on this wide space,
So high that thou from it canst e'er behold
A clear horizon: dark is all the space,
Black with the masses of that Enemy;
There is no point where Light can penetrate
Those densely-banded Legions,—the green plain
Shines through no interval. Brave though thou art,
My Boy, where is thy trust in Victory now!
Then gaze below, gaze on that waving crowd,
The marshalled army of Humanity,
From which thou art come out.—Loyal thou art,
My Boy! but what avails thy feeble Truth,
When, as thou see'st, of that huge multitude,
Those still succeeding myriads there arrayed
For fight, how few, how miserably few,
Not only do not fervently work out
Their Soldier-duty, but whose craven souls
Do not pass over to the very Foe,
And, mingling with his numbers numberless,
Against their brethren turn unnatural arms,—
Or else of honest wills, at first, like thine,
After the faint resistance of an hour,
Yield themselves up half-willing prisoners,
Soon to be won by golden-guileful tongues,
To do blithe service in the cause of Sin?
Surely amid this general faithlessness,
This common treason, where Desertion takes
So sure a method, so distinct a form,
That it may rather seem itself a Law
Than the infraction, where the wonder is
That those are loyal, not that these rebel,—
Surely if we, who have our hearts awake
To this most dreadful Truth, we who have learnt
That Evil is a force, which when we meet
In open battle, we are as a rush
Before the whirlwind, cautiously retire
To some deep-hidden cleft where'er we deem
We are best sheltered from his poisoned touch
And there in calm but tearful hopelessness,
Mourning the cureless Agony of our world,
Crouch in the dust and wait until the end,
It were a bitter judgment and untrue,
To brand us cowards, and our deeds a crime.
Weak-winged Aspirant!—Step with me aside,
'Tis for a moment, mount this little hill,—
Tell me and tell thyself what see'st Thou now.
Look East and West, and mark how far extends
This vainly mocked, this haughtily defied,
This Might so easily to be laid low!
There is no eminence on this wide space,
So high that thou from it canst e'er behold
A clear horizon: dark is all the space,
Black with the masses of that Enemy;
There is no point where Light can penetrate
Those densely-banded Legions,—the green plain
Shines through no interval. Brave though thou art,
My Boy, where is thy trust in Victory now!
139
The marshalled army of Humanity,
From which thou art come out.—Loyal thou art,
My Boy! but what avails thy feeble Truth,
When, as thou see'st, of that huge multitude,
Those still succeeding myriads there arrayed
For fight, how few, how miserably few,
Not only do not fervently work out
Their Soldier-duty, but whose craven souls
Do not pass over to the very Foe,
And, mingling with his numbers numberless,
Against their brethren turn unnatural arms,—
Or else of honest wills, at first, like thine,
After the faint resistance of an hour,
Yield themselves up half-willing prisoners,
Soon to be won by golden-guileful tongues,
To do blithe service in the cause of Sin?
Surely amid this general faithlessness,
This common treason, where Desertion takes
So sure a method, so distinct a form,
That it may rather seem itself a Law
Than the infraction, where the wonder is
That those are loyal, not that these rebel,—
Surely if we, who have our hearts awake
To this most dreadful Truth, we who have learnt
That Evil is a force, which when we meet
In open battle, we are as a rush
Before the whirlwind, cautiously retire
140
We are best sheltered from his poisoned touch
And there in calm but tearful hopelessness,
Mourning the cureless Agony of our world,
Crouch in the dust and wait until the end,
It were a bitter judgment and untrue,
To brand us cowards, and our deeds a crime.
But though the weakness of our human heart
May thus be made more safe and innocent,
Yet there are some to whom a strength is given,
A Will, a self-constraining Energy,
A Faith which feeds upon no earthly hope,
Which never thinks of Victory, but content
In its own consummation, combating
Because it ought to combat (even as Love
Is its own cause and cannot have another),
And conscious that to find in martyrdom
The stamp and signet of most perfect life
Is all the science that mankind can reach,
Rejoicing fights, and still rejoicing falls.
It may be that to Spirits high-toned as these
A revelation of the end of Time
Is also granted; that they feel a sense
Giving them firm assurance that the foe
By which they must be crushed (in Death well-won
Alone to find their freedom) in his turn
Will be subdued, though not by such as They.
Evil, which is the King of Time, in Time
Cannot be overcome, but who has said
That Time shall be for ever? Who can lay
The limits of Creation? Who can know
That Realm and Monarch shall not sink together
Into the deep of blest Eternity,
And Love and Peace be all the Universe?
May thus be made more safe and innocent,
Yet there are some to whom a strength is given,
A Will, a self-constraining Energy,
A Faith which feeds upon no earthly hope,
Which never thinks of Victory, but content
In its own consummation, combating
Because it ought to combat (even as Love
Is its own cause and cannot have another),
And conscious that to find in martyrdom
The stamp and signet of most perfect life
Is all the science that mankind can reach,
Rejoicing fights, and still rejoicing falls.
It may be that to Spirits high-toned as these
A revelation of the end of Time
Is also granted; that they feel a sense
Giving them firm assurance that the foe
By which they must be crushed (in Death well-won
Alone to find their freedom) in his turn
Will be subdued, though not by such as They.
141
Cannot be overcome, but who has said
That Time shall be for ever? Who can lay
The limits of Creation? Who can know
That Realm and Monarch shall not sink together
Into the deep of blest Eternity,
And Love and Peace be all the Universe?
142
RETURNING DREAMS.
In the lone silence of my later nights,
The dreams I dreamt in youth come back to me
Not a returning presence that affrights,—
Nor a mere play of hard-forced memory,—
But there is no reality which seems
To me so real as those repeated dreams.
The dreams I dreamt in youth come back to me
Not a returning presence that affrights,—
Nor a mere play of hard-forced memory,—
But there is no reality which seems
To me so real as those repeated dreams.
I find, in such revivals of old joys,
An earnest of the unity that reigns
In this our inner life, an equipoise
To all our vacillating outward pains;
A constant well, from which our souls updraw
Continuous Truth and undisturbèd Law.
An earnest of the unity that reigns
In this our inner life, an equipoise
To all our vacillating outward pains;
A constant well, from which our souls updraw
Continuous Truth and undisturbèd Law.
If few to us, and far between, appear
The favoured hours at which reverberate
These spiritual echoes, that from sphere
To sphere are sped by Power compassionate,
In Life's short pass, how rarely are we found
Just at the point where strikes the heavenly sound!
The favoured hours at which reverberate
These spiritual echoes, that from sphere
To sphere are sped by Power compassionate,
In Life's short pass, how rarely are we found
Just at the point where strikes the heavenly sound!
143
But unlike echoes among natural things,
That live in faintness and are breathed away,—
To ends most distant their reflection brings
Glories and bliss impervious to decay,
Fresh and refreshing as when first they come
From the Eternal Thought, which is their home.
That live in faintness and are breathed away,—
To ends most distant their reflection brings
Glories and bliss impervious to decay,
Fresh and refreshing as when first they come
From the Eternal Thought, which is their home.
As in that World of Dream, whose mystic shades
Are cast by still more mystic substances,
We ofttimes have an unreflecting sense,
A silent consciousness, of some things past,
So clear, that we can wholly comprehend
Others of which they are a part, and even
Continue them in action, though no stretch
Of after-memory can recognise
That we have had experience of those things,
Or sleeping or awake;—
Are cast by still more mystic substances,
We ofttimes have an unreflecting sense,
A silent consciousness, of some things past,
So clear, that we can wholly comprehend
Others of which they are a part, and even
Continue them in action, though no stretch
Of after-memory can recognise
That we have had experience of those things,
Or sleeping or awake;—
Thus in the dream,
Our Universal Dream, of Mortal Life,
The incidents of an anterior Dream,
Or, it may be, Existence (for the Sun
Of Being, seen thro' the deep dreamy mist,
Itself is dream-like), noiselessly intrude
Into the daily flow of earthly things;
Instincts of Good,—immediate sympathies,
Places come at by chance, that claim at once
An old acquaintance,—single, random, looks,
That bare a stranger's bosom to our eyes;
We know these things are so, we ask not why,
But act and follow as the Dream goes on.
Our Universal Dream, of Mortal Life,
The incidents of an anterior Dream,
Or, it may be, Existence (for the Sun
Of Being, seen thro' the deep dreamy mist,
Itself is dream-like), noiselessly intrude
Into the daily flow of earthly things;
Instincts of Good,—immediate sympathies,
Places come at by chance, that claim at once
144
That bare a stranger's bosom to our eyes;
We know these things are so, we ask not why,
But act and follow as the Dream goes on.
Happy the many to whom Life displays
Only the flaunting of its Tulip-flower,
Whose minds have never bent to scrutinize
Into the maddening riddle of the Root,—
Shell within shell,—dream folded over dream,—
No heart, no kernel of essential Being,
For us to find, and feel that Truth is there!
Only the flaunting of its Tulip-flower,
Whose minds have never bent to scrutinize
Into the maddening riddle of the Root,—
Shell within shell,—dream folded over dream,—
No heart, no kernel of essential Being,
For us to find, and feel that Truth is there!
145
THE MARVEL OF LIFE.
O Life! how like the common-breathèd air,
Which is thy outward instrument, thou liest
Ever about us, with sustaining force,
In the calm current of our usual days
Unfelt, unthought of; nay, how dense a crowd
Float on upborne by the prolific stream,
Even to the ridges of the eternal sea,
Spending profuse the passion of their mind
On every flower that gleams on either bank,
On every rock that bends its rugged brow,
Conscious of all things, only not of thee.
Which is thy outward instrument, thou liest
Ever about us, with sustaining force,
In the calm current of our usual days
Unfelt, unthought of; nay, how dense a crowd
Float on upborne by the prolific stream,
Even to the ridges of the eternal sea,
Spending profuse the passion of their mind
On every flower that gleams on either bank,
On every rock that bends its rugged brow,
Conscious of all things, only not of thee.
Yet some there are, who in their greenest youth,
At some rare hours, have known the dazzling light
Intolerable, that glares upon the soul,
In the mere sense of Being, and grown faint
With awe, and striven to press their folded hands
Upon their inner eyes, and bowed their heads,
As in the presence of a mighty Ghost,
Which they must feel, but cannot dare to see.
It is before me now, that fearful truth,
That single solitary truth, which hangs
In the dark heaven of our uncertainties,
Seen by no other light than its own fire,
Self-balanced, like the Arab Magian's tomb,
Between the inner and the outer World;—
How utterly the wretched shred of Time,
Which in our blindness we call Human Life,
Is lost with all its train of circumstance,
And appanage of after and before,
In this eternal present; that we Are!
No When,—no Where,—no How,—but that we Are,—
And nought besides.
At some rare hours, have known the dazzling light
Intolerable, that glares upon the soul,
In the mere sense of Being, and grown faint
With awe, and striven to press their folded hands
Upon their inner eyes, and bowed their heads,
As in the presence of a mighty Ghost,
Which they must feel, but cannot dare to see.
146
That single solitary truth, which hangs
In the dark heaven of our uncertainties,
Seen by no other light than its own fire,
Self-balanced, like the Arab Magian's tomb,
Between the inner and the outer World;—
How utterly the wretched shred of Time,
Which in our blindness we call Human Life,
Is lost with all its train of circumstance,
And appanage of after and before,
In this eternal present; that we Are!
No When,—no Where,—no How,—but that we Are,—
And nought besides.
Nor when our dazèd sight,
Weaned from its first keen wonder, learns to fix
The surer and more reasonable gaze
Of calm concentrated philosophy
On this intense idea, have we gained
One instant's raising of the sacred veil,
One briefest glimpse into the sanctuary.—
We grasp at words, and find them meaningless,
Bind thoughts together that will not be bound,
But burst asunder at the very time
We hold them closest,—find we are awake
The while we seem to dream, and find we dream
The while we seem to be the most awake;
And thus we are thrown on from sea to sea.
Can we take up the sparkles of choice light.
That dance upon the ruffled summer waters,
And make them up to one coherent sun?
Can we transform the charred and molten dust
Into its elemental diamond?
And, tho' thus impotent, we yet dare hope,
From this embasèd form, half earth, half heaven,
Of most imperfect fragmentary nature,
These scant materials of dethronèd power,
This tarnished Beauty, marred Divinity,
To fabricate a comprehensive scheme
Of absolute Existence—to lay open
The knowledge of a clear concordant Whole
And penetrate, with foully-scalèd eyes,
The total scope, and utmost distances,
Of the Creations of the Living God.
He was a bitter Mocker, that old Man
Weaned from its first keen wonder, learns to fix
The surer and more reasonable gaze
Of calm concentrated philosophy
On this intense idea, have we gained
One instant's raising of the sacred veil,
One briefest glimpse into the sanctuary.—
We grasp at words, and find them meaningless,
Bind thoughts together that will not be bound,
But burst asunder at the very time
We hold them closest,—find we are awake
The while we seem to dream, and find we dream
The while we seem to be the most awake;
And thus we are thrown on from sea to sea.
147
That dance upon the ruffled summer waters,
And make them up to one coherent sun?
Can we transform the charred and molten dust
Into its elemental diamond?
And, tho' thus impotent, we yet dare hope,
From this embasèd form, half earth, half heaven,
Of most imperfect fragmentary nature,
These scant materials of dethronèd power,
This tarnished Beauty, marred Divinity,
To fabricate a comprehensive scheme
Of absolute Existence—to lay open
The knowledge of a clear concordant Whole
And penetrate, with foully-scalèd eyes,
The total scope, and utmost distances,
Of the Creations of the Living God.
Who bade us “know ourselves,” yet not unwise;
For though the science of our Life and Being
Be unattained and unattainable
By these weak organs, though the athlete mind,
Hardened by practice of unpausing toil,
And fed to manhood with robustest meats,
Never can train its sinews strong enough
To raise itself from off the solid ground,
To which the mandate of creating Will
148
Like statues on appointed pedestals,
Yet we may choose (since choice is given) to shun
Servile contentment or ignoble fear,
In the expression of our attitude;
And with far-straining eyes, and hands upcast,
And feet half raised, declare our painful state,
Yearning for wings to reach the fields of Truth,
Mourning for wisdom, panting to be free.
149
THE EXHAUSTION OF LIFE.
The Life of man is made of many lives,
His heart and mind of many minds and hearts,
And he in inward growth most surely thrives
Who lets wise Nature order all the parts:
His heart and mind of many minds and hearts,
And he in inward growth most surely thrives
Who lets wise Nature order all the parts:
To each disposing what befits their scope,
To boyhood pleasures without care or plan,
To youth affections bright and light as hope,
Deep-seated passions to the ripened man.
To boyhood pleasures without care or plan,
To youth affections bright and light as hope,
Deep-seated passions to the ripened man.
Oh! well to say, and well if done as said:
But who himself can keep each separate stage?
Stand 'twixt the living feelings and the dead,
And give its special life to every age?
But who himself can keep each separate stage?
Stand 'twixt the living feelings and the dead,
And give its special life to every age?
Who can forbid the present to encroach
On what should rest the future's free domain,
Holding the past undimmed by self-reproach,
Nor borrow joy at usury of pain?
On what should rest the future's free domain,
Holding the past undimmed by self-reproach,
Nor borrow joy at usury of pain?
Boyhood invades the phantasies of youth,
Rocked in imagination's golden arms,
And leaves its own delights of healthy truth
For premature and visionary charms.
Rocked in imagination's golden arms,
And leaves its own delights of healthy truth
For premature and visionary charms.
150
Youth, to whom Poesy by right belongs
And every creature of the fairy race,
Turns a deaf ear to those enchanting songs,
And sees no beauty in that dreamy face,
And every creature of the fairy race,
Turns a deaf ear to those enchanting songs,
And sees no beauty in that dreamy face,
But will, though by experience uninured,
Plunge into deepest gulfs of mental fire,
Trying what angels have in vain endured—
The toils of Thought—the struggles of Desire:
Plunge into deepest gulfs of mental fire,
Trying what angels have in vain endured—
The toils of Thought—the struggles of Desire:
So that when Manhood in its place at last
Comes and demands its labours and its powers,
The Spirit's energies are worn and past,
And Life remains a lapse of feeble hours.
Comes and demands its labours and its powers,
The Spirit's energies are worn and past,
And Life remains a lapse of feeble hours.
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THE SOLITUDE OF LIFE.
When Fancy's exhalations rise
From youth's delicious morn,
Our eyes seem made for others' eyes,
Spirit for spirit born:
But time the truthful faith controuls,—
We learn too soon, alas!
How wide the gulf between two souls,
How difficult to pass!
From youth's delicious morn,
Our eyes seem made for others' eyes,
Spirit for spirit born:
But time the truthful faith controuls,—
We learn too soon, alas!
How wide the gulf between two souls,
How difficult to pass!
In twilight and in fearfulness
We feel our path along
From heart to heart, yet none the less
Our way is often wrong.
And then new dangers must be faced,
New doubts must be dispelled,—
For not one step can be retraced
That once the Past has held.
We feel our path along
From heart to heart, yet none the less
Our way is often wrong.
And then new dangers must be faced,
New doubts must be dispelled,—
For not one step can be retraced
That once the Past has held.
To some 'tis given to walk awhile
In Love's unshaded noon,
But clouds are gathering while they smile,
And night is coming soon!
Most happy he whose journey lies
Beneath the starlight sheen
Of unregretful memories
Of glory that has been.
In Love's unshaded noon,
But clouds are gathering while they smile,
And night is coming soon!
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Beneath the starlight sheen
Of unregretful memories
Of glory that has been.
We live together years and years,
And leave unsounded still
Each other's springs of hopes and fears,
Each other's depths of will:
We live together day by day,
And some chance look or tone
Lights up with instantaneous ray
An inner world unknown.
And leave unsounded still
Each other's springs of hopes and fears,
Each other's depths of will:
We live together day by day,
And some chance look or tone
Lights up with instantaneous ray
An inner world unknown.
Then wonder not that they who love
The longest and the best,
Are parted by some sudden move
Of passion or unrest:
Nor marvel that the wise and good
Should oft apart remain,
Nor dare, when once misunderstood,
To sympathise again.
The longest and the best,
Are parted by some sudden move
Of passion or unrest:
Nor marvel that the wise and good
Should oft apart remain,
Nor dare, when once misunderstood,
To sympathise again.
Come, Death! and match thy quiet gloom
With being's darkling strife,
Come set beside the lonely Tomb
The Solitude of Life;
And henceforth none who see can fear
Thy hour, which some will crave,
Who feel their hearts, though beating here,
Already in the grave.
With being's darkling strife,
Come set beside the lonely Tomb
The Solitude of Life;
153
Thy hour, which some will crave,
Who feel their hearts, though beating here,
Already in the grave.
154
THE WEARY SOUL.
My soul is wasted with trouble and toil,
The evening of Life is damp and chill,—
She would go back and rest awhile,
She can go back whene'er she will,—
For' the Poet holds the Past in fee,
That shadowy land is all his own,
And he, not led by Memory,
But as a man that walks alone
In gardens long familiar, knows
What spots afford the best repose.
The evening of Life is damp and chill,—
She would go back and rest awhile,
She can go back whene'er she will,—
For' the Poet holds the Past in fee,
That shadowy land is all his own,
And he, not led by Memory,
But as a man that walks alone
In gardens long familiar, knows
What spots afford the best repose.
Surely she will not wander far,—
Twilight is coming with never a star;
Why may she not return where stands,
Broadly towards the westering sun,
That proud building of hearts and hands,
Castle and Palace all in one,
Over the portal named at length,
“Successful Manhood's place of strength?”
There she may traverse court and hall,
Up to her favourite turret tall;
She may recline her aching head
On her ancestral purple bed,
There, where at eve so oft she lay,
I' the deep-embrasured window-bay,
Giving her vision open reign
Over the chequered world of plain—
Of hues that rest and hues that pass,
Sunset and autumn and tinted glass;
While the buck's clear bell and the cattle's low,
And every sound that is heard below,
Were melted into one murmur soft
Ere they could reach that couch aloft.
Twilight is coming with never a star;
Why may she not return where stands,
Broadly towards the westering sun,
That proud building of hearts and hands,
Castle and Palace all in one,
Over the portal named at length,
“Successful Manhood's place of strength?”
There she may traverse court and hall,
Up to her favourite turret tall;
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On her ancestral purple bed,
There, where at eve so oft she lay,
I' the deep-embrasured window-bay,
Giving her vision open reign
Over the chequered world of plain—
Of hues that rest and hues that pass,
Sunset and autumn and tinted glass;
While the buck's clear bell and the cattle's low,
And every sound that is heard below,
Were melted into one murmur soft
Ere they could reach that couch aloft.
Witness of that triumphant scene!
Little you know what doom has been:—
How at a blow the heavens were split,
Words on the wall spontaneous writ,
As with a pen of burning brass,
“Vanitas, omnia Vanitas:”—
How disappointment bared her hand,
Vivid and red as the levin brand,
Struck on the tower's sublimest crown,
Shattered the sturdiest buttress down,—
Till the poor Soul would fain have died
'Mid her annihilated pride.
Speed her along, tho' night be drear,—
Night be her cover, for none is here;
Seek her a rest where'er you may,
Not in this shelterless decay!
Little you know what doom has been:—
How at a blow the heavens were split,
Words on the wall spontaneous writ,
As with a pen of burning brass,
“Vanitas, omnia Vanitas:”—
How disappointment bared her hand,
Vivid and red as the levin brand,
Struck on the tower's sublimest crown,
Shattered the sturdiest buttress down,—
Till the poor Soul would fain have died
'Mid her annihilated pride.
Speed her along, tho' night be drear,—
Night be her cover, for none is here;
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Not in this shelterless decay!
There is a bower, a way-side bower,
Rich with brede of berry' and flower,—
Fair to dwell in and behold
How the green is turning gold,
Till the leafy screen repeat
All the life without the heat:
Music comes not here and there,
Does not fill, but is, the air:
Perfumes delicate and fine,
Flower of orange, flower of vine,
Take their place, without pretence,
In the harmony of sense;
Where the floating spirit dreams,
Fed by odours, sounds, and gleams,
Of this royal region hight,
“Youth's dominion of delight.”
Why then farther? why not here?
Soul of sorrow, Mind of fear!
Rest, as thou wert wont to rest,
On the swell of Nature's breast.
Hear that voice in angel's frame,
Singing, “Youth is still the same;
Cheery faces glimpsing round,—
Limber feet on mossy ground
Circumstance, the God of clay,
We have fairly laughed away,
And a power of other face,
Hope, is seated in his place.
Enter, all that come from far,
Poor and naked as ye are;
Very breath is here divine,—
Bacchus has no need of wine!”
Rich with brede of berry' and flower,—
Fair to dwell in and behold
How the green is turning gold,
Till the leafy screen repeat
All the life without the heat:
Music comes not here and there,
Does not fill, but is, the air:
Perfumes delicate and fine,
Flower of orange, flower of vine,
Take their place, without pretence,
In the harmony of sense;
Where the floating spirit dreams,
Fed by odours, sounds, and gleams,
Of this royal region hight,
“Youth's dominion of delight.”
Why then farther? why not here?
Soul of sorrow, Mind of fear!
Rest, as thou wert wont to rest,
On the swell of Nature's breast.
Hear that voice in angel's frame,
Singing, “Youth is still the same;
Cheery faces glimpsing round,—
Limber feet on mossy ground
Circumstance, the God of clay,
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And a power of other face,
Hope, is seated in his place.
Enter, all that come from far,
Poor and naked as ye are;
Very breath is here divine,—
Bacchus has no need of wine!”
“Friends!” the tearful soul replies,
“Keep, oh! keep your Paradise!
Once I gained your happy place,
Ardent in the healthy race,
One of many braced together,
Comrades of the way and weather;
Now alone I falter by,—
Youth's the same,—but what am I?
Just as sweet, as free from cares,
Are your smiles,—but are not theirs:
When the lips I pressed of old
Lie beneath the sullen mould:
When the voices I have known
In hosannas like your own
Answer to my yearning call,
Thin and feeble, if at all;
When the golden locks are grey,
That made sunshine all my day;
When my fibres fall together
In your genial summer-weather;—
How can I repose an hour
In the graces of your bower?
How should I take up my rest,
As a strange unnatural guest,
In this home of truth, in this
My retreat of ancient bliss?
Blasts of death-impregnate air
Would, with all the flowers, be there,—
Storms thro' all the blue be spread
In thick battalia o'er my head;
Pallid looks of friendships broken,
Phantom words unwisely spoken,
Thoughts of love and self-reproof
Mingled in a fearful woof,—
Wishes, when not wished in vain,
Only realised for pain,—
Things ye could not hear or see
Would be all my company!”
“Keep, oh! keep your Paradise!
Once I gained your happy place,
Ardent in the healthy race,
One of many braced together,
Comrades of the way and weather;
Now alone I falter by,—
Youth's the same,—but what am I?
Just as sweet, as free from cares,
Are your smiles,—but are not theirs:
When the lips I pressed of old
Lie beneath the sullen mould:
When the voices I have known
In hosannas like your own
Answer to my yearning call,
Thin and feeble, if at all;
When the golden locks are grey,
That made sunshine all my day;
When my fibres fall together
In your genial summer-weather;—
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In the graces of your bower?
How should I take up my rest,
As a strange unnatural guest,
In this home of truth, in this
My retreat of ancient bliss?
Blasts of death-impregnate air
Would, with all the flowers, be there,—
Storms thro' all the blue be spread
In thick battalia o'er my head;
Pallid looks of friendships broken,
Phantom words unwisely spoken,
Thoughts of love and self-reproof
Mingled in a fearful woof,—
Wishes, when not wished in vain,
Only realised for pain,—
Things ye could not hear or see
Would be all my company!”
Disheartened spirit! thou art then
In vain distinct from common men,
If all thy weary quest of mind
No true abiding-place can find,
Whose charms the busy life subdue,
And lure it from the outer view!
