 | Brother Fabian's Manuscript |  |
139
POEMS.
141
HARVEST HOME.
“The boughs do swing, and the bells do ring,
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
Gay with ribbons and with roses,
Twisted straws and cornfield posies,
Four grey horses, sleek and strong,
Bear the harvest-wain along;
While the lime-trees, as it rolls,
Snatch aloft the golden tolls
Immemorially due
To their cloistral avenue.
See, upon the top of it
Crowned with boughs the reapers sit;
And hark, what is the song they sing?
“The boughs do swing, and the bells do ring,
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
Gay with ribbons and with roses,
Twisted straws and cornfield posies,
Four grey horses, sleek and strong,
Bear the harvest-wain along;
While the lime-trees, as it rolls,
Snatch aloft the golden tolls
Immemorially due
To their cloistral avenue.
See, upon the top of it
Crowned with boughs the reapers sit;
And hark, what is the song they sing?
142
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
In the wake, too, as it passes,
Sunburnt mothers, lads and lasses,
Some with poppies on their brows,
Swinging bonnets, swinging boughs,
March behind in idle order
With the shepherd's dog as warder;
Singing some, with measured pace,
Treble to the reapers' bass,
While the chime keeps company
From the dovecot belfry nigh,
Mingling with the song below,
High and low and high and low:
“The boughs do swing, and the bells do ring,
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
Sunburnt mothers, lads and lasses,
Some with poppies on their brows,
Swinging bonnets, swinging boughs,
March behind in idle order
With the shepherd's dog as warder;
Singing some, with measured pace,
Treble to the reapers' bass,
While the chime keeps company
From the dovecot belfry nigh,
Mingling with the song below,
High and low and high and low:
“The boughs do swing, and the bells do ring,
“As we merrily home the harvest bring.”
See, the waggon stops its sailing
By the farmer's garden paling,
And the troop in order stand
By the porch on either hand,
Till the gaffer to the door,
With his dame and grandsons four,
Comes to greet them, while a maiden
With the horns and beer-jug laden
Stands behind the household ring
As the crowd in chorus sing:—
By the farmer's garden paling,
143
By the porch on either hand,
Till the gaffer to the door,
With his dame and grandsons four,
Comes to greet them, while a maiden
With the horns and beer-jug laden
Stands behind the household ring
As the crowd in chorus sing:—
“Now God bless our good master
“For many a year to come,
“To plough and sow and reap and mow,
“And bring the harvest home!
“To bring the harvest home, good man,
“And happy may he be!
“We've ploughed, we've sown—we've reap'd, we've mown,
“And we bring it merrily,
“We bring the harvest home!
“Home, home! The harvest home!
“The harvest home!—Huzza!
“For many a year to come,
“To plough and sow and reap and mow,
“And bring the harvest home!
“To bring the harvest home, good man,
“And happy may he be!
“We've ploughed, we've sown—we've reap'd, we've mown,
“And we bring it merrily,
“We bring the harvest home!
“Home, home! The harvest home!
“The harvest home!—Huzza!
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“And God bless our good mistress,
“Her children all and some,
“To plough and sow and reap and mow,
“And bring the harvest home!
“To bring the harvest home, good dame,
“With all her family!
“We've ploughed, we've sown—we've reap'd, we've mown,
“And we bring it merrily,
“We bring the harvest home!
“Home, home! The harvest home!
“The harvest home!—Huzza!”
“Her children all and some,
“To plough and sow and reap and mow,
“And bring the harvest home!
“To bring the harvest home, good dame,
“With all her family!
“We've ploughed, we've sown—we've reap'd, we've mown,
“And we bring it merrily,
“We bring the harvest home!
“Home, home! The harvest home!
“The harvest home!—Huzza!”
Like a barque from Eldorado
Seeking the spice-islands' shadow,
On it sails, the shouting over,
To its brother ricks of clover
In the yard beyond the gate,
There to yield its golden freight
While the thirsty troopers press
Round the beer-jug sorceress.
Since, besides, the bustling mother
One jug empty, brings another,
Poaching Dick with his one arm
Thinks a draught will do no harm,
Though his claim be somewhat slender,
Save that now, while birds are tender,
He's netted since they've done the reaping
Five fat brace while folks were sleeping.
Seeking the spice-islands' shadow,
On it sails, the shouting over,
To its brother ricks of clover
In the yard beyond the gate,
There to yield its golden freight
While the thirsty troopers press
Round the beer-jug sorceress.
145
One jug empty, brings another,
Poaching Dick with his one arm
Thinks a draught will do no harm,
Though his claim be somewhat slender,
Save that now, while birds are tender,
He's netted since they've done the reaping
Five fat brace while folks were sleeping.
See, among the unwashen topers
Throng a score of interlopers
Gay in Sunday-best and more!
Never, surely, Katie wore
Hat like that in holy place!
Never, surely, Katie's face
Beamed as now on Sabbath morning
With so wicked an adorning
From the rose that blooms so late
On the trellis o'er the gate!
Throng a score of interlopers
Gay in Sunday-best and more!
Never, surely, Katie wore
Hat like that in holy place!
Never, surely, Katie's face
Beamed as now on Sabbath morning
With so wicked an adorning
From the rose that blooms so late
On the trellis o'er the gate!
146
Come, be off, you tippling idlers!
Dick, you rascal, call the fiddlers!
Clear the green, and let's be doing,
We're baking while we should be brewing!
Ha, the Queen!—the Harvest Queen!
Crowned right royally I ween
With the simple wheaten ears
Walking there among her peers;
Nor less royally, in sooth,
Crowned with beauty, grace, and youth:
Frank and fair from head to foot,
Rippled tress to brass-holed boot,
Wearing just the form and favour
Health and honest Nature gave her;
Not too small of hand or waist,
Undisfigured, undisgraced;
Meet in a free land to be
Wife and mother of the free:
Queen in presence and in motion,
Claiming loyallest devotion
From her lieges, great and small;
Queen in all things and to all.
Yet, methinks, beneath the state,
They may see who watch and wait,
Something in her face and mien
Of kindlier stuff than makes a queen—
A glance, at times a thought too soft—
A fall of eyes that meet too oft—
What, Katie, jealous?—Come, remember
She marries Ned ere next September,
And then—who knows? Come, spare your frown!
What? “don't care fivepence for the crown?
It is not that they've made her Queen—
Only she looks”—Ah, well, I ween
These harvest lads and lasses here
Will serve a humbler Queen next year!
Dick, you rascal, call the fiddlers!
Clear the green, and let's be doing,
We're baking while we should be brewing!
Ha, the Queen!—the Harvest Queen!
Crowned right royally I ween
With the simple wheaten ears
Walking there among her peers;
Nor less royally, in sooth,
Crowned with beauty, grace, and youth:
Frank and fair from head to foot,
Rippled tress to brass-holed boot,
Wearing just the form and favour
Health and honest Nature gave her;
Not too small of hand or waist,
Undisfigured, undisgraced;
Meet in a free land to be
Wife and mother of the free:
Queen in presence and in motion,
Claiming loyallest devotion
147
Queen in all things and to all.
Yet, methinks, beneath the state,
They may see who watch and wait,
Something in her face and mien
Of kindlier stuff than makes a queen—
A glance, at times a thought too soft—
A fall of eyes that meet too oft—
What, Katie, jealous?—Come, remember
She marries Ned ere next September,
And then—who knows? Come, spare your frown!
What? “don't care fivepence for the crown?
It is not that they've made her Queen—
Only she looks”—Ah, well, I ween
These harvest lads and lasses here
Will serve a humbler Queen next year!
Now, Ned, where are you, lad? We're waiting
While you stand there with Grannam prating!
Bow to the Queen and lead her up!
You'll scarce dance down before we sup!
So! Mark him where he comes! A fellow
To make small courtiers' blood run yellow:
Walking there without a coat,
Nothing more about his throat
Than a knot without a bow
Round the collar's crumpled snow
Just a streak of crimson thread
Bound about the cropt black head,
Curled like polished ebony-root:
Thewed like Adam, with a stride
Proud, yet with a noble pride—
Pride that hateth, scorneth no man:
Just, in truth, a brave young yeoman.
While you stand there with Grannam prating!
Bow to the Queen and lead her up!
148
So! Mark him where he comes! A fellow
To make small courtiers' blood run yellow:
Walking there without a coat,
Nothing more about his throat
Than a knot without a bow
Round the collar's crumpled snow
Just a streak of crimson thread
Bound about the cropt black head,
Curled like polished ebony-root:
Thewed like Adam, with a stride
Proud, yet with a noble pride—
Pride that hateth, scorneth no man:
Just, in truth, a brave young yeoman.
He bows:—A prince might ape that air,
Half stately, half familiar,
With which at top he takes his stand;
Still proud, with queenship hand in hand,
And looks down on the bachelors
Like Saul among his warriors.
Half stately, half familiar,
With which at top he takes his stand;
Still proud, with queenship hand in hand,
149
Like Saul among his warriors.
He claps his hands. Now, twanging, braying,
You tuning fiddlers, fall to playing!
Scrape it, fiddlers! foot it, dancers!
See how heel to fiddle answers!
Foot it, shuffling, shifting places
Down the avenue of faces:
Shifting, shuffling, in and out,
Up and down and round about;
Whirling skirts and ribbons streaming,
Neat-laced ankles trimly gleaming,
Corduroys all shaking, reeling,
Hobnailed boot-soles toeing, heeling,
Stamping, shuffling all in line,
Treading out the tune like wine.
Foot it, foot it! Shake your leather!
Foot it featly down together!
You tuning fiddlers, fall to playing!
Scrape it, fiddlers! foot it, dancers!
See how heel to fiddle answers!
Foot it, shuffling, shifting places
Down the avenue of faces:
Shifting, shuffling, in and out,
Up and down and round about;
Whirling skirts and ribbons streaming,
Neat-laced ankles trimly gleaming,
Corduroys all shaking, reeling,
Hobnailed boot-soles toeing, heeling,
Stamping, shuffling all in line,
Treading out the tune like wine.
Foot it, foot it! Shake your leather!
Foot it featly down together!
150
Look you here, how little Lizzie,
All her curly pate dance-dizzy,
Hides it in her pinafore
As she dances at the door,
Dances to herself and sings,
Clapping chubby arms for wings.
All her curly pate dance-dizzy,
Hides it in her pinafore
As she dances at the door,
Dances to herself and sings,
Clapping chubby arms for wings.
Look, too, even the elders watching
Find the dancers' frenzy catching:
With her sticks, see, Master's mother
Rests on one,—beats time with t'other,
While the Grand-dad, standing by her,
Warming with his boyhood's fire,
Steps aside to little Liz,
Takes her chubby hand in his,
Four with fourscore hand in hand,
Briskly joins the dancing band,
And, though Curly-pate looks gravely,
Makes believe to foot it bravely.
Find the dancers' frenzy catching:
With her sticks, see, Master's mother
Rests on one,—beats time with t'other,
While the Grand-dad, standing by her,
Warming with his boyhood's fire,
Steps aside to little Liz,
Takes her chubby hand in his,
Four with fourscore hand in hand,
Briskly joins the dancing band,
And, though Curly-pate looks gravely,
Makes believe to foot it bravely.
151
What's that, Gaffer?—Supper ready?
Wait awhile, we're not so greedy!
Let the old folk get them seated;
We've not done, we're hardly heated!
Faster, fiddlers!—Dancers, faster!—
One more round, then follow Master!
So, to supper! “House” or kitchen
Finds a seat for all and each in:
Yet stand awhile: the feast can spare
One little resting-place for prayer,
While the Vicar, grave and portly,
Asks a blessing,—not too shortly,
On the harvest and the house,
Him that reaps, and him that ploughs,
Him that stores the golden yield,
And him whose sheaf is left afield,
That he at home may envy not
His niggard neighbour's wealthier lot;
On the farm and on the feast,
On the host and on the guest.
Wait awhile, we're not so greedy!
Let the old folk get them seated;
We've not done, we're hardly heated!
Faster, fiddlers!—Dancers, faster!—
One more round, then follow Master!
So, to supper! “House” or kitchen
Finds a seat for all and each in:
Yet stand awhile: the feast can spare
One little resting-place for prayer,
While the Vicar, grave and portly,
Asks a blessing,—not too shortly,
On the harvest and the house,
Him that reaps, and him that ploughs,
Him that stores the golden yield,
And him whose sheaf is left afield,
That he at home may envy not
His niggard neighbour's wealthier lot;
On the farm and on the feast,
On the host and on the guest.
152
Now be seated! Master's carving
Makes believe his guests are starving,
Though all that yard and field afford
Find a dish upon the board,
All that Plenty can procure
For the village epicure,
Beef and bacon, eggs and cheese,
Creams, the Queen's own master-piece,
Cakes and cates, and junkets rare,
Meet for feasting bishops' fare:
All the more to village taste,
That 'tis plenty without waste.
Makes believe his guests are starving,
Though all that yard and field afford
Find a dish upon the board,
All that Plenty can procure
For the village epicure,
Beef and bacon, eggs and cheese,
Creams, the Queen's own master-piece,
Cakes and cates, and junkets rare,
Meet for feasting bishops' fare:
All the more to village taste,
That 'tis plenty without waste.
What a clatter, what a chatter,
What a clap of plate and platter,
While the Vicar talks of cows,
Superphosphates and steam-ploughs,
To a neighbour's wife, who feeds:
Words she likes, but she loves deeds.
What a clap of plate and platter,
While the Vicar talks of cows,
Superphosphates and steam-ploughs,
To a neighbour's wife, who feeds:
Words she likes, but she loves deeds.
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But amid the din below
Talk, I ween, hath ruddier glow,
Where the gossips hint their tales
Of Tom and Bess, and Dick and Aylse,
While, further down, the ham provokes
Five village wits to launch two jokes.
Talk, I ween, hath ruddier glow,
Where the gossips hint their tales
Of Tom and Bess, and Dick and Aylse,
While, further down, the ham provokes
Five village wits to launch two jokes.
“Welcome! God speed the plough and flail!”
The Gaffer starts the sops and ale;
A brown toast-island in the cup
Afloat among pricked crabs at top;
Launched in the tankard's gulf profound,
From lip to lip the toast goes round:
Look, not a dame will shirk her draught,
But quaff it deep as Gaffer quaffed!
Aye, even the Queen right frankly dips
Among the crabs her dainty lips.
So,—queenly heart shall never fail!
God speed the plough! God speed the flail!
The Gaffer starts the sops and ale;
A brown toast-island in the cup
Afloat among pricked crabs at top;
Launched in the tankard's gulf profound,
From lip to lip the toast goes round:
Look, not a dame will shirk her draught,
But quaff it deep as Gaffer quaffed!
Aye, even the Queen right frankly dips
Among the crabs her dainty lips.
So,—queenly heart shall never fail!
God speed the plough! God speed the flail!
154
Ha, who comes here? 'Tis red-head Johnnie
Says he's brought the Vicar's pony.
Well! even harvest-feasting passes!
We and Time have empty glasses!
Good-night!—Good-bye!—Yet, ere we go,
Let's peep into the door below,
Where fiddler Sam among the smoke
Is singing when he does not choke,
And when he falters in the middle
Ekes out the tune upon his fiddle;
Till poaching Dick, who grows uneasy
To listen to a pipe so wheezy,
Takes up the stave an octave lower,
And shakes the rafters with his roar:
Says he's brought the Vicar's pony.
