Flower Pieces and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Flower Pieces and other poems

By William Allingham: With two designs by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Allingham, William (1824-1889)

[dedication]

DAY AND NIGHT SONGS.

TRANSLATED OR ADAPTED.

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DAY AND NIGHT SONGS.

This group of short poems is here printed in the literary form in which I desire it may remain.

[These little Songs]

These little Songs,
Found here and there,
Floating in air
By forest and lea,
Or hill-side heather,
In houses and throngs,
Or down by the sea—
Have come together,
How, I can't tell:
But I know full well
No witty goose-wing
On an inkstand begot 'em;
Remember each place
And moment of grace,
In summer or spring,
Winter or autumn,
By sun, moon, stars,
Or a coal in the bars,
In market or church,
Graveyard or dance,
When they came without search,
Were found as by chance.
A word, a line,
You may say are mine;
But the best in the songs,
Whatever it be,
To you, and to me,
And to no one belongs.

SPRING.

THE LOVER AND BIRDS.

Within a budding grove,
In April's ear sang every bird his best,
But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love.
Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
To every word
Of every bird
I listen'd, and replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, ‘Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!’
‘Chaffinch,’ quoth I, ‘be dumb awhile, in fear
Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,
And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.’
Yet from a twig
With voice so big,
The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

Then I, ‘The man forlorn
Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.’
‘And what'll he do? what'll he do?’ scoff'd
The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn,
Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft
With cackling laugh:
Whom I, being half
Enraged, call'd after, giving back his scorn

Worse mock'd the Thrush, ‘Die! die!
Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!
Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!’ (went his lay)
‘Take heed! take heed!’ then, ‘Why? why? why? why? why?
See—ee now! see—ee now!’ (he drawl'd). ‘Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!’
O Thrush, be still!
Or, at thy will,
Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

‘Air, air! blue air and white!
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!’
(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)
‘Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,
Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!’
‘Gay Lark,’ I said,
‘The song that's bred
In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.’

‘There's something, something sad,
I half remember’—piped a broken strain.
Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again,
‘Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!’
Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
Till now, grown meek,
With wetted cheek,
Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

A HOLIDAY.

Out of the city, far away
With Spring to-day!
Where copses tufted with primrose
Give me repose,
Wood-sorrel and wild violet
Soothe my soul's fret,
The pure delicious vernal air
Blows away care,
The birds' reiterated songs
Heal fancied wrongs.

Down the rejoicing brook my grief
Drifts like a leaf,
And on its gently murmuring flow
Doth glide and go;
The bud-besprinkled boughs and hedges,
The sprouting sedges
Waving beside the water's brink,
Come like cool drink
To fever'd lips, like fresh soft mead
To kine that feed.

Much happier than the kine, I bed
My dreaming head
In grass; I see far mountains blue,
Like heaven in view,
Green world and sunny sky above
Alive with love;
All, all, however came they there,
Divinely fair.

Is this the better oracle,
Or what streets tell?
O base confusion, falsehood, strife,
Man puts in life!
Sink, thou Life-Measurer!—I can say
‘I've lived a day;’
And Memory holds it now in keeping,
Awake or sleeping.

IN A SPRING GROVE.

Here the white-ray'd anemone is born,
Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup;
And primrose in its purfled green swathed up,
Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn,
Gray ash, and beech with rusty leaves outworn.
Here, too, the darting linnet has her nest
In the blue-lustred holly, never shorn,
Whose partner cheers her little brooding breast,
Piping from some near bough. O simple song!
O cistern deep of that harmonious rillet,
And these fair juicy stems that climb and throng
The vernal world, and unexhausted seas
Of flowing life, and soul that asks to fill it,
Each and all these,—and more, and more than these!

THE LITTLE DELL.

Doleful was the land,
Dull on every side,
Neither soft nor grand,
Barren, bleak, and wide;
Nothing look'd with love;
All was dingy brown;
The very skies above
Seem'd to sulk and frown.

Plodding sick and sad,
Weary day on day;
Searching, never glad,
Many a miry way;
Poor existence lagg'd
In this barren place;
While the seasons dragg'd
Slowly o'er its face.

Spring, to sky and ground,
Came before I guess'd:
Then one day I found
A valley, like a nest!
Guarded with a spell
Sure it must have been,
This little fairy dell
Which I had never seen.

Open to the blue,
Green banks hemm'd it round;
A rillet wander'd through
With a tinkling sound;
Briars among the rocks
Tangled arbours made;
Primroses in flocks
Grew beneath their shade.

Merry birds a few,
Creatures wildly tame,
Perch'd and sung and flew;
Timid field-mice came;
Beetles in the moss
Journey'd here and there;
Butterflies across
Danced through sunlit air.

There I often redd,
Sung alone, or dream'd;
Blossoms overhead,
Where the west wind stream'd;
Small horizon-line,
Smoothly lifted up,
Held this world of mine
In a grassy cup.

The barren land to-day
Hears my last adieu:
Not an hour I stay;
Earth is wide and new.
Yet, farewell, farewell!
May the sun and show'rs
Bless that Little Dell
Of safe and tranquil hours!

A SEED.

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down,
And through the Winter neglected lay,
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown,
With tiny root taking hold on the clay,
As, lifting and strengthening day by day,
It pushes red branchlets, sprouts new leaves,
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves
Out of the storehouse of soil and clime,
To fashion a Tree in due course of time;
Tree with rough bark and boughs' expansion,
Where the Crow can build his mansion,
Or a Man, in some new May,
Lie under whispering leaves and say,
‘Are the ills of one's life so very bad
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?’
As I do now. But where shall I be
When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?

A VERNAL VOLUNTARY.

Come again, delightful Spring,
Hasten, if you love us;
Let your woodbine-garland swing,
Vault the blue above us!
Nay, already she is here:
Stealthy laughters quiver
Through the ground, the atmosphere,
Wood, and bubbling river.

Sweet the herald west wind blows,
Green peeps out from melting snows;
Snowdrop-flow'r, and crocus, dawn
With daffodil around the lawn;
Their bushy rods the sallows gild;
The clamorous rooks begin to build,
Watch the farmer dig and sow
In his miry fields below,
Gravely follow in the furrows
Picking where his plough unburrows.
Pearl-white lambkins frisk and bleat
Or kneeling tug the kindly teat;
The roguish rat is creeping nigh
His darksome cavern; low and high,
Through sun-gleam or soft rainy gloom,
Like children coursing every room
Of a new house, the swallows glance,
Wafted over Spain and France
From the sultry solemn Nile's
Mysterious lakes of crocodiles,
And the desert-lion's roar,
To a greener gentler shore.
Native lark from stair to stair
Of brilliant cloud and azure air

Mounts to the morning's top, and sings
His merry hymns on trembling wings,
Tireless, till the cressets high
Twinkle down from cooler sky.
What beholds he on this earth?
A rising tide of love and mirth.
—And was it I who lately said,
‘Mirth is fled, and Love is dead,’
For chill and darkness on the day,
As on my weak and weary spirit lay?

