Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The lark unseen, o'er the village spire,
Sings like an echo from the sky.
“Let us go, Mother! the first bell has rung;
The second rings hastily now,”
Said little Maryanne,
As she ran to the door and looked over the fields,
Standing still in the Sunday air,
With their patches of meadow and tall dry corn,
And hedges sharp between.
Her cautious mother shuts the door,
And leads her forth to the belfry's call;
So little Maryanne,
With her knitted nankeen bonnet on,

That shaded half her face, went by
Each cottage with a sober smile.
The bell chimed louder as they walked;
In folded stillness white, the clouds
Seem cradled by the sound.
“Mother,” said she, “will father sing
Psalms by himself upon the hills?
Or do the sheep as well as I
Know Sunday from the common days?”
They pass into the churchyard now,
A pigmy hunch of sward,
All rank and long, with sunken stones
Looking up here and there;
But quite a strange great wilderness
To little Maryanne;
And the old men, in sauntering groups,
Who gossiped o'er their staves to her
Were grave and kingly patriarchs.
The laird has come to church to-day:
How glad is Maryanne—
She will look at him all the while!

Now hear the text—
In the days of thy youth remember God.
And when old thou wilt not forget him.

II.Age—Sixteen Years.

I've come o'er the fields to meet thee, lass,
O'er the misty meadows green;
Before the sun has dried the grass,
Or the earliest lark was seen.

I've come through the rye to meet thee, lass,
All through the rye-rigs deep;
Before the cloud from the hill might pass,—
While the plover is fast asleep.

My father's wains are on the highway,
We will meet them by the tree,
And ride to the town, so blithe and gay,
In each other's company.

Then dip thy face in the water clear,
Lave it over thy shoulders fair;
And quickly lace thy bodice, dear,
And snood up thy parted hair.

For I've come through the rye to meet thee, lass,
O'er the misty meadows green,
Before the cloud from the hill might pass,
Before plover or lark was seen.

III.Age—Seventeen.

“Your mother tells me, simple girl,
You are to be a semstress now;
I like to see a blush: take off
Your shapeless cap. Do you read and write?—
And dance and sing, perhaps, as well?
The freshness of new hay is on your hair,
And the withdrawing innocence of home
Within your eyes, indeed

You are as pretty a child as I have seen.
If your new world shall wed you as the old
Seems to have wooed, you're fortunate:
You have a throng of comrades here,”
Said a well-bedizened dame,
While timid Maryanne
She led to a long chamber, where
Her thimbled girls with needles and shears
Were trimming silks with gimp and lace.
Anon the dragon leaves the cell,
And about the stranger girl they press!
“Sit here, young rose,”—“Nay, Catherine;
How to turn her smiles to use,
And braid fair locks unbound before,
I know the best: her looks refresh
Like oranges in a theatre.”
But timid Maryanne—
Both no and yes she feared to say;
She knew not what they meant;
And aye she cast a wondering glance
At every one that spoke;

But Joan withdrew her from them all,
And leaning o'er her, whispered, “Sweet,
None may hear us; tell me true,
Have you left a lover-lad
Behind you, by the plough?”
“I never thought of such a thing,”
Said timid Maryanne—
As amidst their smothered laughter
A glorious crimson spread
Over her forehead, over her cheeks,
And brightened round her neck.

IV.Age—Eighteen.

A year has gone since last the voice
That taught her infant words—
Her mother's voice—brought early loves
And patience to her mind.
And many lisping tongues since then
Have mimicked truth and hope;

Or for the easy merchandise
Of smiles have bartered praise.
But how to meet her mother now?—
And yet it must be done;
She will be glad, thought Maryanne,
To find a lady in her child.

Andrew came with her; they had walked
Two days to see her daughter;
Poor Andrew! he was grave, he smiled,
He pondered, and he hoped.
But she did not run to meet them,—
She did not push him back and laugh,—
Nor kiss her mother's cheek.
Scarce knew he, with a quivering lip,
Which way to look—her dress
So jauntily assumed, her hair
So 'tired, her head so cunningly
Withheld, so cold her eye.
He had brought a gift to her,
But he wavered long, altho'

Two weeks of labour it had cost,
Whether he ought to offer it.
They left her—silent sat she long;
Every word that had been said,—
Each look she would recall:
With her wide eyes fixed upon the floor,
She neither smiled nor wept.
A face bends over her drooping neck,
So close, its breathing stirs her hair:
Her red lips leap, her eyes expand,
Her young heart flutters, throbs:—ah! now
She can both smile and weep!
Her hand and heart, her body, her life
She would give him—freely give.
Smother up the thoughts of ill!
Heaven is around her, as he lisps
“All is prepared; come Marian,
For ever come with me.”

V.Age—Nineteen.

In a neat suburban room
Songs of pleasant liberty
Sang careless Maryanne.
Who would dream that such a change
Could fall in one short year!
And Joan was also there,
Busily laughing, laughing loud.
But Maryanne sat still and sang;
Or with head askance at the window pane
She looked for Archer along the road;
And every morn, and noon, and night,
She would dance acrosss the room for joy.
O would it were not so intense!
She was happier than a wife could be,
Thought careless Maryanne.
Her mother told her not to look
Towards strangers, nor to speak too loud
To her sister-semstresses, until

She knew them well,—to rise betimes,
To dress quite plain, to lace her shoes
As she had learnt of old,—a long
Unmentionable creed she taught
Of best advices: Maryanne
Believed some punishment would follow
If in aught she disobeyed:—
Yet had she dared! the bond was burst!
No lightning flashed, but all at once
A new sun seemed to smile on her,
And a new moon, more earnest than the old,
And stars more numerous; and kindly lips
Seemed ever smiling on her from that day,
And merry voices sounded merrier.
For the first time free will seemed hers:—
While her mother like a prophetess,
Whose oracle by adverse fate
Had been annulled, sank from her trust
Altogether,—altogether!
Who would dream that such a change
Could come in a year like leaves in spring!

VI.

How fresh the breeze is everywhere!
How blossom out the flowers so fair!
The primrose and the daffodil,
And mignonette scenting the household air,
Over the narrow sill.
The wind has softer wings than e'er
Were felt before! the flowers appear
Than any other flowers more bright,
Like angel eyes so wide and clear.
From whence this dear delight?

The window looks unto the west
O'er placarded walls: oh, blest
Is every stone and every seam!
And every chimney smoke caressed
Is but a pleasant dream!
The errand boy comes whistling by,
And sits down on the kerbstone nigh!
Blithe as an infant-god

Who never might either grow old or die,
In spite of his weary load.

“Will you take a little wine?”
“Whatever you like shall be mine.”
The air is sweet and mild indeed;
These market-men are scarce divine!
Is it true a lamb can bleed?
Are there footsteps on the stair?
Is the sun in the noonday air?
Maryanne! you are so still,
Yours is sure a happy share
In this sweet, sweet world of ill.

VII.Age—Twenty.

But how felt he who opened first
Those gates that never close
To the bewildered footstep hurrying on?
We may listen while he talks.

