University of Virginia Library

Prologue.

TO THE BELOVED.

THE FAREWELL OF GANORE.

“Surely these words are sharp enough to slay
One who did once love well,
Or scourge me out of the bleak, desolate day
Into meek clositer cell;
But I, I loiter still outside the door,
Alone for evermore.
Through me the fiery river of life hath flowed
Hot and clear with love and sin;
Through me and over me, and I have glowed
Body and soul therein.
And then I was not molten in that heat
Nor broken; I was wise and it was sweet.
And now the river hath gone by,
And left me cold and dark and dry,
Cast on a slimy bank accursed.
Also I know that this is not the worst;
But each day will be drearier till I die.
Arthur could weep for me, why cannot I?
O Arthur, O my perfect knight,
And thou didst pity me,
Not knowing that I loved thee even then,
Who love thee now much more, not pitying thee,
Since now thou judgest in God's tender light
Rightly of me and men.
Yes, God will make you understand
Those bitter things I would not say,
Thinking it easier, kinder to deceive.
But now you will not grieve
Where you are sitting by the glassy sea,
On a great ivory throne at God's right-hand,—
God's hand who cut you off from me,
Who made me of such different clay.
I love thee much too well to weep for thee,
Who art gone home,—gone home to thy reward,
Arthur, my Arthur once, my gentle lord.
“I have desired and I have not attained;
And I have given and I have not received;
And I have lived and nought is gained
Of all those goodly things my youth believed.
I have lived, do I say?
And yet I have to live
Long, very long, before I pass away,
Before my beauty and my strength decay,—
My strength, which hath been helpful heretofore;
My beauty, which no knights shall worship more.
I asked of Arthur what he could not give;
I gave what Lancelot could not repay.
My God, what shall I say?
And Arthur asked of me
To live in dreams, hoping what shall not be;
And Arthur asked in vain.
Because we asked how many have been slain!
Wilt thou require their blood of me?
And Lancelot is parted now in pain,
Because I am less sorrowful than he,
And still could have been happy out of thee;
But thou, it seems, dost otherwise ordain.
And unto earth is sunshine after rain,
But unto us no gladness after pain,
Or none that may endure,
None that is pure.
But when the storm is past,
The sky laughs without stain;
While sorrow doth our spirits overcast
With clouds that do not wash them white again.
Yet how shall I complain
That Arthur loved too little, I too much;
That Lancelot's hot love shrivelled at the touch
Of thy disdain?
Yea, how shall I complain
Of thee, my God, with whom I hope to reign?
For this is all of thee.
I made thee not, thou madest me.
Doubtless I might have striven against the stream,
Labouring to live in Arthur's knightly dream.
He might have folded me in arms of love
More closely, though his eyes were set above.
But not by us the river of our woe
Was fed with vain desires, or learned to flow
Through flowery mountains to a barren plain;
And since we drifted many have been slain,
And very many homes are desolate;
And yet, behold, I curse thee not, O God!
Though men curse me;
Because I do not think it is in hate
That we are beaten down before thy rod,
Which flowers, though late.
And I am tired, and it is rest to wait;
And one grief comes to drive another out,
And turbulent desire is purged by doubt;
And this too is of thee,
To bring us very low and set us free.
For Arthur verily is dead,
So I am not in bondage to his bed;
And Lancelot is gone to keep his vow;
I am not debtor unto any now.
I do not think that I shall tarry here,
To teach these pitiful nuns to hold me dear;
But I will out into the wilds, and know
If Lancelot and the priests have told me true,
If I in very deed am fallen so low
That I should be as they,
Whose very hearts are grey;
And yet Christ is their spouse, they say,
Whose mercy I need too.”
And then she paused in her lament, and sighed,
And spake again, “Men only have I tried,
And they have shallow hearts, and so have I.
I will away from them before I die,
And be a little child and taste the summer-tide.
I will away; the sunny world is wide,—
And desolate,” her aching heart replied.
Yet not the less she bade the nuns farewell
In courteous words, and covered up her pride,
Saying, “O my sisters, it is yours to hide
For ever in your Husband's wounded side.
Yet He, you know, ere he was crucified,
Went forth into the wilderness to dwell,
And taste, before the Cross, the might of Hell;
And I must meet Him there, and there be tried.”
Nor knew she whether she spake truth, or lied,
Of some fierce trial which she thought to bide.
So the nuns kissed her, and they shut the door,
Who neither on that day nor any more
Beheld again the beauty of Ganore.
But, as one stealing silently from thrall,
The Queen went softly by the cloister-wall,
Where the green moss deadened her light footfall.
Turning away from the waste harvest-lands,
Which at that time were desolate with war,
Upon whose edge the quaint peaked convent stands
Upon a little knoll of jutting moor,
Jutting into a sea of yellow corn,
Bounded by a grey scoop of granite shore,
Too thinly veiled by withered bents forlorn,
Where Lancelot had ridden, but Ganore
Would have died rather than have followed him.
And round the knoll the fringe of copse was dim
With tangled glades she had not trod before,
And she passed into them, and was content;
For through the copse a leaping river went,
Tawny between the purple-lichened rocks:
Ripe iris-heads were green among the bent,
And here and there a spike of foxglove grew,
Where through the twisted oaks the sun broke through;
And overhead was a soft noise of flocks,
Feeding on purple, overarched with blue.
So she went stumbling softly through the shade,
By a green path made rough with roots and stones,
Where still, I think, the fly of summer drones,
But no queen stumbles upward through the glade.
But then a dreamy queen went fingering
At reddening berries and at fading flowers,
Kissing them often as she wandered on,
In happy memory of those early hours,
Unclouded by the grim dreams of the King,
