University of Virginia Library

I

I see a face, such as a poet loves
To muse on, for its changeful spirit casts
Sweet lights and shadows o'er it, as the sun
Of April, and its showery vapours breathe
On stainless waters, whereof painters seek
To snatch the fairest moments for their own,—
Tho' vulgar eyes might look on it in vain,
And in some rude winedresser's sunburnt child
See something nobler,—and a slender form
Not tall, nor short, but with a matchless grace,
Such as the marble art would strive to fix
For ever, and the deep dark starlit eyes
Seem searching back into the mortal past
With such an eager vision, as of old
They would have gazed thro' time into the deeps
Of the eternal; hark! she bids me speak
That which she utters to me; I obey.
“I come to ye, though an immortal now,
As mortal unto mortals; for at times
It is permitted us to look again
Into our natural life, and lift the veil
That overhangs the past; and for the while,
Forgetful of our higher state, we seem
To live anew departed hours: oh! then
We feel as when hope sprang within us first,
And we can revel once again in dreams
Of simple childhood, and behold the days
Of innocence, ere wisdom was—as one
Within a theatre may laugh and weep
At homely things—thought worthy to be seen
When shown to us apart from our own life
Of godlike use, and high activity;
Or as familiar plain realities
Seem lovely in a picture: else 'twere vain
To match the noblest memories of earthlife
With the least moments of this better world.
So I can clothe myself in infancy
Once more, and make ye feel, as once I felt,
For a brief interval; far other work
Belongs to spirits than to kindle sparks
Of the waste embers into flame again,
Save in so far as this may serve to mould
The natural heart for higher life, and wing
The mortal man for immortality.

II

Upon a breezy slope toward the sea,
An half hour's stroll beyond the city gates,
Dwelt peaceful Simon, father of our house;
And, from the pillars of his portico,
Through a long walk of vines, that led beneath
A broad roof of the same, he look'd and saw
The purple strait dimpling with the light airs,
And cloven with smooth paths of silvery calm;
Or, in the latter Autumn, when the leaves
Fled up the turfwalks from the rising wind,
And raced beneath the quiet peristyle,
All but a remnant, that in dying changed
To gold and Tyrian purple. He could hear
The gathering surges soar upon the wind,
And mark them frown back darklier the dark cloud,
Fleckt here and there with angry spume, that took
Glances of mirthful mockery from the sun,
Not yet subdued, but to return again
In many parting triumphs ere farewell:
The sea was softest azure, vanishing
In mists of silver, that met farther off
The fair coast of Ionia, with its hills,
And sunny towns, and temple-crested capes;
And every gliding sail, and soundless oar
From fishing hamlet, every argosy
From proud Miletus, or from Samos, he
Might see at will, and hear the mariners' cry,
And the keel gride the sheeny grit below,
And songs as they ascended, watch the smoke
Curl from the altar-fires upon the strand
After a shipwreck, and their hands join round
In solemn dance. I see a little child
With just six summers in her eyes; those eyes,
As radiant nights of summer, ere the mists
Of the tempestuous season veil the stars,
No dews of mortal sorrow yet have dimm'd,
And on their clear dark depths the joyous sparks
Dance like the morning light upon the sea,
That she is gazing on; a wild-eyed child,
Strong-hearted; and she sings unto herself,
Pausing at times, to listen to the lark
Right overhead, breasting the silver streams
Of morn, half in the April splendours drown'd:
And she, half hidden in tall grass and flowers,
Plucks them in glee, and piles them on her head;
And plays at hide and seek with the peeping sun,
Returning laugh for laugh as he looks thro'
Her odorous bower. O happy, happy child,
With thy clear song, and thy sunlighted eyes!
Who would not love to see thee ever thus;
And that some laughing Eros might come down,
That swims the blue air, that thou might'st with him,
Down matin rills of sunshine, sail away
For ever; and, untouch'd of mortal care,
With mirth, and endless music charm the Fates
To unwind their sombre shuttles, and take out
All threads of Ill? Oh! 'tis myself I see;
Not in pale memories, such as to old age
On earth bring back stray shadows of its prime;
As in the starless dark the lightnings show
Far summits for a moment, and no more;
But in clear vision, potent to upraise
The very past itself; for in the soul
Are pictures of all passions, thoughts, and acts;
And every winged moment lives for ever!
But saddest sorrows follow gladdest hours,
As brightest bright the darkest shadow streams.
Whose step is that beneath the palegreen vines?
'Tis armed Death, avenger of the Gods!
Thou may'st not see him—tho' thine eye can seek
The lark amid the sunshine—stir not thou.
The little circle kindled by thy joy,
Thine innocence and hope, shuts out that sight;
O stir not thou, sweet child; let him go by!
Too soon the azure-tinted hills of hope,
Muffled in mists, will turn to shapeless, grim
Worldwalls, the mighty prisonhouse of Time;
Too soon thou wilt behold the two great gates
Of Life and Death—one like a morning vale
Flooded by sunrise; the other as a cave,
Wherein a river, rich with many hues,
Is lost in darkness—ah! thou still must see
Thy three young brothers, older each a year
Than each, and three fair summers than thyself,
With tear-bedabbled cheeks, and downward brows,
Pass on, and hear that ancient voice first heard
By thee—the voice of weeping—and behold
Thou weepest, and, O child, thou know'st not why.
With them thou laughest, and with them must weep;
For gentle Simon, father of our house
Is borne to silence; and thy yearning eyes
Will seek in vain for that familiar form,
Fond voice, and sunny smile, and tender hand,
At morn and even; but thy mother's tears
Then first beheld are stranger to thee still.