No region of thy mortal lot
Where Peace is native to the spot,
Ready to greet, when care-begone,
Imagination's pilgrim son.
In vain distinct from common men,
If all thy weary quest of mind
No true abiding-place can find,
Whose charms the busy life subdue,
And lure it from the outer view!
No region of thy mortal lot
Where Peace is native to the spot,
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Imagination's pilgrim son.
Yet onward;—it is well to stray
Along this bleak and homeless way,
Till thou canst raise thy conscious eyes
Where Childhood's Atalantis lies,
And recognise that idyl scene,
Where all mild creatures, void of awe,
Amid field-flowers and mountains green,
Fulfil their being's gentle law.
Along this bleak and homeless way,
Till thou canst raise thy conscious eyes
Where Childhood's Atalantis lies,
And recognise that idyl scene,
Where all mild creatures, void of awe,
Amid field-flowers and mountains green,
Fulfil their being's gentle law.
They will not fear thee; safe they dwell
Within this armless citadel,
Embastioned in the self-defence
Of self-regardless innocence:
On Sin or Sorrow's bosom lingers
Each infant head in slumbers bland,—
Secure the tender tiny fingers
Enclasp the dark and withered hand.
Within this armless citadel,
Embastioned in the self-defence
Of self-regardless innocence:
On Sin or Sorrow's bosom lingers
Each infant head in slumbers bland,—
Secure the tender tiny fingers
Enclasp the dark and withered hand.
Abysms of thought and sense must be
Between those simple souls and thee;
But as the parent is beguiled
Into the nature of the child,
So mayst thou, tho' an alien here,
By careful duty take thy part
In all the feelings that endear
The kingdom of the virgin heart.
Between those simple souls and thee;
But as the parent is beguiled
Into the nature of the child,
So mayst thou, tho' an alien here,
By careful duty take thy part
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The kingdom of the virgin heart.
And thou wilt taste once more the rills
Fresh gushing from the eternal hills,
And feel delight in living air
Without research of when and where;
And hear the birds their song dispense
With free descant, on branch and wing,
Careless of other audience
Than God who made and bade them sing.
Fresh gushing from the eternal hills,
And feel delight in living air
Without research of when and where;
And hear the birds their song dispense
With free descant, on branch and wing,
Careless of other audience
Than God who made and bade them sing.
Till haply pausing some noon-day
Amid the fairy-people's play,
Along thy limbs the stony sleep
That rounds our life shall calmly creep,
And thou from Present and from Past,
And things to come at once be freed,
To rest for aye, or wake at last
In God's own arms, a child indeed.
Amid the fairy-people's play,
Along thy limbs the stony sleep
That rounds our life shall calmly creep,
And thou from Present and from Past,
And things to come at once be freed,
To rest for aye, or wake at last
In God's own arms, a child indeed.
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THE MARTYRS OF THE MIND.
Honour to the sacred Past!
Reverence to the ancient days!
Yet believe them not the last
That demand your love and praise:
Think not that the olden story
Can within its depth enfold
All the beauty and the glory
That the heart of Man can hold.
Reverence to the ancient days!
Yet believe them not the last
That demand your love and praise:
Think not that the olden story
Can within its depth enfold
All the beauty and the glory
That the heart of Man can hold.
Think not rashly that, because
Modern life is smooth and fine,
'Tis not subject to the laws
Of the Master's high design:
That we less require endurance
Than in days of coarser plan,—
That we less demand assurance
Of the Godhead hid in Man.
Modern life is smooth and fine,
'Tis not subject to the laws
Of the Master's high design:
That we less require endurance
Than in days of coarser plan,—
That we less demand assurance
Of the Godhead hid in Man.
Trust me, Truth is still at war,
Just as in the hard old time,
With a thousand things that are—
Births of woe and food for crime:
Still to vindicate the right
Is a rough and thankless game;
Still the leader in the fight
Is the hindmost in the fame.
Just as in the hard old time,
With a thousand things that are—
Births of woe and food for crime:
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Is a rough and thankless game;
Still the leader in the fight
Is the hindmost in the fame.
True, the penal fires are out—
True, the rack in rust has lain—
But the secret burning Doubt
And the pangs of Thought remain:
True, the mind of Man is free—
Free to speak and write at will,
But a power you cannot see
Still can plague, and waste, and kill.
True, the rack in rust has lain—
But the secret burning Doubt
And the pangs of Thought remain:
True, the mind of Man is free—
Free to speak and write at will,
But a power you cannot see
Still can plague, and waste, and kill.
Very tame our passions nestle,
Very even seem our brows,
Outward forces rarely wrestle,
Soft the words the age allows:
Incommunicable sadness
Yet is haunting all the while—
Yet one day the crouching madness
Leaps from under all the smile.
Very even seem our brows,
Outward forces rarely wrestle,
Soft the words the age allows:
Incommunicable sadness
Yet is haunting all the while—
Yet one day the crouching madness
Leaps from under all the smile.
Ours is not the early Faith
Which our fathers gazed upon,
Till the iron gates of Death
With a golden splendour shone;
We must rest content with Hope,
Fair to aid, but frail to rule:
Gentle Hope! too weak to cope
With the villain and the fool.
Which our fathers gazed upon,
Till the iron gates of Death
With a golden splendour shone;
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Fair to aid, but frail to rule:
Gentle Hope! too weak to cope
With the villain and the fool.
Ours the shame to understand
That the World prefers the lie
That, with medicine in her hand,
She will sink and choose to die;
Ours the agonising sense
Of the Heaven this Earth might be,
If, from their blank indifference,
Men woke one hour and felt as we!
That the World prefers the lie
That, with medicine in her hand,
She will sink and choose to die;
Ours the agonising sense
Of the Heaven this Earth might be,
If, from their blank indifference,
Men woke one hour and felt as we!
Heroes of the inward strife,
Whom your spirit cannot prize;
Saints of the mysterious life,
Whom no Church can canonize;
Unremembered—unrecorded—
They are passing by you now;
Other gifts are here rewarded,
To far other names you bow.
Whom your spirit cannot prize;
Saints of the mysterious life,
Whom no Church can canonize;
Unremembered—unrecorded—
They are passing by you now;
Other gifts are here rewarded,
To far other names you bow.
Yet the Power appears to-morrow,
That to-day seems wholly lost,
And the reproductive sorrow
Is a treasure worth the cost:
Fate permits no break or suture
In the' Ideal of Mankind,
Weaving out its brightest Future
From the Martyrs of the Mind.
That to-day seems wholly lost,
And the reproductive sorrow
Is a treasure worth the cost:
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In the' Ideal of Mankind,
Weaving out its brightest Future
From the Martyrs of the Mind.
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SORROWS.
I.
Sister Sorrow! sit beside me,
Or, if I must wander, guide me;
Let me take thy hand in mine,
Cold alike are mine and thine.
Or, if I must wander, guide me;
Let me take thy hand in mine,
Cold alike are mine and thine.
Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,—
Think not I am frightened at thee,—
Thou art come for some good end,
I will treat thee as a friend.
Think not I am frightened at thee,—
Thou art come for some good end,
I will treat thee as a friend.
I will say that thou art bound
My unshielded soul to wound
By some force without thy will
And art tender-minded still.
My unshielded soul to wound
By some force without thy will
And art tender-minded still.
I will say thou givest scope
To the breath and light of hope;
That thy gentle tears have weight
Hardest hearts to penetrate:
To the breath and light of hope;
That thy gentle tears have weight
Hardest hearts to penetrate:
That thy shadow brings together
Friends long lost in sunny weather,
With an hundred offices
Beautiful and blest as these.
Friends long lost in sunny weather,
With an hundred offices
Beautiful and blest as these.
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Softly takest Thou the crown
From my haughty temples down;
Place it on thine own pale brow,
Pleasure wears one,—why not Thou?
From my haughty temples down;
Place it on thine own pale brow,
Pleasure wears one,—why not Thou?
Let the blossoms glisten there
On thy long unbanded hair,
And, when I have borne my pain,
Thou wilt give them me again.
On thy long unbanded hair,
And, when I have borne my pain,
Thou wilt give them me again.
If Thou goest, sister Sorrow!
I shall look for Thee to-morrow,—
I shall often see Thee drest
As a masquerading guest:
I shall look for Thee to-morrow,—
I shall often see Thee drest
As a masquerading guest:
And howe'er Thou hid'st the name,
I shall know Thee still the same
As Thou sitt'st beside me now,
With my garland on thy brow.
I shall know Thee still the same
As Thou sitt'st beside me now,
With my garland on thy brow.
II.
O! mournful sequence of self-drunken days,
When jovial youth had range of Nature's store!
With fever-thirst for pleasure and for praise,
I nauseate every draught, and ask for more.
When jovial youth had range of Nature's store!
With fever-thirst for pleasure and for praise,
I nauseate every draught, and ask for more.
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Look on me well, and early steep thy soul
In one pure Love, and it will last thee long;
Fresh airs shall breathe while sweltering thunders roll,
And summer noons shall leave thee cool and strong.
In one pure Love, and it will last thee long;
Fresh airs shall breathe while sweltering thunders roll,
And summer noons shall leave thee cool and strong.
Across the desert, 'mid thy thirsty kind,
Thy healthy heart shall move apace and calm,
Nor yearning trace the horizon far behind,
Where rests the fountain and the lonely palm.
Thy healthy heart shall move apace and calm,
Nor yearning trace the horizon far behind,
Where rests the fountain and the lonely palm.
III.
I had a home wherein the weariest feet
Found sure repose;
And Hope led on laborious day to meet
Delightful close!
A cottage with broad eaves and a thick vine,
A crystal stream,
Whose mountain-language was the same as mine:
—It was a dream!
Found sure repose;
And Hope led on laborious day to meet
Delightful close!
A cottage with broad eaves and a thick vine,
A crystal stream,
Whose mountain-language was the same as mine:
—It was a dream!
I had a home to make the gloomiest heart
Alight with joy,—
A temple of chaste love, a place apart
From Time's annoy;
A moonlight scene of life, where all things rude
And harsh did seem
With pity rounded and by grace subdued:
—It was a dream!
Alight with joy,—
A temple of chaste love, a place apart
From Time's annoy;
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And harsh did seem
With pity rounded and by grace subdued:
—It was a dream!
IV.
To search for lore in spacious libraries,
And find it hid in tongues to you unknown;
To wait deaf-eared near swelling minstrelsies,
Watch every action, but not catch one tone;—
Amid a thousand breathless votaries,
To feel yourself dry-hearted as a stone,—
Are images of that, which, hour by hour,
Consumes my heart, the strife of Will and Power.
And find it hid in tongues to you unknown;
To wait deaf-eared near swelling minstrelsies,
Watch every action, but not catch one tone;—
Amid a thousand breathless votaries,
To feel yourself dry-hearted as a stone,—
Are images of that, which, hour by hour,
Consumes my heart, the strife of Will and Power.
The Beauty of the Past before my eyes
Stands ever in each fable-haunted place,
I know her form in every dark disguise,
But never look upon her open face;
O'er every limb a veil thick-folded lies,
Showing poor outline of a perfect grace,
Yet just enough to make the sickened mind
Grieve doubly for the treasures hid behind.
Stands ever in each fable-haunted place,
I know her form in every dark disguise,
But never look upon her open face;
O'er every limb a veil thick-folded lies,
Showing poor outline of a perfect grace,
Yet just enough to make the sickened mind
Grieve doubly for the treasures hid behind.
Through great memorials wandering to and fro,
Waves of old Time about me seem to roll,
Most like a tune heard somewhere long ago,
Whose separate notes have left upon my soul
Some footmarks as they past, and though I know
That memory's hardest toil can raise the whole
Into continuous being, never again,
I still strive on as one in love with pain.—
Waves of old Time about me seem to roll,
169
Whose separate notes have left upon my soul
Some footmarks as they past, and though I know
That memory's hardest toil can raise the whole
Into continuous being, never again,
I still strive on as one in love with pain.—
O Thou! to whom the wearisome disease
Of Past and Present is an alien thing,
Thou pure Existence! whose severe decrees
Forbid a living man his soul to bring
Into a timeless Eden of sweet ease,
Clear-eyed, clear-hearted,—lay thy loving wing
In Death upon me,—if that way alone
Thy great Creation-thought thou wilt to me make known.
Of Past and Present is an alien thing,
Thou pure Existence! whose severe decrees
Forbid a living man his soul to bring
Into a timeless Eden of sweet ease,
Clear-eyed, clear-hearted,—lay thy loving wing
In Death upon me,—if that way alone
Thy great Creation-thought thou wilt to me make known.
Rome. 1834.
V.
Her heart is sick with thinkingOf the misery of her kind,
Her mind is almost sinking,
That once so buoyant mind;—
She cannot look before her
On the evil-haunted way,—
Uphold her, oh! restore her
Thou Lord of Night and Day!—
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They settle on my brain,
The very air around me
Is universal Pain.
The earth is damp with weeping,
Rarely the sun shines clear
On any but those sleeping
Upon the quiet bier.
I envy not hard hearts, but yet
I would I could sometimes forget;
I would, though but for moments, look
With comfort into Nature's book,
Nor read that everlasting frown,
Whose terror bows me wholly down.
I cannot meet each pang I see
With gratefulness that not on me
Has fallen that rod,
And make my fellow's agony
The measure of my love to God.
I bear an earnest Christian faith;
I never shrunk at thought of death;
I know the rapturous light of Heaven,
To man's unscalèd vision given;—
My spirit is not blind; but when
The tortures of my brother men,
The famine of gray hairs,
The sick-beds of the poor,
Life's daily stinging cares
171
The tombs of the long-loved,
The slowly-broken heart,
Self-gloated power unmoved
By Pity's tenderest art,
Come thronging thick about me,
Close in the world without me,—
How should I not despond?
How can I stretch my sight so far
As where things blest and holy are?
My mortal nature is too frail
To penetrate the sable veil,—
I cannot see beyond!”
VI.
Ye Roses of November,
Ye are no joy to me;
The roses I remember
Are other than ye be!
Your cordial kindred summer
Has gone by long before,
And Winter, the new-comer,
Is a Lover fierce and frore.
Ye are no joy to me;
The roses I remember
Are other than ye be!
Your cordial kindred summer
Has gone by long before,
And Winter, the new-comer,
Is a Lover fierce and frore.
At sight of ye I tremble,
As ye in this bleak air;
I read a fearful symbol
In what ye are and were;
How all that's best and fairest,
When past a petty reign,
To those, who hold them dearest,
Are Pain and only Pain.
As ye in this bleak air;
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In what ye are and were;
How all that's best and fairest,
When past a petty reign,
To those, who hold them dearest,
Are Pain and only Pain.
Beauty is always Beauty,
Her essences divine
The Poet, in his duty,
May labor to combine;
But Beauty wed to sorrow
Is sad, whate'er we say,—
Sad thinking for to-morrow,
Sad presence for to-day!
Her essences divine
The Poet, in his duty,
May labor to combine;
But Beauty wed to sorrow
Is sad, whate'er we say,—
Sad thinking for to-morrow,
Sad presence for to-day!
VII.
Why wilt Thou ever thus before me stand,
Thou ghostly Past?
Always between me and the happy land
Thy shade is cast.
Thou ghostly Past?
Always between me and the happy land
Thy shade is cast.
Thou art no midnight phantom of remorse,
That I would lay:—
My life has run a plain unnoted course,
In open day.
That I would lay:—
My life has run a plain unnoted course,
In open day.
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I would enjoy the Present, I would live
Like one new-born:
I value not the gifts Thou hast to give—
Knowledge and Scorn.
Like one new-born:
I value not the gifts Thou hast to give—
Knowledge and Scorn.
I would, for some short moments, cease to judge-
Reckon—compare:
And this small bliss Thou wilt persist to grudge,
Still haunting there.
Reckon—compare:
And this small bliss Thou wilt persist to grudge,
Still haunting there.
Thou makest all things heavy with regrets;
Too late—too soon:
My mind is like a sun that ever sets,
And knows no noon:
Too late—too soon:
My mind is like a sun that ever sets,
And knows no noon:
I am become the very fool of time,—
The world for me
Has no sure test of innocence or crime;
All things may be:
The world for me
Has no sure test of innocence or crime;
All things may be:
For every notion that has filled my brain
Leaves such a trace
That every instant it may rise again
And claim its place.
Leaves such a trace
That every instant it may rise again
And claim its place.
Faces and fancies I have cursed or cherished
Throng round my head;
In vain I call on thee to leave the perished—
To hide the dead.
Throng round my head;
In vain I call on thee to leave the perished—
To hide the dead.
174
Confused and tost on this ideal sea,
I hardly keep
A sense of weak and maimed identity,
More than in sleep:
I hardly keep
A sense of weak and maimed identity,
More than in sleep:
Save when the Future wins my yearning gaze,
That shore where still
Imagination resolutely stays
The tide of ill.
That shore where still
Imagination resolutely stays
The tide of ill.
175
THE CURSE OF LIFE.
All that flesh doth cover,
Souls of source sublime,
Are but slaves sold over
To the Master Time,
To work out their ransom for the ancient crime.
Souls of source sublime,
Are but slaves sold over
To the Master Time,
To work out their ransom for the ancient crime.
Some go meet the morrow
With industrious will,—
Others toil in sorrow,
Though their hands be still;
Man must toil for good or he shall toil for ill.
With industrious will,—
Others toil in sorrow,
Though their hands be still;
Man must toil for good or he shall toil for ill.
Grasping at one pleasure,
We let others fall:
Yet how scant the measure
If we sum them all,—
Honey-drops scarce tasted in a sea of gall.
We let others fall:
Yet how scant the measure
If we sum them all,—
Honey-drops scarce tasted in a sea of gall.
Did but tears and sighs
Teach our minds to see,
With clear-piercing eyes,
Into Heaven's decree,
By this time, how wise this world of ours would be!
Teach our minds to see,
With clear-piercing eyes,
Into Heaven's decree,
By this time, how wise this world of ours would be!
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Knowledge worn by sadness
Grows too faint to rise,—
Anguish fathers madness,—
Labour brutifies:
If high feelings live, the Man a Martyr dies.
Grows too faint to rise,—
Anguish fathers madness,—
Labour brutifies:
If high feelings live, the Man a Martyr dies.
Sleep of freshest childhood
Hears the voice of doom;—
Rambling in the wild wood,
Culling every bloom,
Tender brows are chilled by mist from out the tomb.
Hears the voice of doom;—
Rambling in the wild wood,
Culling every bloom,
Tender brows are chilled by mist from out the tomb.
Gazing on Creation
With a first love's eye,
Panting exaltation
Sinks into a sigh,—
For we learn so soon that what we love must die.
With a first love's eye,
Panting exaltation
Sinks into a sigh,—
For we learn so soon that what we love must die.
Then we try to smother
The Love-fire in our heart;
Nature, our sweet Mother,
Can no balm impart,
For she too is sick with all the self-same smart.
The Love-fire in our heart;
Nature, our sweet Mother,
Can no balm impart,
For she too is sick with all the self-same smart.
She would fain relieve us,
Fain our grief beguile,—
She cannot deceive us
By her outward smile,
For we know that Death torments her all the while.
Fain our grief beguile,—
She cannot deceive us
By her outward smile,
For we know that Death torments her all the while.
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In the green bud's bosom
There is secret pain,
Bees to the same blossom
Come not back again,—
Waters weep, that seem to sing a happy strain.
There is secret pain,
Bees to the same blossom
Come not back again,—
Waters weep, that seem to sing a happy strain.
The Gem of Love was shattered
Long before our birth,
Sparkles still are scattered
Over the broad Earth,—
Which some seek in vain, tho' some know not their worth.
Long before our birth,
Sparkles still are scattered
Over the broad Earth,—
Which some seek in vain, tho' some know not their worth.
Some may find and hold them,
Never to let go,
Hearts that would enfold them
In their vital glow,—
When Circumstance comes in and works them double woe:
Never to let go,
Hearts that would enfold them
In their vital glow,—
When Circumstance comes in and works them double woe:
Circumstance that ever
Uses wicked skill
All fond ties to sever,
Bind them as we will,
Till our broken being in Death is hushed and still.
Uses wicked skill
All fond ties to sever,
Bind them as we will,
Till our broken being in Death is hushed and still.
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DOMESTIC FAME.
Why is the Grave so silent? Why is the Tomb so dead?
Wherefore this gloomy secret on each departed head?
Wherefore this gloomy secret on each departed head?
Why do we name them seldom, and then with voices low,
As if some shame were on them, or superhuman woe?
As if some shame were on them, or superhuman woe?
Were Death the sleep eternal that some despairing feign,
Had never Faith engendered the hope to meet again,—
Had never Faith engendered the hope to meet again,—
Still why should this great absence obliterate with it tears
The happiest recollections and sympathies of years?
The happiest recollections and sympathies of years?
Oh, no! Death could not banish the love that lived complete,
And passed away untarnished to its celestial seat!
And passed away untarnished to its celestial seat!
Oh, no! 'tis not the living that we should harshly blame,
But that men lightly cherish their pure domestic fame.
But that men lightly cherish their pure domestic fame.
179
How few leave not behind them some cause to bless the tomb,
That mercifully closes, and pardons in its gloom!
That mercifully closes, and pardons in its gloom!
How few go from us, leaving the thoughts of them so dear,
That aye the prayer besets us, “O God! that they were here!”
That aye the prayer besets us, “O God! that they were here!”
So that in distant evenings, when joyous faces glow
About the Christmas fire-light and laughter melts the snow,—
About the Christmas fire-light and laughter melts the snow,—
In pauses of the revel, some heart without a fear,
Will passionately murmur—“Ah! why are they not here?”
Will passionately murmur—“Ah! why are they not here?”
Or that in weary seasons, when sickness racks the brain,
And lordly Reason falters, and Will is only pain,—
And lordly Reason falters, and Will is only pain,—
Those whom they loved to counsel may mystically hear
Their voices leading onwards the path they trod when here:
Their voices leading onwards the path they trod when here:
Or that in awful moments, when evil seems set free
To tempt mankind to question what God of Truth there be,—
To tempt mankind to question what God of Truth there be,—
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The sense how they, too, strove and conquered, serves to cheer
The struggler, dimly conscious of spirits watching near.
The struggler, dimly conscious of spirits watching near.
Not, then, to Heroes only, to Poet, Statesman, King,
Let care of future glory its anxious duties bring;
Let care of future glory its anxious duties bring;
There is no name so lowly, that may not raise a shrine
Of living hearts, to honour its memory as Divine!
Of living hearts, to honour its memory as Divine!
181
TO A MOURNER.
Sleep not—you whose hope is dust,
Love-deserted man!
Or, if feeble body must,
Seldom as it can.
Sleep is kin to Death they tell,
You for this might love it well,
But it is a kinsman poor,
Hardly gets beyond the door,—
Never fairly dwells within
Where they rest and weep not
Who are safe from Pain and Sin;
Sleep not, Mourner, sleep not.
Love-deserted man!
Or, if feeble body must,
Seldom as it can.
Sleep is kin to Death they tell,
You for this might love it well,
But it is a kinsman poor,
Hardly gets beyond the door,—
Never fairly dwells within
Where they rest and weep not
Who are safe from Pain and Sin;
Sleep not, Mourner, sleep not.
Misery spent revives in Sleep,
Will has no resistance,
Anguish delves abysses deep
In that dream-existence.
Then we wake and half-believe,
That we may ourselves deceive,
That the loss our souls deplore
May be but a dream the more;—
Till, at one sharp start, we know,
Though we shriek and weep not,
Our reality of woe,—
Therefore, brother, sleep not!
Will has no resistance,
Anguish delves abysses deep
In that dream-existence.
Then we wake and half-believe,
That we may ourselves deceive,
That the loss our souls deplore
May be but a dream the more;—
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Though we shriek and weep not,
Our reality of woe,—
Therefore, brother, sleep not!
But let Sleep some wayward change
Bring upon our being,
Let sweet fancies freely range
With calm thoughts agreeing:
Let sad memory be abused
By the pleasure circumfused,
And dear forms no more below
Softly round us come and go;
Or let time be buried quite,
And the moments creep not,—
Though oblivion be delight,
Still, poor mourner, sleep not!
Bring upon our being,
Let sweet fancies freely range
With calm thoughts agreeing:
Let sad memory be abused
By the pleasure circumfused,
And dear forms no more below
Softly round us come and go;
Or let time be buried quite,
And the moments creep not,—
Though oblivion be delight,
Still, poor mourner, sleep not!
For an Agony will come,
In the instant waking,
Like a dagger driven home,
Like a nerve in breaking;
Consciousness recovering life
But confounds us in the strife,
Wholly yielded up to Pain,
As when drowned men feel again;
In that rush of gasping thought,
Wo for them that weep not!
Too, too, dearly may be bought
Such repose—oh! sleep not!
In the instant waking,
Like a dagger driven home,
Like a nerve in breaking;
Consciousness recovering life
But confounds us in the strife,
Wholly yielded up to Pain,
As when drowned men feel again;
183
Wo for them that weep not!
Too, too, dearly may be bought
Such repose—oh! sleep not!
Rather think the Evil down,
Rather weep it out;
Certain grief remits its frown
Easier than doubt.
There are strong yet gentle powers
In the growth of many hours;
Sorrow longer-lived will gain
Something more of peace than pain,
Such as God's still works possess,
Things that sow or reap not
In the world of more and less,
Live and die, but sleep not.
Rather weep it out;
Certain grief remits its frown
Easier than doubt.
There are strong yet gentle powers
In the growth of many hours;
Sorrow longer-lived will gain
Something more of peace than pain,
Such as God's still works possess,
Things that sow or reap not
In the world of more and less,
Live and die, but sleep not.
184
REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
We have watched him to the last
We have seen the dreaded'king
Smile pacific, as he past
By that couch of suffering:
Wrinkles of aggressive years,
Channels of recondite tears,
Furrows on the anxious brow
All are smooth as childhood's now.—
Death, as seen by men in dreams,
Something stern and cruel seems,
But his face is not the same,
When he comes into the room,
Takes the hand, and names the name,
Seals the eyes with tender gloom,
Saying, “Blessed are the laws
To which all God's creatures bend:
Mortal! fear me not, because
Thine inevitable friend!”
