Life and Phantasy by William Allingham: With frontispiece by Sir John E. Millais: A design by Arthur H. Hughes and a song for voice and piano forte |
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 | Life and Phantasy |  |
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PLACES, ETC.
57
STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
(1597.)
OLD MASTER GRUNSEY AND GOODMAN DODD.G.
God save you, Goodman Dodd,—a sight to see you!
D.
Save you, good Master Grunsey,—Sir, how be you?
G.
Middlish, thank Heav'n! Rare weather for the wheat.
D.
Farms will be thirsty, after all this heat.
G.
And so is we. Sit down on this here bench:
We'll drink a pot o' yaäl. Coom then, wench!
My service—ah! I'm well enough, i' fegs,
But for thir plaguey rheum i' both my legs.
Whiles I can't hardly get about: Oh, dear!
D.
You see, we don't get younger every year.
G.
You're a young fellow yet.
D.
Well-nigh threescore.
G.
I be your elder fifteen year and more.
Hast any news?
D.
Not much. New Place be sold,
And Willy Shakespeare's bought it, so I'm told.
G.
What, little Willy Shakespeare bought the Place!
Lord bless us, how young folk gets on apace!
Sir Hugh's girt house down by the grammar-school!—
This Shakespeare's (take my word upon't) no fool.
I minds him sin' he were so high's my knee;
A gallows little chap as e'er ye see;
58
Below the church; “Yo' let 'en swim i' peace,
Yong dog!” I says, “or I shall fling 'ee in.”
Will was on t'other bank, and did but grin,
And call out, “Sir, you come across to here!”
D.
I knows old John this five and thirty year.
In old times many a cup he made me drink;
But Willy warn't aborn then, I don't think,
Or might a' been a babe on's mother's arm,
When I did cart 'en fleeces from our farm.
I went a-coortin' then, in Avon Lane,
And, tho' bit furder, I was allays fain
To bring my cart thereby, upon a chance
To catch some foolish little nod or glance,
Or “Meet me, Mary, won't 'ee, Charlcote way,
Or down at Clopton Bridge, next holiday?”—
Here to yer, maäster.
G.
Saäme to yo.’ 'Tis hot.
We might do wuss nor call another pot.
Good Mistress Nan!
We might do wuss nor call another pot.
Good Mistress Nan!
Will Shakespeare, troth, I knew;
A nimble curly-pate, and pretty, too,
About the street; he'd grow'd an idle lad,
And like enough, 'twas thought, to turn out bad;
I don't just fairly know, but folk did say
He vex'd the Lucys, and so fleed away.
A nimble curly-pate, and pretty, too,
About the street; he'd grow'd an idle lad,
And like enough, 'twas thought, to turn out bad;
I don't just fairly know, but folk did say
He vex'd the Lucys, and so fleed away.
D.
He's wuth as much as Tanner Twigg to-day;
And all by plays in Lunnon.
G.
Folk talks big;
Will Shakespeare wuth as much as Tanner Twigg—
Tut, tut! Be Will a player-man by trade?
D.
O' course he be, o' course he be; and made
A woundy heap o' money, too, and bought
A playhouse for himsen like, out and out;
And makes up plays, beside, for 'en to act;
Tho' I cawn't tell 'ee rightly, for a fact,
If out o' books or's owan yead it be.
59
They say Will's doing foinely, howsomiver.
G.
Why, Dodd, the little chap were allays cliver.
I don't know nothing now o' such-like toys;
New fashions plenty, mun', sin' we were boys;
Mummins we used to han, wi' scriptur' hist'ries,
An' puppet-shows, and moralties, and myst'ries;
The Death o' Judas was a pretty thing,
“Ju-dass! Ju-dass!” the Divil used to sing.
But time goes on, for sure, and fashion alters.
D.
At th'Falcon, t'other night, says young Jack Walters,
“Willy's a great man now!”
G.
A jolterhead!
What does it count for, when all's done and said?
Ah! who'll obey, let Will say “Come” or “Go”?
Such like as him don't reckon much, I trow.
Sir, they shall travel first, like you and me,
See Lunnon, to find out what great men be.
Ay, marry, must they. Saints! to see the Court
Take water down to Greenwich; there's fine sport!
Her Highness i' her frills and puffs and pearls,
Barons, and lords, and chamberlains, and earls,
So thick as midges round her,—look at such
An' ye would talk o' greatness! why, the touch
Be on their stewards and lackeys, Goodman Dodd,
Who'll hardly answer Shakespeare wi' a nod,
And let him come, doff'd cap and bended knee.
We knows a trifle, neighbour, you and me.
D.
We may, sir. This here's grand old Stratford brew;
No better yaäl i' Lunnon, search it through.
New Place ben't no such bargain, when all's done;
'Twas dear, I knows it.
G.
Yo' bought better, mun,
At Hoggin Fields: all ain't alike in skill.
D.
Thanks to the Lord above! I've not done ill.
No more han yo', friend Grunsey, in yer trade.
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So-so. But here's young Will wi' money made
And money saved; whereon I sets him down,
Say else who likes, a credit to the town;
Tho' some do shake their yeads at player-folk.
D.
A very civil man to chat and joke;
I've ofttimes had a bit o' talk wi' Will.
G.
How doth old Master Shakespeare?
D.
Bravely still.
And so doth madam too, the comely dame.
G.
And Willy's wife—what used to be her name?
Older than Willy, six, seven year or so;
Ann something—Hatchard was it? Hatchway?—no.
D.
Why, Hathaway, fro' down by Shottery gate.
I don't think she's so much about o' late.
Their son, yo' see, the only son they had,
Died last year, and she took on dreadful bad;
And so the fayther did awhile, I'm told.
This boy o' theirs was nine or ten year old.
—Willy himsen may bide here now, mayhap.
G.
He allays were a cliver little chap.
I'm glad o's luck, an' 'twere for old John's sake.
Your arm, sweet sir. Oh, how my legs do ache!
61
WEIMAR.
By help of that kindly Scot, James Marshall,
then Secretary to the Grand Duchess, I saw here, among other
interesting things the most interesting, Goethe's House just as he
left it, at that time jealously shut up from the public by the poet's
grandson. Some of the great man's coats and hats hung in a
recess (I ventured to try on a hat, and found it extravagantly too
large for a large-sized head). In a narrow slip of a place, like part
of a passage, stood his few books carelessly on deal shelves. This
narrow book-room opened into the working-room, low-ceilinged,
squarish, its two small windows looking into a garden with wicket
to a quiet back street. Round the working-room ran a continuous
breast-high desk, with ledge at top, and between this desk, on
which books or papers could lie for reference, and a large, low table
in the centre, Goethe paced, dictating to his amanuensis—for the
last eight years of his life to the very man who was showing me
the place. On the opposite side from the book-room was the door
of the small bed-room, with hardly space for more than the
curtainless bed, arm-chair, and little table, on which stood a phial
marked inside with some brown medicine, and labelled “Herr
Geheimerath von Goethe.” This was the old part of the house, the
Poet's workshop and living place, entered by a furtive door off the
wide staircase leading from the Roman hall to the reception-rooms,
with their casts of statues, framed engravings, and glass cases of
curiosities. The impress of Goethe's personality everywhere was
clear and fresh, as tho' he were but gone a week or two.