Well! even harvest-feasting passes!
We and Time have empty glasses!
Good-night!—Good-bye!—Yet, ere we go,
Let's peep into the door below,
Where fiddler Sam among the smoke
Is singing when he does not choke,
And when he falters in the middle
Ekes out the tune upon his fiddle;
Till poaching Dick, who grows uneasy
To listen to a pipe so wheezy,
Takes up the stave an octave lower,
And shakes the rafters with his roar:
“Says Tom, ‘Good day, you proper young men,
“‘What makes you to fight so?
“‘And come you along with me, young maid,
“‘For I think it is time to go.’”
“‘What makes you to fight so?
“‘And come you along with me, young maid,
“‘For I think it is time to go.’”
155
Good-night once more! Look, broad and low,
The moon with harvest-fire aglow
Sheds quiet over field and tree,
And all sleeps, save the bats and we.
Time is swift, and youth grows old!
Let us grasp the days of gold!
Say thou Poet, say thou Sage,
Is not this the golden age?
Not behind us, not before us!
Even now 'tis shining o'er us!
'Mid the stir of Old and New,
'Mid the strife of False and True,
Mother Nature, still the same,
Faithful to the eternal aim,
Every year renews the prime
Of the golden olden time!
The moon with harvest-fire aglow
Sheds quiet over field and tree,
And all sleeps, save the bats and we.
Time is swift, and youth grows old!
Let us grasp the days of gold!
Say thou Poet, say thou Sage,
Is not this the golden age?
Not behind us, not before us!
Even now 'tis shining o'er us!
'Mid the stir of Old and New,
'Mid the strife of False and True,
Mother Nature, still the same,
Faithful to the eternal aim,
Every year renews the prime
Of the golden olden time!
156
A PROUD BEAUTY.
I am fair, you say, in the morning,
Cantering over the heath:
Fair at night in ball-room adorning,
Satin and ribbons and wreath.
Cantering over the heath:
Fair at night in ball-room adorning,
Satin and ribbons and wreath.
O, of course! You could kneel to my slipper,
Kiss the print of my heel in the dirt:
Be delighted to murder the snipper
Who measures my waist for a skirt!
Kiss the print of my heel in the dirt:
Be delighted to murder the snipper
Who measures my waist for a skirt!
Yes, I'm fair; but, I thank you, my mirror
Can speak more justly than you.
Your praise of my beauty's an error:
That tells me I'm fair, but is true!
Can speak more justly than you.
Your praise of my beauty's an error:
That tells me I'm fair, but is true!
157
'Tis true,—I am fair, and you feel it;
I have eyes; I know what I know.
Am I under an oath to conceal it?
Am I sinner so foul if I show?
I have eyes; I know what I know.
Am I under an oath to conceal it?
Am I sinner so foul if I show?
Yes! Puppy and pedant and poet
Might pardon the beauty, and grin.
'Tis not to be fair, but to know it,
That—that is the pardonless sin!
Might pardon the beauty, and grin.
'Tis not to be fair, but to know it,
That—that is the pardonless sin!
Venus on Titian's easel—
Helen in Homer's song—
Psyche from Gibson's chisel,
And I—we are all in the wrong!
Helen in Homer's song—
Psyche from Gibson's chisel,
And I—we are all in the wrong!
I am proud, you whisper;—So be it!
Let the hard word stand!—I am proud!
Am I to blush if you see it,
You,—and the rest of the crowd?
Let the hard word stand!—I am proud!
Am I to blush if you see it,
You,—and the rest of the crowd?
You,—of course you cannot mistake me,
Who know us women so well!
What I am, is of course what you make me!
I am proud, as you all can tell!
Who know us women so well!
158
I am proud, as you all can tell!
I am proud! 'Twere in vain for a Mister,
You simper, to sue my accord:
Plain Esquire might suit for my sister,
But I—I am mate for my lord.
You simper, to sue my accord:
Plain Esquire might suit for my sister,
But I—I am mate for my lord.
Well, I thank you, you read me so truly!
My lord, too, is quite of your mind.
I hear he's been furnishing newly;
A Countess no doubt is behind.
My lord, too, is quite of your mind.
I hear he's been furnishing newly;
A Countess no doubt is behind.
Yes! Beauty in royallest blossom
Heaven shaped expressly for him,
Such a judge of the swell of a bosom,
The curve of a delicate limb!
Heaven shaped expressly for him,
Such a judge of the swell of a bosom,
The curve of a delicate limb!
Well, at times pride suffers a stumble
Even from gazing so high.
I am proud: for once I'll be humble—
I deign to tell you, you lie!
Even from gazing so high.
I am proud: for once I'll be humble—
I deign to tell you, you lie!
159
Let me speak! You see me, a woman—
Lovely, with eyes to compare.
Think you I ceased to be human
So soon as I felt I was fair?
Lovely, with eyes to compare.
Think you I ceased to be human
So soon as I felt I was fair?
Have I nought in my heart but ambition?
No blood? not a passion to move?
Do I yearn for a park and position,
Yet never feel hungry for love?
No blood? not a passion to move?
Do I yearn for a park and position,
Yet never feel hungry for love?
Speak! Where is your red-headed scullion
One whit more woman than I?
The title and rent-roll and bullion—
Can they stifle the heart's wild cry?
One whit more woman than I?
The title and rent-roll and bullion—
Can they stifle the heart's wild cry?
Coward! You feel you're unworthy
Of beauty peerless as mine,
So you feign that my passion is earthy,
And yours—yours of course is divine!
Of beauty peerless as mine,
So you feign that my passion is earthy,
And yours—yours of course is divine!
The old tale!—You have lost in your running,
And whine that the judgment is wrong!
Mother Nature, you find, is too cunning:
She fashions the fair for the strong.
And whine that the judgment is wrong!
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She fashions the fair for the strong.
Doubtless, you feel it acutely,
To be weak, I grant you, is hard;
But might you not suffer it mutely?
I neither made you nor marred.
To be weak, I grant you, is hard;
But might you not suffer it mutely?
I neither made you nor marred.
Could you love half so well as you tell us,
You'd be first to be proud of my pride;
Too proud—far too proud to be jealous,
Though a king babbled love by my side.
You'd be first to be proud of my pride;
Too proud—far too proud to be jealous,
Though a king babbled love by my side.
Go! I remit you your duty!
My lieges at least shall be true.
I treasure my pride and my beauty
Not for my lord—nor for you.
My lieges at least shall be true.
I treasure my pride and my beauty
Not for my lord—nor for you.
161
MIDSUMMER EVE.
Feast of Saint John, ah, where the faery trainWho wont of old on this thy hallowed Eve
In trim array their twilight dance to weave
In forest nooks, unseen of eyes profane?
Ay me, Titania wakes not, and the strain
Of Pixy songs is still! Dost thou not grieve,
Grey Festival, that felon Time should leave
Thy brooks and woods unhaunted e'er again?
O mourn, but not for them! The Ithuriel flash
That scathed their sheen, still spares the baser creed
Where elder faith heard elfin timbrels clash,
And fays' shrill pipings echo through the mead,
There the new gospel's calculating greed
Eyes the broad oaks, and hears the chink of cash
162
VOICES.
Our star shines out in the West,
And a mist floats up from the sea,
Floats up by the brook while the wind is still
In the leaves of the linden tree.
All still as we sit in the still moonshine
In the bracken up to the knee,
Save the beat of a heart that beats to mine,
And the beat of a heart that beats to thine,
Dear love!
A heart that beats to thine.
And a mist floats up from the sea,
Floats up by the brook while the wind is still
In the leaves of the linden tree.
All still as we sit in the still moonshine
In the bracken up to the knee,
Save the beat of a heart that beats to mine,
And the beat of a heart that beats to thine,
Dear love!
A heart that beats to thine.
163
A voice goes down with the brook,
And a voice comes up from the shore,
But they whisper a sweeter tale to-night
Than ever they whispered before:
They have wept and sighed, but never like this
Were the sighs and the tears of yore,
For they weep, but the tears are the tears of bliss:—
They sigh,—'tis the sigh in a lover's kiss,
Dear love!
The sigh in a lover's kiss.
And a voice comes up from the shore,
But they whisper a sweeter tale to-night
Than ever they whispered before:
They have wept and sighed, but never like this
Were the sighs and the tears of yore,
For they weep, but the tears are the tears of bliss:—
They sigh,—'tis the sigh in a lover's kiss,
Dear love!
The sigh in a lover's kiss.
164
THE WINTER MORN.
Heigh-ho, the sorrow and the snow,And a true true love forlorn!
O wearily I go o'er the weary weary snow,
In the weary, weary winter morn!
Tramping, tramping, whither shall I go?—
Tramping, tramping, weary-foot and worn?
For O, and for O, in the darkness and the snow,
O well the wind may blow, and O well the tear may flow
For a true true love forlorn!
165
THE BANNERS.
Lordly Banners, waving to the stars,
Flap upon the nightwind, heavy with the dew:—
Trustful Youth is wending to the wars,
Strong in Ancient faith to battle with the New.
Flap upon the nightwind, heavy with the dew:—
Trustful Youth is wending to the wars,
Strong in Ancient faith to battle with the New.
Lordly banners, trodden in the clay,
Lie upon the mountain, dank with other dew:
Hapless Youth hath lost the bloody day:
Ancient faith is feeble,—stronger is the New.
Lie upon the mountain, dank with other dew:
Hapless Youth hath lost the bloody day:
Ancient faith is feeble,—stronger is the New.
Lordly banners, other than of yore,
Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew:
Youth to battle girdeth him once more,
New and Old are feeble,—mighty is the True!
Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew:
Youth to battle girdeth him once more,
New and Old are feeble,—mighty is the True!
166
BY THE SEA.
Sweet day, thy beauty doth unseal all springsOf pure delight, where even Despair might slake
Awhile his infinite thirsting, and partake
In the deep gladness of all outward things.
Yea, Sea and Autumn sit like crowned kings
Over the revels of the world, and make
Awful rejoicing to the Lord!—Break, break,
Thou prison-silence in the silver strings,
And blossom into song! O day of days,
Dying among the stars in breathless calm,
With thine own tribute to the eternal psalm
From Nature's heart outwelling evermore,
With all sweet voices of the waves and shore
Give thou to God one hymn of human praise!
167
ROUGE ET NOIR.
You there, looking so demure at
Yonder lily-fisted curate,
And the other there, his brother,
In his spurs and knightly red:
Marvel you how e'er your sister
Kissed the Parson when he kissed her?
Or how Fanny can sit rapt in
Loving converse with the Captain?
How one care of such a pair of—
Enters into maiden's head?
Yonder lily-fisted curate,
And the other there, his brother,
In his spurs and knightly red:
Marvel you how e'er your sister
Kissed the Parson when he kissed her?
Or how Fanny can sit rapt in
Loving converse with the Captain?
How one care of such a pair of—
Enters into maiden's head?
Come, methinks you're somewhat bitter,
My fair cynic crochet-knitter:
If you like a chat, let's strike a
Fairer balance if we can.
Yonder dandy little cleric,
Mediæval-neoteric,
Yonder Horseguards' ultimatum,
Lisp and giggle and pomatum,
Weigh them, flay them, bray them, slay them,
Still you'll find them each a man!
My fair cynic crochet-knitter:
168
Fairer balance if we can.
Yonder dandy little cleric,
Mediæval-neoteric,
Yonder Horseguards' ultimatum,
Lisp and giggle and pomatum,
Weigh them, flay them, bray them, slay them,
Still you'll find them each a man!
'Tis a something nobler, surely,
Which those damsels love so purely,
Than the waistcoat or the laced coat,
Priestly black or knightly red.
Beams there, then, no light supernal,
Lode-star of a love eternal,
Evermore in each vocation,
To excuse the adoration
Which discovers in their lovers
All of great in hand or head?
Which those damsels love so purely,
Than the waistcoat or the laced coat,
Priestly black or knightly red.
Beams there, then, no light supernal,
Lode-star of a love eternal,
Evermore in each vocation,
To excuse the adoration
Which discovers in their lovers
All of great in hand or head?
169
Yes! The Soldier and the Preacher,
That the guardian, this the teacher,
Own a title true and vital
To a heart's-love infinite!
Clothe us how you will, we're human:
God hath made us man and woman.
Rightly then, shall help-mate tender
Love her guider and defender,
And by rule of Nature's true-love
Still adore the Priest and Knight!
That the guardian, this the teacher,
Own a title true and vital
To a heart's-love infinite!
Clothe us how you will, we're human:
God hath made us man and woman.
Rightly then, shall help-mate tender
Love her guider and defender,
And by rule of Nature's true-love
Still adore the Priest and Knight!
Lo you there, at Eden's portals
Stand the grand primeval mortals,
Man and woman, merely human
In the lore of Good and Ill!
Yet, though fallen both, and banished,
All their garden-glory vanished,
Knight, by Cherub-swords appointed,
Priest, by Seraph-tears anointed,
Still the woman loves the true man,
Knight and Priest she loves him still!
Stand the grand primeval mortals,
Man and woman, merely human
In the lore of Good and Ill!
Yet, though fallen both, and banished,
All their garden-glory vanished,
Knight, by Cherub-swords appointed,
Priest, by Seraph-tears anointed,
170
Knight and Priest she loves him still!
Or, so please you, turn the pages
Of the great world's coming ages
To the latest and the greatest:
Look adown the years, and see
Where, beyond the days of mitres,
Where, beyond the days of fighters,
Priest of white self-sacrifices,
Warrior with his wants and vices,
Still the woman loves the true man
With the grander love to be!
Of the great world's coming ages
To the latest and the greatest:
Look adown the years, and see
Where, beyond the days of mitres,
Where, beyond the days of fighters,
Priest of white self-sacrifices,
Warrior with his wants and vices,
Still the woman loves the true man
With the grander love to be!
Aye, and in the baser real
Still she clings to this ideal:
Else I wonder much how yonder
Pair could e'er have won them wives!
Yet 'twere ill to pass them blindly;
Let us rather own them kindly
As the types of nobler orders,
Nobler preachers, nobler sworders,
Even though nothing but their clothing
Tell the meaning of their lives!
Still she clings to this ideal:
Else I wonder much how yonder
Pair could e'er have won them wives!
Yet 'twere ill to pass them blindly;
Let us rather own them kindly
171
Nobler preachers, nobler sworders,
Even though nothing but their clothing
Tell the meaning of their lives!
Is the lore not worth the learning
Taught by yonder love-lamp burning
Pure and holy on the lowly
Altar of a sister's breast?
You, no doubt, are wiser, older,
And perhaps a trifle colder,
Yet whate'er the outer cover
Of your own sublimer lover,
Baser, nobler, king or cobbler,
All you love is Knight or Priest!
Taught by yonder love-lamp burning
Pure and holy on the lowly
Altar of a sister's breast?
You, no doubt, are wiser, older,
And perhaps a trifle colder,
Yet whate'er the outer cover
Of your own sublimer lover,
Baser, nobler, king or cobbler,
All you love is Knight or Priest!
172
SHADOWS.
Lonely o'er the dying ember
I the past recal,
And remember in December
April buds and August skies,
As the shadows fall and rise,
As the shadows rise and fall.