Welcome, every breeze and show'r;
Sun that courts the blossom;
Every new delicious flow'r
Heap'd for Maia's bosom!

Every bird!—no bird alone,
Always two together;
Spring inspiring every tone,
Flushing every feather.

Verdure's tufted on the briar
Like crockets of a minster-spire;
Free sprouts the youngling corn; a light
Is on the hills; dim nooks grow bright
In blossom; now with scent and sight
And song, the childhood of the year
Renews our own; we see and hear,
We drink the fragrance, as of yore,—
A gleam, a thrill, a breath, no more.
Away, dull musing! who are these
Under the fresh-leaved linden trees?
Three favourite Children of the Spring,
Who lightly run, as half on wing,
Dorothy, Alicia, Mary;
Over moorlands wide and airy,

Deep in dells of early flow'rs,
They have been abroad for hours,
Flow'rs themselves, and fairer yet
Than primrose, windflow'r, violet,
Or even June's wild-rose to come.
Frost never touch their opening bloom
The tender fearless life to check!
—Alicia's hat is on her neck,
With flying curls and glowing face
And ringing laugh, she wins the race;
Her eyes were made for sorrow's cure,
And doubts of Heav'n to reassure.
Veils of fresh and fragrant rain
Sinking over the green plain,
Founts of sunny beams that lie
Scatter'd through the vernal sky,
The million-fold expanding woods,
Are less delightful than these children's moods.

'Tis not life, to pine and cloy;
Sickness utters treason;
Best they live, who best enjoy
Every good in season.

Glad, with moisten'd eyes, I learn
April's own caressing:
Children, every month in turn
Bring you three a blessing!

BY THE MORNING SEA.

The wind shakes up the sleepy clouds
To kiss the ruddied Morn,
And from their awful misty shrouds
The Mountains are new-born:
The Sea lies fresh with open eyes;
Night-fears and moaning dreams
Brooding like clouds on nether skies,
Have sunk below, and beams
Dance on the floor like golden flies,
Or strike with joyful gleams
Some white-wing'd ship, a wandering star
Of Ocean, piloting afar.

In brakes, in woods, in cottage eaves,
The early birds are rife,
Quick voices thrill the sprinkled leaves
In ecstasy of life;
With silent gratitude of flow'rs
The morning's breath is sweet,
And cool with dew, that freshly show'rs
Round wild things' hasty feet;
But heavenly guests of tranquil hours
To inner skies retreat,
From human thoughts of lower birth
That stir upon the waking earth.

Across a thousand leagues of land
The mighty Sun looks free,
And in their fringe of rock and sand
A thousand leagues of sea.
Lo! I, in this majestic room,
Real as the mighty Sun,
Inherit this day and its doom
Eternally begun.
A world of men the rays illume,
God's men, and I am one.
But life that is not pure and bold
Doth tarnish every morning's gold.

[Four ducks on a pond]

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years—
To remember with tears!

WINDLASS SONG.

Heave at the windlass!—Heave O, cheerly, men!
Heave all at once, with a will!
The tide quickly making,
Our cordage a-creaking,
The water has put on a frill,
Heave O!

Fare you well, sweethearts!—Heave O, cheerly, men!
Fare you well, frolic and sport!
The good ship all ready,
Each dog-vane is steady,
The wind blowing dead out of port,
Heave O!

Once in blue water—Heave O, cheerly, men!
Blow it from north or from south;
She'll stand to it tightly,
And curtsey politely,
And carry a bone in her mouth,
Heave O!

Short cruise or long cruise—Heave O, cheerly, men!
Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one.
No latitude dreads he
Of White, Black, or Red Sea,
Great icebergs, or tropical sun,
Heave O!

One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men!
Heave, and good-bye to the shore!
Our money, how went it?
We shared it and spent it;
Next year we'll come back with some more,
Heave O!

THE FIELDS IN MAY.

What can better please,
When your mind is well at ease,
Than a walk among the green fields in May?
To see the verdure new,
And to hear the loud cuckoo,
While sunshine makes the whole world gay:

When the butterfly so brightly
On his journey dances lightly,
And the bee goes by with business-like hum;
When the fragrant breeze and soft
Stirs the shining clouds aloft,
And the children's hair, as laughingly they come:

When the grass is full of flowers,
And the hedge is full of bowers,
And the finch and the linnet piping clear,
Where the branches throw their shadows
On a footway through the meadows,
With a brook among the cresses winding near.

Any pair of lovers walking
On this footway in sweet talking,
Sweeter silence, often linger and delay,
For the path, not very wide,
Brings them closer, side by side,
Moving gently through the happy fields of May:

Till they rest themselves awhile
At the elm-o'ershaded stile,
When stars begin to tremble in the blue,
Just to hear a nightingale,
Near our village in the vale,
To his sweetheart singing carols fond and true:

Evening wind, and brooklet's flow,
Softly whisper as they go,
Every star throbs with tenderness above;
Tender lips are sure to meet,
Heart to heart must warmly beat,
When the earth is full and heaven is full of love.

Oh, I would the song I sing
Might to me a sweetheart bring,
For companion through the green fields of May!
She should nestle in my heart,
And we never more should part,
While the summers and the winters roll'd away.

SPRING IS COME.

Ye coax the timid verdure,
Along the hills of Spring,
Blue skies and gentle breezes,
And soft clouds wandering!
The quire of birds on budding spray,
Loud larks in ether sing;
A fresher pulse, a wider day,
Give joy to everything.

The gay translucent morning
Lies glittering on the sea,
The noonday sprinkles shadows
Athwart the daisied lea;
The round sun's falling scarlet rim
In vapour hideth he;
The darkling hours are cool and dim,
As vernal night should be.

Our Earth has not grown aged,
With all her countless years;
She works, and never wearies,
Is glad, and nothing fears:
The glow of air, broad land and wave,
In season re-appears;
And shall, when vanish in the grave
These human smiles and tears.

Oh, rich in songs and colours,
Thou joy-reviving Spring!
Some hopes are chill'd with winter
Whose term thou canst not bring,
Some voices answer not thy call
When sky and woodland ring,
Some faces come not back at all
With primrose-blossoming.

The distant-flying swallow,
The upward-yearning seed,
Find Nature's promise faithful,
Attain their humble meed.
Great Parent! Thou hast also form'd
These hearts which throb and bleed;
With love, truth, hope, their life hast warm'd,
And what is best, decreed.

A RAINBOW.

Cloud rolls up from the west,
Blotting the sun in the sky;
Rain pours down from its breast,
Stone nor leaf is dry.

Cloud rolls off to the east,
Sun shines out afresh;
All things, greatest and least,
Laugh in a diamond mesh.

Vast arch springs from the plain,
Lovely, of seven-fold hue,
Built by the sun and rain;
Melting swiftly from view.

Sol, that painter of pow'r,
Shows on his palette there
The colours of every flow'r,
Of earth, of sea, and of air.