We have seen the dreaded'king
Smile pacific, as he past
By that couch of suffering:
Wrinkles of aggressive years,
Channels of recondite tears,
Furrows on the anxious brow
All are smooth as childhood's now.—
Death, as seen by men in dreams,
Something stern and cruel seems,
But his face is not the same,
When he comes into the room,
Takes the hand, and names the name,
Seals the eyes with tender gloom,
Saying, “Blessed are the laws
To which all God's creatures bend:
Mortal! fear me not, because
Thine inevitable friend!”
So when all the limbs were still,
Moved no more by sense or will,
Reve'rent hands the body laid
In the Church's pitying shade,
With the pious rites that fall,
Like the rain-drops, upon all.
What could man refuse or grant
The spiritual inhabitant,
Who so long had ruled within
With power to sin or not to sin?
Nothing. Hope, and hope alone,
Mates with death. Upon a stone
Let the simple name be writ,
Traced upon the infant's front
Years ago: and under it,
As with Christian folk is wont,
“Requiescat” or, may be,
Symbol letters, R. I. P.
Moved no more by sense or will,
Reve'rent hands the body laid
In the Church's pitying shade,
185
Like the rain-drops, upon all.
What could man refuse or grant
The spiritual inhabitant,
Who so long had ruled within
With power to sin or not to sin?
Nothing. Hope, and hope alone,
Mates with death. Upon a stone
Let the simple name be writ,
Traced upon the infant's front
Years ago: and under it,
As with Christian folk is wont,
“Requiescat” or, may be,
Symbol letters, R. I. P.
Rest is happy—rest is right,
Rest is precious in God's sight.
But if He, who lies below,
Out of an abundant heart
Drawing remedies for woe,
Never wearied to impart
Blessings to his fellow-men
If he never rested then,
But each harvest gathered seed
For the future word and deed,—
And the darkness of his kind
Filled him with such endless ruth,
That the very light of truth
Pained him walking 'mid the blind,—
How, when some transcendant change
Gives his being boundless range,—
When he knows not time or space,
In the nearness of God's face,—
In the world of spirits how
Shall that soul be resting now?
While one creature is unblest,
How can such as he have rest?
Rest is precious in God's sight.
But if He, who lies below,
Out of an abundant heart
Drawing remedies for woe,
Never wearied to impart
Blessings to his fellow-men
If he never rested then,
But each harvest gathered seed
For the future word and deed,—
And the darkness of his kind
Filled him with such endless ruth,
That the very light of truth
186
How, when some transcendant change
Gives his being boundless range,—
When he knows not time or space,
In the nearness of God's face,—
In the world of spirits how
Shall that soul be resting now?
While one creature is unblest,
How can such as he have rest?
“Rest in Peace,” the legend runs,
Rest is sweet to Adam's sons.
But can he whose busy brain
Worked within this hollow skull,
Now his zeal for truth restrain,
Now his subtle fancy dull,
When he wanders spirit-free
In his young immortality!
While on earth he only bore
Life, as it was linked with lore,
And the infinite increase
Of, knowledge was his only peace;
Till that knowledge be possest
How can such a mind have rest?
Rest is sweet to Adam's sons.
But can he whose busy brain
Worked within this hollow skull,
Now his zeal for truth restrain,
Now his subtle fancy dull,
When he wanders spirit-free
In his young immortality!
While on earth he only bore
Life, as it was linked with lore,
And the infinite increase
Of, knowledge was his only peace;
Till that knowledge be possest
How can such a mind have rest?
Rest is happy—rest is meet
For well-worn and weary feet,
Surely not for him, on whom
Ponderous stands the pompous tomb,
Prompt to blind the Future's eyes
With gilt deceit, and blazoned lies:
Him, who never used his powers
To speed for good the waiting hours,
Made none wiser for his seeing,
Made none better for his being;
Closed his eyes, lest others' woes
Should disturb his base repose;
Catching at each selfish zest;
How can he have right to rest?
Rather we would deem him driven
Anywhere in search of heaven,
Failing ever in the quest,
Till he learns it is not given
That man should by himself be blest.
For well-worn and weary feet,
187
Ponderous stands the pompous tomb,
Prompt to blind the Future's eyes
With gilt deceit, and blazoned lies:
Him, who never used his powers
To speed for good the waiting hours,
Made none wiser for his seeing,
Made none better for his being;
Closed his eyes, lest others' woes
Should disturb his base repose;
Catching at each selfish zest;
How can he have right to rest?
Rather we would deem him driven
Anywhere in search of heaven,
Failing ever in the quest,
Till he learns it is not given
That man should by himself be blest.
Here we struggle with the light,
And when comes the fated night,
Into Nature's lap we fall,
Like tired children, one and all.
Day and Labour, Night and Rest,
Come together in our mind,
And we image forth the blest
To eternal calm resigned:
Yet it may be that the' abyss
Of the lost is only this,
That for them all things to come
Are inanimate and dumb,
And immortal life they steep
In dishonourable sleep:
While no power of pause is given
To the inheritors of Heaven;
And the holiest still are those
Who are furthest from repose,
And yet onward, onward, press
To a loftier godliness;
Still becoming, more than being,
Apprehending, more than seeing,
Feeling, as from orb to orb
In their awful course they run,
How their souls new light absorb
From the self-existing One,—
Demiurgos, throned above,
Mind of Mind, and Love of Love.
And when comes the fated night,
Into Nature's lap we fall,
Like tired children, one and all.
Day and Labour, Night and Rest,
Come together in our mind,
And we image forth the blest
To eternal calm resigned:
Yet it may be that the' abyss
Of the lost is only this,
188
Are inanimate and dumb,
And immortal life they steep
In dishonourable sleep:
While no power of pause is given
To the inheritors of Heaven;
And the holiest still are those
Who are furthest from repose,
And yet onward, onward, press
To a loftier godliness;
Still becoming, more than being,
Apprehending, more than seeing,
Feeling, as from orb to orb
In their awful course they run,
How their souls new light absorb
From the self-existing One,—
Demiurgos, throned above,
Mind of Mind, and Love of Love.
189
THE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE.
I. LABOUR.
Heart of the People! Working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy back sustain
Through streaming Time this world of ours;
Hold by that title,—which proclaims,
That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy back sustain
Through streaming Time this world of ours;
Hold by that title,—which proclaims,
That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on ye alone depend
These offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end
Is Lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed
Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
These offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end
Is Lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed
Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
190
With all his pomp of pleasure, He
Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,—
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,—
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!
Sad sign of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!
And He who still and silent sits
In closèd room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book:—
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined
Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
In closèd room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book:—
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined
Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
191
Thus all must work—with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow
Where we deny the healthy seed,—
And all our choice is this,—to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow
Where we deny the healthy seed,—
And all our choice is this,—to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,—
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And He is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest
And an increase of good for man.
Unenvious of each other's lot,—
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And He is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest
And an increase of good for man.
192
II. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE.
Who is this man whose words have might
To lead you from your rest or care,
Who speaks as if the earth were right
To stop its course and listen there?
Where is the symbol of command
By which he claims this lofty tone?
His hand is as another's hand,—
His speech no stronger than your own.
To lead you from your rest or care,
Who speaks as if the earth were right
To stop its course and listen there?
Where is the symbol of command
By which he claims this lofty tone?
His hand is as another's hand,—
His speech no stronger than your own.
He bids you wonder, weep, rejoice,
Saying,—“It is yourselves, not I;
I speak but with the People's voice,
I see but with the People's eye.”—
Words of imposing pride and strength,
Words that contain, in little span,
The secret of the height and length
Of all the intelligence of man.
Saying,—“It is yourselves, not I;
I speak but with the People's voice,
I see but with the People's eye.”—
Words of imposing pride and strength,
Words that contain, in little span,
The secret of the height and length
Of all the intelligence of man.
Yet, Brothers! God has given to few,
Through the long progress of our kind,
To read with eyes undimmed and true
The blotted book of public mind;
To separate from the moment's will
The heart's enduring real desires,
To tell the steps of coming ill,
And seek the good the time requires.—
Through the long progress of our kind,
193
The blotted book of public mind;
To separate from the moment's will
The heart's enduring real desires,
To tell the steps of coming ill,
And seek the good the time requires.—
These are the Prophets, these the Kings,
And Lawgivers of human thought,
Who in our being's deepest springs
The engines of their might have sought:
Whose utterance comes, we know not whence,
Being no more their own than ours,
With instantaneous evidence
Of titles just and sacred powers.
And Lawgivers of human thought,
Who in our being's deepest springs
The engines of their might have sought:
Whose utterance comes, we know not whence,
Being no more their own than ours,
With instantaneous evidence
Of titles just and sacred powers.
But bold usurpers may arise
Of this as of another's throne;
Persuasion waits upon the wise,
But waits not on the wise alone:
An echo of your evil self
No better than the voice can be,
And appetites of fame or pelf
Grow not in good as in degree.
Of this as of another's throne;
Persuasion waits upon the wise,
But waits not on the wise alone:
An echo of your evil self
No better than the voice can be,
And appetites of fame or pelf
Grow not in good as in degree.
Then try the speaker, try the cause,
With prudent care, as men who know
The subtle nature of the laws
By which our feelings ebb and flow:
Lest virtue's void and reason's lack
Be hid beneath a specious name,
And on the People's helpless back
Rest all the punishment and shame.
With prudent care, as men who know
194
By which our feelings ebb and flow:
Lest virtue's void and reason's lack
Be hid beneath a specious name,
And on the People's helpless back
Rest all the punishment and shame.
195
III. THE PATIENCE OF THE POOR.
When leisurely the man of ease
His morning's daily course begins,
And round him in bright circle sees
The comforts Independence wins,
He seems unto himself to hold
An uncontested natural right
In Life a volume to unfold
Of simple ever new delight.
His morning's daily course begins,
And round him in bright circle sees
The comforts Independence wins,
He seems unto himself to hold
An uncontested natural right
In Life a volume to unfold
Of simple ever new delight.
And if, before the evening close,
The hours their rainbow wings let fall,
And sorrow shakes his bland repose,
And too continuous pleasures pall,
He murmurs, as if Nature broke
Some promise plighted at his birth,
In bending him beneath the yoke
Borne by the common sons of earth.
The hours their rainbow wings let fall,
And sorrow shakes his bland repose,
And too continuous pleasures pall,
He murmurs, as if Nature broke
Some promise plighted at his birth,
In bending him beneath the yoke
Borne by the common sons of earth.
They starve beside his plenteous board,
They halt behind his easy wheels,
But sympathy in vain affords
The sense of ills he never feels.
He knows he is the same as they,
A feeble piteous mortal thing,
And still expects that every day
Increase and change of bliss should bring.
They halt behind his easy wheels,
But sympathy in vain affords
The sense of ills he never feels.
196
A feeble piteous mortal thing,
And still expects that every day
Increase and change of bliss should bring.
Therefore, when he is called to know
The deep realities of pain,
He shrinks, as from a viewless blow,
He writhes as in a magic chain:
Untaught that trial, toil, and care,
Are the great charter of his kind,
It seems disgrace for him to share
Weakness of flesh and human mind.
The deep realities of pain,
He shrinks, as from a viewless blow,
He writhes as in a magic chain:
Untaught that trial, toil, and care,
Are the great charter of his kind,
It seems disgrace for him to share
Weakness of flesh and human mind.
Not so the People's honest child,
The field-flower of the open sky,
Ready to live while winds are wild,
Nor, when they soften, loth to die;
To him there never came the thought
That this his life was meant to be
A pleasure-house, where peace unbought
Should minister to pride or glee.
The field-flower of the open sky,
Ready to live while winds are wild,
Nor, when they soften, loth to die;
To him there never came the thought
That this his life was meant to be
A pleasure-house, where peace unbought
Should minister to pride or glee.
You oft may hear him murmur loud
Against the uneven lots of Fate,
You oft may see him inly bowed
Beneath affliction's weight on weight:—
But rarely turns he on his grief
A face of petulant surprise,
Or scorns whate'er benign relief
The hand of God or man supplies.
Against the uneven lots of Fate,
You oft may see him inly bowed
Beneath affliction's weight on weight:—
197
A face of petulant surprise,
Or scorns whate'er benign relief
The hand of God or man supplies.
Behold him on his rustic bed,
The unluxurious couch of need,
Striving to raise his aching head,
And sinking powerless as a reed:
So sick in both he hardly knows
Which is his heart's or body's sore,
For the more keen his anguish grows
His wife and children pine the more.
The unluxurious couch of need,
Striving to raise his aching head,
And sinking powerless as a reed:
So sick in both he hardly knows
Which is his heart's or body's sore,
For the more keen his anguish grows
His wife and children pine the more.
No search for him of dainty food,
But coarsest sustenance of life,—
No rest by artful quiet wooed,
But household cries and wants and strife;
Affection can at best employ
Her utmost of unhandy care,
Her prayers and tears are weak to buy
The costly drug, the purer air.
But coarsest sustenance of life,—
No rest by artful quiet wooed,
But household cries and wants and strife;
Affection can at best employ
Her utmost of unhandy care,
Her prayers and tears are weak to buy
The costly drug, the purer air.
Pity herself, at such a sight,
Might lose her gentleness of mien,
And clothe her form in angry might,
And as a wild despair be seen;
Did she not hail the lesson taught,
By this unconscious suffering boor,
To the high sons of lore and thought,
—The sacred Patience of the Poor.
Might lose her gentleness of mien,
And clothe her form in angry might,
And as a wild despair be seen;
198
By this unconscious suffering boor,
To the high sons of lore and thought,
—The sacred Patience of the Poor.
—This great endurance of each ill,
As a plain fact whose right or wrong
They question not, confiding still,
That it shall last not overlong;
Willing, from first to last, to take
The mysteries of our life, as given,
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven.
As a plain fact whose right or wrong
They question not, confiding still,
That it shall last not overlong;
Willing, from first to last, to take
The mysteries of our life, as given,
Leaving the time-worn soul to slake
Its thirst in an undoubted Heaven.
199
IV. ALMS-GIVING.
When Poverty, with mien of shame,
The sense of Pity seeks to touch,—
Or, bolder, makes the simple claim
That I have nothing, you have much,—
Believe not either man or book
That bids you close the opening hand,
And with reproving speech and look
Your first and free intent withstand.
The sense of Pity seeks to touch,—
Or, bolder, makes the simple claim
That I have nothing, you have much,—
Believe not either man or book
That bids you close the opening hand,
And with reproving speech and look
Your first and free intent withstand.
It may be that the tale you hear
Of pressing wants and losses borne
Is heaped or color'd for your ear,
And tatters for the purpose worn
But surely Poverty has not
A sadder need than this, to wear
A mask still meaner than her lot,
Compassion's scanty food to share.
Of pressing wants and losses borne
Is heaped or color'd for your ear,
And tatters for the purpose worn
But surely Poverty has not
A sadder need than this, to wear
A mask still meaner than her lot,
Compassion's scanty food to share.
It may be that you err to give
What will but tempt to further spoil
Those who in low content would live
On theft of others' time and toil;
Yet sickness may have broke or bent
The active frame or vigorous will,—
Or hard occasion may prevent
Their exercise of humble skill.
What will but tempt to further spoil
Those who in low content would live
On theft of others' time and toil;
200
The active frame or vigorous will,—
Or hard occasion may prevent
Their exercise of humble skill.
It may be that the suppliant's life
Has lain on many an evil way
Of foul delight and brutal strife,
And lawless deeds that shun the day;
But how can any gauge of yours
The depth of that temptation try?
—What man resists—what man endures—
Is open to one only eye.
Has lain on many an evil way
Of foul delight and brutal strife,
And lawless deeds that shun the day;
But how can any gauge of yours
The depth of that temptation try?
—What man resists—what man endures—
Is open to one only eye.
Why not believe the homely letter
That all you give will God restore?
The poor man may deserve it better,
And surely, surely, wants it more:
Let but the rich man do his part,
And whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart
Will gain and grow in sympathy.
That all you give will God restore?
The poor man may deserve it better,
And surely, surely, wants it more:
Let but the rich man do his part,
And whatsoe'er the issue be
To those who ask, his answering heart
Will gain and grow in sympathy.
—Suppose that each from Nature got
Bare quittance of his labour's worth,
That yearly-teeming flocks were not,
Nor manifold-producing earth;
No wilding growths of fruit and flower,
Cultured to beautiful and good,
No creatures for the arm of power
To take and tame from waste and wood!—
Bare quittance of his labour's worth,
That yearly-teeming flocks were not,
Nor manifold-producing earth;
201
Cultured to beautiful and good,
No creatures for the arm of power
To take and tame from waste and wood!—
That all men to their mortal rest
Passed shadow-like, and left behind
No free result, no clear bequest,
Won by their work of hand or mind!
That every separate life begun,
A present to the past unbound,
A lonely, independent, One,
Sprung from the cold mechanic ground!
Passed shadow-like, and left behind
No free result, no clear bequest,
Won by their work of hand or mind!
That every separate life begun,
A present to the past unbound,
A lonely, independent, One,
Sprung from the cold mechanic ground!
What would the record of the past,
The vision of the future be?
Nature unchanged from first to last,
And base the best humanity:
For in these gifts lies all the space
Between our England's noblest men,
And the most vile Australian race
Outprowling from their bushy den.
The vision of the future be?
Nature unchanged from first to last,
And base the best humanity:
For in these gifts lies all the space
Between our England's noblest men,
And the most vile Australian race
Outprowling from their bushy den.
Then freely as from age to age,
Descending generations bear
The accumulated heritage
Of friendly and parental care,—
Freely as Nature tends her wealth
Of air and fire, of sea and land,
Of childhood's happiness and health.
So freely open you your hand!
Descending generations bear
The accumulated heritage
Of friendly and parental care,—
202
Of air and fire, of sea and land,
Of childhood's happiness and health.
So freely open you your hand!
—Between you and your best intent
Necessity her brazen bar
Will often interpose, as sent
Your pure benevolence to mar:
Still every gentle word has sway
To teach the pauper's desperate mood,
That Misery shall not take away
Franchise of human brotherhood.
Necessity her brazen bar
Will often interpose, as sent
Your pure benevolence to mar:
Still every gentle word has sway
To teach the pauper's desperate mood,
That Misery shall not take away
Franchise of human brotherhood.
And if this lesson come too late,
Woe to the rich and poor and all!
The maddened outcast of the gate
Plunders and murders in the hall;
Justice can crush and hold in awe,
While Hope in social order reigns,—
But if the myriads break the law,
They break it as a slave his chains!
Woe to the rich and poor and all!
The maddened outcast of the gate
Plunders and murders in the hall;
Justice can crush and hold in awe,
While Hope in social order reigns,—
But if the myriads break the law,
They break it as a slave his chains!
203
V.
“Beg from a beggar—Deark d'on dearka.”—Irish Proverb.
There is a thought so purely blest,
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,—
A thought whose home is paradise,—
The charities of Poor to Poor.
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,—
A thought whose home is paradise,—
The charities of Poor to Poor.
It were not for the Rich to blame,
If they, whom Fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn;
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispensed with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife,—
Is not for them to understand.
If they, whom Fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn;
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispensed with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife,—
Is not for them to understand.
To give the stranger's children bread,
Of your precarious board the spoil—
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And, sleepless, meet the morrow's toil;—
The gifts, not proffered once alone,
The daily sacrifice of years,—
And, when all else to give is gone,
The precious gifts of love and tears!
Of your precarious board the spoil—
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And, sleepless, meet the morrow's toil;—
204
The daily sacrifice of years,—
And, when all else to give is gone,
The precious gifts of love and tears!
What record of triumphant deed,
What virtue pompously unfurled,
Can thus refute the gloomy creed
That parts from God our living world?
O Misanthrope! deny who would—
O Moralists! deny who can—
Seeds of almost impossible good,
Deep in the deepest life of Man.
What virtue pompously unfurled,
Can thus refute the gloomy creed
That parts from God our living world?
O Misanthrope! deny who would—
O Moralists! deny who can—
Seeds of almost impossible good,
Deep in the deepest life of Man.
Therefore, lament not, honest soul!
That Providence holds back from thee
The means thou might'st so well control—
Those luxuries of charity.
Manhood is nobler, as thou art;
And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchanged thy loving will?
That Providence holds back from thee
The means thou might'st so well control—
Those luxuries of charity.
Manhood is nobler, as thou art;
And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchanged thy loving will?
Wealth, like all other power, is blind,
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debased before.
It is the battle, not the prize,
That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,
Which mere possession might destroy.
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debased before.
205
That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,
Which mere possession might destroy.
206
VI. RICH AND POOR.
When God built up the dome of blue,
And portioned earth's prolific floor,
The measure of his wisdom drew
A line between the Rich and Poor;
And till that vault of glory fall,
Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame,
Or saving love be all in all,
That rule of life will rest the same.
And portioned earth's prolific floor,
The measure of his wisdom drew
A line between the Rich and Poor;
And till that vault of glory fall,
Or beauteous earth be scarred with flame,
Or saving love be all in all,
That rule of life will rest the same.
We know not why, we know not how,
Mankind are framed for weal or woe—
But to the Eternal Law we bow;
If such things are, they must be so.
Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy
One truth outshining bright and clear,
That Wealth abides in Hope and Joy,
And Poverty in Pain and Fear.
Mankind are framed for weal or woe—
But to the Eternal Law we bow;
If such things are, they must be so.
Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy
One truth outshining bright and clear,
That Wealth abides in Hope and Joy,
And Poverty in Pain and Fear.
Behold our children as they play!
Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand;
The peasant boy as great and gay
As the young heir to gold and land;
Their various toys of equal worth,
Their little needs of equal care,
And halls of marble, huts of earth,
All homes alike endeared and fair.
Blest creatures, fresh from Nature's hand;
The peasant boy as great and gay
As the young heir to gold and land;
207
Their little needs of equal care,
And halls of marble, huts of earth,
All homes alike endeared and fair.
They know no better!—would that we
Could keep our knowledge safe from worse;
So Power should find and leave us free,
So Pride be but the owner's curse;
So, without marking which was which,
Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure,
What paupers are the ambitious Rich!
How wealthy the contented Poor!
Could keep our knowledge safe from worse;
So Power should find and leave us free,
So Pride be but the owner's curse;
So, without marking which was which,
Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure,
What paupers are the ambitious Rich!
How wealthy the contented Poor!
Grant us, O God! but health and heart,
And strength to keep desire at bay,
And ours must be the better part,
Whatever else besets our way.
Each day may bring sufficient ill;
But we can meet and fight it through,
If Hope sustains the hand of Will,
And Conscience is our captain too.
And strength to keep desire at bay,
And ours must be the better part,
Whatever else besets our way.
Each day may bring sufficient ill;
But we can meet and fight it through,
If Hope sustains the hand of Will,
And Conscience is our captain too.
208
SONNETS.
THE PAINS OF YOUTH.
A shadow, a light cloud, an April rain,And twenty other vain similitudes,
Betoken that fast-springing Youth eludes
The full impression of continuous pain.
Strange fallacy! when all that then we feel
Strikes home,—the veriest trifles how profound!
When there is something in each precious wound
That searing Manhood almost fails to heal.
But let the harshnesses of daily life
And all the blunt world's businesses have set
A seal upon the fountain of the heart,
Then tangled in the party-coloured strife,
We throb with Love or Hate, we meet or part,
Sigh, tremble, weep, pass onward and forget.
209
HAPPINESS.
Because the Few with signal virtue crowned,The heights and pinnacles of human mind,
Sadder and wearier than the rest are found,
Wish not thy Soul less wise or less refined.
True that the small delights which every day
Cheer and distract the pilgrim are not theirs;
True that, though free from Passion's lawless sway,
A loftier being brings severer cares.
Yet have they special pleasures, even mirth,
By those undreamt of who have only trod
Life's valley smooth; and if the rolling earth
To their nice ear have many a painful tone,
They know, Man does not live by Joy alone,
But by the presence of the power of God.
210
THE SAME.
A splendour amid glooms,—a sunny threadWoven into a tapestry of cloud,—
A merry child a-playing with the shroud
That lies upon a breathless mother's bed,—
A garland on the front of one new wed,
Trembling and weeping while her troth is vowed,—
A school-boy's laugh that rises light and loud
In licensed freedom from ungentle dread;
These are ensamples of the Happiness,
For which our nature fits us; more and less
Are parts of all things to the mortal given,
Of Love, Joy, Truth, and Beauty. Perfect Light
Would dazzle, not illuminate, our sight,—
From earth it is enough to glimpse at Heaven.
211
THE SPRING AND THE BROOK.
It may be that the Poet is as a Spring,That, from the deep of being, pulsing forth,
Proffers the hot and thirsty sons of earth
Refreshment unbestowed by sage or king.
Still is he but an utterance,—a lone thing,—
Sad-hearted in his very voice of mirth,—
Too often shivering in the thankless dearth
Of those affections he the best can sing.
But Thou, O lively Brook! whose fruitful way
Brings with it mirror'd smiles, and green, and flowers,—
Child of all scenes, companion of all hours,
Taking the simple cheer of every day,—
How little is to thee, thou happy Mind,
The solitary parent Spring behind!
212
GOOD INTENTIONS.
Fair thoughts of good, and fantasies as fair!Why is it your content to dwell confined
In the dark cave of meditative mind,
Nor show your forms and colours otherwhere?
Why taste ye not the beautiful free air
Of life and action? If the wintry wind
Rages sometimes, must noble growth be pined,
And fresh extravagant boughs lopped off by care?
Behold the budding and the flowering flowers,
That die, and in their seed have life anew;
Oh! if the promptings of our better hours
With vegetative virtue sprung and grew,
They would fill up the room of living Time,
And leave the world small space to nourish weeds of crime.