I the past recal,
And remember in December
April buds and August skies,
As the shadows fall and rise,
As the shadows rise and fall.
Quicker now they flit and flicker
On the dreary wall;
Aye, and quicker still, and thicker
Throng the fitful fantasies,
As the shadows fall and rise,
As the shadows rise and fall.
On the dreary wall;
Aye, and quicker still, and thicker
Throng the fitful fantasies,
As the shadows fall and rise,
As the shadows rise and fall.
173
Dimmer now they shoot and shimmer
On the dreary wall.
Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmer
Till the light in darkness dies,
And the other shadows rise,
And the other shadows fall.
On the dreary wall.
Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmer
Till the light in darkness dies,
And the other shadows rise,
And the other shadows fall.
174
THE SEVEN FIDDLERS.
A blue robe on their shoulder,
And an ivory bow in hand,
Seven fiddlers came with their fiddles
A-fiddling through the land,
And they fiddled a tune on their fiddles
That none could understand.
And an ivory bow in hand,
Seven fiddlers came with their fiddles
A-fiddling through the land,
And they fiddled a tune on their fiddles
That none could understand.
For none who heard their fiddling
Might keep his ten toes still,
E'en the cripple threw down his crutches,
And danced against his will:
Young and old they all fell a-dancing,
While the fiddlers fiddled their fill.
Might keep his ten toes still,
E'en the cripple threw down his crutches,
And danced against his will:
Young and old they all fell a-dancing,
While the fiddlers fiddled their fill.
175
They fiddled down to the ferry—
The ferry by Severn-side,
And they stept aboard the ferry,
None else to row or guide,
And deftly steered the pilot,
And stoutly the oars they plied.
The ferry by Severn-side,
And they stept aboard the ferry,
None else to row or guide,
And deftly steered the pilot,
And stoutly the oars they plied.
Then suddenly in mid-channel
These fiddlers ceased to row,
And the pilot spake to his fellows
In a tongue that none may know:
“Let us home to our fathers and brothers,
And the maidens we love below.”
These fiddlers ceased to row,
And the pilot spake to his fellows
In a tongue that none may know:
“Let us home to our fathers and brothers,
And the maidens we love below.”
Then the fiddlers seized their fiddles,
And sang to their fiddles a song:
“We are coming, coming, O brothers,
“To the home we have left so long,
“For the world still loves the fiddler,
“And the fiddler's tune is strong.”
And sang to their fiddles a song:
“We are coming, coming, O brothers,
“To the home we have left so long,
“For the world still loves the fiddler,
“And the fiddler's tune is strong.”
176
Then they stept from out the ferry
Into the Severn-sea,
Down into the depths of the waters
Where the homes of the fiddlers be,
And the ferry-boat drifted slowly
Forth to the ocean free!
Into the Severn-sea,
Down into the depths of the waters
Where the homes of the fiddlers be,
And the ferry-boat drifted slowly
Forth to the ocean free!
But where those jolly fiddlers
Walked down into the deep,
The ripples are never quiet,
But for ever dance and leap,
Though the Severn-sea be silent,
And the winds be all asleep.
Walked down into the deep,
The ripples are never quiet,
But for ever dance and leap,
Though the Severn-sea be silent,
And the winds be all asleep.
177
SONG.
[I look into the eyes I love]
I look into the eyes I love
And watch the old love beaming,
And call from out the buried years
The old, old lover's dreaming.
And watch the old love beaming,
And call from out the buried years
The old, old lover's dreaming.
Just here and there one line of grey
Divides the raven tresses,
I sigh:—Youth fades apace—I smile,
The love that blest, still blesses!
Divides the raven tresses,
I sigh:—Youth fades apace—I smile,
The love that blest, still blesses!
178
AMERICA.
I.
I saw two Curses in the blood of men
Laving their hoary loathliness. A fen
Choked with unburied corpses steamed before their den
Laving their hoary loathliness. A fen
Choked with unburied corpses steamed before their den
One bare aloft the Sword, and one the Scourge.
Four spotted things laughed a hyena-dirge
As their grim monarchs waded through the gory surge.
Four spotted things laughed a hyena-dirge
As their grim monarchs waded through the gory surge.
Blood evermore oozed in from North and South.
And ever as they laved, a ghastlier youth
Slid through their ghastly Eld, and slaked its hideous drouth.
And ever as they laved, a ghastlier youth
Slid through their ghastly Eld, and slaked its hideous drouth.
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And war lay down and lapped a loathly draught,
Rolling his eyes half drunkenly, and laughed:
“Not yet thy hand nor mine forgets its wonted craft!
Rolling his eyes half drunkenly, and laughed:
“Not yet thy hand nor mine forgets its wonted craft!
“Thousand on thousand blood-recorded years,
“Have thou and I battened on blood and tears,
“Sworn fellows, cheek by jowl—Hell's eldest born twin-peers.
“Have thou and I battened on blood and tears,
“Sworn fellows, cheek by jowl—Hell's eldest born twin-peers.
“Yet in thy perilous hour, when waked by thee
“I rose to shield thy realm against the Free,
“E'en yet men dream that War shall Slavery's dooms-man be.”
“I rose to shield thy realm against the Free,
“E'en yet men dream that War shall Slavery's dooms-man be.”
“And Slavery howled: “Not yet, not yet we die!
“Thou art my Saviour, and thy Saviour I!—
“Brother, thy fall shall herald that mine own draws nigh!”
“Thou art my Saviour, and thy Saviour I!—
“Brother, thy fall shall herald that mine own draws nigh!”
180
II.
And other Two I saw who walked the sea:—
One bare an Olive-bough and one a Key:
White-robed, white-winged, they walked the waters mournfully.
One bare an Olive-bough and one a Key:
White-robed, white-winged, they walked the waters mournfully.
And Peace said, “Look—yon fair far-stretching
land
“Hath sworn by all the blood upon her hand,
“That Slavery evermore her corner-stone shall stand.
“Hath sworn by all the blood upon her hand,
“That Slavery evermore her corner-stone shall stand.
“Dost thou not tremble?” freedom answered: “No!
“But go thou first—and wheresoe'er thou go
“Surely I too shall follow though my steps be slow!
“But go thou first—and wheresoe'er thou go
“Surely I too shall follow though my steps be slow!
“For in my dreams,—yea, and my dreams come true,
“God gave me empire over Old and New:—
“I wait—Hereafter, mine are all beneath the blue!”
“God gave me empire over Old and New:—
“I wait—Hereafter, mine are all beneath the blue!”
181
Der Tod als Freund
A TRANSLATION OF THE PICTURE BY ALFRED RETHEL.
PATER NOSTER, QUI ES IN CŒLIS.
—Is the sun shining? I thought he setAn hour ago:—but I forget:
And I seem to feel from over the hill
The red glow bathing my forehead still.
SANCTIFICETUR NOMEN TUUM.
Very quiet it seems to-night,Very quiet to left and right,
And I know full well, though I cannot see,
How the calmness falls over meadow and tree,
182
How still they stand in the quiet sky.
ADVENIAT REGNUM TUUM.
I feel like a sick man praising God,When his fever is spent, and he walks abroad,
And the peace that flows from all peaceful things
Wells fresh in the worn heart's shrunken springs,
Till his eyes o'erflow, and the world grows dim,
And he hushes the chords of his own weak hymn
To join in the silent psalmody
Floating up from the brooks, and fields, and sky,
To the great good God, pouring down from above
Such wealth of glory, and peace, and love.
FIAT VOLUNTAS TUA
Yea, very quiet it seems to-night,Very quiet to left and right.
Very quiet and very sweet!
I would die to-night if God thought meet!
183
SICUT IN CŒLO, ITA IN TERRA.
Did I read it to-night, or long ago,Of the blessed Eulalia's shroud of snow,
And the dove from her martyr lips that flew
With the girlish spirit so white and true?
Ay me, O God, Thou hast called to Thee
Full many a soul as white as she!
Ay, I tolled the bell but yesterday
For such an one in the twilight grey.
Was it yesterday?—I am very old,
And my eyes wax dim, and my blood grows cold,—
Is it forty years? There was snow on the ground,
That lay on my heart as the years rolled round;
But green is the churchyard now below,
And my heart is cold, but not with the snow.—
PANEM QUOTIDIANUM DA NOBIS HODIE.
Is it a bird? Ay, chirp for thy crumbs,Thou shalt have them, my child, when Tinè comes:
184
And I cannot get up to serve thee now.
ET REMITTE NOBIS DEBITA NOSTRA.
I do not think I am tolling the bell,Yet surely I hear it knolling a knell:—
Is it Wolf? No, he never tolled so well!
Ha! old Friend, is it thou?
'Tis kind to come thus to help me now,
For I feel almost too feeble to rise,
And it seems a labour to open my eyes.
Ah, well! You can toll even better than I!
But, who for? I forget, for so many die.
Yet, I thought when they told me, 'twas one I knew,
One near and dear, but I wot not who.
ET LIBERA NOS A MALO. AMEN.
Music is it? 'Tis many a yearSince I heard the requiem sung so clear,—
185
DONA EIS, DONA EIS ÆTERNAM.
And hark to the organ, how calm and deep!Seven years I have heard it not, save in sleep.
Oh, hearken! It never seemed so near!
Is it she who singeth so sweet and clear?
SOLVET SÆCLUM IN FAVILLA TESTE DAVID CUM SIBYLLA?
Oh, to rise and join! If I could but see!Dear God!—Nunc dimittis, Domine!
186
A SPRING-TIDE WELCOME.
March 10th, 1863.
Bid her welcome, O fairest Spring from the South!
She is fair as thyself that greets thee!—
Meet her and kiss her on eyes and mouth,—
The Spring from the North that meets thee!—
Meet her and kiss her, O Spring from the South,
Our bride in her bridal gladness;
With the Crocus, in true-love's saffron sheen,
Bring the Snowdrop's maidenly white between,
For the bride in her bridal gladness:
And scatter the purple Violet,
For a hope that blooms through an old regret,
Sweet, sweet in the hues of sadness!
She is fair as thyself that greets thee!—
Meet her and kiss her on eyes and mouth,—
The Spring from the North that meets thee!—
Meet her and kiss her, O Spring from the South,
Our bride in her bridal gladness;
With the Crocus, in true-love's saffron sheen,
Bring the Snowdrop's maidenly white between,
For the bride in her bridal gladness:
And scatter the purple Violet,
For a hope that blooms through an old regret,
Sweet, sweet in the hues of sadness!
187
Bid her welcome, O Violet, under thy leaves,
Sweet, sweet, in thy purple mourning,—
The Hope who comes to the land that grieves
For the Good One unreturning!—
Greet her, O Violet, under thy leaves,
In thy purple mourning greet her!
Tell her that sweet to the heart that bleeds
Is the hidden fragrance of holy deeds,
Yet say there is one thing sweeter;—
For sweet, O sweet though the memory be
Of the Wise and Good in the Land of the Free,
The renewing of Hope is sweeter!
Sweet, sweet, in thy purple mourning,—
The Hope who comes to the land that grieves
For the Good One unreturning!—
Greet her, O Violet, under thy leaves,
In thy purple mourning greet her!
Tell her that sweet to the heart that bleeds
Is the hidden fragrance of holy deeds,
Yet say there is one thing sweeter;—
For sweet, O sweet though the memory be
Of the Wise and Good in the Land of the Free,
The renewing of Hope is sweeter!
Bid her welcome, O Snowdrop, out on the lea,
Fair, fair in thy maiden whiteness.—
The Maiden who comes from over the sea,
So fair in her maiden brightness!—
Greet her, O Snowdrop, out on the lea,
To thine own sweet self compare her!
Tell her how English pulses bless
The charm of her maidenly loveliness,
Yet say there is one thing fairer;—
For fair, O fair though her form may be,
To the brave true man in the Land of the Free,
Her maiden heart is fairer!
Fair, fair in thy maiden whiteness.—
The Maiden who comes from over the sea,
So fair in her maiden brightness!—
Greet her, O Snowdrop, out on the lea,
To thine own sweet self compare her!
188
The charm of her maidenly loveliness,
Yet say there is one thing fairer;—
For fair, O fair though her form may be,
To the brave true man in the Land of the Free,
Her maiden heart is fairer!
Bid her welcome, O Crocus-cups i' the sun,
Bright, bright in your golden glory.
The Dansker Bride who is wooed and won
To grace our English story!
Greet her, O Crocus-cups i' the sun!
With a golden welcome cheer her!—
Tell her that dear to an Empire's bride
Is the fulness of Empire's pomp and pride,
Yet say there is one thing dearer:—
For dear though the pride of Empire be
To the bride of a Prince in the Land of the Free,
The true True-love is dearer!
Bright, bright in your golden glory.
The Dansker Bride who is wooed and won
To grace our English story!
Greet her, O Crocus-cups i' the sun!
With a golden welcome cheer her!—
Tell her that dear to an Empire's bride
Is the fulness of Empire's pomp and pride,
Yet say there is one thing dearer:—
For dear though the pride of Empire be
To the bride of a Prince in the Land of the Free,
The true True-love is dearer!
189
GARIBALDI.
April, 1864.
Happy be the gales that waft thee, Bark that bearest o'er the sea,
Prophet,—aye and more than prophet of Italia One and Free!—
Welcome, Joseph Garibaldi! With all praise of tongue and pen,
Welcome, welcome with all honour, with all love of all true men;
Prophet,—aye and more than prophet of Italia One and Free!—
Welcome, Joseph Garibaldi! With all praise of tongue and pen,
Welcome, welcome with all honour, with all love of all true men;
Garibaldi!—As I name thee, from the backward past of time
Flash the shapes of old-world Manhood,—shapes of old-world Faith sublime;
Awful shadows of thy brethren, gazing on me as I gaze,
Demigods and stately Visions of the dim heroic days.
Flash the shapes of old-world Manhood,—shapes of old-world Faith sublime;
190
Demigods and stately Visions of the dim heroic days.
And I see among the Visions, where in Lemnos isle untrod,
One foot-stricken Philoctetes wields the arrows of a god;
Wastes the weary years in sorrow, while afar the Chiefs of Troy
Laughing proudly on the leaguers, bid them enter and destroy.
One foot-stricken Philoctetes wields the arrows of a god;
Wastes the weary years in sorrow, while afar the Chiefs of Troy
Laughing proudly on the leaguers, bid them enter and destroy.
And I hear the Prophet whisper: “Hark, Achaians, would ye speed,
Go, fetch hither Philoctetes: he alone can do this deed.
His alone the fateful arrows, tempered in Lernæan gore:—
Let him come, Alcides' comrade, and Troy town shall be no more!”
Go, fetch hither Philoctetes: he alone can do this deed.
His alone the fateful arrows, tempered in Lernæan gore:—
Let him come, Alcides' comrade, and Troy town shall be no more!”
191
And I see a false Ulysses, with a hate-dissembling guile,
Urging forth the stricken Hero to the leaguer from his isle,
And the warrior from the meshes of his falsehood bursting free,
To the gods' will grandly yielding, and the Fate, whate'er it be.
Urging forth the stricken Hero to the leaguer from his isle,
And the warrior from the meshes of his falsehood bursting free,
To the gods' will grandly yielding, and the Fate, whate'er it be.