When she and Lancelot had often gone
Together, in glad lowland woods, in May;
And all that happiness was past away
For ever, and she knew it, but a sleep
Was on her soul; she saw quaint shadows play
Under the leaves, and she forgot to weep;
And something in her heart began to pray,
And magnify God's mother, queen of spring
And harvest, in a little childish lay,
For very gladness of that glorious day.
And from the birckenshaw a milk-white doe
Kissed the Queen's feet, who went on pilgrimage;
Then fluttering out of her fair woodland cage,
Her eyes took wing, seeing a great lake glow
In azure set between two golden hills,
Golden with furze and fading birch below;
Above was purple heath, which fed the rills
That leapt in silver round the rocky head,
With double cirque of green encompassed;
Where grey turf hung between grey crags of stone,
But in the light the grass was golden green.
Then at her left Ganore espied a crone,
Branded as bondmaid to the Holy Grail,
Who wore her white hair woven for a veil,
Crowned with gold rays, for she too was a queen,
And sat upon the black coils of a snake,
And her blue feet hung down in the blue lake,
Nailed to an iron cross, but did not bleed;
And backwards she was spelling out a creed.
But higher up she saw a white flock feed,
And upon each there were three locks of red,
And in the figure of the cross they fed;
Their shepherd was a boy in gay attire
Of many colours, with a crook of gold;
He lay as haply fifteen summers old,
But where his face should be there was a fire,
Whence came a carolling how the stars should pale
Before the radiance of the Holy Grail.
Ganore beheld, and did not think it strange,
For all these sights were fixed in the bright day,
And seemed as if they could not pass away,
But had been uncontaminate by change
Since the world was, abiding in one stay.
Wherefore Ganore, beholding, only sighed,
“How many of the Table would have died,
And held the forfeit of life's earthly bliss
Too cheap a purchase for a sight like this!”
But to the shepherd-boy the old Queen cried,
“When wilt thou take her captive to the Grail?”
But from the fire there came a sighing wail,
“How can I, for her love is crucified?”
Whereat Ganore fled up the steep hillside
Towards the right, but one of that fair flock
Leapt from the shadow of a brambly rock,
And thenceforth went before her for a guide;
But when Ganore laid hand upon its head,
Her hand, and all the wool it touched, were red.
So they pushed on together through the brake,
And ever as they clomb Ganore looked down
Over the steep green slope to the blue lake,
And marvelled, “How if once my steps should slide!”
And thought she saw far off the old Queen frown.
But when they won the crest of that glad slope,
Ganore was disappointed of her hope
To look upon new lands and a new sky;
Only she saw an upward stretching moor,
Where in the treacherous peat the black pools lie,
And no heath grew thereon, but rushes hoar:
And these were autumn hued, and all the green
Was moss, wherethrough the still moor waters run.
And as she journeyed on, the lonely queen
Looked up into the sky, and missed the sun,
And missed the shapely peaks of splintered rock,
And missed the shepherd with his magic flock,
And shuddered in the wailing evening wind,
And saw the country gleam below, behind,
In the warm brilliance of the sun's broad ray;
And said, “Alas for those who walk on high,
Because for them the sun makes haste to set!”
And then she spake again, “O God, forget
My sin, and give me light before I die,”
For the chill purple air was full of death;
Nor knew she how one little ridge of clay
Shut out the glorious deathbed of the day.
And then she went a little further on,
Hanging her head because the light was gone,
And stumbled in the reeds, and caught her breath;
For suddenly she stood against the sky,
And close beneath her lay a breadth of sea,
Plashing against a space of weedy shore,
Still dripping from the ebbing waves, and bright
With bars of purple, flecked with ruddier gold,
For on the left the thunderclouds were rolled
Each upon each, to slumber through the night,
And through their curtains glared the fiery sun.
But in the east, upon the right, Ganore
Saw a dim purple clinging round the sea,
Like a dim veil that clings about a nun;
And a soft rose flushed the chill middle sky,
And in the rose, the young moon rode on high;
But Queen Ganore fell down, and bent the knee,
Trembling alone at God's great majesty.
Then she went down, slowly with knocking knees,
Catching at tufts of grass and stunted trees,
By a dry watercourse, and heard the breeze
Hiss over the steep slope of loose dry stone,
And crossed her bleeding hands, and bowed her head:
“If I die here,—what matter were I dead!
None will lament for me, I am alone.”
But she died not, but gained the lonely shore,
And saw the white sheep skipping on before,
And waxed more hopeful following where it led
Still to the west, and it was twilight now,
And in the twilight every rocky brow
Showed sharp and clear against the ghost of day,
Against clear hungry spiritual grey.
But, with the sun, the wind had died away;
So all was peace, and you could scarcely hear
The loving plash of the returning tide,
As though some tender angel hovering near
Made all things to forget their strength and pride.
And so in peace, Ganore turned round a rock
Sharply, and she was in a little bay,
Fronting the perfect circle of the west;
And on the sands a little shallop lay
Ready to float upon the ebb to sea,
Wherein was neither anchor, helm, nor oar,
But one fair sail of purple wrought with gold,
And in the sheets a little crimson fold,
Wherein a scroll in silver words to say,
“For the espousals of the Queen Ganore.”
Whereat the queen was troubled when she read,
And knew that she was taken in the bay,
For now on either side the full sea rolled;
So she, adventuring on the mystery,
Sat in the boat, and took upon her knee
The patient firstling of the magic flock,
And waited, bowing down her black veiled head
Over her white hands folded on her breast,
And after her long journey took sweet rest,
Where, on the solitary, rock-bound shore,
The balmy night came down upon Ganore.