By help of that kindly Scot, James Marshall, then Secretary to the Grand Duchess, I saw here, among other interesting things the most interesting, Goethe's House just as he left it, at that time jealously shut up from the public by the poet's grandson. Some of the great man's coats and hats hung in a recess (I ventured to try on a hat, and found it extravagantly too large for a large-sized head). In a narrow slip of a place, like part of a passage, stood his few books carelessly on deal shelves. This narrow book-room opened into the working-room, low-ceilinged, squarish, its two small windows looking into a garden with wicket to a quiet back street. Round the working-room ran a continuous breast-high desk, with ledge at top, and between this desk, on which books or papers could lie for reference, and a large, low table in the centre, Goethe paced, dictating to his amanuensis—for the last eight years of his life to the very man who was showing me the place. On the opposite side from the book-room was the door of the small bed-room, with hardly space for more than the curtainless bed, arm-chair, and little table, on which stood a phial marked inside with some brown medicine, and labelled “Herr Geheimerath von Goethe.” This was the old part of the house, the Poet's workshop and living place, entered by a furtive door off the wide staircase leading from the Roman hall to the reception-rooms, with their casts of statues, framed engravings, and glass cases of curiosities. The impress of Goethe's personality everywhere was clear and fresh, as tho' he were but gone a week or two.
[October, 1859.]
I
In little German Weimar,With soft green hills enfolded,
Where shady Ilm-brook wanders,
A Great Man lived and wrote;
In life and art and nature
He conn'd their “open secret,”
Of men and hours and fortunes
He reverently took note.
Upon a verge of Europe,
Facing the silent sunsets,
And loud Atlantic billows,
For me, too, rose his thought,—
Turn'd to a shape of stars on high
Within the spiritual sky
Of many an upward-gazing eye.
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II
And now, this new October,Within a holy garden,
'Mid flowers and trees and crosses,
When dusk begins to fall,—
Where linden leaves are paling,
And poplar leaves are gilded,
And crimson is the wild-vine
That hangs across the wall,—
I see the little temple
Wherein, with dust of princes,
The body lies of Goethe,
And may not move at all.
He mark'd all changes of the year;
He loved to live; he did not fear
The never-broken silence here.
III
Slow foots the gray old Sexton,The ducal town's Dead-watcher,
Attending day and night time
A bell that never rings;
The corpse upon the pallet,
A thread to every finger,—
The slightest touch would sound it,
But silence broods and clings.
Beside the room of stillness,
While yet his couch is warmer,
This old man hath his biding,
Therefrom the key he brings.
For mighty mortals, in his day,
He hath unlock'd the House of Clay,—
For them, as we are wont to say.
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IV
By yellow-leafy midwalkSlow foots that aged Sexton;
“Ja wohl! I have seen Goethe,
And spoken, too, with him.”
The lamp with cord he lowers,
And I, by steps descending,
Behold, through grated doorway,
A chamber chill and dim,—
Gaze on a dark red coffer:
Full fourscore years were counted,
When that grand head lay useless,
And each heroic limb.
Schiller's dust is close beside,
And Karl August's not far,—denied
His chosen place by princely pride.
V
The day had gloom'd and drizzled,But clear'd itself in parting,
The hills were soft and hazy,
Fine colours streak'd the west
(Above that distant ocean),
And Weimar stood before me,
A dream of half my lifetime,
A vision for the rest:
The House that fronts the fountain,
The Cottage at the woodside,—
Long since I surely knew them,
But still, to see was best.
Town and Park for eyes and feet:
But all th'inhabitants I greet
Are Ghosts, in every walk and street.
64
MOONRISE.
(IN THE ISLE OF MAN.)
I.
Above the massy headlands dim
A swelling glow, a fiery birth,
A marvel in the sky doth swim,
Advanced upon the hush of earth;
A swelling glow, a fiery birth,
A marvel in the sky doth swim,
Advanced upon the hush of earth;
A Globe, o'erhanging bright and brave,
The pale green-glimmering ocean floor,
Silvers its wave, its rustling wave,
Soft folded on the shelving shore.
The pale green-glimmering ocean floor,
Silvers its wave, its rustling wave,
Soft folded on the shelving shore.
II.
O lonely Moon, a lonely placeThou cheerest with thy welcome face;
Three sand-side houses, and afar
The steady beacon's faithful star,
Are all the tokens few and weak
That here of human effort speak.
III.
But this very moment risenFull above the mighty City,
Viewing palace, viewing prison,
Calmly, without pride or pity,
Strik'st thou its lamplit ranges wan,
Witching all thou gazest on.
Thou hast one mysterious pattern made
Over the multiform enormous bound;
Halving church-towers and endless streets with shade,
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With countless human scenes and groupings there;
Piercing to many a lurking-place profound;
Marking those aits of melancholy ground
Where 'mid the rush of life the dead repose;
Pale sliding through with sad unnoticed ray
Skylights of crowded theatres, and long rows
Of hospital corridors, but glittering gay
In eyes of youth, and love, and merriment;
Flooding the suburbs with effulgence wide,
Gleaming upon the River which doth glide
Serpenting through it all, intent to hide
Its secrets, crossed by many a dotted Bridge.
—Here's but the sea, the shadowy mountain-ridge.
IV.
Little Town by other shores,Girt with other mountains;
No Italian city pours
Such a wealth of fountains
As in thee my footsteps meet
Gushing up in every street
Of recollections full and sweet,
Childhood's home of vanish'd bliss,
Still the heart's metropolis.
O Moon, a calm ascent is thine
Above that well-known mountain-line,
There, while I look, ascendest thou,
Its towering westward bastion now
To golden sunset bids goodnight
And eastward it receives thy ghostly light.
Art thou truly looking down
Into the lanes of the little Town
Where I know every chimney's place,
Every door and window's face?
Hast thou set before thee clear,
As in many a by-gone year
66
One small roof, familiar—strange,
Opening wide to many a vision
Grim, fantastic, or elysian?
Yes,—on that other River glancing,
In its ripples merrily dancing,
Swallowed in the gloomy arches
Where beneath the Bridge it marches
(One long bridge, with not a light
Whether in black or shiny night),
Beaming unopposed and wide
O'er the Harbour's mingling tide,
Touching with a wand of power,
Landmark gray, the old Church-tower,
Yet disturbing not its sleep
Nor the slumber, far more deep,
Its solitary precincts claim,
Paved with many a well-known name,—
As thou wilt thou goest free
In the place where I would be.
There the Fall for ever tolls,
And the Bar, through nights and days,
Booms from sandhills by the sea
When the Atlantic billow rolls
Heavily and solemnly,
Now whitened with thy rays.
The narrow tide I gaze on here
With thee, O Moon, less kindly greets
Mine eyes than that which fiercely beats
The stern Atlantic cliffs along;
Its voice, a stranger's, far less strong,
Less soothes mine ear.
V.
But, Lily of the Lake of Heaven,Thou Wellhead pure and deep of silver light
O'erflowing mistily a world of dreams,
67
Watcher of Earth, full many a Mountain-range
River and Wilderness and City strange
Within thy ken,—Empress of ocean-streams
And stormier human souls, to whom is given
To fling great waves ashore and make men wild,—
Powerful Enchantress with so calm a face,
By whom are reconciled
The contradictories of Time, of Space,
Of things that seem to be.
The passing moment and the present place
Merge, melt, when look'd upon by Thee,
Into Eternity.