And again once more I see him, waxing whole of his deep wound,
Watch the triumph of his arrows, see all Troy a blazing mound;
And beyond the blaze and triumph, and the War-god's glorious ills,
See him girt with peaceful peoples, on the free Calabrian hills!
Watch the triumph of his arrows, see all Troy a blazing mound;
And beyond the blaze and triumph, and the War-god's glorious ills,
See him girt with peaceful peoples, on the free Calabrian hills!
Thou thrice-nobler Philoctetes! Is thy foot-wound not yet whole?
Solferino's new Ulysses—hath he loved thee to cajole?
Through and through our welcome ringing, o'er a fallen Troy we hear
The last curses of Mastäi, Antonelli's dying sneer!
192
Through and through our welcome ringing, o'er a fallen Troy we hear
The last curses of Mastäi, Antonelli's dying sneer!
193
SONG.
[Kisses, sweet kisses,—sweeter than death]
Kisses, sweet kisses,—sweeter than death:
Beneath and above
Nothing but love,—
Love in the heart and the quick warm breath!
Beneath and above
Nothing but love,—
Love in the heart and the quick warm breath!
Weeping, wild weeping,—sadder than death:
Above and beneath
Nothing but death,—
Death in the heart and the bridal wreath!
Above and beneath
Nothing but death,—
Death in the heart and the bridal wreath!
Count me those kisses, sweeter than death
Ah, Sorrow, so few?
Make up the due!
Count me the tears, too, sadder than deat
Ah, Sorrow, so few?
Make up the due!
Count me the tears, too, sadder than deat
194
A DIRGE FOR SUMMER.
Summer dieth:—o'er his bier
Chant a requiem low and clear!—
Chant it for his dying flowers,—
Chant it for his flying hours.
Let them wither all together
Now the world is past the prime
Of the golden olden-time.
Chant a requiem low and clear!—
Chant it for his dying flowers,—
Chant it for his flying hours.
Let them wither all together
Now the world is past the prime
Of the golden olden-time.
Let them die, and dying Summer
Yield his kingdom to the comer
From the islands of the West:
He is weary, let him rest!
And let mellow Autumn's yellow
Fall upon the leafy prime
Of the golden olden-time.
Yield his kingdom to the comer
From the islands of the West:
He is weary, let him rest!
195
Fall upon the leafy prime
Of the golden olden-time.
Go, ye days, your deeds are done!
Be you clouds about the sun
Your imperial winding-sheet!
Let the nightwinds as they fleet
Tell the story of the glory
Of the free great-hearted prime
Of the golden olden-time.
Be you clouds about the sun
Your imperial winding-sheet!
Let the nightwinds as they fleet
Tell the story of the glory
Of the free great-hearted prime
Of the golden olden-time.
196
CROCUS-GATHERING.
Come, gather the crocus-cups with me,
And dream of the summer coming:
Saffron and purple and snowy white,
All awake to the first bees humming.
And dream of the summer coming:
Saffron and purple and snowy white,
All awake to the first bees humming.
The white is there for the maiden-heart,
And the purple is there for sorrow:
The saffron is there for the true true love,
And they'll all be dead to-morrow.
And the purple is there for sorrow:
The saffron is there for the true true love,
And they'll all be dead to-morrow.
197
INSTEAD OF A TRANSLATION FROM BERANGER.
Butterfly-racing, boys; butterfly-chasing, boys,
Down by the milldam, boys,—off and away!
Hats off, and follow him, fluttering, flickering,
Under the chestnuts and over the hay!
Down by the milldam, boys,—off and away!
Hats off, and follow him, fluttering, flickering,
Under the chestnuts and over the hay!
There in the clover now!—Throw your hat over now!
Catch him, and keep him, and home with your prize!
Ha, where's the captive, boys?—Fluttering, flickering,
Far, far away in the blue summer skies!
Catch him, and keep him, and home with your prize!
Ha, where's the captive, boys?—Fluttering, flickering,
Far, far away in the blue summer skies!
Fair one, O task me not!—Dear one, O ask me not!
Free let him flutter o'er brook-land and lynn!
What if I caught him you,—what if I brought him you,
Named on a label, and spiked on a pin?
Free let him flutter o'er brook-land and lynn!
What if I caught him you,—what if I brought him you,
Named on a label, and spiked on a pin?
198
ABSENCE.
Fade, thou twisted briony,
Still upon the white-thorn tree!
Fall, ye berries red and gold!
Fall and blacken in the bracken,
Fade and fall!—The year is old.
Still upon the white-thorn tree!
Fall, ye berries red and gold!
Fall and blacken in the bracken,
Fade and fall!—The year is old.
Never cometh She to wear
Wreaths of thine among her hair,
While we watch the autumnal gales
Blow the shadows o'er the meadows,
Dimming half the distant dales.
Wreaths of thine among her hair,
While we watch the autumnal gales
Blow the shadows o'er the meadows,
Dimming half the distant dales.
199
A ROUNDELAY.
Come, sit beneath the hawthorn tree,
And press thy lips to mine:
I have a merry song for thee,
Will cheer thy heart like wine.
And press thy lips to mine:
I have a merry song for thee,
Will cheer thy heart like wine.
O well the bonny heath may smile,
The lark sing clear above:
For we will love a little while,
Though all in vain we love.
The lark sing clear above:
For we will love a little while,
Though all in vain we love.
And green the leaves should be o'erhead,
The bracken brown beneath:
For O, that thou and I lay dead
Upon the bonny heath!
The bracken brown beneath:
For O, that thou and I lay dead
Upon the bonny heath!
200
WHAT THE TRUMPETER SAID.
1855.
At a pot-house bar as I chanced to passI saw three men by the flare of the gas:
Soldiers two, with their red-coats gay,
And the third from Chelsea, a pensioner grey,
With three smart hussies as bold as they.
Drunk and swearing and swaggering all,
With their foul songs scaring the quiet Mall,
While the clash of glasses and clink of spurs
Kept time to the roystering quiristers,
And the old man sat and stamped with his stump:
When I heard a trumpeter trumpet a trump:—
“To the wars!—To the wars!
“March, march!
201
“Quit the bottle for the battle,
“And march!
“To the wars, to the wars!
“March, March with a tramp!
“To the wars!
“Up, you toper at your tipple, bottle after bottle at the tap!
“Quit your pretty dirty Betty! Clap her garter in your cap,
“And march!
“To the trench and the sap!
“To the little victual of the camp!
“To the little liquor of the camp!
“To the breach and the storm!
“To the roaring and the glory of the wars!
“To the rattle and the battle and the scars!”
Trumpeter, trumpet it out!
202
JOCK O' GLEN MORISTANE.
“Come our hame, laddie,
Laddie, I'm wearie:
Jock o' Glen Moristane,
Jockie, my dearie!”
Laddie, I'm wearie:
Jock o' Glen Moristane,
Jockie, my dearie!”
“Mither, where's Jockie gane?
Ken ye, my mither?
Gin I tyne Jockie,
I'll ne'er find anither.”
Ken ye, my mither?
Gin I tyne Jockie,
I'll ne'er find anither.”
“Jock's gane a hawking, lass,
Doun by Loch Lomond:
Jock's no be back to thee,
Lassie, this twa' mond.
Doun by Loch Lomond:
Jock's no be back to thee,
Lassie, this twa' mond.
203
“Jockie's no true to ye
Mair than to twenty;
Mithers ye hae but ane,
Wooers by plenty.”
Mair than to twenty;
Mithers ye hae but ane,
Wooers by plenty.”
“Tell me nae mair, mither,
Mither, I'm wearie:
Jockie's my ain true love,
Jockie's my dearie.”
Mither, I'm wearie:
Jockie's my ain true love,
Jockie's my dearie.”
“Jock's i' the well, Lizzie,
Lizzie Mac Taggart!
Speir where your mither gat
Bluid on her shoe-girt?
Lizzie Mac Taggart!
Speir where your mither gat
Bluid on her shoe-girt?
“Toom is your father's ha',
Jock o' Glen Mor'stane!
Toom is your bridal bed,
Cauld is your hear'stane!
Jock o' Glen Mor'stane!
Toom is your bridal bed,
Cauld is your hear'stane!
204
“Cauld is your hand, Jockie,
Doun i' the water:
Caulder the heart that leed
Till her ain dochter!
Doun i' the water:
Caulder the heart that leed
Till her ain dochter!
“Cauld is the wide warld
To hearts that are wearie.
Come to my arms, Jockie,
Jockie, my dearie!”
To hearts that are wearie.
Come to my arms, Jockie,
Jockie, my dearie!”
205
THE PURITAN MILITANT.
Ichabod, Ichabod!—Never to rise again.
Godless Prelate and King!
Courage, ye saints of God! Lift up your eyes again!
Lift up your voice and sing!
Godless Prelate and King!
Courage, ye saints of God! Lift up your eyes again!
Lift up your voice and sing!
Chant we, brothers, in chorus
Through the fires of tribulation,
For the Lamb hath gone before us,
Our Guide and strong Salvation!
Through the fires of tribulation,
For the Lamb hath gone before us,
Our Guide and strong Salvation!
Our prayers and penance and fasting
And manifold agonies
Are writ in the book everlasting,
And lovely in His eyes!
And manifold agonies
Are writ in the book everlasting,
And lovely in His eyes!
206
Pilgrims, footsore and sick
To the New Jerusalem:
Our brows all streaming red with the prick
Of the thorny diadem.
To the New Jerusalem:
Our brows all streaming red with the prick
Of the thorny diadem.
Our bones lie scattered before the pit,
White as a forester's chips,
For a deadly wine and blood with it
Hast thou held, O Lord, to thy servant's lips!
White as a forester's chips,
For a deadly wine and blood with it
Hast thou held, O Lord, to thy servant's lips!
Stretch forth thy hand, thou Righter
Of them that suffer the wrong!
Up, Lord, and smite the smiter!
Avenge us! The time is long.
Of them that suffer the wrong!
Up, Lord, and smite the smiter!
Avenge us! The time is long.
Bind their nobles in fetters,
And scourge their kings with steel!
Write on their walls the letters
Of the wrath they are doomed to feel!
And scourge their kings with steel!
Write on their walls the letters
Of the wrath they are doomed to feel!
207
Mene, mene, tekel upharsin!
Open thy gates, O king!
Up, Lord, avenge us! Drive with thy cars in!
Smite hip and thigh, that thy saints may sing!
Open thy gates, O king!
Up, Lord, avenge us! Drive with thy cars in!
Smite hip and thigh, that thy saints may sing!
Ichabod, Ichabod!—Never to rise again!
Godless Prelate and King!
Courage, ye saints of God! Lift up your eyes again!
Lift up your voice and sing!
Godless Prelate and King!
Courage, ye saints of God! Lift up your eyes again!
Lift up your voice and sing!
208
SAFI.
Safi knelt by the spring with her wonted pitcher at even,
Safi, slender of limb and small as the deer of the Desert,
Safi, daughter of Am, White Rose of the Desert Oasis.
Safi espied far away in the yellow mist of the Desert
Shimmering into a shape, how One rode, thirstily hasting
Tall on a camel aloft to the welcome Fountain of Blessing.
Taller he rode than men, though wayworn, wearily stooping,
Nigher and nigher amain as Safi hid from his presence
Trembling under the palm, as he dropped from his camel to drink there.
Still she stood in the sun, that among the stems of the palm-trees
Westering flooded with flame the sands and the blessed Oasis.
Still she stood while he drank, stood still as a hyacinth gathered,
Dreading almost to breathe lest the eye of the Stranger espy her.
Still she stood while they drank, that strange tall man and his camel,
Drank and drank yet again of the bubbling Fountain of Blessing,
Leaping alive from the rock, the life of the palms of the valley.
Safi, slender of limb and small as the deer of the Desert,
Safi, daughter of Am, White Rose of the Desert Oasis.
Safi espied far away in the yellow mist of the Desert
Shimmering into a shape, how One rode, thirstily hasting
Tall on a camel aloft to the welcome Fountain of Blessing.
Taller he rode than men, though wayworn, wearily stooping,
Nigher and nigher amain as Safi hid from his presence
Trembling under the palm, as he dropped from his camel to drink there.
Still she stood in the sun, that among the stems of the palm-trees
209
Still she stood while he drank, stood still as a hyacinth gathered,
Dreading almost to breathe lest the eye of the Stranger espy her.
Still she stood while they drank, that strange tall man and his camel,
Drank and drank yet again of the bubbling Fountain of Blessing,
Leaping alive from the rock, the life of the palms of the valley.
“Praise be to Allah!” he cried, “and thou, O Spring of the Desert,
“Blessed be thou among springs evermore!” and straight from his finger
Loosing an emerald ring, a talisman flashing with cipher,
Dropped it into the fount:“Be this the thanks of the Pilgrim!
“So never more, O Spring, shall thy waters fail to the stranger,
“So never more shall drought or the sudden rains defile thee!
“Blessed be thou as the streams of Hiddekel, blessed for ever!”
“Blessed be thou among springs evermore!” and straight from his finger
Loosing an emerald ring, a talisman flashing with cipher,
Dropped it into the fount:“Be this the thanks of the Pilgrim!
210
“So never more shall drought or the sudden rains defile thee!
“Blessed be thou as the streams of Hiddekel, blessed for ever!”
Safi heard where she stood in her hiding under the palmtree,
Safi saw as she turned how her shadow fell from her hiding
Full on the tell-tale sward to the dusty foot of the Stranger.
“Beautiful art thou, O shadow!” he murmured, “beautiful also
“She who under the palm hath heard the prayer of the Stranger!—
“Beautiful, slender of limb, lithe, light as the lissom acacia,
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful!
“Such an one would I wed,—will wed, by Allah, if only
“Stately she be as the palm,—bride meet for a Son of the Giants,
“Be she as tall as my ear, she shall wed the Son of the Giants!”
Safi saw as she turned how her shadow fell from her hiding
Full on the tell-tale sward to the dusty foot of the Stranger.
“Beautiful art thou, O shadow!” he murmured, “beautiful also
“She who under the palm hath heard the prayer of the Stranger!—
“Beautiful, slender of limb, lithe, light as the lissom acacia,
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful!
211
“Stately she be as the palm,—bride meet for a Son of the Giants,
“Be she as tall as my ear, she shall wed the Son of the Giants!”
Safi heard where she stood in her hiding under the palm-tree,
Safi blushed from her foot to the folds of her maidenly turban,
Safi's blood beat fast with sudden joy and amazement,
Safi's love as a rose to the sunshine opens its petals,
Blossomed glowing and sweet to the sunny word of the Stranger:—
Safi blanched from her foot to the folds of her maidenly turban,
Safi's blood stood still with sudden fear and amazement,
Safi's love, as a rose that feels the simoom of the Desert,
Drooped in her tremulous heart at the parching word of the Stranger,
Tingling hot in her ear,—“if stately, tall as a palm-tree.”
Safi blushed from her foot to the folds of her maidenly turban,
Safi's blood beat fast with sudden joy and amazement,
Safi's love as a rose to the sunshine opens its petals,
Blossomed glowing and sweet to the sunny word of the Stranger:—
Safi blanched from her foot to the folds of her maidenly turban,
Safi's blood stood still with sudden fear and amazement,
Safi's love, as a rose that feels the simoom of the Desert,
212
Tingling hot in her ear,—“if stately, tall as a palm-tree.”