It is not seen of the birds
That hop and flutter and trill,
Or the placidly grazing herds,
Or the flock of sheep on the hill.

Storm, shadow, and ray
Triumph and disappear;
Hour melts into day,
Day melts into year.

Force changes and flows;
Nothing is lost or spilt.
Soul, who art watching these shows,
Rate thyself as thou wilt,

Curve and colours are thine,
Thine are the eyes to see:
Natural, human, divine,
This is of Heaven and of Thee.

ACROSS THE SEA.

I walk'd in the lonesome evening,
And who so sad as I,
When I saw the young men and maidens
Merrily passing by.
To thee, my Love, to thee—
So fain would I come to thee!
While the ripples fold upon sands of gold,
And I look across the sea.

I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them?
I call,—thou repliest no word:
Oh, why should heart-longing be weaker
Than the waving wings of a bird!
To thee, my Love, to thee—
So fain would I come to thee!
For the tide's at rest from east to west,
And I look across the sea.

There's joy in the hopeful morning,
There's peace in the parting day,
There's sorrow with every lover
Whose true-love is far away.
To thee, my Love, to thee—
So fain would I come to thee!
And the water's bright in a still moonlight,
As I look across the sea.

SUMMER.

THE MOWERS.

Where mountains round a lonely dale
Our cottage-roof enclose,
Come night or morn, the hissing pail
With fragrant cream o'erflows;
And roused at break of day from sleep,
And cheerly trudging hither,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the grass together.

The fog drawn up the mountain-side
And scatter'd flake by flake,
The chasm of blue above grows wide,
And richer blue the lake;
Gay sunlights o'er the hillocks creep,
And join for golden weather,—
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

The goodwife stirs at five, we know,
The master soon comes round,
And many swaths must lie a-row
Ere breakfast-horn shall sound;
Sweet vernal-grass, and foxtail deep,
The spike or silvery feather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow them down together.

The noon-tide brings its welcome rest
Our toil-wet brows to dry;
Anew with merry stave and jest
The shrieking hone we ply.
White falls the brook from steep to steep
Among the rocks and heather,—
A scythe-sweep and a scythe-sweep,
We mow the dale together.

For dial, see, our shadows turn;
Low lies the stately mead:
A scythe, an hour-glass, and an urn—
All flesh is grass, we read.
To-morrow's sky may laugh or weep,
To Heav'n we leave it whether:
A scythe-sweep, and a scythe-sweep,
We've done our task together.

ON THE SUNNY SHORE.

Checquer'd with woven shadows as I lay
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam,—
I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay,
Most idly floating in the noontide beam.
Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway
Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream,
Buoy'd like the young moon on a level stream
Of greenish vapour at decline of day,
Swam airily,—watching the distant flocks
Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep
Touch'd the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks,
Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep,
Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep
Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks.

THE WAYSIDE WELL.

Greet thee kindly, Wayside Well,
In thy hedge of roses!
Whither drawn by soothing spell,
Weary foot reposes.

With a welcome fresh and green
Wave thy border grasses,
By the dusty traveller seen,
Sighing as he passes.

Cup of no Circean bliss,
Charity of summer,
Making happy with a kiss
Every meanest comer!

Morning, too, and eventide,
Without stint or measure,
Cottage households near and wide
Share thy liquid treasure.

Fair the greeting face ascends,
Like a naiad's daughter,
To the peasant lass that bends
To thy trembling water.

When a lad has brought her pail
Down the twilight meadow,
Tender falls the whisper'd tale,
Soft the double shadow.

Clear as childhood's is thy look,
Nature seems to pet thee,
Fierce July that drains the brook
Hath no power to fret thee.

Shelter'd cool and free from smirch
In thy cavelet shady,
O'er thee in a silver birch
Stoops a forest lady.

Mirror to the Star of Eve,
Maiden shy and slender,
Matron Moon thy depths receive,
Globed in mellow splendour.

Bounteous Spring! for ever own
Undisturb'd thy station;
Not to thirsty lips alone
Serving mild donation.

Never come the newt or frog,
Pebble thrown in malice,
Mud or wither'd leaves, to clog
Or defile thy chalice.

Heaven be still within thy ken,
Through the veil thou wearest,—
Glimpsing clearest, as with men,
When the boughs are barest.

HALF-DREAMING.

In morning mist and dream I lay,
And saw, methought, two Babes at play,
In a green garden, girl and boy;
With Lucy painting in her chair,
The sunshine catching golden hair
At moments when she lifts her head
To look at these, and share their joy.
Kind happy Dream!—Ah, sting of woe!
This used to be, long time ago.
The Mother and the Babes are dead,
And I am old and lonely: fled
Life's pleasure now, itself a dream.

How long a dream lasts, who can say,
Or how it drifts and intershifts?
I woke, I saw the sunny beam,
I heard the shrieking of the swifts,
Then flung my curtain back. Below,
Two merry faces all aglow
Look up, ‘Good morning, dear Papa!
Mamma is coming home to-day.’

Grant us to taste,
Ye Mystic Powers,
Our happy hours,—
O how they haste!

EVEY.

Bud and leaflet, opening slowly,
Woo'd with tears by winds of Spring
Now, of June persuaded wholly,
Perfumes, flow'rs, and shadows bring.

Evey, in the linden alley,
All alone I met to-day,
Tripping to the sunny valley
Spread across with new-mown hay.

Brown her soft curls, sunbeam-sainted,
Golden in the wavering flush;
Darker brown her eyes are, painted
Eye and fringe with one soft brush.

Through the leaves a careless comer,
Never nymph of fount or tree
Could have press'd the floor of summer
With a lighter foot than she.

Can this broad hat, fasten'd under
With a bright blue ribbon's flow,
Change my pet so much, I wonder,
Of a month or two ago?

Half too changed to speak I thought her,
Till the pictured silence broke,
Sweet and clear as dropping water,
In to words she sung or spoke.

Few her words; yet, like a sister,
Trustfully she look'd and smiled;
'Twas but in my soul I kiss'd her,
As I used to kiss the child.

Shadows, which are not of sadness,
Touch her eyes, and brow above.
As pale wild roses dream of redness,
Dreams her innocent heart of love.

AN EVENING.

A Sunset's mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar;
Love in his shroud.

Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say;
The end of a summer day;
Sweet Love dead.

THE QUEEN OF THE FOREST.

Beautiful, beautiful Queen of the Forest,
How art thou hidden so wondrous deep?
Bird never sung there, fay never morriced,
All the trees are asleep.
Nigh the drizzling waterfall
Plumèd ferns wave and wither;
Voices from the woodlands call,
‘Hither, O hither!’
Calling all the summer day,
Through the woodlands, far away.

Who by the rivulet loiters and lingers,
Tranced by a mirror, a murmur, a freak;
Thrown where the grass's cool fine fingers
Play with his dreamful cheek?
Cautious creatures gliding by,
Mystic sounds fill his pleasure,
Tangled roof inlaid with sky,
Flowers, heaps of treasure:
Wandering slowly all the day,
Through the woodlands, far away.

