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 | Poems (1885) |  |
1
INTRODUCTION.
You ask me, Dear! what perfect thing
I find in all my wandering
These ancient Sanskrit scrolls amid,
Where India's deepest heart is hid?
Nothing, I answer, half so wise
As one glance from your gentle eyes!
Nothing so tender or so true
As one word interchanged with you!
Because, two souls conjoined can see
More than the best philosophy.
Yet, wise and true and tender lore
Waits him who will those leaves explore,
Which, plucked from palm or plantain-tree,
Display, in Devanâgari,
The grand, sonorous, long-linked lines
Wherethrough that “Light of Asia” shines.
And you have asked; so I obey,
Hastening upon your knees to lay
This lovely lotus-blossom, grown
Long ere our Mary's Rose was blown;
This pearl of hope, fetched from the sea
Before they fished at Galilee!
For thus, I think, your kindest eyes
May read deep truth with glad surprise.
The subtle thought, the far-off faith,
The deathless spirit mocking Death,
The close-packed sense, hard to unlock
As diamonds from the mother-rock,
The solemn, brief, simplicity,
The insight, fancy, mystery
Of Hindoo scriptures—all are had
In this divine Upanishad.
I find in all my wandering
These ancient Sanskrit scrolls amid,
Where India's deepest heart is hid?
Nothing, I answer, half so wise
As one glance from your gentle eyes!
Nothing so tender or so true
As one word interchanged with you!
Because, two souls conjoined can see
More than the best philosophy.
Yet, wise and true and tender lore
Waits him who will those leaves explore,
Which, plucked from palm or plantain-tree,
Display, in Devanâgari,
2
Wherethrough that “Light of Asia” shines.
And you have asked; so I obey,
Hastening upon your knees to lay
This lovely lotus-blossom, grown
Long ere our Mary's Rose was blown;
This pearl of hope, fetched from the sea
Before they fished at Galilee!
For thus, I think, your kindest eyes
May read deep truth with glad surprise.
The subtle thought, the far-off faith,
The deathless spirit mocking Death,
The close-packed sense, hard to unlock
As diamonds from the mother-rock,
The solemn, brief, simplicity,
The insight, fancy, mystery
Of Hindoo scriptures—all are had
In this divine Upanishad.
I read it in my Indian days.
Beyond our city, where the ways
Parted—for Looni and Kirkî—
A hill, steep-sloping you might see.
It rises from the river's bank,
And all its sides are green and rank
With spear-grass, bamboo, cactus, thorn;
And bright with fragrant blossoms, borne
By neem and baubul; and the air
Sighs cool across a prospect fair
Of Deccan villages and fields,
Where the dark soil rich tribute yields
Of pulse and millet. Farther back,
Śivaji's mountains, flat and black,
Fold round the plain. Upon that hill
There stood (I think it stands there still!)
A little shrine, in ancient days
Built by a Sett to Siva's praise;
Milk-white it glimmered through the green,
Save that upon its gate was seen
A blood-red hand impressed, and, near,
The three-fold mark to Siva dear.
Sacred and placid was the place,
With cool, smooth walls, and slender grace
Of domed roof, and a peepul tree,
And platform of hewn masonry,
Whereto the distant city's hum
Came soft, with broken beats of drum
Which did not mar the solitude;
For all around that temple cooed
The creamy doves; striped squirrels leaped
From stem to stem, the musk-rat peeped
Under the wall; beside the porch
Flamed the red lizard like a torch
Flung on the rock; the egrets stretched
Their snowy wings; green parrots fetched
Fruit to their young with joyous cries;
The monkey-peoples' mild brown eyes
Glittered from bough and coping-stone;
And—underneath a root—alone,
Dwelt a great cobra, thick and black,
With ash-grey mottlings on his back,—
A most prodigious snake!—but he
Kept the peace, too, religiously,
With folded hood, and fangs of death
Sheathed, while he drew his slow, cold breath,
Coiled in the sun, or lapped the feast
Of warm milk poured him by the Priest.
Beyond our city, where the ways
3
A hill, steep-sloping you might see.
It rises from the river's bank,
And all its sides are green and rank
With spear-grass, bamboo, cactus, thorn;
And bright with fragrant blossoms, borne
By neem and baubul; and the air
Sighs cool across a prospect fair
Of Deccan villages and fields,
Where the dark soil rich tribute yields
Of pulse and millet. Farther back,
Śivaji's mountains, flat and black,
Fold round the plain. Upon that hill
There stood (I think it stands there still!)
A little shrine, in ancient days
Built by a Sett to Siva's praise;
Milk-white it glimmered through the green,
Save that upon its gate was seen
A blood-red hand impressed, and, near,
The three-fold mark to Siva dear.
Sacred and placid was the place,
With cool, smooth walls, and slender grace
4
And platform of hewn masonry,
Whereto the distant city's hum
Came soft, with broken beats of drum
Which did not mar the solitude;
For all around that temple cooed
The creamy doves; striped squirrels leaped
From stem to stem, the musk-rat peeped
Under the wall; beside the porch
Flamed the red lizard like a torch
Flung on the rock; the egrets stretched
Their snowy wings; green parrots fetched
Fruit to their young with joyous cries;
The monkey-peoples' mild brown eyes
Glittered from bough and coping-stone;
And—underneath a root—alone,
Dwelt a great cobra, thick and black,
With ash-grey mottlings on his back,—
A most prodigious snake!—but he
Kept the peace, too, religiously,
With folded hood, and fangs of death
Sheathed, while he drew his slow, cold breath,
5
Of warm milk poured him by the Priest.
For in that Temple lived a Sage,
A Twice-born, reverend by his age
And wondrous wisdom; and, it fell
For some small service,—vain to tell,—
This Brahman was my friend; and so,
Ofttimes at daybreak I would go
To watch the sunlight flood the skies,
And ask of strange philosophies.
Thus chanced it that one morn we had
Talk on this same Upanishad,—
(Beyond my learning, then, as now,)
But herein is it written how
I slowly spelled the text we read,
And, at the hard words, what he said—
(For nowise shall one comprehend
Such lore without some sager friend—)
So have you, Dear! the help I had
Conning this great Upanishad,
While the snake sunned himself at ease,
And monkeys chattered in the trees,
And on the Moota-Moola lay
The first gold of the growing Day.
A Twice-born, reverend by his age
And wondrous wisdom; and, it fell
For some small service,—vain to tell,—
This Brahman was my friend; and so,
Ofttimes at daybreak I would go
To watch the sunlight flood the skies,
And ask of strange philosophies.
Thus chanced it that one morn we had
Talk on this same Upanishad,—
(Beyond my learning, then, as now,)
But herein is it written how
I slowly spelled the text we read,
And, at the hard words, what he said—
(For nowise shall one comprehend
Such lore without some sager friend—)
So have you, Dear! the help I had
Conning this great Upanishad,
6
And monkeys chattered in the trees,
And on the Moota-Moola lay
The first gold of the growing Day.
108
THE RAJPOOT WIFE.
Sing something, Jymul Rao! for the goats are gathered now,
And no more water is to bring;
The village-gates are set, and the night is grey as yet,
God hath given wondrous fancies to thee:—sing!
And no more water is to bring;
The village-gates are set, and the night is grey as yet,
God hath given wondrous fancies to thee:—sing!
Then Jymul's supple fingers, with a touch that doubts and lingers,
Sets a thrill the saddest wire of all the six;
And the girls sit in a tangle, and hush the tinkling bangle,
While the boys pile the flame with store of sticks.
Sets a thrill the saddest wire of all the six;
And the girls sit in a tangle, and hush the tinkling bangle,
While the boys pile the flame with store of sticks.
And vain of village praise, but full of ancient days,
He begins with a smile and with a sigh—
“Who knows the bâbul-tree by the bend of the Ravee?”
Quoth Gunesh, “I!” and twenty voices, “I!”
He begins with a smile and with a sigh—
109
Quoth Gunesh, “I!” and twenty voices, “I!”
“Well—listen! there below, in the shade of bloom and bough,
Is a musjid of carved and coloured stone;
And Abdool Shureef Khan—I spit, to name that man!—
Lieth there, underneath, all alone.
Is a musjid of carved and coloured stone;
And Abdool Shureef Khan—I spit, to name that man!—
Lieth there, underneath, all alone.
“He was Sultan Mahmood's vassal, and wore an Amir's tassel
In his green hadj-turban, at Nungul.
Yet the head which went so proud, it is not in his shroud;
There are bones in that grave,—but not a skull!
In his green hadj-turban, at Nungul.
Yet the head which went so proud, it is not in his shroud;
There are bones in that grave,—but not a skull!
“And, deep drove in his breast, there moulders with the rest
A dagger, brighter once than Chundra's ray;
A Rajpoot lohar whet it, and a Rajpoot woman set it
Past the power of any hand to tear away.
A dagger, brighter once than Chundra's ray;
A Rajpoot lohar whet it, and a Rajpoot woman set it
Past the power of any hand to tear away.
110
“'Twas the Ranee Neila true, the wife of Soorj Dehu,
The Lord of the Rajpoots of Nourpoor;
You shall hear the mournful story, with its sorrow and its glory,
And curse Shureef Khan,—the soor!”
The Lord of the Rajpoots of Nourpoor;
You shall hear the mournful story, with its sorrow and its glory,
And curse Shureef Khan,—the soor!”
All in the wide Five-Waters was none like Soorj Dehu,
To foeman who so dreadful, to friend what heart so true?
To foeman who so dreadful, to friend what heart so true?
Like Indus, through the mountains came down the Muslim ranks,
And town-walls fell before them as flooded river-banks;
And town-walls fell before them as flooded river-banks;
But Soorj Dehu the Rajpoot owned neither town nor wall;
His house the camp, his roof-tree the sky that covers all;
His house the camp, his roof-tree the sky that covers all;
His seat of state the saddle; his robe a shirt of mail;
His court a thousand Rajpoots close at his stallion's tail.
His court a thousand Rajpoots close at his stallion's tail.
111
Not less was Soorj a Rajah because no crown he wore
Save the grim helm of iron with sword-marks dinted o'er;
Save the grim helm of iron with sword-marks dinted o'er;
Because he grasped no sceptre save the sharp tulwar, made
Of steel that fell from heaven,—for 'twas Indra forged that blade!
Of steel that fell from heaven,—for 'twas Indra forged that blade!
And many a starless midnight the shout of “Soorj Dehu!”
Broke up with spear and matchlock the Muslim's “Illahu!”
Broke up with spear and matchlock the Muslim's “Illahu!”
And many a day of battle upon the Muslim proud
Fell Soorj, as Indra's lightning falls from the silent cloud.
Fell Soorj, as Indra's lightning falls from the silent cloud.
Nor ever shot nor arrow, nor spear nor slinger's stone,
Could pierce the mail that Neila the Ranee buckled on:
Could pierce the mail that Neila the Ranee buckled on:
But traitor's subtle tongue-thrust through fence of steel can break;
And Soorj was taken sleeping, whom none had ta'en awake.
And Soorj was taken sleeping, whom none had ta'en awake.
112
Then at the noon, in durbar, swore fiercely Shureef Khan
That Soorj should die in torment, or live a Mussulman.
That Soorj should die in torment, or live a Mussulman.
But Soorj laughed lightly at him, and answered, “Work your will!
The last breath of my body shall curse your Prophet still.”
The last breath of my body shall curse your Prophet still.”
With words of insult shameful, and deeds of cruel kind,
They vexed that Rajpoot's body, but never moved his mind.
They vexed that Rajpoot's body, but never moved his mind.
And one is come who sayeth, “Ho! Rajpoots! Soorj is bound;
Your lord is caged and baited by Shureef Khan, the hound.
Your lord is caged and baited by Shureef Khan, the hound.
“The Khan hath caught and chained him, like a beast, in iron cage,
And all the camp of Islam spends on him spite and rage;
And all the camp of Islam spends on him spite and rage;
“All day the coward Muslims spend on him rage and spite;
If ye have thought to help him, 'twere good ye go to-night.”
If ye have thought to help him, 'twere good ye go to-night.”
113
Up sprang a hundred horsemen, flashed in each hand a sword;
In each heart burned the gladness of dying for their lord;
In each heart burned the gladness of dying for their lord;
Up rose each Rajpoot rider, and buckled on with speed
The bridle-chain and breast-cord, and the saddle of his steed.
The bridle-chain and breast-cord, and the saddle of his steed.
But unto none sad Neila gave word to mount and ride;
Only she called the brothers of Soorj unto her side,
Only she called the brothers of Soorj unto her side,
And said, “Take order straightway to seek this camp with me;
If love and craft can conquer, a thousand is as three.
If love and craft can conquer, a thousand is as three.
“If love be weak to save him, Soorj dies—and ye return,
For where a Rajpoot dieth, the Rajpoot widows burn.”
For where a Rajpoot dieth, the Rajpoot widows burn.”
Thereat the Ranee Neila unbraided from her hair
The pearls as great as Kashmir grapes Soorj gave his wife to wear,
The pearls as great as Kashmir grapes Soorj gave his wife to wear,
114
And all across her bosoms—like lotus-buds to see—
She wrapped the tinselled sari of a dancing Kunchenee;
She wrapped the tinselled sari of a dancing Kunchenee;
And fastened on her ankles the hundred silver bells,
To whose light laugh of music the Nautch-girl darts and dwells.
To whose light laugh of music the Nautch-girl darts and dwells.
And all in dress a Nautch-girl, but all in heart a queen,
She set her foot to stirrup with a sad and settled mien.
She set her foot to stirrup with a sad and settled mien.
Only one thing she carried no Kunchenee should bear,
The knife between her bosoms;—ho, Shureef! have a care!
The knife between her bosoms;—ho, Shureef! have a care!
Thereat, with running ditty of mingled pride and pity,
Jymul Rao makes the six wires sigh;
And the girls with tearful eyes note the music's fall and rise,
And the boys let the fire fade and die.
Jymul Rao makes the six wires sigh;
And the girls with tearful eyes note the music's fall and rise,
And the boys let the fire fade and die.
All day lay Soorj the Rajpoot in Shureef's iron cage,
All day the coward Muslims spent on him spite and rage.
All day the coward Muslims spent on him spite and rage.
115
With bitter cruel torments, and deeds of shameful kind,
They racked and broke his body, but could not shake his mind.
They racked and broke his body, but could not shake his mind.
And only at the Azan, when all their worst was vain,
They left him, like dogs slinking from a lion in his pain.
They left him, like dogs slinking from a lion in his pain.
No meat nor drink they gave him through all that burning day,
And done to death, but scornful, at twilight-time he lay.
And done to death, but scornful, at twilight-time he lay.
So when the gem of Shiva uprose, the crescent moon,
Soorj spake unto his spirit, “The end is coming soon!
Soorj spake unto his spirit, “The end is coming soon!
“I would the end might hasten, could Neila only know—
What is that Nautch-girl singing with voice so known and low?
What is that Nautch-girl singing with voice so known and low?
“Singing beneath the cage-bars the song of love and fear
My Neila sang at parting!—what doth that Nautch-girl here?
My Neila sang at parting!—what doth that Nautch-girl here?
116
“Whence comes she by the music of Neila's tender strain,
She, in that shameless tinsel?—O, Nautch-girl, sing again!”
She, in that shameless tinsel?—O, Nautch-girl, sing again!”
“Ah, Soorj!”—so followed answer—“here thine own Neila stands,
Faithful in life and death alike,—look up, and take my hands:
Faithful in life and death alike,—look up, and take my hands:
“Speak low, lest the guard hear us;—to-night, if thou must die,
Shureef shall have no triumph, but bear thee company!”
Shureef shall have no triumph, but bear thee company!”
So sang she like the Koïl that dies beside its mate;
With eye as black and fearless, and love as hot and great.
With eye as black and fearless, and love as hot and great.
Then the Chief laid his pallid lips upon the little palm,
And sank down with a smile of love, his face all glad and calm;
And sank down with a smile of love, his face all glad and calm;
And through the cage-bars Neila felt the brave heart stop fast,
“O Soorj!”—she cried—“I follow! have patience to the last.”
“O Soorj!”—she cried—“I follow! have patience to the last.”
117
She turned and went. “Who passes?” challenged the Mussulman;
“A Nautch-girl, I.”—“What seek'st thou?”—“The presence of the Khan;
“A Nautch-girl, I.”—“What seek'st thou?”—“The presence of the Khan;
“Ask if the high chief-captain be pleased to hear me sing?”
And Shureef, full of feasting, the Kunchenee bade bring.
And Shureef, full of feasting, the Kunchenee bade bring.
Then, all before the Muslims, aflame with lawless wine,
Entered the Ranee Neila, in grace and face divine;
Entered the Ranee Neila, in grace and face divine;
And all before the Muslims, wagging their goatish chins,
The Rajpoot Princess set her to the “bee-dance” that begins,
The Rajpoot Princess set her to the “bee-dance” that begins,
“If my love loved me, he should be a bee,
I the yellow champak, love the honey of me.”
I the yellow champak, love the honey of me.”
All the wreathëd movements danced she of that dance;
Not a step she slighted, not a wanton glance;
Not a step she slighted, not a wanton glance;
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In her unveiled bosom chased th' intruding bee,
To her waist—and lower—she! a Rajpoot, she!
To her waist—and lower—she! a Rajpoot, she!
Sang the melting music, swayed the languorous limb:
Shureef's drunken heart beat—Shureef's eyes waxed dim.
Shureef's drunken heart beat—Shureef's eyes waxed dim.
From his finger Shureef loosed an Ormuz pearl—
“By the Prophet,” quoth he, “'tis a winsome girl!
“By the Prophet,” quoth he, “'tis a winsome girl!