III

Ah me! I see again my little friends,
As first I saw them, ere discordant hopes,
Or jealous loves had sunder'd their pure souls;
Or hot ambition had dried up their tears;
Or frosts of pride had turn'd soft hearts to stone.
Ere merry Cydno grew a scornful thing;
And unrequited passion—as a rose,
Rent by a tempest, for sweet-breathed leaves
Shows only thorns—left mockery on her lips,
Scorn in her eyes, and made her laugh to hear
Of sorrows like her own, which heretofore
Had drawn her pity: ere Euphranta, skill'd
To win boy's praises, moulding her red lips,
And melting her large eyes to softer fire,
By natural instinct simple-sweet, became
The beautiful tormentor of men's lives;
And joy to see delight in others' eyes
Changed to selflove, and such delight, as feeds
On broken hearts, akin to that which tastes
A fearful exultation at the sight
Of warm blood shed: ere Anaktoria nursed
Her pride on gentle deeds and lavish boons,
And drew our hearts with unresisted cords:
Ere Atthis, soft-eyed Atthis had begun
To worship her own beauty, and to prize
No other music than the voice of praise,
Utter'd in tongues of flattery, or of song,
Or painter's art, or marble. O dear friend,
Thou wert not thus at first—like as the flower
Of richest breath may hold within its cup
The poison'd honey—Atthis, Atthis dear,
My first and chosen friend, ere thy frail heart
Heard welcome echoes in the silver tones
Of simulation, held the gilded gauds
Of falsehood truer than true love of mine,
That show'd thee to thyself, and hid no flaw
In hope to see it vanish; hence all praise
Breathed from my lips was golden truth itself
Without alloy: I see thee once again,
As in those days when we were babes together.