LUCILLA.

JUDICIUM VENERIS.

Romæ.
Dicat Urbanus Papa.
What is this growing through my hand,
That hurts me like a knife?

Dicat Sanctus Raphael,
adsistens fratris minoris habitu.
Father, you shall understand
That the Cross, which was brought from Holy Land,
Was made of the Tree of Life,
Which groweth in Paradise far away;
But the Cross shall grow on the Judgment Day,
And overshadow the earth;
And a piece thereof in your staff is set,
And it grows to-day, for it is wet
With a dew of passing worth,
With one loving tear of a penitent,
To whom ye said, “Ere thou repent
My dry staff shall be green.”
And this is the answer which God hath sent,
For He will have it seen
That it is evil in His eyes
That ye should think of ease,
So He maketh your light words prophecies,
Because ye keep His keys.

Dicat Urbanus Papa.
Draw forth the sharp leaves from my hand,
And give me of thy rede,
Where I may send, by sea or land,
To help that knight at need.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
He is surely gone to the sorceress,
For ye made Christ's sheep to be comfortless,
Whom He gave to you to feed.

Dicat Urbanus Papa.
If he is gone to her again,
I fear me it will be but vain,
Yet I will send with speed.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Father, take heed lest you despair,
For though the she-devil be very fair,
Another is fairer still;
And ye must strengthen my heart with prayer
As I journey to Venus' hill.
But give to me the holy veil,
Imprinted with the visage pale
Of Him who died on rood;
And give me the lean portraiture
Of Margaret, a lady pure,
Who died in widowhood.
For he shall look on the sorceress,
And he shall look on these,
And choose Christendom or heathenesse
As he himself shall please.

Dicat Urbanus Papa.
If he shall not return with thee,
Then God shall require his blood of me.

In Monte Veneris.
Dicat Miles.
O lady, of thy bounty comfort me,
And teach me to forget.

Dicat Venus.
See, all my beauty is made bare to thee,
As hath been never yet.

Dicat Miles.
My cheeks are shrunk and miserably defiled
With fasting, dust and sleet, and travel sweat,
But those soft, ruddy lips have always smiled,
Though while I was away the eyes were wet.

Dicat Venus.
Lay thyself down within my arms, my love,
My beauty is made soft beneath thy head,
And never earthly king or saint above
Slept woe away on such a lovesome bed.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael,
ad montis ostium.
Open unto the message of the Lord,
In Whom His soldiers have their sure reward.

Et sponte patefiat montis ostium, tum
Venus dicat.
Alas, alas, is this the Judgment Day?

Et Miles dicat.
Alas, is God too angry to delay?

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Be not afraid, O valiant knight of God,
Behold the blossoming of Aaron's rod,
Sent quickly, for He hasteneth to forgive,
Because He will not have thee die, but live.

Dicat Venus.
I, O my love! am here for thee alone,
God lets too many kneel around His throne:
My love, my lord, thou wilt not leave me twice,
Me, the sweet altar of thy sacrifice.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
O knight, thy lady sits in Paradise,
And never yet, by any dear device,
Could God or any angel comfort her;
For God shines down upon her tenderly,
And all who overcome are gathered there,
Where His sweet glory shines for all to see;
But it is hidden by her tears for thee,
For she sits mourning, praying without cease,
And all her prayer is alway for thy peace.
And her tears fall into a certain well,
As clear as crystal and as deep as hell,
And there they change into a bitter fire,
Which sputters round a place of stinging mire,
Where this foul sorceress is ordained to dwell;
But thou, I trust in God, shall never come,
For knighthood's honour and for Christendom.
But though she hath the pearl of passing price,
She must sit mourning alway till thy death,
Or till thou stand alive before God's throne,
For she shall know thee then as thou art known;
And if thou cleave unto the sorceress,
Then that must be the end of her distress,
For she must see thee then as God shall see,
And put thy love away from her, and be
At peace, with only God; but now she saith
Unless she have thee God will not suffice;
Wherefore, dear brother, bear to be forgiven,
And be her gladness evermore in heaven.

Dicat Miles.
Good brother, I remember, long ago,
How, when I journeyed back from Palestine,
I came to that red castle by the Rhine
Which was my lady's dwelling heretofore;
And all the air was balmy with the spring,
But when I knocked in trembling at the door,
Thinking, “Although I famish for my saint,
How can I bear to see her and not faint?”
But when one answered whom I did not know,
That she was gone, I felt the clutch of woe,
And knew I was to be a lonely thing;
But all that day I fought, and all that night,
To think that I should find my old delight
Somewhere, and so be rested after pain,
Or that they lied and she would come again;
And so I roamed about the holy ground
Seeking, three days and nights, but when I found
No answer to my weary questioning,
Then suddenly I heard a clear voice sing,
“Though she whom thou hast lost was very fair,
Yet thou shalt find Queen Venus fairer still,
Nursing her beauty for thee, if thou dare
Break the charmed precinct of her jewelled hill.”
Then a glad hunger flushed me through and through,
My blind flesh tingled in me for delight,
As the stars tingled in the vaulted night,
And under the deep overhanging blue,
Singing, “She waits,” I leapt, and, ere I knew,
Lo, I was standing at a rocky door,
With ferns and crimson moss enamelled o'er,
And as I sang “She waits,” it opened wide.
“She waits,” the echoes answered, in I leapt,
And found the pearl of beauty where she slept
On jewels, with Love's arrows at her side,
And in her waking smile was satisfied.
And there I basked, they tell me, a long while,
A hundred of your years in that one smile;
And if I fretted for dull earth again,
Yet I am wiser now and love my chain;
For I was further much from true content,
Upon that dreary journey which I went
Unto his seat who bears the keys of God;
For often I remembered on my way,
When all beside were merry on their quest,
What I should lose until the Judgment Day:
And how I must not venture to be gay,
Because my mourning steps had gone astray.
So lamely, slowly, loiteringly I trod,
Doing no service unto God or her,
Because regret and fear outsting despair,
But now she shuts me in upon her breast,
Who is my sin, my punishment, my rest.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Sir Knight, according as I have been told,
Thy lady too was very fair of old;
So fair, that one was sent of God to say
How the sweet shining of her house of clay
Was stealing secretly thy heart away
From God, and from thy portion in His grace;
And hearing this she covered up her face,
And fled to a strait cloister over sea,
Where she might pray in widowhood for thee;
But would not take the veil or holy vows
Which sever ladies from an earthly spouse,
Singing, “I loved my knight ere I loved God,
And though God take my love to be His rod,
Yet if I bear love's cross, love crowneth me.
So for his love I cannot be a nun,
For whose sweet sake I left my worldly glee.”
There sojourning she saw in mystery
The miserable evil thou hast done.
And then her prayers were turned to bitterness,
But still she cried upon her God to bless
Thee, almost dearer than her God to her,
Praying to have thy punishment to bear.
Now look upon her face who died for thee,—
Her face, whom thou hast slain unwittingly,
For as she panted in her agony,
And all the nuns knelt weeping round her bed,
She beckoned to the Abbess, and she said,
“Dear mother, limn my face when I am dead,
And send it unto Rome, that he may see
For whom I die, and write thereon for me,
‘She hath no joy of God until thou come,’
For he will seek again to Christendom
Surely, and fall before Saint Peter's chair,
For she with whom he tarries now is fair;
But if he look on this he cannot bear
To wound me dead by hankering after her.”