“Life is like a melody no doubt,
An ever-changing melody, that ne'er
Runs through the scale: the plectrum's held
By love's own hand, they say:—
I' faith his hand should be made of gold!”
Quoth he one evening, as a friend
Broke in upon his gloom.
“what, Archer! moody;—strange indeed
When marian is yours!
I have seen her, such an air
Of the reposing dancer, blent
With girlish homebred quietness!—
So delicately she has gained
A taste like pure simplicity.”
“Oh, she is perfect grace, refined,
Yet marvellously fresh;
More wine, dear Thorn?”—“Yes, yes, more wine.”
“You must know her”—“And must love?”
“Ah! why not?”—“Well, be it so!”

Two weeks therefrom, said Maryanne:

“Joan, I wonder what he means
By never coming; his handsome friend
Laughs at him too.”—“Forget him dear;
How richly all our wants are filled
Since he is gone.”—“Indeed they are,”
Said Maryanne, and gave a laugh
Of scorn so very like Joan's!

VIII.Age—Twenty-one.

“This bonnet's really a charming change,
Its white rose tint suits mine so well;
But here's an awkward scarf indeed,
Although it be Cashmere.”
“That will not matter, we will drive:
Jacob! are the horses out?”
“Who's he that wears the forage-cap,
Who rides so hurriedly?”
“That moustachioed ensign nods—
How jauntily he sways himself

Upon the square toe of his boot!”
“These ladies—do you know their names?”
“Oh! This one is Thorn's Marian,—
Madame Marian, hey dey!—
Questionable, clumsy too.”
“Shall we return now?”—“When you please.”
Such are snatches of the talk
Of loungers not worth verse at all.

“Now mark the blush, the earnestness
O'ermantling that young man's face;
'Tis like a May-day morning,—
Almost as sweet as honey:
As yet he is an innocent!”—
With a gay sad cunning, quoth she now,
Beneath the glittering chandelier.
The music swells, and dies and wakes,
Like a spirit after death;
Upon a languid ottoman
She sinks and seems almost asleep;
But a snake, with a sickly skin, lifts up

Its sharp head to her heart.
Her father, mother, sister, friend,—
They are not here; and those who are
Scoff at her, cheapen her, she knows.
She cannot quell her quivering lip;
She weeps and laughs, and weeps again,
For the tears are strongest now.

IX.Age—Twenty-three.

The chill of eve is stayed from closing yet
By the roseate golden streaks
Still pressing back the leaden dusk;
Day, like an eye that's loth to sleep,
Closes but by slow degrees.

Andrew stands by the bolted door
Of a cottage lone and dark;
His finger bent as if to knock,—
Yet he pauses ere it falls,

And hesitating draws his breath.
A cat sits on the thatch-roof top
With its tail wrapt round its feet:
On the deep-set lattice from within
Flickers the sinking fire.
The door is opened; by the hearth
Down he sits. He came not there
To seek her who so oft had led
His footsteps night and morn—
At morn before the plover was seen.
No! she will not be there again,
To hear her father's whining prayers,
Or see her mother's wrinkles deepen,
While her broken-spirited sister fears
To sing as she prepares the meals.
Still he sat—few words were said,
Though oft he fain would speak:
“Have you heard of Maryanne?”
Her mother cried at last
As with frail hand his stalwart arm
She seized, but he was mute;

And when he spoke his words fell dead,
Like an echo of her constant thoughts.
Her hand slid from his arm, she leant
Quietly over the fire;
Anon a tear was heard
To hiss on the burning coals,
As spired away the feeble smoke
Through the roof's dark chimney-gap
(A sacrifice of suffering),
To the stars that sparkled high.

X.

Bring me wine at eventide,
And poppy-juice to-morrow!
Can I forget the courtly pride,
Or go to bed with sorrow?

They called me marian the knave,
Marian the fortunate!
How kind unto the woman-slave
To bid her thank her fate.

Bring me wine! it may not be
That I throw up the game,
Nor sink to scorn contentedly
With a brain and a heart of flame.

I am forsaken: not a wheel
Rings on the causeway-stones;
Bring wine! in laughter let me reel,
Lest the vile may say—she moans.

Bring me wine at eventide,
And poppy-juice to-morrow!
Shall I forget the days of pride,
Or go to bed with sorrow?

XI.Age—Twenty-four.

“How are you, Archer? shall we ride
An hour together this fine evening?
People seem enfranchised, winged,
Like a colony of birds

Circling about the tree-tops for an hour
Before they dive into their nests.
Have you heard of Marian?
They say no one can know
Where she has sunk since Thorn, your friend,
Left her and his debts together.”
She had no wit, no management,
It might have been presaged;—
I fear she never will retrieve;
She meets the rapids in the stream:
The world's eye now will turn on her
Like slingers from an old town-wall
Inflicting useless wounds.”

While thus they ride and speculate
On her fate with listless ease,
Where is she, and what doth she?
Can we find her if we search?
Venture down that lane, for guide
Take the policeman. In that house
Where lights flare all night long,

Here ye her voice, like lyre-strings once,
Now screaming in spite and rage.
'Tis Sunday morning, almost day,
Though pale and cold and blue:
Hovering pigeons venture down
On the noiseless streets to glean;
The steeple-clock chimes slow and loud;
Doth she sit still, or hath she slunk
To her couch to wake or sleep?
Neither; she snores upon the floor,
With the flask beside her head.

XII.

What is love? The fevered hand,
The palpitating heart,
The visions light as airy bells,
That buoy the inexperienced wish,
And clothe in transient paradise
The common life of every day,
Until necessity becomes a pain;
When the voice is only heard in song,

Deliciously exulting, like a bird
Full of summer's golden hours,—
Or weeping passionately loud
Unto the pillowed night?
And is this love?
Shy girlhood answers “yes.”
Or is it the gentler harmony
Of mind and act and hope,—
A welding up of careworn truths
With all the beautiful and good,—
A binding link of confidence,—
A staff in the traveller's hand,
A music to the soldier's march
That charms his weariness,—
An interbreath of soul with soul
Of which all life is typical?
Oh, such hath our God made love!
He, the youth who wooed of old,
Her who is now forgot by all,
What time the cricket's chirm succeeds
The grasshoppers, wends towards his home,

A man, a home of every day.
He knows the window and the light
That shines from it he knows:
Each thing within the room so well
He knows its face, so long has known,
It seems a household god that claims
His reverence or his care.
He doffs his shoes contentedly,
And draws his seat beside the fire;
Slumber is on his child, his dame
Sews tiny frills that it may wear,
As ever-anon she turns a glance
Upon its open-mouthed repose.
Happy he seems with a quiet peace,—
But toils he not by the loom all day?
Aye, and each hour is as a wedge
To steady his advance to age,
When around him shall have grown
Stalwart sons with shoulders broad,
And daughters with long Eve-like hair,
And noiseless step along the floor.

The blind child-god of love hath lent
His wings unto the hours, and smiles
As they hurry past like bees.
Love! whom Anacreon's nymphs scarce pleased,
Who listened to Arcadian lutes
And thought them wearisome,—
Unto the shuttle lends his ear!

XIII.Age—Twenty-five.

Down the wet pavement gleam the lamps,
While the wind whistles past them shrill;
A distant heel rings hurrying home,
It lessens into stillness now,
And she is left alone.
The rain-drops from the eves are blown
Against her face: she turns;
The wind lifts up her dripping scarf,
Faded now with its ragged fringe,
And flings it over her head.