68
W. W.
(April 23rd, 1850).
One April found a Youth on Mona's shore,
With daily prospect of the Cumbrian Hills,
Cloud-wreath'd or sunlit, o'er the Irish Sea.
“A Prince dwells there,” he said, “and I shall walk
Through landscapes that confess him suzerain
Under the Sovereign Lord of earth and men,—
May see the Prince himself, may humbly meet
His venerable eye, may hear his voice.”
And day by day new Spring upon the fields
And waves grew brighter.
With daily prospect of the Cumbrian Hills,
Cloud-wreath'd or sunlit, o'er the Irish Sea.
“A Prince dwells there,” he said, “and I shall walk
Through landscapes that confess him suzerain
Under the Sovereign Lord of earth and men,—
May see the Prince himself, may humbly meet
His venerable eye, may hear his voice.”
And day by day new Spring upon the fields
And waves grew brighter.
One day brought this word—
“The wise old Poet of the mountain-land
Is gone away for ever. You may seek
But never shall you find him crooning song
Among the shadows of the folded hills,
By lonely tarn or dashing rivulet,
Down the green valley, up the windy fell,
In rock-built pass, or under whispering leaves,
Or floating on the broad translucent mere
Between two heavens. You will but find his grave.”
The poet-loving Youth went forth; and clear
“The wise old Poet of the mountain-land
Is gone away for ever. You may seek
But never shall you find him crooning song
Among the shadows of the folded hills,
By lonely tarn or dashing rivulet,
Down the green valley, up the windy fell,
In rock-built pass, or under whispering leaves,
Or floating on the broad translucent mere
Between two heavens. You will but find his grave.”
Stood the far coast across a glittering tide;
But how forlorn those faint-blue rocky tops!
How emptied of its joy the enchanted ground!
He paced the strand, and raised his eyes anew,
And saw as 'twere a halo round the peaks.
Something of Him abides there, and will stay;
Those Mountains were in Wordsworth's soul; his soul
Is on those Mountains, now, and evermore.
69
THREE SISTERS OF HAWORTH.
Three sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne,Afar in Yorkshire wolds they live together;
Names that I keep like any sacristan;
The human registry of souls as pure
As sky in hermit waters on a moor,
Those liquid islands of dark seas of heather;
Voices that reach my solitude from theirs;
Hands that I kiss a thousand miles away,
And send a thousand greetings of my own—
But these, alas! only the west wind bears.
Nay, they have vanish'd. Hills and vales are lone
Where Earth once knew them. What is now to say?
Three strangers dead—'tis little to endure:
Great crowds of strangers vanish every day.
Yet will I see those gravestones if I may.
70
IN THE TRAIN.
Now, with its precious human freight,
Barr'd and link'd in long array,
Slowly moves th'enormous weight,
Smoothly glides away;
Barr'd and link'd in long array,
Slowly moves th'enormous weight,
Smoothly glides away;
Quick and quicker, panting loud,
Finds the narrow ledges true.
Over fields a torn white cloud
Lingers into dew.
Finds the narrow ledges true.
Over fields a torn white cloud
Lingers into dew.
Swiftly with dismaying shriek,
Into cavern gloom we roll,
Rushing into daylight, seek
Tirelessly our goal.
Into cavern gloom we roll,
Rushing into daylight, seek
Tirelessly our goal.
Through the mountain's rocky heart,
Over champaign richly spread,
'Thwart the flood, the chasm we dart,
Distant streets to tread.
Over champaign richly spread,
'Thwart the flood, the chasm we dart,
Distant streets to tread.
Miracle nor magic spell
Thus our Flying Village moves;
Mind with matter mingled well
Potent leaven proves.
Thus our Flying Village moves;
Mind with matter mingled well
Potent leaven proves.
Partner, not antagonist,
Nature lends us all that's hers:
But, the strict conditions miss'd,
Jealously demurs.
Nature lends us all that's hers:
But, the strict conditions miss'd,
Jealously demurs.
71
EXPRESS
(From Liverpool, Southwards.)
We move in elephantine row,
The faces of our friends retire,
The roof withdraws, and curtsying flow
The message-bearing lines of wire;
With doubling, redoubling beat,
Smoother we run and more fleet.
The faces of our friends retire,
The roof withdraws, and curtsying flow
The message-bearing lines of wire;
With doubling, redoubling beat,
Smoother we run and more fleet.
By flow'r-knots, shrubs, and slopes of grass,
Cut walls of rock with ivy-stains,
Thro' winking arches swift we pass,
And flying, meet the flying trains,
Whirr—whirr—gone!
And still we hurry on;
Cut walls of rock with ivy-stains,
Thro' winking arches swift we pass,
And flying, meet the flying trains,
Whirr—whirr—gone!
And still we hurry on;
By orchards, kine in pleasant leas,
A hamlet-lane, a spire, a pond,
Long hedgerows, counter-changing trees,
With blue and steady hills beyond;
(House, platform, post,
Flash—and are lost!)
A hamlet-lane, a spire, a pond,
Long hedgerows, counter-changing trees,
With blue and steady hills beyond;
(House, platform, post,
Flash—and are lost!)
Smooth-edged canals, and mills on brooks;
Old farmsteads, busier than they seem,
Rose-crusted or of graver looks,
Rich with old tile and motley beam;
Clay-cutting, slope, and ridge,
The hollow rumbling bridge.
Old farmsteads, busier than they seem,
Rose-crusted or of graver looks,
Rich with old tile and motley beam;
Clay-cutting, slope, and ridge,
The hollow rumbling bridge.
72
Gray vapour-surges, whirl'd in the wind
Of roaring tunnels, dark and long,
Then sky and landscape unconfined,
Then streets again where workers throng
Come—go. The whistle shrill
Controls us to its will.
Of roaring tunnels, dark and long,
Then sky and landscape unconfined,
Then streets again where workers throng
Come—go. The whistle shrill
Controls us to its will.
Broad vents, and chimneys tall as masts,
With heavy flags of streaming smoke;
Brick mazes, fiery furnace-blasts,
Walls, waggons, gritty heaps of coke;
Through these our ponderous rank
Glides in with hiss and clank.
With heavy flags of streaming smoke;
Brick mazes, fiery furnace-blasts,
Walls, waggons, gritty heaps of coke;
Through these our ponderous rank
Glides in with hiss and clank.
So have we sped our wondrous course
Amid a peaceful busy land,
Subdued by long and painful force
Of planning head and plodding hand.
How much by labour can
The feeble race of man!
Amid a peaceful busy land,
Subdued by long and painful force
Of planning head and plodding hand.
How much by labour can
The feeble race of man!
73
THE STOLEN PATH.
Highways, byways, such are my ways;
Parks like this I detest,
Grumble to travel on miles of gravel
Through landscapes robb'd of their zest;
Even tho' the gatelodge sentry
Yields us privilege of entry,
Lets us view, in passing through,
Lawns and groves whose loneliness
Doth imprisonment express
Not freedom, rhododendron flowers
Lording it over woodland bowers,
Wandering rill damm'd up to make
A lazy, languid pleasure-lake,
(Who therein doth pleasure take?)
Clipt yews; geometric beds;
All 'twixt gate and gate that spreads.