Dicat Miles.
I do not wonder that I loved her well.
It must be long, ay, very long ago
Since I forsook her for the bliss of hell;
And yet as it were yesterday, I know
The yellow hair and steadfast eyes of brown,
Half open, and so tender to look down
Upon me, for I used to find it sweet
To sit on a low stool before her feet,
And put one hand upon her knee and one
About her waist, to feel her true heart beat.
No, even now she is not like a nun.
A nun should have a seal upon her lips;
But these, methinks, are thirsty even now.
A nun should have much peace upon her brow,
Clouding her eyelids with a bashful rest;
Her swollen eyelids tremble in eclipse
Beneath a trouble that might be a frown.
Only her love still keeps the hope awake,
That makes her fear to seem to chide or strive,
And hides the very fear for hope's sweet sake.
A nun should have cool hands, and lightly prest
Cross-wise, upon a scarcely heaving breast;
These dear hands quivered to the finger-tips,
Clutching, no doubt, to save my soul alive.
God help me, I could almost love her yet.
God help me, I was ready to forget
The great things which my love hath done for me;
For when I was alone and desolate,
She did not keep me standing at her gate,
But took me in and made me free of her;
And when my craven folly sought to flee
From her whose vassalage is liberty,
She laughing said, “I keep the best of thee.”
And when I came again, though loath and late,
She having mercy on my low estate,
Was much more bountiful and debonnaire.
How should I wish or struggle to be free?
She hath had my youth, my hope, the best of me.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Give Jesus what is left, or let Him take,
And God will count it holy for His sake.

Et ostendat Sanctam Faciem, tum dicat
Miles.
Is this the face of Jesus, called the Christ?
I think in some mad war in Palestine,
About an empty tomb, a broken shrine,
In happy dreams I saw, or seemed to see,
A face like this smile grandly down on me
For guerdon of my feats of chivalry;
But He was crowned and vested royally,
And in His sceptre shone a pearl unpriced,
In which I saw another face like mine,
But fairer, as a saint's in heaven might be,
And sometimes a sweet woman's face shone through,
And looked at me as one who fain would kiss,
Then faded into me; and then my bliss
Was full, and I was happier than I knew.
We never know our joy until we miss;
I say it, having twice approved it true.
Ay me, alas! And He came down to this;
Came down from heaven, and trod earth's narrow ways,
And eat earth's sodden fruit of cloudy days,
And fasted, praying long bleak nights for me;
And when He saw how hard I was to save,
His sweat ran down like blood for agony.
He saw God's anger overshadowing me,
And yet He would not leave me for a slave,
But pressed on, panting, to the shameful tree,
And let the sharp nails rend him, limb by limb,
To see if He could bury in His grave
The sin God bound on me when I was made,
And always tried to answer when I prayed,
Although He knew He could not set me free.
And this was His dear face, so bruised, so dim,
Though He shall judge me, I must weep for Him.

Dicat Venus.
Beloved, let me kiss away thy tears,
We have much joy laid up for many years.

Dicat Miles.
Beloved, weep a little while with me,
For I have often wept for love of thee.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
How shall she weep, for she hath seen His face
In heaven of old, and spat upon His grace?

Dicat Venus.
Hence, Raphael, take thy sickly wares away;
Here I am mistress till the judgment day.

Dicat Miles.
O Raphael, was the face of Asmodai
As fair as hers, whom one would woo to slay?

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Dear knight, I think I ought to answer “Yes;”
Though I indeed can only speak by guess
About the shapes of things that seem to you;
For seeing God, whom you will also see,
I see both Asmodai and Venus true;
So neither can seem beautiful to me.

Dicat Miles.
Too soon, too soon, thou hast made me desolate.
What were some thousand years for God to wait,
That He should send thee with soft words to slay,
Who is the same to-day and yesterday?
What? Is this perfect beauty all a dream?
This floating mist of ebon curls that roll
Like healing incense round my fainting soul?
Dear mist, through which one sees the rosy gleam
Flush the full cheeks and pearly sloping brow,
Down to the palpitating throat as now,
When all the face comes forward to the kiss.
O subtle fire of liquid slumbrous eyes!
O tinkling laugh, sweet words, and sweeter sighs!
O love! O sweetness not to be expressed!
O languor of unutterable rest!
And was the holy beggar then so wise,
Who spake much rather what he wished than guessed?
What warrant have I but the shaveling lies?
Surely he lies, and God will spare me this!
My heaven on earth, while holy Hörsel stands.
Ay me! what blood is this upon my hand?