Late last night, betwixt moonlight and morning,
Came She, unthought-of, and stood by his bed:
A kiss for love, and a kiss for warning,
A kiss for trouble and dread.
Now her flitting fading gleam
Haunts the woodlands wide and lonely;
Now, a half-remember'd dream
For his comrade only,
He shall stray the livelong day
Through the forest, far away.

Dare not the hiding Enchantress to follow!
Hearken the yew, he hath secrets of hers.
The gray owl stirs in an oaktree's hollow,
The wind in the gloomy firs.
Down among those dells of green,
Glimpses, whispers, run to wile thee;
Waking eyes have nowhere seen
Her that would beguile thee—
Draw thee on, till death of day,
Through the dusk woods, far away.

IN A BROKEN TOWER.

The tangling wealth by June amass'd
Left rock and ruin vaguely seen;
Thick ivy-cables held them fast,
Light boughs descended, floating green.

Slow turn'd the stair, a breathless height,
And far above it set me free,
When all the golden fan of light
Was closing down into the sea.

A window half-way up the wall
It led to; and so high was that,
The tallest trees were not so tall
That they could reach to where I sat.

Aloft within the moulder'd Tower
Dark ivy fringed its round of sky,
Where slowly, in the deepening hour,
The first faint stars unveil'd on high.

The rustling of the foliage dim,
The murmur of the cool gray tide,
With tears that trembled on the brim,
An echo sad to these I sigh'd.

O Sea, thy ripple's mournful tune!—
The cloud along the sunset sleeps,
The phantom of the golden moon
Is kindled in thy quivering deeps,

Oh, mournfully!—and I to fill,
Fix'd in a ruin-window strange,
Some countless period, watching still
A moon, a sea, that never change!

The guided orb is mounting slow;
The duteous wave is ebbing fast;
And now, as from the niche I go,
A shadow joins the shadowy past.

Farewell, dim Ruins, tower and life,
Sadly enrich the distant view!
And welcome, scenes of toil and strife;
To-morrow's sun arises new.

AFTER SUNSET.

The vast and solemn company of clouds
Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined,
Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds
The level pasture, creeping up behind
Through voiceless vales, o'er lawn and purpled hill
And hazèd mead, her mystery to fulfil.
Cows low from far-off farms; the loitering wind
Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will,—
Tho' all the wood, alive atop with wings
Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks,
Seethes with the clamour of a thousand rooks.
Now every sound at length is hush'd away.
These few are sacred moments. One more Day
Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things.

IN THE DUSK.

Welcome, friendly stars, one by one, two by two!
Voices of the waterfall toning in the air;
And the wavy landscape-outlines blurr'd with falling dew,
As my rapture is with sadness, because I may not share,
And double it by sharing it with thee.
—Cloudy fire dies away on the sea.

Calm shadowy Earth! she lies musing like a saint;
Wearing for a halo the pure circlet of the moon;
From the mountain breathes the night-wind, steadily, tho' faint;
As I am breathing softly, ‘Ah! might some heav'nly boon
Bestow thee, my Belov'd One, to my side!’
—Like a full, happy heart flows the tide.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

O pale green sea,
With long pale purple clouds above—
What lies in me like weight of love?
What dies in me
With utter grief, because there comes no sign
Through the sun-raying West, or on the dim sea-line?

O salted air,
Blown round the rocky headlands chill—
What calls me there from cove and hill?
What falls me fair
From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?
Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?

O yellow Star,
Quivering upon the rippling tide—
Sendest so far to one that sigh'd?
Bendest thou, Star,
Above where shadows of the dead have rest
And constant silence, with a message from the blest?

ON THE TWILIGHT POND.

A shadowy fringe the fir-trees make,
Where sunset light hath been;
The liquid thrills to one gold flake,
And Hesperus is seen;
Our boat and we, not half awake,
Go drifting down the pond,
While slowly calls the rail, ‘Crake-crake,’
From meadow-flats beyond.

This happy, circling, bounded view
Embraces us with home;
To far worlds, kindling in the blue,
Our upward thoughts may roam;
Whence, with the veil of scented dew
That makes the earth so sweet,
A touch of astral brightness too,
A peace—which is complete.

UNKNOWN BELOV'D ONE.

O unknown Belov'd One! to the perfect season
Branches in the lawn make drooping bow'rs;
Vase and plot burn scarlet, gold, and azure;
Honeysuckles wind the tall gray turret,
And pale passion-flow'rs.
Come thou, come thou to my lonely thought,
O Unknown Belov'd One.

Now, at evening twilight, dusky dew down-wavers,
Soft stars crown the grove-encircled hill;
Breathe the new-mown meadows, broad and misty;
Through the heavy grass the rail is talking;
All beside is still.
Trace with me the wandering avenue,
Thou Unknown Belov'd One.

In the mystic realm, and in the time of visions,
I thy lover have no need to woo;
There I hold thy hand in mine, thou dearest,
And thy soul in mine, and feel its throbbing,
Tender, deep, and true;
Then my tears are love, and thine are love,
Thou Unknown Belov'd One?

Is thy voice a wavelet on the listening darkness?
Are thine eyes unfolding from their veil?
Wilt thou come before the signs of winter—
Days that shred the bough with trembling fingers,
Nights that weep and wail?
Art thou Love indeed, or art thou Death,
O Unknown Belov'd One?

SERENADE.

Oh, hearing sleep, and sleeping hear,
The while we dare to call thee dear,
So may thy dreams be good, altho'
The loving power thou dost not know.
As music parts the silence,—lo!
Through heaven the stars begin to peep,
To comfort us that darkling pine
Because those fairer lights of thine
Have set into the Sea of Sleep.
Yet closèd still thine eyelids keep;
And may our voices through the sphere
Of Dreamland all as softly rise
As through these shadowy rural dells,
Where bashful Echo somewhere dwells,
And touch thy spirit to as soft replies.
May peace from gentle guardian skies,
Till watches of the dark are worn,
Surround thy bed, and joyous morn
Makes all the chamber rosy bright!
Good-night!—From far-off fields is borne
The drowsy Echo's faint ‘Good-night,’—
Good-night! Good-night!

AUTUMN.

AUTUMNAL SONNET.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.

Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve,
Pensive and glad, with tones that recognise
The soft invisible dew in each one's eyes,
It may be, somewhat thus we shall have leave
To walk with memory, when distant lies
Poor Earth, where we were wont to live and grieve.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[Hear you now a throbbing wind that calls]

Hear you now a throbbing wind that calls
Over ridge of cloud and purple flake?
Sad the sunset's ruin'd palace-walls,
Dim the line of mist along the lake,—
Even as the mist of Memory.
O the summer-nights that used to be!