Parks like this I detest,
Grumble to travel on miles of gravel
Through landscapes robb'd of their zest;
Even tho' the gatelodge sentry
Yields us privilege of entry,
Lets us view, in passing through,
Lawns and groves whose loneliness
Doth imprisonment express
Not freedom, rhododendron flowers
Lording it over woodland bowers,
Wandering rill damm'd up to make
A lazy, languid pleasure-lake,
(Who therein doth pleasure take?)
Clipt yews; geometric beds;
All 'twixt gate and gate that spreads.
Where is that old Pathway's line,
Which, could we find it, is yours and mine,
Free from before King Alfred's day;
A winding walk, a pleasant way,
By mead and heath, by grove and glen,
Belonging to the feet of men
Past, present, and to come; that show'd
The prospect, saved the dusty road?
Those who already have too much
Would fain get all into their clutch;
The demon greed of robber kings
Is busy here in lesser things;
The Path is gone; not shut by law,
But filch'd with shameless cunning paw
And swallow'd: none at hand to dare
Beard the culprit in his lair,
The Great Man, to whose mind are known
No rights at all except his own,
Who fain would shut from every eye
Th'old landscape and more ancient sky,
Save upon sufferance. Honour'd sir,
Reflect! Art thou indeed a cur,
A caitiff? What, beneath the sun,
Hast thou, have those before thee, done,
To earn so huge an overshare
Of the world's good things? Have a care,
Lest, when your Worship sits on high,
A pilferer of twigs to try,
Or casual poacher, some one cry
In accents of contempt and wrath,
“Who stole our ancient Public Path?”
—A crime incomparably worse
Than his who merely takes a purse,
Poor devil! with the treadmill near;
No Magistrate, M.P., or Peer.
Which, could we find it, is yours and mine,
Free from before King Alfred's day;
A winding walk, a pleasant way,
By mead and heath, by grove and glen,
Belonging to the feet of men
Past, present, and to come; that show'd
The prospect, saved the dusty road?
74
Would fain get all into their clutch;
The demon greed of robber kings
Is busy here in lesser things;
The Path is gone; not shut by law,
But filch'd with shameless cunning paw
And swallow'd: none at hand to dare
Beard the culprit in his lair,
The Great Man, to whose mind are known
No rights at all except his own,
Who fain would shut from every eye
Th'old landscape and more ancient sky,
Save upon sufferance. Honour'd sir,
Reflect! Art thou indeed a cur,
A caitiff? What, beneath the sun,
Hast thou, have those before thee, done,
To earn so huge an overshare
Of the world's good things? Have a care,
Lest, when your Worship sits on high,
A pilferer of twigs to try,
Or casual poacher, some one cry
In accents of contempt and wrath,
“Who stole our ancient Public Path?”
—A crime incomparably worse
Than his who merely takes a purse,
Poor devil! with the treadmill near;
No Magistrate, M.P., or Peer.
75
PER CONTRA.
This old hereditary groundWelcomes within its peaceful bound
All peaceful comers. Push the gate:
What miles of oak and fern await
Our footsteps; unmolested space
As fair and free for you and me
As for His Grace who owns the place,
Whose ownership is not the same
As selfishness, with finer name,—
Long live such noble dukes as he!
In lieu of herald's meagre leaves,
The grateful Fancy richlier weaves,
And doth the whole wide woodland set
For garland round this coronet.
76
PLACES AND MEN.
William Blake went down to his seaside
cottage in September, 1800, and soon after wrote to Flaxman:—
“Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual
than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates; her
windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants
are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly
seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses.”
William Blake went down to his seaside cottage in September, 1800, and soon after wrote to Flaxman:— “Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates; her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses.”
In Sussex here, by shingle and by sand,
Flat fields and farmsteads in their wind-blown trees,
The shallow tide-wave courses to the land,
And all along the down a fringe one sees
Of ducal woods. That “dim discover'd spire”
Is Chichester, where Collins felt a fire
Touch his sad lips; thatch'd Felpham roofs are these,
Where happy Blake found Heav'n more close at hand.
Flat fields and farmsteads in their wind-blown trees,
The shallow tide-wave courses to the land,
And all along the down a fringe one sees
Of ducal woods. That “dim discover'd spire”
Is Chichester, where Collins felt a fire
Touch his sad lips; thatch'd Felpham roofs are these,
Where happy Blake found Heav'n more close at hand.
Goodwood and Arundel possess their lords,
Successive in the towers and groves, which stay;
These two poor men, by some right of their own,
Possess'd the earth and sea, the sun and moon,
The inner sweet of life; and put in words
A personal force that doth not pass away.
Successive in the towers and groves, which stay;
These two poor men, by some right of their own,
Possess'd the earth and sea, the sun and moon,
The inner sweet of life; and put in words
A personal force that doth not pass away.
Littlehampton.
77
IN DREAM-WORLD.
I dream'd that I, being dead a hundred years,(In dream-world, death is free from waking fears)
Stood in a City, in the market-place,
And saw a snowy marble Statuette,
Little, but delicately carven, set
Within a corner-niche. The populace
Look'd at it now and then in passing-by,
And some with praise. “Who sculptured it?” said I,
And then my own name sounded in mine ears;
And, gently waking, in my bed I lay,
With mind contented, in the newborn day.
80
THE OLD TUNE.
This is one of those tunes which are
said in Ireland to have been first learnt by overhearing the Fairies.
It is here given from Bunting's Collection. Perhaps it may be permissible
to say that Moore's words, metrically skilful as they are,
do not well accord with the character of the air, in which, moreover,
he changed certain of the notes.
This is one of those tunes which are said in Ireland to have been first learnt by overhearing the Fairies. It is here given from Bunting's Collection. Perhaps it may be permissible to say that Moore's words, metrically skilful as they are, do not well accord with the character of the air, in which, moreover, he changed certain of the notes.
I
'Mongst the green Irish hills I love dearly,At the close of a bright summer day,
I heard an old tune lilted clearly,
That sooth'd half my sorrows away.
And far o'er the wide-rolling ocean
Methinks I am hearing it now,
As a farewell of tender emotion,—
“The Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.”
II
Next day was the last look of Erin;'Twas almost like death to depart;
And since, in my foreign wayfaring,
That tune's like a thread round my heart.
Still back to the dear old Green Island
It draws me, I cannot tell how,
The whisper in music of my land,—
“The Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.”
83
BRIDEGROOM'S PARK.
I.—FROM THE HIGHWAY.
“Friend Edward, from this turn remarkThe sweep of woodland. ‘Bridegroom's Park’
We call it, shut while you were here
By selfish Cupid, who allows
A sunny glimpse through beechen boughs
Of dells of grass with fallow deer,
And one white corner of the house
Built for the young Heir's wedding-day,
The dull old walls being swept away.
Wide and low, its eaves are laid
Over a slender colonnade,
Partly hiding, partly seen,
Amid redundant veils of green,
Which garland pillars into bowers,
And top them with a frieze of flowers;
The slight fence of a crystal door
(Like air enslaved by magic lore)
Or window reaching to the floor,
Divides the richly furnish'd rooms
From terraces of emerald sward,
Vases full of many blooms,
And little gates of rose to guard
The sidelong steps of easy flight;
Or, with a touch, they all unite.
All's perfect for a Bride's delight,
And She most worthy of it all;
Gold-hair'd (I've seen her), slim and tall;
84
Of tender gravity and grace,
And gentle eyes that look you through,
Eyes of softly solemn blue.