Et genibus flexis, Sanctus Raphael adoret sanguinem Domini, osculans manus militis. et dicat.
Be sure, O knight, this is the blood of God,—
God's blood, whom thou to-day hast crucified,
Poured sweetly from His ever open side,
To water the fair blossoms of the rod,
Hewn from the tree of life, which else had died.
Dicat Miles.
Nay, now, you err, my God is safe in heaven;
His Father's glory is His shield and sword.
I could be glad I cannot be forgiven,
Because I cannot crucify my Lord.
Ten thousand kisses could not give Him pain.
Ay me! what blood is this? it flows again.
Yea, blood is flowing like a sea, I wis,
Through my dear Lady's picture out of His.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
O knight, it is enough for thee to know
That He must always suffer in her woe;
For she is one with Him eternally,
But in a deeper, holier mystery,
Which thou shalt understand when thou shalt see,
He suffers much more bitterly than she;
For shouldst thou stand to-day, and see Him stand,
Before God's throne, for thee, at God's right-hand,
Then all His wounds would bleed at sight of thee,—
Thee troubled by God's spotless majesty,—
Thee burning with sick shame and meek desire,
Until His healing blood should quench that fire.

Dicat Miles.
Oh, that a kiss could heal that wounded side,
And those dear limbs so often crucified;
That I could wash this weak soul white again,
Steeped in another's beauty many years;
So that His blood will never cleanse the stain,
Although I cannot see her now for tears.
I cannot see her, but she burns in me,
And I should die if you put out that fire;
Yea, shame it were if I alone go free,
And let her writhe alone in stinging mire.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Dear brother, while you weep your hair grows grey,
And she would loathe thee, but she yearns to slay;
For, seeing God, she grew to seem so fair
Unto herself, her own chief worshipper,
That earth's bright things seem dimness unto her.
But pity her who doth not pity thee;
Yea, even for her sake arise and flee,
Because the furnace of God's purity,
Wherein must be her everlasting home,
Was heated sevenfold when ye first came here,
And other sevenfold when ye came from Rome;
Wherefore, if ever yet ye held her dear,
Leave her, for if thou wilt not be forgiven,
It shall be heated seventy times and seven.

Dicat Miles.
O Raphael, if you could know, if you could see,
How her devouring image burns in me!

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
He knows, He sees, who uses her to wean
Thy spirit from all love but hers and His,
Till that consuming strife shall burn thee clean
From hers, who seems a part of what He is.

Dicat Venus.
Beloved, by thine ancient nobleness,
And by the valiant deeds which thou hast done
Beneath the dim light of the earthly sun,
And by the memory of our long delights,
Meat of blithe days and slumbrous wine of nights;
And also by my meekly borne distress
When by another thou wert lured astray,
To tread with bleeding feet a barren way;
By all the gladness I have had of thee
Since first thou camest hither till this day,—
Beloved, bid this monk depart from me,
For he must heed whatever thou wilt say.

Dicat Miles.
How can I? for the blood would come again.
Love's sword is drawn; if love will have me slain,
Love's wounds are very sweet. I cannot fly.

Tum Venus, hactenus amplexa militem, resolvat brachia, et prona in torum recidat, et dicat
Miles.
Kind saint, because I cannot go or stand,
Let me kneel here, and lean upon thy hand,—
Kneel here, and try to rest before I die.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Yea, rest, and look upon the restful sky,
The balmy purple of the fragrant west,
The lowly-bending spray of wilding rose
That droops athwart the twilight, and the grass
Full of shut flowers where many glowworms pass,
And one sweet bird is singing in her nest
Unto her fledglings where the river flows.

Dicat Miles.
My lord, is this a shadow or a light
That I see flickering between day and night?

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
Brother, our God created Azrael,
When in the earthly garden Adam fell
And God's dear countenance grew terrible,
And set him with a keenly tender sword
To keep the ghostly garden of the Lord;
And because everywhere our God is Whole,
Who is the Root and Garden of the soul,
Therefore the sword is turnèd every way
Before the eyes of such as God will slay,
Being anointed with the fire of hell,
Which is God's love, that, burning night and day,
Burns hard hearts black and broken hearts milk-white,
That they may bathe rejoicing in God's light.
The sword draws nigh, thou wilt not turn away.

Dicat Miles
ad Dominum.
I thank thee for the pain, though it is thine;
I thank thee for the bliss, though it is mine.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael
R ad Dominum.
Now hide, O God, this mountain out of sight,
And bind her also with a sleepy chain,
Lest she should wake before her time in pain.

Dicat Venus.
Shall I have no more men to love again?

Dicat Sanctus Raphael ad Venerem.
He is the last of those whom thou hast slain.

Dicat Venus.
Then leave me him, that I may deck and play
With his dead beauty till the judgment day.

Dicat Sanctus Raphael.
The Mighty hath not left him for a prey;
But I will bear him hence to Christendom,
To that dear sepulchre where pilgrims come,
To sleep with other soldiers of the Cross,
Who conquered Satan in an easier fight,
And climbed God's holy hill a shorter way;
For he shall walk on high with them in white,
On starry battlements of Syon's towers,
Where no one counts the scars of battle loss,
Whether they wounded him with swords or flowers.
For they rejoice not in themselves, but God,
Who stooped so low to lift them up so high,
And bless continually His Staff and Rod,
Who gave them in their death the victory
Which makes the glory of God's house complete,
And wins for men a rarer crown than ours.
For this too is great victory, to tread
On the old dragon, though with hanging head,
Half-wistful eyes, and wounded loitering feet.