Her lips are sharp, as if a scorn
Of our humanity had shrunk
And bitten them; her eyes—
They are not sunk, for generous care
Is not her misery,
They never weep, for she can think
Of her childhood while she laughs,
But they are blind and insolent.
And is this Maryanne the mild?
Can it indeed be she?
What is sin and what is shame?
The brutish and the ignorant
Say she hath borne them both.
But why measure blood in a carved wine-cup,
Or blame the blind altho' he laugh
While funeral mutes pass by?
Then whose the sin and whose the shame
That the ignorant say are hers?
Can the outcast retrace her steps;
Would any mourn with her, although
She washed the earth with tears

From a rent and festering heart?
The human voice no music brings
To her, and the sun but shines
That the shadow where she sits may be
More dense, that she may feel the light
In which the spider spins,
Can unenlivening fall on such
As have a soul. Yet hark! she sings,
She sings as she wanders by.

XIV.

“Out of my house!” a screeching tongue
Rings through the turnpike stair.
With swollen eyes, and bloodless lips
That would have uttered curses
Had she dared to speak at all,
A woman staggers into light,
And crawls away again.
She is a spot upon the sun,
A foul thing on the street,
A blight on the fields, a hateful sore

Unto her sister woman:
Without a friend, a child, a home,—
Without the power to cling to them,
Albeit she had them all.
Stand up in the face of heaven, and ask
Why art thou punished thus?
The smoke of the chimneys rises straight
And glowing in the yellow rays of even,
That strike athwart their dusky tops
And skimmer on the gilded balls of spires,
Or western windows like a holiday.
The hum of men decreases, and the sharp
Shrill tongue of childhood now is heard alone,
Until the mother from her window calls
“To bed.” On saunters Maryanne.
Once-a-time, the harvest-queen,
She bore the last bunch home,
With honesty and admiration rife
Among her followers:
Once-a-time her necklace was of gold,
Or triple gilt at least,—

When a gleam of her silken sock had drawn
The sighing furnace to a glow.

She leaned herself against the wall,
And longed for drink to slake her thirst
And memory at once.
A band of girls were at their play
Beside her; in the midst sat one,
And many hand in hand advanced
Before her and retired
At each rhyme as they sang.

1

Water, water wall-flower,
Growing up so high,
We are all maidens,
We must all die.
In especial Mary Anna,
She is the whitest flower;
She can skip and she can sing,
And ding us, ding us ower!

2

A dis, a dis o' green grass,
A daisy dis, a dis!
Come all ye pretty maidens
And dance along with this.
And you shall have a duck so blue,
And you shall have a drake,
And you shall have a pretty young-man
A dancing for your sake.

She heard them as they sang, she stood
As she were dead while still they sang;
Then in her utter abandonment
She loathed their loveliness.

XV.Age—Unknown.

A white-washed chamber wide and long,
With unscreened pallets placed in rows,
Each tenanted by pain.

In the first a grey-haired woman, tho'
Still almost youthful: in the next
A girl with yellow teeth and eyes,
And lips as blue as heaven!
One form is there we have marked before,
Whose merriment we have heard. My God!
And yet perhaps 'tis her best bourne:
She shall not live to fight with dogs
For bones on the nightly causeway,
Or gather ashes thrifty wives
May fling from their hearthstones.
She may die! the board is sawn
And blackened, and the turf
Is soon rent up to lay her down:
While forms as fair, as gleesome hearts,
As blindly shall succeed her,—place
Their feet where she hath trod,—amid
Like laughter shut their eyes,—and then
Fill this her mattress, thus, with shaven crowns.

And fathers still will shake their heads;

And youths who have not souls, have beards;
And scribes and pharisees cross the way;
And country queans at harvest home
Blush if they do not dance in silk;
And every lamp on every street
Light them like Maryanne.

THE ARTIST'S BIRTHPLACE.

This is the yeoman's country: every man
Hath his own steading, his own field, his garth,
And share of common and of moss, wherefrom
He cuts his winter's fuel, building up
The russet stack above his gable thatch.
Look through that straggling unpruned hedge, you'll see
One of those sinewy Saxons, such an one,
From sire to son, perhaps hath till'd that mould,
For these five hundred years; that rough-hewn block
Of timber plays the part of harrow here.

And now we reach the turn I told you of,
Close to our journey's end. The violets
Are just as thick as ever, and beneath
The rooty sand-bank those white embers show

A gypsey's bivouac has but late been here.
And there is this old village, with its wide
Irregular path, its rattling streamlet bridged
Before each cottage with loose planks or stones,
And all the geese and ducks that have no fear
Of strangers, the wide smith's shop and the church
Whose grey stone roof is within reach of hand.
A fit place for an artist to be reared,
Not a great Master whose vast toils unshared
Add to the riches of the world, rebuild
God's house, and clothe with prophets walls and roof,
Defending cities as a pastime, such
We have not! but the homlier heartier hand
That gives us landscapes with their rustics' lives.
There is his forebears' house; none other claims
Such garden ground and wicket. We last met
In London: I've heard since he had returned
Homeward less sound in health than when he reached
That athlete's theatre, well termed the grave
Of reputations. Now refreshed again
Let's hope to find him.

Thus conversing stept
Two townsmen forward: men whose usual ways
Were through the thick of life; who had sought out
And clasped each others hands with friendliest clasp,
And who had now right willingly exiled
Themselves together in those summer days,
To harbour in a tile-floored village inn.
Straight through the wicket passed they, and before
The pent-roofed door stood knocking: all was still:
Through the low parlour window books were seen
Upon the little settle, and some pots
With flowers, a birdcage hung too without song
Close to the window; round them noontide glowed
So gladsomely, the leaves were every one
Glistening and quivering and the hosts of gnats
Wove in the shades, but all within seemed dark
And dead. A quick light foot is heard, and there,
Before them stood a maiden in the shine
That fell upon her chesnut hair like fire.

How winsome fair she was 'tis hard to tell!

For she was strong and straight, like a young elm,
And without fear, although she halted there
Answering with coy eyes turned towards the ground.
Yet not embarassed, while she told the tale
Of the sick man. Then felt the strangers free
To look upon her: her tall neck was tinged
With brown and bore her small head lightly like
The head of a giraffe; her saffron jupe
Tied loosely oe'r the bosom fell in folds
Over her lithe waist,—but, as hath been said,
How winsome fair she was 'twas hard to tell.
I might describe her from the head succinct,
Even to the high-arched instep of her foot,
And all in vain: the sincere soul, the full
Yet homely harmony she bore with her,
Moved me like the first sight of the sea,
And made me think of old queens, Guenevere,
Or maid Rowena with her “waes-hail,” or
Aslauga whom the Sea-king chanced upon,
Keeping her sheep beside Norse waves, the while
She made her matin mirror in the stream.

The artist was not there to welcome them,
That much was plain; and, more, the life of home
Was not for him; Elspeth, the crazed beldame
O' the village, shouted and sang by sometimes,
And that he could not bear. This and much else,
At the hedge ale-house, while the friends regaled
By the wide chimney where the brown turf burned,
And daylight glinted down, they heard. But still
As of the damsel thought they most, one cried—
“I could have ta'en her head between my hands
And kissed it on the crown—she is so wise,
I'm sure she never would have thought it strange.”

TO THE GREAT SPHYNX:

CONSIDERED AS THE SYMBOL OF RELIGIOUS MYSTERY.