“Take this ring; and 'prithee, come and have thy pay;
I would hear at leisure more of such a lay.”
I would hear at leisure more of such a lay.”
Glared his eyes on her eyes, passing o'er the plain,
Glared at the tent-purdah—never glared again!
Glared at the tent-purdah—never glared again!
Never opened after unto gaze or glance,
Eyes that saw a Rajpoot dance a shameful dance;
Eyes that saw a Rajpoot dance a shameful dance;
For the kiss she gave him was his first and last—
Kiss of dagger, driven to his heart, and past.
Kiss of dagger, driven to his heart, and past.
At her feet he wallowed, choked with wicked blood;
In his breast the katar quivered where it stood.
In his breast the katar quivered where it stood.
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At the hilt his fingers vainly—wildly—try,
Then they stiffen feeble;—die! thou slayer, die!
Then they stiffen feeble;—die! thou slayer, die!
From his jewelled scabbard drew she Shureef's sword,
Cut atwain the neck-bone of the Muslim lord.
Cut atwain the neck-bone of the Muslim lord.
Underneath the starlight, sooth, a sight of dread!
Like the Goddess Kali, comes she with the head,
Like the Goddess Kali, comes she with the head,
Comes to where her brothers guard their murdered chief;
All the camp is silent, but the night is brief.
All the camp is silent, but the night is brief.
At his feet she flings it, flings her burden vile;
“Soorj! I keep my promise! Brothers, build the pile!”
“Soorj! I keep my promise! Brothers, build the pile!”
They have built it, set it, all as Rajpoots do,
From the cage of iron taken Soorj Dehu;
From the cage of iron taken Soorj Dehu;
In the lap of Neila, seated on the pile,
Laid his head—she radiant, like a queen, the while.
Laid his head—she radiant, like a queen, the while.
Then the lamp is lighted, and the ghee is poured—
“Soorj, we burn together: O my love, my lord!”
“Soorj, we burn together: O my love, my lord!”
In the flame and crackle dies her tender tongue,
Dies the Ranee, truest, all true wives among.
Dies the Ranee, truest, all true wives among.
120
At the morn a clamour runs from tent to tent,
Like the wild geese cackling when the night is spent.
Like the wild geese cackling when the night is spent.
“Shureef Khan lies headless! gone is Soorj Dehu!
And the wandering Nautch-girl, who has seen her, who?”
And the wandering Nautch-girl, who has seen her, who?”
This but know the sentries, at the “breath of dawn”
Forth there fared two horsemen, by the first was borne
Forth there fared two horsemen, by the first was borne
The urn of clay, the vessel that Rajpoots use to bring
The ashes of dead kinsmen to Gunga's holy spring.
The ashes of dead kinsmen to Gunga's holy spring.
121
THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT.
Upon a day in Ramadan—
When sunset brought an end of fast,
And in his station every man
Prepared to share the glad repast—
Sate Mohtasim in royal state,
The pillaw smoked upon the gold;
The fairest slave of those that wait
Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold.
When sunset brought an end of fast,
And in his station every man
Prepared to share the glad repast—
Sate Mohtasim in royal state,
The pillaw smoked upon the gold;
The fairest slave of those that wait
Mohtasim's jewelled cup did hold.
Of crystal carven was the cup,
With turquoise set along the brim,
A lid of amber closed it up;
'Twas a great king who gave it him.
The slave poured sherbet to the brink,
Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate,
With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink,
And bore it where the Caliph sate.
With turquoise set along the brim,
A lid of amber closed it up;
'Twas a great king who gave it him.
122
Stirred in wild honey and pomegranate,
With snow and rose-leaves cooled the drink,
And bore it where the Caliph sate.
The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone,
He swept his beard aside to quaff:—
The news-reader beneath the throne,
Went droning on with ghain and kaf:—
The Caliph drew a mighty breath,
Just then the reader read a word—
And Mohtasim, as grim as death,
Set down the cup and snatched his sword.
He swept his beard aside to quaff:—
The news-reader beneath the throne,
Went droning on with ghain and kaf:—
The Caliph drew a mighty breath,
Just then the reader read a word—
And Mohtasim, as grim as death,
Set down the cup and snatched his sword.
“Ann' amratan shureefatee!”
“Speak clear!” cries angry Mohtasim;
“Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,”—
Trembling the newsman read to him
How in Ammoria, far from home,
An Arab girl of noble race
Was captive to a lord of Roum;
And how he smote her on the face,
“Speak clear!” cries angry Mohtasim;
“Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,”—
Trembling the newsman read to him
How in Ammoria, far from home,
An Arab girl of noble race
Was captive to a lord of Roum;
And how he smote her on the face,
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And how she cried, for life afraid,
“Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!”
And how the Kafir mocked the maid,
And laughed, and spake a bitter thing,
“Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears
Are long as Barak's—if he heed—
Your prophet's ass; and when he hears,
He'll come upon a spotted steed!”
“Ya, Mohtasim! help, O my king!”
And how the Kafir mocked the maid,
And laughed, and spake a bitter thing,
“Call louder, fool! Mohtasim's ears
Are long as Barak's—if he heed—
Your prophet's ass; and when he hears,
He'll come upon a spotted steed!”
The Caliph's face was stern and red,
He snapped the lid upon the cup;
“Keep this same sherbet, slave,” he said,
“Till such time as I drink it up.
Wallah! the stream my drink shall be,
My hollowed palm my only bowl,
Till I have set that lady free,
And seen that Roumi dog's head roll!”
He snapped the lid upon the cup;
“Keep this same sherbet, slave,” he said,
“Till such time as I drink it up.
Wallah! the stream my drink shall be,
My hollowed palm my only bowl,
Till I have set that lady free,
And seen that Roumi dog's head roll!”
At dawn the drums of war were beat,
Proclaiming, “Thus saith Mohtasim:
‘Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
A spotted steed.’” So rode they forth,
A sight of marvel and of fear;
Pied horses prancing fiercely north,
Three lakhs—the cup borne in the rear!
Proclaiming, “Thus saith Mohtasim:
‘Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
124
A sight of marvel and of fear;
Pied horses prancing fiercely north,
Three lakhs—the cup borne in the rear!
When to Ammoria he did win,
He smote and drove the dogs of Roum,
And rode his spotted stallion in,
Crying, “Labbayki! I am come!”
Then downward from her prison-place
Joyful the Arab lady crept;
She held her hair before her face,
She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept.
He smote and drove the dogs of Roum,
And rode his spotted stallion in,
Crying, “Labbayki! I am come!”
Then downward from her prison-place
Joyful the Arab lady crept;
She held her hair before her face,
She kissed his feet, she laughed and wept.
She pointed where that lord was laid:
They drew him forth, he whined for grace:
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said—
“She whom thou smotest on the face
Had scorn, because she called her king:
Lo! he is come! and dost thou think
To live, who didst this bitter thing
While Mohtasim at peace did drink?”
They drew him forth, he whined for grace:
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said—
“She whom thou smotest on the face
Had scorn, because she called her king:
Lo! he is come! and dost thou think
To live, who didst this bitter thing
While Mohtasim at peace did drink?”
125
Flashed the fierce sword—rolled the lord's head;
The wicked blood smoked in the sand.
“Now bring my cup!” the Caliph said.
Lightly he took it in his hand;
As down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laughed,
And cried, Taiba asshrab alan!
“By God! delicious is this draught!”
The wicked blood smoked in the sand.
“Now bring my cup!” the Caliph said.
Lightly he took it in his hand;
As down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laughed,
And cried, Taiba asshrab alan!
“By God! delicious is this draught!”
126
THE STRATFORD PILGRIMS.
“Ah! the troop at the Tabard Inn,
Manciple, Miller, and Frankelyn,
Tightening the girths, and draining the ale,
And away on their wild ride by river and dale!
Gone, Dan Chaucer! gone, but for thee
Is the clatter of that gay companie,
The rattle and ring of stirrup and spur,
Floating of plume, and folding of fur,
With the round of tales that held from town
To the sweet green slopes of the broad South Down.
Certes! with such it were pleasant indeed
To patter an Ave, or finger a bead,
And forth each dawn by the cock to wend
From shrine to shrine unto Albion's end;
But their day is done, and their course is run,
None goeth forth on a pilgrimage—none!”
Manciple, Miller, and Frankelyn,
Tightening the girths, and draining the ale,
And away on their wild ride by river and dale!
Gone, Dan Chaucer! gone, but for thee
Is the clatter of that gay companie,
The rattle and ring of stirrup and spur,
Floating of plume, and folding of fur,
With the round of tales that held from town
To the sweet green slopes of the broad South Down.
Certes! with such it were pleasant indeed
To patter an Ave, or finger a bead,
And forth each dawn by the cock to wend
From shrine to shrine unto Albion's end;
127
None goeth forth on a pilgrimage—none!”
“Well! but the woods are as green as then,
And the sunshine as splendid on grey rock and glen;
The linnet and missel-thrush sing, I trow,
With as rich a trill in their little throats now;
Rivers will ripple, and beech-boughs wave,
And the meadows be decked in a dress as brave,
And the great glad sky build a roof as blue,
Tho' it overarch only pilgrims two.
Sweetheart, come! let us do as they
Did in old time on as fair a day:
We lack but a chapel whereunto to wend,
A shrine and a saint for our journey's end;
And of that gay ride—the shrine, God wot,
Is the dusty goal that I envy them not.”
And the sunshine as splendid on grey rock and glen;
The linnet and missel-thrush sing, I trow,
With as rich a trill in their little throats now;
Rivers will ripple, and beech-boughs wave,
And the meadows be decked in a dress as brave,
And the great glad sky build a roof as blue,
Tho' it overarch only pilgrims two.
Sweetheart, come! let us do as they
Did in old time on as fair a day:
We lack but a chapel whereunto to wend,
A shrine and a saint for our journey's end;
And of that gay ride—the shrine, God wot,
Is the dusty goal that I envy them not.”
“Nay, pardie!” quoth she that I love,
“Fit for thy mood as the hand for the glove,
Or the hilt of his sword for the soldier's fist,
Or a poet to be praised, or a lip to be kissed,
Far on yon path, by the emerald lea,
Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea;
By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones
Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones,—
His whom thou lovest.”
“Fit for thy mood as the hand for the glove,
Or the hilt of his sword for the soldier's fist,
Or a poet to be praised, or a lip to be kissed,
128
Fair Avon glideth adown to the sea;
By the walls of a church, beneath whose stones
Sleeps dust sacred as saintly bones,—
His whom thou lovest.”
“Right good!” I said,
And forth a foot to the lea I led,
With staff and scrip and a spirit in tune
To the merry noise of a midsummer noon:—
Two we were of one heart and age
Going a pious pilgrimage.
And forth a foot to the lea I led,
With staff and scrip and a spirit in tune
To the merry noise of a midsummer noon:—
Two we were of one heart and age
Going a pious pilgrimage.
Sooth! I doubt if palmers as gay
Ever set forth on so fair a way.
Sooth! I doubt if a day so rare
Ever made pilgrimage half so fair.
But, certes! never did palmers go
To holier shrine than where he lies low,
Who miracles wrought for heart and eye:
The wonder of Imogen's constancy,
The airy marvels of Prospero's isle,
The magic of Queen Cleopatra's smile;
Her barge that burned on the glowing water,
The patience and faith of Lear's leal daughter,
The Roman Portia's fond, firm heart,
And the Veronese lovers death did not part.
Something I laughed, Heav'n 'ield it me,
At Beckett and Benedict saints,—not he!
So came we on where the wayfarer sees
Far Warwick fading behind the trees,
And Guy's great castle behind the town,
That “setter up,” and that “puller down.”
For “Stratford—ho!” our green road lay,
And I spake with my heart in the ancient day:
“Sweet! thou art fair for a prioress,
And I am an ‘Oxenforde clerke,’ no less;
Tell out some fable of ancient day!
I rede you to prove that woman may
Be as true as man!”—“Benedicite!”
“Hearken my story and judge,” quoth she.
Ever set forth on so fair a way.
Sooth! I doubt if a day so rare
Ever made pilgrimage half so fair.
But, certes! never did palmers go
To holier shrine than where he lies low,
Who miracles wrought for heart and eye:
The wonder of Imogen's constancy,
The airy marvels of Prospero's isle,
The magic of Queen Cleopatra's smile;
129
The patience and faith of Lear's leal daughter,
The Roman Portia's fond, firm heart,
And the Veronese lovers death did not part.
Something I laughed, Heav'n 'ield it me,
At Beckett and Benedict saints,—not he!
So came we on where the wayfarer sees
Far Warwick fading behind the trees,
And Guy's great castle behind the town,
That “setter up,” and that “puller down.”
For “Stratford—ho!” our green road lay,
And I spake with my heart in the ancient day:
“Sweet! thou art fair for a prioress,
And I am an ‘Oxenforde clerke,’ no less;
Tell out some fable of ancient day!
I rede you to prove that woman may
Be as true as man!”—“Benedicite!”
“Hearken my story and judge,” quoth she.
130
Vernier.
If ever thou shalt follow silver Seine
Through his French vineyards and French villages,
For love of love and pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there!
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark marshland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind to keep a memory of the dead,—
The bygone, silent dead; and these lie there,
Buried a twenty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough cold wave is closed above their grave,
Like the black cover of an ancient book
Over a tearful story.
Through his French vineyards and French villages,
For love of love and pity turn aside
At Vernier, and bear to linger there!
The gentle river doth so—lingering long
Round the dark marshland, and the pool Grand'mer,
And then with slower ripple steals away
Down from his merry Paris. Do thou this;
'Tis kind to keep a memory of the dead,—
The bygone, silent dead; and these lie there,
Buried a twenty fathoms in the pool,
Whose rough cold wave is closed above their grave,
Like the black cover of an ancient book
Over a tearful story.
Very lovely
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
After six hundred years are dead with her,
Her village name—the name a stranger hears—
Is, “La plus belle des belles;”—they tell him yet,
The glossy night-black pansies of the land
Lost depth in her dark hair; and that she owned
The noble Norman eye—the violet eye,
Almost—so far and fine its lashes drooped—
Darkened to purple:
Was Julie de Montargis: even now—
After six hundred years are dead with her,
Her village name—the name a stranger hears—
Is, “La plus belle des belles;”—they tell him yet,
The glossy night-black pansies of the land
131
The noble Norman eye—the violet eye,
Almost—so far and fine its lashes drooped—
Darkened to purple:
All the country-folk
Went lightly to their work at sight of her;
And all their children learned a grace by heart,
And said it with small lips when she went by,
The Lady of the Castle.
Went lightly to their work at sight of her;
And all their children learned a grace by heart,
And said it with small lips when she went by,
The Lady of the Castle.
Dear past words
Was all this beauty and this gentleness
Unto her first love and her playfellow,
Roland le Vavasour.
Was all this beauty and this gentleness
Unto her first love and her playfellow,
Roland le Vavasour.
Too dear to leave,
Save that his knightly vow to pluck a palm,
And bear the cross broidered above his heart,
To where upon the cross Christ died for him,
Led him away from loving.
Save that his knightly vow to pluck a palm,
And bear the cross broidered above his heart,
To where upon the cross Christ died for him,
Led him away from loving.
But a year,
And they shall meet—alas! to those that joy,
It is a pleasant season, all too short,
Made of white winter and of scarlet spring,
With fireside comfort and sweet summer-nights:
But parted lovers count the minutes up,
And see no sunshine.
And they shall meet—alas! to those that joy,
It is a pleasant season, all too short,
Made of white winter and of scarlet spring,
132
But parted lovers count the minutes up,
And see no sunshine.
Julie heeded none,
When she had belted on her Roland's sword,
Buckled his breastplate, and upon her lip
Taken his last long kisses.
When she had belted on her Roland's sword,
Buckled his breastplate, and upon her lip
Taken his last long kisses.
Listen now!
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And, deeply written on her heart, she kept
The night and hour the star of Love should see
A true love-meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as the swift sea-bird spread,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
Shield the hot Syrian sun from dazing him:
High on the turret many an autumn eve,
When the light, merry swallow tried his plumes
For foreign flight, she gave him messages,—
Fond messages of love, for Palestine,
Unto her knight. What wonder, loving so,
She greeted well the brother that he sent
From Ascalon with spoils—Claude Vavasour?
Could she do less?—he had so deft a hand
Upon the mandolin, and sang so well
What Roland did so bravely; nay, in sooth,
She had not heart to frown upon his songs,
When they sang other love and other deeds
Than Roland's, being brother to her lord.
Yet sometimes was she grave and sad of eye,
For knowledge of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Ah! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it soon,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
For brother-love and shame; but, once and twice,
Julie had seen them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the drawn white lips
Working for grief, because she smiled again.
She was no light-o'-love, to change and change,
And, deeply written on her heart, she kept
The night and hour the star of Love should see
A true love-meeting. Walking by the pool,
Many a time she longed to wear a wing,
As fleet and white as the swift sea-bird spread,
That she might hover over Roland's sails,
Follow him to the field, and in the battle
Shield the hot Syrian sun from dazing him:
High on the turret many an autumn eve,
When the light, merry swallow tried his plumes
For foreign flight, she gave him messages,—
Fond messages of love, for Palestine,
Unto her knight. What wonder, loving so,
133
From Ascalon with spoils—Claude Vavasour?
Could she do less?—he had so deft a hand
Upon the mandolin, and sang so well
What Roland did so bravely; nay, in sooth,
She had not heart to frown upon his songs,
When they sang other love and other deeds
Than Roland's, being brother to her lord.