IV

When she was two years old, and I was four,
With lifted finger and with warning lip,
I stood beside her cradle, and cried ‘Hush!
The little one will wake;’ whereat they laugh'd:
And at that sound she woke; I wept; her mother
With sudden transport caught me to her heart,
And 'mid her kisses cried: ‘I would, dear child,
That little one hereafter may be thus
Faithful and true:’ when I grew a tall girl
My mother told me this; and Atthis learnt
How early I had loved her. So we grew
Together; and our virgin voices mix'd
Beside my mother's harp. 'Twas rare, they said,
To one advancing 'twixt the laurel boughs,
To hear us in the golden sleep of noon
Thus witch the hour with notes that ran together
Like drops of dew that touch and knit in one;
And in short nights of summer, as we lay
Together in one bed, we sang and gazed
Up to the stars that seem'd to tremble to us,
Thrilling back the keen pulses of our song
With gushes of sweet light, and throbs of fire;
And then, our arms twined round each other's neck,
And turning our last looks upon each other,
We fell asleep; and sometimes started from
The selfsame dream, or murmur'd the same words.
And oft, how oft, the deathlike interval
'Twixt night and morn seem'd but a moment; such
Was our deep rest after our holiday,
Mirth like a storm, and wearisome as pain.
That seeming moment, like enchantment, changed
The moon into the sun; but when we saw
'Twas morning, we ran down unto the sands,
Just as we rose from sleep, with dizzy eyes,
And loose hair, and the silver ripplets kiss'd
Our naked feet, ere well we were awake.
What cities built we on the sheeny shore;
What fenced gates, and citadels, and towers,
Calling them by the great heroic names!
What rivers led we roundabout the walls
Sluiced from the sea, that to our fancies seem'd
An idle thing, for that we had not made!
Here was a Sigeium, here Scamander; here
The crested height of windy Pergamos.
And if light airs whirl'd up the glittering sand,
And drove the shells along the shore, and made
A little tempest of fantastic shapes,
We saw helm'd cohorts, flying thro' the dust
Shot thro' with lightnings from the sunlike orbs
Of brazen shields; or flashing of the spears
Of the relentless, swift, pursuing foe.
Ev'n in our ears the dashing of a surge
Clang'd as 'twere beaten arms and crazing wheels,
And shouts of victory! oh! how many hours
Fled with the dews in the oblivious warmth
Of pure Imagination; till the voice
Of our dear mothers from the slope above
Came chiding fondly; or a sudden wave
Cast down our little Ilions to the ground.
Sometimes we fled the sounding strand; and hid
In silent nooks, screen'd by some shadowing rocks
From torturing wind and wave; rocks that inwall'd
Smooth level floors between of finest grain.
Things lay about of marvellous device,
Crystals and corals, stones inlaid with drops
Of scarlet, and all colours fair and strange;
Shells tinctured with the morning; spires and cones
Of pearl, bedight all gloriously within,
As they had just been fashion'd from the scales
Of gaudy serpents, when they cast their old,
And gird them on new armour in the spring.
Sometimes we thought we look'd on pyramids
Belted with rainbows; or we builded up
Rare pleasure-houses, all of verd and gold,
Faery domes and galleries, that might seem
Prisons for fallen stars when they come down
From heaven like outcast Gods; or tiny dwellings
Of beings, by the delicatest spells
Of whose ethereal touches might be raised
A sparkling city on a foot of earth
As fair as Athens. As the sun arose
On each new day, the sun of our glad souls
Dawn'd on some wondrous world undreamt before.
How, thro' the long long Summer afternoons,
When tasks were o'er, and we were free, we shook
The sounding portico, and inner hall
With endless laughters, as we ran along
Thro' the green light of the embowered walks
Of the hush'd gardens, dashing on each other
The fount that from a marble Sea-nymph sprang;
Or stealing forth, the while my mother slept,
Among the myrtle vales, till set of sun,
We ran back in the twilight; half in fear
To go astray, and half that we had stray'd.
Or Larichus came in, and with his voice,
And rougher play, storm'd us to calm; or held us
With wonderment at his forlorn mishaps,
Wild hopes, and giddy ventures; until eve
'Twixt peak and peak lay like a dying fire.