An evening rises from the dead
Of long-ago (ah me, how long!)
Like a story, like a song,
Told, and sung, and pass'd away.
Love was there, that since hath fled,
Hope, whose locks are turn'd to gray,
Friendship, with a tongue of truth
And a beating heart of youth,
Wingèd Joy, too, just alighted,
Ever-welcome, uninvited;
Love and Friendship, Hope and Joy,
With arms about each other twined,
Merrily watching a crescent moon,
Slung to its gold nail of a star,
Over the fading crimson bar,
Like a hunter's horn: the happy wind

Breathed to itself some twilight tune,
And bliss had no alloy.

Against the colours of the west
Trees were standing tall and black,
The voices of the day at rest,
Night rose around, a solemn flood,
With fleets of worlds: and our delightful mood
Rippled in music to the rock and wood;
Music with echoes, never to come back.
The touch upon my hand is this alone—
A heavy tear-drop of my own.

Listen to the breeze: ‘O loitering Time!—
Unresting Time!—O viewless rush of Time!’
Thus it calls and swells and falls,
From Sunset's wasted palace-walls,
And ghostly mists that climb.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?]

What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?
O what is lost that never may be told?—
We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve
Until the perfect closing of the night.
Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,
Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds
Are broken into melancholy gold;
The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs
Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light;
Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shrouds
Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold,
Which once, or so it seem'd, were full of might.
Some power it was, that lives not with us now,
A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.
O sweetly, swiftly pass'd!—air sings and murmurs;
Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough:
O sadly, swiftly pass'd!—air sighs and mutters;
Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.
Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.
O what is gone from us, we fancied ours?

AWAKING.

A Golden pen I mean to take,
A book of ivory white,
And in the mornings when I wake
The fair dream-thoughts to write,
Which out of heav'n to love are giv'n,
Like dews that fall at night.
For soon the delicate gifts decay
As stirs the miry, smoky day.

‘Sleep is like death,’ and after sleep
The world seems new begun,
Its quiet purpose clear and deep,
Its long-sought meaning won;
White thoughts stand luminous and firm
Like statues in the sun;
Refresh'd from supersensuous founts
The soul to blotless vision mounts.

‘Sleep is like death.’ Is death like sleep?
A waftage through still time?
And when its dreams of dawn shall peep
What strange or alter'd clime
Will they foreshow? No man may know;
Though some few souls may climb
So far as faintly to surmise
The master-secret of the skies.

AN AUTUMN EVENING.

Now is Queen Autumn's progress through the land
Her busy, sunbrown subjects all astir,
Preparing loyally on every hand
A golden triumph. Earth is glad of her.

The regal curtainings of clouds on high,
And shifting splendours of the vaulted air,
Express a jubilation in the sky,
That nobly in the festival doth share.

With arching garlands of unfinger'd green,
And knots of fruit, a bower each highway shows;
Loud busy Joy is herald on the scene
To Gratitude, Contentment, and Repose.

Lately, when this good time was at its best,
One evening found me, with half-wearied pace,
Mounting a hill against the lighted West,
A cool air softly flowing on my face.

The vast and gorgeous pomp of silent sky
Embathed a harvest realm in double gold;
Sheaf-tented fields of bloodless victory;
Stackyards, and cottages in leafy fold,

Whence climb'd the blue smoke-pillars. Grassy hill
And furrow'd land their graver colourings lent;
And some few rows of corn, ungarner'd still,
Like aged men to earth, their cradle, bent.

While reapers, gleaners, and full carts of grain,
With undisturbing motion and faint sound
Fed the rich calm o'er all the sumptuous plain:
Mountains, imbued with violet, were its bound.

Among the sheaves and hedges of the slope,
And harvest-people, I descended slowly,
Field after field, and reach'd a pleasant group
On their own land, that were not strangers wholly.

Here stood the Farmer, sturdy man though gray,
In sober parley with a stalwart son,
Who had been reaping in the rank all day,
And now put on his coat, for work was done.

Two girls, like half-blown roses twin, that breathed
The joy of youth untroubled with a care,
Laugh'd to their five-year nephew, as he wreathed
Red poppies through his younger sister's hair.

Their homestead bounds received me with the rest;
The cheerful mother waiting at the door
Had smiles for all, and welcome for the guest,
And bustling sought the choicest of her store.

O gentle rustic roof, and dainty board!
Kind eyes, frank voices, mirth and sense were there;
Love that went deep, and piety that soar'd;
The children's kisses and the evening pray'r.

Earth's common pleasures, near the ground like grass,
Are best of all; nor die although they fade:
Dear, simple household joys, that straightway pass
The precinct of devotion, undismay'd.

Returning homeward, soften'd, raised, and still'd;
Celestial peace, that rare, transcendent boon,
Fill'd all my soul, as heav'n and earth were fill'd
With bright perfection of the Harvest Moon.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

(A Child's Song.)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away,—
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,—
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

THE SHOOTING STAR.

Autumnal night's deep azure dome
Darken'd the lawn and terrace high,
Where groups had left their music-room
For starry hush and open sky,
To watch the meteors, how they went
Across the stately firmament.

As Walter paced with Josephine,
The loveliest maid of all he knew,
Touch'd by the vast and shadowy scene,
Their friendly spirits closer drew,
Beneath the dim-lit hollow night,
And those strange signals moving bright.

‘A wish,’ said Walter,—‘have you heard—
Wish'd in the shooting of a star,
Fulfils itself?’ ‘Prepare your word,’
Said Josephine; ‘there's nought to mar
The shining chance.’ ‘And may I tell?’
‘O no! for that would break the spell.’

But now a splendid meteor flew,
And ere it died the wish was made,
And won: for in a flash they knew
The happy truth, so long delay'd,
Which months and years had never brought,—
From this bright fleeting moment caught.

THE VALLEY STREAM.

Stream flowing swiftly, what music is thine!
The breezy rock-pass, and the storm-wooing pine,
Have taught thee their murmurs,
Their wild mountain-murmurs,
Subdued in thy liquid response to a sound
Which aids the repose of this pastoral ground,
Where mingles our valley an awe with the love
It smiles to the sheltering bastions above:
Thy cloud-haunted birthplace,
O Stream, flowing swiftly!

Encircle our meadows with bounty and grace,
Then move on thy journey with tranquiller pace,
To find the great waters,
The great ocean-waters,
Blue, wonderful, boundless to vision or thought;—
Thence, thence, might thy musical tidings be brought!
One waft of the tones of the infinite Sea!
Our gain is but songs of the mountain from thee,
O Child of the Mountain!
O Stream of our Valley!

And have we divined what is thunder'd and hiss'd
Where the lofty ledge glimmers through screens of gray mist,
And raves forth its secrets,
The heart of its secrets?
Or learnt what is hid in thy whispering note
Mysteriously gather'd from fountains remote
To the peak and the fell? O what music is thine,
Thou swift-flowing River, if soul's ear be fine,
Far-wafted, prophetic,
Thou Stream of our Valley!

SOLUS.