THE SOLDAN'S DAUGHTER.

A PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY.

QUEEN CRIMHILD'S ROSE-GARDEN.

GAWAIN AND THE LADY OF AVALON.

ART AND DEATH.

IN THE JACQUERIE.

METTELILL.

THE TROADES.

ABELARD AND HELOISE.

LADYBIRD'S WOOING.

“IL NE FAUT PAS JOUER AVEC L'AMOUR.”

LOVE'S VOTARY.

A REVERIE.

When the sun is in the west,
And the robin in the nest,
And most mothers are at tea,
With their cronies gossiping,
Autumn winds hold jubilee
Round a castle by the sea.
Household angels spread a cloak,
Woven of a ghostly spray,
Woven of thin lilac smoke,
Where the comfortable town,
Nestles under the bare down;
Where the grass is turned to grey,
In the twilight's glimmering;
But the light clouds overhead
Keep a little flush of red,
And you tingle in the glow
Of the sunset far away,
Where the pale blue, clear and cold,
Melts through green to dusky gold;
And the stars begin to shine
Over the chill misty line,
Which you see begin to grow,
Marching slowly, steadily,
From the east and from the sea,
Heavy with the breath of ghosts,
Footmen in their silent hosts,
Horsemen riding on the wind,
But their mail is left behind;
For they do not come to fight
In the awful lists of night,
But to find what each hath lost,
When they kept those towers of old,—
Some one deed they might have done,
Some one word they might have spoken,
When they walked beneath the sun,
For the which their rest is broken,
And they cannot quit its cost,
Giving gems and fairy gold
Till they find the mystic token;
Then they enter into rest,
Far below the rosy west.
But and if they do not find,
Then a bitter biting wind
Chases them before the moon,
Deep into the heart of earth,
To the house of Death and Birth,
Where they watch till afternoon;
And the dew upon the grass,
Which is seen of such as pass
Early in the holy morn,
Is the remnant of their tears,
Who have wandered many years,
Seeking there and finding not
What they gladly would forget.
If a lady shed a tear,
There is born a violet,
Patient of its dusty lot,
Though its scent be banished;
Patient of the children's tread,
Though they say it is not sweet.
If a valiant cavalier
Weep upon his quest forlorn,
There a buttercup is born,
Challenging the passers' feet,
Dying underneath their tread,
Golden still though it be dead.

THE BIRTH OF LOVE.

FORGET-ME-NOTS.

Forget-me-nots were blooming
Under the castle walls;
One said, “They are forgotten
Who feasted in its halls.”
“And who would be remembered?
What is the use of fame?”
A scholar cried; “for glory
Is near akin to shame.”
Yet he too plucked the flowers,
And his pale face flushed hot,
And gave one to a lady,
And said, “Forget-me-not.”
The lady in her cloister
Burnt her young heart away;
The scholar in his college
Grew deaf and dull and grey.
But when they put the grave-clothes
On each of them at last,
They found that each had cherished
A relic of the past.
With each of them was buried,
To ripen or to rot,
Deep underground for ages,
A blue forget-me-not.

THE RAVEN AND THE DOVE.

A WIND OUT OF THE WEST.

CASTLE JOYOUSGUARD.

MORNING DEW.

THE MASQUE OF NEMESIS.

In a green and purple shade,
Underneath a poison vine,
Once my weary limbs I laid,
Being flushed with earthly wine.
On my brow I put a braid
Of that deadly greenery.
Under me the earth grew clear,
So I saw, I knew not where,
Underneath the southern skies,
Which were flushed with a sunrise,
As my earthly sun had set,—
Saw a blue and rosy sea,
Fringed with palm and myrtle tree.
From one patch of silver sand,
Deep into the unknown land,
Ran a breadth of velvet lea,
Laughing out in dewy glee
Through a cloud of violet.
Then I saw a holy band
Passing by with downcast head;
In an ancient tongue they said
Prayers I could not understand.
They were maids in robes of snow,
Pacing with sad steps and slow,
Up and down upon the sand,
Like soft shadows hand in hand.
They were shackled three and three,
With a bond of gossamer
Stronger than steel links could be,
Though it seemed more light than air.
But the weight of holy years,
And the dew of loving tears,
And the spell of virgin song,
Made those subtle fetters strong.
After them Euphrosyne
Followed, whom they could not see,
Led by many lingering hours,
Who had bound her feet with flowers,
Lest she should draw nigh too fast;
And what seemed most strange to me,
She was furthest from the last.
She had roses in her hair,
Roses without thorn, and fair;
Patience and her sister Care
Watered them with tears that fell
On the mead of asphodel.
Suddenly the viewless air
Closed into a crystal shrine,
Where they wandered hand in hand,
Bound between the sea and land.
In the midmost seemed to shine
Cloudy veils of the divine
Mother of the Destinies,
With a staff of memories
Gathered in a muffled hand.
They began to pray and wail,
Lifting up their faces pale,
“Show thy glorious face to us,
Let us pass behind the veil;”
And their eyes grew ravenous.
Then there seemed to go a shout
Through the temple mightily;
Round the veils and round the throne,
Half within and half without,
And they listened greedily,
And began to wheel about,—
Dancing in a ghastly glee,
Singing, “Mother set us free.”
And their bonds beneath the strain
Cut their white wrists to the bone,
Yet they seemed to feel no pain.
Ever and anon a hand
Reached from out the light, and drew
Those whose strength was nigh to fail,
From the sight of sea and land,
From the wailing dancing crew,
Into rest behind the veil.
Then I felt my eyelids swim
To the echo of their hymn,
To the echo of the roar
Of the surge upon the shore;
To the echo of the fight;
And the dancing and the wail
Round the shrine and round the veil.
So I slept away the night,
When deep winds awoke grey morn,
I, too, woke, as one forlorn.