“I, what am I?—but a rose, little Rose of the Desert Oasis!”
Tall he strode where she stood in her hiding under the palm-tree,
Shamefast, eyeing the spring, little Rose of the Desert Oasis.
“Peace, O maiden, be with thee!” and “Peace,” she answered, “and blessing!”
“Who, then, art thou, and whence, O maiden, Rose of the Desert?”
“Safi, daughter of Am, men call me, O Son of the Giants!”
Shamefast, eyeing the spring, little Rose of the Desert Oasis.
“Peace, O maiden, be with thee!” and “Peace,” she answered, “and blessing!”
“Who, then, art thou, and whence, O maiden, Rose of the Desert?”
“Safi, daughter of Am, men call me, O Son of the Giants!”
“Safi, daughter of Am, thou art lithe as the lissom acacia;
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful,
“Would thou wert tall as the shadow that pointed thee out in thy hiding,
“Stately and tall as a palm,—bride meet for a Son of the Giants!
“Peace be with thee, my child!”—and straightway turned he and left her!
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful,
213
“Stately and tall as a palm,—bride meet for a Son of the Giants!
“Peace be with thee, my child!”—and straightway turned he and left her!
Safi stood by the spring and wept there,—desolate Safi!
Never Safi had loved till she loved that Son of the Giants:—
Never Safi had loved till she loved and lost him together!
Weeping she stood by the Spring:“O Spring, he hath blest thee for ever!
“Me hath he cursed though I love, though I love him only and ever!”
Then in the Spring she beheld an unwonted trouble of waters
Bubble and boil as she gazed, and a Voice spake out of the fountain:
“Peace be upon thee, O daughter of Am, little Rose of the Desert!
“Safi, thee have I loved since first with thy pitcher at even
“Hither thou camest, and oft have I prayed for a mate for my Safi,
“Oft have I prayed for my Safi a mate of the Sons of the Giants!
“Lo, he hath left me a pledge, thou saw'st, of grateful remembrance,
“Take thou, Safi, his ring—I am paid by gratitude only;
“Mine are the gems of the Deep, and the secret ores of the Desert,
“Mine is the diamond's frost and the costly blaze of the ruby,
“Mine is the Pilgrim's prayer,—be thine the pledge of his blessing!
“Take it,—lo, where it lies!—He loves whoe'er may possess it!
“Take it, and sprinkle anon thy head seven times with my water!
“Ask me no more, but trust!—and peace be upon thee and blessing!”
Never Safi had loved till she loved that Son of the Giants:—
Never Safi had loved till she loved and lost him together!
Weeping she stood by the Spring:“O Spring, he hath blest thee for ever!
“Me hath he cursed though I love, though I love him only and ever!”
Then in the Spring she beheld an unwonted trouble of waters
Bubble and boil as she gazed, and a Voice spake out of the fountain:
214
“Safi, thee have I loved since first with thy pitcher at even
“Hither thou camest, and oft have I prayed for a mate for my Safi,
“Oft have I prayed for my Safi a mate of the Sons of the Giants!
“Lo, he hath left me a pledge, thou saw'st, of grateful remembrance,
“Take thou, Safi, his ring—I am paid by gratitude only;
“Mine are the gems of the Deep, and the secret ores of the Desert,
“Mine is the diamond's frost and the costly blaze of the ruby,
“Mine is the Pilgrim's prayer,—be thine the pledge of his blessing!
“Take it,—lo, where it lies!—He loves whoe'er may possess it!
215
“Ask me no more, but trust!—and peace be upon thee and blessing!”
Safi knelt by the Spring:“Allah bless thee, Fountain of Blessing!”
Safi slipped on her thumb the talisman flashing with cipher:
Safi sprinkled her head seven times with the water of blessing:
Safi slept by the spring the sleep of holy enchantment.
Safi slipped on her thumb the talisman flashing with cipher:
Safi sprinkled her head seven times with the water of blessing:
Safi slept by the spring the sleep of holy enchantment.
“Where is Safi, my rose,—my Safi, light of my household?
“Never to linger so long she wont by the fountain at even:
“Why doth she linger so long, my Safi, Rose of the Desert?”
Thus mused Am the Sheikh, as he marked a Stranger approaching,
Stranger and camel that paced by the path that leads from the fountain;
“Peace be with thee, O Stranger!” and “Peace,” he answered, “and blessing;”
“Enter thy servant's dwelling, and rest thyself and thy camel!”
“Peace to thy house,” he answered, “O Sheikh, and the blessing of Allah!”
Thus they entered and sat. The bubbling cloud of the hookah
Gratefully fragrant spread with the grateful fragrance of berries.
Mutely they rested awhile, till the old man spoke to the Stranger:
“Saw'st thou a damsel, O Stranger, by yonder wells with a pitcher?”
“Father,” he said, “by the spring did I leave one fair as the morning,
“Beautiful, slender of limb, and lithe as the lissom acacia:
“Is she thy daughter, O Sheikh? Thrice blessed art thou, O father!
“Were she but tall as fair, she were bride for a Son of the Giants!”
“Peace from Allah be on thee, my son!” Then again they were silent,
Silent till holy sleep sealed fast the eyes of the Stranger.
“Peace be upon thee, my son! I go to seek for my Safi.”
“Never to linger so long she wont by the fountain at even:
“Why doth she linger so long, my Safi, Rose of the Desert?”
216
Stranger and camel that paced by the path that leads from the fountain;
“Peace be with thee, O Stranger!” and “Peace,” he answered, “and blessing;”
“Enter thy servant's dwelling, and rest thyself and thy camel!”
“Peace to thy house,” he answered, “O Sheikh, and the blessing of Allah!”
Thus they entered and sat. The bubbling cloud of the hookah
Gratefully fragrant spread with the grateful fragrance of berries.
Mutely they rested awhile, till the old man spoke to the Stranger:
“Saw'st thou a damsel, O Stranger, by yonder wells with a pitcher?”
“Father,” he said, “by the spring did I leave one fair as the morning,
217
“Is she thy daughter, O Sheikh? Thrice blessed art thou, O father!
“Were she but tall as fair, she were bride for a Son of the Giants!”
“Peace from Allah be on thee, my son!” Then again they were silent,
Silent till holy sleep sealed fast the eyes of the Stranger.
“Peace be upon thee, my son! I go to seek for my Safi.”
Safi he found by the well,—his Safi, Rose of the Desert,
Safi, Rose of the Desert, but Safi, tall as a palm tree:—
Safi, no more, as of old, little Rose of the Desert Oasis,
Safi asleep by the well, but grown by a cubit in sleeping.
“Allah be praised, O my child!—my child, His hand is upon thee!
“Beautiful ever thou wert, and lithe as the slender acacia,
“Stately and tall as a palm art thou now,—a bride for the Giants!”
Safi woke from her sleep, the sleep of blessed enchantment,
Safi's eyes as she woke met those of her sire's amazement,
Safi's heart stood still, and the life-blood failed within her.
“Is it a dream?—Allah's will be done. Never dreamed I aforetime
“Dream such as this,—so sweet, so strange!—Nay! Allah forgive me!
“Peace be upon thee, my father!—so strange I forgot to salute thee!”
Safi, Rose of the Desert, but Safi, tall as a palm tree:—
Safi, no more, as of old, little Rose of the Desert Oasis,
Safi asleep by the well, but grown by a cubit in sleeping.
“Allah be praised, O my child!—my child, His hand is upon thee!
“Beautiful ever thou wert, and lithe as the slender acacia,
218
Safi woke from her sleep, the sleep of blessed enchantment,
Safi's eyes as she woke met those of her sire's amazement,
Safi's heart stood still, and the life-blood failed within her.
“Is it a dream?—Allah's will be done. Never dreamed I aforetime
“Dream such as this,—so sweet, so strange!—Nay! Allah forgive me!
“Peace be upon thee, my father!—so strange I forgot to salute thee!”
Kneeling, she
kissed his hand. “What is this? What ails thee, my father?
“How is thy shadow grown less! thyself so dwindled before me!—
“Sorcery is it?—Behold, I stoop, yet still thou art smaller!
“Even thy mookleh's crown scarce reaches up to my eyebrow,
“Mine, whom thou wont to call little Rose of the Desert Oasis!
“Am I awake?—Is it thou?—I dreamed of the Sons of the Giants,
“Lo, I awake, and thyself dost seem a child of the Pigmies!
“Praised be Allah!—Ah when will He deign restore thee thy stature?”
“Daughter,” said Am the Sheikh, “my Safi's father hath changed not.
“I have not dwindled a hair, thyself hast grown by a cubit!
“Allah hath wrought this change, though as yet its meaning I know not!”
Safi was mute, for she felt in her heart her destiny certain.
“How is thy shadow grown less! thyself so dwindled before me!—
“Sorcery is it?—Behold, I stoop, yet still thou art smaller!
219
“Mine, whom thou wont to call little Rose of the Desert Oasis!
“Am I awake?—Is it thou?—I dreamed of the Sons of the Giants,
“Lo, I awake, and thyself dost seem a child of the Pigmies!
“Praised be Allah!—Ah when will He deign restore thee thy stature?”
“Daughter,” said Am the Sheikh, “my Safi's father hath changed not.
“I have not dwindled a hair, thyself hast grown by a cubit!
“Allah hath wrought this change, though as yet its meaning I know not!”
Safi was mute, for she felt in her heart her destiny certain.
Homeward they wended together, perplexed both sire and daughter;
“Whence, my Safi, is this? this amulet flashing with cipher!
“Speak, for haply therein may the mystery's drift be imprisoned!”
“Allah is great!” said Safi, “I stood by the spring with my pitcher:
“Lo, there rode to the spring on his camel a Son of the Giants,
“Drank and drank yet again of the bubbling Fountain of Blessing;
“Dropped this ring by the brim; lo, I seek him now to return it.”
Doubtfully on paced Am the Sheikh:“Not far shalt thou seek him,
“Even now in my dwelling he sleeps, this Son of the Giants!”
Safi again was mute, for she felt her destiny certain.
220
“Speak, for haply therein may the mystery's drift be imprisoned!”
“Allah is great!” said Safi, “I stood by the spring with my pitcher:
“Lo, there rode to the spring on his camel a Son of the Giants,
“Drank and drank yet again of the bubbling Fountain of Blessing;
“Dropped this ring by the brim; lo, I seek him now to return it.”
Doubtfully on paced Am the Sheikh:“Not far shalt thou seek him,
“Even now in my dwelling he sleeps, this Son of the Giants!”
Safi again was mute, for she felt her destiny certain.
Homeward they wended together, both silent, sire and daughter.
Little to Safi—no more little Rose of the Desert Oasis—
Seemed the familiar stones, the palms and slender acacias;
Little the roofs and the gates, and little the home of her fathers,
Little the old dear door, where the Pilgrim stood by the threshold,
Cross-armed, bowed in salute:“Peace, peace be upon ye, and blessing;
“Allah forgive me my sleep! Thy guest was weary and wayworn—
“This thy daughter, O Sheikh? Thrice blessed art thou, O Father!
“Beautiful art thou, O maiden, and lithe as the slender acacia,
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful!
“Stately and tall as the palm, bride meet for the Son of the Giants;
“Tall thou art as my ear; thou shalt wed the Son of the Giants!”
Safi heard where she stood by the little door of her fathers:
Safi's love, as a rose to the sunshine opens its petals,
Blossomed glowing and sweet to the sunny word of the Pilgrim.
Safi held forth a hand with the amulet flashing with cipher:
“Lo, is the talisman thine? O Pilgrim, read me the cipher!”
Humbly the tall man knelt and kissed the hand of the maiden.
“Allah is great! Be the talisman thine! The Fountain of Blessing
“Gave thee the ring for thyself: thyself shall read me the cipher!
“Allah is great, O Sheikh! Wilt give thy daughter in marriage?
“Safi, no more, as of old, little Rose of the Desert Oasis,
“Safi, Rose of the Desert, but Safi, tall as a palm-tree,
“Safi, slender of limb, but Safi, grown by a cubit,—
“Allah hath sealed her Himself, bride meet for a Son of the Giants!”
“Allah is great,” said the Sheikh, “His ways are marvellous ever!
“Allah hath chosen Himself a bridegroom meet for my Safi!
“Be thou the son of my age,—thy household blessed for ever!”
221
Seemed the familiar stones, the palms and slender acacias;
Little the roofs and the gates, and little the home of her fathers,
Little the old dear door, where the Pilgrim stood by the threshold,
Cross-armed, bowed in salute:“Peace, peace be upon ye, and blessing;
“Allah forgive me my sleep! Thy guest was weary and wayworn—
“This thy daughter, O Sheikh? Thrice blessed art thou, O Father!
“Beautiful art thou, O maiden, and lithe as the slender acacia,
“Beautiful, mild as the olive, hereafter haply as fruitful!
“Stately and tall as the palm, bride meet for the Son of the Giants;
“Tall thou art as my ear; thou shalt wed the Son of the Giants!”
222
Safi's love, as a rose to the sunshine opens its petals,
Blossomed glowing and sweet to the sunny word of the Pilgrim.
Safi held forth a hand with the amulet flashing with cipher:
“Lo, is the talisman thine? O Pilgrim, read me the cipher!”
Humbly the tall man knelt and kissed the hand of the maiden.
“Allah is great! Be the talisman thine! The Fountain of Blessing
“Gave thee the ring for thyself: thyself shall read me the cipher!
“Allah is great, O Sheikh! Wilt give thy daughter in marriage?
“Safi, no more, as of old, little Rose of the Desert Oasis,
“Safi, Rose of the Desert, but Safi, tall as a palm-tree,
223
“Allah hath sealed her Himself, bride meet for a Son of the Giants!”
“Allah is great,” said the Sheikh, “His ways are marvellous ever!
“Allah hath chosen Himself a bridegroom meet for my Safi!
“Be thou the son of my age,—thy household blessed for ever!”
224
THE OLD TIME AND THE NEW.
I.
A pleasant tale of the Rabbins,
Of the mighty days of old,
Delivered by village sexton
As he delved the graveyard mould.
Of the mighty days of old,
Delivered by village sexton
As he delved the graveyard mould.
The crazy old Ark was rotting
On the peaks of Ararat,
When Shem and his father Noah
By the rippling Gihon sat.
On the peaks of Ararat,
When Shem and his father Noah
By the rippling Gihon sat.
A kid was roast on the embers,
And they sat them down to sup:
And the first red blood of the vineyards
Blushed in the beechen cup.
And they sat them down to sup:
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Blushed in the beechen cup.
The supper was blessed and eaten,
And the wine flowed fast and free,
While the children swam in Gihon,
Or raced on the level lea.
And the wine flowed fast and free,
While the children swam in Gihon,
Or raced on the level lea.
“Father,” quoth Shem, deep musing,
“'Twere a pleasant thing, I trow,
“To dwell in a house of marble
“Beneath yon mountain brow;
“'Twere a pleasant thing, I trow,
“To dwell in a house of marble
“Beneath yon mountain brow;
“Where we and our wives and children
“Might sit for aye at ease,
“Watching the herds and cattle
“On the sunny river-leas.
“Might sit for aye at ease,
“Watching the herds and cattle
“On the sunny river-leas.