Autumn and sunset now have double-dyed
The foliage and the fern of this deep wood,
The sky above it melting placidly
All crimsonings to gray. No sound is heard.
The Spirit of the Place, like mine, seems lull'd
In pensive retrospection. One more Spring,
And one more Summer past, and one more Year.

Anon the distant bell begins to chime,
And calls me homeward, calls me to a home
As lonely as the Forest, peopled but
With memories, and fantasies, and shadows.
These wait for me this evening. What beyond? . . .
The silent sunset of a lonely life?

Norley Wood.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[What saith the river to the rushes gray]

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
Who can tell the whisper'd things they say?
Youth, and prime, and life, and time,
For ever, ever fled away!

Drop your wither'd garlands in the stream,
Low autumnal branches,
Round the skiff that launches
Wavering downward through the lands of dream.
Ever, ever fled away!
This the burden, this the theme.

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
It is near the closing of the day.
Near the night. Life and light
For ever, ever fled away!

Draw him tideward down; but not in haste.
Mouldering daylight lingers;
Night with her cold fingers
Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste.
Ever, ever fled away!
Vainly cherish'd! vainly chased!

What saith the river to the rushes gray,
Rushes sadly bending,
River slowly wending?
Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay,
Up the cave moans the wave,
For ever, ever, ever fled away!

LATE AUTUMN.

October—and the skies are cool and gray
O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf.
The dignity of woods in rich decay
Accords full well with this majestic grief
That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day,
Whose afternoon is hush'd, and wintry brief.
Only a robin sings from any spray.

And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills
White mist around the hollows of the hills,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees
His cot and stackyard, with the homestead trees,
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.

TWO MOODS.

I.

Slow drags this dreary season;
The earth a lump of lead;
The vacant skies, blue skies or brown,
Bereft of joy and hope.
I cannot find a reason
To wish I were not dead,—
Unfasten'd and let glide, gone down
A dumb and dusky slope.
I recognise the look of care
In every face; for now I share
What makes a forehead wrinkles wear,
And sets a mouth to mope.
A sombre, languid yearning
For silence and the dark:
Shall wish, or fear, or wisest word,
Arouse me any more?
What profits bookleaf-turning?
Or prudent care and cark?
Or Folly's drama, seen and heard
And acted as before?
No comfort for the dismal Day;
It cannot work, or think, or pray;
A shivering pauper, sad and gray,
With no good thing in store.

II.

What lifts me and lightens?
Enriches and brightens
The day, the mere day, the most marvellous day?
O pleasure divine!
An invisible wine
Pours quick through my being; broad Heaven is benign,
And the Earth full of wonders, and both of them mine,—
What first shall I do, shall I say?
See the bareheaded frolicsome babes as they run
Go skipping from right foot to left foot in fun,—
'Tis the pleasure of living;
Too long I've o'erlook'd it,
In sulk and misgiving,
And lunatic fret;
But it wakes in me yet,
Though the world has rebuked it:
O city and country! O landscape and sun!
Air cloudy or breezy,
And stars, every one!
Gay voices of children!
All duties grown easy,
All truths unbewild'ring,
Since Life, Life immortal, is clearly begun!

TWILIGHT VOICES.

Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
Voices I hear;
I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
Wavering by on the dusky blast,—
‘Come, let us go, for the night is falling,
Come, let us go, for the day is past!’

Troops of joys are they, now departed?
Wingèd hopes that no longer stay?
Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
Powers that have linger'd their latest day?
What do they say?
What do they sing? I hear them calling,
Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—
‘Come, come, for the night is falling;
Come, come, for the day is past!’

Sing they to me?—‘Thy taper's wasted;
Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted;
Time is ending;—we go! we go!’
Sing they so?
Mystical voices, floating, calling;
Dim farewells—the last, the last?—
‘Come, come away, the night is falling;
Come, come away, the day is past!’

See, I am ready, Twilight Voices;
Child of the spirit-world am I;
How should I fear you? my soul rejoices.
O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
Fain would I fly!
Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
Out of the dimness vague and vast?—
Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;
Quick, let us go,—the day is past!

A GRAVESTONE.

Far from the churchyard dig his grave,
On some green mound beside the wave;
To westward, sea and sky alone,
And sunsets. Put a massy stone,
With mortal name and date, a harp
And bunch of wild flowers, carven sharp;
Then leave it free to winds that blow,
And patient mosses creeping slow,
And wandering wings, and footstep rare
Of human creature pausing there.

HYMN.

[O how dimly walks the wisest]

O how dimly walks the wisest
On his journey to the grave,
Till Thou, Lamp of Souls, arisest,
Beaming over land and wave!

Blind and weak behold him wander,
Full of doubt and full of dread;
Till the dark is rent asunder,
And the gulf of light is spread.

Shadows were the gyves that bound him;
Now his soul is light in light;
Heav'n within him, Heav'n around him,
Pure, eternal, infinite.

WINTER.

[Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure]

Bare twigs in April enhance our pleasure;
We know the good time is yet to come;
With leaves and flow'rs to fill Summer's measure,
And countless songs ere the birds be dumb.

Bare twigs in Autumn are signs for sadness;
We feel the good time is well-nigh past;
The glow subdued, and the voice of gladness,
And frosty whispers in every blast.

For perfect garlands just now we waited;
Already, garlands are turning sere;
And Time, old traveller, like one belated,
Hurries on to fulfil the year.

Ah, Spring's defects, and October's losses!
Fair hope, sad memory!—but grieve not thou:
In leafless dells, look, what emerald mosses;
Nay, secret buds on the wintry bough.

FOOTSTEPS.

I.

Sound of feet
In the lonely street,
Coming to-night,—coming to me?
Perhaps (why not? it well may be)
My dear old friend
From the world's end,
At last.
How we shall meet,
And shout and greet,
(O hearty voice that memory knows!)
Till the first gush and rush be past,
And smoother now the current flows;
Plenty on either side to tell,
Sharing joy, and soothing pain
As friendship's tongue can do so well
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

II.

Stay! stay!
Coming this way
Through the dull night—perhaps to me—
Coming, coming, coming fast,
(And why may not such things be?)
A messenger's feet
In the lonely street,
With some good wonderful news to say
At last.

A word has been spoken,
A bad spell broken,
Men see aright,
All faces are bright,
For the world to-morrow begins anew;
There's much to plan, and plenty to do;
Away! search, sift the country through,
And say at once to a certain few:
‘Come, for our gain,
We know you, and now we have work for you.’
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

III.

Close, close,
Outside the house,
Steps approaching!—are these for me?
Coming gently, coming fast,
(And O, if this can be!)—
Out of the strife
Of selfish life
My Love has fled of a sudden,—'tis She,
At last!
Here she stands,
Eyes and mouth and tender form
True and warm;
My dream of many a lonely year;
Stretches her hands—
No doubt or fear—
‘See, my Love, 'tis all in vain
To keep true lovers parted,
If they be faithful-hearted!’
Hush! hark!
I hear, in the dark—
Only the footsteps of the rain.