213
GRAVE TEMPERAMENTS.
To live for present life, and feel no crime,—To see in life a merry-morrice craft,
Where he has done the best who most has laughed,
Is Youth's fit heaven, nor thus the less sublime:
But not to all men, in their best of prime,
Is given by Nature this miraculous draught
Of inward happiness, which, hourly quaffed,
Seems to the reveller deep beyond all time.
Therefore encumber not the sad young heart
With exhortations to impossible joy,
And charges of morose and thankless mood;
For there is working in that girl or boy
A power which will and must remain apart—
Only by love approached and understood.
214
ACTION AND THOUGHT.
There is a world where struggle and stern toilAre all the nurture of the soul of man—
Ordain'd to raise from life's ungrateful soil,
Pain as he must, and Pleasure as he can.
Then to that other world of thought from this
Turns the sad soul, all hopeful of repose,
But round in weirdest metamorphosis,
False shapes and true, divine and devilish, close.
Above these two, and resting upon each
A meditative and compassionate eye,
Broodeth the Spirit of God: thence evermore,
On those poor wanderers cast from shore to shore,
Falleth a voice, omnipotent to teach
Them that will hear,—“Despair not! it is I.”
215
PRAYER.
In reverence will we speak of those that wooThe ear Divine with clear and ready prayer;
And, while their voices cleave the Sabbath air,
Know their bright thoughts are winging heavenward too.
Yet many a one,—“the latchet of whose shoe”
These might not loose,—will often only dare
Lay some poor words between him and despair—
“Father forgive! we know not what we do.”
For, as Christ pray'd, so echoes our weak heart,
Yearning the ways of God to vindicate,
But worn and wilder'd by the shows of fate,
Of good oppressed and beautiful defiled,
Dim alien force, that draws or holds apart
From its dear home that wandering spirit-child.
216
LESSON TO POETS.
Try not, or murmur not if tried in vain,In fair rememberable words to set
Each scene or presence of especial gain,
As hoarded gems in precious cabinet.
Simply enjoy the present loveliness;—
Let it become a portion of your being;
Close your glad gaze, but see it none the less,
No clearer with your eye, than spirit, seeing.
And, when you part at last, turn once again,
Swearing that beauty shall be unforgot:
So in far sorrows it shall ease your pain,
In distant struggles it shall calm your strife,
And in your further and serener life,
Who says that it shall be remember'd not?
217
INDIRECT BEAUTY.
Poet and Artist think and care not whetherThings hold in truth the glory that they show;
Beauty and beauteous thoughts will go together,
While to one scene a thousand memories flow;
Long spirit-strains from one wild note shall grow,
Magnificent tempests from one cloudy feather,
From one bright ray the sunset's perfect glow,
Hymettian thyme-beds from one plant of heather.
Into one scene a thousand memories flow!
Held we but this reflection at our hearts,
And beauty never past without regard,
No place would lack illuminated parts,
And inward grace with outer mingle so,
That Nature should be never dark or hard.
218
TO CHARLES LAMB.
Thee I would think one of the many Wise,Who in Eliza's time sat eminent,
To our now world, his Purgatory, sent
To teach us what true English Poets prize.
Pasquilant froth and foreign galliardize
Are none of thine; but, when of gay intent,
Thou usest staid old English merriment,
Mannerly mirth, which no one dare despise.
The scoffs and girds of our poor critic rout
Must move thy pity, as amidst their mime,
Monk of Truth's Order, from thy memories
Thou dost updraw sublime simplicities,
Grand Thoughts that never can be wearied out,
Showing the unreality of Time.
219
TO A CERTAIN POET.
At Beauty's altar fervent acolyte,And favored candidate for priestly name,
In object as in force adore aright
Nor waste one breath of thy rare gift of flame;
Nature, Artistic Form, Music,—all these
Are shapes where partial Beauty deigns to lie,
And mediate, as with types and images,
Between frail hearts and perfect Deity.
From Thee a purer faith is due,—to find
The Beauty of Life,— the Melody of Mind,—
Which the true Poet's quest never eludes:
Speed Thou Philosophy's straight-onward flight,
Aiming thy wings at that serenest height,
Where Wordsworth stands, feeding the multitudes.
220
LOVE WITHOUT SYMPATHY.
Yes, I will blame thy very height of heart,I will conjure thee to remember still
That things above us are not less apart,
And mountains nearest to the sun most chill!
Well hadst thou held sublime and separate rank,
Martyr or heroine of romantic times,
When Woman's life was one poor cloudy blank,
Lit by rare-gleaming virtues, loves, and crimes.
But now that every day for thee and me
Has its own being of delight and woe,
Come down, bright star! from thy perennial vault,
My earthly path's companion-light to be;
And I will love thee more for every fault
Than for perfections that the angels show.
221
ON ALFRED OF ENGLAND.
Alfred judged, and we have his own words before us grounded on such
judgment, that it is better to permit the continuance of a defective law,
than to destroy the foundation upon which all laws depend,—respect for
established authority,—which sudden changes, even for the better, are apt
to undermine. Palgrave.
There rose, from out a most discordant age,
A mind attuned to that slow harmony,
With which the Former of Humanity
Unfolds his book of will, from page to page.
War, with that generous passion, he did wage,
Which was the soul of Christian chivalry,—
But governing, his wise humility
Against high Heaven threw down no venturous gage.
He knew, how staidly moves the Spirit of Law,
Even as the dial-shade,—that men with awe
May recognise the one law-giving hand;
And thus the Ruler, whom his own proud will
Urges unbridled, be it for good or ill,
Brings on himself like shame and misery on the land.
222
INSERTED IN M. RIO'S WORK, “LA PETITE CHOUANNERIE.”
For honest men, of every blood and creed,
Let green La Vendée rest a sacred spot;
Be all the guilt of Quiberon forgot
In the bright memory of its martyr-deed!
And let this little book be one more seed,
Whence sympathies may spring, encumbered not
By circumstance of birth or mortal lot,
But claiming virtue's universal meed!
And as those two great languages, whose sound
Has echoed through the realms of modern time,
Feeding with thoughts and sentiments sublime
Each other and the listening world around,
Meet in these pages as on neutral ground,—
So may their nations' hearts in sweet accord be found!
Let green La Vendée rest a sacred spot;
Be all the guilt of Quiberon forgot
In the bright memory of its martyr-deed!
And let this little book be one more seed,
Whence sympathies may spring, encumbered not
By circumstance of birth or mortal lot,
But claiming virtue's universal meed!
And as those two great languages, whose sound
Has echoed through the realms of modern time,
Feeding with thoughts and sentiments sublime
Each other and the listening world around,
Meet in these pages as on neutral ground,—
So may their nations' hearts in sweet accord be found!
O France and England! on whose lofty crests
The day-spring of the Future flows so free,
Save where the cloud of your hostility
Settles between, and holy light arrests,
Shall Ye, first instruments of God's behests,
But blunt each other? Shall Barbarians see
The two fair sisters of civility
Turn a fierce wrath against each other's breasts?
No!—by our common hope and being—no!
By the expanding might and bliss of peace,
By the revealed fatuity of war,
England and France shall not be foe to foe:
For how can earth her store of good increase,
If what God loves to make man's passions still will mar?
The day-spring of the Future flows so free,
Save where the cloud of your hostility
Settles between, and holy light arrests,
Shall Ye, first instruments of God's behests,
223
The two fair sisters of civility
Turn a fierce wrath against each other's breasts?
No!—by our common hope and being—no!
By the expanding might and bliss of peace,
By the revealed fatuity of war,
England and France shall not be foe to foe:
For how can earth her store of good increase,
If what God loves to make man's passions still will mar?
224
ON TURNER'S PICTURE
See how that small concentrate fiery forceIs grappling with the glory of the main,
That follows, like some grave heroic corse,
Dragged by a suttler from the heap of slain.
Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain—
Something which Fancy moulds into remorse,
That We, who of thine honour hold the gain,
Should from its dignity thy form divorce.
Yet will we read in thy high-vaunting Name,
How Britain did what France could only dare,
And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air,
We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame,
And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same,
Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire!
225
TO QUEEN VICTORIA.
ON A PUBLIC CELEBRATION.
How art Thou calm amid the storm, young Queen!
Amid this wide and joy-distracted throng?
Where has the range of life-experience been
To keep thy heart thus equable and strong?
Can the secluded cold which may belong
To such high state compose thy noble mien,
Without the duteous purpose not to wrong
The truth of some Ideal spirit-seen?
Amid this wide and joy-distracted throng?
Where has the range of life-experience been
To keep thy heart thus equable and strong?
Can the secluded cold which may belong
To such high state compose thy noble mien,
Without the duteous purpose not to wrong
The truth of some Ideal spirit-seen?
Perchance the depth of what I boldly asked
None know—nor I, nor Thou.
None know—nor I, nor Thou.
Yet let us pray
That Thou, in this exceeding glory masked,
Be not to loss of thy true self beguiled;
Still able at thy Maker's feet to lay
The living, loving, nature of a child!
That Thou, in this exceeding glory masked,
Be not to loss of thy true self beguiled;
Still able at thy Maker's feet to lay
The living, loving, nature of a child!
226
SONGS.
A CHILD'S SONG.
“I see the Moon, and the Moon sees me,
God bless the Moon, and God bless me.”—Old Rhyme.
God bless the Moon, and God bless me.”—Old Rhyme.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.
Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale, and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep.
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale, and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep.
Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told.
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.
227
“THE INFANT'S THREE SABBATHS.”
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On thy mother's breast;
Kisses without number
Rain upon thy rest—
Well they come from many lips,
But from her's the best,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On thy mother's breast.
On thy mother's breast;
Kisses without number
Rain upon thy rest—
Well they come from many lips,
But from her's the best,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On thy mother's breast.
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On the earth's cold breast,
Blossoms without number
Bloom about thy rest.
Nature, clad in all her smiles
Greets so fair a guest,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On the earth's cold breast.
On the earth's cold breast,
Blossoms without number
Bloom about thy rest.
Nature, clad in all her smiles
Greets so fair a guest,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On the earth's cold breast.
Slumber, infant, slumber
On an angel's breast,
Glories without number,
Consecrate thy rest.
Deeper joys than we can know
Wait upon the blest,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On an angel's breast.
On an angel's breast,
Glories without number,
Consecrate thy rest.
228
Wait upon the blest,
Slumber, infant, slumber,
On an angel's breast.
229
THE OLD MANORIAL HALL.
When she was born I had been long the gardener of the Hall,
The shrubs I planted with my hand were rising thick and tall;
My heart was in that work and place, and little thought or care
Had I of other living things than grew and flourished there,
Beneath the happy shelter of
The old Manorial Hall.
The shrubs I planted with my hand were rising thick and tall;
My heart was in that work and place, and little thought or care
Had I of other living things than grew and flourished there,
Beneath the happy shelter of
The old Manorial Hall.
At first she came a rosy child, a queen among my flowers,
And played beside me while I worked, and prattled on for hours;
And many a morning, in the plot of ground she called her own,
She found an unexpected show of blossoms freshly blown,
And sent her merry echoes through
The old Manorial Hall.
And played beside me while I worked, and prattled on for hours;
And many a morning, in the plot of ground she called her own,
She found an unexpected show of blossoms freshly blown,
And sent her merry echoes through
The old Manorial Hall.
230
Thus fifteen summers, every day, I tended her and them
I watched the opening of the bud, the shooting of the stem;
And when her childly laughter turned to silent maiden smiles,
I felt in Heaven whene'er she passed, and scarce on earth the whiles.
How could I ever think to leave
The old Manorial Hall!
I watched the opening of the bud, the shooting of the stem;
And when her childly laughter turned to silent maiden smiles,
I felt in Heaven whene'er she passed, and scarce on earth the whiles.
How could I ever think to leave
The old Manorial Hall!
One day when Autumn's last delights were nipped by early cold,
It fell like Death upon mine ear that she was bought and sold;—
That some rich lord she hardly knew, had come to bear away
The pride of all the country round—the poor man's hope and stay—
The Glory and the Darling of
The old Manorial Hall.
It fell like Death upon mine ear that she was bought and sold;—
That some rich lord she hardly knew, had come to bear away
The pride of all the country round—the poor man's hope and stay—
The Glory and the Darling of
The old Manorial Hall.
I heard her plight to him the troth she could not understand,
I saw her weeping turn her head and wave her parting hand;
And from that hour no thing has gone with me but wrong,
And soon I left the Garden and the Home I loved so long:
It was a haunted house to me,
That old Manorial Hall.
I saw her weeping turn her head and wave her parting hand;
231
And soon I left the Garden and the Home I loved so long:
It was a haunted house to me,
That old Manorial Hall.
And now I wander up and down, I labour as I can,
Without a wish for rest or friends, a sorry-hearted man;
Yet at the bottom of my thoughts the saddest lies, that she,
With all her wealth and noble state, may none the happier be
Than I, the poor old Gardener of
The old Manorial Hall.
Without a wish for rest or friends, a sorry-hearted man;
Yet at the bottom of my thoughts the saddest lies, that she,
With all her wealth and noble state, may none the happier be
Than I, the poor old Gardener of
The old Manorial Hall.
232
THE BROOK-SIDE.
I wandered by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill,—
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I wandered by the mill,—
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm-tree,
I watched the long, long, shade,
And as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I watched the long, long, shade,
And as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
He came not,—no, he came not,—
The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
233
The leaves above were stirr'd,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind,—
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer—nearer,—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
When something stood behind,—
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer—nearer,—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
1830.
234
ONCE.
She never loved but once,
And then her love did seem
Like the opening of the tomb
Or the weaving of a dream;—
A premature betrothing
To immortal things,—
A momentary clothing
With an angel's wings.
And then her love did seem
Like the opening of the tomb
Or the weaving of a dream;—
A premature betrothing
To immortal things,—
A momentary clothing
With an angel's wings.
She never loved but once,
And then she learnt to feel
The wounds that Love inflicts,
That love alone can heal:
For as that light of life
Slowly faded by,
She calmed her spirit's strife,
In her wish to die;
And then she learnt to feel
The wounds that Love inflicts,
That love alone can heal:
For as that light of life
Slowly faded by,
She calmed her spirit's strife,
In her wish to die;
Yet lived, and Memory drew
Some joy from all the pain—
Her heart was kind to all
But never loved again.
She bid it cease to beat,
Till in yon skies above,
Love with Love should meet,
First and only Love!
Some joy from all the pain—
Her heart was kind to all
But never loved again.
She bid it cease to beat,
Till in yon skies above,
Love with Love should meet,
First and only Love!
235
SONG OF THOUGHTS.
Let the lays from poet-lips
Shadow forth the speech of heaven,—
Let melodious airs eclipse
All delight to senses given;
Yet to these my notes and words
Listen with your heart alone,
While the Thought that best accords
Makes a music of its own.
Shadow forth the speech of heaven,—
Let melodious airs eclipse
All delight to senses given;
Yet to these my notes and words
Listen with your heart alone,
While the Thought that best accords
Makes a music of its own.
Ye that in the fields of Love
Feel the breath and bloom of spring,
While I sing, securely rove,—
Rest in safety, while I sing.
Ye that gaze with vain regret
Back towards that holy ground,
All the world between forget,
Spirit-rocked from sound to sound.
Feel the breath and bloom of spring,
While I sing, securely rove,—
Rest in safety, while I sing.
Ye that gaze with vain regret
Back towards that holy ground,
All the world between forget,
Spirit-rocked from sound to sound.
All indifference, all distrust,
From old friendships pass away!
Let the faces of the just
Shine as in God's perfect day!
Fix the faintest, fleetest, smile,
E'er athwart your path has gleam'd,—
Take the charm without the wile,—
Be the Beauty all it seem'd!
From old friendships pass away!
Let the faces of the just
Shine as in God's perfect day!
236
E'er athwart your path has gleam'd,—
Take the charm without the wile,—
Be the Beauty all it seem'd!
'Mid the flowers you love the best,
Summer pride or vernal boon—
By your favourite light caressed,
Blush of eve or glow of noon,—
Blend the strains of happiest days
With the voices held most dear;
Children cast on weary ways!
Rest in peace and pleasaunce here.
Summer pride or vernal boon—
By your favourite light caressed,
Blush of eve or glow of noon,—
Blend the strains of happiest days
With the voices held most dear;
Children cast on weary ways!
Rest in peace and pleasaunce here.
Be the Future's glorious page
In my tones to youth revealed;
Let the ruffled brow of age
With eternal calm be sealed;
High as Heaven's etherial cope,
Wide as Light's rejoicing ray,
Thoughts of memory! Thoughts of hope!
Wander, wander, while ye may.
In my tones to youth revealed;
Let the ruffled brow of age
With eternal calm be sealed;
High as Heaven's etherial cope,
Wide as Light's rejoicing ray,
Thoughts of memory! Thoughts of hope!
Wander, wander, while ye may.
237
THE OLD MAN'S SONG.
Age is not a thing to measure
By the course of moon or star;
Time's before us—at our pleasure
We may follow near or far:
Strength and Beauty he has given,
They are his to take away,
But the Heart that well has striven
Is no slave of night or day.
By the course of moon or star;
Time's before us—at our pleasure
We may follow near or far:
Strength and Beauty he has given,
They are his to take away,
But the Heart that well has striven
Is no slave of night or day.
See upon yon mountain-ridges
How the fir-woods, spread between,
Reconcile the snow-clad edges
With the valley's vernal green;
So the lines of grave reflection,
You decipher on my brow,
Keep my age in glad connexion
With the young that flourish now.
How the fir-woods, spread between,
Reconcile the snow-clad edges
With the valley's vernal green;
So the lines of grave reflection,
You decipher on my brow,
Keep my age in glad connexion
With the young that flourish now.
Not that now poetic fire
Can along my life-strings run,
As when my Memnonian lyre
Welcomed every rising sun;
Though my heart no more rejoices
In the flashes of my brain,
In the freshness of your voices
Let me hear my songs again.
Can along my life-strings run,
As when my Memnonian lyre
Welcomed every rising sun;
238
In the flashes of my brain,
In the freshness of your voices
Let me hear my songs again.
Did I love?—let Nature witness,
Conscious of my tears and truth;
Do I love?—O fatal fitness!
Still requiring youth for youth!
Yet, while thought the bliss remembers,
All delight is not gone by;
Warm your spirits o'er my embers,
Friends! and learn to love as I.
Conscious of my tears and truth;
Do I love?—O fatal fitness!
Still requiring youth for youth!
Yet, while thought the bliss remembers,
All delight is not gone by;
Warm your spirits o'er my embers,
Friends! and learn to love as I.
O my children! O my brothers!
If for self I lived too much,
Be my pleasures now for others,
Every passion now be such:
Be the chillness life-destroying,
That could make me slow to feel,
To enjoy with your enjoying,
To be zealous with your zeal.
If for self I lived too much,
Be my pleasures now for others,
Every passion now be such:
Be the chillness life-destroying,
That could make me slow to feel,
To enjoy with your enjoying,
To be zealous with your zeal.
Grant me not, ye reigning Hours
Virtues that beseem the young,
Vigour for my failing powers,
Music for my faltering tongue:
Let me, cheerful thoughts retaining,
Live awhile, nor fear to die,
Ever new affections gaining,
Such as Heaven might well supply.
Virtues that beseem the young,
Vigour for my failing powers,
Music for my faltering tongue:
239
Live awhile, nor fear to die,
Ever new affections gaining,
Such as Heaven might well supply.
June, 1843.
240
NARRATIVE POEMS.
THE FALL OF ALIPIUS.
When gentle Gratian ruled the Roman west,
And with unvigorous virtues thought to hold
That troubled balance in perpetual rest,
And crush with good intent the bad and bold,
The youth Alipius for the first time saw
The Mother of civility and law.
And with unvigorous virtues thought to hold
That troubled balance in perpetual rest,
And crush with good intent the bad and bold,
The youth Alipius for the first time saw
The Mother of civility and law.
Mother in truth, but yet as one who now
By her disloyal children tended ill
Should sit apart, with hand upon her brow,
Moaning her sick desires and feeble will;
So Rome was pictured to the subtler eye,
That could through words the soul of things descry.
By her disloyal children tended ill
Should sit apart, with hand upon her brow,
Moaning her sick desires and feeble will;
So Rome was pictured to the subtler eye,
That could through words the soul of things descry.
But no such vision of the truth had He
Who with full heart passed under the old wall
A Roman moulded by that sun and sea
Which lit and laved the infant Hannibal,
One who with Afric blood could still combine
The civic memories of a Roman line.
Who with full heart passed under the old wall
A Roman moulded by that sun and sea
Which lit and laved the infant Hannibal,
One who with Afric blood could still combine
The civic memories of a Roman line.
241
To him was Rome whatever she had been,
Republican, Cesarean, unforgot,
As much the single undisputed Queen,
As if the Empire of the East was not,—
Fine gold and rugged iron fused and cast
Into one image of the glorious Past:
Republican, Cesarean, unforgot,
As much the single undisputed Queen,
As if the Empire of the East was not,—
Fine gold and rugged iron fused and cast
Into one image of the glorious Past:
And on a present throne to heaven up-piled,
Of arches, temples, basilics and halls,
He placed his Idol, while before her filed
Nations to gild and glut her festivals;
And of her might the utterance was so loud,
That every other living voice was cowed.
Of arches, temples, basilics and halls,
He placed his Idol, while before her filed
Nations to gild and glut her festivals;
And of her might the utterance was so loud,
That every other living voice was cowed.
Possessed by this idea, little heed
At first he gave the thickening multitude,
That met and passed him in their noisy speed,
Like hounds intent upon the scent of blood,
For all the City was that day astir,
Tow'ard the huge Flavian Amphitheatre.
At first he gave the thickening multitude,
That met and passed him in their noisy speed,
Like hounds intent upon the scent of blood,
For all the City was that day astir,
Tow'ard the huge Flavian Amphitheatre.
Yet soon his sole attention grew to scan
That edifice whose walls might rather seem
The masonry of Nature than of man,
In size and figure a Titanic dream,
That could whole worlds of lesser men absorb
Within the embrace of one enormous orb.
That edifice whose walls might rather seem
The masonry of Nature than of man,
In size and figure a Titanic dream,
That could whole worlds of lesser men absorb
Within the embrace of one enormous orb.
242
The mighty tragedies of skill and strife,
That there in earnest death must ever close,
Exciting palates which no tastes of life
Could to a sense of such delight dispose,
Swept by his fancy with an hundred names,
The pomps and pageantries of Roman games.
That there in earnest death must ever close,
Exciting palates which no tastes of life
Could to a sense of such delight dispose,
Swept by his fancy with an hundred names,
The pomps and pageantries of Roman games.
Why should he not pass onward with that tide
Of passionate enchantment? why not share
The seeds of pleasure Nature spread so wide,
And gave the heart of men like common air?
Why should that be to him a shame and sin,
Which thousands of his fellows joy'd to win?
Of passionate enchantment? why not share
The seeds of pleasure Nature spread so wide,
And gave the heart of men like common air?
Why should that be to him a shame and sin,
Which thousands of his fellows joy'd to win?
But ere this thought could take perspicuous form,
His Will arose and fell'd it at a blow;
For he had felt that instinct's fever-storm
Lash his young blood to fury long ago,—
And in the Circus had consumed away
Of his best years how many' a wanton day!
His Will arose and fell'd it at a blow;
For he had felt that instinct's fever-storm
Lash his young blood to fury long ago,—
And in the Circus had consumed away
Of his best years how many' a wanton day!
Till the celestial guardian of his soul
Led him the great Augustin's voice to hear,
And soon that better influence o'er him stole,
A reverend master and companion dear,
From whom he learnt in his provincial home
Wisdom scarce utter'd in the schools of Rome:
Led him the great Augustin's voice to hear,
And soon that better influence o'er him stole,
A reverend master and companion dear,
From whom he learnt in his provincial home
Wisdom scarce utter'd in the schools of Rome:
243
“How wide Humanity's potential range,—
From Earth's abysses to serenest Heaven,—
From the poor child of circumstance and change,
By every wind of passion tossed and driven,
To the established philosophic mind,
The type and model of the thing designed:
From Earth's abysses to serenest Heaven,—
From the poor child of circumstance and change,
By every wind of passion tossed and driven,
To the established philosophic mind,
The type and model of the thing designed:
“And how this work of works in each is wrought,
By no enthusiast leap to good from ill,
But by the vigorous government of thought,
The unrelaxing continence of will,—
Where little habits their invisible sway
Extend, like body's growth, from day to day.”
By no enthusiast leap to good from ill,
But by the vigorous government of thought,
The unrelaxing continence of will,—
Where little habits their invisible sway
Extend, like body's growth, from day to day.”
By meditations such as these sustained
He stoutly breasted that on-coming crowd,
Then, as in stupor, at one spot remained,
For thrice he heard his name repeated loud,
And close before him there beheld in truth
Three dearest comrades of his Afric youth.
He stoutly breasted that on-coming crowd,
Then, as in stupor, at one spot remained,
For thrice he heard his name repeated loud,
And close before him there beheld in truth
Three dearest comrades of his Afric youth.
O joy! to welcome in a stranger land
Our homeliest native look and native speech,
To feel that in one pressure of the hand
There is a world of sympathy for each;
And if old friendliness be there beside,
The meeting is of bridegroom and of bride.
Our homeliest native look and native speech,
To feel that in one pressure of the hand
There is a world of sympathy for each;
And if old friendliness be there beside,
The meeting is of bridegroom and of bride.
244
What questions asked that waited not reply!
What mirthful comment on apparent change!
Till the three raised one gratulating cry,—
“Arrived just then! how fortunate,—how strange!
Arrived to see what they ne'er saw before,
The fight between the Daunian and the Moor.
What mirthful comment on apparent change!
Till the three raised one gratulating cry,—
“Arrived just then! how fortunate,—how strange!
Arrived to see what they ne'er saw before,
The fight between the Daunian and the Moor.