WHEN LOVE DIES.

THE SONG OF THE ROSE.

BLIND LOVE.

AT HENNACLIFF.

AMABEL.

AFTER DARK.

“SI DESCENDERO IN INFERNUM ADES.”

I.

II.

III.

So they came before his throne
Who shall reap where sin hath sown;
But she could not see the king,
Though she felt the dragon wing
Sharply overshadowing her,
And she saw not any there,
Neither Victor nor her sire,
Nor the horse of gold and fire,
Nor the angry light of Hell,
Nor the angel Azazel;
Only One who walked the night
Clad upon with tender light,
With a visage pale and sweet,
And with piercèd hands and feet,
Saying, “Staunch My wounded side
With more kisses, O My bride!
For the shadows flee away
Into everlasting day.”

SONG.

THOAS.

HYPSIPYLE.

A LOVE MATCH.

HOTHOUSE FLOWERS.

ΕΠΩΣ ΜΟΥΣΑΓΕΤΗΣ.

MUSIC.

APRIL TEARS.

WISH AND WILL.

SONNETS.

SNOW IN MARCH.

Musing upon the ministry of pain,
To whet the edge of joy by suffering,
I walked upon a fitful day of spring;
Even as I said, “Short sunshine after rain,
And then the heavy clouds are black again,”
Lo riding on the east wind's dusky wing,
The haggard queen of snows came travelling,
To smirch the sunset with her funeral train
Of watery yellow dulled with ashen grey,
Which wrapt the bleak plain country up from sight;
But ere the setting of that chill spring day
Bare trees pierced through her skirt of tearful light;
Yet in its shadow, as it passed away,
The fruitful hills were stained a livid white.

A CHILL IN SUMMER.

I went upon a meadow bright with gold
Of buttercups, which glistened on the green
Of summer grass, veiled with a filmy sheen
Of gossamer, whereby a river rolled
His shrunken waters by a city old,
Leaving large space of poisonous ooze between
The herbage and his waves, which were not clean,
And in the air there was a touch of cold.
Then my thoughts troubled me, I knew not why;
But everything seemed still, and nought at rest.
The sun grew dim, the faint wind seemed to sigh
The pale blue seemed to shiver as unblest,
White fleecy clouds came scudding up the sky,
And turned to ashen darkness in the west.

FALLING LEAVES.

On a bare hill a thin elm's spindle crest
Was glorified by kisses of the sky,
Where harvest sunshine made the shrill wind die
Till evening, and the waning year had rest.
Only about a blackened empty nest
Some lonely rooks kept an unrestful cry;
Below the babbling brook of reeds was dry
In the green valley trending to the west,
Green still; on either side the lands were ploughed,
Whence carrying scanty sheaves of ill-saved grain
On creaking wheels went by a broken wain,
Whereon three harvest men who whistled loud;
But in the shadow of a rising cloud
Two scarlet leaves fell in a pool of rain.

A WINTER SUNSET.

All day along a river full of glee
I guided, between flowery isles of light,
My shallop without compass, till at night
Keen moonbeams sparkled on a shoreless sea,
And on some spirit in the boat with me;
Yet I was nothing daunted at his sight,
But marvelling how the darkness there was bright,
I slept, in musing what the dawn could be.
Dreaming I sang; in dreams 'tis bright to die.
Athwart the flooded mead the dead bell tolled
Indeed, and then I saw, yet half awake,
The wintry elms against the wintry sky,
A sullen purple against sullen gold,
Each brighter, deeper, in the shallow lake.

DIE JUNGFRAU.

A holy maiden of the giant race
Who cannot live and look upon the sun,
Who count their jewellery in caverns dun
All day, but in the night they show their face,
Would not return ere morning to her place,
But said, “My little race will soon be run,
Death will be easiest when I have won
That sight, since I must die in any case.”
So the light smote her with a slaying blow
That she for very pain half turned away,
Yet on her dying cheek she felt the glow,
And as she turned to stone she knelt to pray,
Where, bowing underneath her hood of snow,
She waits in peace until the Judgment Day.

Ο ΑΙΩΝ ΠΑΙΣ ΕΣΤΙ ΠΑΙΖΩΝ ΠΑΙΔΟΣ Η ΒΑΣΙΛΗΙΗ.

An orphan child lay in the purple glow
Of sunset, on the hill where she had played
All day with heather-bells, nor marked the shade
Of night and autumn creeping from below.
A lonely lord came by and bade her go
And be his daughter, but she was afraid;
So he alone plunged down the pine-wood glade.
A cottage mother came with locks of snow,
And bade the motherless to board and bed;
She turned unheeded down a foxglove dell.
A nun came by on pilgrimage, who said,
“Come, dream of God and Heaven in cloister cell.”
The little one half raised her golden head,
Then stooped and plucked another heather-bell.

ŒDIPUS.

The king who had his mother unto wife,
When all the sin and woe before him lay,
Upholding in much pain a dreary sway,
Endured; his weaker mother took the knife
Of death to cut the galling knots of life
Unwisely; for the tangle of the day
Is spread anew about our morning way,
Though night awhile roll up the web of strife.
Yet now we feign the gods reveal the lore,
Which life's too cloudy voyage failed to teach
By signs of sky or sea or answering speech
To souls uncertain of themselves before,
At once to ghosts who stumble on the beach
Of death's unvisited, mute, trackless shore.

THE LOVE OF SOPHOCLES.