I.

The silence of a moonless night
The path of time doth follow: moonless night
And starless tracks man's footsteps, with dim forms
Still crumbling back into the caverned past.
And thou the strangest legend wrought in stone
The huge rock-spectre of an earlier world,
Within that terrible darkness standest still,
A mystery now as then.
I shut my ears and hear
Through the far centuries the clang
Of Coptic hammers round thy limbs half-freed:
Slaves toiling in their blindness, slaves of fate,

And slaves of man! what mystic mutterings,
What inspiration or what sad resolve,—
Those laborers cheer that know not what they do?

II.

Oracular, ever open-eyed,
Open-eyed without vision; answerless,
Yet questioning for life or death, as hath
In later days been fabled.
The scarabee, the winged globe,
And other symbols dark are known to thee,
To thee and to the dead. Perhaps the bones
Of Cheops in his firmest of all tombs,
Shook to disclose thy secret from the dust
And make men gods by knowledge of hereafter,
Shook when the priests' thick steps passed evermore
Bearing another Pharoah home
Asbestos-clad to his subterrene realm.
And did not Cleopatra's eager blood
Throb at the thought of thee,
While her wide purple flaunted in the sun,

And the thick smoke of her perfumes was borne
From Cidnus to the waste, where now
The camel's tufted limb in thirsty march
By Moslem pipe is cheered.

The winged seeds of autumn die amidst
The whirling sand-waste. Not beneath thy shade
The sower walks. While the years ever young,
Passing quick-sandall'd from the exuberant sun
Awake new wonders, and new nations rise;
And young Hope ever girdled, worshipeth
Upon the steps of Truth's too radiant shrine;
Thou sittest voiceless, without priest or prayer,
As if thou wert self-born.

III.

And yet to whom, O Sphynx,
Hast thou not ministered?
Before the Isis gates, the gates of stone,
Have mythic heroes and the sons of gods
Questioned of thee. Around thy feet

The hands of wandering Homer have perchance
Groped in his blindness, while he smiled,
Smiled strangely like old Saturn, as high thoughts,
Thoughts level with thy mysteries,
Lifted the lucid eyelids of his soul.
The lyre of Hermes may have rung to thee,
Before Dodona's leaves shook prophecies
On slumbering votaries; ere the white shafts rose
Fluted on Delphi, or Athenian streets
Had heard the voice of Socrates, nor yet
Was there a Calvary in all the world.

The beacon-light from Pharos shines,
Guiding the prows with Sidon's wares,
Wine from Chios, Samian earth
Transformed to gold by potters' cunning hands;
Awhile it shines, and then the stars again
Heaven's watchers are alone. But now instead
Of monstrous hieroglyph, the preacher calls,
Preacher and bishop, and the cenobite
Hurries half naked by,

Smiting thee on the face with his strong hand,
Strong to destroy all gods save one,
The Unseen, Unknown, unto whom thou art
Thyself a minister, although unnamed
In the evangel by whose word he lives,
And by whose light he weaves the Thebaid straws.
Weave on! lean cenobite, take not again
The purple and fine linen, thou hast seen
Bread brought to thee by ravens from heaven's board,—
Souls passing upward upon angel's wings,—
And like the red edge of averted thunder,
Roll back the earthly, Typhon fall sheer down.
Heaven's face is visible, and man's heart throbs
Shedding joy-tears into the passion-cup;
For are not all old things now passed?
Alas! and he too is now passed, long since
His love-feast cup is dry as Odin's shell,
Yet heaven's face brightens still, and through the sand
Deepening about thy flanks
Cryest thou, O Sphynx, for burial with thy kin.

100

IV.

Hovering over phantom-mists
On the chance stepping-stones of time;
Descending the uneven stairs of Art,
Into our nature's cavern gloom;
Breathless almost become we,
As if the blood fled from collapsing veins.
And yet when we return
Into the even sunlight of to-day,
The interests of the present seem
Fool's-play, unreal, an even-song;
And all the living generation shrinks
Into turf-hidden grasshoppers; loud-tongued
As clamoring storks, that feebly build
Among the cloven roofs of old
And kingless cities; passing as a flock
Of clouds storm-scattered, when the sear leaves fall,
And day shrinks coldly in.

But rather let me hear
Derisive laughter than degenerate fears.

101

And verily thou art, O Sphynx, no more
Than a child's bauble which the man disowns
With loftier knowledge, weightier cares,—
Yet from the soul's profound,
The most dread question comes,—
Which nature cannot answer. Thou,
Watcher by temple-stairs,—
Thou might'st have taught the entering worshippers
Homeward to look not starward,
Inward and not back into the tomb,
Or over Styx with hopes that bloom not here!
Alas, and is the question still
Unanswered, is the night
Eternal upon Acheron?
And when the triumphs of our England fall
Crumbling before the tides of years to come,
Shall Sphynxes stand by temple-stairs?
Or from the heart's depths call?
And shalt thou still
Unburied sit amidst the sand?

102

A RHYME OF LIFE.

The dial is dark,
'Tis but half past one:
But the crow is abroad,
And the day's begun.

The dial is dim,
'Tis but half past two:
Fit the small foot
With its neat first shoe.

The light gains fast,
Now 'tis half past three:
The blossom appears
All over the tree.

109

The gnomon tells
It is but half past four:
Shut upon him
The old school-door.

The sun is strong,
It is half past five:
Through this and through that
Let him hustle and strive.

Ha, thunder and rain!
It is half past six:
Hither and thither,
Go, wander and fix.

The shadows are sharp,
It is half past seven:
The Titan dares
To scale even heaven!

110

The rain soon dries,
It is half past eight:
Time flies and flies,
But it is not late!

The sky now is clear,
It is half past nine:
Draw all the threads,
Knot up, combine.

Clearer and calmer,
'Tis half past ten:
Count we the gains?
Not yet: try again.

The shadows lengthen,
Half past eleven:
He looks back, alas!
Let the man be shriven!

111

Evening mist falls,
It is half past twelve:
Hark, the bell tolls,
Up, sexton, and delve!

120

LINES

[_]

Written in the Elgin Marble Room, British Museum, in the presence of the fragments of Ceres, the Fates, Hyperion, &c., from the Parthenon.

The fabled fire undying, in the shrine
Of Vesta is long darkened. Anxious steps
Have ceased to travel Delphi's steep, for lore
Prophetic, rendering an exchange of gold.
The intoxicating smoke through which appeared
The phantom-actors in the Mysteries
Hath vanished: brazen doors and sacredness
Have not preserved the altar and the shrine,
The Calathus and Cista; yea, the force
Of Truth, for sure those fables sheltered truths
Even of grandest import, hath scarce saved
A record of the symbol or the creed.

121

The spirit of the world that knows no sleep,
Whose pulse beats ever, whose attainment is
But as a step to better in the sphere
Of knowledge; hath much travelled since that day,
Still leaving ruin in the rear and sure
Oblivion even to the holy things;
For holier because juster rise before him.
But while I gaze on these god-worthy forms,
Fragments of wonder-working art, whose realm
Is bounded by the sense and wanders not,
The ancient gods become realities,
The veil of time is drawn aside again,
Nature and high philosophy have met,
Have been in mystical embrace united,
The Real and the Ideal blent—

I faint
Into a willing vision. O'er the fields
Of Enna strewn with flowers Proserpinè
Would fain have gathered, but that Pluto's haste
Bore her away unto her iron throne.