“One graceful-limbed and lofty as a palm,
The other moulded like his mountain-pine;
Each with his customed arms content and calm,
In his own nation each of princely line,—
Two natures separate as the sun and snow
Battling to death to make a Roman show!”—
The other moulded like his mountain-pine;
Each with his customed arms content and calm,
In his own nation each of princely line,—
Two natures separate as the sun and snow
Battling to death to make a Roman show!”—
—Alipius, with few words and earnest mien,
Answered, “That he long since had stood apart
From those ferocious pleasures, and would wean
Those whom he loved from them with all his heart,
Yet, as his counsel could have little power,
Where should they meet the morrow,—at what hour?”
Answered, “That he long since had stood apart
From those ferocious pleasures, and would wean
Those whom he loved from them with all his heart,
Yet, as his counsel could have little power,
Where should they meet the morrow,—at what hour?”
Their shafts of mockery from his virtuous head
Fell to the ground,—so, using ruder might,
Amid applauding bystanders, they said,
“They would divert him in his own despite,”
And bore him forward, while in fearless tone
He cried, “my mind and sight are still mine own.”
Fell to the ground,—so, using ruder might,
Amid applauding bystanders, they said,
“They would divert him in his own despite,”
And bore him forward, while in fearless tone
He cried, “my mind and sight are still mine own.”
245
His body a mere dead-weight in their hands,
His angry eyes in proud endurance closed,
They placed him where spectators from all lands
In eager expectation sat disposed,
While in the distance still, before, behind,
The people gathering were as rushing wind:
His angry eyes in proud endurance closed,
They placed him where spectators from all lands
In eager expectation sat disposed,
While in the distance still, before, behind,
The people gathering were as rushing wind:
Which ever rising grew into a storm
Of acclamations, when, at either end,
The combatant displayed his perfect form,
Brandished his arms, rejoicing to expend
His life in fight at least,—at least reclaim
A warrior's privilege from a captive's shame.
Of acclamations, when, at either end,
The combatant displayed his perfect form,
Brandished his arms, rejoicing to expend
His life in fight at least,—at least reclaim
A warrior's privilege from a captive's shame.
As rose before Amphion's notes serene
The fated City of heroic guilt,
Alipius thus his soul and sense between
Imagination's strong defence up-built,
With soft memorial music, dreamy strains
Of youthful happinesses, loves, and pains.
The fated City of heroic guilt,
Alipius thus his soul and sense between
Imagination's strong defence up-built,
With soft memorial music, dreamy strains
Of youthful happinesses, loves, and pains.
His stony seat seems on the Libyan coast,—
Augustin on one side, and on the other
Monica, for herself beloved, yet most
By him regarded as Augustin's mother;
And from far off resounds the populous roar
As but the billows booming on the shore.
Augustin on one side, and on the other
Monica, for herself beloved, yet most
By him regarded as Augustin's mother;
And from far off resounds the populous roar
As but the billows booming on the shore.
246
Never can he desert the truth he drew
From those all-honoured lips,—never can yield
To savage appetite, and fresh imbrue
That soul in filth to which had been revealed
The eternal purities that round it lie,
The Godhead of its birth and destiny.
From those all-honoured lips,—never can yield
To savage appetite, and fresh imbrue
That soul in filth to which had been revealed
The eternal purities that round it lie,
The Godhead of its birth and destiny.
—Now trumpets clanging forth the last command
Gave place to one tremendous pause of sound,
Silence like that of some rich-flowering land
With lava-torrents raging underground,
Scarce for one moment safe from such outbreak
As shall all nature to its centre shake.
Gave place to one tremendous pause of sound,
Silence like that of some rich-flowering land
With lava-torrents raging underground,
Scarce for one moment safe from such outbreak
As shall all nature to its centre shake.
And soon in truth it came;—the first sharp blows
Fell at long intervals as aimed with skill,
Then grew expressive of the passion-throes
That followed calm resolve and prudent will,—
Till wild ejaculations took their part
In the death-strife of hand and eye and heart.
Fell at long intervals as aimed with skill,
Then grew expressive of the passion-throes
That followed calm resolve and prudent will,—
Till wild ejaculations took their part
In the death-strife of hand and eye and heart.
“Habet,—Hoc habet,—Habet!”
What a cry!
As if the Circus were one mighty mouth
Invading the deep vale of quiet sky
With avalanche melted in the summer-drouth,—
Articulate tumult from old earth upborne,
Delight and ire and ecstasy and scorn!
As if the Circus were one mighty mouth
Invading the deep vale of quiet sky
With avalanche melted in the summer-drouth,—
Articulate tumult from old earth upborne,
Delight and ire and ecstasy and scorn!
247
Sat then Alipius silent there alone,
With fast shut eyes and spirit far away?
Remained he there as stone upon the stone,
While the flushed conqueror asked the sign to slay
The stricken victim, who despairing dumb
Waited the sentence of the downward thumb?
With fast shut eyes and spirit far away?
Remained he there as stone upon the stone,
While the flushed conqueror asked the sign to slay
The stricken victim, who despairing dumb
Waited the sentence of the downward thumb?
The shock was too much for him—too, too strong
For that poor Reason and self-resting Pride;
And every evil fury that had long
Lain crouching in his breast leaped up and cried
“Yield, yield at once, and do as others do,
We are the Lords of all of them and you.”
For that poor Reason and self-resting Pride;
And every evil fury that had long
Lain crouching in his breast leaped up and cried
“Yield, yield at once, and do as others do,
We are the Lords of all of them and you.”
The Love of contest and the Lust of blood
Dwell in the depths of man's original heart,
And at mere shows and names of wise and good
Will not from their barbaric homes depart,
But half-sleep await their time, and then
Bound forth, like tigers from their jungle-den.
Dwell in the depths of man's original heart,
And at mere shows and names of wise and good
Will not from their barbaric homes depart,
But half-sleep await their time, and then
Bound forth, like tigers from their jungle-den.
And all the curious wicker-work of thought,
Of logical result and learnèd skill,
Of precepts with examples inter-wrought,
Of high ideals, and determinate will,—
The careful fabric of ten thousand hours,
Is crushed beneath the moment's brutal powers.
Of logical result and learnèd skill,
Of precepts with examples inter-wrought,
Of high ideals, and determinate will,—
The careful fabric of ten thousand hours,
Is crushed beneath the moment's brutal powers.
248
Thus fell Alipius! He, so grave and mild,
Added the bloody sanction of his hand
To the swift slaughter of that brother-child
Of his own distant Mauritanian land,
Seeming content his very life to merge
In the confusion of that foaming surge.
Added the bloody sanction of his hand
To the swift slaughter of that brother-child
Of his own distant Mauritanian land,
Seeming content his very life to merge
In the confusion of that foaming surge.
The rage subsided; the deep sandy floor
Sucked the hot blood; the hook, like some vile prey,
Dragged off the noble body of the Moor;
The Victor, doomed to die some other day,
Enjoyed the plaudits purposelessly earned,—
And back Alipius to himself returned.
Sucked the hot blood; the hook, like some vile prey,
Dragged off the noble body of the Moor;
The Victor, doomed to die some other day,
Enjoyed the plaudits purposelessly earned,—
And back Alipius to himself returned.
There is a fearful waking unto woes,
When sleep arrests her charitable course,
Yet far more terrible the line that flows
From ebrious passion to supine remorse;
Then welcome death,—but that the sufferers feel
Wounds such as theirs no death is sure to heal!
When sleep arrests her charitable course,
Yet far more terrible the line that flows
From ebrious passion to supine remorse;
Then welcome death,—but that the sufferers feel
Wounds such as theirs no death is sure to heal!
But the demoniac power that well can use
Self-trust and Pride as instruments of ill,
Can such prostration to its ends abuse,
And poison from Humility distil:
“Why struggle more? Why strive, when strife is vain,
—An infant's muscles with a giant's chain?”
Self-trust and Pride as instruments of ill,
Can such prostration to its ends abuse,
And poison from Humility distil:
“Why struggle more? Why strive, when strife is vain,
—An infant's muscles with a giant's chain?”
249
So in his own esteem debased, and glad
To take distraction whencesoe'er it came,
Though in his heart of hearts entirely sad,
Alipius lived to pleasure and to fame
Sometimes remindful of his youth's high vow,
Of hopes and aspirations, fables now.
To take distraction whencesoe'er it came,
Though in his heart of hearts entirely sad,
Alipius lived to pleasure and to fame
Sometimes remindful of his youth's high vow,
Of hopes and aspirations, fables now.
When came to Rome his sire of moral lore,
That Master, whom his love could ne'er forget,
He too a proud Philosopher no more,
He too his past reviewing with regret,
But preaching One, who can on man bestow
Truth to be wise and strength to keep him so.
That Master, whom his love could ne'er forget,
He too a proud Philosopher no more,
He too his past reviewing with regret,
But preaching One, who can on man bestow
Truth to be wise and strength to keep him so.
The secret of that strength the Christian sage
To his regained disciple there unsealed,
Giving his stagnant soul a war to wage
With weapons that at once were sword and shield;
And thenceforth ever down Tradition glide
Augustin and Alipius side by side
To his regained disciple there unsealed,
Giving his stagnant soul a war to wage
With weapons that at once were sword and shield;
And thenceforth ever down Tradition glide
Augustin and Alipius side by side
And in this strength years afterward arose
That aged priest Telemachus, who cast
His life among those brutalising shows,
And died a willing victim and the last,
Leaving that temple of colossal crime
In silent battle with almighty Time.
That aged priest Telemachus, who cast
250
And died a willing victim and the last,
Leaving that temple of colossal crime
In silent battle with almighty Time.
They went together to Milan, where they were both baptised by St. Ambrose on Easter Eve, A.D. 387. Thence they returned to Africa, and lived in monastic community in their native town of Tagaste. Alipius afterwards removed to Hippo, and visited St. Jerome in Palestine: he was consecrated Bishop of Tagaste, A.D. 393: his festival is kept in the Roman Catholic Church on the 15th of August.
251
THE DEPARTURE OF ST. PATRICK FROM SCOTLAND.
FROM HIS OWN “CONFESSIONS.”
Twice to your son already has the hand of God been shown,
Restoring him from alien bonds to be once more your own,
And now it is the self-same hand, dear kinsmen, that to-day
Shall take me for the third time from all I love away.
Restoring him from alien bonds to be once more your own,
And now it is the self-same hand, dear kinsmen, that to-day
Shall take me for the third time from all I love away.
While I look into your eyes, while I hold your hands in mine,
What force could tear me from you, if it were not all divine?
Has my love ever faltered? Have I ever doubted yours?
And think you I could yield me now to any earthly lures?
What force could tear me from you, if it were not all divine?
Has my love ever faltered? Have I ever doubted yours?
And think you I could yield me now to any earthly lures?
I go not to some balmier land in pleasant ease to rest,—
I go not to content the pride that swells a mortal breast,—
I go about a work my God has chosen me to do;
Surely the soul which is his child must be his servant too.
I go not to content the pride that swells a mortal breast,—
252
Surely the soul which is his child must be his servant too.
I seek not the great City where our sacred father dwells,—
I seek not the blest Eremites within their sandy cells,—
I seek not the Redeemer's grave in distant Palestine,—
Another, shorter pilgrimage, a lonelier path is mine.
I seek not the blest Eremites within their sandy cells,—
I seek not the Redeemer's grave in distant Palestine,—
Another, shorter pilgrimage, a lonelier path is mine.
When sunset clears and opens out the breadth of western sky,
To those who in yon mountain isles protect their flocks on high
Loom the dark outlines of a land, whose nature and whose name
Some have by harsh experience learned, and all by evil fame.
To those who in yon mountain isles protect their flocks on high
Loom the dark outlines of a land, whose nature and whose name
Some have by harsh experience learned, and all by evil fame.
Oh, they are wild and wanton men, such as the best will be,
Who know no other gifts of God but to be bold and free,
Who never saw how states are bound in golden bonds of law,
Who never knew how strongest hearts are bent by holy awe.
Who know no other gifts of God but to be bold and free,
Who never saw how states are bound in golden bonds of law,
Who never knew how strongest hearts are bent by holy awe.
253
When first into their pirate hands I fell, a very boy,
Skirting the shore from rock to rock in unsuspecting joy,
I had been taught to pray, and thus those slavish days were few,
A wondrous hazard brought me back to liberty and you.
Skirting the shore from rock to rock in unsuspecting joy,
I had been taught to pray, and thus those slavish days were few,
A wondrous hazard brought me back to liberty and you.
But when again they met me on the open ocean field,
And might of numbers pressed me round and forced my arm to yield,
I had become a man like them, a selfish man of pride,
I could have cursed the will of God for shame I had not died.
And might of numbers pressed me round and forced my arm to yield,
I had become a man like them, a selfish man of pride,
I could have cursed the will of God for shame I had not died.
And still this torment haunted me three weary years, until
That summer night,—among the sheep,—upon the seaward hill,
When God of his miraculous grace, of his own saving thought,
Came down upon my lonely heart and rested unbesought!
That summer night,—among the sheep,—upon the seaward hill,
When God of his miraculous grace, of his own saving thought,
Came down upon my lonely heart and rested unbesought!
That night of light! I cared not that the day-star glimmered soon,
For in my new-begotten soul it was already noon;
I knew before what Christ had done, but never felt till then
A shadow of the love for him that he had felt for men!
For in my new-begotten soul it was already noon;
254
A shadow of the love for him that he had felt for men!
Strong faith was in me,—on the shore there lay a stranded boat,
I hasted down, I thrust it out, I felt it rock afloat;
With nervous arm and sturdy oar I sped my watery way,
The wind and tide were trusty guides,—one God had I and they.
I hasted down, I thrust it out, I felt it rock afloat;
With nervous arm and sturdy oar I sped my watery way,
The wind and tide were trusty guides,—one God had I and they.
As one from out the dead I stood among you free and whole,
My body Christ could well redeem, when he had saved my soul;
And perfect peace embraced the life that had been only pain,
For Love was shed upon my head from everthing, like rain.
My body Christ could well redeem, when he had saved my soul;
And perfect peace embraced the life that had been only pain,
For Love was shed upon my head from everthing, like rain.
Then on so sweetly flowed the time, I almost thought to sail
Even to the shores of Paradise in that unwavering gale,
When something rose and nightly stood between me and my rest,
Most like some one, beside myself, reflecting in my breast.
Even to the shores of Paradise in that unwavering gale,
When something rose and nightly stood between me and my rest,
Most like some one, beside myself, reflecting in my breast.
255
I cannot put it into words, I only know it came,
A sense of self-abasing weight, intolerable shame,
“That I should be so vile that not one tittle could be paid
Of that enormous debt which Christ upon my sould had laid!”
A sense of self-abasing weight, intolerable shame,
“That I should be so vile that not one tittle could be paid
Of that enormous debt which Christ upon my sould had laid!”
This yielded to another mood, strange objects gathered near,
Phantoms that entered not by eye, and voices not by ear,
The land of my injurious thrall a gracious aspect wore,
I yearned the most toward the forms I hated most before.
Phantoms that entered not by eye, and voices not by ear,
The land of my injurious thrall a gracious aspect wore,
I yearned the most toward the forms I hated most before.
I seemed again upon that hill, as on that blissful night,
Encompassed with celestial air and deep retiring light,
But sight and thought were fettered down, where glimmering lay below
A plain of gasping, struggling, men in every shape of woe.
Encompassed with celestial air and deep retiring light,
But sight and thought were fettered down, where glimmering lay below
A plain of gasping, struggling, men in every shape of woe.
Faint solemn whispers gathered round, “Christ suffered to redeem,
Not you alone, but such as these, from this their savage dream,—
Lo, here are souls enough for you to bring to him, and say,
These are the earnest of the debt I am too poor to pay.”
Not you alone, but such as these, from this their savage dream,—
256
These are the earnest of the debt I am too poor to pay.”
A cloud of children freshly born, innumerable bands,
Passed by me with imploring eyes and little lifted hands,
And all the Nature, I believed so blank and waste and dumb,
Became instinct with life and love, and echoed clearly “Come!”
Passed by me with imploring eyes and little lifted hands,
And all the Nature, I believed so blank and waste and dumb,
Became instinct with life and love, and echoed clearly “Come!”
“Amen!” said I; with eager steps a rude descent I tried,
And all the glory followed me like an on-coming tide,
With trails of light about my feet I crossed the darkling wild,
And, as I touched each sufferer's hand, he rose and gently smiled.
And all the glory followed me like an on-coming tide,
With trails of light about my feet I crossed the darkling wild,
And, as I touched each sufferer's hand, he rose and gently smiled.
Thus night on night the vision came, and left me not alone,
Until I swore that in that land should Christ be preached and known,
And then at once strange coolness passed on my long fever'd brow,
As from the flutter of light wings: I feel, I feel it now!
Until I swore that in that land should Christ be preached and known,
And then at once strange coolness passed on my long fever'd brow,
As from the flutter of light wings: I feel, I feel it now!
257
And from that moment unto this, this last and proving one,
I have been calm and light at heart as if the deed were done;
I never thought how hard it was our earthly loves to lay
Upon the altar of the Lord, and watch them melt away!
I have been calm and light at heart as if the deed were done;
I never thought how hard it was our earthly loves to lay
Upon the altar of the Lord, and watch them melt away!
Speak, friends! speak what you will,—but change those asking looks forlorn,
—Sustain me with reproachful words,—uphold me with your scorn:
—I know God's heart is in me, but my human bosom fears
Those drops that pierce it as they fall, those full and silent tears.
—Sustain me with reproachful words,—uphold me with your scorn:
—I know God's heart is in me, but my human bosom fears
Those drops that pierce it as they fall, those full and silent tears.
These comrades of my earliest youth have pledged their pious care
To bear me to the fronting coast, and gently leave me there:
It may be I shall fall at once, with little toil or need,—
Heaven often takes the simple will for the most perfect deed:
To bear me to the fronting coast, and gently leave me there:
It may be I shall fall at once, with little toil or need,—
Heaven often takes the simple will for the most perfect deed:
Or, it may be that from that hour beneath my hand may spring
A line of glories unachieved by hero, sage, or king;—
That Christ may glorify himself in this ignoble name.
And shadow forth my endless life in my enduring fame.
A line of glories unachieved by hero, sage, or king;—
258
And shadow forth my endless life in my enduring fame.
—All as He wills! Now bless me, mother,—your cheek is almost dry:—
Farewell, kind brothers!—only pray ye may be blest as I:
Smile on me, sisters!—when death comes near each of you, still smile,
And we shall meet again somewhere, within a little while!
Farewell, kind brothers!—only pray ye may be blest as I:
Smile on me, sisters!—when death comes near each of you, still smile,
And we shall meet again somewhere, within a little while!
259
BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN.
A BRETON BALLAD.
I.
'Twas on the field of Navarrète,
When Trestamare had sought
From English arms a safe retreat,
Du Guesclin stood and fought:
And to the brave Black Prince alone
He yielded up his sword;—
So we must sing in mournful tone,
Until it be restored;—
When Trestamare had sought
From English arms a safe retreat,
Du Guesclin stood and fought:
And to the brave Black Prince alone
He yielded up his sword;—
So we must sing in mournful tone,
Until it be restored;—
CHORUS.
Spin, spin, maidens of Brittany,And let not your Litany
Come to an end,
Before you have prayed
The Virgin to aid
Bertrand du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend.
II.
The Black Prince is a gentle knight;
And bade Du Guesclin name
What ransom would be fit and right
For his renown and fame;
“A question hard,”—says he, “yet since
Hard Fortune on me frowns,
I could not tell you less, good Prince,
Than twenty thousand crowns.”
And bade Du Guesclin name
260
For his renown and fame;
“A question hard,”—says he, “yet since
Hard Fortune on me frowns,
I could not tell you less, good Prince,
Than twenty thousand crowns.”
CHORUS.
Spin, spin, &c.III.
“Where find you all that gold, Sir Knight?
I would not have you end
Your days in sloth and undelight
Away from home and friend:”
“O Prince of generous heart and just!
Let all your fears be stayed;
For my twenty thousand crowns I trust
To every Breton maid.”
I would not have you end
Your days in sloth and undelight
Away from home and friend:”
“O Prince of generous heart and just!
Let all your fears be stayed;
For my twenty thousand crowns I trust
To every Breton maid.”
CHORUS.
Spin, spin, &c.IV.
And he is not deceived, for we
Will never let him pine
In stranger towers beyond the sea,
Like a jewel in the mine!
No work but this shall be begun,—
We will not rest or dream,
Till twenty thousand crowns are spun
Du Guesclin to redeem.
Will never let him pine
In stranger towers beyond the sea,
Like a jewel in the mine!
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We will not rest or dream,
Till twenty thousand crowns are spun
Du Guesclin to redeem.
CHORUS.
Spin, spin, &c.V.
The Bride shall grudge the marriage morn,
And feel her joy a crime;
The mother shall wean her eldest-born
A month before its time;
No festal day shall idle by,
No hour uncounted stand,
The grandame in her bed shall die
With the spindle in her hand:
And feel her joy a crime;
The mother shall wean her eldest-born
A month before its time;
No festal day shall idle by,
No hour uncounted stand,
The grandame in her bed shall die
With the spindle in her hand:
CHORUS.
Spin, spin, women of Brittany,Nor let your Litany
Come to an end,
Before you have prayed
The Virgin to aid
Bertrand du Guesclin, our Hero and Friend.
262
BRETON FAITH.
A summer nightfall on a summer sea!
From sandy ridges wildering o'er the deep,
The wind's familiar under-song recalls
The fishermen to duty, though that eve
To unversed eyes their embarkation seem'd
Rather a work of festival than toil.
Women were there in gay precise attire,
Girls at their skirts, and boys before at play,
And many an infant sweet asleep on arm.
Emulous which the first shall set his boat
Free-floating from the clutches of deep sand,
Men lean and strive, till one and two and all,
Poised in descent, receive the leaping crews;
And following close where leads the ripply way
One craft of heavier freight and larger sail,
Serene and silent as the horizon moon,
That fair flotilla seeks the open main.
From sandy ridges wildering o'er the deep,
The wind's familiar under-song recalls
The fishermen to duty, though that eve
To unversed eyes their embarkation seem'd
Rather a work of festival than toil.
Women were there in gay precise attire,
Girls at their skirts, and boys before at play,
And many an infant sweet asleep on arm.
Emulous which the first shall set his boat
Free-floating from the clutches of deep sand,
Men lean and strive, till one and two and all,
Poised in descent, receive the leaping crews;
And following close where leads the ripply way
One craft of heavier freight and larger sail,
Serene and silent as the horizon moon,
That fair flotilla seeks the open main.
Some little room of waters sever'd now
Those seeming sons of peaceful industry
From their diseased and desperate fatherland,
That France, where reign'd and raged for many a year
Madness, (the fearful reservoir of strength
Which God will open, at his own high will,
In men and nations,) so that very babes
Would tear the mother-breast of ancient Faith
To suck the bloody milk of Liberty.
The Christian name was outcast there and then;
For Power and Passion were the people's gods,
And every one that worshipped not must die.
Those seeming sons of peaceful industry
From their diseased and desperate fatherland,
263
Madness, (the fearful reservoir of strength
Which God will open, at his own high will,
In men and nations,) so that very babes
Would tear the mother-breast of ancient Faith
To suck the bloody milk of Liberty.
The Christian name was outcast there and then;
For Power and Passion were the people's gods,
And every one that worshipped not must die.
The shore extended one thin glittering line,
When, at the watched-for tinkling of a bell,
Fast fall the sails, and round their captain-boat,
Which rested steady as the waters would,
Each other bent its own obedient prow,
Making imperfect rays about a sun:
Nor paused they long before great change of form
Came o'er that centre. From the uncouth deck
Rose a tall altar, 'broider'd curiously,
With clear-outcarven crucifix i' the midst
Of tapers, lambent in the gentle gale:
Before it stood the reverend-robed Priest,
Late a rude fisherman,—an awful head,
Veteran in griefs and dangers more than years,
Perchance not finely moulded, but as seen
There upright to the illuminating moon,
With silver halo rather than white hair,
Beauteous exceedingly!
So seem'd to feel
The tender eyes then fixed on him, while slow
And quiet, as when he perform'd the rites
Of his old village church on Sabbath morn,
He set all things in order and began
That Litany, which, gathering voice on voice,
Made vocal with the names of God and Christ,
And the communion of the blest in heaven,
Space that had lain long silent of all sound
Save the chance greetings of some parting ships,
And elemental utterances confused.
When, at the watched-for tinkling of a bell,
Fast fall the sails, and round their captain-boat,
Which rested steady as the waters would,
Each other bent its own obedient prow,
Making imperfect rays about a sun:
Nor paused they long before great change of form
Came o'er that centre. From the uncouth deck
Rose a tall altar, 'broider'd curiously,
With clear-outcarven crucifix i' the midst
Of tapers, lambent in the gentle gale:
Before it stood the reverend-robed Priest,
Late a rude fisherman,—an awful head,
Veteran in griefs and dangers more than years,
Perchance not finely moulded, but as seen
There upright to the illuminating moon,
With silver halo rather than white hair,
Beauteous exceedingly!
264
The tender eyes then fixed on him, while slow
And quiet, as when he perform'd the rites
Of his old village church on Sabbath morn,
He set all things in order and began
That Litany, which, gathering voice on voice,
Made vocal with the names of God and Christ,
And the communion of the blest in heaven,
Space that had lain long silent of all sound
Save the chance greetings of some parting ships,
And elemental utterances confused.
Oh! never in high Roman basilic,
Prime dome of Art, or elder Lateran,
Mother of churches! never at the shrine
That sprang the freshest from pure martyr-blood,
Or held within its clasp a nation's heart
By San Iago or Saint Denys blest,—
Never in that least earthly place of earth,
The Tomb where Death himself lay down and died,
The Temple of Man's new Jerusalem,—
Descended effluence more indeed divine,
More total energy of Faith and Hope,
And Charity for wrongs unspeakable,
Than on that humble scantling of the flock,
That midnight congregation of the Sea!