V

O happy days, when the delighted heart,
Like a wing'd bird, flies on from bough to bough,
From sun to shade, and finds in simple change
Unforeseen, infinite variety!
And kindles at a momentary mood—
As the eye lighting on a sunlit flint
May take it for a diamond—and so makes
A world of wonder of a single hour,
And waking clothes forlorn reality
With roselights of a dream; and, when 'tis past,
Forgets it in a moment; for behold
Another vision takes its place, and so
A day of very nothings is as fair
As a midsummer night with all its stars.
O hours of infancy, that seem so long
To eager hearts in solitude. To mine
For ever changing 'twixt the busy town
And breezy shores, betwixt the happy sound
Of many voices, and the flowers and birds
Of our home garden, ever were ye fill'd
With pleasures to the brim, and fled as fast
As the swift song of the free lark; that seems
To careless ears so simple, yet is full
Of manifold sweet utterings of delight,
As the pearl'd ripples of the mountain brook,
That runs beneath it down into the sea,
With a low monotone to careless ears,
Yet with unnumber'd faery notes to them
Who hearken! When youth came, and womanhood,
And I turn'd back to look on ye, ye seem'd
As the clear arched iris, never seen
But by the eyes far from it: but I found
My heart was not a vessel, like the rest,
No sooner fill'd than drain'd; and only drank
From nature and companionship the drops
That were not tasteless, but as precious wine.
So what it drank it never cast away.
And when the othehrs were as empty urns,
From mine their vacant vessels could be fill'd;
And they came to me; so by slow degrees
I grew a queen to them; and they would lend
A willing ear to one who breathed to them
Thoughts, sometimes new and rare, but chiefly drawn
Out of the treasure-house of memories dear;
All that they might have known, but flung away
With thriftless haste, and wonder'd when they found
Much they had pluck'd and scatter'd long ago.
So, when I saw that my old friends, the young,
Became my followers, I apportion'd each
Her proper function, leading Nature on
To feats of Art; and timely counsel served
To mould their shiftless instincts into shape;
Till growing skill begat a fervent love
For that which I had foster'd; and a strong
Ambition to be known for something rare
And beautiful; and their own beauty ceased
To be the idol of their thoughts; and grace,
And comeliness of costume rather sought,
Than costliness of tissue, and the gleam
Of gold and gems. So by and by we wrought
A rustic temple to the Muses all,
Not of wrought marbles, but of summer boughs
O'erarching; from beneath whose fragrant gloom
We pass'd into an inner space, with roof
Of pleached vines broad-leaved; and woven so thick
Together, that the bold midsummer sun
Scarce could leap down thro' the green pampinus,
To drink at the cool fountain underneath,
That, when our converse lull'd awhile, was heard
To bubble silverly; whose chequer'd floor
Was the cool herb, bedizen'd with its wealth
Of young anemones, and dabbled o'er
With splashes of the sunlight—when it pour'd
Thro' the rent leafage of the giant vines,
Stablish'd on aged stems, the hoary growth
Of many generations—following swift
After the sudden torrents of seawind
That freshen'd the midnoon. O happy days!
That seem'd a resurrection of that life
The dawn of all, when the free heart, unchain'd
By care, and custom, and the fear of tongues,
Gather'd the springflowers, and the buds of Time;
And wreathed fresh garlands of them, and beheld
Their own work with glad wonder; happy days
To look back to from the dim vale of age;
Ev'n tho' the best may seem as vanity;
Fair colours of the morning, for ye leave
Deep in the heart, that hath outlived all hope,
An inner vision, that looks on afar
Into another being, that shall crown
With immortality the mortal past;
A life that, jewell'd with all joys that were,
Shall radiate its own bliss more blessed still!

VI

So, in my garden, with the birds and bees,
Thro' Spring, thro' Summer, and thro' Autumn days
Of sunshine, sat we at our pleasant tasks.
That temple of the Muses, lit by Love
Alone, could boast no marble peristyle,
No galleries, no vaulted halls, their roofs
Alive with pictured marvels, and delights.
Its stateliest aisle was but the central walk,
With the first violet and blue hyacinth
Strown by the Nymphs of Spring, as swiftly, softly,
As tho' they came to peep at us, and, fearing
To trouble our young dreams, crept stealthily
Away, and only stay'd a twinkling there,
To empty out the full horns on their heads.
Its rustic columns were the writhen stems
Of the old vines, round which young roses twined;
Ev'n as our fond frail girlhood round the necks
Of loving elders; and they led away
The eye far down unto the simple porch,
Half hid with jasmin curtains, and the cool
And silent entrance hall deserted then.
Only the busy maid stirr'd to and fro
To set the tables for the morning meal;
A bunch or two from those near vines, when they
Were bearing, by whose dark and amber globes
The green fig like a jar of sweets o'erturn'd
Leant lazily; sharp apples with red cheeks
Blush'd angrily, beside the lordly pear,
Which we dragg'd up from slumbering in its sweetness,
Under the rich, flame-colour'd apricot,
And peaches that had suck'd the luscious gold
Of breathless sunsets: one light cup of wine,
Which flash'd like molten topaz from the lips
Of the graved silver crock, Alcæus gave me;
And then to work again; and down the walks,
Arm link'd in arm, or hidden half beneath
The dark locks floating the white neck they twined,
Young girls—their voices making pleasant din
Like jingled bells of silver—ran along
To their cool seats, under the roof of leaves,
That ruffled in the seabreeze, as it oft
Gush'd up with gusty violence, brushing down
The white rose from the tall stem, that upbore
The trellis'd roof of leaves, and whirling off
The pencils, and the tablets, and the scrolls;
And ravelling the long hair of the girls
With their own harpstrings—'twas a merry moment
To see them scuffle, and to hear them laugh,
As each one rush'd to save her morning treasure.