Yet sometimes was she grave and sad of eye,
For knowledge of the spell her glance could work
Upon its watcher. Ah! he came to serve,
And stayed to love her; and she knew it soon,
Past all concealment. Oftentimes his eyes,
Fastened upon her face, fell suddenly,
For brother-love and shame; but, once and twice,
Julie had seen them, through her tender tears,
Fixed on some messenger from Holy Land
With wild significance, the drawn white lips
Working for grief, because she smiled again.
He spake no love—he breathed no passionate tale,
Till there came one who told how Roland's sword,
From heel to point, dripped with the Paynim blood;
How Ascalon had watched, and Joppa's lists,
And Gaza, and Nicæa's noble fight,
His chivalry; and how, with palm-branch won,
Bringing his honours and his wounds a-front,
His prow was cleaving Genoa's sapphire sea,
Bound homewards. Then, the last day of the year,
Claude brought his unused charger to the gate,
Sprang to the broad strong back, and reined its rage
Into a marble stillness. Yet more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
More marble-white.
Till there came one who told how Roland's sword,
134
How Ascalon had watched, and Joppa's lists,
And Gaza, and Nicæa's noble fight,
His chivalry; and how, with palm-branch won,
Bringing his honours and his wounds a-front,
His prow was cleaving Genoa's sapphire sea,
Bound homewards. Then, the last day of the year,
Claude brought his unused charger to the gate,
Sprang to the broad strong back, and reined its rage
Into a marble stillness. Yet more still,
Young Claude le Vavasour, thy visage was,
More marble-white.
She stood to see him pass,
And their yes met; and, full of tears were hers
To mark his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed low,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
So riding on.
And their yes met; and, full of tears were hers
To mark his suffering; and she called his name,
And came below the gate; but he bowed low,
And thrust the vizor close over his face,
So riding on.
Before St. Ouen's shrine
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With fleeting gleams of fitful moonlight sent
'Twixt driving clouds: the grey stone statues gleamed
Through the gloom ghost-like; the still effigies
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by pale crimsons and faint amethysts
That fell along them from the oriels;
And if she broke the silence with a step,
It seemed the echo lent them speech again
To speak in ghostly whispers; while, o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
Knitting his granite brows, bidding her hope
No lover's kiss that night—no loving kiss—
None—though there came the whisper of her name,
And a chill sleety blast of wintry wind
Moaning about the tombs, and striking her,
For fear, down to her knees.
That night the lady watched—a sombre night,
With fleeting gleams of fitful moonlight sent
'Twixt driving clouds: the grey stone statues gleamed
135
Of knight and abbess had a show of life,
Lit by pale crimsons and faint amethysts
That fell along them from the oriels;
And if she broke the silence with a step,
It seemed the echo lent them speech again
To speak in ghostly whispers; while, o'er all,
With a weird paleness midnight might not hide,
Straight from the wall St. Ouen looked upon her,
Knitting his granite brows, bidding her hope
No lover's kiss that night—no loving kiss—
None—though there came the whisper of her name,
And a chill sleety blast of wintry wind
Moaning about the tombs, and striking her,
For fear, down to her knees.
That opened porch
Brought more than wind and whisper; there were steps,
And the dim wave of a white gaberdine—
Horribly dim; and then the voice again,
As though the dead called Julie. Was it dead,
The form which, at the holy altar foot,
Stood spectral in the flickering window-lights?
It does not turn, nor speak, nor seek for her,
But passes thro' the chancel, grim and still!
Ah, Holy Mother! dead—and in its hand
The pennon of Sir Roland, and the palm,
Both laid so stilly on the altar front;
A presence like a knight, clad in close mail
From spur to crest, yet from his armed heel
No footfall; a white face, white as the stones,
Lit by the moonlight long enough to know
How the dead kept his tryst; and It was gone,
Leaving the lady on the flags, ice-cold.
Brought more than wind and whisper; there were steps,
And the dim wave of a white gaberdine—
Horribly dim; and then the voice again,
As though the dead called Julie. Was it dead,
The form which, at the holy altar foot,
Stood spectral in the flickering window-lights?
136
But passes thro' the chancel, grim and still!
Ah, Holy Mother! dead—and in its hand
The pennon of Sir Roland, and the palm,
Both laid so stilly on the altar front;
A presence like a knight, clad in close mail
From spur to crest, yet from his armed heel
No footfall; a white face, white as the stones,
Lit by the moonlight long enough to know
How the dead kept his tryst; and It was gone,
Leaving the lady on the flags, ice-cold.
Oh, gentle River! thou that knowest all,
Tell them how for a while she mourned her Knight;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her fading cheek;
And say, bright River! lest they do her wrong,
All the sad story of those twenty moons,
The true-love dead—the true-love that lived on—
Her clinging memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
And ask them, River, for Saint Charity,
To think not too much wrong, that so she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
The Brother of her Lord.—
Tell them how for a while she mourned her Knight;
How her grief withered all the rose-bloom off,
And wrote its record on her fading cheek;
And say, bright River! lest they do her wrong,
All the sad story of those twenty moons,
The true-love dead—the true-love that lived on—
Her clinging memories, and Claude's generous praise,
Claude's silent service, and her tearful thanks;
137
To think not too much wrong, that so she gave,
Her heart being given and gone, her hand to him,
The Brother of her Lord.—
Now banish care!
Soothe it with flutings, startle it with drums!
Trick it with gold and velvets, till it glow
Into a seeming pleasure. Ah, vain! vain!
When the bride weeps, what wedding-gear is gay?
And since the dawn she weeps—at orisons
She wept—and while her women clasped the zone,
Among its jewels fell her mocking tears.
Now at the altar all her answers sigh;
Wilt thou?—Ah! fearful altar-memories—
Ah! spirit-lover—if he saw me now!
Wilt thou?—“Oh me! if that he saw me now!”
He doth, he doth! beneath St. Ouen there,
As white and still—yon monk whose cowl is back!
Wilt thou?—“Ah, dear love, listen and look up.”
He doth—ah God! with hollow eyes a-fire.
Wilt thou?—pale quivering lips, pale bloodless lips—
“I will not—never—never—Roland—never!”
So went the bride a-swoon to Vernier;
So doffed each guest his silken braveries;
So followed Claude, heart-stricken and amazed,
And left the Chapel. But the monk left last,
And down the hill-side, swift and straight and lone,
Sandals and brown serge brushed the yellow broom,
Till to the lake he came and loosed his skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the wavelets. Long ago
The people of the lonely water knew
He came alone to dwell there—'twas the night
Of Lady Julie's vigil; ever since
The simple fishers left their silver tithe
Of lake-fish for him on the wave-worn flags,
Wherefrom he wandered not, save when that day
He went unasked, and marred the bridal show,—
Wherefore none knew, nor how,—save two alone,
A lady swooning—and a monk at prayers.
Soothe it with flutings, startle it with drums!
Trick it with gold and velvets, till it glow
Into a seeming pleasure. Ah, vain! vain!
When the bride weeps, what wedding-gear is gay?
And since the dawn she weeps—at orisons
She wept—and while her women clasped the zone,
Among its jewels fell her mocking tears.
Now at the altar all her answers sigh;
Wilt thou?—Ah! fearful altar-memories—
Ah! spirit-lover—if he saw me now!
Wilt thou?—“Oh me! if that he saw me now!”
He doth, he doth! beneath St. Ouen there,
As white and still—yon monk whose cowl is back!
Wilt thou?—“Ah, dear love, listen and look up.”
He doth—ah God! with hollow eyes a-fire.
Wilt thou?—pale quivering lips, pale bloodless lips—
“I will not—never—never—Roland—never!”
138
So doffed each guest his silken braveries;
So followed Claude, heart-stricken and amazed,
And left the Chapel. But the monk left last,
And down the hill-side, swift and straight and lone,
Sandals and brown serge brushed the yellow broom,
Till to the lake he came and loosed his skiff,
And paddled to the lonely island-cell
Midway over the wavelets. Long ago
The people of the lonely water knew
He came alone to dwell there—'twas the night
Of Lady Julie's vigil; ever since
The simple fishers left their silver tithe
Of lake-fish for him on the wave-worn flags,
Wherefrom he wandered not, save when that day
He went unasked, and marred the bridal show,—
Wherefore none knew, nor how,—save two alone,
A lady swooning—and a monk at prayers.
And now not Castle-gates, nor cell, nor swoon,
Nor splashing waters, nor the flooded marsh,
Can keep these two apart. The Chapel-bells
Ring Angelus and Even-song, and then
Sleep, like her waiting maidens—only Blanche,
Her foster-sister, lying at the gate,
Dreaming of roving spirits—starts at one,
And marvels at the night-gear, poorly hid,
And overdone with pity at her plaint,
Lets her dear Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—but lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
Nor splashing waters, nor the flooded marsh,
139
Ring Angelus and Even-song, and then
Sleep, like her waiting maidens—only Blanche,
Her foster-sister, lying at the gate,
Dreaming of roving spirits—starts at one,
And marvels at the night-gear, poorly hid,
And overdone with pity at her plaint,
Lets her dear Lady forth, and watches her
Gleaming from crag to crag—but lost at last,
A white speck on the night.
More watchful eyes
Follow her flying;—down the water-path,
Mad at his broken bridals, sore amazed
With fear and pain, Claude tracks the wanderer—
Waits, while the wild white fingers loose the cord—
But when she drove the shallop through the lake
Straight for the island-cell, he brooked no stay,
But doffed his steel-coat on the reedy rim,
And gave himself to the quick-plashing pool,
And swimming in the foam her fleetness made,
Strove after—sometimes losing his white guide,
Down-sinking in the dark wash of the waves.
Together to the island-cell they come,
The shallop and the swimmer—she alone
Thrusts at the wicket,—enters wet and wild.
What sees he there under the crucifix?
What holds his eyesight to the ivied loop?
Oh, Claude!—oh furious heart! be still, or break!
The Monk and Julie kneeling, not at prayer!
She kisses him with warm, wild, eager lips—
Weeps on his heart—that woman, nearly wived,
And “Sweetest love,” she saith, “I thought thee dead.”
And he—who is he that he fondles so
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my lost love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not
In the dim moonlight of the midnight aisle;
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Now, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with close caress;
She fondles the thin neck, and clasps thereon
The gorget! then the breast-piece and the helm
Her quick hands fasten. “Come away,” she cries,
“Thou Knight, and take me from them all for thine.
Come, true-love! come.” The pebbles, water-washed,
Grate with the gliding of the shallop's keel,
Scarce bearing up those twain.
Follow her flying;—down the water-path,
Mad at his broken bridals, sore amazed
With fear and pain, Claude tracks the wanderer—
Waits, while the wild white fingers loose the cord—
But when she drove the shallop through the lake
Straight for the island-cell, he brooked no stay,
But doffed his steel-coat on the reedy rim,
And gave himself to the quick-plashing pool,
And swimming in the foam her fleetness made,
Strove after—sometimes losing his white guide,
Down-sinking in the dark wash of the waves.
140
The shallop and the swimmer—she alone
Thrusts at the wicket,—enters wet and wild.
What sees he there under the crucifix?
What holds his eyesight to the ivied loop?
Oh, Claude!—oh furious heart! be still, or break!
The Monk and Julie kneeling, not at prayer!
She kisses him with warm, wild, eager lips—
Weeps on his heart—that woman, nearly wived,
And “Sweetest love,” she saith, “I thought thee dead.”
And he—who is he that he fondles so
In his her shaking hands, and bends adown,
Crying, “Ah, my lost love! it was no ghost
That left the palm-branch; but I saw thee not
In the dim moonlight of the midnight aisle;
And heard their talk of Claude, and held thee false,
These many erring days.” Now, gaze no more,
Claude, Claude, for thy soul's peace! She binds the brand
About his gaberdine, with close caress;
She fondles the thin neck, and clasps thereon
The gorget! then the breast-piece and the helm
141
“Thou Knight, and take me from them all for thine.
Come, true-love! come.” The pebbles, water-washed,
Grate with the gliding of the shallop's keel,
Scarce bearing up those twain.
Frail boat, be strong!
Three lives are thine to keep—ah, Lady pale,
Choose of two lovers—for the other comes
With a wild bound that shakes the rotten plank.
Moon! shine out clear for Claude's avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not,—yet stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!”—“Claude, ah, brother mine!”—
“I thought thee dead!”—“I would that I had died
Ere this had come!”—“Just God! but she is thine!”—
“He wills her not for either! look, we fill,
The current drifts us, and the oars are gone,
I will leap forth!”—“Now by the breast we sucked,
So shalt thou not: let the black waters break
Over a broken heart!”—“Nay, tell him no;
Bid him to save thee, Julie—I will leap!”
So strove they sinking, sinking—Julie bending
Between them; and those brothers over her
With knees and arms close locked for leave to die
Each for the other;—while the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the black wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the love of those great troubled hearts
With silence, save for lapping of the lake.
Three lives are thine to keep—ah, Lady pale,
Choose of two lovers—for the other comes
With a wild bound that shakes the rotten plank.
Moon! shine out clear for Claude's avenging blow!
She glitters on a quiet face and form
That shuns it not,—yet stays the lifted death.
“My brother Roland!”—“Claude, ah, brother mine!”—
“I thought thee dead!”—“I would that I had died
Ere this had come!”—“Just God! but she is thine!”—
“He wills her not for either! look, we fill,
The current drifts us, and the oars are gone,
I will leap forth!”—“Now by the breast we sucked,
So shalt thou not: let the black waters break
Over a broken heart!”—“Nay, tell him no;
Bid him to save thee, Julie—I will leap!”
So strove they sinking, sinking—Julie bending
142
With knees and arms close locked for leave to die
Each for the other;—while the Moon shone down,
Silvering their far-off home, and the black wave
That struck, and rose, and floated over them,
Hushing their death-cries, hiding their kind strife,
Ending the love of those great troubled hearts
With silence, save for lapping of the lake.
“Verily!” spake I, “a troubled dame!
Sweet! grand' merci for this same!
Tender and fair is the chronicle
That Vernier taught thee featly to tell!
Tenderer, fairer its lessons seem
From lips which speak and eyes which beam
So true a truth, and so fast a faith,
Oh Love, whom I love for life and for death!—
But thou in thy turn have heed to me;
I know a story of constancy
Where woman was changeful, and man was true:
Peradventure, Kate! I shall tell it through
Before we come where Shakespeare's bones
Make holy walking of Stratford stones!
Sweet! grand' merci for this same!
Tender and fair is the chronicle
That Vernier taught thee featly to tell!
Tenderer, fairer its lessons seem
From lips which speak and eyes which beam
So true a truth, and so fast a faith,
Oh Love, whom I love for life and for death!—
But thou in thy turn have heed to me;
I know a story of constancy
Where woman was changeful, and man was true:
Peradventure, Kate! I shall tell it through
143
Make holy walking of Stratford stones!
“Nay, but recount!” she softly said,
Doubtfully tossing a wilful head:
And hand in hand, in the shade of the limes,
I told this tale of the Saracen times.
Doubtfully tossing a wilful head:
And hand in hand, in the shade of the limes,
I told this tale of the Saracen times.
KING SALADIN.
Long years ago—so writes Boccaccio
In such Italian gentleness of speech
As finds no echo in this northern air
To counterpart its music—long ago,
When Saladin was Soldan of the East,
The kings let cry a general crusade;
And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy
The idle lances of the North and West
Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down
Into a lake, from all its hanging hills,
The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.
In such Italian gentleness of speech
As finds no echo in this northern air
To counterpart its music—long ago,
When Saladin was Soldan of the East,
The kings let cry a general crusade;
And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy
The idle lances of the North and West
Rode all that spring, as all the spring runs down
Into a lake, from all its hanging hills,
The clash and glitter of a hundred streams.
Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin;
And that swart king—as royal in his heart
As any crownèd champion of the Cross—
That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn
The purpose of the lords of Christendom,
And when their war and what their armament,
Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.
Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain,
All habited in garbs that merchants use,
With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts
Which best loved mail and dagger, Saladin
Set forth upon his journey perilous.
And that swart king—as royal in his heart
144
That he might fully, of his knowledge, learn
The purpose of the lords of Christendom,
And when their war and what their armament,
Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy.
Wherefore, with wise and trustful Amirs twain,
All habited in garbs that merchants use,
With trader's band and gipsire on the breasts
Which best loved mail and dagger, Saladin
Set forth upon his journey perilous.
In that day, lordly land was Lombardy!
A sea of country-plenty, islanded
With cities rich; nor richer one than thou,
Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn—
With ear that little recked the matin-bell,
But a keen eye to measure wall and fosse—
The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode
For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine,
And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not
Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.
All day he rode; yet at the wane of day
No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,
Nor Tessin's sparkle underneath the stars
Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware
Of a gay company upon the way,
Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds;
Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind
Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the king
To one that rode upon his better hand,
“And pray these gentles of their courtesy
How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates
What hour they close them?” Then the Saracen
Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed
First of the hunt, he told the message—they
Checking their jangling bits, and chiding down
The unfinished laugh, to listen—but by this
Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand,
Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said
(Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria),
“They shut the Pavian gate at even-song,
And even-song is sung.” Then, turning half,
Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful,
A stranger too!” “Fair lord!” quoth Saladin,
“Please you to stead some weary travellers,
Saying where we may lodge, the town so far
And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,”
Made answer Torel, “I did think but now
To send my knave an errand—he shall ride
And bring you into lodgment—oh! no thanks,
Our Lady keep you!” then with whispered hest
He called their guide and sped them. Being gone,
Torello told his purpose, and the band,
With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,
Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set
A goodly banquet underneath the planes,
And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon
Welcomed those wondering strangers, thereto led
Unwitting, by a world of winding paths;
Messer Torello, at the inner gate,
Waiting to take them in—a winsome host,
Stamped current with God's image for a man
Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free
A sea of country-plenty, islanded
With cities rich; nor richer one than thou,
Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn—
With ear that little recked the matin-bell,
But a keen eye to measure wall and fosse—
The Soldan rode; and all day long he rode
For Pavia; passing basilic, and shrine,
And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not
Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse.