Prime dome of Art, or elder Lateran,
Mother of churches! never at the shrine
That sprang the freshest from pure martyr-blood,
Or held within its clasp a nation's heart
By San Iago or Saint Denys blest,—
Never in that least earthly place of earth,
The Tomb where Death himself lay down and died,
The Temple of Man's new Jerusalem,—
Descended effluence more indeed divine,
More total energy of Faith and Hope,
And Charity for wrongs unspeakable,
Than on that humble scantling of the flock,
That midnight congregation of the Sea!
Rise not, good Sun! hold back unwelcome Light,
That shall but veil the nations in new crime!
Or hide thy coming; yet some little while
Prolong the stupor of exhausted sin,
Nor with thy tainted rays disturb this peace,
These hard-won fragmentary hours of peace,
That soon must sink before the warring world!
265
Or hide thy coming; yet some little while
Prolong the stupor of exhausted sin,
Nor with thy tainted rays disturb this peace,
These hard-won fragmentary hours of peace,
That soon must sink before the warring world!
He hears them not; beneath his splendour fades
That darkness luminous of Love and Joy;
Quickly its aspect of base daily life
The little fleet recovering plied in haste
Its usual labour, lest suspicious foes
Might catch some secret in those empty nets;
But every one there toiling in his heart
Was liken'd to those other Fishermen,
Who on their inland waters saw the form
Of Jesus toward them walking, firm and free.
That darkness luminous of Love and Joy;
Quickly its aspect of base daily life
The little fleet recovering plied in haste
Its usual labour, lest suspicious foes
Might catch some secret in those empty nets;
But every one there toiling in his heart
Was liken'd to those other Fishermen,
Who on their inland waters saw the form
Of Jesus toward them walking, firm and free.
One moment yet, ere the religious Muse
Fold up these earnest memories in her breast,
Nor leave unutter'd that one Breton name
Which is itself a History—Quiberon!
Was it not heinous? was it not a shame
Which goes beyond its actors, that those men,
Simply adventuring to redeem their own—
Their ravished homes, and shrines, and fathers' graves,
Meeting that rampant and adulterous power
On its own level of brute force, that they,
Crushed by sheer numbers, should be made exempt
From each humane and generous privilege,
With which the civil use of later times
Has smooth'd the bristling fierceness of old war,
And perish armless,—one by one laid low
By the cold sanction'd executioner!
Fold up these earnest memories in her breast,
Nor leave unutter'd that one Breton name
Which is itself a History—Quiberon!
Was it not heinous? was it not a shame
Which goes beyond its actors, that those men,
Simply adventuring to redeem their own—
Their ravished homes, and shrines, and fathers' graves,
Meeting that rampant and adulterous power
266
Crushed by sheer numbers, should be made exempt
From each humane and generous privilege,
With which the civil use of later times
Has smooth'd the bristling fierceness of old war,
And perish armless,—one by one laid low
By the cold sanction'd executioner!
Nor this alone; for fervid love may say,
That death to them, beneath the foulest hood,
Would wear an aureole crown; and martyr-palms
Have grown as freely from dry felon dust,
As e'er from field enriched with fame and song,
But when they asked the only boon brave men
Could from inclement conquerors humbly pray—
To die as men, and not fall blankly down
Into steep death like butcher'd animals,
But to receive from consecrated hands
Those seals and sureties which the Christian soul
Demands as covenants of eternal bliss,—
They were encounter'd by contemptuous hate,
And mockery, bitter as the crown of thorns.
That death to them, beneath the foulest hood,
Would wear an aureole crown; and martyr-palms
Have grown as freely from dry felon dust,
As e'er from field enriched with fame and song,
But when they asked the only boon brave men
Could from inclement conquerors humbly pray—
To die as men, and not fall blankly down
Into steep death like butcher'd animals,
But to receive from consecrated hands
Those seals and sureties which the Christian soul
Demands as covenants of eternal bliss,—
They were encounter'd by contemptuous hate,
And mockery, bitter as the crown of thorns.
Thus passed that night, their farewell night to earth,
Grave, even sad,—that should have been so full
Of faith nigh realised, of young and old
Met hand in hand, indifferent of all time,
On the bright shores of immortality!
Till 'mid the throng about their prison-door,
In the grey dawn, a rustic voice conveyed
Some broken message to a captive's ear,
Low, and by cruel gaolers unperceived;
Which whisper, flitting fast from man to man
Was like a current of electric joy,
Awakening smiles, and radiant upward looks,
And interchange of symbols spiritual,
Leaving unearthly peace.
Grave, even sad,—that should have been so full
Of faith nigh realised, of young and old
Met hand in hand, indifferent of all time,
On the bright shores of immortality!
267
In the grey dawn, a rustic voice conveyed
Some broken message to a captive's ear,
Low, and by cruel gaolers unperceived;
Which whisper, flitting fast from man to man
Was like a current of electric joy,
Awakening smiles, and radiant upward looks,
And interchange of symbols spiritual,
Leaving unearthly peace.
So when soon came
The hour of doom, and through the palsied crowd
Passed the long file without a word or sound,
The image, gait, and bearing of each man,
In those his bonds, in that his sorry dress,
Defiled with dust and blood, perchance his own,
A squalid shape of famine and unrest,
Were that of some full-sail'd, magnificent ship,
That takes the whole expanse of sea and air
For its own service, dignifying both
As accessories of its single pride.
The hour of doom, and through the palsied crowd
Passed the long file without a word or sound,
The image, gait, and bearing of each man,
In those his bonds, in that his sorry dress,
Defiled with dust and blood, perchance his own,
A squalid shape of famine and unrest,
Were that of some full-sail'd, magnificent ship,
That takes the whole expanse of sea and air
For its own service, dignifying both
As accessories of its single pride.
To read the sense and secret of this change,
Look where beside the winding path that leads
These noble warriors to ignoble death,
Rises a knoll of white, grass-tufted, sand,
Upon whose top, against the brightening sky,
Stands a mean peasant, tending with one hand
A heifer browsing on that scanty food.
To the slow-moving line below he turns
An indistinct, almost incurious, gaze,
While with a long right arm upraised in air
He makes strange gestures, source of ribald mirth
To some, but unregarded by the most.
—Yet could a mortal vision penetrate
Each motion of that scene, it might perceive
How every prisoner, filing by that spot,
Bows his bold head, and walks with lighter steps
Onward to rest but once and move no more:
For in that peasant stands the yearned-for Priest,
Perilling life by this last act of love,
And in those gestures are the absolving signs,
Which send the heroes to their morning graves
Happy as parents' kisses duly speed
Day-weary children to their careless beds.
Look where beside the winding path that leads
These noble warriors to ignoble death,
Rises a knoll of white, grass-tufted, sand,
Upon whose top, against the brightening sky,
Stands a mean peasant, tending with one hand
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To the slow-moving line below he turns
An indistinct, almost incurious, gaze,
While with a long right arm upraised in air
He makes strange gestures, source of ribald mirth
To some, but unregarded by the most.
—Yet could a mortal vision penetrate
Each motion of that scene, it might perceive
How every prisoner, filing by that spot,
Bows his bold head, and walks with lighter steps
Onward to rest but once and move no more:
For in that peasant stands the yearned-for Priest,
Perilling life by this last act of love,
And in those gestures are the absolving signs,
Which send the heroes to their morning graves
Happy as parents' kisses duly speed
Day-weary children to their careless beds.
Such are memorials, and a hundred more,
Which, by the pious traveller haply caught,
Falling from lowly lips and lofty hearts,
Regenerate outward nature, and adorn
With blossoms brighter than the Orient rose,
And verdure fresher than an English spring,
The dull sand-hillocks of the Morbihan.
Which, by the pious traveller haply caught,
Falling from lowly lips and lofty hearts,
Regenerate outward nature, and adorn
With blossoms brighter than the Orient rose,
And verdure fresher than an English spring,
The dull sand-hillocks of the Morbihan.
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THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.
When Ireland's cities, one by one, beneath the Orange brand,
Fell overawed or overpowered and lost their noble land,
Still Limerick, with her own strong arm and Sarsfield's leading will,
Wasted the conqueror's gathered force and foiled his ready skill.
Fell overawed or overpowered and lost their noble land,
Still Limerick, with her own strong arm and Sarsfield's leading will,
Wasted the conqueror's gathered force and foiled his ready skill.
Yet vain the strife when all was gone save honour and despair,
When in three realms King James's flag was floating only there:
Thus came the time when England's fleet three thousand warriors bore,
Willing, yet sorrowing, banished hearts, to yon more friendly shore.
When in three realms King James's flag was floating only there:
Thus came the time when England's fleet three thousand warriors bore,
Willing, yet sorrowing, banished hearts, to yon more friendly shore.
There Sarsfield, now Earl Lucan named, devoted faith and sword
To Him who for his exiled land had spread the royal board;
Without a country or a king he knew no better law,
Than serve the Grand Monarque, the foe of England and Nassau!
To Him who for his exiled land had spread the royal board;
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Than serve the Grand Monarque, the foe of England and Nassau!
Thus on the Neckar's bristling banks and by the blood-bought Rhine,
Earl Lucan and his famed brigade would lead the gallant line;
Though often came the grievous thought to close a well-won day,
That others fought for fatherland,—for gold and glory they!
Earl Lucan and his famed brigade would lead the gallant line;
Though often came the grievous thought to close a well-won day,
That others fought for fatherland,—for gold and glory they!
Until before some sturdy fort that checked the Gallic pride,
His comrades from the raining bolts one moment bent aside;
And he, while rallying them to show “how glad they were to meet
Those little friends they knew so well,” —fell stricken at their feet!
His comrades from the raining bolts one moment bent aside;
And he, while rallying them to show “how glad they were to meet
Those little friends they knew so well,” —fell stricken at their feet!
The blood outspouting from his breast, they gently raised him up,
With hollow hand he caught the stream and filled the living cup,
Then slowly poured it on the ground, and, heavenward gazing, cried,
“Oh God, that this were only shed for Ireland!”—and so died.
With hollow hand he caught the stream and filled the living cup,
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“Oh God, that this were only shed for Ireland!”—and so died.
Alas! we cannot even die for what we love the best;
On things we feel are little worth we lavish toil and rest,
While all, on which the hope of youth and faith of manhood beamed,
Is doomed to perish by our love and sorrow unredeemed.
On things we feel are little worth we lavish toil and rest,
While all, on which the hope of youth and faith of manhood beamed,
Is doomed to perish by our love and sorrow unredeemed.
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PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT.
From Hessen-Darmstadt every step to Moskwa's blazing banks
Was Prince Emilius found in fight before the foremost ranks;
And when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast,
On Beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last.
Was Prince Emilius found in fight before the foremost ranks;
And when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast,
On Beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last.
His valour shed victorious grace on all that dread retreat,
That path across the wildering snow, athwart the blinding sleet;
And every follower of his sword could all endure and dare,
Becoming warriors strong in hope or stronger in despair.
That path across the wildering snow, athwart the blinding sleet;
And every follower of his sword could all endure and dare,
Becoming warriors strong in hope or stronger in despair.
Now, day and dark, along the storm the demon Cossacks sweep,
The hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not sleep;
No rest, but death, for horse or man, whichever first shall tire;—
They see the flames destroy but ne'er may feel the saving fire.
The hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not sleep;
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They see the flames destroy but ne'er may feel the saving fire.
Thus never closed the bitter night nor rose the savage morn,
But from that gallant company some noble part was shorn,
And, sick at heart, the Prince resolved to keep his purposed way,
With stedfast forward looks, nor count the losses of the day.
But from that gallant company some noble part was shorn,
And, sick at heart, the Prince resolved to keep his purposed way,
With stedfast forward looks, nor count the losses of the day.
At length beside a black-burnt hut, an island of the snow,—
Each head in frigid stupor bent toward the saddlebow,—
They paused, and of that sturdy troop, that thousand banded men,
At one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten!
Each head in frigid stupor bent toward the saddlebow,—
They paused, and of that sturdy troop, that thousand banded men,
At one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten!
Of all that high triumphant life that left his German home,
Of all those hearts that beat beloved or looked for love to come,
This piteous remnant hardly saved his spirit overcame,
While memory raised each friendly face and called each ancient name.
Of all those hearts that beat beloved or looked for love to come,
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While memory raised each friendly face and called each ancient name.
Then were his words serene and firm—“Dear brothers it is best
That here, with perfect trust in Heaven, we give our bodies rest;
If we have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain,
Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in vain.”
That here, with perfect trust in Heaven, we give our bodies rest;
If we have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain,
Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in vain.”
Some murmured, others looked, assent, they had no heart to speak;
Dumb hands were pressed, the pallid lip approached the callous cheek;
They laid them side by side; and death to him at least did seem
To come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream.
Dumb hands were pressed, the pallid lip approached the callous cheek;
They laid them side by side; and death to him at least did seem
To come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream.
Once more he floated on the breast of old familiar Rhine,
His mother's and one other smile above him seemed to shine;
A blessèd dew of healing fell on every aching limb,
Till the stream broadened and the air thickened, and all was dim.
His mother's and one other smile above him seemed to shine;
A blessèd dew of healing fell on every aching limb,
Till the stream broadened and the air thickened, and all was dim.
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Nature has bent to other laws, if that tremendous night
Passed o'er his frame exposed and worn and left no deadly blight;
Then wonder not that when refreshed and warm he woke at last,
There lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past.
Passed o'er his frame exposed and worn and left no deadly blight;
Then wonder not that when refreshed and warm he woke at last,
There lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past.
Soon raising his astonished head he found himself alone,
Sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own;
The light increased, the solemn truth revealing more and more,—
His soldiers' corses self-despoiled closed up the narrow door.
Sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own;
The light increased, the solemn truth revealing more and more,—
His soldiers' corses self-despoiled closed up the narrow door.
That very hour, fulfilling good, miraculous succour came,
And Prince Emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame.
O brave fidelity in death! O strength of loving will!
These are the holy balsam-drops that woful wars distil.
And Prince Emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame.
O brave fidelity in death! O strength of loving will!
These are the holy balsam-drops that woful wars distil.
276
THE TRAGEDY OF THE LAC DE GAUBE IN THE PYRENEES.
The marriage blessing on their brows,
Across the Channel seas
And lands of gay Garonne, they reach
The pleasant Pyrenees:—
He into boyhood born again,
A son of joy and life,—
And she a happy English girl,
A happier English wife.
Across the Channel seas
And lands of gay Garonne, they reach
The pleasant Pyrenees:—
He into boyhood born again,
A son of joy and life,—
And she a happy English girl,
A happier English wife.
They loiter not where Argelés,
The chesnut-crested plain,
Unfolds its robe of green and gold
In pasture, grape, and grain;
But on and up, where Nature's heart
Beats strong amid the hills,
They pause, contented with the wealth
That either bosom fills.
The chesnut-crested plain,
Unfolds its robe of green and gold
In pasture, grape, and grain;
But on and up, where Nature's heart
Beats strong amid the hills,
They pause, contented with the wealth
That either bosom fills.
There is a Lake, a small round Lake,
High on the mountain's breast,
The child of rains and melted snows,
The torrent's summer rest,—
A mirror where the veteran rocks
May glass their peaks and scars,
A nether sky where breezes break
The sunlight into stars.
High on the mountain's breast,
The child of rains and melted snows,
The torrent's summer rest,—
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May glass their peaks and scars,
A nether sky where breezes break
The sunlight into stars.
Oh! gaily shone that little lake,
And Nature, sternly fair,
Put on a sparkling countenance
To greet that merry pair;
How light from stone to stone they leapt,
How trippingly they ran;
To scale the rock and gain the marge
Was all a moment's span!
And Nature, sternly fair,
Put on a sparkling countenance
To greet that merry pair;
How light from stone to stone they leapt,
How trippingly they ran;
To scale the rock and gain the marge
Was all a moment's span!
“See, dearest, this primæval boat,
So quaint, and rough, I deem
Just such an one did Charon ply
Across the Stygian stream:
Step in,—I will your Charon be,
And you a Spirit bold,—
I was a famous rower once
In college days of old.
So quaint, and rough, I deem
Just such an one did Charon ply
Across the Stygian stream:
Step in,—I will your Charon be,
And you a Spirit bold,—
I was a famous rower once
In college days of old.
“The clumsy oar! the laggard boat!
How slow we move along,—
The work is harder than I thought,—
A song, my love, a song!”
Then, standing up, she carolled out
So blithe and sweet a strain
That the long-silent cliffs were glad
To peal it back again.
How slow we move along,—
The work is harder than I thought,—
A song, my love, a song!”
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So blithe and sweet a strain
That the long-silent cliffs were glad
To peal it back again.
He, tranced in joy, the oar laid down,
And rose in careless pride,
And swayed in cadence to the song
The boat from side to side:
Then clasping hand in loving hand,
They danced a childish round,
And felt as safe in that mid-lake
As on the firmest ground.
And rose in careless pride,
And swayed in cadence to the song
The boat from side to side:
Then clasping hand in loving hand,
They danced a childish round,
And felt as safe in that mid-lake
As on the firmest ground.
One poise too much!—He headlong fell,—
She, stretching out to save
A feeble arm was borne adown
Within that glittering grave:—
One moment, and the gush went forth
Of music-mingled laughter,—
The struggling splash and deathly shriek
Were there the instant after.
She, stretching out to save
A feeble arm was borne adown
Within that glittering grave:—
One moment, and the gush went forth
Of music-mingled laughter,—
The struggling splash and deathly shriek
Were there the instant after.
Her weaker head above the flood,
That quick engulfed the strong,
Like some enchanted water-flower,
Waved pitifully long:—
Long seemed the low and lonely wail
Athwart the tide to fade;
Alas! that there were some to hear,
But never one to aid.
That quick engulfed the strong,
Like some enchanted water-flower,
Waved pitifully long:—
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Athwart the tide to fade;
Alas! that there were some to hear,
But never one to aid.
Yet not alas! if Heaven revered
The freshly-spoken vow,
And willed that what was then made one
Should not be sundered now,—
If She was spared, by that sharp stroke,
Love's most unnatural doom,
The future lorn and unconsoled,
The unavoided tomb!
The freshly-spoken vow,
And willed that what was then made one
Should not be sundered now,—
If She was spared, by that sharp stroke,
Love's most unnatural doom,
The future lorn and unconsoled,
The unavoided tomb!
But weep, ye very Rocks! for those,
Who, on their native shore,
Await the letters of dear news,
That shall arrive no more;
One letter from a stranger hand,—
Few words are all the need;
And then the funeral of the heart,
The course of useless speed!
Who, on their native shore,
Await the letters of dear news,
That shall arrive no more;
One letter from a stranger hand,—
Few words are all the need;
And then the funeral of the heart,
The course of useless speed!
The presence of the cold dead wood,
The single mark and sign
Of her so loved and beautiful,
That handiwork divine!
The weary search for his fine form
That in the depth would linger,
And late success,—Oh! leave the ring
Upon that faithful finger.
The single mark and sign
Of her so loved and beautiful,
That handiwork divine!
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That in the depth would linger,
And late success,—Oh! leave the ring
Upon that faithful finger.
And if in life there lie the seed
Of real enduring being;
If love and truth be not decreed
To perish unforeseeing;
This Youth, the seal of death has stamped,
Now time can wither never,
This Hope, that sorrow might have damped,
Is fresh and strong for ever.
Of real enduring being;
If love and truth be not decreed
To perish unforeseeing;
This Youth, the seal of death has stamped,
Now time can wither never,
This Hope, that sorrow might have damped,
Is fresh and strong for ever.
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A SPANISH ANECDOTE.
It was a holy usage to record
Upon each refectory's side or end
The last mysterious Supper of our Lord,
That meanest appetites might upward tend.
Upon each refectory's side or end
The last mysterious Supper of our Lord,
That meanest appetites might upward tend.
Within the convent Palace of old Spain
Rich with the gifts and monuments of Kings,
Hung such a picture, said by some to reign
The sovereign glory of those wondrous things.
Rich with the gifts and monuments of Kings,
Hung such a picture, said by some to reign
The sovereign glory of those wondrous things.
A Painter of far fame,
in deep delight,
Dwelt on each beauty he so well discerned,
While, in low tones, a grey Geronomite
This answer to his ecstasy returned.
Dwelt on each beauty he so well discerned,
While, in low tones, a grey Geronomite
This answer to his ecstasy returned.
“Stranger! I have received my daily meal
In this good company, now threescore years,
And Thou, whoe'er Thou art, canst hardly feel
How Time these lifeless images endears.
In this good company, now threescore years,
And Thou, whoe'er Thou art, canst hardly feel
How Time these lifeless images endears.
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“Lifeless,—ah! no: both Faith and Art have given
That passing hour a life of endless rest,
And every soul who loves the food of Heaven
May to that table come a welcome guest:
That passing hour a life of endless rest,
And every soul who loves the food of Heaven
May to that table come a welcome guest:
“Lifeless,—ah! no: while in mine heart are stored
Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone,
Familiar places vacant round our board,
And still that silent Supper lasting on;
Sad memories of my brethren dead and gone,
Familiar places vacant round our board,
And still that silent Supper lasting on;
“While I review my youth,—what I was then,—
What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all!
It seems as if these were the living men,
And we the coloured shadows on the wall.”
What I am now, and ye, beloved ones all!
It seems as if these were the living men,
And we the coloured shadows on the wall.”
283
LEGENDS.
A CHRISTMAS STORY.
The windows and the garden door
Must now be closed for night,
And you, my little girl, no more
Can watch the snow-flakes white
Fall, like a silver net, before
The face of dying light.
Must now be closed for night,
And you, my little girl, no more
Can watch the snow-flakes white
Fall, like a silver net, before
The face of dying light.
Draw down the curtains every fold,
Let not a gap let in the cold,
Bring your low seat toward the fire,
And you shall have your heart's desire;
A story of that favourite book
In which you often steal a look,
Let not a gap let in the cold,
Bring your low seat toward the fire,
And you shall have your heart's desire;
A story of that favourite book
In which you often steal a look,
Regretful not to understand
Words of a distant time and land;—
That small square book that seems so old
In tawny white and faded gold,
And which I could not leave to-day,
Even with the snow and you to play.—
It was on such a night as this,
Six hundred years ago,
The wind as loud and pitiless,
As loaded with the snow,
A night when you might start to meet
A friend in an accustomed street,
That a lone child went up and down
The pathways of an ancient town.
A little child, just such as you,
With eyes, though clouded, just as blue,
With just such long fine golden hair,
But wet and rough for want of care,
And just such tender tottering feet
Bare to the cold and stony street.
Words of a distant time and land;—
That small square book that seems so old
In tawny white and faded gold,
284
Even with the snow and you to play.—
It was on such a night as this,
Six hundred years ago,
The wind as loud and pitiless,
As loaded with the snow,
A night when you might start to meet
A friend in an accustomed street,
That a lone child went up and down
The pathways of an ancient town.
A little child, just such as you,
With eyes, though clouded, just as blue,
With just such long fine golden hair,
But wet and rough for want of care,
And just such tender tottering feet
Bare to the cold and stony street.
Alone! this fragile human flower,
Alone! at this unsightly hour,
A playful, joyful, peaceful form,
A creature of delight,
Become companion of the storm,
And phantom of the night!
No gentler thing is near,—in vain
Its warm tears meet the frozen rain,
No watchful ears await its cries
On every name that well supplies
The childly nature with a sense
Of love and care and confidence;
It looks before, it looks behind,
And staggers with the weighty wind,
Till, terror overpowering grief,
And feeble as an autumn leaf,
It passes down the tide of air,
It knows not, thinks not, how or where.
Alone! at this unsightly hour,
A playful, joyful, peaceful form,
A creature of delight,
Become companion of the storm,
And phantom of the night!
No gentler thing is near,—in vain
Its warm tears meet the frozen rain,
No watchful ears await its cries
On every name that well supplies
The childly nature with a sense
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It looks before, it looks behind,
And staggers with the weighty wind,
Till, terror overpowering grief,
And feeble as an autumn leaf,
It passes down the tide of air,
It knows not, thinks not, how or where.
Beneath a carven porch, before
An iron-belted oaken door,
The tempest drives the cowering child,
And rages on as hard and wild.
This is not shelter, though the sleet
Strikes heavier in the open street,
For, to that infant ear, a din
Of festive merriment within
Comes, by the contrast, sadder far
Than all the outer windy war,
With something cruel, something curst,
In each repeated laughter-burst;
A thread of constant cheerful light,
Drawn through the crevice on the sight,
Tells it of heat it cannot feel,
And all the fire-side bliss
That home's dear portals can reveal
On such a night as this.
How can those hands so small and frail,
Empassioned as they will, avail
Against that banded wall of wood
Standing in senseless hardihood
Between the warmth and love and mirth,
The comforts of the living earth,
And the lorn creature shivering there,
The plaything of the savage air?
An iron-belted oaken door,
The tempest drives the cowering child,
And rages on as hard and wild.
This is not shelter, though the sleet
Strikes heavier in the open street,
For, to that infant ear, a din
Of festive merriment within
Comes, by the contrast, sadder far
Than all the outer windy war,
With something cruel, something curst,
In each repeated laughter-burst;
A thread of constant cheerful light,
Drawn through the crevice on the sight,
Tells it of heat it cannot feel,
And all the fire-side bliss
That home's dear portals can reveal
On such a night as this.
How can those hands so small and frail,
Empassioned as they will, avail
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Standing in senseless hardihood
Between the warmth and love and mirth,
The comforts of the living earth,
And the lorn creature shivering there,
The plaything of the savage air?
We would not, of our own good will,
Believe in so much strength of ill,
Believe that life and sense are given
To any being under Heaven
Only to weep and suffer thus,
To suffer without sin
What would be for the worst of us
A bitter discipline.