VII

Ofttimes the blissful Anaktoria came,
From fair Ionia where she was born,
Across the seas, attended by her sire,
To taste the Autumn in their island home,
A palace amid pleasant paradises.
Between the loftier mountains and the town
Princely it stood, upon a seaward slope
Of terraces, and spacious lawns, between
Emboss'd with bowers, sustaining from their arms
The linked vines, downdrooping to the sward
Their gold and purple clusters; and at noon
Made emerald twilights, while the breeze upbore
The city murmurs, and the silver sighs
Of the smooth waters dozing in the sun.
Ofttimes we trod together the turfwalks,
While the swart countryfolk, with naked feet
And sunbrown arms, were kindling the hillside
With shout and song, and spoiling the fair land,
And swinging the piled panniers to each other,
Bleeding the red wine thro' their amber ribs.
And sire, and son, and dark-eyed daughters ran
Along the smooth green, up and down; and stain'd
The naked feet with blood of Evan slain;
And sang together, shaking the still air
With jubilee, and mocked at one another.
With blessing they received her, old and young,
A Goddess stepping from a winged car.
And blest was she with beauty, power, and gold.
And o'er the curl'd heads of their little ones
She bended; and stretcht out her boonful hand.
The aged poor pray'd for her as she pass'd;
And hoary grandsires bow'd upon their staves.
Oh! blest was she! as her delighted eyes,
From some high balcon diving far below,
Follow'd their nimble motions; as the sun,
Slanting atween the broad leaves blown apart,
Lit up some merry girl's upturned face;
Or gilded, as she fled, her flowing skirts,
And long dark hair: and, ‘O my friend,’ she said,
‘Methinks I'd liefer be a village maid,
Free to unbind my tresses to the wind,
Sing as the lark, and like the rivulet dance,
Mine ever busy, yet delightful day
Rolling on swiftest wheels; my sleep at night
One dark unconscious moment; than be Queen
Of all this world; oh! I am sick of pomp,
And gilded lamps, and swelling songs, and breath
Of praise, like sickly odours, flattery
The incense that doth veil the world from us,
And from the glass of conscience hides ourselves;
Leaving their spirits unapproachable,
Making their faces indistinguishable.
For Good and Ill lurk underneath the masks
Of Beauty and of Terror; thou wilt find
Their opposites; and manners might change places.
From Alciphron, who meets you at his gate,
Strip off that golden smile, the serpent's scale,
And hush that silver tongue; and in its stead
Give him the woodman's reedy voice and frown.
For Alciphron's ‘God bless ye’ means ‘I hate ye;’
And would not of free will that ye should gather
The crumbs beneath his table, oh! not he.
But, under the poor woodman's bitter brows,
That cares have frozen to a constant frown,
May run the warm blood from a loving heart.
And if he hands unto a poorer brother
A cup of water only, his sad looks
And plaining voice mean ‘Oh! that this were wine.’
Behold Abrocomes—for he hath wealth
And lordly station—therefore in him meet
Folly and Pride—he smiles upon poor Wit
Caseharden'd to his stings; and for revenge
He folds his robe about him, like none other;
And tells all men he is unmatchable;
And slavish echoes make him think it true.
And in his generation he is wise;
For he hath lesser fools to follow him;
Or greater, if you will. Such are the men
Who deem they sway the world, and look on us
Slight creatures as their playthings; and their scorn
Is as a brandish'd sword, that falls at once
In cruel blows, or as a razor's edge
Of subtlest glozing, and thrice-whetted words,
That strike—because unfelt—a sharper wrong.
But I have patience rather with the knave
I can unriddle and despise, than her,
The everlasting fool that is to-day,
The fool that was of old, and is to come,
Who shuts her ears, and eyes, and heart, and will,
To all the past and present: and I weep,
Ev'n while I glory I am not as they