Serene the wealthy mortal's fate,
Whose last wild-oats is duly sown!
Observe his Paradise's gate,
With two heraldic brutes in stone
For sentries.
Whose last wild-oats is duly sown!
Observe his Paradise's gate,
With two heraldic brutes in stone
For sentries.
Did the coppice move?
A straggling deer perhaps. By Jove!
A woman brushing through: she's gone.
Now what the deuce can bring her there?
Jog, lad; it's none of our affair.
A straggling deer perhaps. By Jove!
A woman brushing through: she's gone.
Now what the deuce can bring her there?
Jog, lad; it's none of our affair.
Well—you're to voyage, and I'm to stay.
Will Lucy kiss you, some other day,
When you carry your nuggets back this way?
You must not grow so rich and wise
That friends shall fail to recognise
The schoolboy twinkle in your eyes.
Each his own track. I'll mind my farm,
And keep the old folks' chimney warm.
But however we strive, and chance to thrive,
We shall scarcely overtake this Youth,
Who has all to his wish, and seems in truth
The very luckiest man alive.”
Will Lucy kiss you, some other day,
When you carry your nuggets back this way?
You must not grow so rich and wise
That friends shall fail to recognise
The schoolboy twinkle in your eyes.
Each his own track. I'll mind my farm,
And keep the old folks' chimney warm.
But however we strive, and chance to thrive,
We shall scarcely overtake this Youth,
Who has all to his wish, and seems in truth
The very luckiest man alive.”
II.—BY THE POND.
“These walls of green, my guarded Queen!
A labyrinth of shade and sheen,
Bar out the world a thousand miles,
Helping the pathway's winding wiles
To pose you to the end. Now think,
What thanks might one deserve for this—
Which lately was a swamp, and is
An elfin lake, its curving brink
Embost with rhododendron bloom,
Azaleas, lilies, jewelries,
(Ruby and amethyst grow like these
Under our feet) on fire to dress,
Round every little glassy bay,
The sloping turf with gorgeousness?
As right, we look our best to-day;
No petal dropt, no speck of gloom.
A labyrinth of shade and sheen,
Bar out the world a thousand miles,
Helping the pathway's winding wiles
To pose you to the end. Now think,
85
Which lately was a swamp, and is
An elfin lake, its curving brink
Embost with rhododendron bloom,
Azaleas, lilies, jewelries,
(Ruby and amethyst grow like these
Under our feet) on fire to dress,
Round every little glassy bay,
The sloping turf with gorgeousness?
As right, we look our best to-day;
No petal dropt, no speck of gloom.
Emmeline, this faery lake
Rose to its margins for your sake;
As yet without a name, it sues
Your best invention; think and choose.
Its flood is gather'd on the fells,
(Whose foldings you and I shall trace)
Hid in many a hollow place;
But through Himalayan dells,
Where the silvery pinnacles
Hanging faint in furthest heaven
Catch the flames of morn and even,
Round their lowest rampart swells
The surge of rhododendron flow'rs,
Indian ancestry of ours:
And the tropic woods luxuriantly
By Oronooko's river-sea
Nurtured the germs of this and this;
And there's a blossom first was seen
In dragon-vase of white and green
By the sweetheart of a mandarin,
Winking her little eyes for bliss.
Rose to its margins for your sake;
As yet without a name, it sues
Your best invention; think and choose.
Its flood is gather'd on the fells,
(Whose foldings you and I shall trace)
Hid in many a hollow place;
But through Himalayan dells,
Where the silvery pinnacles
Hanging faint in furthest heaven
Catch the flames of morn and even,
Round their lowest rampart swells
The surge of rhododendron flow'rs,
Indian ancestry of ours:
And the tropic woods luxuriantly
By Oronooko's river-sea
Nurtured the germs of this and this;
And there's a blossom first was seen
In dragon-vase of white and green
By the sweetheart of a mandarin,
Winking her little eyes for bliss.
Look, how these merry insects go
In rippling meshes to and fro,
Waltzing over the liquid glass,
Dropping their shadows to cross and travel
Like ghosts, on the pavement of sunny gravel.
Maybe to music, whose thrills outpass
Our finest ear,—yes, even yours,
Whom the mystery of sound allures
From star to star. In this gulf beyond,
Silent people of the pond
Slip from noonday glare, to win
Their crystal twilights far within.
See the creatures glance and hide,
Turn, and waver, and glimmer, and glide,
Jerk away, ascend, and poise,
Come and vanish without noise,
Mope, with mouth of drowsy drinking,
Waving fins and eyes unwinking,
Flirt a tail, and shoot below.
How little of their life we know!
Or these birds' life that twittering dart
To the shrubbery's woven heart.
Which is happier, bird or fish?
Have they memory, hope, and wish?
Various temper? perverse will—
That secret source of boundless ill?
Why should not human creatures run
A careless course through shadow and sun?
Ah, Love, that may never be!
We are of a different birth,
Of deeper sphere than the fishes' home,
Higher than bird's wings may roam,
Greater than ocean, air, and earth.
In rippling meshes to and fro,
Waltzing over the liquid glass,
Dropping their shadows to cross and travel
Like ghosts, on the pavement of sunny gravel.
86
Our finest ear,—yes, even yours,
Whom the mystery of sound allures
From star to star. In this gulf beyond,
Silent people of the pond
Slip from noonday glare, to win
Their crystal twilights far within.
See the creatures glance and hide,
Turn, and waver, and glimmer, and glide,
Jerk away, ascend, and poise,
Come and vanish without noise,
Mope, with mouth of drowsy drinking,
Waving fins and eyes unwinking,
Flirt a tail, and shoot below.
How little of their life we know!
Or these birds' life that twittering dart
To the shrubbery's woven heart.
Which is happier, bird or fish?
Have they memory, hope, and wish?
Various temper? perverse will—
That secret source of boundless ill?
Why should not human creatures run
A careless course through shadow and sun?
Ah, Love, that may never be!
We are of a different birth,
Of deeper sphere than the fishes' home,
Higher than bird's wings may roam,
Greater than ocean, air, and earth.
The Summer's youth is now at prime.
Swiftly a season whirls away.
Two days past, the bladed corn
Whisper'd nothing of harvest-time;
Already a tinge of brown is born
On the barley-spears that lightly sway;
The plumes of purple-seeded grass,
Bowing and bending as you pass,
Our mowers at the break of day
Shall sweep them into swaths of hay.
So the season whirls away.
And every aspect we must learn,
Every changing mood discern;
All sides, over the country speed,
‘She upon her milk-white steed,
And he upon his gray,’ to roam
Gladly, turn more gladly home;
Plan, improve, and see our tenants;
Visit neighbours, for pleasure or penance;
Excellent people some, no doubt,
And the rest will do to talk about.
June, July, and August: next
September comes; and here we stand
To watch those swallows some clear day
In a birdish trouble, half perplex'd,
Bidding adieu their tribe's old way,
Tho' the sunbeam coaxes them yet to stay;
Swinging through the populous air,
Dipping, every bird, in play,
To kiss its flying image there.
And when Autumn's wealthy heavy hand
Paints with brown gold the beechen leaves,
And the wind comes cool, and the latest sheaves,
Quivers fill'd with bounty, rest
On stubble-slope,—then we shall say
Adieu for a time our fading bow'rs,
Pictures within and out-of-doors,
And all the petted greenhouse flow'rs.