ÆOLIAN HARP.

[Is it all in vain?]

Is it all in vain?
Strangely throbbing pain,
Trembling joy of memory!
Bygone things, how shadowy
Within their graves they lie!

Shall I sit then by their graves,
Listening to the melancholy waves?
I would fain.
But even these in vapours die:
For nothing may remain.

One survivor in a boat
On the wide dim deep afloat,
When the sunken ship is gone,
Lit by late stars before the dawn.

The sea rolls vaguely, and the stars are dumb.
The ship is sunk full many a year.
Dream no more of loss or gain.
A ship was never here.
A dawn will never, never come.
—Is it all in vain?

100

THE LIGHTHOUSE.

The plunging storm flies fierce against the pane,
And thrills our cottage with redoubled shocks;
The chimney mutters and the rafters strain;
Without, the breakers roar along the rocks.

See, from our fire and taper-lighted room,
How savage, pitiless, and uncontroll'd
The grim horizon shows its tossing gloom
Of waves from unknown angry gulfs uproll'd;

Where, underneath that black portentous lid,
A long pale space between the night and sea
Gleams awful; while in deepest darkness hid
All other things in our despair agree.

But lo! what star amid the thickest dark
A soft and unexpected dawn has made?
O welcome Lighthouse, thy unruffled spark,
Piercing the turmoil and the deathly shade!

By such a glimpse o'er the distracted wave
Full many a soul to-night is re-possest
Of courage and of order, strong to save;
And like effect it works within my breast.

101

Three faithful men have set themselves to stand
Against all storms that from the sky can blow,
Where peril must expect no aiding hand,
And tedium no relief may hope to know.

Nor shout they, passing brothers to inform
What weariness they feel, or what affright;
But tranquilly in solitude and storm
Abide from month to month, and show their light.

102

NIGHTWIND.

Moaning blast,
The summer is past,
And time and life are speeding fast.

Wintry wind,
Oh, where to find
The hopes we have left so far behind!

Mystery cold,
To thee have they told
Secrets the years may yet unfold?

Sorrow of night,
Is love so light
As to come and go like a breeze's flight?

Opiate balm,
Is death so calm
As to faint in one's ear like a distant psalm?

103

ANGELA.

After the long bitter days, and nights weigh'd down with my sadness,
I lay without stir or sound in my lonely room in a twilight.
Stilly She glided in, and tenderly came she beside me,
Putting her arm round my head, heavy and weary with aching;
Whispering low, in a voice that trembled with love and with pity,
‘Knowest thou not that I love thee?—am I not one in thy sorrow?
Maze not thy soul in dark windings, joy that our Father excels us,
Since with His power extends the High One's care and compassion.
Fear not the losing of love; love is the surest of all things,
Heaven the birth-place and home of everything holy and lovely.
Go thou cautiously, fearlessly, on in the way thou hast chosen;
Pits and crags that seem, thou wilt find are mostly but shadows.
Take thou care of the present, thy future will build itself for thee.

104

Life in the body is full of entanglements, harsh contradictions;
Keep but the soul-realities, all will unwind itself duly.
Think of me, pray for me, love me—I cease not to love thee, my dearest.’

So it withdrew and died. The heart, too joyful, too tender,
Felt a new fear of its pain, and its want, and the desolate evening,
Sunken, and dull, and cold. But quickly a kind overflowing
Soothed my feverish eyelids: my spirit grew calmer and calmer:
Noting, at length, how the gloom acknowledged a subtle suffusion,
Veiling with earnest peace the stars looking in through the window,
Where, at the time appointed from numberless millions of ages,
Slowly, up eastern night, like a pale smoke mounted the moon-dawn.

105

[On the Longest Day]

On the Longest Day,
Heav'n was gay,
Roses and sunshine along the way.
I loiter'd and stood,
In listless mood,
With many a sigh,
I knew not why:
Nothing pleasant; nothing good.

On the Shortest Day,
Heav'n was gray,
Coldness and mire along the way.
How or where
Had I cast off care?
For light and strong,
With a snatch of song,
I stept through the mud and biting air.

Moods, that drift,
Or creep and shift,
Or change, not a windy cloud more swift,
No fetter found
To hold you bound,—
Can I dare to go
To the depth below
Whence ye rise, overspreading air and ground?

106

There in the gulf
Of my deep deep self,
Stranger than land of dragon and elf,
Acts and schemes,
Hopes and dreams,
Loves and praises,
Follies, disgraces,
Swarm, and each moment therewith teems.

They rise like breath
Of coming death,—
Of flow'rs that the soul remembereth,—
The Present, whose place
Is a foot-sole space,
Being then as nought.
But the Present hath wrought
All this; and our Will is King, by God's grace.

THE WINTER PEAR.

Is always Age severe?
Is never youth austere?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in th'year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.

107

HALF-WAKING.

I thought it was the little bed
I slept in long ago;
A straight white curtain at the head,
And two smooth knobs below.

I thought I saw the nursery fire,
And in a chair well-known
My mother sat, and did not tire
With reading all alone.

If I should make the slightest sound
To show that I'm awake,
She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,
My pillow softly shake;

Kiss me, and turn my face to see
The shadows on the wall,
And then sing Rousseau's Dream to me,
Till fast asleep I fall.

But this is not my little bed;
That time is far away;
With strangers now I live instead,
From dreary day to day.

108

WINTER CLOUD.

O nameless Fear, which I would fain contemn!
The swarthy wood-marge, skeleton'd with snow
Driv'n by a sharp north-east on bough and stem;
The broad white moor, and sable stream below
Blurr'd with great smoke-wreaths wandering to and fro;
That monstrous cloud pressing the night on them,
Cloud without shape or colour, drooping slow
Down all the sky, and chill sleet for its hem;—
Such face of earth and time have I not watch'd
In other years: why now my spirit sinks,
Like captive who should hear, in helpless links,
Some gate of horror stealthily unlatch'd,
Who shows me? but Calamity methinks
Is creeping nigh, her cruel plot being hatch'd.

109

FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS.

The time of Frost is the time for me!
When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee,
When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound,
And the footstep rings on the musical ground;
When earth is white, and air is bright,
And every breath a new delight!

While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest,
What a glorious sky!—through the level west
Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze,
Which deepen'd up into purple grays,
With stars aloft as the light decreas'd,
Till the great Moon rose in the rich blue east.

And Morning!—each pane a garden of frost,
Of delicate flow'ring, as quickly lost;
For the stalks are fed by the moon's cold beams,
And the leaves are woven like woof of dreams
By Night's keen breath, and a glance of the Sun
Like dreams will scatter them every one.

Hurra! the lake is a league of glass!
Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass.
Off we shoot, and poise and wheel,
And swiftly turn upon scoring heel;
And our flying sandals chirp and sing
Like a flock of swallows fresh on the wing.