Yet now the tiny hands no more
Are striking that unfeeling door;
Folded and quietly they rest,
As on a cherub's marble breast;
And from the guileless lips of woe
Are passing words confused and low,
Remembered fragments of a prayer,
Learned and repeated otherwhere,
With the blue summer overhead,
On a sweet mother's knee,
Beside the downy cradle-bed,
But always happily.
Believe in so much strength of ill,
Believe that life and sense are given
To any being under Heaven
Only to weep and suffer thus,
To suffer without sin
What would be for the worst of us
A bitter discipline.
Yet now the tiny hands no more
Are striking that unfeeling door;
Folded and quietly they rest,
As on a cherub's marble breast;
And from the guileless lips of woe
Are passing words confused and low,
Remembered fragments of a prayer,
Learned and repeated otherwhere,
With the blue summer overhead,
On a sweet mother's knee,
Beside the downy cradle-bed,
But always happily.
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Though for those holy words the storm
Relaxes not its angry form,
The child no longer stands alone
Upon the inhospitable stone:
There now are two,—one to the other
Like as a brother to twin-brother,
But the new-comer has an air
Of something wonderful and rare,
Something divinely calm and mild,
Something beyond a human child:
His eyes come through the thickening night
With a soft planetary light,
And from his hair there falls below
A radiance on the drifting snow,
And his untarnished childly bloom
Seems but the brighter for the gloom.
Relaxes not its angry form,
The child no longer stands alone
Upon the inhospitable stone:
There now are two,—one to the other
Like as a brother to twin-brother,
But the new-comer has an air
Of something wonderful and rare,
Something divinely calm and mild,
Something beyond a human child:
His eyes come through the thickening night
With a soft planetary light,
And from his hair there falls below
A radiance on the drifting snow,
And his untarnished childly bloom
Seems but the brighter for the gloom.
See what a smile of gentle grace
Expatiates slowly o'er his face!
As, with a mien of soft command,
He takes that numbed and squalid hand,
And with a voice of simple joy
And greeting as from boy to boy,
He speaks, “What do you at this door?
Why called you not on me before?
What like you best? that I should break
This sturdy barrier for your sake,
And let you in that you may share
The warmth and joy and cheerful fare;—
Or will you trust to me alone,
And heeding not the windy moan
Nor the cold rain nor lightning-brand,
Go forward with me, hand in hand?
Within this house, if e'er on earth,
You will find love and peace and mirth;
And there may rest for many a day,
While I am on mine open way;
And should your heart to me incline,
When I am gone,
Take you this little cross of mine
To lean upon,
And setting out what path you will,
Careless of your own strength and skill,
You soon will find me; only say,
“What wish you most to do to-day?”
The child looks out into the night,
With gaze of pain and pale affright,
Then turns an eye of keen desire
On the thin gleam of inward fire,
Then rests a long and silent while,
Upon that brother's glorious smile.
—You've seen the subtle magnet draw
The iron by its hidden law,
So seems that smile to lure along
The child from an enclosing throng
Of fears and fancies undefined,
And to one passion fix its mind,—
Till every struggling doubt to check
And give to love its due,
It casts its arms about his neck,
And cries, “With you, with you,—
For you have sung me many a song,
Like mine own mother's, all night long,
And you have play'd with me in dreams,
Along the walks, beside the streams,
Of Paradise,—the blessèd bowers,
Where what men call the stars are flowers,
And what to them looks deep and blue
Is but a veil which we saw through,
Into the garden without end,
Where you the angel-children tend:
So that they asked me when I woke,
Where I had been, to whom I spoke,
What I was doing there, to seem
So heavenly-happy in my dream?
Expatiates slowly o'er his face!
As, with a mien of soft command,
He takes that numbed and squalid hand,
And with a voice of simple joy
And greeting as from boy to boy,
He speaks, “What do you at this door?
Why called you not on me before?
What like you best? that I should break
This sturdy barrier for your sake,
And let you in that you may share
288
Or will you trust to me alone,
And heeding not the windy moan
Nor the cold rain nor lightning-brand,
Go forward with me, hand in hand?
Within this house, if e'er on earth,
You will find love and peace and mirth;
And there may rest for many a day,
While I am on mine open way;
And should your heart to me incline,
When I am gone,
Take you this little cross of mine
To lean upon,
And setting out what path you will,
Careless of your own strength and skill,
You soon will find me; only say,
“What wish you most to do to-day?”
The child looks out into the night,
With gaze of pain and pale affright,
Then turns an eye of keen desire
On the thin gleam of inward fire,
Then rests a long and silent while,
Upon that brother's glorious smile.
—You've seen the subtle magnet draw
The iron by its hidden law,
So seems that smile to lure along
The child from an enclosing throng
Of fears and fancies undefined,
289
Till every struggling doubt to check
And give to love its due,
It casts its arms about his neck,
And cries, “With you, with you,—
For you have sung me many a song,
Like mine own mother's, all night long,
And you have play'd with me in dreams,
Along the walks, beside the streams,
Of Paradise,—the blessèd bowers,
Where what men call the stars are flowers,
And what to them looks deep and blue
Is but a veil which we saw through,
Into the garden without end,
Where you the angel-children tend:
So that they asked me when I woke,
Where I had been, to whom I spoke,
What I was doing there, to seem
So heavenly-happy in my dream?
Oh! take me, take me, there again,
Out of the cold and wind and rain,
Out of this dark and cruel town,
Whose houses on the orphan frown;
Bear me the thundering clouds above
To the safe kingdom of your love:
Or if you will not, I can go
With you barefooted through the snow;—
I shall not feel the bitter blast,
If you will take me home at last.”
Out of the cold and wind and rain,
Out of this dark and cruel town,
Whose houses on the orphan frown;
Bear me the thundering clouds above
To the safe kingdom of your love:
Or if you will not, I can go
With you barefooted through the snow;—
290
If you will take me home at last.”
Three kisses on its dead-cold cheeks,—
Three on its bloodless brow,—
And a clear answering music speaks,
“Sweet brother! come there now:
It shall be so; there is no dread
Within the aureole of mine head;
This hand in yours, this living hand,
Can all the world of cold withstand,
And, though so small, is strong to lift
Your feet above the thickest drift;
The wind that round you raged and broke
Shall fold about us like a cloak,
And we shall reach that garden soon,
Without the guide of sun or moon.”
So down the mansion's slippery stair,
Into the midnight weather,
Pass, as if sorrows never were,
The weak and strong together.
Three on its bloodless brow,—
And a clear answering music speaks,
“Sweet brother! come there now:
It shall be so; there is no dread
Within the aureole of mine head;
This hand in yours, this living hand,
Can all the world of cold withstand,
And, though so small, is strong to lift
Your feet above the thickest drift;
The wind that round you raged and broke
Shall fold about us like a cloak,
And we shall reach that garden soon,
Without the guide of sun or moon.”
So down the mansion's slippery stair,
Into the midnight weather,
Pass, as if sorrows never were,
The weak and strong together.
—This was the night before the morn,
On which the Hope of Man was born,
And long ere dawn can claim the sky,
The tempest rolls subservient by;
While bells on all sides sing and say,
How Christ the child was born to-day;
Free as the sun's in June, the rays
Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze;
Some butterflies of snow may float
Down slowly, glistening in the mote,
But crystal-leaved and fruited trees
Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze;
Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass,
Transformed from pearly dew,
And silver flowers encrust the glass,
Which gardens never knew.
On which the Hope of Man was born,
And long ere dawn can claim the sky,
The tempest rolls subservient by;
While bells on all sides sing and say,
How Christ the child was born to-day;
291
Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze;
Some butterflies of snow may float
Down slowly, glistening in the mote,
But crystal-leaved and fruited trees
Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze;
Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass,
Transformed from pearly dew,
And silver flowers encrust the glass,
Which gardens never knew.
The inmates of the house, before
Whose iron-fended heedless door,
The children of our nightly tale
Were standing, rise refreshed and hale,
And run, as if a race to win,
To let the Christmas morning in.
They find, upon the threshold stone,
A little Child, just like their own;
Asleep it seems, but when the head
Is raised, it sleeps, as sleep the dead;
The fatal point had touched it, while
The lips had just begun a smile,
The forehead 'mid the matted tresses
A perfect-painless end expresses,
And, unconvulsed, the hands may wear
The posture more of thanks than prayer.
Whose iron-fended heedless door,
The children of our nightly tale
Were standing, rise refreshed and hale,
And run, as if a race to win,
To let the Christmas morning in.
They find, upon the threshold stone,
A little Child, just like their own;
Asleep it seems, but when the head
Is raised, it sleeps, as sleep the dead;
The fatal point had touched it, while
The lips had just begun a smile,
The forehead 'mid the matted tresses
A perfect-painless end expresses,
And, unconvulsed, the hands may wear
The posture more of thanks than prayer.
292
They tend it straight in wondering grief,—
And, when all skill brings no relief,
They bear it onward, in its smile,
Up the Cathedral's central aisle:
There, soon as Priests and People heard
How the thing was, they speak not word,
But take the usual Image, meant
The blessèd babe to represent,
Forth from its cradle, and instead
Lay down that silent mortal head.
Now incense-cloud and anthem-sound
Arise the beauteous body round;
Softly the carol chant is sung,
Softly the mirthful peal is rung,
And, when the solemn duties end,
With tapers earnest troops attend
The gentle corpse, nor cease to sing,
Till, by an almond tree,
They bury it, that the flowers of spring
May o'er it soonest be.
And, when all skill brings no relief,
They bear it onward, in its smile,
Up the Cathedral's central aisle:
There, soon as Priests and People heard
How the thing was, they speak not word,
But take the usual Image, meant
The blessèd babe to represent,
Forth from its cradle, and instead
Lay down that silent mortal head.
Now incense-cloud and anthem-sound
Arise the beauteous body round;
Softly the carol chant is sung,
Softly the mirthful peal is rung,
And, when the solemn duties end,
With tapers earnest troops attend
The gentle corpse, nor cease to sing,
Till, by an almond tree,
They bury it, that the flowers of spring
May o'er it soonest be.
293
THE BROWNIE.
A gentle household Spirit, unchallenged and unpaid,
Attended with his service a lonely servant-maid.
Attended with his service a lonely servant-maid.
She seemed a weary woman, who had found life unkind,
Whose youth had left her early and little left behind.
Whose youth had left her early and little left behind.
Most desolate and dreary her days went on until
Arose this unseen stranger her labours to fulfil.
Arose this unseen stranger her labours to fulfil.
But now she walked at leisure, secure of blame she slept,
The meal was always ready, the room was always swept.
The meal was always ready, the room was always swept.
And by the cheerful fire-light, the winter evenings long,
He gave her words of kindness and snatches of sweet song;—
He gave her words of kindness and snatches of sweet song;—
With useful housewife secret and tales of faeries fair,
From times when gaunt magicians and dwarfs and giants were;—
From times when gaunt magicians and dwarfs and giants were;—
Thus, habit closing round her, by slow degrees she nurst
A sense of trust and pleasure, where she had feared at first.
A sense of trust and pleasure, where she had feared at first.
294
When strange desire came on her, and shook her like a storm,
To see this faithful being distinct in outward form.
To see this faithful being distinct in outward form.
He was so pure a nature, of so benign a will,
It could be nothing fearful, it could be nothing ill.
It could be nothing fearful, it could be nothing ill.
At first with grave denial her prayer he laid aside,
Then warning and entreaty, but all in vain, he tried.
Then warning and entreaty, but all in vain, he tried.
The wish upgrew to passion,—she urged him more and more,—
Until, as one outwearied, but still lamenting sore,
Until, as one outwearied, but still lamenting sore,
He promised in her chamber he would attend her call,
When from the small high window the full-moon light should fall.
When from the small high window the full-moon light should fall.
Most proud and glad that evening she entered to behold
How there her phantom Lover his presence would unfold;
How there her phantom Lover his presence would unfold;
When, lo! in bloody pallor lay, on the moonlit floor,
The Babe she bore and murdered some thirteen years before.
The Babe she bore and murdered some thirteen years before.
295
VENUS AND THE CHRISTIAN KNIGHT.
“Why are thine eyes so red, Sir Knight,
And why thy cheek so pale?
Thou tossest to and fro all night,
Like a ship without a sail.”
And why thy cheek so pale?
Thou tossest to and fro all night,
Like a ship without a sail.”
The Knight rose up, and answered quick:
“Too long in lust I lie,
And now my heart is pleasure-sick;
I must go hence, or die.
“Too long in lust I lie,
And now my heart is pleasure-sick;
I must go hence, or die.
“I must go hence, and strive to win,
By penitential tears,
God's pardon for the shame and sin
Of these luxurious years.
By penitential tears,
God's pardon for the shame and sin
Of these luxurious years.
“No man his life can rightly keep
Apart from toil and pain;
I would give all these joys, to weep
My youth's sweet tears again!”
Apart from toil and pain;
I would give all these joys, to weep
My youth's sweet tears again!”
“I will not let thee go, Sir Knight;
But I will make thee new
Untold devices of delight,
That shall thy soul imbue;
But I will make thee new
Untold devices of delight,
That shall thy soul imbue;
296
“And thou, these sickly thoughts defy,
Undo these vain alarms;
What God can give thee more than I,—
More Heaven than in mine arms?”
Undo these vain alarms;
What God can give thee more than I,—
More Heaven than in mine arms?”
“Venus! I fear thy wanton heart,
I fear thy glittering eyes;
I shrink and tremble, lest thou art
A demon in disguise.”
I fear thy glittering eyes;
I shrink and tremble, lest thou art
A demon in disguise.”
With high disdain the Ladie strove,
Then uttered, sad and low,
“Oh! hard return for so much love!
Ungrateful mortal! go.”
Then uttered, sad and low,
“Oh! hard return for so much love!
Ungrateful mortal! go.”
The Knight, with none to check or meet,
Thus left the marble dome;
And soon his weary, wounded, feet
Were near the gates of Rome.
Thus left the marble dome;
And soon his weary, wounded, feet
Were near the gates of Rome.
There, where imperial Tiber flows,
Pope Urban rode along;
And “Kyrie Eleison,” rose
From all the thickening throng.
Pope Urban rode along;
And “Kyrie Eleison,” rose
From all the thickening throng.
“Thou that hast power to stay God's wrath,
And darkest souls to shrive,
Stop, holy Father! on thy path,
And save a soul alive.
And darkest souls to shrive,
Stop, holy Father! on thy path,
And save a soul alive.
297
“For I, a noble Christian Knight,
Have served, for many a year,
In dalliance of impure delight,
A demon, as I fear.
Have served, for many a year,
In dalliance of impure delight,
A demon, as I fear.
“If Venus sooth a demon be,
As thou hast skill to tell,
God's face how shall I ever see,
How shun the deep of hell?”
As thou hast skill to tell,
God's face how shall I ever see,
How shun the deep of hell?”
—“Too well that fiend, and all her power,
Most hapless man! I know;
If thou hast been her paramour,
No grace can I bestow.
Most hapless man! I know;
If thou hast been her paramour,
No grace can I bestow.
“I could the demon's self assoil,
As well as pardon thee;
Thy body hath been her willing spoil,
Thy soul must be her fee!
As well as pardon thee;
Thy body hath been her willing spoil,
Thy soul must be her fee!
“For sooner shall this peelèd staff
Put out both leaf and bloom,
Than God shall strike thy sentence off
His dreadful book of doom!”
Put out both leaf and bloom,
Than God shall strike thy sentence off
His dreadful book of doom!”
The Knight his feeble knee upraised,
Past weeping through the crowd;
And some in silent pity gazed,
And some with horror loud.
Past weeping through the crowd;
And some in silent pity gazed,
And some with horror loud.
298
“Then shall I never, never, see
Thy countenance divine,
Jesus! that died in vain for me,—
Sweet Mary, mother! thine?”
Thy countenance divine,
Jesus! that died in vain for me,—
Sweet Mary, mother! thine?”
Now forth this child of woe had gone
Full fourteen days, when, lo!
The staff the Pope laid hand upon
Began to bud and blow:
Full fourteen days, when, lo!
The staff the Pope laid hand upon
Began to bud and blow:
Green leaves, and flowers of perfect white,
The very growth of heaven;—
Sure witness to that wretched Knight
Of all his sins forgiven!
The very growth of heaven;—
Sure witness to that wretched Knight
Of all his sins forgiven!
Oh! far and wide, o'er earth and tide,
Swift messengers are sped,
To hail the sinner justified,
The late devoted head.
Swift messengers are sped,
To hail the sinner justified,
The late devoted head.
In vain—in vain! Straight back again
He bent his hopeless way,—
And Venus shall her Knight retain,
Until God's judgment-day.
He bent his hopeless way,—
And Venus shall her Knight retain,
Until God's judgment-day.
Mysterious end of good remorse!
Strong lesson to beware,
Ye priests of mercy! how ye force
Poor sinners to despair.
Strong lesson to beware,
Ye priests of mercy! how ye force
Poor sinners to despair.
299
THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY.
This is the record, true as his own word,
Of the adventures of a Christian knight,
Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword
God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night,
Desired, before he gain'd his northern home,
To soothe his wounded heart at Holy Rome.
Of the adventures of a Christian knight,
Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword
God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night,
Desired, before he gain'd his northern home,
To soothe his wounded heart at Holy Rome.
And having found, in that reflected heaven,
More than Cæsarean splendours and delights,
So that it seemed to his young sense was given
An unimagined world of sounds and sights;—
Yet, half regretful of the long delay,
He joined some comrades on their common way.
More than Cæsarean splendours and delights,
So that it seemed to his young sense was given
An unimagined world of sounds and sights;—
Yet, half regretful of the long delay,
He joined some comrades on their common way.
The Spring was mantling that Italian land,
The Spring! the passion-season of our earth,
The joy, whose wings will never all expand,—
The gladsome travail of continuous birth,—
The force that leaves no creature unimbued
With amorous Nature's bland inquietude.
The Spring! the passion-season of our earth,
The joy, whose wings will never all expand,—
The gladsome travail of continuous birth,—
The force that leaves no creature unimbued
With amorous Nature's bland inquietude.
300
Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life,
Little as might be, own'd the tender power,
And only show'd their words and gestures rife
With the benign excitement of the hour,—
Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told,
In his deep soul was utterly controll'd.
Little as might be, own'd the tender power,
And only show'd their words and gestures rife
With the benign excitement of the hour,—
Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told,
In his deep soul was utterly controll'd.
New thoughts sprung up within him,—new desires
Opened their panting bosoms to the sun;
Imagination scattered lights and fires
O'er realms before impenetrably dun;
His senses, energized with wondrous might,
Mingled in lusty contest of delight.
Opened their panting bosoms to the sun;
Imagination scattered lights and fires
O'er realms before impenetrably dun;
His senses, energized with wondrous might,
Mingled in lusty contest of delight.
The once-inspiring talk of steel and steeds
And famous captains lost its ancient zest;
The free recital of illustrious deeds
Came to him vapid as a thrice-told jest;
His fancy was of angels penance-bound
To convoy sprites through heavenly ground.
And famous captains lost its ancient zest;
The free recital of illustrious deeds
Came to him vapid as a thrice-told jest;
His fancy was of angels penance-bound
To convoy sprites through heavenly ground.
The first-love vision of those azure eyes,
Twin stars that blessed and kept his spirit cool,
Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies,
Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool,—
Unwelcome visitants that stood between
Him and the livelier glories of the scene.
Twin stars that blessed and kept his spirit cool,
Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies,
Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool,—
Unwelcome visitants that stood between
Him and the livelier glories of the scene.
301
What wanted he with such cold monitors?
What business had he with the past at all?
Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars,
Such dull endearment might his heart enthral,
But, in this universe of blissful calm,
He had no pain to need that homely balm.
What business had he with the past at all?
Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars,
Such dull endearment might his heart enthral,
But, in this universe of blissful calm,
He had no pain to need that homely balm.
Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight
He made of moment to demand its stay,
Where some rare houses, in the clear white light,
Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay;
And bade the company give little heed,
He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.
He made of moment to demand its stay,
Where some rare houses, in the clear white light,
Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay;
And bade the company give little heed,
He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.
But now at length resolved to satisfy
The appetite of beauty, and repair
Those torpid years which he had let glide by,
Unconscious of the powers of earth and air,
He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft
The deepest richness of the sunny draught.
The appetite of beauty, and repair
Those torpid years which he had let glide by,
Unconscious of the powers of earth and air,
He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft
The deepest richness of the sunny draught.
Eve after eve he told his trusty band
They should advance straight northward on the morrow,
Yet when he rose, and to that living land
Addressed his farewell benison of sorrow,
With loveliest aspect Nature answer'd so,
It seem'd almost impiety to go.
They should advance straight northward on the morrow,
Yet when he rose, and to that living land
Addressed his farewell benison of sorrow,
With loveliest aspect Nature answer'd so,
It seem'd almost impiety to go.
302
Thus days were gather'd into months, and there
He linger'd, sauntering without aim or end:
Not unaccompanied; for wheresoe'er
His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend,—
A bird-like voice was ever in his ear,
Divinely sweet and rapturously clear.
He linger'd, sauntering without aim or end:
Not unaccompanied; for wheresoe'er
His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend,—
A bird-like voice was ever in his ear,
Divinely sweet and rapturously clear.
From the pinaster's solemn-tented crown,—
From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky,—
From bare or flowering summit, floated down
That music unembodied to the eye:
Sometime beside his feet it seemed to run,
Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun.
From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky,—
From bare or flowering summit, floated down
That music unembodied to the eye:
Sometime beside his feet it seemed to run,
Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun.
Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear,
Barriers arose, impermeable, between
Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear;—
His life entire was in the present scene;
The passage of each day he only knew
By the broad shadows and the deepening blue.
Barriers arose, impermeable, between
Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear;—
His life entire was in the present scene;
The passage of each day he only knew
By the broad shadows and the deepening blue.
303
His senses by such ecstasy possest,
He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side,
And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest,
Took the first path his eager look descried;
And paused, as one outstartled from a trance,
Within a place of strange significance.
He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side,
And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest,
Took the first path his eager look descried;
And paused, as one outstartled from a trance,
Within a place of strange significance.
A ruin'd temple of the Pagan world,—
Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused,—
Art back into the lap of nature hurl'd,
And still most beautiful, when most abused;
A Paradise of pity, that might move
Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love!
Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused,—
Art back into the lap of nature hurl'd,
And still most beautiful, when most abused;
A Paradise of pity, that might move
Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love!
A very garden of luxurious weeds,
Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread,
Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds,
With vine and ivy draperies overhead;
And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells,
Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels!
Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread,
Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds,
With vine and ivy draperies overhead;
And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells,
Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels!
Amid this strife of vigour and decay
An Idol stood, complete, without a stain,
Hid by a broad projection from the sway
Of winter gusts and daily-rotting rain.
Time and his agents seem'd alike to spare
A thing so unimaginably fair.
An Idol stood, complete, without a stain,
Hid by a broad projection from the sway
Of winter gusts and daily-rotting rain.
Time and his agents seem'd alike to spare
A thing so unimaginably fair.
304
By what deep memory or what subtler mean
Was it, that at the moment of this sight,
The actual past—the statue and the scene,
Stood out before him in historic light?
He knew the glorious image by its name—
Venus! the Goddess of unholy fame.
Was it, that at the moment of this sight,
The actual past—the statue and the scene,
Stood out before him in historic light?
He knew the glorious image by its name—
Venus! the Goddess of unholy fame.
He heard the tread of distant generations
Slowly defiling to their place of doom;
And thought how men, and families, and nations
Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom
Of Her who stood in desolation there,
Now lorn of love and unrevered prayer.
Slowly defiling to their place of doom;
And thought how men, and families, and nations
Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom
Of Her who stood in desolation there,
Now lorn of love and unrevered prayer.
Beauty without an eye to gaze on it,
Passion without a breast to lean upon,
Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit,
Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone;
So back with vague imaginative pain
He turned the steps that soon returned again.
Passion without a breast to lean upon,
Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit,
Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone;
So back with vague imaginative pain
He turned the steps that soon returned again.
For there henceforth he every noon reposed
In languor self-sufficient for the day,
Feeling the light within his eyelids closed,
Or peeping, where the locusts, like a ray,
Shot through its crevice, and, without a sound,
The insect hosts enjoyed their airy round.
In languor self-sufficient for the day,
Feeling the light within his eyelids closed,
Or peeping, where the locusts, like a ray,
Shot through its crevice, and, without a sound,
The insect hosts enjoyed their airy round.
305
Day-dreams give sleep, and sleep brings dreams anew;
Thus oft a face of untold tenderness,
A cloud of woe with beauty glistening through,
Brooded above him in divine distress,—
And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try
His ready lips, then vanished with a sigh:
Thus oft a face of untold tenderness,
A cloud of woe with beauty glistening through,
Brooded above him in divine distress,—
And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try
His ready lips, then vanished with a sigh:
And round him flowed through that intense sunshine
Music, whose notes at once were words and tears;
“Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine,
Mine were the Idalian groves of ancient years,—
The happy heart of Man was all mine own,
Now I am homeless and alone—alone!”
Music, whose notes at once were words and tears;
“Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine,
Mine were the Idalian groves of ancient years,—
The happy heart of Man was all mine own,
Now I am homeless and alone—alone!”
At other times, to his long-resting gaze,
Instinct with life the solid sculpture grew,
And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze,
Till lost within the impermeable blue;
Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed,
Sad-swooning sounds the apparition closed.
Instinct with life the solid sculpture grew,
And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze,
Till lost within the impermeable blue;
Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed,
Sad-swooning sounds the apparition closed.
As the strong waters fill the leaky boat
And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees;—
So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float
On that serene security of ease,
Into a torpid meditative void,
By the same fancies that before upbuoyed.
And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees;—
So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float
On that serene security of ease,
Into a torpid meditative void,
By the same fancies that before upbuoyed.
306
His train, though wondering at their changeful lord,
Had no distaste that season to beguile
With mimic contests and well-furnished board,—
And even he would sometimes join awhile
Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away
From such rude commerce and ignoble play.