But, though your harp remains behind
To keep the piano company,
Your light-strung Sprite of Serenades
Shall watch with us how daylight fades
Where sea and air enhance their dyes
A thousand-fold for lovers' eyes.
And we shall fancy on far-off coast
The chill pavilions of the frost,
And landscapes in a snow-wreath lost.
—You, the well-fended nun like child,
I, the bold youth, left loose and wild,
Join'd together for evermore,
To wander at will by sea and shore,—
Strange and very strange it seems!
More like the shifting world of dreams.
Swiftly a season whirls away.
Two days past, the bladed corn
Whisper'd nothing of harvest-time;
Already a tinge of brown is born
On the barley-spears that lightly sway;
The plumes of purple-seeded grass,
Bowing and bending as you pass,
87
Shall sweep them into swaths of hay.
So the season whirls away.
And every aspect we must learn,
Every changing mood discern;
All sides, over the country speed,
‘She upon her milk-white steed,
And he upon his gray,’ to roam
Gladly, turn more gladly home;
Plan, improve, and see our tenants;
Visit neighbours, for pleasure or penance;
Excellent people some, no doubt,
And the rest will do to talk about.
June, July, and August: next
September comes; and here we stand
To watch those swallows some clear day
In a birdish trouble, half perplex'd,
Bidding adieu their tribe's old way,
Tho' the sunbeam coaxes them yet to stay;
Swinging through the populous air,
Dipping, every bird, in play,
To kiss its flying image there.
And when Autumn's wealthy heavy hand
Paints with brown gold the beechen leaves,
And the wind comes cool, and the latest sheaves,
Quivers fill'd with bounty, rest
On stubble-slope,—then we shall say
Adieu for a time our fading bow'rs,
Pictures within and out-of-doors,
And all the petted greenhouse flow'rs.
But, though your harp remains behind
To keep the piano company,
Your light-strung Sprite of Serenades
Shall watch with us how daylight fades
Where sea and air enhance their dyes
A thousand-fold for lovers' eyes.
And we shall fancy on far-off coast
88
And landscapes in a snow-wreath lost.
—You, the well-fended nun like child,
I, the bold youth, left loose and wild,
Join'd together for evermore,
To wander at will by sea and shore,—
Strange and very strange it seems!
More like the shifting world of dreams.
Choose at will your path, my Queen,
Through this labyrinth of green,
As tho' 'twere life's perplexing scene.
To go in search of your missing book,
You careless girl? one other search?
Wood or garden, which do you say?
'Twere only toil in vain; for, look—
I found it, free of spot or smirch,
On a pillow of wood-sorrel sleeping
Under the Fox's Cliff to-day.
Not so much as your place is lost,
Given to this delicate warden's keeping,—
Jasmin that deserves to stay
Enshrined there henceforth, never toss'd
Like other dying blooms away.
Through this labyrinth of green,
As tho' 'twere life's perplexing scene.
To go in search of your missing book,
You careless girl? one other search?
Wood or garden, which do you say?
'Twere only toil in vain; for, look—
I found it, free of spot or smirch,
On a pillow of wood-sorrel sleeping
Under the Fox's Cliff to-day.
Not so much as your place is lost,
Given to this delicate warden's keeping,—
Jasmin that deserves to stay
Enshrined there henceforth, never toss'd
Like other dying blooms away.
Summer, autumn, winter—yes,
And much will come that we cannot guess;
Every minute brings its chance.
And much will come that we cannot guess;
Every minute brings its chance.
Bend we now a parting glance
Down through the peaceful purity,
The shadow and the mystery,
As old saints look into their grave.
Water-elves may peep at me;
Only my own wife's face I see,
Like sunny light within the wave,
Dearer to me than sunny light.
It rose, and look'd away my night;
Whose phantoms, of desire or dread,
Like fogs and shades and dreams are fled.”
Down through the peaceful purity,
The shadow and the mystery,
As old saints look into their grave.
Water-elves may peep at me;
Only my own wife's face I see,
Like sunny light within the wave,
Dearer to me than sunny light.
It rose, and look'd away my night;
Whose phantoms, of desire or dread,
Like fogs and shades and dreams are fled.”
89
III.—THROUGH THE WOOD.
“A fire keeps burning in this breast.
The smoke ascending to my brain
Sometimes stupefies the pain.
Sometimes my senses drop, no doubt.
I do not always feel the pain:
But my head is a weary, weary load.
The smoke ascending to my brain
Sometimes stupefies the pain.
Sometimes my senses drop, no doubt.
I do not always feel the pain:
But my head is a weary, weary load.
What place is this?—I sit at rest,
With grass and bushes round about;
No dust, no noise, no endless road,
No torturing light. Stay, let me think,
Is this the place where I knelt to drink,
And all my hair broke loose and fell,
And floated in the cold, clear well
Hung with rock-weeds? two children came
With pitchers, but they scream'd and ran;
The woman stared, the cursèd man
Laugh'd—no, no, this is not the same.
I now remember. Dragging through
The thorny fence has torn my gown.
These boots are very nearly done.
What matter? so's my journey, too.
Nearly done . . . A quiet spot!
With grass and bushes round about;
No dust, no noise, no endless road,
No torturing light. Stay, let me think,
Is this the place where I knelt to drink,
And all my hair broke loose and fell,
And floated in the cold, clear well
Hung with rock-weeds? two children came
With pitchers, but they scream'd and ran;
The woman stared, the cursèd man
Laugh'd—no, no, this is not the same.
I now remember. Dragging through
The thorny fence has torn my gown.
These boots are very nearly done.
What matter? so's my journey, too.
Flowers touch my hand. It's summer now.
What summer meant I had forgot;
Except that it was glaring hot
Through tedious days, and heavy hot
Through dreadful nights.
The drooping bough
Is elm; its shadow lies below.
Gathering flowers we used to creep
Along the hedgerows, where the sun
Came through like this; then, everyone,
Find out some arbour close and cool,
To weave them in our rushy caps,
Primroses, bluebells, such a heap,
Stay, now!—the girls are hid perhaps—
It may be all a dream—
Is elm; its shadow lies below.
Gathering flowers we used to creep
Along the hedgerows, where the sun
Came through like this; then, everyone,
Find out some arbour close and cool,
90
Primroses, bluebells, such a heap,
Stay, now!—the girls are hid perhaps—
It may be all a dream—
You fool!
Was it for this you tramp'd your way
And begg'd your way by night and day
To find this place? . . . It's his domain:
Each tree is his, each blade of grass
Under my feet. How dare I pass,
A tatter'd vagrant, half insane,
Scarce fit to slink by the roadside,
These lordly bounds, where, with his Bride—
I tell you, kneeling on this sod,
He is, before the face of God,
My husband!
Was it for this you tramp'd your way
And begg'd your way by night and day
To find this place? . . . It's his domain:
Each tree is his, each blade of grass
Under my feet. How dare I pass,
A tatter'd vagrant, half insane,
Scarce fit to slink by the roadside,
These lordly bounds, where, with his Bride—
I tell you, kneeling on this sod,
He is, before the face of God,
My husband!
I was innocent
The day I first set eyes on him,
Eyes that no tears had yet made dim,
Nor fever wild. The day he went,
(That day, O God of Heaven!) I found,
In the sick brain slow turning round,
Dreadful forebodings of my fate.
A week was not so long to wait:
Another pass'd,—and then a third.
My face grew thin—eyes fix'd—I heard
And started if a feather stirr'd.
Each night ‘to-morrow!’ heard me say,
Each morning ‘he will come to-day.’
Who taps upon the chamber door?
A letter—he will come no more.
Then stupor. Then a horrid strife
Trampling my brain and soul and life,—
Hunting me out as with a knife
From home—from home—
The day I first set eyes on him,
Eyes that no tears had yet made dim,
Nor fever wild. The day he went,
(That day, O God of Heaven!) I found,
In the sick brain slow turning round,
Dreadful forebodings of my fate.
A week was not so long to wait:
Another pass'd,—and then a third.
My face grew thin—eyes fix'd—I heard
And started if a feather stirr'd.
Each night ‘to-morrow!’ heard me say,
Each morning ‘he will come to-day.’
Who taps upon the chamber door?
A letter—he will come no more.
Then stupor. Then a horrid strife
Trampling my brain and soul and life,—
Hunting me out as with a knife
From home—from home—
And I was young,
And happy. May his heart be wrung
As mine is! learn that even I
Was something, and at least can die
Of such a wound. In any case
He'll see the death that's in my face.
To die is still within the power
Of girls with neither rank nor dower.
This his place, and I am here.
And happy. May his heart be wrung
91
Was something, and at least can die
Of such a wound. In any case
He'll see the death that's in my face.
To die is still within the power
Of girls with neither rank nor dower.
The house lay that side as one came.
How sick and deadly tired I am!
Time has been lost: O this new fear,
That I may fall and never rise!
Clouds come and go within my eyes.
I'm hot and cold, my limbs all slack,
My swollen feet the same as dead;
A weight like lead draws down my head,
The boughs and brambles pull me back.
Stay: the wood opens to the hill.
A moment now. The house is near.
But one may view it closer still
From these thick laurels on the right,
. . . What is this? Who come in sight?
He, with his Bride. It sends new might
Through all my feeble body. Hush!
Which way? which way? which way? that bush
Hides them—they're coming—do they pause?
He points, almost to me!—he draws
Her tow'rds him, and I know the smile
That's on his face—O heart of guile!
No, 'twas the selfish gaiety
And arrogance of wealth. I see
Your Bride is tall, and graceful too.
That arch of leaves invites you through.
I follow. Why should I be loth
To hurt her? . . . Ha! I'll find them both.
Six words suffice to make her know.
Both, both shall hear—it must be so!”
92
IV.—MOSSGROWN.
“Seven years gone, and we together
Ramble as before, old Ned!
Not a brown curl on your head
Soil'd with touch of time or weather.
Yet no wonder if you fear'd,
With that broad chest and bushy beard,
Lucy might scarce remember you.
My letters, had they painted true
The child grown woman?
Ramble as before, old Ned!
Not a brown curl on your head
Soil'd with touch of time or weather.
Yet no wonder if you fear'd,
With that broad chest and bushy beard,
Lucy might scarce remember you.
My letters, had they painted true
The child grown woman?
Here's our way.
Autumn in its last decay;
The hills have misty solitude
And silence; dead leaves drop in the wood;
And free across the Park we stray,
Where only the too-much freedom baulks.
These half-obliterated walks,
The tangling grass, the shrubberies choked
With briars, the runnel which has soak'd
Its lawn-foot to a marsh, between
The treacherous tufts of brighter green,
The garden, plann'd with costly care,
Now wilder'd as a maniac's hair,
The blinded mansion's constant gloom,
Winter and summer, night and day,
Save when the stealthy hours let fall
A sunbeam, or more pallid ray,
Creeping across the floor and wall
From solitary room to room,
To pry and vanish, like the rest,
Weary of a useless quest,
The sombre face of hill and grove,
The very clouds which seem to move
Sadly, be it swift or slow,—
How unlike this you scarcely know,
Was “Bridegroom's Park” seven years ago.
Human Spirits, line by line,
Have left hereon their visible trace;
As may, methinks, to Eye Divine,
Human history and each one's share
Be closely written everywhere
Over the solid planet's face.
A sour old Witch,—a surly Youth,
Her grandson,—three great dogs, uncouth
To strangers (I'm on terms with all),
Are household now. Sometimes, at fall
Of dusk, a Shape is said to move
Amid the drear entangled grove,
Or seems lamentingly to stand
Beside a pool that's close at hand.
Rare are the human steps that pass
On mossy walk or tufted grass.
Autumn in its last decay;
The hills have misty solitude
And silence; dead leaves drop in the wood;
And free across the Park we stray,
Where only the too-much freedom baulks.
These half-obliterated walks,
The tangling grass, the shrubberies choked
With briars, the runnel which has soak'd
Its lawn-foot to a marsh, between
The treacherous tufts of brighter green,
The garden, plann'd with costly care,
Now wilder'd as a maniac's hair,
The blinded mansion's constant gloom,
Winter and summer, night and day,
Save when the stealthy hours let fall
A sunbeam, or more pallid ray,
Creeping across the floor and wall
From solitary room to room,
To pry and vanish, like the rest,
Weary of a useless quest,
The sombre face of hill and grove,
The very clouds which seem to move
Sadly, be it swift or slow,—
How unlike this you scarcely know,
Was “Bridegroom's Park” seven years ago.
93
Have left hereon their visible trace;
As may, methinks, to Eye Divine,
Human history and each one's share
Be closely written everywhere
Over the solid planet's face.
A sour old Witch,—a surly Youth,
Her grandson,—three great dogs, uncouth
To strangers (I'm on terms with all),
Are household now. Sometimes, at fall
Of dusk, a Shape is said to move
Amid the drear entangled grove,
Or seems lamentingly to stand
Beside a pool that's close at hand.
Rare are the human steps that pass
On mossy walk or tufted grass.
Let's force the brushwood barrier,
No path remaining. Here's a chair!
Once a cool delightful seat,
Now the warty toad's retreat,
Cushion'd with fungus, sprouting rank,
Smear'd with the lazy gluey dank.
No doubt the Ghost sits often there—
A Female Shadow with wide eyes
And dripping garments. This way lies
The pool, the little pleasure-lake,
Which cost a pretty sum to make;
Stoop for this bough, and see it now
A dismal solitary slough,
Scummy, weedy, ragged, rotten,
Shut in jail, forsook, forgotten.
No path remaining. Here's a chair!
Once a cool delightful seat,
Now the warty toad's retreat,
Cushion'd with fungus, sprouting rank,
Smear'd with the lazy gluey dank.
No doubt the Ghost sits often there—
A Female Shadow with wide eyes
And dripping garments. This way lies
The pool, the little pleasure-lake,
Which cost a pretty sum to make;
Stoop for this bough, and see it now
A dismal solitary slough,
Scummy, weedy, ragged, rotten,
Shut in jail, forsook, forgotten.
Most of the story you have heard:
The bower of bliss at length prepared
To the last blossom, line of gilding,
(Never such a dainty building)
One day, Bride and Bridegroom came;
The hills at dusk with merry flame
Crowning their welcome: they had June,
Grand weather—and a honeymoon!
Came, to go away too soon,
And never come again.
The bower of bliss at length prepared
To the last blossom, line of gilding,
(Never such a dainty building)
One day, Bride and Bridegroom came;
The hills at dusk with merry flame
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Grand weather—and a honeymoon!
Came, to go away too soon,
And never come again.
The Bride
Was in her old home when she died,
On a winter's day in the time of snow,
(She never saw that year to an end),
And he has wander'd far and wide,
And look'd on many a distant hill,
But not on these he used to know
Round his park that wave and bend,
And people think he never will.
Was in her old home when she died,
On a winter's day in the time of snow,
(She never saw that year to an end),
And he has wander'd far and wide,
And look'd on many a distant hill,
But not on these he used to know
Round his park that wave and bend,
And people think he never will.
Who can probe a spirit's pain?
Who tell that man's loss, or gain?
How far he sinn'd, how far he loved,
How much by what befell was moved,
If there his real happiness
Began, or ended, who shall guess?
Trivial the biographic scroll
Save as a history of the soul,
Perhaps whose mightiest events
Are dumb and secret incidents.
A man's true life and history
Is like the bottom of the sea,
Where mountains and huge valleys hide
Below the wrinkles of the tide,
Under the peaceful mirror, under
Billowy foam and tempest-thunder.
Who tell that man's loss, or gain?
How far he sinn'd, how far he loved,
How much by what befell was moved,
If there his real happiness
Began, or ended, who shall guess?
Trivial the biographic scroll
Save as a history of the soul,
Perhaps whose mightiest events
Are dumb and secret incidents.
A man's true life and history
Is like the bottom of the sea,
Where mountains and huge valleys hide
Below the wrinkles of the tide,
Under the peaceful mirror, under
Billowy foam and tempest-thunder.
Rude the flow'r-shrubs' overgrowth;
Dark frowns the clump of firs beyond;
At twilight one might well be loth
To linger here alone, and find
The story vivid in one's mind.
A Young Girl, gently bred and fair,
A widow's daughter, whom the Heir
Met somewhere westward on a time,
Came down to this secluded pond,
That's now a mat of weeds and slime,
One summer-day seven years ago,
Sunshine above and flowers below.
Neglect had driven her to despair.
And, poor thing, in her frenzied mood
Bursting upon their solitude,
She drown'd herself, before the face
Of Bride and Bridegroom. Here's the place.
Dark frowns the clump of firs beyond;
At twilight one might well be loth
To linger here alone, and find
The story vivid in one's mind.
A Young Girl, gently bred and fair,
A widow's daughter, whom the Heir
Met somewhere westward on a time,
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That's now a mat of weeds and slime,
One summer-day seven years ago,
Sunshine above and flowers below.
Neglect had driven her to despair.
And, poor thing, in her frenzied mood
Bursting upon their solitude,
She drown'd herself, before the face
Of Bride and Bridegroom. Here's the place.
Now mark—that very summer day
You, Ned, and I look'd down this way,
And saw the girl herself—yes, we!
Skirting the coppice—that was She.
You, Ned, and I look'd down this way,
And saw the girl herself—yes, we!
Skirting the coppice—that was She.
Imagine (this at least is known)
The frantic creature's plunge; the Bride
Swooning by her husband's side;
And him, alone, and not alone,
Turning aghast from each to each,
Shouting for help, but none in reach.
He sees the drowning woman sink,
Twice—thrice—then, headlong from the brink,
He drags her to the grass—too late.
There by his servants was he found,
Bewilder'd by the stroke of fate;
With two pale figures on the ground,
One in the chill of watery death,
One with long-drawn painful breath
Reviving. Sudden was the blow,
Dreadful and deep the change. We'll go
And find the house.
The frantic creature's plunge; the Bride
Swooning by her husband's side;
And him, alone, and not alone,
Turning aghast from each to each,
Shouting for help, but none in reach.
He sees the drowning woman sink,
Twice—thrice—then, headlong from the brink,
He drags her to the grass—too late.
There by his servants was he found,
Bewilder'd by the stroke of fate;
With two pale figures on the ground,
One in the chill of watery death,
One with long-drawn painful breath
Reviving. Sudden was the blow,
Dreadful and deep the change. We'll go
And find the house.
Suspicion pries
From wrinkled mouth and peering eyes,
You old deaf Dame! but friends are we.
Else should I never grasp this key,
Or tread this broad and lonely stair,
Or let this unexpected glare
Of outdoor world insult the gloom
That lives in each forsaken room,
Through which the gammer daily creeps,
And all from dust and mildew keeps.
Few hands may slide this veil aside,
To show—a picture of the Bride.
Is she not gently dignified?
Her curving neck, how smooth and long;
Her eyes, that softly look you through,
To think of violets were to wrong
Their lucency of living blue.
From wrinkled mouth and peering eyes,
You old deaf Dame! but friends are we.
Else should I never grasp this key,
Or tread this broad and lonely stair,
Or let this unexpected glare
Of outdoor world insult the gloom
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Through which the gammer daily creeps,
And all from dust and mildew keeps.
Few hands may slide this veil aside,
To show—a picture of the Bride.
Is she not gently dignified?
Her curving neck, how smooth and long;
Her eyes, that softly look you through,
To think of violets were to wrong
Their lucency of living blue.
The new hope of that fair young wife,
The sacred and mysterious life
Which counts as yet no separate hours,
Yielding to sorrow's hurtful powers,
Quench'd its faint gleam before a morn;
And when her breathless babe was born
Almost as still the mother lay,
Almost as dumb, day after day,
Till on the fifth she pass'd away;
And (far too soon) her marriage-bell
Must now begin to ring her knell.
Old man, and child, and village lass,
Who stood to see her wedding pass—
No further stoops the hoary head,
The merry maid is still unwed,
The child is yet a child, no more,
Watching her hearse go by their door.
Her bridal wreath one summer gave,
The next, a garland for her grave.
The sacred and mysterious life
Which counts as yet no separate hours,
Yielding to sorrow's hurtful powers,
Quench'd its faint gleam before a morn;
And when her breathless babe was born
Almost as still the mother lay,
Almost as dumb, day after day,
Till on the fifth she pass'd away;
And (far too soon) her marriage-bell
Must now begin to ring her knell.
Old man, and child, and village lass,
Who stood to see her wedding pass—
No further stoops the hoary head,
The merry maid is still unwed,
The child is yet a child, no more,
Watching her hearse go by their door.
Her bridal wreath one summer gave,
The next, a garland for her grave.
Close the shutter. Bright and sharp
The ray falls on those shrouded things,—
A grand piano and a harp,
Where no one ever plays or sings.
No, truly,—He will not forget.
The ray falls on those shrouded things,—
A grand piano and a harp,
Where no one ever plays or sings.
But things go on; he's a young man yet;
His life has many a turn to take;
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Throw down the house (so should not I),
Or sell it to you, Ned, if you'll buy;
Or, perhaps, come thoughtfully back some day,
With humble heart and head grown gray.
Homeward now, as quick as you will;
These afternoons are short and chill.
There's my haggart, under the hill;
Through evening's fog the cornstacks rise
Like domes of a little Arab city
Girt by its wall, with a bunch of trees
At a corner—palms, for aught one sees.
Sister Lucy is there alone;
The good old father and mother gone;
And I'm not married—more is the pity!
Seem I old bachelor in your eyes?
—Well, Ned, after dinner to-night,
When a ruddy hearth gives just the light
We used to think best, you'll spread your sail
And carry us far, without wave or gale!
And we'll talk of the old years, and the new,
Of what we have done, and mean to do.”
| Life and Phantasy | |