Away from the crowd with the wind we drift,
No vessel's motion so smoothly swift;
Fainter and fainter the tumult grows,
And the gradual stillness and wide repose
Touch with a hue more soft and grave
The lapse of joy's declining wave.

110

Pure is the ice; our glance may sound
Deep through an awful, dim profound,
To the water dungeons where snake-weeds hide,
Over which, as self-upborne, we glide,
Like wizards on dark adventure bent,
The masters of every element.

Homeward—and how the shimmering snow
Kisses our hot cheeks as we go!
Wavering down the feeble wind,
Like myriad thoughts in a Poet's mind,
Till the earth, and trees, and icy lakes,
Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes.

But our Village street—the stir and noise!
The long black slides running mad with boys!
The pie is kept hot, in sequence due,
Aristocrat now the hobnail shoe;
And the quaint white bullets fly here and there
With laugh and shout in the wintry air.

In the clasp of Home, by the ruddy fire,
Ranged in a ring to our heart's desire,
Now, who will tell some wondrous tale,
Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale,
Set chin on hands, make grave eyes stare,
Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair?

The one low voice goes wandering on
In a mystic world, whither all are gone;
The shadows dance; little Caroline
Has stolen her fingers up into mine.
But the night outside is very chill,
And the Frost hums loud at the window-sill.

111

[The Boy from his bedroom-window]

The Boy from his bedroom-window
Look'd over the little town,
And away to the bleak black upland
Under a clouded moon.

The moon came forth from her cavern
He saw the sudden gleam
Of a tarn in the swarthy moorland;
Or perhaps the whole was a dream.

For I never could find that water
In all my walks and rides:
Far-off, in the Land of Memory,
That midnight pool abides.

Many fine things had I glimpse of,
And said, ‘I shall find them one day.’
Whether within or without me
They were, I cannot say.

112

OH! WERE MY LOVE.

Oh! were my Love a country lass,
That I might see her every day,
And sit with her on hedgerow grass
Beneath a bough of may;
And find her cattle when astray,
Or help to drive them to the field,
And linger on our homeward way,
And woo her lips to yield
A twilight kiss before we parted,
Full of love, yet easy-hearted.

Oh! were my Love a cottage maid,
To spin through many a winter night,
Where ingle-corner lends its shade
From fir-wood blazing bright.
Beside her wheel what dear delight
To watch the blushes go and come
With tender words, that took no fright
Beneath the friendly hum;
Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling,
At a fire-side legend's telling.

Oh! were my Love a peasant girl,
That never saw the wicked town;
Was never dight with silk or pearl,
But graced a homely gown.
How little force in fashion's frown
To vex our unambitious lot,
How rich were love and peace to crown
Our green secluded cot,
Where Age would come serene and shining,
Like an autumn day's declining!

113

SONG.

[O Spirit of the Summertime!]

O Spirit of the Summertime!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings, calm and late,
When merry children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadowlands at dewy prime;—
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summertime!

114

RISING OF JUPITER.

Splendidly Jupiter's planet rises over the river,
Jupiter, fabulous god of vanish'd mortals and years;
Silence and dusk diffused far and wide on the landscape,
Solemn, shadowy world, past and present in one.
Many a glimmering light is aloft, but grandest to vision
Now, as noblest in rank of our Sun's astonishing brood,
Over dim waters and wolds and hills, in the clear dark night-sky,
Jupiter hangs like a royal diamond, throbbing with flame.

Still in our starry heav'n the Pagan Gods have their station;
Only, in sooth, as words: what were they ever but words?
Lo, mankind hath fashion'd its thoughts, its hopes, and its dreamings,
Fashion'd and named them thus and thus, by the bardic voice,
Fashion'd them better or worse, from a shallower insight or deeper,
Names to abide for a term, in many mouths or a few;

115

Each and all in turn to give place, be it sooner or later.
What is ten thousand years on the mighty Dial of Heav'n?

Nothing is fix'd. All moves. O Star! thou hast look'd upon changes
Here on this Planet of Man. Changes unguess'd are to come.
The New Time forgetteth the Old,—remembereth somewhat, a little,
A scheme, a fancy, a form, a word of the poet, a name.
Still, when a deeper thought, a loftier, wider and truer,
Springs in the soul and flows into life, it cannot be lost.
That which is gain'd for man is gain'd, as we trust, for ever.
That which is gain'd is gain'd. We ascend, however it be.

Blaze, pure Jewel! Shine, O Witness, pulsing to mortals
Over the gulf of space a message in echoes of light.
Dead generations beheld thee, men unborn shall behold thee,
Multitudes, foolish or wise, call thee by other words.
What was thy title of old, a beacon to wandering shepherds,
Lifted in black-blue vault o'er the wide Chaldæan plain?
What is it now, Bright Star, at the wigwams out on the prairie?
What between two pagodas at eve in the Flowery Land?

116

Roll up the sky, vast Globe! whereuntó this other, our dwelling,
Is but the cat to the lion, the stalk of grass to the palm.
Certain to eye and thought,—but a very dream cannot reach thee,
Glimpsing what larger lives may dwell in thy spacious year.
Heed they at all, for their part, our little one-moon'd planet?
Of China, India, or Hellas, or England, what do they know?
How have they named it, the spark our Earth, that we think so much of,
One faint spark among many, with moon too small to be seen?

O great Space—great Spheres!—great Thoughts in the Mind!—what are ye?
O little lives of men upon earth!—O Planets and Moons!
Wheel'd and whirl'd in the sweep of your measured and marvellous motion,
Smoothly, resistlessly, swung round the strength of the central Orb,
Terrible furnace of fire—one lamp of the ancient abysses,
An Infinite Universe lighted with millions of burning suns,
Boundlessly fill'd with electrical palpitant world forming ether,
Endlessly everywhere moving, concéntrating, welling-forth pow'r,
Life into countless shapes drawn upward, mystical spirit
Born, that man—even we—may commune with God Most High.

117

WINTER VERDURE.

I sat at home, and thought there lived no green,
Because the time is winter; but, to-day,
Entering a park a mile or two away,
Smooth laurels tower'd as if no cold had been;
The tangled ivy, holly sharp and sheen,
Hung over nested ferns, and craglets gray
Broider'd with moss; high firs, a drooping screen,
Guarded their turfy lawn in close array.

Soon shall the hopeful woodbine-garland swing,
And countless buds the misty branch impearl;
My little Portress, fair come Spring to you—
Life's and the year's—flower-cheek'd and sparkling girl!
Or are you, child, the Spirit of the Spring,
Safe in these warmer groves the winter through?

118

EVENING PRAYER.

Good Lord, to thee I bow my head;
Protect me helpless in my bed;
May no ill dream disturb the night,
Nor sinful thought my soul affright!
And sacred sleep enfold me round,
As with a guardian-angel's wings,
From every earthly sight and sound;
While tranquil influence, like the dew
Upon thine outer world of things,
Prepares a morning fresh and new.