“Our homeless tents are weary,
“Shifting by down and dell:
“No rest upon the mountain,
“No rest beside the well.”
“Shifting by down and dell:
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“No rest beside the well.”
“Then spoke the hoary Shipwright,
“As he heaved a patient sigh:
““Our fathers are gone before us,
“And we, my son, must die!
“As he heaved a patient sigh:
““Our fathers are gone before us,
“And we, my son, must die!
“Thine years are scarce three hundred,
“And mine are forty score:
“Yet I ween thou canst not reckon
“On even three hundred more!”
“And mine are forty score:
“Yet I ween thou canst not reckon
“On even three hundred more!”
Then Shem was very mournful,
And he wist not what to say:
And his father bore the wine-bowl
And took to the tents his way.
And he wist not what to say:
And his father bore the wine-bowl
And took to the tents his way.
Thought Shem, as he wended after,
With his dark eyes dim with tears:
“What use were a house of marble
“For a poor three hundred years?”
With his dark eyes dim with tears:
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“For a poor three hundred years?”
II.
I stood at a Jewish counter,
In the midst of a Christian town,
By the side of a haggard woman
Clad in a tattered gown.
In the midst of a Christian town,
By the side of a haggard woman
Clad in a tattered gown.
And I know not what memory stirred it
In that mart of blood for gold,
But I thought of that pleasant story
And the yew-tree lives of old.
In that mart of blood for gold,
But I thought of that pleasant story
And the yew-tree lives of old.
She spoke to the bearded Hebrew,
And a tear-drop stained her sleeve—
“My husband lies on his death-bed,
“And hath not a day to live.
And a tear-drop stained her sleeve—
“My husband lies on his death-bed,
“And hath not a day to live.
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“He hath sent you back this wallet
“Of work that he had to do;
“And he prays you have pity upon him
“As Christ shall have pity on you.”
“Of work that he had to do;
“And he prays you have pity upon him
“As Christ shall have pity on you.”
Then swore the Mammon-prophet,
And he clenched his teeth: “Begone!
“I have paid him well for his labour,
“And it must and shall be done!
And he clenched his teeth: “Begone!
“I have paid him well for his labour,
“And it must and shall be done!
“What care I for his croaking?
“It is but a feint to shirk:
“If he have but an hour to live in,
“He still has an hour to work!”
“It is but a feint to shirk:
“If he have but an hour to live in,
“He still has an hour to work!”
Before that New-Light gospel
Millennial lives grew dim:
I thought of that dying worker,
And Shem was a child to him.
Millennial lives grew dim:
I thought of that dying worker,
And Shem was a child to him.
229
A DREAM ON NEW YEAR'S EVE.
I dreamed a dream:—Methought two travellersTo an old hostel in a narrow street
Came walking wearily, their way-worn feet
Shod in strange sandals: and the folk said:“Sirs,
“What make ye here to-night?” but on they went
Unheeding, for the winter day was spent,
And sought their chamber. As they lay awake,
The jangling bells clanged forth a sudden peal
Of strangest music, and they seemed to feel
The Old Year die upon the night, and break
The links of Past and Future; and below
There was a noise of trampling in the snow,
230
The strife all idly, turned them round and slept,
Slept even in my dream, and something kept
A watch above them that nor spoke nor stirred.
Then one awoke, and started to his feet,
And spoke his fellow:“Christ is in the street!”
And forth they went to meet Him, but they found
The street all empty, save a shivering heap
Of frozen sack-cloth, where one seemed to weep
Stretched by a threshold on the wintry ground.
Then one said:“Speak, O Lord!” and bent him o'er
The moaning outcast. But I dreamed no more.
231
A STORY OF A STONE.
Two children in a mood forlorn
As childish mood may be,
Walked hand in hand one summer morn
Beside the western sea.
As childish mood may be,
Walked hand in hand one summer morn
Beside the western sea.
And there upon the sand, alone,
Half-hid, by chance they saw
An oval quaker-coloured stone
Without a seam or flaw.
Half-hid, by chance they saw
An oval quaker-coloured stone
Without a seam or flaw.
I know not what of comfort dwelt
Within its sea-worn face,
But something, sure, therein they felt
That seemed to meet their case.
Within its sea-worn face,
But something, sure, therein they felt
That seemed to meet their case.
232
Some household dearness in its look
Beside the weary foam:—
Some love, unwrit in any book,
That bade them bear it home.
Beside the weary foam:—
Some love, unwrit in any book,
That bade them bear it home.
And many a year, from time to time,
When brought by chance to day,
A flash from earnest childhood's prime
Around it yet would play.
When brought by chance to day,
A flash from earnest childhood's prime
Around it yet would play.
A flash from earnest childhood's prime
That dimmed the eye with tears,
And smote athwart the passing time
The moods of buried years.
That dimmed the eye with tears,
And smote athwart the passing time
The moods of buried years.
233
A HOUSEKEEPER'S STORY.
You recollect our keeper, one-armed Dick,
Who took you up for poaching when you came
With young Sir Harry first; and swore he knew
You were no friend of master's, for you wore
A yellow neckerchief,—poor old Sir Harry
Being just defeated for the county:—Well,
He told us all one morning, 'twas the day
Two years exact after the old man's death,
Just about Martlemas, how he had seen
Strange foot-prints in the snow. They came, he said,
Straight from the lower stew-pond to the hall:
A neat, slim boot enough, but somewhat queer
About the ball o' the foot, as if the sole
Were cleft along the middle; but what made
The thing seem stranger, though he looked and looked
A good half-hour or more, he never found
One print to match it t' other side the pond:
Not one to match it—nothing but blank snow,
With here and there a deer-trail, ploughed and deep,
As if the beasts were startled. Well, that day,
A stranger came among us sure enough,
Though none saw how he came. An evil day
Was that if e'er one dawned upon God's earth.
Not that I'm superstitious, but I think
Sometimes God gives Beelzebub a day,
And that was one, if e'er God does give days.
Who took you up for poaching when you came
With young Sir Harry first; and swore he knew
You were no friend of master's, for you wore
A yellow neckerchief,—poor old Sir Harry
Being just defeated for the county:—Well,
He told us all one morning, 'twas the day
Two years exact after the old man's death,
Just about Martlemas, how he had seen
Strange foot-prints in the snow. They came, he said,
Straight from the lower stew-pond to the hall:
A neat, slim boot enough, but somewhat queer
About the ball o' the foot, as if the sole
234
The thing seem stranger, though he looked and looked
A good half-hour or more, he never found
One print to match it t' other side the pond:
Not one to match it—nothing but blank snow,
With here and there a deer-trail, ploughed and deep,
As if the beasts were startled. Well, that day,
A stranger came among us sure enough,
Though none saw how he came. An evil day
Was that if e'er one dawned upon God's earth.
Not that I'm superstitious, but I think
Sometimes God gives Beelzebub a day,
And that was one, if e'er God does give days.
My lady knew the foreigner, it seemed,
In her own country, a Hungarian Duke
I think they called him, and he stayed and stayed,
And walked and rode, shot, played at billiards, fished,
With poor Sir Harry—sang, too, of a night,
He and my lady, strange outlandish airs,
Such as old Schwartz the courier used to play
On his guitar, with strange outlandish words.
And so he lived among us, lived and seemed
One of the family almost, to those
Who knew no better. We all hated him,
All but my lady's foreign waiting-woman,
And she—Your blood, sir, would have boiled like mine
To see that brazen madam smirk and leer
And mince their jargon on her tigress' lips
Whene'er she met him. Well, all's over now!
And as I said, sir, we all hated him.
Not that he was not civil, for he was,
And free enough with money; but, you know,
Old servants' eyes are watchful! That man's look
Would make you shiver in a July sun.
Wolf that he was! We knew he was a wolf,
And knew no good could come of him. But, sir,
If you'll believe me, that same son of Cain
Was loved by half the county. Lord, they flocked
Like crows to carrion! If that man had bid
Lord Charles and young Sir Sampson lick his boots,
They'd have drawn rapiers which should lick them first!
In her own country, a Hungarian Duke
I think they called him, and he stayed and stayed,
And walked and rode, shot, played at billiards, fished,
With poor Sir Harry—sang, too, of a night,
He and my lady, strange outlandish airs,
235
On his guitar, with strange outlandish words.
And so he lived among us, lived and seemed
One of the family almost, to those
Who knew no better. We all hated him,
All but my lady's foreign waiting-woman,
And she—Your blood, sir, would have boiled like mine
To see that brazen madam smirk and leer
And mince their jargon on her tigress' lips
Whene'er she met him. Well, all's over now!
And as I said, sir, we all hated him.
Not that he was not civil, for he was,
And free enough with money; but, you know,
Old servants' eyes are watchful! That man's look
Would make you shiver in a July sun.
Wolf that he was! We knew he was a wolf,
And knew no good could come of him. But, sir,
If you'll believe me, that same son of Cain
Was loved by half the county. Lord, they flocked
Like crows to carrion! If that man had bid
236
They'd have drawn rapiers which should lick them first!
Well, sir, one afternoon I went upstairs
To see about the linen, and I stood,
So God ordained, one moment at the window
That looks across the courtyard, and I saw
In the north green room, where my lady sate,
Her and that miscreant; talking loud they were,
And angrily, when something that she said
Stung him, as I suppose, and quick as thought,
He unclasped his great knife, and struck her here,
Here in the breast! As I'm a living soul,
I saw him stab her in the breast three times,
I saw him do it! Stab, stab, stab, three times!
“Murder,” I shouted, “murder!” And ran round
With Miles, and cook, and Johnson to the room!
There she lay on the floor, a heap of blood,
As dead as marble! He, that fiend, was gone.
Now, mark you, poor Sir Harry at the time
Was walking through the courtyard with his whip,
And that young waiting-woman, with a grin,
Hissed out, “There goes the murderer!” He, poor man,
Came in and found us there quite quietly.
“What's this?” says he. My God, to see him turn
And look down at his wife as she lay there!
“Murderer!” snarled the maid. He stood straight up
“If I have done this deed,” he said, “great God!
“Smite me, and stamp me murderer!” Down he fell!
Fell flat down on the carpet, fell down dead!
Dead as his wife beside him. Both stark dead!
Some vessel in the heart, the doctor told
The jurymen, had broken. “Just in time,”
Quoth one, “to baulk the gallows of their due!”
Would you believe it? That young child of hell,
The waiting-woman, and a stranger lad,
Who said he came there begging, swore they saw
Sir Harry kill his wife—Sir Harry himself!
Swore it upon the Book, with when and how!
And I? I might as good have held my peace
As stand there witness of his innocence.
The coroner told me 'twas a shameful thing
At my age to forswear me; bade me pray,
And Heaven knows what more nonsense; and Lord Charles
Backed him in all he said.“This female dotes,”
Says he, “God's judgment brands the guilty brow!
“His vengeance reaches where man's arm falls short!”
And then the parson: “This man prayed to God
“To smite if he were guilty, and God smote!”
So they went on, God help us! and the world
Thinks to this day Sir Harry did the deed,
And quotes his death as one of God's great feats!
To see about the linen, and I stood,
So God ordained, one moment at the window
That looks across the courtyard, and I saw
In the north green room, where my lady sate,
Her and that miscreant; talking loud they were,
And angrily, when something that she said
Stung him, as I suppose, and quick as thought,
He unclasped his great knife, and struck her here,
Here in the breast! As I'm a living soul,
I saw him stab her in the breast three times,
I saw him do it! Stab, stab, stab, three times!
“Murder,” I shouted, “murder!” And ran round
With Miles, and cook, and Johnson to the room!
There she lay on the floor, a heap of blood,
As dead as marble! He, that fiend, was gone.
Now, mark you, poor Sir Harry at the time
237
And that young waiting-woman, with a grin,
Hissed out, “There goes the murderer!” He, poor man,
Came in and found us there quite quietly.
“What's this?” says he. My God, to see him turn
And look down at his wife as she lay there!
“Murderer!” snarled the maid. He stood straight up
“If I have done this deed,” he said, “great God!
“Smite me, and stamp me murderer!” Down he fell!
Fell flat down on the carpet, fell down dead!
Dead as his wife beside him. Both stark dead!
Some vessel in the heart, the doctor told
The jurymen, had broken. “Just in time,”
Quoth one, “to baulk the gallows of their due!”
Would you believe it? That young child of hell,
The waiting-woman, and a stranger lad,
Who said he came there begging, swore they saw
Sir Harry kill his wife—Sir Harry himself!
Swore it upon the Book, with when and how!
And I? I might as good have held my peace
238
The coroner told me 'twas a shameful thing
At my age to forswear me; bade me pray,
And Heaven knows what more nonsense; and Lord Charles
Backed him in all he said.“This female dotes,”
Says he, “God's judgment brands the guilty brow!
“His vengeance reaches where man's arm falls short!”
And then the parson: “This man prayed to God
“To smite if he were guilty, and God smote!”
So they went on, God help us! and the world
Thinks to this day Sir Harry did the deed,
And quotes his death as one of God's great feats!
Judgment, forsooth! Who taught the world this creed?
Not Christ, I wot! Why, mark you, those eighteen
On whom the tower in Siloam fell,
Were they, too, murderers? Nay, was Christ Himself,
Because God smote Him? For myself, I own,
I think God heard my poor young master's prayer
In quite another fashion; took him hence,
Because He would not smite him! Had he lived,
He had indeed been smitten! Many a time
When folks—but I'm no parson, and young men
Don't heed old women's prate. Well, sir, this Duke,
Devil or Duke,—we searched the country round,
Offered rewards, set bloodhounds on his track,
Hired detectives at two pounds a day—
All to no purpose! Still no tidings came
Of him or any like him. All the hounds
Made for the stew-pond, and we had it dragged,
And dragged again, with nothing for our pains
Except a great swine's carcase, which our Dick
Swore to his dying day was none but he!
Not Christ, I wot! Why, mark you, those eighteen
On whom the tower in Siloam fell,
Were they, too, murderers? Nay, was Christ Himself,
Because God smote Him? For myself, I own,
I think God heard my poor young master's prayer
239
Because He would not smite him! Had he lived,
He had indeed been smitten! Many a time
When folks—but I'm no parson, and young men
Don't heed old women's prate. Well, sir, this Duke,
Devil or Duke,—we searched the country round,
Offered rewards, set bloodhounds on his track,
Hired detectives at two pounds a day—
All to no purpose! Still no tidings came
Of him or any like him. All the hounds
Made for the stew-pond, and we had it dragged,
And dragged again, with nothing for our pains
Except a great swine's carcase, which our Dick
Swore to his dying day was none but he!
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A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Once the rod of Jesse's stem
Blossomed fair in Bethlehem,
And in ages long ago
God came down to man below.
Blossomed fair in Bethlehem,
And in ages long ago
God came down to man below.
Angel-lips to shepherds then
Bore the news “Good will to men,”
And a kingly guiding-star
Beckoned Eastern seers from far.
Bore the news “Good will to men,”
And a kingly guiding-star
Beckoned Eastern seers from far.
Needs no star nor Angel's word
Now to guide us to our Lord.
Bethlehem lies everywhere!
Seek and find!—The Child is there!
Now to guide us to our Lord.
Bethlehem lies everywhere!
Seek and find!—The Child is there!
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Shepherds, bring not gifts nor gold!