122

And lo! the weeping mother, with bare feet
And thickly-folded vest now seems to pass,
In her raised hand a white torch seems to burn,
And on her cheek a tear doth seem to fall
Yet falls not, an eternal thing, a dream,
A fable; are we not all searchers, still
Losing and seeking. And in dread repose
The sisters three, the everlasting thread
Weave, everlasting and yet mortal, since
Death is but re-birth, and the family
Of man encreasing, knows no death. The steeds
Of the sun-god from out the wavy plain
Erect their glorious heads, the god's large arms
Rise over, ruling them with power divine.
All these, fragmental and time-worn are here,
Time-worn and headless, yet no less supreme,
Approaching even to realize the Will
Of Nature, . . . to produce an archetype!
Aha! I am awake: the shuffling feet
Of idle crowds sight-seeing in mine ears,
Surmising and admiring! I could hide

123

My face within my hands, and as a child
Weeps when his card-built palaces have fallen,
Because he knows he cannot build in power,
So could I weep in presence of these forms;
I am a child amidst a world of gods!

The angels on the plain of Bethlehem
Have sung good will to man and peace with heaven
Since the great sculptor and the faith he served
Were among living things. The arms of Rome
Have been put forth insatiate, on all lands
Glittering in brass and plunder, and again
Have they shrunk in, rebuked by death. The tribes
Of the dark North have crossed the Danube's waves
Ice-bound. The Cross has triumphed over all!
The bold discoverer a new world has found,
England has spread itself from zone to zone,
Time hath grown rich with good gifts manifold,
And analytic souls from year to year,
Torture new sciences to serve like slaves,
'Till now we live in light, and though each torch

124

Is rank and earthly, let us not deny
The mighty Hope that every coming age
Essays to realize. But through all change,
The harmonies of nature must remain,
The voice of these remain,—
A revelation of the perfect man
As at the first he was, and at the last
He may be: as he must be in the spirit,
If our Humanity hath aught divine,
And to himself and to his fellow men
He would unfold it in its purity!

125

DEATH.

I am the one whose thought
Is as the deed; I have no brother, and No father; years
Have never seen my power begin. A chain
Doth bind all things to me. In my hand, man,—
Infinite thinker,—vanishes as doth
The worm that he creates, as doth the moth
That it creates, as doth the limb minute
That stirs upon that moth. My being is
Inborn with all things, and
With all things doth expand.

But fear me not; I am
The hoary dust, the shut ear, the profound,
The deep of night,
When Nature's universal heart doth cease
To beat; communicating nothing; dark

126

And tongueless, negative of all things. Yet
Fear me not, man; I am the blood that flows
Within thee,—I am change; and it is I
Creates a joy within thee, when thou feel'st
Manhood and new untried superior powers
Rising before thee: I it is can make
Old things give place
To thy free race.

All things are born for me.
His father and his mother,—yet man hates
Me foolishly.
An easy spirit and a free lives on,
But he who fears the ice doth stumble. Walk
Straight onward peacefully,—I am a friend
Will pass thee graciously: but grudge and weep
And cark,—I'll be a cold chain round thy neck
Into the grave, each day a link drawn in,
Untill thy face shall be upon the turf,
And the hair from thy crown
Be blown like thistle-down.

137

POEMS OCCASIONALLY ADDRESSED TO “MIGNON.”

I.A DREAM OF LOVE.

I had a dream more pleasant than the truth,
And pliant as 'twas pleasant,—must it be
Only a dream? A fancy that hath wreathed
A sunproof arbour round the sweltering brow—
Causing joy-flowers to bloom, and corbie care
To spread her wings; up-clambering round the heart
As a child rosy-faced with ignorant wiles,
Climbing a grey-beard's knees, doth make him laugh
With its innocuous mirth, although enforced
By plucking his frosted hairs:—can it be nought
But fancy?

138

This it was. As through the street,
Where drays were jostling and the coachman's lash
Rang o'er the necks of his thin-haunched beasts,
I had on errand of importunate haste
Passed, till in weariness I slackened pace,
To mitigate the unseemly dusty heat,
By lingering within shadow a short while.
People in long tides passed me, and some looked
An instant vacantly, still hastening on,
Hurrying somewhere with a tedious thrift;
Unto the mart or workshop, desk or ship,
The church, the tavern, or the mall.
There was obstruction in their eyes, not death,
But an obstruction of the inmost soul:
They lived, yet lived not. Had I spoke to them
What then I felt, they would have thought me mad,
And each in his own sanity rejoiced!

Anon a little boy came sauntering by,
Whistling a merry air, that, arrow-like,
Went through my memory, and a fair Dear one

139

Drew me with gentle hand into the haze
Of dream. A strange transition, yet not strange,
If all the links that brought her image near
Were marked; nor strange, since memories are involved
Together by the laws of harmonies.

I left the obdurate noise. Through paths of sward,
Where never cloud of dust had fallen, I reached
An opening in a wall of sapling boughs,
I entered, and within more still and cool
It was, and freshness through the air exhaled
From the green ground. Half dusk it was, for round
And round the branches wove a screen from heaven
Of darkest green and varied leaf, 'neath which
Flies thickly humming danced. Sometimes a bird
Flew quickly through, and as its wing might brush
The leaves about your head, it seemed to fear
That it had missed its way. Flowers too were there,
Sprinkled about amidst the grass which grows
Hair-like and thin beneath the shade; bluebells
Tinkling to the small breeze a bee might cause

140

And violets, and poppies red and rough
In stem. I passed still deeper through the wood
By this cool path: a wood more kindly cool,
Or harmless of dank poisons or vile beasts
That creep there cannot be, and yet so wild
And uncouth. Bushes of dusk fruit beside
The pathway from the ground piled up two walls
Of leaves and berries, from which flocked the birds
As I passed on, or lingered with dyed hands
Plucking them listless, and with profuse waste
Pressing their juice out. Other trees were there
Blossoming for a later month. And now,
As if from the champaign land afar, came sounds
Of hearty laughter, mellowed by the air,
Until it scarce was audible; and song,
Like a reaper's song, a very pleasant sound,
Betokening a clear breast, and heard beneath
A clear sky chequered by thick boughs, a sound
Right happy. So I also sang. The sun
Now found an opening through the stems, to fall
Upon my path; and as I walked, across
The flowers upon my right my shadow passed.