He clothed my beauty as the changeful day
Is clad in many-coloured change of fire,
And told me he was drinking in desire,
Which made me very happy as I lay
Looking up to the grand head which had been grey,
But now was flushed with youth to be my hire:
I said, putting my curls about his lyre,
“Let thy sons rail, thou art as young as they.”
Now when I thought to read him like a book,
And tune my little soul to his high lays,
The light of love within his eyes burnt dim
And is gone out, and with a far-off look
He puts me from him gently, for he says
A ravening beast has gone away from him.

TO ARISTOCRATS.

When the dumb many lift their voice on high,
Who do not heed what subtle things are said
In ancient volumes they have never read,
Nor care to listen till the wise reply,
Let all who care to hurry pass thee by,
And bid them all Godspeed and bow the head,
And sit alone and commune with the dead,
And learn at leisure to be still and die.
Why, for thy pride, should men be comfortless?
Wherefore methinks it were not well to wage
An idle warfare with a busy age;
But fold clean hands and cherish quietness,
And watch the world grow more while we grow less,
And others build our tomb or hermitage.

THE DAUGHTERS OF PANDARUS.

We were the nurslings of four goddesses,
And grew together in glad innocence,
Nor ever felt the need of a defence
From other's envy at our blessedness,
Who did not sin by boasting or excess;
Yet suddenly there came, we knew not whence,
A blinding whirl of wings, a numbing sense
Of claws, which bore us with unwounding stress
Into a darkness, somewhere under earth,
Lit by eyes gleaming under cloudy brows
Of three, who swathed our maiden limbs with girth
Of thick soft black, and bound us with sad vows,
Where we sit very still, away from mirth,
Watching for ever in Hell's empty house.

LA CENCI.

Most pitiful of maidens,—after one,
Who bore a Son more sorrowful than she,
And yielded Him to die on Calvary,
To heal whatever thou hast borne and done—
Ere thy short race of shame and pain be run,
Out of thy store of costly agony
We pray thee dash our dull prosperity,
That we through thee may win what thou hast won,—
Meek, mute contempt, which trembles on thy tongue,
For earth, and hope which lights thy countenance;
Whose holy heart of maidenhood was wrung
By slimy thrall of nameless sufferance,
Till it was like a blithe deliverance
To come to the clean pain of dying young.

SERENA LOQUITUR.

Although I was becalmed on the dead sea,
Nor felt the breath of any wind that bore
My pilgrim bark to any earthly shore,
Yet birds of Paradise flew over me,
And still the pinnace of my thought was free
To cast her anchor in the golden floor
Of Heaven, where all my vows were gone before;
So that I voyaged nowhither cheerily,
Who was not wounded sore in any strife,
Nor overtasked that I should faint for rest,
Nor eaten up with craving foolishness;
For I have eaten of the fruit of life,
And crowned me with the flower of happiness,
Yet when I died I was much happiest.

A FEW PRESS ON TO THE ETERNAL TOWERS.

A few press on to the eternal towers,
Clear to their eyes, which crown the narrow way,
And find Christ's cross an easy load, they say,
To them, for whom His thorny crown hath flowers;
Yet such have need of more, who ply their powers
Below, for one another and to-day,
And things which grow as fast as they decay,
Who hive the ripened sweets of earthly hours.
Both made of God, both used of God, then why
Are those His darling children, these accurst?
What gain to hope the best and fear the worst?
Or are these moody rhymes another lie,
Hatched by that ancient dragon, who at first
Said, to deceive with truth, “Ye shall not die”?

WHEN NEMESIS AND AIDOS HEARD NONE PRAY.

When Nemesis and Aidos heard none pray
Aright, with upward face and loyal song,
Then the wise found them not, though seeking long,
And said, Alas! for we have lost the way
Unto the stars and everlasting day;
And many wept, The wicked are made strong;
But most rejoiced, as free for lesser wrong;
Death, peering up through the thick charnel clay,
Said, “I am left; nor fear my ghastly hue,
For I have many shapes and none are true;
But I have a true dungeon, without bars,
Bitter for sinners; and I truly know
A secret pathway for the just to go
Through the dark, under earth, to other stars.”

POLYXENE.

Polyxene, when Pyrrhus took her hand
To lead her slowly to the slaughter-place,
Sprang up with a glad blush on her wan face,
And said, “Methinks you do not understand
How I am drawn with Venus' silken band
Unto your sire, or you would go apace;
For he is mine, and I desire his grace
More than I love the people of my land.
I want to rest upon the soft green grave
Of my dead lord, whose dear will sets me free,
Who knows I am a queen and not a slave.
Let girls and girlish men make moan for me,
Weeping and wringing by the sullen sea
Chained hands that were not clean or strong to save.”

THOREAU AND THE BHAGAVATGHITA.

When young Earth's rivers ran with morning gold,
The living streams of poverty increased
The spiritual vintage of the east,
But, overflowing, left the virgin mould
Bare, and the southern land too early old.
Yet through Time's noisy waves they never ceased
To flow, but poured some precious drops at least
On lips made bleak by northern greed and cold.
So strong Alpheus, whom his love kept pure,
Traversed an untracked pilgrimage of yore,
Under the bitter sea to Arethuse,
And was content to pour a nameless tide,
Far from Olympia's splendour, at her side
Into the busy port of Syracuse.

THE CUMÆAN SIBYL.

Fearing the end of all her prophecies,
The Virgin Witch of Cumæ from her place
Arose, with ruddy and unwrinkled face,
And hungry, hollow, cavernous blue eyes,
Because at Bethlehem she heard cradle cries,
To ask oblivious drugs which might efface
Christ's image, since she did not hope His grace.
But Circe answering, “Thou must still be wise;
Thy maiden flesh is not as other clay,”
She measured back the rosy dimpled seas,
Nor bowed beneath her burden of despair,
But trod with steady feet a sunless way
To those just ghosts, who almost dwell at ease,
With purple fillets in her snowy hair.