Small the wealth of shepherds' fold:—
Ye from the rich East bring thence
Gold and myrrh and frankincense!
Small the wealth of shepherds' fold:—
Ye from the rich East bring thence
Gold and myrrh and frankincense!
Lo, the Son of David doth
In His love accept ye both;
Blesseth both,—nor heedeth which
Be the poor men or the rich.
In His love accept ye both;
Blesseth both,—nor heedeth which
Be the poor men or the rich.
Rise and seek, ye Christians, rise!
In the manger still He lies!
Seek and find Him, rich and poor!
Christ is born for evermore!
In the manger still He lies!
Seek and find Him, rich and poor!
Christ is born for evermore!
242
CAVOUR.
Gone, and thy work not done! Dead, dead, while yet
Yon crazy shaveling clanks his spectral keys
Over Italia's capital, and raves
Of immemorial Empire, aimlessly
From palsied hands spilling the dull dead bolts,
Which once were lightning, o'er unheeding realms!—
Dead, dead, while yet before his Roman sire
The unfledged boy-anarch of St. Elmo kneels,
And whets his venom; after his foul kind
Hatching his dastard treasons,—dreaming still
Of Freedom quivering on Sicilian racks,
And sceptres, gilt once more with martyrs' blood,
Wielded throughout illimitable night
By inexterminable Bourbons!—Dead,
Dead, while Venetia strangles in the net
Four-square of Austrian Kaisers! Dead, while still
Imperial Gaul sits Sphynxlike on the world
And plots her murderous riddles!
Yon crazy shaveling clanks his spectral keys
Over Italia's capital, and raves
Of immemorial Empire, aimlessly
From palsied hands spilling the dull dead bolts,
Which once were lightning, o'er unheeding realms!—
Dead, dead, while yet before his Roman sire
The unfledged boy-anarch of St. Elmo kneels,
And whets his venom; after his foul kind
Hatching his dastard treasons,—dreaming still
Of Freedom quivering on Sicilian racks,
And sceptres, gilt once more with martyrs' blood,
Wielded throughout illimitable night
243
Dead, while Venetia strangles in the net
Four-square of Austrian Kaisers! Dead, while still
Imperial Gaul sits Sphynxlike on the world
And plots her murderous riddles!
O dead, dead!
And none to grasp thy mantle. None, like thee,
Cavour! A narrower wisdom, feebler will
And hand less firm shall weave the tangled threads
Of thy Italia's destiny! Alone,
Alone, Cavour, Italia's slave and lord,
Didst thou control the chaos!
And none to grasp thy mantle. None, like thee,
Cavour! A narrower wisdom, feebler will
And hand less firm shall weave the tangled threads
Of thy Italia's destiny! Alone,
Alone, Cavour, Italia's slave and lord,
Didst thou control the chaos!
They will come,
Ignoble Pigmies, chattering Myrmidons,
And act their petty antics o'er thy grave,
Thine, who didst dwarf them; apes of statesmanship,
Mocking thy kingly wisdom and broad lore
With their own small ambitions, schemes and feuds,
And boast themselves thy equal! They will come,
The sires of old rebellions, men whose eyes
Grown dim by gazing on their dungeon walls,
Or dark with blinding exile, can discern
No hope of sunrise even in the morn
Of temperate Freedom, babbling, babbling still
Their old Utopian nothings! Birds of night,
Flapping foul wings and shrieking at the day
Because it dawns not Westward! They will come,
The loathsome spawn of Anarchy, the slaves
Of despots, things that battened on the blood
Wrung from Italia's agony,—and they,
The dark, dishallowed priesthood of dead creeds
Who in the vineyards of God's heritage
Trampled the wine-vats, crushing human hearts,
Hopes, passions, aspirations, and thereout
Sucked horrible frenzy, drunkenness of lust,
And uttermost perdition!—They will come
And none shall scare them! Nightmares of the past
Squatting in hideous council on thy tomb.
Thou wilt not heed them! They are nought to thee!
Thou hast gone forth and left them,—them and us!
Ay me, gone, gone for ever! leaving them
To wreak their littlenesses unchastised,
And us, thy friends, thy country, to our tears!—
Tears, tears of bitter anguish, not despair,
Thou dost forbid despair!
Ignoble Pigmies, chattering Myrmidons,
And act their petty antics o'er thy grave,
Thine, who didst dwarf them; apes of statesmanship,
Mocking thy kingly wisdom and broad lore
With their own small ambitions, schemes and feuds,
And boast themselves thy equal! They will come,
The sires of old rebellions, men whose eyes
244
Or dark with blinding exile, can discern
No hope of sunrise even in the morn
Of temperate Freedom, babbling, babbling still
Their old Utopian nothings! Birds of night,
Flapping foul wings and shrieking at the day
Because it dawns not Westward! They will come,
The loathsome spawn of Anarchy, the slaves
Of despots, things that battened on the blood
Wrung from Italia's agony,—and they,
The dark, dishallowed priesthood of dead creeds
Who in the vineyards of God's heritage
Trampled the wine-vats, crushing human hearts,
Hopes, passions, aspirations, and thereout
Sucked horrible frenzy, drunkenness of lust,
And uttermost perdition!—They will come
And none shall scare them! Nightmares of the past
Squatting in hideous council on thy tomb.
Thou wilt not heed them! They are nought to thee!
Thou hast gone forth and left them,—them and us!
245
To wreak their littlenesses unchastised,
And us, thy friends, thy country, to our tears!—
Tears, tears of bitter anguish, not despair,
Thou dost forbid despair!
Yea, even now
We walk not hopeless! Lives Ricasoli,
Lives Garibaldi, aye, and many a one
No whit less dear to Freedom, men whose souls
Thyself didst kindle with the holiest flame
Of Patriot love! They live, yet mightier far,
Thy name, thy wisdom live,—their beacon-fire,
Their compass, bulwark, oracle, and shield,
To rouse, to guide, to strengthen, teach, protect;—
And more,—the dread Archangels of the world,
God's own first children, who from age to age,
Æon to Æon, with invisible hands
Broaden the bounds of life, and give to men
The wider freedom, grander love, more truth,
More love,—the eternal Destinies are theirs!
We sorrow, but despair not! Soon or late
That fell chimeral spectre of a Faith
Dead but unburied, from the Seven Hills
Whereon he lingers, girt with Gaulish steel,
Flits with the night that shields him!
We walk not hopeless! Lives Ricasoli,
Lives Garibaldi, aye, and many a one
No whit less dear to Freedom, men whose souls
Thyself didst kindle with the holiest flame
Of Patriot love! They live, yet mightier far,
Thy name, thy wisdom live,—their beacon-fire,
Their compass, bulwark, oracle, and shield,
To rouse, to guide, to strengthen, teach, protect;—
And more,—the dread Archangels of the world,
God's own first children, who from age to age,
Æon to Æon, with invisible hands
Broaden the bounds of life, and give to men
The wider freedom, grander love, more truth,
More love,—the eternal Destinies are theirs!
246
That fell chimeral spectre of a Faith
Dead but unburied, from the Seven Hills
Whereon he lingers, girt with Gaulish steel,
Flits with the night that shields him!
Even now,
Dying Mastai to the Rome he chokes
Bequeaths a schism whose timely rent shall ope
To welcome Freedom!—Soon or late the hands
Of Hapsburg Kaisers loosen from their grip
The sceptre of old Venice! Soon or late,
Imperial crownals dwindle on the brow
Of bastard Bonapartes! Earth can wait!—
God hinders not, nor hastens!
Dying Mastai to the Rome he chokes
Bequeaths a schism whose timely rent shall ope
To welcome Freedom!—Soon or late the hands
Of Hapsburg Kaisers loosen from their grip
The sceptre of old Venice! Soon or late,
Imperial crownals dwindle on the brow
Of bastard Bonapartes! Earth can wait!—
God hinders not, nor hastens!
Not for thee,
O, not for thee, Cavour, this feeble hand
Shall twine the vulgar coronal of Fame!—
Thou didst not toil for glory! In the dreams
That nursed thy boyhood, thy Italia stood
Star-crowned before thee, and in words of fire
Bade thee go forth and conquer! Not for Fame!
The greed, which, hungrier than the greed of gold,
And nobler only in the nobler deeds
That win wherewith to sate it, touched not thee!
Thou didst not lust for praise! Thy lordlier soul
Disdained the crown! Italia, One and Free,
This and not Fame! Italia, One and Free!
This was thy lode-star! This thy life! For this
Didst thou dare all and do all! Yea, for this,
With that wise virtue, which unwiser souls
Knew not as virtue, didst thou deign to sue,
And chaffer with the ravening Arbiter
Who grasped Ausonia's future! Even, for this
Thou couldst endure that friendship should grow cold
With him, that pirate of Sicilian seas
Who won thee half thy Italy! This, this,
Like a rich heirloom to the beggar world,
Thine, even in death,—Italia, One and Free,
Dost thou bequeath us! Yea, she shall be One
And Free, thy monument throughout all time!
O, not for thee, Cavour, this feeble hand
Shall twine the vulgar coronal of Fame!—
Thou didst not toil for glory! In the dreams
That nursed thy boyhood, thy Italia stood
Star-crowned before thee, and in words of fire
247
The greed, which, hungrier than the greed of gold,
And nobler only in the nobler deeds
That win wherewith to sate it, touched not thee!
Thou didst not lust for praise! Thy lordlier soul
Disdained the crown! Italia, One and Free,
This and not Fame! Italia, One and Free!
This was thy lode-star! This thy life! For this
Didst thou dare all and do all! Yea, for this,
With that wise virtue, which unwiser souls
Knew not as virtue, didst thou deign to sue,
And chaffer with the ravening Arbiter
Who grasped Ausonia's future! Even, for this
Thou couldst endure that friendship should grow cold
With him, that pirate of Sicilian seas
Who won thee half thy Italy! This, this,
Like a rich heirloom to the beggar world,
Thine, even in death,—Italia, One and Free,
Dost thou bequeath us! Yea, she shall be One
And Free, thy monument throughout all time!
248
RELIGIO POETÆ.
Help thou, but be not holpen. If need be,Give men what ware thou hast worth gold, for gold;
And, so thy tale of ware be truly told,
Buy Freedom as thou wilt,—but be thou free!
Here close thy count with man. Save this to thee
Be there no reckoning made of bought and sold,
But live the life God gives thee, and withhold
Thy nobler hand from aught of earthly fee.
Stand four-square to the world for praise or blame:
Deserve, but touch no guerdon. Name and fame,
Titles and useless wealth leave thou to them
Who can be paid thereby. Such be not thou!
True work, true love can spare the laurelled brow:
The great are greatest with no diadem.
249
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
December 24th, 1863.
Thou sleepest! Thou wilt never wake again!
No more for ever among mortal men
That scrutinous eye under the giant brow
Shall rede the riddles of their life. Even now
Thou sleepest well, where bitter indignation
No more can lacerate thy heart!—No more
The babble of misprision, and the sore
Galling of treacherous craft and envious passion
Vex thee, there sleeping
Where greatness breeds not hatred, and thy Fame
Can turn no more to shame
The dwarf ambitions round thy Titan-grandeur creeping!
250
Dost thou not sup with Shakspere, and receive
Immortal welcome of the Great of old?—
Ah, pitiful dream! The man we loved lies cold,
Cold, very cold and still!
The brave true heart will never beat again:
There dwells no thought within the kingly brain:
All spent the liberal fountains of the will!
O Master, O true Friend! I cannot borrow
The bitter laurels of a fabulous sorrow
To strew thy bier withal! The word I speak
This night is one I must! If all too weak,
Thou wilt forgive me! There be times and moods
That slay the soul with silence. When the floods
Yawn for Arion, he must sing or die!
O well is he, whose numerous verse and high
To his whole thought can then give utterance meet,
And speak the word that saves,—for ever sweet,
Sweet, and for ever strong!
251
This night speak with me once again! Ere yet
My life slope downward to the suns that set,—
Now, ere the brain wax feeble, and the heart
Unlearn its youthful madness;—ere mine Art
Slip from me like the glory from a cloud,
Leaving me dark, a melancholy shroud
Of dead imaginations; yet once more
Give me this night to soar
Beyond these visible shows which men deem Life,
Thither, where mortal sorrow, pain and strife,
And toil and turmoil seem but as they are,
Mere dreams fast fleeting. Yea, if e'er thy star
I have sought devoutly, if nor lust of Fame,
Nor lust of Gold,—far other, yet the same,—
Have marred the song I brought Thee in old time,
Grant me that this my rhyme,
Though wintry pale the blossoms of my wreath,
And dashed with dews of Death,
Live, not unworthy, on that deathless head!
252
Can meetly solve the arrears of glory due?
Can tell how wise thou wert, how brave, how true?
Can speak to after years
The fulness of our love, our loss, our tears?—
I who, unlessoned in the skill divine,
Hear of thy fall, as under a strange shield,
Far in the fameless outskirt of the field,
Namelessly warring, haply young Lavaine
Might hear of Lancelot smitten through the brain
Full in the fore-front of the Table Round!—
O peerless Knight, and flower of chivalry!
No more at trumpet's sound
Thy grasp shall whiten on that mighty hilt,
To cleave the brazen panoply of guilt,
Rescue his victims, set his captives free!—
No more, no more in Knightly brotherhood,
Thy presence cheer us in the Eternal Fight!—
There, where thy greatness stood
A gate of strength, unyielding 'gainst the flood,
253
Falsehood, and falsehood's kin,
Fair-kirtled foulness, snowy-mantled sin!—
One sunny Sabbath in a sweet September,
Dost thou remember
How fair, far sheening o'er the pleasant wealds
The mellow Autumn on the woods and fields
Of Sidney's Penshurst lay? O Master mine,
Red I aright that silent mood of thine?—
Yea, I too saw them, heard them as they came,—
Sidney, and Sidney's sister, and her son,
And whispered with thee! Came, too, one by one,
Thy starry brethren in immortal fame,
Who, wistful lingering on those awful lawns
Still walk on springtide dawns,
Spenser and Jonson, peaceful Wotton came,
And Shakspere!—Shakspere, for I saw thee bow
Thy hoary wisdom, and upon thy brow
There glowed a light as of ethereal flame:
254
That Shakspere walked indeed with Herbert there?”
Dost thou remember?—In that haunted air
I felt thy kindred with the mightier few;
Ay, and the secret of thy might I knew,—
That strength to bind, and that swift power to loose,
That gave thee lordship over want and use,
To wield unshorn man's high prerogative,
And live the life that Nature bade thee live:
The whole man subject to thy strong control,
To hold the temperate tenor of thy soul,
And even if stung by common blame or praise,
To nurse a strong will in emasculate days,
And through their pedlar pettiness to keep
In thought and deed, a something of the sweep
Of life Elizabethan, and the grand
Old days when there were giants in the land,
Ere the poor pigmies of a conscious time,
Owned the Man less, but styled the Age sublime—
To teach,—whate'er thy motley mood might be,
255
Even in jest, the Love that makes men kin;—
The Faith in noble deeds that deigns no sin.
True Friend and Master!—known, alas, too late!—
What dreams of Art were thine, when first thy youth
Held converse with the Archangels of the South,
Raphael and Michael, and those lesser glories,
Giotto, Orcagna, and their feres, whose stories
Speak, shapeful, deathless on Ausonian walls?—
What dreams! what sheen of gleaming intervals,
As when in paths untrod
Pure eyes catch glimpses of the skirts of God!
And thou, too, wert a Painter?—
What dreams of Art were thine, when first thy youth
Held converse with the Archangels of the South,
Raphael and Michael, and those lesser glories,
Giotto, Orcagna, and their feres, whose stories
Speak, shapeful, deathless on Ausonian walls?—
What dreams! what sheen of gleaming intervals,
As when in paths untrod
Pure eyes catch glimpses of the skirts of God!
And thou, too, wert a Painter?—
Ah, not so!
Yet evermore under the motley show
Of madliest mirthful fancies, clearly yet
Didst thou reveal thy teachings, nor forget
Wholly thine old ambitions!
Yet evermore under the motley show
Of madliest mirthful fancies, clearly yet
Didst thou reveal thy teachings, nor forget
Wholly thine old ambitions!
There, too, there,
Unknown, yet rightful heir
Of Chaucer, listening to Petrarca's tales;
Of Milton, lingering in Sibylline dales;
Of Shelley, chanting Adonäis' dirge;
Of Byron, mourning Shelley, when the surge
Yielded his white limbs to the friendly pyre,
As though earth durst not tomb that child of heavenly fire;—
There, even there, didst thou too learn to fashion
The fire of God that lives in human passion
Into keen arrows of sweet poesy:—
Nor love alone! Thine, too, of old the high
Moods of young Fancy, when in yonder land
Hesperian forth she wanders, and with hand
Unchallenged, plucks of amaranthine trees
The golden glory of the Atlantides!—
Or, day-dream-piloted, the Siren's song
Hears o'er the deep, Sicilian caves among,
While the gods waken, and Parthenope
Forgets her long trance by the Midland sea;
With the old witchery singing her sweet lies
To mariners of forlorn argosies:—
Promise of Love and Empire, and more deep,
Nepenthes and irrefragable sleep!
Thou, thou hast watched her through the caves at eve,
Ruthlessly fair, with eyes that never grieve,
Gliding, the sunset flushing her white breast,
To slay the brooding halcyon on her nest!—
O, when in after days, Ulysses, thou
Versed in all lore of cities and of men,
Didst hear indeed those Siren-songs again,
Fell there no fleeting shadow on thy brow?
Stirred they no bitter memory with their smiles,
Thelxiope or Lysia, whose sweet wiles
Wrecked every bark save thine that neared their bone-strewn isles?
Ulysses? Ay, whate'er all capitals,
256
Of Chaucer, listening to Petrarca's tales;
Of Milton, lingering in Sibylline dales;
Of Shelley, chanting Adonäis' dirge;
Of Byron, mourning Shelley, when the surge
Yielded his white limbs to the friendly pyre,
As though earth durst not tomb that child of heavenly fire;—
There, even there, didst thou too learn to fashion
The fire of God that lives in human passion
Into keen arrows of sweet poesy:—
Nor love alone! Thine, too, of old the high
Moods of young Fancy, when in yonder land
Hesperian forth she wanders, and with hand
Unchallenged, plucks of amaranthine trees
The golden glory of the Atlantides!—
Or, day-dream-piloted, the Siren's song
Hears o'er the deep, Sicilian caves among,
While the gods waken, and Parthenope
Forgets her long trance by the Midland sea;
257
To mariners of forlorn argosies:—
Promise of Love and Empire, and more deep,
Nepenthes and irrefragable sleep!
Thou, thou hast watched her through the caves at eve,
Ruthlessly fair, with eyes that never grieve,
Gliding, the sunset flushing her white breast,
To slay the brooding halcyon on her nest!—
O, when in after days, Ulysses, thou
Versed in all lore of cities and of men,
Didst hear indeed those Siren-songs again,
Fell there no fleeting shadow on thy brow?
Stirred they no bitter memory with their smiles,
Thelxiope or Lysia, whose sweet wiles
Wrecked every bark save thine that neared their bone-strewn isles?
Street, market, minster, palace and hall and cot
Could tell or teach of manners and of men,
258
Thou in the lidless treasury of thy soul
Didst prodigally hoard, and from thy store
Scattering thy wealth, didst ever garner more!
And, lest thy teaching lacked perfection yet,
Came Misery, dreadful Angel, and Regret
Sate tracing evermore
With hieroglyphs of woe thy hearthstone o'er and o'er!
Ah, Christ! For ever must the Poet's lore
Be perfected e'en thus? O gentle Child,
To those who kneel this night in Bethlehem,
Hast thou no sweeter message?—Thou to them
Wilt thou say calmly:“Go ye forth, and grieve?”
O Mary, mother mild!
I pray thee by thy sevenfold crown of sorrows,
Is this the mystery of thy holy eve?—
Is there no meaning left in our to-morrows?—
Hark! Even now their answer, and again
Comes borne of little voices, high and low,
259
About the highways with the drizzling rain!
Friend! Thou, too, heardst that answer! In the loss,
And strife, and manifold agony of sore pain,
Thou hadst achieved that wisdom of the Cross,
And made thy griefs thine own, thy brethren's gain!
Was it some effluence of the mood and time,
That seemed even now to lighten through my rhyme?
Alas, that mood is o'er!
I dreamed last night that in a minster old
One wandered with me, and I said, “Come down
Into the Charnel Royal, and behold
The ancient Monarch with his carven crown,
Where he lies stately on his sepulchre!”
And we went down, but lo! the tomb was gone
That I remembered, though the broad flat stone,
Whereon it stood, remained; and underneath
We knew that ancient Monarch slept in death.
260
And skulls still crowned, and gilt moth-eaten things,
That once were robes of Princes, here and there
With ruby, topaz, emerald glistening still,—
We swept aside into a little hill
The kingly dust from off that marble square,
And read the runes that in clear-chiselled rhyme
Fringed that old Empire's last gray coverlid,
Though all the words of that forgotten time
Were in the tongue that none can understand
Save the dead only:—but the glittering sand,
Full in the centre of the stone, as though
There stirred beneath some living creature hid,
Shook tremblingly, and lo!
We read thy name there, Thackeray, carven deep,
And knew thee, lying low,
Among thy brethren in that sovran sleep!
Then, through the rounded window, in the green
And sunlit churchyard I beheld the tomb
That I remembered,—from the charnel gloom
261
And marvelled that I knew not Thou hadst been
Even of old the crowned One sculptured there.
O Friend!—I dare not see thee as thou art!—
These idle fancies are but as the flow
Of bubbling organ-trebles, clear but low,
At dawn in sleeping nunneries, that grow
Louder and ever louder, till the white
Sisters awake to their old undelight!—
Ay, me!—And I awaken with a start,
To feel thy cold hand pressed against my heart!
262
A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
I dreamed a dream, towards Christmas Eve,
Of a people whose God was Make-believe,
And a time nigh come to do more than grieve:
Of a people whose God was Make-believe,
And a time nigh come to do more than grieve:
A dream of an old Faith shrunk to a Guess,
And a Christian Church, and Senate, and Press,
Which believed they believed in it more or less.
And a Christian Church, and Senate, and Press,
Which believed they believed in it more or less.
With dazed red eyes, and rime on his beard,
And pinched blue fingers, and toes frost-seared,
Old Father Christmas sat waiting his weird.
And pinched blue fingers, and toes frost-seared,
Old Father Christmas sat waiting his weird.
263
Fire was none, and the frozen breath
Fringed the lips with ice o'er his chattering teeth,
As he shook on the Yule log and prayed for Death!
Fringed the lips with ice o'er his chattering teeth,
As he shook on the Yule log and prayed for Death!
And men said:“Christmas is old and cold,
“Let us make him merry and blithe and bold!
“Let us paint him a fire, and cheer him with gold!”
“Let us make him merry and blithe and bold!
“Let us paint him a fire, and cheer him with gold!”
And the Painter came, and the Carpenter,
And the 'Prentice and Scene-shifter, all astir
With canvas and pasteboard and laths of fir.
And the 'Prentice and Scene-shifter, all astir
With canvas and pasteboard and laths of fir.
And they painted a fire, and hung the scene
With a broidered arras of gold and green,
And holly festoons on the walls between.
With a broidered arras of gold and green,
And holly festoons on the walls between.
And over the dying King below
Swung a pinnacled canopy all aglow
With crockets of golden mistletoe.
Swung a pinnacled canopy all aglow
With crockets of golden mistletoe.
264
And within there dangled all to see
The three gilt pills of the Medici,
Marked Lionel, Meyer, and Antony.
The three gilt pills of the Medici,
Marked Lionel, Meyer, and Antony.
And men said:“Christmas is old and cold;
“We have made him merry, and blithe and bold!
“We have painted a fire, and cheered him with gold!”
“We have made him merry, and blithe and bold!
“We have painted a fire, and cheered him with gold!”
And the old King groaned, but he could not speak
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek;—
But none took heed of a groan so weak.
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek;—
But none took heed of a groan so weak.
Then under a Hierarch's coronet
There crawled in one with a fisher's net,
And its eye was ablaze with an awful threat.
There crawled in one with a fisher's net,
And its eye was ablaze with an awful threat.
With a snaky hiss in an oily sneer,
And a wild-cat's grin in a saintly leer,
It spoke, as it crawled, for all to hear:
And a wild-cat's grin in a saintly leer,
It spoke, as it crawled, for all to hear:
265
“Father,” it said, “thou art old and cold,
“We will make thee merry, and blithe and bold!
“We have wrought for thy slumber a couch of Gold!”
“We will make thee merry, and blithe and bold!
“We have wrought for thy slumber a couch of Gold!”
And a pye-coat shepherd-crew paced near,
With a coffin of gold on a gilded bier,
And a tissue of gold for funeral-gear.
With a coffin of gold on a gilded bier,
And a tissue of gold for funeral-gear.
And they rested each on his golden crook,
And chanted a hymn from a holy book:
But the old King only groaned and shook.
And chanted a hymn from a holy book:
But the old King only groaned and shook.
He groaned and shook, but he could not speak
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek:
They heeded him not, those herdsmen sleek.
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek:
They heeded him not, those herdsmen sleek.
But the Hierarch bowed, for a lordlier Chief
Came crowned with lawgiver's strawberry-leaf,
And sceptred with poppy-stalks bound in a sheaf.
Came crowned with lawgiver's strawberry-leaf,
And sceptred with poppy-stalks bound in a sheaf.
266
Toothless and bald, he had teeth and hair,
Wizened and wrinkled, his cheek was fair,
For the hare's-foot had hidden the crow's-foot there.
Wizened and wrinkled, his cheek was fair,
For the hare's-foot had hidden the crow's-foot there.
“Father,” he said, “thou art old and cold!
“To make thee merry, and blithe and bold,
“We have brought thee Myrrh in a box of gold!”
“To make thee merry, and blithe and bold,
“We have brought thee Myrrh in a box of gold!”
And a rout of Elders in scarlet and fur,
Hobbled goutily in with cackle and stir,
And laid on the coffin a casket of myrrh.
Hobbled goutily in with cackle and stir,
And laid on the coffin a casket of myrrh.
And they carolled a psalm to him, line by line,
How Wisdom is water, but Knowledge wine,
And Childhood earthy, but Dotage divine.
How Wisdom is water, but Knowledge wine,
And Childhood earthy, but Dotage divine.
And the old King groaned, but he could not speak
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek:
Had he shrieked, they scarce would have heard his shriek.
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek:
Had he shrieked, they scarce would have heard his shriek.
267
Then a third Chief came whose wand was a scroll:
“'Tis he,” they buzzed, “who hath pawned his soul
“To be rolled in lengths on the printer's roll.”
“'Tis he,” they buzzed, “who hath pawned his soul
“To be rolled in lengths on the printer's roll.”
Halt of a foot, but strong was he:
His gait was a serf's, but his eye was free:—
His crown was a broad phylactery.
His gait was a serf's, but his eye was free:—
His crown was a broad phylactery.
“Father,” he said, “thou art old and cold,—
“We will make thee merry, and blithe and bold,
“With Frankincense in a box of gold!”
“We will make thee merry, and blithe and bold,
“With Frankincense in a box of gold!”
And a rabble of motley, none knew whence,
Laid a chest on the bier with the frankincense,
And a scroll of their names who had paid their pence.
Laid a chest on the bier with the frankincense,
And a scroll of their names who had paid their pence.
And they chanted a carol, some low, some high:
But the burden of all their psalmody
Was “I, I have given, and I, and I!”
But the burden of all their psalmody
Was “I, I have given, and I, and I!”
268
And the old King groaned, but he could not speak
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek;
But they deemed it was only an old man's freak!
For the crust of ice on his palsied cheek;
But they deemed it was only an old man's freak!
And they all strolled forth to their own hearth-side,
And left him alone, for 'twas Christmas-tide:
And the Midnight tolled, and the old King died!
And left him alone, for 'twas Christmas-tide:
And the Midnight tolled, and the old King died!
And behold, or ever the tolling ceased,
Three Kings with their companies most and least
Rode amain toward a Star that sailed from the East.
Three Kings with their companies most and least
Rode amain toward a Star that sailed from the East.
And three from the West, in shepherd array,
Ran East, for an Angel fled that way,
And the wayfarers met where the dead King lay.
Ran East, for an Angel fled that way,
And the wayfarers met where the dead King lay.
“Where is the Child?” they cried, “the Child
“Who is born our King, are we all beguiled?”
And they stared at the corpse, and their eyes waxed wild.
“Who is born our King, are we all beguiled?”
And they stared at the corpse, and their eyes waxed wild.
269
There sat he, an iceberg shaped like a King,
In the midst of his theatre garnishing:—
And they said, “Let us bury this frozen thing!”
In the midst of his theatre garnishing:—
And they said, “Let us bury this frozen thing!”
And they lit them a fire, and piled it high
With the canvas and pasteboard and carpentry,
And the frankincense that they found thereby.
With the canvas and pasteboard and carpentry,
And the frankincense that they found thereby.
And they thawed the limbs of that Monarch old,
And spread the myrrh betwixt fold and fold,
As they wrapped him and laid in the coffin of gold.
And spread the myrrh betwixt fold and fold,
As they wrapped him and laid in the coffin of gold.
And lo, as they dirged him a requiem,
There were voices of Angels answering them
With a chant:“He is born in Bethlehem!”
There were voices of Angels answering them
With a chant:“He is born in Bethlehem!”
And the rooftree gaped with a sudden gash,
And a blaze of glory, a blinding flash,
Burst in from the sky with a thunder crash!
And a blaze of glory, a blinding flash,
Burst in from the sky with a thunder crash!
270
And I woke:—but I saw how the coffin of gold
Was the manger-cradle of One foretold
Who should right the Wrong and make new the Old.
Was the manger-cradle of One foretold
Who should right the Wrong and make new the Old.
And one cried, “Gather them, all and some,
“For the Christ is reborn in His Christendom!”
And I heard the voice of a Babe cry, “Come!”
“For the Christ is reborn in His Christendom!”
And I heard the voice of a Babe cry, “Come!”
Come, for the Old still breathes in the New!
Come, for the False is lost in the True,
And the Creed may die but the Christ lives through!
Come, for the False is lost in the True,
And the Creed may die but the Christ lives through!
THE END
| Brother Fabian's Manuscript | |