141

A butterfly with purple-velvet wings,
Invested with two lines of dusky gold
And spotted with red spots, upon these flowers
Was feeding, and anon as my shadow fell
Upon it, it flew up and went before,
Lighting again until I passed: and so
Continued it. The space more closed and closed
Became, and all between the trees were warped
Vine-twigs, and plants more fair than vines. Beneath
A slow stream likewise glent, and secretly
Fed spreading water-lilies, and long reeds
Heavy with seed, which might have made fair pipes,
Cut nicely by the joints, from whence a leaf
Depended. But I thought not of the task,
Watching my guide's dark wings, until the path
Seemed stayed by dense convolvolus and thorns
(Largely o'ergrown without the pruner's hands)
Of the red-hearted rose. But the dark fly lowered
Its flight till nigh the ground, and passed into
The mass of greenery by an interspace
Which I had seen not: with my hands I raised,

142

And parted with my head, full lazily,
The luscious screen at this same interspace.
Behold! beneath a peristyle I stand
Of short columnar palms, before me steps
Of thickest grass descend unto a space
Smooth tapestried, with living garlands bound,
And set about with moss-cushioned seats of wood
Cut roughly from the forest, over which
Uptangling richly to the highest trees,
And waving even then into the air,
Flowers rare and unknown, and around a fount
(Of which a marble girl, with green feet through
The water and white head, seemed Nymph) bright heaps
Of lily blooms were strewn. But all these sweets
Were nothing to the influence which came o'er
My being from some unseen power, whose grace
The whole seemed imitative of, whose smile
The light seemed intimating to the flowers,
Whose goodness all around seemed fashioned by.
Half slumbering as I stretched upon the sward,

143

Mazed by this unknown beauty, and the swarms
Of flies like that which here had guided me
All round, the influence became more dear,
More fixed, and I beheld a Lady. Round
Her hand, which held some sweet, the insects thronged,
And lighted on her hair. I did not start
With rapture nor surprise, nor did I deem
Myself unworthy of this gardened love,
This goddess-girl, nor said she aught to me,
But by her eyes, which never looked on me,
I said she was the spirit of my life,
And tho' I had not seen her until now
I still had known her.

She bent down beside
The sward I pressed; she leant on the rude seat
Over me, but I knew not from that hour,
Whether it was myself I gazed upon;
Or whether I beheld with intense love
And sympathy some higher beings, both
Worthy of each. And she began to sing;

144

A language which was song was hers,—she sang;
A fragile lute upon her knees she placed,
And balanced from her neck by a silken cord,
Her fingers gave it speech, yet touched it not,
But her hands hovered o'er it like two birds
With wings still fluttering to descend,—she played.
Soft as the fine tints of a rainbow bound
About an evening shower, her music first
Came on my sense scarce audible, like rain;
Then, waxing louder, it ascended heaven
With all its colours brightening. My heart
It stilled to sleep, as a sister stills a child
That murmurs not, but smiling upwards on
The watching eye, to rest unconsciously
Sinks pleased. But changing suddenly, the notes
Began to whirl together as a flight
Of swallows, and then louder still became
Happy beyond all words, fair spirits seemed
Clamorous and clapping of their hands for joy!
Too happy beyond words, I would have wept
Had I been in the actual world, where tears

145

Are bred by intense sympathy, but here,
Where sympathy was life, I did not weep.
—Oh Lady, thou art beautiful: and now
The dark hair of thy song doth shade its eyes,
The eye-lid of thy music droops: it plains
Slowly and saturated with sweet pain,
Carries my soul into a sphered realm
Of everlasting melancholy. Maid!
Who mournest for thy lover, hear the lay
And be not comforted, but mourn no more
As you have mourned. Youth! whose thirsting love
Has conjured an ideal from the land
Of Vision, listen with a joyous hope
And mourn not with the bitterness that thou
Hast mourned.
A louder chord is struck! let grief at once
Be wept out like a thunder-rain, and pride
Go up triumphant with a purple flush
And warn of trump—the golden crown doth press
The spirit's forehead who hath conquered all!—
—Oh Lady, thou art wondrous fair and good!

146

The earth is filled, oh! filled with gracious things!
Slowly again to life descends thy strain,
An odour as of rose-leaves seems to fall
Upon me, and a pearly light: again
It scales the are of higher heaven, alas!
Art thou not over me as is a God,
Oh Lady, with thy lute? and I will faint
Utterly into death: oh intermit
The binding of thy linked power, oh cease,
And let me drink a silence short and deep,
Then die into the Life that thou dost live.

II.A WATCHMAN-SONG.

1.

WATCHMAN.
The night is dark, the wall is black,
And the fosse beneath likewise;
Johannes on the high tower sleeps,
His hound beside him lies.

147

KNIGHT.
Fair lady, scarce now one short hour
Is wanting ere the morn,
And yet I have not dared to say
What this heart long hath borne
Still waiting and waiting for this sweet time,
This rare brief happiness,
To see thee o'er me, to hear thee speak,
Thy hand at least to kiss.

LADY.
I know what thou wouldst say, fair sir,
I know what thou wouldst hear,
Though better that it be not said,—
A dream, a trance, a tear.
Oft have I sat lone days and nights
And trembled at the past,
And sure, fair sir, 'twere better far
This tryste should be our last.

148

2

WATCHMAN.
The breeze awakens and the clouds
Scatter dimly overhead,
Trees, and streams and paths appear;
Thy spell, sir knight is sped.

KNIGHT.
Watchman I would tarry until
The kindly brightening east
Shows me once more the face that lights
The shrine whereof I'm priest.
Lady, it may be Lent again
Or ever our voices meet,
Ere I may hold thy hand as now
Through thy little bower window, sweet!

LADY.
Good sir, the daily even-song
Shall bear me back to thee,
While each adventuring helm shall seem
To speak brave thoughts to me.

149

Another year shall pass as doth
A silent summer's day;
The sun goeth slowly over heaven,
But endeth cheerfully.

3

WATCHMAN.
The leaves about the rook's nest stir,
The mist stirs on the fen
Sir Knight, leap down, if thou would'st pass
Unhunted through the glen.

KNIGHT.
Fair lady, leave me not so soon,
And warder, why that fear,
Lady, beyond the seas and hills
My home hath little cheer,
It waits with chapel and tower and hall
Vacant from year to year.

150

LADY
Farewell, farewell! if it could be—
Alas! what would I say—
To-morrow at night return again—
Now haste thee, oh haste thee away.

KNIGHT.
Let me yet listen, she is gone,
Then cold blank wall, farewell!
At midnight again—! but oh, blessed wall,
Thou'lt never a secret tell?

WATCHMAN.
Johannes wakes, I hear his hound
Shaking his collar. So!
Step warily, hold fast my hand,
Thank god he is safe below!
And hark, the sun-rise bugle-horn,
Ya tee-ra-lee, ya ho!

151

III.LINES SENT WITH SPENCER'S “FAERY QUEEN.”

Lady loved! I bring to thee
Aladdin's cave in poesy:
I bring to thee a wilderness
Where swiftest faun-feet might confess
That they had lost the path. In sooth
It is as if we had lain down
Tired with too much happiness;
And underneath an old tree's frown,
A druid of Pendragon's youth,
Where sunshine could but dimly peer
In the leafy quarter of the year,
While heats and odours, songs and hum
Of bees, the sense had overcome,
And an enchanted sleep had borne
Us far within the gates of morn,
Where strangely-shapen mists and clouds
Array themselves in motley crowds,

152

And clothed in nameless glorious dies
Hurry up into the skies
So fast, so changeable, so high,
Now a bannerol'd young chivalry,
Or a dainty sheaf, so mild and meek,
Of maidens ‘girt in guiltless gowns,’
Dragons dire, decievers sleek,
Mighty walls round baseless towns,
White christian myths, and satyrs red,
Each leaping o'er the others head!
The Faery Queen! ah, well-a-day,
Fancy's self is but a fay,
And great round men with pockets stored,
Laugh at all that she can say:
But she also hath her hoard,
Wine of life, and stone of power,
Bath of beauty, deathless flower,
Cap invisible and purse
Exhaustless, salve for the ancient curse.
These are of the wonderous things
Guarded by her servant-kings,

153

Hived within her planet rings:
'Tis she anoints the lover's eye,
She from the fine lip makes reply,
And round even me
When I think of thee,
Lady loved, a starry woof
She throws of texture sorrow-proof.
Yet again, ah well-a-day!
Fancy's but a tricksome fay,
Her wing so swift to come, also
Is certainly as swift to go!
Nay, ah nay,
Quoth little Love, with his great blue eye
Archly smiling, surely nay!
It is not so,
For I can tie
Her right wing, she no more shall fly!
Lady-girl, Mignon, May!
Another name,—Titania,
Henceforth take, while I, thy knight,
Offer upon bended knee

154

This treasure-house of poesy,
In rare blackletters all bedight,
Captured on an old book-stall
Guarded by a monster small,
In a far place where you bend
Towards the well at the world's end!
A treasure-trove
Worthy better poet's love!

IV.RHYME TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.

The air is populous with snow,
Falling and flying, above and below:
This waste of households is fast asleep,
Nor any the old year's death-watch keep,
As elsewhere I've seen when every man
Saluted this hour with his bousing-can.

The snow, how it flies! but it may not be

155

I coldly part, old year, from thee,
Without a short kind benedicite!
It may not be that thou who art
So different from thy ancestry,
Shalt have no requiem ere we part.
Perhaps when some slow coming year
Now in the future, hath drawn near,
I may rehearse these lines while she—
You know whom now I mean—she may
Sit by me hand in hand, and they
Shall carry us back through smiles and tears,
Till all this present reappears,
The fireside game, the endless talk;
The high hope scorning storms and fears,
Upbraiding time; this white muffled walk
Again I'll tread, and see here and there
Those lighted windows' christmas-glare,
That unredeemed cad by the wet coach-stand,
And the lamps obscure up the dreamy Strand!

Glorious night! to be sure the sky

156

Is falling, the winds chill,—what care I,
With love for a cloak against destiny.
Good passing year! you have not raised
My stature, nor brought aught about
For which I might be praised,
Yet good old year, when I walk out
I feel as if I was not quite
The same as on last new-year's night.
Not that I hold my head more high
Or dare laugh at Fortune, certainly!
Not that her buffets hit less fair,
But wounds heal again, and I take no care;
And surely her smiles now are far more bright,
And sunshine of heart with its melody
Floats before the murkiest sky.
The stars too, when night slumber brings,
If indeed these ten months past
Sleep hath ever o'er me cast
Her sceptre,—whisper wondrous things.
Yes! like a glorious long summer even,
A deep, rich, wide, and sensuous heaven,

157

Thou'st been. Thou shadow of a shade
In the garments of our souls arrayed,
We are thy slaves, the slaves of time,
Runners by time's chariot dust
With moan and prayer, or song and rhyme;
Still thinking thus and thus we must
Attain and triumph, but the lance
Slips through our hands when we would strike,
And something else, oh, all unlike
Our hope is what we have attained,
Given by the passing god, not gained
By us. Then thanks for the crown, say I,
The crown thou hast placed on my Psyche's head,
Thanks for thy gifts, good destiny,
Heart-gifts that in their first bold bloom
Perennial, evermore shall shed
Light and medicinal perfume.

Then stoop to thy melodious bier,
All folded white in the snow, old year!
Hark, at once from left and right

158

The steeple tongues salute the night,
Cloudy voices east and west
Pass wandering, each a funeral guest,
Ah, now St. Paul's great angel flies,
And like the shepherd of the skies,
Drives them before him, he the last
Falls over the horizon of the past:
So is the old year knelled and blessed.

161

VI.A COMPLIMENT TO MIGNON SINGING.

“And must I leave thee, Paradise?”
Eve with retreating footstep cries.
While the armed Michael following,
Hides it with his burning wing.
Pretty enough, a pathetic air too,
At least in its author's dainty view.
“And must I leave thee Paradise?”
You must indeed, the sword replies!
But why my laughter-loving friend,
Dost thou repeat her tortured lay,
Not even an angel can descend
To tear thee from thyself away!
The sky above our heads can ne'er
Of its sun-glories be bereft,
And nevertheless an atmosphere
For storms and thunder still be left.
Heaven may lie beyond the skies,
But where thou art is Paradise.

162

167

FOURTEEN SONNETS.

I.AMBITION.

To rise up step by step from hall to dais;
To take the best seat at the best repast,
While adulating eyes are toward him cast
By the upstanding hungry; to have praise
From those he scorns: to see the base hand raise
The limp hat to him as he hastens by
Not deigning to return the courtesy;
To ride while others tramp the miry ways.
These are the honours of a hot-breathed world,
These the civilian honours, these the prize
In church or bar. Behold that wig deep-curled,
Great prize of a long life's toil, and those eyes
Below it like dead oysters:—shut thine own,
And think of Christ or of the sky star-sown!

168

II.TO DAVID SCOTT,

ON PUBLISHING HIS “MEMOIR, ETC.”

Brother of mine, the last of many, passed
Into the shipless dark sea, where we all
Must follow, as our days and hours are cast:
I speak to thee, I touch the dreadful pall,
To lay thine own bay leaves upon thy bier.
It may be in the arcane truths of God,
Thou still dost feel this touch, dost feel and hear,
And recognizest still the cold green sod,
Immensely far yet infinitely near!
Thou who hast shown how much the stedfast soul
Bears abnegation, how an ideal goal
Robs life, how singleness of heart hopes long,
And how by suffering sanctified, the song
From the inner shrine becomes more wonderful and strong.

170

V.ON READING HAYDON'S AUTOBIOGRAHY.

The coarse-voiced peacock spreads his starry tail,
And wheels about that all the world may see,
Of all God's creatures, I am first, quoth he,
Meanwhile the part that nature meant to vail
Winks curiously beneath that radiant sail.
Vanity must have her eclat, show
Of clapping hands, boast of grand aims,—and so
The blessed functions of the artist fail.

Not thus the greatly gifted use their wealth!
The good man gives nor usurous interest claims;
The poet craved fit audience only; health
Works without boasting; Shakspere turned again
To the sunset in Stratford:—here, in flames,
The begging Art-apostle dies insane!

172

VI.WORDSWORTH. ON READING THE MEMOIRS BY DR. C. WORDSWORTH.

FIRST SONNET.

Too much of “Tours,” productive more or less;
Too much of “Nature,” meaning thereby hills,
Trees, hedges, landscapes rich with woods and rills;
Too little of the dark divine recess
Beneath the white shirt,—nothing of the press
Of our own age so full of glorious cares,
And men that call, new lamps for old! good wares
For potsherds given! in this book I confess.

Yet through it evermore appears in sight
A poet travelling homeward who was still
A poet every day, with common tread
Who walked on common shoes up Life's high hill
Self-center'd, God-directed, till the light
Of this world and the next met round his head.

173

VII.WORDSWORTH.

SECOND SONNET.

Cumberland was the world to him and art
Was landscape-gardening. Most sententiously
A truism or a common-place could he
Announce, and by his grave large voice impart
Value thereto. Steered by the simplest heart
'Tis said he never doubted, but held on
Bible o'erpowered: in these our days alone
Of all sane men perhaps in learning's mart!

But he of all men planned his life with care:
Fast by the wells of sadness walked he on
O'er fortunate meads with chilly flowers made fair,
Till on his right hand and his left were won
The waving wheatears of a just success;
A man whose praise rejoice we to express!

174

VIII.WORDSWORTH.

THIRD SONNET.

Each medal hath its reverse; every day
Its cloud; each house its skeleton; so here,
Sum up this philosophic poet's year,
And we shall find within his mental way,
Few threads of vital poet-wisdom stray.
Instead; philanthrophy with hand withheld,
A caution selfward turned, the muse compell'd
To chew the cud, to sift the sand and clay
Left by chance hill-winds, lest some grains of gold
Without assiduous sieve might there be lost.
A bald soul awkward with his lyre, both cold
And over-anxious, find we to our cost:
And this the moral of the whole; that man
Is great who simply doth the best he can.

175

IX.THE FIRE AT EVENING.

To one who looks but seldom on the stars,
Whose lode-star is a certain dear bright eye
Kind fortune sent him; who not frequently
Among the tarns and streams, the hills and scars
Of nature uninformed with life would roam:
To one who loves the haunts of men, there bound
By chance and choice: here pitching still his home
Where Art the most abides; to such a man
The hearth is this world's centre, holy ground
On which the daily sandals are untied:
And in the caverned fire he learns to scan
The day just past new picture-historied.
Aye, ev'n all life restored and striven again,
And a new sun-rise breaks o'er heart and brain!

176

X.THE WIND IN THE CASEMENT:

WRITTEN IN ILL HEALTH.

Silence, oh North-East wind thy saddening cry,
Silence, oh wind thine everlasting moan!
Is the child Innocence all naked thrown
Out on the freezing earth, is the great sky
Now made of lead for ever, nor again
May the heart cheer up nor sweet lips be curled?
Silence oh deadly wind! most sure the rain
That an indifferent and exacting world
Showers on us, the cold blast that ever blows
On one who wears no ermine, sings no song,
And finds no holidays, are enough strong
To give us daily aches and overthrows:
But with thy ceaseless inorganic wail
Like parting Providence,—who would not fail?

178

XII.TO THE MUSICIAN.

[_]

(BEETHOVEN.)

Music transcends conception; God in heaven
Is the musician's father. Wond'rous child!
Instinct above the intellect is given
To him the wordless and unlearned: wild
Fancies of heart are his realities,
And over them as o'er firm ground he flies
Towards absorption in the unknown skies
Of spirit-land.

Alas! within the maze
Of the actual world, hills, cattle, ships, and town,
Knowledge accumulative, mace and gown,
Wealth, science, law, he like a blind man strays.
Yet be thou proud, poor child! be not cast down,
Men hear thee like the voice of the dead risen,
And feel they are immortal, souls in prison!

179

181

TEN SONNETS EMBODYING RELIGIOUS IDEAS.

III.LIFE ITS OWN GUIDE.

Sometimes we realize our fond desires,
Nor seldom doth the strong man seize his prize;
But ere we gain the Expectation dies,
And the Attainment's no more like the hope
Than are the ashes like the beacon fires
That shed them. When the day of life first broke,
How many starry crowns were in the skies!
But soon we find the mid-day by surprize
Hath come upon us, not a star remains,
Not an aurora cloud: nor are we grieved:
The man is still the same, with numerous gains:
Patience, the Knowledge he is undeceived,
Confident humbleness, more strong than fate:—
Experience thrusts us on, yet shows us not the gate.

184

IV.LIFE WITHOUT FAITH.

Most fearfully and wondrously we're made;
In fear and in the dark we strive to live
By sight, and in new confidence arrayed
Cry we to Nature, stay! to Fate, give, give!
Still loitering towards to-morrow, when to-day
Fails to bring forth from its too numerous toils
And manifold emotions, those great spoils
Wherewith to build a tower of strength and stay,
Reaching to heaven. Alas, we only find
To-morrow like to-day; the impending sky
Silent and blue, silent and dark and high,
The only changes, passing clouds and wind.
And round about us, blackening upwards, slopes
Accumulation vast of unproductive hopes!

185

V.RESTORATION OF BELIEF.

Follow me, Jesus said, and they uprose,
Peter and Andrew rose and followed him,
Followed him even to Heaven through death most grim,
And through a long hard life without repose,
Save in the grand ideal of its close.
Take up your cross and follow me, he said,
And the world answers yet through all her dead.
And still would answer had we faith like those.

Oh who will speak again such words of fire!
With gladsome haste and with rejoicing souls
How would men gird themselves for the emprize!
Leaving their black boats by the dead lake's mire,
Leaving their slimy nets by the cold shoals,
Leaving their old oars, nor once turn their eyes.

186

VI.ON THE AUTHORITY OF ANTIQUITY.

Catholic Chapel, Christmas Day, 1850.

Why should the past loom out so fair and grand,
And the most ancient most demand our love?
Oh that we could with even balance stand
Between the past and future: like the dove
We could between the wastes of clouds and waves
Gather the olive leaves and turn again
Unto the home assigned to him who saves
The salt of this life. That supernal strain
Which sounded when the green-leaved world was young,
Sounds still when the great petals ruby red
Expand, and still will sound, though still unsung
By poet-sage in years to come: the dread
Soul-giving voice of God that spoke of old,
Speaks still, and he who hears is crowned with gold.

187

VII.PEBBLES IN THE STREAM.

HARMONY BETWEEN THE SOUL AND NATURE.

Here on this little bridge in this warm day
We rest us from our idle sauntering walk.
Over our shadows its continuous talk
The stream maintains, while now and then a stray
Dry leaf may fall where the still waters play
In endless eddies, through whose clear brown deep
The gorgeous pebbles quiver in their sleep.
The stream still hastes but cannot pass away.

Could I but find the words that would reveal
The unity in multiplicity,
And the profound strange harmony I feel
With those dead things, God's garments of to-day,
The listener's soul with mine they would anneal,
And make us one within eternity.

188

IX.GOD AND THE SOUL.

Life is self-centred, and the light within
Shines out upon the spheres of other lives,
Giving, receiving, into the deep hives
Of spirit, sense transformed to thought, made thin,
Essential, vital. So doth man outspin
The beautiful, the good, the just, the grand,
And all the kind affections round us stand
Like children whose sweet laughter cannot sin.
Life is self-centred, though revolving too
In its thrice-glorious abysmal sphere,
Spring blossoms, summer comes, fruits that ne'er grew
Elsewhere in our inspired hearts appear:
But who shall speak of that sole Sun, the True,
Whose light sheds down the fervours of our Year?

190

X.SPIRITUAL LIFE.

Ought we to long for more than we possess?
To seek for Babel's heights or Jacob's stair,
For lotus food, elixir happiness,
Or aught that may not flower in mortal air?
Are they not all within us, towering there,
Midway the valleys of the spiritual east,
And every morning when we wake, behold,
They shine out freshened by the dews: what priest
Is like the Voice within us! what so old
August and holy as the daily joy
Whereby the heart beats. I can feel the fold
Of wings that fan my face from all annoy,
With each kind word flies up a milk white dove,
Haloes of light expand around the brows we love!

191

END.