Had no distaste that season to beguile
With mimic contests and well-furnished board,—
And even he would sometimes join awhile
Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away
From such rude commerce and ignoble play.
One closing eve, thus issuing forth, he cried,
“Land of my love! in thee I cast my lot;—
Till death thy faithful subject I abide,—
Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot,—
Names that I heed no more, while I possess
Thy heartfelt luxury of loveliness!”
“Land of my love! in thee I cast my lot;—
Till death thy faithful subject I abide,—
Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot,—
Names that I heed no more, while I possess
Thy heartfelt luxury of loveliness!”
That summer night had all the healthy cool
That nerves the spirit of the youthful year;
Yet, as to eyes long fixed on a deep pool,
The waters dark and bright at once appear,
So, through the freshness on his senses soon
Came the warm memories of the lusty noon.
That nerves the spirit of the youthful year;
Yet, as to eyes long fixed on a deep pool,
The waters dark and bright at once appear,
So, through the freshness on his senses soon
Came the warm memories of the lusty noon.
Such active pleasure tingling through his veins,
Quicken'd his pace beneath the colonnade,
Chesnut, and ilex—to the moonèd plains
A bronze relief and garniture of shade,—
When, just before him, flittingly, he heard
The tender voice of that familiar bird.
Quicken'd his pace beneath the colonnade,
Chesnut, and ilex—to the moonèd plains
A bronze relief and garniture of shade,—
When, just before him, flittingly, he heard
The tender voice of that familiar bird.
307
Holding his own, to catch that sweeter breath,
And listening, so that each particular sound
Was merged in that attention's depth, his path
Into the secret of the forest wound;
The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze,
Gave place to dimness and the wild-wood's maze.
And listening, so that each particular sound
Was merged in that attention's depth, his path
Into the secret of the forest wound;
The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze,
Gave place to dimness and the wild-wood's maze.
That thrilling sense, which to the weak is fear,
Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave;
So, trusting his harmonious pioneer,
His heart he freely to the venture gave,
And through close brake, and under pleachèd aisle,
Walked without sign of outlet many a mile.
Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave;
So, trusting his harmonious pioneer,
His heart he freely to the venture gave,
And through close brake, and under pleachèd aisle,
Walked without sign of outlet many a mile.
When, turning round a thicket weariedly,
A building, of such mould as well might pass
From graceful Greece to conquering Italy,
Rose in soft outline from the silver'd grass,
Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd
It was no lorn and tenantless abode.
A building, of such mould as well might pass
From graceful Greece to conquering Italy,
Rose in soft outline from the silver'd grass,
Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd
It was no lorn and tenantless abode.
Children of all varieties of fair,
And gaily vested, cluster'd round the portal,
Until one Boy, who had not mien and air
Of future manhood, but of youth immortal,
Within an arch of light, came clear to view,
Descending that angelic avenue.
And gaily vested, cluster'd round the portal,
Until one Boy, who had not mien and air
Of future manhood, but of youth immortal,
Within an arch of light, came clear to view,
Descending that angelic avenue.
308
“Stranger! the mistress of this happy bower,”
Thus the bright messenger the knight addrest—
“Bids us assert her hospitable power,
And lead thee in a captive or a guest;
Rest is the mate of night,—let opening day
Speed the rejoicing on thy work and way.”
Thus the bright messenger the knight addrest—
“Bids us assert her hospitable power,
And lead thee in a captive or a guest;
Rest is the mate of night,—let opening day
Speed the rejoicing on thy work and way.”
Such gentle bidding might kind answer earn;
The full moon's glare put out each guiding star;
He summ'd the dangers of enforc'd return,
And now first marvell'd he had roved so far:
Then murmur'd glad acceptance, tinged with fear,
Lest there unmeet his presence should appear.
The full moon's glare put out each guiding star;
He summ'd the dangers of enforc'd return,
And now first marvell'd he had roved so far:
Then murmur'd glad acceptance, tinged with fear,
Lest there unmeet his presence should appear.
Led by that troop of youthful innocence,
A hall he traversed, up whose heaven-topt dome
Thick vapours of delightful influence
From gold and alabastar altars clomb,
And through a range of pillar'd chambers past,
Each one more full of faerie than the last.
A hall he traversed, up whose heaven-topt dome
Thick vapours of delightful influence
From gold and alabastar altars clomb,
And through a range of pillar'd chambers past,
Each one more full of faerie than the last.
To his vague gaze those peopled walls disclosed
Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see,—
Celestial and heroic forms composed
In many a frame of antique poesy;
But, wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall,
Still Venus was the theme and crown of all.
Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see,—
Celestial and heroic forms composed
In many a frame of antique poesy;
But, wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall,
Still Venus was the theme and crown of all.
309
There young Adonis scorn'd to yield to her,
Soon by a sterner nature overcome;
There Paris, happy hapless arbiter,
For beauty barter'd kingdom, race, and home;
Save what Æneas rescued by her care,
As the Didonian wood-nymph pictured there.
Soon by a sterner nature overcome;
There Paris, happy hapless arbiter,
For beauty barter'd kingdom, race, and home;
Save what Æneas rescued by her care,
As the Didonian wood-nymph pictured there.
But ere he scanned them long, a Lady enter'd,
In long white robes majestical array'd,
Though on her face alone his eyes were centred,
Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd,
For every feature he could there divine
Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine.
In long white robes majestical array'd,
Though on her face alone his eyes were centred,
Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd,
For every feature he could there divine
Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine.
On his bewilderment she gently smiled,
To his confusion she benignly spoke;
And all the fears that started up so wild
Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke:
It was with him as if he saw through tears
A countenance long-loved and lost for years.
To his confusion she benignly spoke;
And all the fears that started up so wild
Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke:
It was with him as if he saw through tears
A countenance long-loved and lost for years.
She asked, “if so he will'd,” the stranger's name,
And, when she heard it, said, “the gallant sound
Had often reached her on the wing of fame,
Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round;
Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet
On noble worth her woman-heart was set.”
And, when she heard it, said, “the gallant sound
Had often reached her on the wing of fame,
Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round;
Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet
On noble worth her woman-heart was set.”
310
Rare is the fish that is not meshed amain,
When Beauty tends the silken net of praise;
Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain
He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays,
Till each self-glorious thought became a charm,
For her to work against him to his harm.
When Beauty tends the silken net of praise;
Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain
He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays,
Till each self-glorious thought became a charm,
For her to work against him to his harm.
Such converse of melodious looks and words
Paused at the call of other symphonies,
Invisible agencies that draw the cords
Of massive curtains, rising as they rise,
So that the music's closing swell reveal'd
The Paradise of pleasure there conceal'd.
Paused at the call of other symphonies,
Invisible agencies that draw the cords
Of massive curtains, rising as they rise,
So that the music's closing swell reveal'd
The Paradise of pleasure there conceal'd.
It was a wide alcove, thick-wall'd with flowers,
Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear'd
Beyond the range of vegetative powers,
A flush of splendour almost to be fear'd,
A strange affinity of life between
Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen.
Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear'd
Beyond the range of vegetative powers,
A flush of splendour almost to be fear'd,
A strange affinity of life between
Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen.
Luminous gems were weaving from aloft
Fantastic rainbows on the fountain spray,—
Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft,
Profusely heaped beside a table lay,
Whereon all show of form and hue increast
The rich temptation of the coming feast.
Fantastic rainbows on the fountain spray,—
Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft,
Profusely heaped beside a table lay,
Whereon all show of form and hue increast
The rich temptation of the coming feast.
311
There on one couch, and served by cherub hands,
The Knight and Lady banqueted in joy:
With freshest fruits from scarce discover'd lands,
Such as he saw in pictures when a boy,
And cates of flavours excellent and new,
That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew.
The Knight and Lady banqueted in joy:
With freshest fruits from scarce discover'd lands,
Such as he saw in pictures when a boy,
And cates of flavours excellent and new,
That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew.
Once, and but once, a spasm of very fear
Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold
Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear,
And made the royal flowers around upfold
Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band,
Like the mimosa touched by mortal hand.
Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold
Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear,
And made the royal flowers around upfold
Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band,
Like the mimosa touched by mortal hand.
Then almost ghastly seem'd the tinted sheen,
Saltless and savourless those luscious meats,
Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene,
As one who could command but still entreats,
And filling a gold goblet, kissed the brim,
And passed it bubbling from her lips to him.
Saltless and savourless those luscious meats,
Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene,
As one who could command but still entreats,
And filling a gold goblet, kissed the brim,
And passed it bubbling from her lips to him.
At once absorbing that nectareous draught,
And the delicious radiance of those eyes,
At doubt and terror-fit he inly laughed,
And grasped her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize;
And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew,
“Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you!”
And the delicious radiance of those eyes,
At doubt and terror-fit he inly laughed,
And grasped her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize;
And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew,
“Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you!”
312
They were alone: the attendants, one by one,
Had vanished: faint and fainter rose the air
Oppressed with odours: through the twilight shone
The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair,
Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell,
The will-less, mindless, creature of the spell.
Had vanished: faint and fainter rose the air
Oppressed with odours: through the twilight shone
The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair,
Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell,
The will-less, mindless, creature of the spell.
In the dull deep of satisfied desire
Not long a prisoner lay that knightly soul,
But on his blood, as on a wave of fire,
Uneasy fancies rode without control,
Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem
To take the substance of an order'd dream.
Not long a prisoner lay that knightly soul,
But on his blood, as on a wave of fire,
Uneasy fancies rode without control,
Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem
To take the substance of an order'd dream.
At first he stood beside a public road,
Hedged in by myrtle and embower'd by plane,
While figures, vested in old Grecian mode,
Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train,
So strangely character'd, he could not know
Were it of triumph or funereal woe.
Hedged in by myrtle and embower'd by plane,
While figures, vested in old Grecian mode,
Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train,
So strangely character'd, he could not know
Were it of triumph or funereal woe.
For crowns of bay enwreath'd each beauteous head,
Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man;
Slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded;
Torch-bearing children mingled as they ran
Gleaming amid the elder that uphold
Tripods and cups and plates of chasèd gold.
Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man;
Slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded;
Torch-bearing children mingled as they ran
Gleaming amid the elder that uphold
Tripods and cups and plates of chasèd gold.
313
But then he marked the flowers were colourless,
Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves,
And on the faces sat the high distress
Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves:
So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close,
When the dream changed, but not to his repose.
Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves,
And on the faces sat the high distress
Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves:
So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close,
When the dream changed, but not to his repose.
For now he was within his father's hall,
No tittle changed of form or furniture,
But all and each a grave memorial
Of youthful days, too careless to endure,—
There was his mother's housewife-work, and there,
Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair:
No tittle changed of form or furniture,
But all and each a grave memorial
Of youthful days, too careless to endure,—
There was his mother's housewife-work, and there,
Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair:
Where, cowering low, that ancient woman sat,
Her bony fingers twitching on her knee,
Her dry lips muttering fast he knew not what,
Only the sharp convulsion could he see;
But, as he looked, he felt a conscience dim
That she was urging God in prayer for him.
Her bony fingers twitching on her knee,
Her dry lips muttering fast he knew not what,
Only the sharp convulsion could he see;
But, as he looked, he felt a conscience dim
That she was urging God in prayer for him.
Away in trembling wretchedness he turn'd,
And he was in his leman's arms once more;
Yet all the jewell'd cressets were outburn'd,
And all the pictured walls, so gay before,
Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp,
Blotched with green mould and worn by filthy damp.
And he was in his leman's arms once more;
Yet all the jewell'd cressets were outburn'd,
And all the pictured walls, so gay before,
Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp,
Blotched with green mould and worn by filthy damp.
314
Enormous bats their insolent long wings
Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow,
And shrieked—“We cozen'd with our ministerings
The foolish knight, and have our revel now:”
And worms bestrew'd the weeds that overspread
The floor with silken flowers late carpeted.
Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow,
And shrieked—“We cozen'd with our ministerings
The foolish knight, and have our revel now:”
And worms bestrew'd the weeds that overspread
The floor with silken flowers late carpeted.
His sick astonished looks he straight addressed
To her whose tresses lay around his arm,
And fervent breath was playing on his breast,
To seek the meaning of this frightful charm;
But she was there no longer, and instead,
He was the partner of a demon's bed,—
To her whose tresses lay around his arm,
And fervent breath was playing on his breast,
To seek the meaning of this frightful charm;
But she was there no longer, and instead,
He was the partner of a demon's bed,—
That, slowly rising, brought the lurid glare
Of its fixed eyes close opposite to his;
One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair,
Threatening his lips with pestilential kiss,
And somewise in the fiendish face it wore,
He traced the features he did erst adore.
Of its fixed eyes close opposite to his;
One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair,
Threatening his lips with pestilential kiss,
And somewise in the fiendish face it wore,
He traced the features he did erst adore.
With one instinctive agony he drew
His sword, that Palestine remember'd well
And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true,
That down the devilish head in thunder fell:—
The effort seem'd against a jutting stone
To strike his hand, and then he woke—alone!
His sword, that Palestine remember'd well
And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true,
That down the devilish head in thunder fell:—
The effort seem'd against a jutting stone
To strike his hand, and then he woke—alone!
315
Alone he stood amid those ruins old,
His treasury of sweet care and pleasant pain;
The hemlock crushed defined the body's mould
Of one who long and restless there had lain;
His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn,
His hand fresh-blooded, and his sword fresh drawn!
His treasury of sweet care and pleasant pain;
The hemlock crushed defined the body's mould
Of one who long and restless there had lain;
His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn,
His hand fresh-blooded, and his sword fresh drawn!
The eastern star, a crystal eye of gold,
Full on the statued form of Beauty shone,
Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold,
A simple trunk of deftly carven stone:
Deep in the grasses that dismember'd head
Lay like the relics of the ignoble dead.
Full on the statued form of Beauty shone,
Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold,
A simple trunk of deftly carven stone:
Deep in the grasses that dismember'd head
Lay like the relics of the ignoble dead.
But Beauty's namesake and sidereal shrine
Now glided slowly down that pallid sky,
Near and more near the thin horizon line,
In the first gush of morning, there to die,—
While the poor Knight, with wilder'd steps and brain,
Hasten'd the glimmering village to regain.
Now glided slowly down that pallid sky,
Near and more near the thin horizon line,
In the first gush of morning, there to die,—
While the poor Knight, with wilder'd steps and brain,
Hasten'd the glimmering village to regain.
With few uncertain words and little heed
His followers' anxious questions he put by,
Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed,
For “they must march before the sun was high,
And neither Apennine or Alp should stay
Though for a single night, his homeward way.”
His followers' anxious questions he put by,
Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed,
For “they must march before the sun was high,
And neither Apennine or Alp should stay
Though for a single night, his homeward way.”
316
On, on, with scanty food and rest he rode,
Like one whom unseen enemies pursue,
Urging his favourite horse with cruel goad,
So that the lagging servants hardly knew
Their master of frank heart and ready cheer,
In that lone man who would not speak or hear.
Like one whom unseen enemies pursue,
Urging his favourite horse with cruel goad,
So that the lagging servants hardly knew
Their master of frank heart and ready cheer,
In that lone man who would not speak or hear.
Till when at last he fairly saw behind
The Alpine barrier of perennial snow,
He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind,—
His blood in calmer current seem'd to flow,
And like himself he smiled once more, but cast
No light or colour on that cloudy past.
The Alpine barrier of perennial snow,
He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind,—
His blood in calmer current seem'd to flow,
And like himself he smiled once more, but cast
No light or colour on that cloudy past.
From the old Teuton forest, echoing far,
Came a stern welcome, hailing him restored
To the true health of life in peace or war,
Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board;
And waters, in the clear unbroken voice
Of childhood, spoke—“Be thankful and rejoice!”
Came a stern welcome, hailing him restored
To the true health of life in peace or war,
Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board;
And waters, in the clear unbroken voice
Of childhood, spoke—“Be thankful and rejoice!”
Glad as the dove returning to his ark
Over the waste of universal sea,
He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark,
He traced the figure of each friendly tree,
And felt that he could never part from this
His home of daily love and even bliss.
Over the waste of universal sea,
He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark,
He traced the figure of each friendly tree,
And felt that he could never part from this
His home of daily love and even bliss.
317
And in the quiet closure of that place,
He soon his first affection linked anew,
In that most honest passion finding grace,
His soul with primal vigour to endue,
And crush the memories that at times arose,
To stain pure joy and trouble high repose.
He soon his first affection linked anew,
In that most honest passion finding grace,
His soul with primal vigour to endue,
And crush the memories that at times arose,
To stain pure joy and trouble high repose.
Never again that dear and dangerous land,
So fresh with all her weight of time and story,
Her winterless delights and slumbers bland,
On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory,
Did he behold: the flashing cup could please
No longer him who knew the poison-lees.
So fresh with all her weight of time and story,
Her winterless delights and slumbers bland,
On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory,
Did he behold: the flashing cup could please
No longer him who knew the poison-lees.
So lived he, pious, innocent, and brave,
The best of friends I ever saw on earth:
And now the uncommunicable grave
Has closed on him, and left us but his worth;
I have revealed this strange and secret tale,
Of human fancy and the powers of bale.
The best of friends I ever saw on earth:
And now the uncommunicable grave
Has closed on him, and left us but his worth;
I have revealed this strange and secret tale,
Of human fancy and the powers of bale.
He told it me, one autumn evening mild,
Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree,
His dear true wife beside him, and a child,
Youngest of many, dancing round his knee,—
And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes
Embalm it, to be known in after-times.
Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree,
His dear true wife beside him, and a child,
Youngest of many, dancing round his knee,—
And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes
Embalm it, to be known in after-times.
A bird is by no means an uncommon actor in a drama of this kind. It is recorded that, at the Council of Basle, three pious doctors were wont to walk out daily and discuss points of deep theology, but that, as soon as the song of a certain nightingale reached their ears, their argument was inevitably confused; they contradicted themselves, drew false conclusions, and were occasionally very near falling into heresy. The thought struck one of them to exorcise the nightingale, and the devil flew visibly out of a bush, and left the disputants at peace. See also the beautiful story of “The Monk and Bird,” in Mr. Trench's poems.
318
CHARLEMAGNE, AND THE HYMN OF CHRIST.
“And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of
Olives.”—
Matt. xxvi. 30; Mark xiv. 26.
The great King Karl sat in his secret room,—
He had sat there all day;
He had not called on minstrel knight or groom
To wile one hour away.
He had sat there all day;
He had not called on minstrel knight or groom
To wile one hour away.
Of arms or royal toil he had no care,
Nor e'en of royal mirth;
As if a poor lone monk he rather were,
Than lord of half the earth.
Nor e'en of royal mirth;
As if a poor lone monk he rather were,
Than lord of half the earth.
But chance he had some pleasant company,
Dear wife, familiar friend,
With whom to let the quiet hours slip by,
As if they had no end.
Dear wife, familiar friend,
With whom to let the quiet hours slip by,
As if they had no end.
The learnèd Alcuin, that large-browed clerk,
Was there within, and none beside;
A book they read, and, where the sense was dark,
He was a trusty guide.
Was there within, and none beside;
A book they read, and, where the sense was dark,
He was a trusty guide.
What book had worth so long to occupy
The thought of such a king,
To make the weight of all that sovereignty
Be a forgotten thing?
The thought of such a king,
To make the weight of all that sovereignty
Be a forgotten thing?
319
Surely it were no other than the one,
Whose every line is fraught
With what a mightier King than He had done,
Conquered, endured, and taught.
Whose every line is fraught
With what a mightier King than He had done,
Conquered, endured, and taught.
There his great soul, drawn onward by the eye,
Saw in plain chronicle portrayed
The slow unfolding of the mystery
On which its life was stayed.
Saw in plain chronicle portrayed
The slow unfolding of the mystery
On which its life was stayed.
There read he how when Jesus, our dear Lord,
To men of sin and dust had given,
By the transforming magic of his word,
The bread of very Heaven;
To men of sin and dust had given,
By the transforming magic of his word,
The bread of very Heaven;
So that our race, by Adam's fatal food
Reduced to base decline,
Partaking of that body and that blood,
Might be again divine,—
Reduced to base decline,
Partaking of that body and that blood,
Might be again divine,—
After this wondrous largess, and before
The unimagined pain,
Which, in Gethsemane, the Saviour bore
Within his heart and brain,—
The unimagined pain,
Which, in Gethsemane, the Saviour bore
Within his heart and brain,—
He read, how these two acts of Love between,
Ere that prolific day was dim,
Christ and his Saints, like men with minds serene,
Together sung a hymn.
Ere that prolific day was dim,
Christ and his Saints, like men with minds serene,
Together sung a hymn.
320
These things he read in childly faith sincere,
Then paused and fixed his eye,
And said with kingly utterance—“I must hear
That Hymn before I die.
Then paused and fixed his eye,
And said with kingly utterance—“I must hear
That Hymn before I die.
“I will send forth through sea and sun and snows
To lands of every tongue,
To try if there be not some one which knows
The music Jesus sung.
To lands of every tongue,
To try if there be not some one which knows
The music Jesus sung.
“For I have found delight in songs profane
Trolled by a foolish boy,
And when the monks intone a pious strain,
My heart is strong in joy;
Trolled by a foolish boy,
And when the monks intone a pious strain,
My heart is strong in joy;
“How blessèd then to hear those harmonies,
Which Christ's own voice divine engaged!
'Twould be as if a wind from Paradise
A wounded soul assuaged.”
Which Christ's own voice divine engaged!
'Twould be as if a wind from Paradise
A wounded soul assuaged.”
Within the Emperor's mind that anxious thought
Lay travailing all night long,
He dreamed that Magi to his hand had brought
The burthen of the Song;
Lay travailing all night long,
He dreamed that Magi to his hand had brought
The burthen of the Song;
And when to his grave offices he rose,
He kept his earnest will,
To offer untold guerdons unto those
Who should that dream fulfil.
He kept his earnest will,
To offer untold guerdons unto those
Who should that dream fulfil.
321
But first he called to counsel in the hall
Wise priests of reverend name,
And with an open countenance to them all
Declared his hope and aim.
Wise priests of reverend name,
And with an open countenance to them all
Declared his hope and aim.
He said, “It is God's pleasure, that my will
Is made the natural law
Of many nations, so that out of ill
All good things I may draw.
Is made the natural law
Of many nations, so that out of ill
All good things I may draw.
“Therefore this holy mission I decree,
Sparing no pains or cost,
That thus those sounds of dearest memory
Be not for ever lost.”
Sparing no pains or cost,
That thus those sounds of dearest memory
Be not for ever lost.”
They spake. “Tradition streameth thro' our race,
Most like the gentle whistling air,
To which of old Elias veiled his face,
Conscious that God was there:
Most like the gentle whistling air,
To which of old Elias veiled his face,
Conscious that God was there:
“Not in the storm, the earthquake, and the flame,
That troubled Horeb's brow,
The splendour and the power of God then came,
Nor thus he cometh now.
That troubled Horeb's brow,
The splendour and the power of God then came,
Nor thus he cometh now.
“The silent water filtereth through earth,
One day to bless the summer land;
The Word of God in Man slow bubbleth forth,
Touched by a worthy hand.
One day to bless the summer land;
The Word of God in Man slow bubbleth forth,
Touched by a worthy hand.
322
“Thus, in the memory of some careful Jew
May lurk the record of a tune
Wont to be sung in ceremonial due
After the Paschal noon;
May lurk the record of a tune
Wont to be sung in ceremonial due
After the Paschal noon;
“And thy deep yearning for this mystic song
May give mankind at last
Some charm and blessing that has slept full long
The slumber of the Past.”
May give mankind at last
Some charm and blessing that has slept full long
The slumber of the Past.”
The King rejoiced, and, at this high behest,
Men, to all toil and change inured,
Passed out to search the World if East or West
That legend still endured.
Men, to all toil and change inured,
Passed out to search the World if East or West
That legend still endured.
What good or ill those venturous hearts befell,
What glory or what shame,—
How far they wandered, I have not to tell;
Each has his separate fame.
What glory or what shame,—
How far they wandered, I have not to tell;
Each has his separate fame.
I only know, that when the weight of hours
The prime of mortal heads had bowed,
He, slowly letting go his outward powers,
Spoke from his couch aloud:—
The prime of mortal heads had bowed,
He, slowly letting go his outward powers,
Spoke from his couch aloud:—
“My soul has waited many a lingering year
To taste that one delight,
And now I know at last that I shall hear
The hymn of Christ to-night.
To taste that one delight,
And now I know at last that I shall hear
The hymn of Christ to-night.
323
“Look out, good friends! be prompt to welcome home,
Straight to my presence bring,
My messengers, who hither furnished come
The Song of Christ to sing.”
Straight to my presence bring,
My messengers, who hither furnished come
The Song of Christ to sing.”
Dark sank that night, but darker rose the morn,
That found the western earth
Of the divinest presence stripped and shorn
It ever woke to birth.
That found the western earth
Of the divinest presence stripped and shorn
It ever woke to birth.
It seemed beyond the common lawful sway
Of Death and Nature o'er our kind,
That such a one as He should pass away.
And aught be left behind.
Of Death and Nature o'er our kind,
That such a one as He should pass away.
And aught be left behind.
In Aachen Abbey's consecrated ground,
Within the hollowed stone,
They placed the imperial body, robed and crowned,
Seated as on a throne.
Within the hollowed stone,
They placed the imperial body, robed and crowned,
Seated as on a throne.
While the blest spirit holds communion free
With that eternal quire,
Of which on earth to trace the memory
Was his devout desire.
With that eternal quire,
Of which on earth to trace the memory
Was his devout desire.
It is probable that the hymn sung on this occasion was the Hallel, or part of it. The Hallel is invariably chanted in all Jewish families on the two first evenings of the Passover, and consists of Psalms 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, and 118, and is also read in the synagogue on every day of that feast. The music is not different from that of other Hebrew chants; but the Song of Moses, which is chanted on the seventh day of the Passover, has a peculiar traditional air, which is probably the earliest musical composition preserved to our times.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |