 | Carmina crucis |  |
1. First Part.
L'ENVOI.
No violets dim with dew,
But flowers of burning hue,
The rose, the marigold,
The steadfast sunflower bold,
Before His steps to strew.
Bring flowers of fragrant scent,
Grey lavender and musk,
With clinging woodbines dusk,
Bring jonquils, and the frail narcissus bent,
Bring odours, incense bring,
That I may rise and sing
A song which I have made unto my Lord the King.
Summer and death are silent! now I hear
No stir among the hedge-rows once so shrill
With song, no cuckoo near;
But o'er the field the lark
Hangs like a quivering spark
Of joy, that breaks in fire
Of rapture and desire;
And from the wood a dove
Moans between grief and love,
While none doth of her hidden wound enquire.
In splendour of the sapphire, cold as steel,
No warm soft cloud floats over them, no tear
Will fall on earth to tell us if they feel;
But ere the pitiless day
Dies into evening grey,
Along the western line
Rises a fiery sign
That doth the glowing skies incarnadine.
THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE.
Amaranth and asphodel,Methinks I know ye well,
And thou, frail wind-swept flower that in the dim
Green woods, unseen by him
Thou lovest best,
The wood anemone, or wind-flower, a nymph beloved by Zephyr. This aroused the jealousy of Flora, who banished her from her court, and changed her into a flower, which always blooms before the return of Spring She is meanwhile unprotected in her too early bloom, and wooed by the rough north wind; which fails to win her love, but disturbs her peace and causes her to fade quickly.
Here blooms each flower whose leaf
Or petal hints at grief
And bears a mystic sign, a crimson stain;
The golden rod with fire
Stands tipp'd, the tuberose,
In its swift fading glows
And lights within its heart a funeral pyre.
No roses, white nor red,
Glow here, the poppy's head
The keys of death and sleep,
Of anguish, ecstasy, and wild desire;
Here ever on the turf green twilight lies;
Here ever warm and fragrant is the air,
And all this place is desolate and fair,
Made by a King and meet for Love's delight;
Yet here joy comes not, but the exquisite
Brief thrill of rapture in a pang that dies.
Here walks a Queen with steadfast eyes unwet,
With white Narcissus garlanded, that still
Dreams of fair Enna's sunlit mead, and yet
Mourns for the fresh, ungather'd daffodil.
THE ALOE.
Love's daily, fond, continual miracle
I cannot work for thee, nor crown thy day
Each passing hour with bloom of bud and bell;
Not mine with subtle fancies light and gay
To clasp thy soul about with delicate rings
Like hers, the summer's wooer, born with wings,
Sweet flower that fain would climb, yet only clings!
Let flowers like hers be fair,
For they were born to bless
The warm, still brooding air,
And win the wind's caress;
Such flowers were born to woo,
To flatter, yet be true,
And spend their souls away in fond excess;
Fall light upon the sunny grass at noon;
So let the gorgeous rose
Fold to her proud warm heart the heart of June,
And let each pass in passing of the leaf,
In passing of the flower, when earthward goes
All that earth knows of glory, sweet and brief;
A flower that is not fair,
But wondrous, blooms my secret soul within;
Sudden the life it springs to! strange and rare
The aspect that it weareth, long shut in
From sunshine and sweet air as in a tomb;
It cleaves the heart that beareth it to win
A moment's triumph ending in swift doom;
—Then marvel not that it was slow to bloom.
Pauvre feuille dessechée,
Où vas-tu?
Je vais où le vent me mène
Sans me plaindre ou m'effrayer;
Je vais où vais toute chose,
Où va la feuille de rose,
La feuille de laurier.
A MORNING IN SPRING.
Flowers, fields, and sunny skies that morn in May!
As if the Earth awoke
Some plain, old, long-accustomed word to say,
But seeing Heaven come forth upon the way
To meet her, in an unsought poem broke!
Methought her very breast,
As with a sigh repress'd,
A long, deep sigh of bliss, did swell and heave;
The skies above were clear,
The kiss without the tear
They gave that morn; they loved and did not grieve.
Within the bud unfurl'd:
Did mix, and chase, and lovingly invade
The others' realm; each cottage seem'd a nest
Among its trees; the meads were golden fair,
Odour, and light, and bloom upon the air
Strove which might tell its happy story best.
Oh, Earth, I feel thee press
My soul in thy caress;
What wouldst thou speak to me? thou sayest, “Guess!”
Is now some ancient bond
Of discord harsh repeal'd?
Is now some world beyond
To sight and sense reveal'd?
Or is this but a veil
Thou drawest o'er thy pale
Worn face? is this thy pride
Of spirit that would hide
Thy wound beneath thy vesture's broider'd fold?
Enough! thou wilt not tell
Thy secret till a spell
Smile on, o'er good and ill
Brooding unconscious still,
Sphynx-like, impassive, terrible and cold!
THE PLAYFELLOWS.
Far away and long ago,Long ago and far away,
Seems it now since in the low
Deep valley, shut from rougher weather,
Love, Hope, Joy, and I together
Play'd, ah! many and many a day;
Hid beneath the branching fern,
Hid beneath the blooming heather,
Hiding, seeking, each in turn;
Oh! what games we play'd together!
Till one day, within the dell,
Hope and Joy, together hiding,
Hid so long and hid so well,
We found them not, though keenly chiding;
When we call'd came no replying,
Came a sound of hidden laughter
Came a sound of secret sighing;
Then a shadow from the hill
Crept, and all grew sudden still;
Gay and green and golden there
Daffodils 'twixt light and shade
Laugh'd, blue periwinkles made
Nets our childish feet to snare;
On us lightly from the bough
Cherry blossoms dropp'd; but now
Through the glen we slowly pass'd,
We knew that we had seen the last
Of Hope and Joy, no more together
Play we there in summer weather.
ONE FRIEND.
“Often have I tired of thee,
Tired of all thy answers mild,
Heard so oft, so wearily;
Wilt thou never tire of me,
Gentle Patience? now look forth
From our window looking north,
And tell us where the others play,
All this long, warm summer day.”
Joy and beauty at his side,
Now in one their shadows run,
Hope has sent an arrow wide;
Shading from his brow the light,
Now I see him watch its flight.”
Oh! that to this quiet room
They would come awhile to play!
See my rose-tree all in bloom,
See the flowers I dried last Spring;
Hear my little linnet sing
In his cage! they need not stay
Longer than they please!” the child
Patience soothed with answer mild.
A REMEMBRANCE.
Innerster Kern.”
She sang at evening in an ancient room,
In the Spring twilight; soft the sunset gloom,
And at the casement soft the pear-tree's bloom
Look'd in, and from the coppice warblings soft
And slender, met low bleatings from the croft,
Peace was on all within, without; yet pain
Made sweet the singer's voice, made sweet the strain
She sang, and in the listener's heart was pain;
What art thou, Life? methinks thou leavest room
For the sweet bird to sing, the flower to bloom,
And canst not give the heart its little hour
To spread in sweeter song, in fairer flower;
Oh! thou art bitter, Life! within thy strong
Rude grasp the birth-right crushing, let this wrong
Reluctant hand one little boon unfold;
Take not the blessing also! give the breast
One little sunset hour of peace and rest;
Canst thou not give one hour? The day is past,
The summer's golden noon was overcast;
The day is past, the night draws on: oh! night!
Be thou more warm, more kind, than was the light!
A LIFE-REQUIEM.
What wert thou? kind and young,
Tender, and true, and brave;
Yea, all that hath been sung
In poet's song, or told
In story, sweet and old,
Was thine; an aspect fair,
A heart to love and dare,
An arm to guard and save,
A soul for high emprise;
And still thine ardent eyes
Woo'd life unto thy breast,
And found it fair, caress'd
For all it promised, blest
By thee for all it gave.
To day, as on the child
Outstretch'd the Prophet lay;
Pain lay outstretch'd, and prest
Upon thy brain, heart, breast,
Until thine anguish wild
And weary, changed and sank
To silent spaces blank;
And love, hope, joy, repress'd,
Seem'd as by harsh decree
The aspect weird to take
Of flowers their thirst that slake
At desert springs, and break
In hues of mockery.
Each day that o'er thee sped
Heap'd ashes on thy head,
And through the tumult loud,
'Twixt sense and spirit, Pain
Wove its thick spells, and round
Thy silent life-springs bound
And wrapt its fine-wrought chain;
Afar, the bird sing clear,
And see the flower unfold
In the warm noon-tide gold;
Love sued and pleasure sang,
And like a clarion, pride
With full, clear summons rang
Upon the air—all died.
Thy life and heart in twain
Were broken; even so,
How should the passer know
Their record sad and vain?
Fling in the dust, and there
Let fall with it Life's fair,
Fond presage unfulfill'd;
Fling eager hope unstill'd,
And love, that burning low,
Burn'd unconsuming here;
What need of flower or tear
To mark this heaving sod?—
The spot is mark'd by God!
A THOUGHT AT MIDNIGHT.
Oh! that some soul o'er-weigh'dWith love and pity, as a flower with dew,
For me at this still moment wept and pray'd,
And pray'd for me alone! that leaning through
My casement, now to mine a spirit drew
So close it scarce could hear
My secret, nor my tear
Could feel, nor mark my breast
That flutter'd in unrest,
Till, like two drops that roll
Within each other on the shaken leaf,
Absorbed and sunk within the tender soul
Of pity, pass'd the shrinking soul of grief!
NOVEMBER.
To see the rose-leaves shed
Fall on their earthy bed?
To see the day outworn
Fade out into the dead
Chill eve so soon? dost mourn
Above the wither'd leaf, the blighted corn?”
Swift daylight in its close,
I mourn not for the fled
Fair spirit of the rose,
That pass'd not till it fed
With fragrance all the air
Of June; a sweeter care
Was mine than buds in thickest green enclose,
A dearer hope than lives in aught that dies and blows.”
Misplaced, a broken troth;
Life healeth life that even from the dust
Will stir and bloom; I mourn
A sweeter hope withdrawn,
I miss the sealing of a firmer oath.”
Who can endure this cold?
The harvest's blighted gold?
The buried seed-corn lost?
A time of sweeping rains, of bitter grief,
The dews are thick on earth and light the fallen leaf.”
To pierce this heavy air?
Through patience to unwind
The cere-cloths of the mind?
Through love to breathe away
The grave-damps of decay,
Through love, through faith, through prayer,
Didst hope upon some fair,
Fond, future day to find
Earth purer, Heaven more kind?
And all that comes between is dim and cold.
The voice of one that grieves,
That grieves nor yet prevails—
For prayer that makes with Hope
A covenant, yet fails
For ever of its scope;
For Faith's lone lamp that pales,
Still raised above the dark
Lone wat'ry waste; for Love that finds no ark,
But still with patient breast
Broods on until its nest
Is fill'd with wint'ry flakes of cold despair;
For Christ that still delayeth;
For Life that still gainsayeth
The spirit's trust; for dark despair that sayeth,
‘Where is the promise of His coming? where
The answer to thy prayer?’
Behold, the heavens are strong, all things remain
As they have been at first, and hope is vain.”
“A time of sweeping rains, of bitter grief,
The dews lie thick on earth, and red the blighted leaf.”
DESDICHADO.
For friend or lover taken hence, for child
That falls 'mid early flowers and grass asleep,
Untempted, undefiled.
For sin's keen arrow with its rankling smart,
God's hand will bind again what He hath torn,
He heals the broken heart.
Sees in the midnight skies a starry dome
Thick sown with worlds that whirl and hurry by,
And give the heart no home;
Loud trampling crash and outcry of this wild
Thick jungle world of drear magnificence,
No voice which says, my child;
A strange dumb pageant pass before a vacant shrine.
And feels within his inmost soul a place
Unfill'd by the Divine;
That looks for God, and sees unpitying Fate,
That finds within his heart, in place of love,
A dull, unsleeping hate.
CŒLO TEGITUR QUI NON HABET URNAM.
In Spring the blossoms fall,
With Summer falls the fruit,
The leaves in Autumn fall,
Contented from the bough
They drop, leaves, blossoms now,
And ripen'd fruit; the warm earth takes them all.
A home above, a home beneath the sod;
The sun will seek the west,
The bird will seek its nest,
The heart another breast
Whereon to lean, the spirit seeks its God.
Should fall upon thy tomb,
That through the grasses sere
No loving footstep here
Should wear a pathway 'mid the deepening gloom.
Would watch thy step to greet,
And when thou wouldst be gone,
Thy parting look to meet,
No soft, beseeching eye,
No fond, half-smother'd sigh
With sweet arrest would bid thee linger on.
Who is there that will spare
An hour from joy, from care,
Beside thy grave to tell
Love's slow sweet beads that ceaseless fall one after one—the knell
Kind, gentle words, they spoke
Of thee awhile, but from his pillow none
Awoke with sudden start
To feel through all the heart,
And all the world's dim space and find thee gone.
Was given, and all is spent;
A little love was thine, a little grief;
How quickly dries the brief
Sweet tear, the loosen'd leaf,
How light it falls to earth and well content!
And gave; with all around
Sweet peace was mine, calm greetings met me still,
Peace, peace, and evermore this same good-will;
Yet now methinks with sound
More sweet, a Voice is calling from the ground.
My steps were led, my spirit at no urn
Was fed, but still for fuller draughts would yearn,
From deeper founts, and evermore my dreams
Brought the wide ocean in its flashing gleams.
Shut in from danger and from sin, yet gloom
Hung o'er the heavy leaves, until a tomb
The garden seem'd, and oft I saw the Hours
Pass sadly, slowly by, though told by flowers;
Methinks they once did grow
On wild-wood banks remote! this very soil
Whereon they spread, with toil
Was brought to raise their bright exotic glow.
To air no fragrance, unto earth no fruit?
What life is this that spends
Its soul and strength in keeping up the mute
Faint show of life, death wither'd at the root?
Art Lord and Giver! thou the Lord of love!
Now from this deadly strife,
This deadly calm above,
I pass to thee, far other joys to prove.
The gates of death, of life that I may be
Among the dead, among the living free;
Free, free to soar and sing,
To spread my soul's glad wing,
To shed my spirit's hoarded fragrancy!
Hast thou some look to give, some word to say,
Or hear, of fond farewell,” I answered, “Nay,
How light, when Summer comes, the loosened snow,
Slides from the hills! yet tell me, where I go,
Full drops of summer rain that seem to cheer
The skies they fall from, soft within mine ear,
Delay a blest assurance more complete,
“Yea,” only “yea,” was whisper'd me, and then
A silence that was unto it, Amen.
Within the dull, cold flint the fiery spark
One moment flashing out into the dark?
Warm, steadfast flame, to lighten or to cheer;”
The sweet voice said, “By things which do appear
Through stony chinks, lives on from day to day,
Approved for living, let the rest be gay
Lists for the flute-note, in the folded seed
It sees the bud, and in the Will the Deed.”
OH, AMIABLE, LOVELY DEATH!
The Spring was cold and tardyThe Spring was cold and tardy; with the Summer came a lingering blight; now it is Autumn the flowers bloom.
“From the garden rises a heavy odour, the scent of flowers or of wine; is it of the rose?” “No she is long ago faded.”
“It is of the clove, that says, ‘Love was given me for a treasure; I guarded it well, and lo, it has broken my heart.’”
“Are these the trailing wreaths of the wood-bine, the wood-bine warm and dusk as a night of summer that crept through and through the blossomed hedge-rows, wooing the sweet-brier to her clasp?”
“These are the tendrils of the passion-flower, dim of hue and scentless, the passion-flower that loves but does not woo; she carries in her heart the tokens of an eternal torture.”
“What is this fair blossom that floats downward so lightly? did it fall from the almond-scented hawthorn that the children loitered in the lanes to gather? they brought it home in boughs and garlands.”
“It fell from the death-struck jessamine, loosened from its dark foliage; wouldst thou carry its spray in thy hand, or wear it awhile on thy bosom? the flowers drop to earth like falling stars.
“Yet thou art fair, my garden; bloom, bloom out thy little hour, soon the Winter comes.
“Let the sworded lilies, blood-red, death-pale, flash in the broad light of noon, and let the sunflower droop upon its golden stalk.”
I heard a sound as of a parting that was all but eternal, of sobs and of farewell kisses, and through them all went a sigh so deep that no other sigh could follow it.
I saw a tear gather slowly beneath a darkening
The spirit hung for a moment above the clay it was deserting; it was free, it was happy, yet love and pity enchained it still.
How close, how kind were the kisses it left upon that ashen cheek and lip and forehead. They spoke of things that it is not possible for life to utter.
They murmured, Oh, how much have we endured together! each suffering we have made each other suffer; our existence was but a mutual wrong.
Close, close as was the bond that joined us there was one that ever came between; there was one with us that was nearer than sleep, than love, than prayer.
It was pain that watched beside us while we slept unsleeping, that made haste to wake before our waking, withering up delight and love.
Pain, that wove itself between us in fiery links and meshes; our ring, our chain, our troth-plight of union; often but for pain, we knew not that we indeed lived.
A mighty one hath broken its fetters; the king hath sent and delivered us; the prince of the people hath bid us be free;
We are free, yet we are still united, oh, my companion, thinkest thou that I do not love thee still?
Once again shall I behold thee; fair shalt thou be and young, beloved and desired of all; but unto none wilt thou be so fair as unto me.
Then pure and swift shall I rush to greet thee, I shall dwell within thee for ever, as the flame shut within the glancing opal, as the perfume within the bell of the hyacinth; we shall be one in beauty and in joy.
Slowly in the still air of eternity shall we unfold together. Ages upon ages are too short to sum up our perfect bliss.
But now I go to rest within the smile of God, sunshine shall be given me for a garment.
Yea, in me there is now no darkness, gaze down within me, I am pure, a well springing up unto everlasting life.
Give thou thyself meanwhile to the earth's dark bosom, scatter thyself upon the winds of heaven, melt in the beaded bubble and glitter in the fiery spark.
Whirl and scream with the white sea-fowl, and mount with them upon the eddying wave; speak in the dark thunder of waters roaring to their mighty fall.
Dance with the motes in the slanting sunbeam, star thyself in the glittering crystal, live awhile in the seed, in the flower, in the fading leaf, in the countless blossoms of the apple-tree, in the meadow-sweets' foam-white plume.
Hide thyself among the thick-springing blades of grass, amid the hot drifting desert sands, so shalt thou escape Pain that hath hunted and tracked thee still.
But come to me sometimes in the evening; sing thy clear song of victory and undying love.
Sing to me when the shadows lenghten, a little brown bird that bears upon its breast a ruddy stain.
And I will lean out of Heaven and hearken, I will hear thee from among the harps of gold.
The summer is over and the harvest ended, the songs of the vintage cease;
Yet before I die will I chant my solemn death-stave; let the woods be silent while I sing.
Royally they stand up round me, they gleam in gold and in scarlet, robed in the purple to which they were not born.
But the baptism of death is on them, they have been signed with a fiery sign.
Yet another day and their boughs will be stark and leafless; sing through them, thou wild rejoicing wind.
I have asked little of earth, and that little has been still denied me; now that I must leave her she gives me all.
A robe hast thou fashioned for me, oh, my mother! smooth and green and fine is it as satin, it is woven without seam throughout.
Fair is it and richly broidered, from my head even to my feet it shall enfold me closely as the clasp of a loving hand.
So that pain shall not glide within it, though it be lithe and searching as the cold fanged snake, desire, nor weariness, nor vain regret; this garment is unfretted by the moth.
And when my mother puts this fair robe upon me, she will press me to her bosom, oh, so closely!
That there will be no space left between us any more for anguish, no room for the dull unceasing pang.
No chiding word will pass between us, she will take me to the chambers where all her children sleep; quiet are they, deep and full of slumber.
None watch over those sleepers, yet is their rest unbroken; no wail is there, no echo of song or of laughter, but a silence that is sweeter than all.
I shall not dream there, neither shall I lie wakeful, listening for a footfall to break the stillness, or for a voice that might repeat my name.
If the bird sing above me I shall not hear it, nor heed if the dews fall sweetly and the early flowers spring.
For the heavens shall be clear above me, clear to their very depths, without cloud or stain;
Terrible in their clearness even as the burning sapphire, I shall look up through them to the throne of God.
Light shall be spread round me like a garment, but from the heavens a tear will fall,
A tear will fall upon my bosom, one tear from His eye that wept over the grave of Lazarus.
Very excellent things are spoken of thee, thou city of God! far, far across the desert have I seen thy fringe of lofty palms, and above them thy glittering domes and spires.
And my soul hath desired thee exceedingly; yea, I have longed to enter within thy courts, but not because of the scent of thine ivory palaces, raftered with the fragrant cedar;
Nor yet for the murmur of thy clear fountains, nor the shadow of thy pleasant trees, yielding fruits of healing and desire;
Nor to listen to the songs of the angels, or to the sweeter voice that I once loved so well on earth;
Not to look upon the face of lover or of friend departed, nor upon Thine, Jesus, beloved of God and of men!
Yea, let me hear thy voice, for it is sweet, and let me look upon thy countenance, for it is comely: yet is there One unfound, desired above all!
Him, whom I have sought unceasingly, my Father, whom I have sought and have not found.
Pleasure hath not held me back from Thee, oh my Father; but pain, disquietude, and restless doubt.
Like a child bewildered in an untracked forest, because I heard not Thy voice, I ws afraid.
What though my feet sank deep in brown, golden mosses, and from the boughs above me hung ropes of gorgeous flowers?
What availed the dusk splendours of the moth that flitted across my solitary path, or the glory of the crested bird that lighted up the wood's dim heart with flame?
When it was my Father's voice I needed, His kind re-assuring eye I sought. My Father's hand laid upon my head to bless me, His hand that took my own within its guiding clasp.
These things that He hath fashioned are fair and wondrous, but strength is a pitiless giant, and skill is a dumb artificer, and beauty hath but a cold, alluring smile.
There is one that is more great than these, the Father, whose Name is Love.
Strong is He, yet patient and pitiful, a Creator to whom nothing lives in vain.
In my heart hath He traced His image, in my bosom is there a mirror hid.
To glass back His likeness in perfection, I held it up to the earth and sky.
But it flashed and shivered into a thousand fragments, how should it give back my Father's smile?
In the world which He had made was beauty; anguish also, and discord, irony, haste, and bitter incompletion.
The dove moaned softly in the woodland, and through the thicket gleamed the rustling snake; the leopard was as lovely as the fawn.
In the Word which He had spoken was terror; the sword and the mountain that burned with fire, clouds and hailstones and thick darkness, the light of the arrow, and the shining of the glittering spear.
The Lord is a man of war, the Lord of Battles is His Name.
Yet hath He sent us His beloved Son, to show us plainly of the Father. Jesus, Thy deeds were
Thou hast told us of utter separation, Thou hast shown us a place where the tear falls in vain.
And yet Thou didst teach us to say, Our Father, Our Father which art in Heaven.
Therefore have I sought a city; a city that needeth not the sun to lighten it, for its light is the light of God.
Yea, though that light were sevenfold, I shall feel through it all a searching ray;
And I shall know that my Father's smile has reached me; I shall hear a voice, that says to me, “My child.”
On my heart hath a thought fallen, making all the waters of earth bitter.
I saw Youth stand up, strong and lovely, and on its lips was a word of promise,
A word that should overcome all things; but to what child of Adam hath the promise of that word been kept?
And if in life there is decay and harsh illusion,
Why should God's faithfulness be made known in the grave, or his loving-kindness shown in the land where all things are forgotten?
On earth is hate and discord, and we say these things are but for a day, but if for a day why not for ever?
If light reigned would it endure the darkness even for a moment? and if love is vanquished now, why should we deem that it shall triumph hereafter?
Humanity stands up in strength and anguish; a blind giant wrapt in an envenomed mantle.
It struggles, but it is not freed; it strides on hastily, age after age, yet it comes not nearer its goal.
In the universe, there is care and love abroad, the traces of a fashioning and guiding hand.
The pink sea-shell is flushed with beauty, warm, rose-tinted, myriad-hued, a chamber for exquisite delight.
The flower of the field is happy, it needs neither shelter nor love,
For it is at peace with all around it, with the dews, the sunshine, with the earth's dark kindly breast.
Things unbeloved are safe and cared for; the limpet fastens upon the storm-beaten rock, the moss and the lichen seek out the grey desolate wall.
But the life that was formed for love and joy is blighted, and the heart of man wanders and hath not found its home.
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