VIII

Even Anaktoria, that majestic maid,
Whose swanlike neck above her jewell'd robe
Arose, as she her queenlike motions timed
Unto some inward melody, sometimes came
To greet me, as I sat at morn, a queen
Among the damsels, working each her task
Of love, beneath the wings of her own Muse.
Whether it was, into a costly woof
Of finest grain, to sew, with delicate hand
And ivory points, iridian hues, or forms
Of vernal leaves, or of our island flowers,
Their glory sheening thro' the dew like gems;
Or make the creamy marble, that drinks in
The golden light, reflect the invisible
Of her own spirit, till at last there dawn'd—
Like the harmonious beauty of divine
Nature from darkness breaking—some sweet shape,
Like a young God descended to the earth;
Delight of eyes, insuperably fair;
Or on the burnish'd tablet to impress
Rare interchange of artful light and shade,
And trace with choicest colours the true forms
Of living fortunes, glad or terrible;
And fix a momentary pulse of Time,
As though it were the finger of a Fate,
That froze it in its terror or its joy
In love with her own work, and throned it there
Amid immortal silence; glorious ventures;
Bridals, and pomps with pæans, tumults, triumphs.
Or follow Phantasy herself as she,
With winged feet, stept on o'er slope, and arch
Of rosy cloud, up to the gate of Heaven;
And, bursting open the empyreal doors,
Show'd us the crowned Gods that know not pain.
And others in the light of their own souls
Piled up of linked utterances rare
Moulded to fullest measures, dwelling-places
For Gods and Men; as in the sunlight rises
Out of pure ethers crested architecture,
Radiant with diamond triglyph, and with gold,
And ruby plinth, and set with gates of pearl.
Others, like spirits snatcht up from the earth,
Heard Music flow around them—as the winds,
And light of Morn, that sweep the forest floors,
Making the flowers translucent, and the stems
Dark—like a tremulous, all-sustaining sea,
That round the high capes, and the purple isles
Sends up a long, sweet, universal voice,
Heard from the mountaintops—sweet Music flow;
Infinite voice of hope, and love, and awe;
Uttering, with inarticulate instincts, all
The heights and depths that have no other tongue;
And soaring Heavenward when all vision fails.
Ofttimes my brothers linger'd near, spellbound
By some young face first seen, but not forgot
More than sweet melodies heard carelessly,
But singing in the heart for years to come.
Sometimes Alcæus with his brothers came;
And, peeping thro' the leaves, beheld us hush'd
And stooping o'er our pleasure tasks; and spoil'd
Half-hours of industry; and challenged us
To all our prowess in a war of mirth,
And passages of arms, which only were
Words wing'd, and fleet as arrows from the string;
Wit striking wit, like diamond diamond,
With edge unbruised; laughters on either hand,
Trumpets of triumph, when each side had won
Without a wound. We mark'd, the rest away,
How Antimenidas, we wonder'd why,
Follow'd them not, till Anaktoria solved
The riddle by her parting; but disdain'd
To note it, and made light of us. We saw
That while she was he was, when she was not
He was not: but that heart, so strong and free,
At length was taken captive by the boy
She slighted; when he came, a valiant man,
Worthy to rule a spirit such as hers.
But her disdain first wellnigh broke his heart;
Then spurr'd him to ambition; and his name
Rose first among the foremost of the isle
For skill and valour. So, in years to come,
When she heard of his ventures in far lands;
The perils he affronted and o'ercame;
The great who honour'd him, the fame he won;
Her heart relented, and she thought again
How silence, or cold words, or haughty looks
Must well have frozen all his love for her.
So, when once more she met him suddenly—
'Twas at the feast when Myrsilus was slain—
She blush'd, but not with pride as heretofore;
And he wax'd bold, as she grew gentle; till
The love of rule, that made her sometimes say
In thought, or in her chamber to herself—
For this confession came from her own lips
One morning as I stood beside her chair—
‘Why was I born not to be king of men,
But only a weak woman?’ show'd her him,
One who had shaped in act the life she dreamt;
And she was fain to yield herself to him,
As 'twere a captive to her better self.”