All day he rode; yet at the wane of day
No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire,
145
Promised him Pavia; but he was 'ware
Of a gay company upon the way,
Ladies and lords, with horses, hawks, and hounds;
Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered by the wind
Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the king
To one that rode upon his better hand,
“And pray these gentles of their courtesy
How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates
What hour they close them?” Then the Saracen
Set spur, and being joined to him that seemed
First of the hunt, he told the message—they
Checking their jangling bits, and chiding down
The unfinished laugh, to listen—but by this
Came up the king, his bonnet in his hand,
Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said
(Messer Torello 'twas, of Istria),
“They shut the Pavian gate at even-song,
And even-song is sung.” Then, turning half,
Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful,
A stranger too!” “Fair lord!” quoth Saladin,
“Please you to stead some weary travellers,
146
And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,”
Made answer Torel, “I did think but now
To send my knave an errand—he shall ride
And bring you into lodgment—oh! no thanks,
Our Lady keep you!” then with whispered hest
He called their guide and sped them. Being gone,
Torello told his purpose, and the band,
With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains,
Rode for his hunting-palace, where they set
A goodly banquet underneath the planes,
And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon
Welcomed those wondering strangers, thereto led
Unwitting, by a world of winding paths;
Messer Torello, at the inner gate,
Waiting to take them in—a winsome host,
Stamped current with God's image for a man
Chief among men, truthful, and just, and free
There he, “Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave
Hath found you shelter better than the worst:
Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed,
Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin,
Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy,
Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame,
You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed,
And travellers' questions holding you afield,
For such you give us this.” “Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
That is not out of Pavia.” Thereupon
He led them to fair chambers decked with all
Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew.
Hath found you shelter better than the worst:
Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed,
Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin,
147
Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight, and this much blame,
You spoil us for our trade! two bonnets doffed,
And travellers' questions holding you afield,
For such you give us this.” “Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
That is not out of Pavia.” Thereupon
He led them to fair chambers decked with all
Makes tired men glad; lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, liquid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from evening dew.
Thereafter at the supper-board they sat;
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worth provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held that stranger-sir,
For all his chapman's dress of cramasie,
Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre:
“I go myself,” said Torel, “with a score
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin's.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?” Answer gave the king,
“The Soldan we have seen—'twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, alas!
Be Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace.” “By Mary!” Torel cried,
“But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat
Liker a soldier's where thy sword should be;
But sure I hold you sleepless!” Then himself
Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led them to restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, Who hears—Allah or God—
When good men do his creatures charities.
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worth provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held that stranger-sir,
For all his chapman's dress of cramasie,
Goodlier than silks could make him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre:
148
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin's.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?” Answer gave the king,
“The Soldan we have seen—'twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, you Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, alas!
Be Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace.” “By Mary!” Torel cried,
“But for thy word, I ne'er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a hand that sat
Liker a soldier's where thy sword should be;
But sure I hold you sleepless!” Then himself
Playing the chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led them to restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, Who hears—Allah or God—
When good men do his creatures charities.
At dawn the cock, and neigh of saddled steeds,
Broke the king's dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them; he their host
Up, with a gracious radiance like the sun,
To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she,
And of her port as queenly, and serene
As if the braided gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
“A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife's thought! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them.” Then Saladin—
“A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a ‘no’ from me—
Past my receiving; yet I take it; we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us.”
“Nay, sir,—God shield you!” said the knight and dame:
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
Swore a great oath in guttural Arabic,
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode—
That never yet was princelier-natured man,
Nor gentler lady;—and that time should see
For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.
Broke the king's dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello's stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them; he their host
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To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta; comely she,
And of her port as queenly, and serene
As if the braided gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
“A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife's thought! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them.” Then Saladin—
“A precious gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a ‘no’ from me—
Past my receiving; yet I take it; we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us.”
“Nay, sir,—God shield you!” said the knight and dame:
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
150
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode—
That never yet was princelier-natured man,
Nor gentler lady;—and that time should see
For a king's lodging quittance royal repaid.
It was the day of the Passaggio:
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bits;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring chains:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers—
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads—
Cooled in the crowd which filled the squares and streets
To speed God's soldiers. At the nones that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;—sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
“Goest thou, lord of mine?” “Madonna, yes!”
Said Torel, “for my soul's weal and the Lord
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and—because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then, if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thy heart.” “Good my lord!” answered she,
“Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one love, Torel of Istria,
Live, or ------” “Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it —” “Nay!” she said, “but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
Give that gift back, and with it this poor ring:
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me.”
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
Ashore the war-steeds champed the burnished bits;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring chains:
The town was out; the Lombard armourers—
Red-hot with riveting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads—
Cooled in the crowd which filled the squares and streets
To speed God's soldiers. At the nones that day
Messer Torello to the gate came down,
Leading his lady;—sorrow's hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
“Goest thou, lord of mine?” “Madonna, yes!”
151
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I intrust thee, and—because
It may be they shall slay me, and because,
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
Then, if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And if I be not come, hold me for dead;
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thy heart.” “Good my lord!” answered she,
“Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one love, Torel of Istria,
Live, or ------” “Sweet, comfort thee! San Pietro speed!
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it —” “Nay!” she said, “but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
152
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking of me.”
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have its hot will and go.
But Saladin,
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross.
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
Held off the heathen:—held them off a space;
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their quest, awaited it,
And held the Crescent up against the Cross.
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted afield; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to Christ's sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last, in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms; day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
153
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
So to sad chains and hateful servitude
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom's stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never one so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often, in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a feigned anger checking at his hand,
The good grey falcon made his master cheer.
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom's stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never one so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often, in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a feigned anger checking at his hand,
The good grey falcon made his master cheer.
One day it chanced Saladin rode afield
With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks—
Lebanon-bred, and mewed as princes lodge—
Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist,
And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath,
Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer,
And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh—
“There is a Frank in prison by the sea,
Far-seen herein.” “Give word that he be brought,”
Quoth Saladin, “and bid him set a cast:
If he hath skill, it shall go well for him.”
With shawled and turbaned Amirs, and his hawks—
154
Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist,
And slighted call. The Soldan, quick in wrath,
Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer,
And seek some wight who knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh—
“There is a Frank in prison by the sea,
Far-seen herein.” “Give word that he be brought,”
Quoth Saladin, “and bid him set a cast:
If he hath skill, it shall go well for him.”
Thus, by the winding path of circumstance,
One palace held, as prisoner and prince,
Torello and his guest: unwitting each,
Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake
Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge,
And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time
Some trick of face, the manner of some smile,
Some gleam of sunset from the glad days gone,
Caught the king's eye, and held it. “Nazarene!
What native art thou?” asked he. “Lombard I,
A man of Pavia.” “And thy name?” “Torel,
Messer Torello called in happier times,
Now best uncalled.” “Come hither, Christian!”
The Soldan said, and led the way, by court
And hall and fountain, to an inner room
Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown,
And “Know'st thou this?” he asked. “High lord! I might
Elsewhere,” quoth Torel, “here 'twere mad to say
Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave
Who shared our board.” “Nay, but that gown is this,
And she the giver, and the trader I,”
Quoth Saladin; “I! twice a king to-day,
Owing a royal debt and paying it.”
Then Torel, sore amazed, “Great lord, I blush,
Remembering how the Master of the East
Lodged sorrily.” “It's Master's Master thou!”
Gave answer Saladin, “come in and see
What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home;
Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend!”
Therewith into the circle of his lords,
With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave;
And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him
First of the full divan. “Orient lords,”
So spake he,—“let the one who loves his king
Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king;
He is my brother:” then the night-black beards
Swept the stone floor in ready reverence,
Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel:
And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend
Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand,
Shining, the bright star of the banqueters.
One palace held, as prisoner and prince,
Torello and his guest: unwitting each,
Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake
Of that goshawk and this—signors in serge,
And chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time
Some trick of face, the manner of some smile,
Some gleam of sunset from the glad days gone,
Caught the king's eye, and held it. “Nazarene!
What native art thou?” asked he. “Lombard I,
A man of Pavia.” “And thy name?” “Torel,
155
Now best uncalled.” “Come hither, Christian!”
The Soldan said, and led the way, by court
And hall and fountain, to an inner room
Rich with king's robes: therefrom he reached a gown,
And “Know'st thou this?” he asked. “High lord! I might
Elsewhere,” quoth Torel, “here 'twere mad to say
Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave
Who shared our board.” “Nay, but that gown is this,
And she the giver, and the trader I,”
Quoth Saladin; “I! twice a king to-day,
Owing a royal debt and paying it.”
Then Torel, sore amazed, “Great lord, I blush,
Remembering how the Master of the East
Lodged sorrily.” “It's Master's Master thou!”
Gave answer Saladin, “come in and see
What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home;
Come forth and take thy place, Saladin's friend!”
Therewith into the circle of his lords,
With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave;
And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him
156
So spake he,—“let the one who loves his king
Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king;
He is my brother:” then the night-black beards
Swept the stone floor in ready reverence,
Agas and Amirs welcoming Torel:
And a great feast was set, the Soldan's friend
Royally garbed, upon the Soldan's hand,
Shining, the bright star of the banqueters.
All which, and the abounding grace and love
Shown him by Saladin, a little held
The heart of Torel from its Lombard home
With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced
He sat beside the king in audience,
And there came one who said, “Oh, Lord of lords,
That galley of the Genovese which sailed
With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.”
“Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend,
To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin;
“One galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!”
“Good my liege!” Torel said, “it bore a scroll
Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived;
For in a year, a month, and day, not come,
I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am,
Albeit living, if my lady wed,
Perchance constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin,
“A noble dame—the like not won, once lost—
How many days remain?” “Ten days, my prince,
And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me:
Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin—
“Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear
To come again if all go well with thee,
Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king,
Out of true love,” quoth Torel, “heartfully.”
Then Saladin, “Take here my signet-seal;
My admiral will loose his swiftest sail
Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go
And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends
A gift, remindful of her courtesies.”
Shown him by Saladin, a little held
The heart of Torel from its Lombard home
With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced
He sat beside the king in audience,
And there came one who said, “Oh, Lord of lords,
That galley of the Genovese which sailed
With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.”
“Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend,
To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin;
157
“Good my liege!” Torel said, “it bore a scroll
Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived;
For in a year, a month, and day, not come,
I bade them hold me dead; and dead I am,
Albeit living, if my lady wed,
Perchance constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin,
“A noble dame—the like not won, once lost—
How many days remain?” “Ten days, my prince,
And twelvescore leagues between my heart and me:
Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin—
“Lo! I am loath to lose thee—wilt thou swear
To come again if all go well with thee,
Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king,
Out of true love,” quoth Torel, “heartfully.”
Then Saladin, “Take here my signet-seal;
My admiral will loose his swiftest sail
Upon its sight; and cleave the seas, and go
And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends
A gift, remindful of her courtesies.”
Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed
Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel's name,
Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians:
For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves,
A lovely widow, much too gay for grief,
Made peals from half a hundred campaniles
To ring a wedding in. The seven bells
Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon,
Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out;
Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound,
Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan,
Leading his swinked ringers down the stairs,
Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys
Jingling their little peal about his belt—
Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch,
A foreign signor, browned with southern suns,
Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use,
Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—'twas a tongue
Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth—
“Why are your belfries busy—is it peace
Or victory, that so ye din the ears
Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!”
Grunted the sacristan, “who knowest not
That Dame Adalieta weds to-night
Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she,
That died i' the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said.
“Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night!
And you shall see a goodly Christian feast
If so you pass their gates at even-song,
For all are asked.”
158
Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians:
For Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves,
A lovely widow, much too gay for grief,
Made peals from half a hundred campaniles
To ring a wedding in. The seven bells
Of Santo Pietro, from the nones to noon,
Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out;
Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound,
Cracked itself dumb. Thereat the sacristan,
Leading his swinked ringers down the stairs,
Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys
Jingling their little peal about his belt—
Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch,
A foreign signor, browned with southern suns,
Turbaned and slippered, as the Muslims use,
Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—'twas a tongue
Italian true, but in a Muslim mouth—
“Why are your belfries busy—is it peace
Or victory, that so ye din the ears
Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!”
159
That Dame Adalieta weds to-night
Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel's widow she,
That died i' the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said.
“Ay, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night!
And you shall see a goodly Christian feast
If so you pass their gates at even-song,
For all are asked.”
No more the questioner,
But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood,
Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words
Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!—
And this the square wherein I gave the joust,
And that the loggia, where I fed the poor;
And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!—
They robe her for a bridal. Can it be?
Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons,
The heart that beat on mine as it would break,
That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false—
Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast,
And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.”
But folded o'er his face the Eastern hood,
Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words
Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!—
And this the square wherein I gave the joust,
And that the loggia, where I fed the poor;
And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!—
They robe her for a bridal. Can it be?
Clean out of heart, with twice six flying moons,
The heart that beat on mine as it would break,
That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false—
Well! I will sit, wife, at thy wedding-feast,
And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.”
160
So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed
Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them
The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them,
A stranger in the walls that called him lord.
Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright,
And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors
The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood,
A-glitter from his forehead to his foot,
Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly sir,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet,
Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat
Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died—
Outdone by merrier laughter:—only one
Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed
On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls,
Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer,
At the bride-feast.
Feastward at eve, went Torel; passed with them
The outer gates, crossed the great courts with them,
A stranger in the walls that called him lord.
Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright,
And rose-leaves strewed to where within the doors
The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood,
A-glitter from his forehead to his foot,
Speaking fair welcomes. He, a courtly sir,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him sweet,
Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat
Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died—
Outdone by merrier laughter:—only one
Nor ate nor drank, nor spoke nor smiled; but gazed
On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls,
Who sate so cold and still, and sad of cheer,
At the bride-feast.
But of a truth, Torel
Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down,
And knew her loyal to her memories.
Then to a little page who bore the wine,
He spake, “Go tell thy lady thus from me:
In mine own land, if any stranger sit
A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace,
In token that she knows her guest's good-will,
In token she repays it, brims a cup,
Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink;
So is our use.” The little page made speed
And told the message. Then that lady pale—
Ever a gentle and a courteous heart—
Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent
On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched,
Stood the brimmed gold; “Bear this,” she said, “and pray
He hold a Christian lady apt to learn
A kindly lesson.” But Sir Torel loosed
From off his finger—never loosed before—
The ring she gave him on the parting day;
And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard
Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.—
So she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink;
And—something in the Cyprus touching them—
Glanced—gazed—the ring!—her ring!—Jove! how she eyes
The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure,
Under all guise knowing her lord returned,
She springs to meet him coming!—telling all
In one great cry of joy.
Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down,
And knew her loyal to her memories.
161
He spake, “Go tell thy lady thus from me:
In mine own land, if any stranger sit
A wedding-guest, the bride, out of her grace,
In token that she knows her guest's good-will,
In token she repays it, brims a cup,
Wherefrom he drinking she in turn doth drink;
So is our use.” The little page made speed
And told the message. Then that lady pale—
Ever a gentle and a courteous heart—
Lifted her troubled eyes and smiled consent
On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched,
Stood the brimmed gold; “Bear this,” she said, “and pray
He hold a Christian lady apt to learn
A kindly lesson.” But Sir Torel loosed
From off his finger—never loosed before—
The ring she gave him on the parting day;
And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard
Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.—
So she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink;
And—something in the Cyprus touching them—
162
The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure,
Under all guise knowing her lord returned,
She springs to meet him coming!—telling all
In one great cry of joy.
Good Lord! the rout,
The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake
His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife
Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom.
All hearts save his were light to see Torel;
But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked
The bridal-veil away. Something therein—
A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine—
Clashed out upon the marble. “Wherefore that?”
Asked Torel; answered she, “I knew you true;
And I could live, so long as I might wait;
But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace
Ended to-night—and I had ended too,
Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come.”
The storm of questions! stilled, when Torel spake
His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife
Maugre the wasted feast, and woful groom.
All hearts save his were light to see Torel;
But Adalieta's lightest, as she plucked
The bridal-veil away. Something therein—
A lady's dagger—small, and bright, and fine—
Clashed out upon the marble. “Wherefore that?”
Asked Torel; answered she, “I knew you true;
And I could live, so long as I might wait;
But they—they pressed me hard! my days of grace
Ended to-night—and I had ended too,
Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come.”
163
“God quit all gentle lovers,” quoth she,
“And give them grace for their constancy,
For this, from Boccace, sheweth, of both,
That true-love ever begetteth troth!
Peace have they now in the changeless rest
Where he is gone, whom thou lovest best,
The Master of poets, whose own words prove
It ‘never ran smooth,’ the ‘course of love!’
Since here is Stratford, and yonder wave
Is lilied Avon's, which girdles his grave!”
“And give them grace for their constancy,
For this, from Boccace, sheweth, of both,
That true-love ever begetteth troth!
Peace have they now in the changeless rest
Where he is gone, whom thou lovest best,
The Master of poets, whose own words prove
It ‘never ran smooth,’ the ‘course of love!’
Since here is Stratford, and yonder wave
Is lilied Avon's, which girdles his grave!”
So came we, two of one heart and age
Making our pious pilgrimage!
Making our pious pilgrimage!
164
THE RAJAH'S RIDE.
A PUNJAB SONG.
Now is the Devil-horse come to Sindh!
Wah! wah! Gooroo!—that is true!
His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind,
But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!
Wah! wah! Gooroo!—that is true!
His belly is stuffed with the fire and the wind,
But a fleeter steed had Runjeet Dehu!
It's forty koss from Lahore to the ford,
Forty and more to far Jummoo;
Fast may go the Feringhee lord,
But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!
Forty and more to far Jummoo;
Fast may go the Feringhee lord,
But never so fast as Runjeet Dehu!
Runjeet Dehu was King of the Hill,
Lord and eagle of every crest;
Now the swords and the spears are still,
God will have it—and God knows best!
Lord and eagle of every crest;
Now the swords and the spears are still,
God will have it—and God knows best!
165
Rajah Runjeet sate in the sky,
Watching the loaded Kafilas in;
Affghan, Kashmeree, passing by,
Paid him pushm to save their skin.
Watching the loaded Kafilas in;
Affghan, Kashmeree, passing by,
Paid him pushm to save their skin.
Once he caracoled into the plain,
Wah! the sparkle of steel on steel!
And up the pass came singing again
With a lakh of silver borne at his heel.
Wah! the sparkle of steel on steel!
And up the pass came singing again
With a lakh of silver borne at his heel.
Once he trusted the Mussulman's word,
Wah! wah! trust a liar to lie!
Down from his eyrie they tempted my Bird,
And clipped his wings that he could not fly.
Wah! wah! trust a liar to lie!
Down from his eyrie they tempted my Bird,
And clipped his wings that he could not fly.
Fettered him fast in far Lahore,
Fast by the gate at the Runchenee Pûl;
Sad was the soul of Chunda Kour,
Glad the merchants of rich Kurnool.
Fast by the gate at the Runchenee Pûl;
Sad was the soul of Chunda Kour,
Glad the merchants of rich Kurnool.
Ten months Runjeet lay in Lahore—
Wah! a hero's heart is brass!
Ten months never did Chunda Kour
Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.
Wah! a hero's heart is brass!
Ten months never did Chunda Kour
Braid her hair at the tiring-glass.
166
There came a steed from Toorkistan,
Wah! God made him to match the hawk!
Fast beside him the four grooms ran,
To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.
Wah! God made him to match the hawk!
Fast beside him the four grooms ran,
To keep abreast of the Toorkman's walk.
Black as the bear on Iskardoo;
Savage at heart as a tiger chained;
Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,
Never a Muslim could ride him reined.
Savage at heart as a tiger chained;
Fleeter than hawk that ever flew,
Never a Muslim could ride him reined.
“Runjeet Dehu! come forth from thy hold”—
Wah! ten months had rusted his chain!
“Ride this Sheitan's liver cold”—
Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane;
Wah! ten months had rusted his chain!
“Ride this Sheitan's liver cold”—
Runjeet twisted his hand in the mane;
Runjeet sprang to the Toorkman's back,
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.
Wah! a king on a kingly throne!
Snort, black Sheitan! till nostrils crack,
Rajah Runjeet sits, a stone.
Three times round the Maidan he rode,
Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall,
Struck the spurs till they spirted blood,
Leapt the rampart before them all!
Touched its neck at the Kashmeree wall,
Struck the spurs till they spirted blood,
Leapt the rampart before them all!
167
Breasted the waves of the blue Ravee,
Forty horsemen mounting behind,
Forty bridle-chains flung free,—
Wah! wah! better chase the wind!
Forty horsemen mounting behind,
Forty bridle-chains flung free,—
Wah! wah! better chase the wind!
Chunda Kour sate sad in Jummoo:—
Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?
“Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu—
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!
Hark! what horse-hoof echoes without?
“Rise! and welcome Runjeet Dehu—
Wash the Toorkman's nostrils out!
“Forty koss he has come, my life!
Forty koss back he must carry me;
Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,
He steals no steed like an Afreedee.
Forty koss back he must carry me;
Rajah Runjeet visits his wife,
He steals no steed like an Afreedee.
“They bade me teach them how to ride—
Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!”
Chunda Kour sank low at his side;
Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.
Wah! wah! now I have taught them well!”
Chunda Kour sank low at his side;
Rajah Runjeet rode the hill.
When he came back to far Lahore—
Long or ever the night began—
Spake he, “Take your horse once more,
He carries well—when he bears a man!”
Long or ever the night began—
Spake he, “Take your horse once more,
He carries well—when he bears a man!”
168
Then they gave him a khillut and gold,
All for his honour and grace and truth;
Sent him back to his mountain-hold—
Muslim manners have touch of ruth;
All for his honour and grace and truth;
Sent him back to his mountain-hold—
Muslim manners have touch of ruth;
Sent him back, with dances and drum—
Wah! my Rajah Runjeet Dehu!
To Chunda Kour and his Jummoo home—
Wah! wah! Futtee!—wah, Gooroo!
Wah! my Rajah Runjeet Dehu!
To Chunda Kour and his Jummoo home—
Wah! wah! Futtee!—wah, Gooroo!
169
A BIHARI MILL-SONG.
Of eight great beams the boat was wrought,
With four red row-pins;—Hu-ri-jee!
When Mirza Saheb spied at the Ghaut
Bhagbati bathing:—Hu-ri-jee!
With four red row-pins;—Hu-ri-jee!
When Mirza Saheb spied at the Ghaut
Bhagbati bathing:—Hu-ri-jee!
“Oh, girls! that hither your chatties bring,
Who is this bathing?”—Hu-ri-jee!
“The Head of our village is Horil Singh;
'Tis the Raja's sister!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Who is this bathing?”—Hu-ri-jee!
“The Head of our village is Horil Singh;
'Tis the Raja's sister!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Run thou, Barber!—and, Peon! run thou;
Bring hither that Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Oh, girls! who carry the chatties, now,
Which is his dwelling?”—Hu-ri-jee!
Bring hither that Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Oh, girls! who carry the chatties, now,
Which is his dwelling?”—Hu-ri-jee!
170
“The dwelling of Horil Singh looks north,
And north of the door is a sandal-tree:”—
With arms fast-bound they brought him forth;
“Salaam to the Mirza!”—Hu-ri-jee!
And north of the door is a sandal-tree:”—
With arms fast-bound they brought him forth;
“Salaam to the Mirza!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Take, Horil Singh, this basket of gold,
And give me thy sister, sweet Bhagbati.”
“Fire burn thy basket!” he answered, bold,—
“My sister's a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
And give me thy sister, sweet Bhagbati.”
“Fire burn thy basket!” he answered, bold,—
“My sister's a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Horil's wife came down from her house;
She weeps in the courtyard: “Cursëd be,
Oh, sister-in-law, thy beautiful brows!
My husband is chained for them!”—Hu-ri-jee!
She weeps in the courtyard: “Cursëd be,
Oh, sister-in-law, thy beautiful brows!
My husband is chained for them!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Now, sister-in-law! of thy house keep charge,
And the duties therein:” quoth Bhagbati
“For Horil Singh shall be set at large,
I go to release him!”—Hu-ri-jee!
And the duties therein:” quoth Bhagbati
“For Horil Singh shall be set at large,
I go to release him!”—Hu-ri-jee!
When Bhagbati came to the Mirza's hall
Low she salaamed to him:—Hu-ri-jee!
“The fetters of Horil Singh let fall,
If, Mirza,” she said, “thou desirest me.”
Low she salaamed to him:—Hu-ri-jee!
“The fetters of Horil Singh let fall,
If, Mirza,” she said, “thou desirest me.”
171
“If, Mirza,” she said, “thou wouldst have my love,
Dye me a bride-cloth;”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Saffron beneath and vermilion above,
Fit for a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Dye me a bride-cloth;”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Saffron beneath and vermilion above,
Fit for a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“If, Mirza,” she said, “I am fair in thine eyes,
And mine is thy heart, now,”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Command me jewels of rich device,
Fit for a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
And mine is thy heart, now,”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Command me jewels of rich device,
Fit for a Rajpût!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“If, Mirza,” she said, “I must do this thing,
Quitting my people,”—Hu-ri-jee!
“The palanquin and the bearers bring,
That I go not afoot from them!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Quitting my people,”—Hu-ri-jee!
“The palanquin and the bearers bring,
That I go not afoot from them!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Smiling, he bade the dyers haste
To dye her a bride-cloth:—Hu-ri-jee!
Weeping—weeping, around her waist
Bhagbati bound it.—Hu-ri-jee!
To dye her a bride-cloth:—Hu-ri-jee!
Weeping—weeping, around her waist
Bhagbati bound it.—Hu-ri-jee!
Smiling, he bought, from the goldsmith's best,
Jewels unparalleled:—Hu-ri-jee!
Weeping, weeping—on neck and breast
Bhagbati clasped them.—Hu-ri-jee!
Jewels unparalleled:—Hu-ri-jee!
Weeping, weeping—on neck and breast
Bhagbati clasped them.—Hu-ri-jee!
172
Joyously smiling, “Bring forth,” he cried,
“My gilded palanquin!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Bitterly sorrowing, entered the bride,
Beautiful Bhagbati.—Hu-ri-jee!
“My gilded palanquin!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Bitterly sorrowing, entered the bride,
Beautiful Bhagbati.—Hu-ri-jee!
A koss and a half of a koss went they,
And another koss after;—Hu-ri-jee!
Then Bhagbati thirsted: “Bearers, stay!
I would drink at the tank here!”—Hu-ri-jee!
And another koss after;—Hu-ri-jee!
Then Bhagbati thirsted: “Bearers, stay!
I would drink at the tank here!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Take from my cup,” the Mirza said:
“Oh, not to-day will I take!” quoth she:
“For this was my father's tank, who is dead,
And it soon will be distant!”—Hu-ri-jee!
“Oh, not to-day will I take!” quoth she:
“For this was my father's tank, who is dead,
And it soon will be distant!”—Hu-ri-jee!
She quaffed one draught from her hollowed palm,
And again she dipped it;—Hu-ri-jee!
Then leaped in the water, dark and calm,
And sank from the sight of them.—Hu-ri-jee!
And again she dipped it;—Hu-ri-jee!
Then leaped in the water, dark and calm,
And sank from the sight of them.—Hu-ri-jee!
Sorely the Mirza bewailed, and hid
His face in his cloth, for rage to be
So mocked: “See, now, in all she did
Bhagbati fooled me!”—Hu-ri-jee!
His face in his cloth, for rage to be
So mocked: “See, now, in all she did
Bhagbati fooled me!”—Hu-ri-jee!
173
Grieving, the Mirza cast a net
Dragging the water;—Hu-ri-jee!
Only shells and weeds did he get,
Shells and bladder-weeds.—Hu-ri-jee!
Dragging the water;—Hu-ri-jee!
Only shells and weeds did he get,
Shells and bladder-weeds.—Hu-ri-jee!
Laughing, a net cast Horil Singh,
Dragging the water;—Hu-ri-jee!
Lo! at the first sweep, up they bring
Dead, cold Bhagbati—fair to see!
Dragging the water;—Hu-ri-jee!
Lo! at the first sweep, up they bring
Dead, cold Bhagbati—fair to see!
Laughing, homeward the Rajpût wends,
Chewing his betel; “for now,” quoth he,
“In honour this leap of Bhagbati ends
Ten generations!”—Hu-ri-jee!
Chewing his betel; “for now,” quoth he,
“In honour this leap of Bhagbati ends
Ten generations!”—Hu-ri-jee!
174
HINDOO FUNERAL SONG.
Call on Rama! call to Rama!
Oh, my brothers, call on Rama!
For this Dead
Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama!
Oh, my brothers, call on Rama!
For this Dead
Whom we bring,
Call aloud to mighty Rama!
As we bear him, oh, my brothers,
Call together, very loudly,
That the Bhûts
May be scared;
That his spirit pass in comfort.
Call together, very loudly,
That the Bhûts
May be scared;
That his spirit pass in comfort.
Turn his feet now, calling “Rama,”
Calling “Rama,” who shall take him
When the flames
Make an end:
Ram! Ram!—oh, call to Rama!
Calling “Rama,” who shall take him
When the flames
Make an end:
Ram! Ram!—oh, call to Rama!
175
SONG OF THE SERPENT CHARMERS.
Come forth, oh, Snake! come forth, oh, glittering Snake!
Oh shining, silent, deadly Nâg! appear,
Dance to the music that we make,
This serpent-song, so sweet and clear,
Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear,
So soft and clear.
Oh shining, silent, deadly Nâg! appear,
Dance to the music that we make,
This serpent-song, so sweet and clear,
Blown on the beaded gourd, so clear,
So soft and clear.
Oh, dread Lord Snake! come forth and spread thy hood,
And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show
Thy tongue; and own the tune is good:
Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow!
Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow;
See how we blow!
And drink the milk and suck the eggs; and show
Thy tongue; and own the tune is good:
Hear, Maharaj! how hard we blow!
Ah, Maharaj! for thee we blow;
See how we blow!
176
Great Uncle Snake! creep forth and dance to-day!
This music is the music snakes love best;
Taste the warm white new milk, and play
Standing erect, with fangs at rest,
Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest,
Fierce fangs at rest.
This music is the music snakes love best;
Taste the warm white new milk, and play
Standing erect, with fangs at rest,
Dancing on end, sharp fangs at rest,
Fierce fangs at rest.
Ah, wise Lord Nâg! thou comest!—Fear thou not!
We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King,
Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot;
Dance, Master! while we softly sing;
Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing,
We play and sing.
We make salaam to thee, the Serpent-King,
Draw forth thy folds, knot after knot;
Dance, Master! while we softly sing;
Dance, Serpent! while we play and sing,
We play and sing.
Dance, dreadful King! whose kisses strike men dead;
Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here! [They seize the Cobra by the neck.]
Ah, shabash! pin his angry head!
Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear;
Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear
It costs thee dear!
Dance this side, mighty Snake! the milk is here! [They seize the Cobra by the neck.]
Ah, shabash! pin his angry head!
Thou fool! this nautch shall cost thee dear;
Wrench forth his fangs! this piping clear
It costs thee dear!
177
SONG OF THE FLOUR-MILL.
Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga!
Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
The cakes soonest win:
Good stones, turn!
The fire begins to burn;
Gunga, stay not!
The heart is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver,
Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
It will feed us anon.
Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
The cakes soonest win:
Good stones, turn!
The fire begins to burn;
Gunga, stay not!
The heart is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver,
Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
It will feed us anon.
Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone,
It helps the wheel hum;
Blithesome hearts and willing elbows
Make the fine meal come:
Handsful three
For Gopal, you, and me;
Now it falls white,
Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
Than idleness and none.
It helps the wheel hum;
178
Make the fine meal come:
Handsful three
For Gopal, you, and me;
Now it falls white,
Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
Than idleness and none.
186
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB AT SWANSCOMBE CHURCH.
Where, through western windows, dieth—
Gold and rose—the sunset's light,
With his dame, in marble, lieth
Andrew Weldon, armëd Knight:
Side by side, the legend sayeth,
These two lived and died:
Seemeth it most fair and fit
To rest so, side by side.
Gold and rose—the sunset's light,
With his dame, in marble, lieth
Andrew Weldon, armëd Knight:
Side by side, the legend sayeth,
These two lived and died:
Seemeth it most fair and fit
To rest so, side by side.
Nothing here, above or under,
Of fanatic gloom;
No fool's fear of death's deep wonder
Spoils their simple tomb:
Seems it that the sculptor carved it
Only for to show
What the Lady and the Knight were
Now they are not so.
Of fanatic gloom;
No fool's fear of death's deep wonder
Spoils their simple tomb:
187
Only for to show
What the Lady and the Knight were
Now they are not so.
Silvery twitters of swift swallows
Reach them, flashing by;
Shadows of the spear-leaved sallows
On their foreheads lie,
Shadows of the flickering sallows,
Of the fragrant limes,
Waving to-day as green and gay
As in their vanished times.
Reach them, flashing by;
Shadows of the spear-leaved sallows
On their foreheads lie,
Shadows of the flickering sallows,
Of the fragrant limes,
Waving to-day as green and gay
As in their vanished times.
Fair, be sure, was this great lady,
Eyes, I guess, whose blue,
Cold and calm, but beaming steady,
Tender seemed and true.
Certes! of a noble presence,
Dutiful and staid,
Worthinesse was glad before her,
Worthlessnesse dismayed.
Eyes, I guess, whose blue,
Cold and calm, but beaming steady,
Tender seemed and true.
Certes! of a noble presence,
Dutiful and staid,
Worthinesse was glad before her,
Worthlessnesse dismayed.
188
Read beneath, in golden letters
Proudly written down,
Names of all her “sonnes and daughteres!”
Each a matron-crown:
Deftly carved in ruff and wimple,
Kneeling figures show
Small heads over smaller, rising
In a solemn row.
Proudly written down,
Names of all her “sonnes and daughteres!”
Each a matron-crown:
Deftly carved in ruff and wimple,
Kneeling figures show
Small heads over smaller, rising
In a solemn row.
These her triumphs:—sterner token
Chronicles her Lord!
Hangs above him, grim and broken,
Gilded helm and sword:
Sometimes, when with quire and organ
All the still air swings,
Red with the rust, and grey with the dust,
Low rattles the blade, and rings.
Chronicles her Lord!
Hangs above him, grim and broken,
Gilded helm and sword:
Sometimes, when with quire and organ
All the still air swings,
Red with the rust, and grey with the dust,
Low rattles the blade, and rings.
Time was, Knight, that tiny treble,
Should have stirred thy soul
More than drums and trumpets rebel
Braying after Noll:
No more fight, now!—nay, nor flight, now!
The rest which thou hast given
In chancel-shade to yon good blade
God gives thy soul in Heaven.
Should have stirred thy soul
More than drums and trumpets rebel
Braying after Noll:
189
The rest which thou hast given
In chancel-shade to yon good blade
God gives thy soul in Heaven.
Somewhere on this summer morning
In this English isle,
Gleams a cheek whose soft adorning,
Lady! wears thy smile!
Some one in the Realm, whose fathers
Suffered much and long,
Owes that sword and its good Lord
Thanks for a righted wrong.
In this English isle,
Gleams a cheek whose soft adorning,
Lady! wears thy smile!
Some one in the Realm, whose fathers
Suffered much and long,
Owes that sword and its good Lord
Thanks for a righted wrong.
Therefore for that maiden pray I
Dame! God thee assoil!
Therefore for that freeman say I
Knight! God quit thy toil!
And for all Christian men—and me—
Grace from the gracious Lord
To write our name with no more shame,
And sheath as clean a sword.
Dame! God thee assoil!
Therefore for that freeman say I
Knight! God quit thy toil!
And for all Christian men—and me—
Grace from the gracious Lord
To write our name with no more shame,
And sheath as clean a sword.
June 1857.
190
THE THREE ROSES.
“Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
Drooped in a florist's window in a town.
The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
Like flower on flower that night, on beauty's breast.
The second rose, as virginal and fair,
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
The third a widow, with new grief made wild,
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.”
—Aldrich, Flower and Thorn.
Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
Drooped in a florist's window in a town.
The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
Like flower on flower that night, on beauty's breast.
The second rose, as virginal and fair,
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
The third a widow, with new grief made wild,
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.”
—Aldrich, Flower and Thorn.
These Roses (in the world we do not see)
Strove for the palm. Thus spake the beauteous Three:
Strove for the palm. Thus spake the beauteous Three:
THE MAIDEN'S ROSE.
I am the happiest flower. I lay
Dying, as suits sweet blossoms best;
It was not pain to pass away
Upon her warm and fragrant breast.
Dying, as suits sweet blossoms best;
It was not pain to pass away
Upon her warm and fragrant breast.
194
Blossom on blossoms, so we slept;
My odours richer with her breath,
My white leaves whitest where I crept
Closer, to die delightful death.
My odours richer with her breath,
My white leaves whitest where I crept
Closer, to die delightful death.
I heard her secrets, pure and soft;
She kissed me, prayed for him, and laid
His gift where, since, his cheek full oft
Nestles; he knows what words she said:
She kissed me, prayed for him, and laid
His gift where, since, his cheek full oft
Nestles; he knows what words she said:
And how, when morn ope'd the bright eyes,
She locked me in a casket close;
Nothing can take away my prize,
The kiss she gave her faded Rose
She locked me in a casket close;
Nothing can take away my prize,
The kiss she gave her faded Rose
The crown, fair sisters! I must hold;
I died upon that heavenly bed;
She buried me in silk and gold;
I made them lovers, being dead.
I died upon that heavenly bed;
She buried me in silk and gold;
I made them lovers, being dead.
195
THE WIDOW'S ROSE.
I am the wisest Rose: there lay
A dew-drop on me when she shut
The little ice-cold palm, and put
My blossom there to fade away.
A dew-drop on me when she shut
The little ice-cold palm, and put
My blossom there to fade away.
It was a tear for her and me
That she should grieve, and I should go
Clasped in a hand that did not know,
And set to eyes that could not see;
That she should grieve, and I should go
Clasped in a hand that did not know,
And set to eyes that could not see;
Torn from my garden green and bright,
As he too; first-born of her spring,
Once flower-fair, now a lost, dead thing,
Hidden with me in graveyard night.
As he too; first-born of her spring,
Once flower-fair, now a lost, dead thing,
Hidden with me in graveyard night.
But, lo! it was not thus at all!
I did not think that flowers could see
The wonder of the worlds to be,
When the poor leaves of this life fall.
I did not think that flowers could see
The wonder of the worlds to be,
When the poor leaves of this life fall.
196
For while they wept, and sadly threw
The black earth on our coffin-lid,
A light came there where we were hid,
A wind breathed softer than I knew.
The black earth on our coffin-lid,
A light came there where we were hid,
A wind breathed softer than I knew.
There shine no sunbeams so on earth,
There is no air blows in such wise
As this that swept from Paradise,
And turned grave-gloom to grace and mirth.
There is no air blows in such wise
As this that swept from Paradise,
And turned grave-gloom to grace and mirth.
I saw him rise unspeakably;
I saw how subtle Life receives
New gifts from Death. It was but leaves—
Dead leaves—we left there, I and he.
I saw how subtle Life receives
New gifts from Death. It was but leaves—
Dead leaves—we left there, I and he.
And clasped in that small hand I came—
A spirit-Rose as he was spirit—
The further marvels to inherit
Of Life, which is for all the same.
A spirit-Rose as he was spirit—
The further marvels to inherit
Of Life, which is for all the same.
Crown me, white sisters! When she bent—
That tender mother by his grave—
'Twas I who, with a rose-waft, gave
The thought that filled her with content.
That tender mother by his grave—
'Twas I who, with a rose-waft, gave
The thought that filled her with content.
197
THE HARLOT'S ROSE.
I was the blessed flower! Give back
The crown, dear sisters! for you lack
My joy—you! that her bosom bore;
You they entombed!—my deeper lore.
The crown, dear sisters! for you lack
My joy—you! that her bosom bore;
You they entombed!—my deeper lore.
'Twas sweet in lovely death to fade,
Rose-blossom on rose-bosom laid;
'Twas rare in grasp of Death, to see
The flower of Life blow changelessly.
Rose-blossom on rose-bosom laid;
'Twas rare in grasp of Death, to see
The flower of Life blow changelessly.
But I, most happy of all three,
Rejoice for what he did to me;
Binding my bud on locks that rolled
Their wasted wealth in rippled gold.
Rejoice for what he did to me;
Binding my bud on locks that rolled
Their wasted wealth in rippled gold.
For loveless love he set me there;
With thankless thanks she found me fair;
Laughed with sad eyes to hear him tell
The gold, with white and green, “went well.”
With thankless thanks she found me fair;
Laughed with sad eyes to hear him tell
The gold, with white and green, “went well.”
198
We did our kind: she to bestow
God's grace in her rich beauty so
That good grew evil; I to scent
Her steps, and be Sin's ornament.
God's grace in her rich beauty so
That good grew evil; I to scent
Her steps, and be Sin's ornament.
Yet 'twas my duty to seem sweet,
She had such bitter bread to eat!
She put me at her breast—I heard
Her heart-beats speaking, without word.
She had such bitter bread to eat!
She put me at her breast—I heard
Her heart-beats speaking, without word.
“Each spring I plucked such long ago,”
She said—“Ah, God! if we could grow
Clean like spring roses—white again—
Forgetting last year's rain and stain!”
She said—“Ah, God! if we could grow
Clean like spring roses—white again—
Forgetting last year's rain and stain!”
She said—“Ah, God! ah, mother!—some
Are blooming so about my home,
The home-scent makes me dream—let be!
I have no lover that loves me.”
Are blooming so about my home,
The home-scent makes me dream—let be!
I have no lover that loves me.”
“What was it that we read in class?
‘And she supposing Him’—alas!
‘The gardener.’ Fool! as if God's Son
Cares for the flowers that are done!”
‘And she supposing Him’—alas!
‘The gardener.’ Fool! as if God's Son
Cares for the flowers that are done!”
199
Thereat our lips and leaves did kiss—
I was as sweet and soft in this
To her as any Rose could be—
“God's flowers forgive!” she sighed—“Doth He?”
I was as sweet and soft in this
To her as any Rose could be—
“God's flowers forgive!” she sighed—“Doth He?”
And fondling me, as though she felt
Her mother's kisses on her melt,
The tear-drops from her painted lids
Ran on the rouge. “What eye forbids,”
Her mother's kisses on her melt,
The tear-drops from her painted lids
Ran on the rouge. “What eye forbids,”
She said, “to try if any hear?”
Mocking herself, she sighed this prayer:
“Oh, Christ! I am Thy wilted Rose,
Renew me! Thou renewest those!”
Mocking herself, she sighed this prayer:
“Oh, Christ! I am Thy wilted Rose,
Renew me! Thou renewest those!”
Then laughed,—but did not see, as I,
The angels gather at her cry,
Their fine plots weaving out of sight
To help this soul that strove aright.
The angels gather at her cry,
Their fine plots weaving out of sight
To help this soul that strove aright.
She did not feel the great wings fold
Thenceforward o'er her locks of gold;
Nor know thenceforward that the place
Was sentinelled by Shapes of grace.
Thenceforward o'er her locks of gold;
Nor know thenceforward that the place
Was sentinelled by Shapes of grace.
200
But when again she bound her hair,
And set me in its tresses fair,
I did not “shrink,” (as he has said:)
I was too proud! for we were led
And set me in its tresses fair,
I did not “shrink,” (as he has said:)
I was too proud! for we were led
By holy hands through lane and street,
Past things to speak of is not meet;
Till when the tender plot had place,
God's mercy met her face to face.
Past things to speak of is not meet;
Till when the tender plot had place,
God's mercy met her face to face.
In all this earth there is not one
So desolate and so undone,
Who hath not rescue if she knew
A heart-cry goes the whole world through.
So desolate and so undone,
Who hath not rescue if she knew
A heart-cry goes the whole world through.
Of thousands cruel one was kind;
We found the hand she could not find;
The fragrance of me brought her cry—
We saved her; those Wise Ones and I,
We found the hand she could not find;
The fragrance of me brought her cry—
We saved her; those Wise Ones and I,
I and her angels! She hath rest!
Of all Rose-service mine was best.
Oh, sisters white! no longer boast;
Give me the crown! My joy was most!
Of all Rose-service mine was best.
Oh, sisters white! no longer boast;
Give me the crown! My joy was most!
201
ALLA MANO DELLA MIA DONNA.
Listen! poets, loving-hearted,
Here abiding—hence departed;
Ye who ranged the realms above
Seeking symbols of your love;
Provence bards and Persian Saadis
Eloquently lauding ladies;
Frauenlob—the Minnesinger
Mourned of maidens,—and that bringer
Of delight to camp and grove,
Camoens, the Lord of love;
Praise as proudly as ye list,
All the honied lips ye kissed;
Vaunt your true loves' violet eyes,
Vow them bluer than the skies;
Swear no south-wind ever came
Sweet and soft as she you name;
Nor no lily ever grew
White as that which bloomed for you!
Look! I fling you down a glove
In one dear name that I love—
Never hand so fair and fine
As my lady's—Katharine.
Here abiding—hence departed;
Ye who ranged the realms above
Seeking symbols of your love;
Provence bards and Persian Saadis
Eloquently lauding ladies;
Frauenlob—the Minnesinger
Mourned of maidens,—and that bringer
Of delight to camp and grove,
Camoens, the Lord of love;
Praise as proudly as ye list,
All the honied lips ye kissed;
Vaunt your true loves' violet eyes,
Vow them bluer than the skies;
202
Sweet and soft as she you name;
Nor no lily ever grew
White as that which bloomed for you!
Look! I fling you down a glove
In one dear name that I love—
Never hand so fair and fine
As my lady's—Katharine.
Yes! I know it—Father Homer!
Too long in thy rolls a roamer
Not to know how radiant mighty
Rose the sea-born Aphrodite;
Yes! I know the pearly splendour
Of that hand, whose curvings tender,
Silver glinting under gold,
Combed away the sea-foam bold.
And I worship, bending low,
Herë's awful arm of snow;
And of mortal boldness shorn
Hail the Rosy-fingered Morn;
But those Gods above the thunder
Are for fear and reverent wonder;
She whose gentle hand I praise
Woman is, with woman's ways,
And I hold this gage of mine
None a hand—like Katharine.
Too long in thy rolls a roamer
Not to know how radiant mighty
Rose the sea-born Aphrodite;
Yes! I know the pearly splendour
Of that hand, whose curvings tender,
Silver glinting under gold,
Combed away the sea-foam bold.
And I worship, bending low,
Herë's awful arm of snow;
And of mortal boldness shorn
Hail the Rosy-fingered Morn;
But those Gods above the thunder
203
She whose gentle hand I praise
Woman is, with woman's ways,
And I hold this gage of mine
None a hand—like Katharine.
All the bards that lips have kissed
Enter angry on the list,
And the legions that appear,
Might move any heart to fear.
Lo! Athenian Sophocles—
Virgil, too, my fancy sees—
And I sink my spear-head bright
As beseemeth younger knight;
And I kneel, but not to yield,
For I keep the tented field—
Vowing no such hand was seen
Were Electra twice a Queen,
And Lavinia's hue as fair
As 'twas bragged in Latin air:
Nay, nor faulter for Sybilla,
Or the careless-eyed Camilla,
Though her wounded wrist did shine
Likest “ivory, stained with wine;”
Let them go, my noble Masters,
With a sigh for Love's disasters,
And the challenge—none so fine!
None a hand—like Katharine.
Enter angry on the list,
And the legions that appear,
Might move any heart to fear.
Lo! Athenian Sophocles—
Virgil, too, my fancy sees—
And I sink my spear-head bright
As beseemeth younger knight;
And I kneel, but not to yield,
For I keep the tented field—
Vowing no such hand was seen
Were Electra twice a Queen,
And Lavinia's hue as fair
As 'twas bragged in Latin air:
Nay, nor faulter for Sybilla,
Or the careless-eyed Camilla,
204
Likest “ivory, stained with wine;”
Let them go, my noble Masters,
With a sigh for Love's disasters,
And the challenge—none so fine!
None a hand—like Katharine.
Dante! spirit sad and lone!
Laughing love thou hast not known;
Weeping love attends on thee,
With its mortal mystery;
And thine Angel, Beatrice,
Aweth with her hand of ice.
Thou Petrarca! dost thou frown?
Lay thy latest sonnet down!
Set thy shining lance in rest!
For I tilt upon thy breast:
Say'st thou, “like a curving shell,
Where the tender pink does dwell,”
Gleamed thy Laura's milky hand,
Lo! I read it! and I stand
Firm of foot to make it seem,
Even so my Love's doth gleam,
And this gentle hand of mine
Gave a heart—thus did not thine.
Laughing love thou hast not known;
Weeping love attends on thee,
With its mortal mystery;
And thine Angel, Beatrice,
Aweth with her hand of ice.
Thou Petrarca! dost thou frown?
Lay thy latest sonnet down!
Set thy shining lance in rest!
For I tilt upon thy breast:
Say'st thou, “like a curving shell,
Where the tender pink does dwell,”
Gleamed thy Laura's milky hand,
Lo! I read it! and I stand
Firm of foot to make it seem,
205
And this gentle hand of mine
Gave a heart—thus did not thine.
Ah! Dan Chaucer!—art thou he,
Morning star of minstrelsy?
Eldest of the English quire,
Highest hill—touched first with fire.
Pass! no bow of mine is bent
At the heart where I have leant,
And thy dream of Marguerite
Was a vision of my Sweet.
Morning star of minstrelsy?
Eldest of the English quire,
Highest hill—touched first with fire.
Pass! no bow of mine is bent
At the heart where I have leant,
And thy dream of Marguerite
Was a vision of my Sweet.
Next to thee what champions come?
There be valorous poets some—
Other some whose steel I scorn
In unknightly hands yborne;
At the last a Minstrel proud
Rideth high amid the crowd,
Knight of Lady Una he,
And I do him courtesy;
Yet though “whither than the snow”
Gleamed that noble Dame, I trow,
White as snow, and therewith warm
Is my Lady's loving arm,
And not golden Oriana,
Nor maid Amoret's high manner,
Waved a hand as white and fine
As the hand of Katharine.
There be valorous poets some—
Other some whose steel I scorn
In unknightly hands yborne;
At the last a Minstrel proud
Rideth high amid the crowd,
Knight of Lady Una he,
And I do him courtesy;
Yet though “whither than the snow”
Gleamed that noble Dame, I trow,
206
Is my Lady's loving arm,
And not golden Oriana,
Nor maid Amoret's high manner,
Waved a hand as white and fine
As the hand of Katharine.
Com'st thou Tasso, with thy crew,
Eastern-aired Armida too?
Oh! a lustrous lady she,
“Beautiful, exceedingly;”
But her Asian soul I doubt,
Looking from those large eyes out;
And her white wrist plays a part,
Beating not as beats her heart;
Hence, Enchantress! hence, too, thou
Mistress of the southern brow;
Though thou be'st Boccaccio's best
“Bocca bacciata” hath no zest!
After thee there floats another
Like as sister of one mother,
Ariosto's Angelique,
Hide her hand, and hide her cheek!
Let a nobler Dame have life
Led by nobler knight to strife—
High born, great, and graceful too
All thy loving songs are true;
Swear, Lord Surrey, stoutly swear,
Was never woman half so fair?
And I will swear that Geraldine
Had no such hand as Katharine.
Eastern-aired Armida too?
Oh! a lustrous lady she,
“Beautiful, exceedingly;”
But her Asian soul I doubt,
Looking from those large eyes out;
And her white wrist plays a part,
Beating not as beats her heart;
Hence, Enchantress! hence, too, thou
Mistress of the southern brow;
Though thou be'st Boccaccio's best
“Bocca bacciata” hath no zest!
After thee there floats another
Like as sister of one mother,
Ariosto's Angelique,
207
Let a nobler Dame have life
Led by nobler knight to strife—
High born, great, and graceful too
All thy loving songs are true;
Swear, Lord Surrey, stoutly swear,
Was never woman half so fair?
And I will swear that Geraldine
Had no such hand as Katharine.
Nay! high poets, let it be
Thine to thee, and mine to me,
For I see th' accepted King
Of all earthly minstrelling,
Crowned with homely Avon lilies
As his regal way and will is.
Mighty Master! let me speak;
Though Queen Cleopatra's cheek
Shamed the rosy lotus-dyes,
And her hand in Anthony's
Whiter than dove's milky wing,
Lay a plaything for a King;
Yet, an' thou shalt pardon yield,
Thus I leave the foughten field,
All as fair and yet more true
Than was known to one but you,
Is that fair frank hand of mine
That gave to me Katharine?
Thine to thee, and mine to me,
For I see th' accepted King
Of all earthly minstrelling,
Crowned with homely Avon lilies
As his regal way and will is.
Mighty Master! let me speak;
Though Queen Cleopatra's cheek
Shamed the rosy lotus-dyes,
And her hand in Anthony's
Whiter than dove's milky wing,
Lay a plaything for a King;
208
Thus I leave the foughten field,
All as fair and yet more true
Than was known to one but you,
Is that fair frank hand of mine
That gave to me Katharine?
January 1856.
209
THE HYMN OF THE PRIESTESS OF DIANA.
Oh, of all maidens Mistress! Help at need
Of souls unstained, and bosoms virginal!
With vervain and with fragrant gums we feed
The flame that burned, and burns, and ever shall;
Feed thou the fire that flames with holy thought,
And let the world to thy white shrine be brought.
Of souls unstained, and bosoms virginal!
With vervain and with fragrant gums we feed
The flame that burned, and burns, and ever shall;
Feed thou the fire that flames with holy thought,
And let the world to thy white shrine be brought.
The altar-light, mounting to find thy face,
Gleams back upon us from the brow divine,
Filling with placid splendour all the place:
Fill so the earth, supremest Goddess mine!
That men, awaking out of fancied light,
May know it, matched with Dian's noon-time— night.
Gleams back upon us from the brow divine,
Filling with placid splendour all the place:
Fill so the earth, supremest Goddess mine!
That men, awaking out of fancied light,
May know it, matched with Dian's noon-time— night.
210
O brow, where shame can never come to sit!
O cheek of snow, which blush can never melt!
O ear, that hears no word or wish unfit!
O breast, which thought unsainted never felt!
Show thyself, Dian! unto other eyes
As unto ours, thy deep-sworn votaries.
O cheek of snow, which blush can never melt!
O ear, that hears no word or wish unfit!
O breast, which thought unsainted never felt!
Show thyself, Dian! unto other eyes
As unto ours, thy deep-sworn votaries.
For we, who round about thine altar go,
Thou Daughter of the Father of the world!
Know thee divinest;—if men knew thee so
Then were the false gods from their temples hurled;
And mortals, leaving blind and sinful yearning,
Should scorn false beauty, beauty true discerning.
Thou Daughter of the Father of the world!
Know thee divinest;—if men knew thee so
Then were the false gods from their temples hurled;
And mortals, leaving blind and sinful yearning,
Should scorn false beauty, beauty true discerning.
Queen of the quiet sky!—the night's full Moon!
Be moon! and pierce the darkness of this cloud,
Whereunder wander, in a dreamful swoon,
The fellows of our blood, a witless crowd;
Send thou the silver ray that lightens this;
Show them the path which goes by good to bliss.
Be moon! and pierce the darkness of this cloud,
Whereunder wander, in a dreamful swoon,
The fellows of our blood, a witless crowd;
Send thou the silver ray that lightens this;
Show them the path which goes by good to bliss.
211
Huntress of noble harts—high-purposed Maid!
Whose sandal tied for free and fearless chase
Is fairer than the cestus proud, displayed
By her of Cyprus—stand in pride of place
Before the eyes of men, and lead them on
To hunt beside thee, turning off for none.
Whose sandal tied for free and fearless chase
Is fairer than the cestus proud, displayed
By her of Cyprus—stand in pride of place
Before the eyes of men, and lead them on
To hunt beside thee, turning off for none.
Ah, bliss! beside thee—by thee—in thy spirit—
The chase of life along the years to lead,
Conquering desire by high desire to merit
The joy of joys, the love of loves, the meed
Of untold peace, waiting th' unshaken faith
Firm held through life, in full repose on death.
The chase of life along the years to lead,
Conquering desire by high desire to merit
The joy of joys, the love of loves, the meed
Of untold peace, waiting th' unshaken faith
Firm held through life, in full repose on death.
For Thou, of all the gods, hast these to give—
The kingdom of a calm and equal mind;
The kiss—cold, true,—bidding the soul's life live
To meet caresses, tarrying yet behind,
But past hope tender, like the dreams the moon
Left on the forehead of Endymion.
The kingdom of a calm and equal mind;
The kiss—cold, true,—bidding the soul's life live
To meet caresses, tarrying yet behind,
But past hope tender, like the dreams the moon
Left on the forehead of Endymion.
212
Eheu! we speak of things we cannot know,
And knowing, in this presence we were dumb;
But on the winds which round thy portal go
Echoes from Aphrodite's revels come,
Marring our hymns. High Goddess! make men see
The “Foam-Born's” beauty but a blot to thee.
And knowing, in this presence we were dumb;
But on the winds which round thy portal go
Echoes from Aphrodite's revels come,
Marring our hymns. High Goddess! make men see
The “Foam-Born's” beauty but a blot to thee.
217
INSCRIBED ON A SKULL PICKED UP ON THE ACROPOLIS AT ATHENS.
I am the skull of Nedjm, a Turk,Who fought at Athens with the Giaour;
When cannon-balls were hard at work
Shattering the Parthenon—that hour
A classic fragment took me fair
Under the waist-cloth, and so made
“Ruins” of me. For long years there
My remnants with the rest have laid.
Scant burial got we from the Greek—
The green fly and the hooded crow
Helped the hot sun to leave me sleek,
Till, as thou seest, my pate did grow
White as new Parian. At the last
A Briton spied me, as he passed
218
And lightly fashioned me to this.
Drink! if thou wilt; and, drinking, say
Never did ancient craftsman make
Cyathus, Krater, Patera
Fitter a mighty thirst to slake.
But! call not me a thing of the clod!
The Parthenon owned no such plan!
Man made that temple for a God,
God made these temples for a man!
220
THE NEW LUCIAN.
“At that eternal parting of the ways,”Thou say'st, good Friend! looking to see it come
When hands which cling, unclasp; arms disembrace;
And lips, that murmured love to lips, are dumb.
Aye! it will come—the bitter hour!—but bringing
A better love beyond, more subtle-sweet;
A higher road to tread; with happier singing,
And no cross-ways to part familiar feet!
Smil'st thou, my later Lucian! knowing too well
Hope's under-ache, Faith's fallacies all sped?
Yet that which gave thee thy fair gift, to tell
How in Elysium chat th' unsilenced Dead,
Shall some day whisper: “Lo! the Life Immortal!
Enter! for thee stands wide the golden portal!”
221
FACIES NON OMNIBUS UNA.
Not a life below the sunBut is precious—unto one!
Not an eye, however dull,
But seems—somewhere—beautiful;
Not a heart, howe'er despised,
But is passioned for and prized.
Fool! who laughs at lack of graces,
Each man hath a many faces!
223
HAVELOCK IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
The foot set firm,—the hand upon the hilt,—
The warrior-gaze,—as innocent of fear
As any maid's of shame,—which, past the guilt
And blood and battle, sees the triumph clear;
The warrior-gaze,—as innocent of fear
As any maid's of shame,—which, past the guilt
And blood and battle, sees the triumph clear;
Stand so in bronze!—large to thy levelled eye,
In the supreme imperial peril dawning,
“Hoc signo vinces” shines upon the sky;
And calm as one who knows his Master's warning;
In the supreme imperial peril dawning,
“Hoc signo vinces” shines upon the sky;
And calm as one who knows his Master's warning;
Stand thou in bronze!—stand! what thou wert, a rock
Whereon Rebellion's yeasty billows breaking,
Drove wave on wave,—dashed high—and from the shock
Fell back in shattered foam;—thyself unshaking:
Whereon Rebellion's yeasty billows breaking,
Drove wave on wave,—dashed high—and from the shock
Fell back in shattered foam;—thyself unshaking:
231
So stand!—the busy feet of men go by thee,
Each one to-day the safer for that sword;
Meeanee's just and valiant chief is nigh thee,
Palmerston; Beaconsfield; the great Sea-lord;
Each one to-day the safer for that sword;
Meeanee's just and valiant chief is nigh thee,
Palmerston; Beaconsfield; the great Sea-lord;
Well met in some far-off serenest session,
The unimpassioned rest of great men gone;
And here together set—love's poor profession!—
In storied effigy, and sculptured stone.
The unimpassioned rest of great men gone;
And here together set—love's poor profession!—
In storied effigy, and sculptured stone.
Ah! speaking stone, and bronze, cunningly graven
To show these Champions of the English name,
Are men's hearts such, that knave, and fool, and craven,
Can pass ye daily, and be still the same?
To show these Champions of the English name,
Are men's hearts such, that knave, and fool, and craven,
Can pass ye daily, and be still the same?
But, true and faithful servant! somewhere plaining
That labour multiplies and wage is none,
Read Havelock's history, and thereby gaining
The comfort of his courage, copy one
That labour multiplies and wage is none,
Read Havelock's history, and thereby gaining
The comfort of his courage, copy one
Who all life's chilly spring and summer dreary
Wrought in pure patience what he found to do,
Possessing his own soul—not once a-weary—
Content, because God was contented too.
Wrought in pure patience what he found to do,
Possessing his own soul—not once a-weary—
Content, because God was contented too.
232
Wherefrom he hived the honey which is sweetest,
The flower of all the flowers of all a life,
A wisdom so perfected, so completest,
Great soldiers gave him place to stem the strife:
The flower of all the flowers of all a life,
A wisdom so perfected, so completest,
Great soldiers gave him place to stem the strife:
Which never given, Havelock's highest glory
Had lacked our knowledge, not his Master's praise,
One splendid page been lost from England's story,
But not one leaf from his immortal bays.
Had lacked our knowledge, not his Master's praise,
One splendid page been lost from England's story,
But not one leaf from his immortal bays.
Go to! and work—God's servant—serving men;
Bethinking how the ranks closed up, and cried,
“Way for the General!” and his answer then,—
“You have made way, my lads!”—fair time for pride!
Bethinking how the ranks closed up, and cried,
“Way for the General!” and his answer then,—
“You have made way, my lads!”—fair time for pride!
June 1862.
233
OXFORD REVISITED.
Mother! mild Mother! after many years—So many that the head I bow turns grey—
Come I once more to thee, thinking to say
In what far lands, through what hard hopes and fears,
'Mid how much toil and triumph, joys and tears
I taught thy teaching; and, withal, to lay
At thy kind feet such of my wreaths as may
Seem least unworthy. But what grown child dares
Offer thee honours, Fair and Queenly One!
Tower-crowned, and girdled with thy silver streams,
Mother of ah! so many a better son?
Let me but list thy solemn voice, which seems
Like Christ's, raising my dead: and let me be
Back for one hour—a Boy—beside thy knee.
May 1883.
236
THE ALTAR OF PITY.
In the mid-city—to no mighty GodDedicate—rose an altar. Pity built
Her gentle seat there, and the miserable
Made all its consecration: never lacked
That Altar suppliants! none are turned away!
Whoso doth ask is heard; for day and night
The shrine stands open, and the offering
Of woful wail is free. A frugal faith!
No spice-fed flames burn there! no costly blood
Is shed: with tears—salt tears—the marble reeks.
No image soars above, no bronze hath ta'en
Stamp of the Deity! She loves to dwell
237
And ever hath she trembling worshippers:
And ever is the spot thick with a throng
Sad-faced; the happy only know it not!
238
THE CHOLERA IN ITALY.
[_]
[Suggested by a sketch of John Millais, Esq., R.A., representing a skeleton shooting an arrow by night into the habitations of a fortified town.]
How did it come to his mind? the fleshless and horrible dream—
Gruesome, cruel, and weird—making the murk more grim;
Standing stark-naked in bone, which the star-light sets all a-gleam—
Shooting his shot at the town, the little town silent and dim?
Gruesome, cruel, and weird—making the murk more grim;
Standing stark-naked in bone, which the star-light sets all a-gleam—
Shooting his shot at the town, the little town silent and dim?
Said we not, each to the other, “Death is an Angel of Light!”
While our tears as they rolled gave the lie to our lips?
Here's one paints us the thing awful, authentic, aright—
Tells the Truth straight out, from the skull to the spiked toe-tips!
While our tears as they rolled gave the lie to our lips?
239
Tells the Truth straight out, from the skull to the spiked toe-tips!
So, if you opened this page an idle moment to soothe,
Madam! or Sir!—as may be—best close the volume for good;
Here's no matter to flatter flesh and blood in their youth!
Here's an Artist in earnest—Death's picture on worm-eaten wood!
Madam! or Sir!—as may be—best close the volume for good;
Here's no matter to flatter flesh and blood in their youth!
Here's an Artist in earnest—Death's picture on worm-eaten wood!
But if you ask what he meant, yonder the Tuscan town lies
Under the curtains of midnight, spangled with planet and star,
All looking down so calm! so splendid! as if the eyes
Of numberless Angels were watching our one little world from afar.
Under the curtains of midnight, spangled with planet and star,
All looking down so calm! so splendid! as if the eyes
Of numberless Angels were watching our one little world from afar.
And I hear on the rampart-stones the heel of the sentinel ring;
And I see him halt and count the chimes of the midnight bell,
And he listens towards us here;—“But 'tis only the cicalas sing!”
And he shoulders his musket again, and passes the word, “All's well!”
And I see him halt and count the chimes of the midnight bell,
240
And he shoulders his musket again, and passes the word, “All's well!”
And away, within those walls, I know there is pleasure and pain;
(Ah me! the sorrows and joys wherewith one town may be fraught!)
There's scented smoke from the censers, where the people pray in vain,
And a flare from the pharos-lantern to bring the feluccas to port.
(Ah me! the sorrows and joys wherewith one town may be fraught!)
There's scented smoke from the censers, where the people pray in vain,
And a flare from the pharos-lantern to bring the feluccas to port.
And I seem to see in the gleam which hangs all over the town,
Cresset lights of a banquet, and merry torchbearers who go—
Their jolly feet false with the wine—in laughter up and down,
With rose-crowns awry on their heads—and cornets that cheerily blow.
Cresset lights of a banquet, and merry torchbearers who go—
Their jolly feet false with the wine—in laughter up and down,
With rose-crowns awry on their heads—and cornets that cheerily blow.
241
Ah, and I know that, beneath the beautiful roof of the night,
Bridal couches are spread, and lovers at last are one,
Who say, “If God would will that it never more should be light,
Then stay on the other side, and wait till we wish for thee, Sun!”
Bridal couches are spread, and lovers at last are one,
Who say, “If God would will that it never more should be light,
Then stay on the other side, and wait till we wish for thee, Sun!”
Laughter, and music, and banquets, and roses, and revelry,
And prayers in the churches to please the Keeper of heaven and hell,
And the ships with spices and bales ploughing bravely in from the sea,
And still that sentinel looks from the wall and cries, “All's well!”
And prayers in the churches to please the Keeper of heaven and hell,
And the ships with spices and bales ploughing bravely in from the sea,
And still that sentinel looks from the wall and cries, “All's well!”
Doth he not see, close by, this spectre we see so plain,
Who blisters the growing grass with the bones of his clattering feet?
And makes the still air reek with the fester of live things slain,
And turns to corpse-light, on his skull, the star-light holy and sweet?
Who blisters the growing grass with the bones of his clattering feet?
And makes the still air reek with the fester of live things slain,
242
Cannot he hear the Voice—still—small—that comes with this thing?
Drives it, striding along; halts it, elbows and knees,
Says to the skeleton bowman, “Now fit thy shaft to the string,
Shoot me a shot at the town; for the hour is come to these!”
Drives it, striding along; halts it, elbows and knees,
Says to the skeleton bowman, “Now fit thy shaft to the string,
Shoot me a shot at the town; for the hour is come to these!”
Cursed Bowman! who shoot'st with an arrow dipped in the pest!
Maker of all! Whose will is good, though Thou willest we die!
It is changed in that little town from joy at its gayest and best,
To cramps that curdle the blood, and tortures that glaze the eye.
Maker of all! Whose will is good, though Thou willest we die!
It is changed in that little town from joy at its gayest and best,
To cramps that curdle the blood, and tortures that glaze the eye.
The sentinel, careless of all, stalks quiet upon the wall;
But the pilot has yielded the helm of his vessel with a scream:
At the banquet the guests drop dead—the worshippers, priests, and all,
Fly! ere they chant “Amen;”—and that sweet bridal dream,
But the pilot has yielded the helm of his vessel with a scream:
243
Fly! ere they chant “Amen;”—and that sweet bridal dream,
Which the lovers dreamed together—but half asleep—while their lips
Still kissed, for fear lest a minute from love's brief rapture be took—
Is ended in this, that one from the arms of the other slips,
And that other—chilled by the corpse—turns corpse herself, at a look.
Still kissed, for fear lest a minute from love's brief rapture be took—
Is ended in this, that one from the arms of the other slips,
And that other—chilled by the corpse—turns corpse herself, at a look.
Ah, Thou Lord, Thou God! Who sendest this pestilent wraith!
Giver of life, Who hast given the instinct to love to live,
Teach us another lesson—to render it back in faith,
When the messenger comes like this, with a ghastly message to give:
Giver of life, Who hast given the instinct to love to live,
Teach us another lesson—to render it back in faith,
When the messenger comes like this, with a ghastly message to give:
Ah, Thou Lord, Thou God: our hearts are the little town:
At the twanging of that black bow, ill fare they who there do dwell;
But help our souls to hear, through the darkness that settles down,
Thy sentinel on the wall, crying always to all, “All's well!”
244
But help our souls to hear, through the darkness that settles down,
Thy sentinel on the wall, crying always to all, “All's well!”
245
REST.
His Mother was a Prince's child,
His Sire a crownëd King;
There lacked not to his splendid lot
What power or wealth could bring;
Great nobles served him, bending low,
Strong captains wrought his will;
Fair fortune!—but it wearied him,
His spirit thirsted still!
His Sire a crownëd King;
There lacked not to his splendid lot
What power or wealth could bring;
Great nobles served him, bending low,
Strong captains wrought his will;
Fair fortune!—but it wearied him,
His spirit thirsted still!
For him the glorious music rang
Of singers, silent long;
Grave histories told, in scrolls of old,
The strife of right and wrong;
For him Philosophy unveil'd
Athenian Plato's lore,
Might these not serve to fill a heart?
Not these! he sigh'd for more!
Of singers, silent long;
Grave histories told, in scrolls of old,
The strife of right and wrong;
246
Athenian Plato's lore,
Might these not serve to fill a heart?
Not these! he sigh'd for more!
He loved!—the truest, newest lip
That ever lover pressed,
The queenliest mouth of all the south
Long love for him confessed:
Round him his children's joyousness
Rang silverly and shrill,
Thrice happy! save that happiness
Missed something—something still!
That ever lover pressed,
The queenliest mouth of all the south
Long love for him confessed:
Round him his children's joyousness
Rang silverly and shrill,
Thrice happy! save that happiness
Missed something—something still!
To battle all his spears he sent,
In streams of winding steel;
On breast and head of foeman dead
His warhorse set its heel;
The jewell'd housings of its flank
Swung wet with blood of kings;
Yet the rich victory seemed rank
With the blood-guilt it brings!
In streams of winding steel;
On breast and head of foeman dead
His warhorse set its heel;
The jewell'd housings of its flank
Swung wet with blood of kings;
Yet the rich victory seemed rank
With the blood-guilt it brings!
247
The splendid passion seized his soul,
To heal, by statutes sage,
The ills that bind our hapless kind,
And chafe to crime and rage;
And dear the people's blessing was,
The praising of the poor;
But evil stronger is than thrones,
And darkness doth endure!
To heal, by statutes sage,
The ills that bind our hapless kind,
And chafe to crime and rage;
And dear the people's blessing was,
The praising of the poor;
But evil stronger is than thrones,
And darkness doth endure!
He laid aside the sword and pen,
And lit the lamp, to wrest
From nature's range the secrets strange,
The treasures of her breast;
And wisdom deep his guerdon was,
And wondrous things he knew;
Yet from each vanquish'd mystery
Some harder marvel grew!
And lit the lamp, to wrest
From nature's range the secrets strange,
The treasures of her breast;
And wisdom deep his guerdon was,
And wondrous things he knew;
Yet from each vanquish'd mystery
Some harder marvel grew!
No pause! no respite! no sure ground,
To stay the spirit's quest!
In all around not one thing found
So good as to be “best;”
Not even love proved quite divine;
Therefore his search did cease,
Lord of all gifts that life can give
Save the one sweet gift—Peace!
To stay the spirit's quest!
In all around not one thing found
So good as to be “best;”
248
Therefore his search did cease,
Lord of all gifts that life can give
Save the one sweet gift—Peace!
Then came it!—crown, sword, wreath—each lay,
An unregarded thing!
The funeral sheet from head to feet,
Was mantle to that king!
And, strange!—Love, learning, statecraft, sway,
Look'd always on before,
But those pale, happy, lips of clay,
Asked nothing!—nothing more!
An unregarded thing!
The funeral sheet from head to feet,
Was mantle to that king!
And, strange!—Love, learning, statecraft, sway,
Look'd always on before,
But those pale, happy, lips of clay,
Asked nothing!—nothing more!
249
THE WRECK OF THE “NORTHERN BELLE.”
Fair sight! for a crew
Of Englishmen true,
When homeward their course they hold,
With sails bleached white
By the tropic light,
And sheathing a-glitter like gold;
Fair sight! from the rails,
—When the Topman hails
“Land ho! on the larboard!”—to see
The green waves leap
At the white cliff's steep
On the shore of the land of the free:—
Fair music they make together,
The cliff and the climbing foam;
And it sounds in the bright blue weather
Like the wanderer's welcome home.
Of Englishmen true,
When homeward their course they hold,
With sails bleached white
By the tropic light,
And sheathing a-glitter like gold;
Fair sight! from the rails,
—When the Topman hails
“Land ho! on the larboard!”—to see
The green waves leap
At the white cliff's steep
On the shore of the land of the free:—
253
The cliff and the climbing foam;
And it sounds in the bright blue weather
Like the wanderer's welcome home.
But when the east wind howleth,
And the great seas rise and rave,
Another sight
Is that belt of white,
And another sound's on the wave;
Small welcome for wildered vessel,
When the billows, giant and grey,
Break—sworn on the sand
Her keel to strand,
And her ribs on the rocks to lay!
Oh! the silver gates of your island
Were liker the gates of hell,
In the mist of that winter morning
To the crew of the “Northern Belle.”
And the great seas rise and rave,
Another sight
Is that belt of white,
And another sound's on the wave;
Small welcome for wildered vessel,
When the billows, giant and grey,
Break—sworn on the sand
Her keel to strand,
And her ribs on the rocks to lay!
Oh! the silver gates of your island
Were liker the gates of hell,
In the mist of that winter morning
To the crew of the “Northern Belle.”
We left New York for London,
(And the wind left with us too!)
We thrashed our way
Through Atlantic spray,
And ran the Channel through;
'Twas three on the morning of Monday
When we let the anchors go
Ten cables, or more,
From Kingsgate shore,
To ride out the storm and snow;
Ten cables from where green meadows,
And quiet homes could be seen,
No greater space
From peril to peace—
But the savage sea between!
(And the wind left with us too!)
254
Through Atlantic spray,
And ran the Channel through;
'Twas three on the morning of Monday
When we let the anchors go
Ten cables, or more,
From Kingsgate shore,
To ride out the storm and snow;
Ten cables from where green meadows,
And quiet homes could be seen,
No greater space
From peril to peace—
But the savage sea between!
Yet a greater space
To us had been grace,
For still as we neared the shore,
The wild white roll of the waves on the shoal
Roared round us more and more;
Roared out, in a ring around us,
You might see them fore and aft,
On ragged ledge,
And splintered edge,
All mad to dash our craft;
While the weltering rocks,
With their sea-weed locks
Awash in the whirling froth,
Stood up like slaves
Of the winds and waves,
Waiting to wreak their wrath.
To us had been grace,
For still as we neared the shore,
The wild white roll of the waves on the shoal
Roared round us more and more;
Roared out, in a ring around us,
You might see them fore and aft,
255
And splintered edge,
All mad to dash our craft;
While the weltering rocks,
With their sea-weed locks
Awash in the whirling froth,
Stood up like slaves
Of the winds and waves,
Waiting to wreak their wrath.
Not yet, brave ship!
For the anchor's grip
Is fast in the ooze and shell;
The gusts may shake,
And the great surge break,
But the iron holds her well.
If a smith could tell,
As his sledge-hammer fell,
That each little link should hold
The craft and the crew,
And their lives' hope too,
His strokes would be strong and bold!
Ease, ease, mad strain!
Hold, hold, good chain!
We freshened the hawse once more;
'Twas ten of the day,
And the vessel lay
Stern on to the snow-dimmed shore.
For the anchor's grip
Is fast in the ooze and shell;
The gusts may shake,
And the great surge break,
But the iron holds her well.
If a smith could tell,
As his sledge-hammer fell,
That each little link should hold
The craft and the crew,
And their lives' hope too,
His strokes would be strong and bold!
256
Hold, hold, good chain!
We freshened the hawse once more;
'Twas ten of the day,
And the vessel lay
Stern on to the snow-dimmed shore.
And now from the town
They hurry down,
For the cry is “A Wreck!” “A Wreck!”
(Ah! under their tread
Is the firm green mead,
'Neath ours but the slippery deck).
Kind souls! they shout!
Look! yonder comes out
A lugger from off the land,
Brave crew and craft!—
Ready fore and aft!—
She will lend us a helping hand:
'Bout ship! so, so!
She stays,—yes! no!
Port, port! ah Heaven! that sea—
Gone—vessel and men
While the heart beats ten!
Gone,—drowned, for their charity!
They hurry down,
For the cry is “A Wreck!” “A Wreck!”
(Ah! under their tread
Is the firm green mead,
'Neath ours but the slippery deck).
Kind souls! they shout!
Look! yonder comes out
A lugger from off the land,
Brave crew and craft!—
Ready fore and aft!—
She will lend us a helping hand:
'Bout ship! so, so!
She stays,—yes! no!
Port, port! ah Heaven! that sea—
257
While the heart beats ten!
Gone,—drowned, for their charity!
Rose from each lip
On shore, and ship,
A cry, a groan, a prayer;
While the nine hearts brave
Went under the wave,
And their death-cry hung in air;
No seaman but felt
His man's heart melt;—
But the masts were down ere now,
And the raffle and wreck,
Scarce clear of the deck,
Hung, fouling the larboard bow;
So we shouted at last,
“Clear away that mast
Or else we are ill bested!
God take those home!
When our turn's come
The dead can bury the dead.”
On shore, and ship,
A cry, a groan, a prayer;
While the nine hearts brave
Went under the wave,
And their death-cry hung in air;
No seaman but felt
His man's heart melt;—
But the masts were down ere now,
And the raffle and wreck,
Scarce clear of the deck,
Hung, fouling the larboard bow;
So we shouted at last,
“Clear away that mast
Or else we are ill bested!
God take those home!
When our turn's come
The dead can bury the dead.”
258
Thus, all that day,
In snow and spray,
For dear life still we toiled;
And faint and few
The bold words grew
As nearer the breakers boiled;
And still, like a steed
Reined back at speed,
The ship did plunge and rear;
While the burly main
Strove on in vain
To crack our cable and gear:
Till the twilight gloom,
Like the earth on the tomb,
Came over, and hid the town;
And the last we could see,
They were busy a-lee
Dragging the life-boats down.
In snow and spray,
For dear life still we toiled;
And faint and few
The bold words grew
As nearer the breakers boiled;
And still, like a steed
Reined back at speed,
The ship did plunge and rear;
While the burly main
Strove on in vain
To crack our cable and gear:
Till the twilight gloom,
Like the earth on the tomb,
Came over, and hid the town;
And the last we could see,
They were busy a-lee
Dragging the life-boats down.
Ah me! no boat
In that surf could float,
No oarsmen cleave a way;
No eye so bright
As to pierce the night
That on land and water lay:
Oh! leaden dark!
That left no spark
Of star, in the wild wet sky,
Not one pale ray
To glimmer and say
That God and help were nigh.
The timbers racked,
The cables cracked,
Wilder the waters dashed;
Ease her! no need—
The ship is freed!
She drove,—she rose,—she crashed!
In that surf could float,
No oarsmen cleave a way;
259
As to pierce the night
That on land and water lay:
Oh! leaden dark!
That left no spark
Of star, in the wild wet sky,
Not one pale ray
To glimmer and say
That God and help were nigh.
The timbers racked,
The cables cracked,
Wilder the waters dashed;
Ease her! no need—
The ship is freed!
She drove,—she rose,—she crashed!
Then settled and fell
The “Northern Belle,”
As one who no more strives;
But the foremast stood,
Good Canada wood,
With nine and twenty lives:
If dreadful the day
As none can say,
Oh! the night was terribler far,
As each man clung
To the shrouds, or hung
Ice-cold, on the icy spar;
And hearts beat slow,
As the night did go,
Like a lazily-ticking clock;
Till we longed to drop
From the dripping top
Nor wait for the last sure shock.
The “Northern Belle,”
As one who no more strives;
But the foremast stood,
Good Canada wood,
With nine and twenty lives:
260
As none can say,
Oh! the night was terribler far,
As each man clung
To the shrouds, or hung
Ice-cold, on the icy spar;
And hearts beat slow,
As the night did go,
Like a lazily-ticking clock;
Till we longed to drop
From the dripping top
Nor wait for the last sure shock.
Then, while she did grind,
We called to mind
Each one, his own home-place,
New Jersey towns,
And Connecticut downs,
And the pleasant meadows of maize:
We thought of brothers,
And wives and mothers,
With whom we should never be;
Of our babies playing,
Or perhaps a prayer saying
For “daddy,” far off at sea;
And we said prayers
To mingle with theirs,
And held for the daylight still,
Which came anon
When hope was gone
As God's best mercies will.
We called to mind
Each one, his own home-place,
New Jersey towns,
And Connecticut downs,
And the pleasant meadows of maize:
We thought of brothers,
And wives and mothers,
With whom we should never be;
261
Or perhaps a prayer saying
For “daddy,” far off at sea;
And we said prayers
To mingle with theirs,
And held for the daylight still,
Which came anon
When hope was gone
As God's best mercies will.
For, soon as the clouds,
Like great grey shrouds,
Let out the Lazarus-light,
We looked to land
And saw on the sand,
Good God! a cheery sight;—
Seven noble men
(Christ save them, then!)
That would not see us drown,
With oars in hand,
And the life-boat manned,
(The life-boat dragged from the town;)
And they gave us a cheer
We could plainly hear,
Which we answered with aching throat:
Ah then! dear life!
To watch the strife
Between the storm and the boat.
Like great grey shrouds,
Let out the Lazarus-light,
We looked to land
And saw on the sand,
Good God! a cheery sight;—
Seven noble men
(Christ save them, then!)
That would not see us drown,
With oars in hand,
And the life-boat manned,
(The life-boat dragged from the town;)
262
We could plainly hear,
Which we answered with aching throat:
Ah then! dear life!
To watch the strife
Between the storm and the boat.
More strong and steep
The waves did leap
For every stroke she made;
As they were bound
To see us drowned,
And would not be gainsayed:
“Now, now! ah now!
Pull bow! pull bow!
Oh! yonder swells a sea,
She swamps!—no! no!
Thank God, not so!
She rounds beneath our lee,”
—Thrice with a freight
Of lives they fight
Their way—stern down and stem—
Then—safe and sound,
On the English ground!
Thanks to the Lord, and them.
The waves did leap
For every stroke she made;
As they were bound
To see us drowned,
And would not be gainsayed:
“Now, now! ah now!
Pull bow! pull bow!
Oh! yonder swells a sea,
She swamps!—no! no!
Thank God, not so!
She rounds beneath our lee,”
—Thrice with a freight
Of lives they fight
Their way—stern down and stem—
263
On the English ground!
Thanks to the Lord, and them.
Look ye, mates mine!
There be stories fine
Of Greek and Roman deed;
But when all's done
There was never one
Of better help at need.
Which man of our crew,
My messmates true,
But holds his life a gift
From those brave Seven,
Henceforward, please Heaven,
To be used with thoughtful thrift!
To be held on earth
For service of worth,
Save when Englishmen cry—and then
Come storm, come slaughter,
To be spent like water
For the sake of the Kingsgate men.
There be stories fine
Of Greek and Roman deed;
But when all's done
There was never one
Of better help at need.
Which man of our crew,
My messmates true,
But holds his life a gift
From those brave Seven,
Henceforward, please Heaven,
To be used with thoughtful thrift!
To be held on earth
For service of worth,
Save when Englishmen cry—and then
Come storm, come slaughter,
To be spent like water
For the sake of the Kingsgate men.
264
There are those at home,
When the news is come,
Will crowd to hear of the ship,
With great tears rounding,
And glad hearts bounding,
And blessings a-pant on the lip.
There are girls there, plenty,
Not come to twenty,
Too shy and demure to speak,
Real ladies,—would kiss
For love of this,
Each man of that crew on his cheek:
Ay! count it grand
To touch but a hand
Of the Seven, who staked their lives,
Lost seamen to save
From a cold sea-grave,
And send them to sisters and wives.
When the news is come,
Will crowd to hear of the ship,
With great tears rounding,
And glad hearts bounding,
And blessings a-pant on the lip.
There are girls there, plenty,
Not come to twenty,
Too shy and demure to speak,
Real ladies,—would kiss
For love of this,
Each man of that crew on his cheek:
Ay! count it grand
To touch but a hand
Of the Seven, who staked their lives,
Lost seamen to save
From a cold sea-grave,
And send them to sisters and wives.
I'll say one thing
Before I bring
This plain sea-song to its end,
Such hearts of gold,
More than state-craft old,
Will help all quarrels to mend.
America sent,
With warm intent,
Your ship for a new-year's token,
You give her back
Our lives from wrack,
Shall such friends ever be broken?
No! no! they shall stand
Hand fast in hand,
All sisterly—side by side—
And none ever tell
Of the “Northern Belle,”
Save with flushes and smiles of pride.
Before I bring
This plain sea-song to its end,
265
More than state-craft old,
Will help all quarrels to mend.
America sent,
With warm intent,
Your ship for a new-year's token,
You give her back
Our lives from wrack,
Shall such friends ever be broken?
No! no! they shall stand
Hand fast in hand,
All sisterly—side by side—
And none ever tell
Of the “Northern Belle,”
Save with flushes and smiles of pride.
Yet more's to do,—
That first boat's crew
In this verse shall be given,
That Yankee boys
With a ready voice
May say the list of the Seven.
The men I write
In the “Mary White,”
George Castle's boat, did go—
John, Castle's brother,
George Fox, another,
Ned Emptage and Jem Rowe—
Those gallant five
Did save alive
Our crew from the “Northern Belle,”
With Robert Miller
And William Hiller
I have no more to tell.That first boat's crew
In this verse shall be given,
That Yankee boys
With a ready voice
May say the list of the Seven.
266
In the “Mary White,”
George Castle's boat, did go—
John, Castle's brother,
George Fox, another,
Ned Emptage and Jem Rowe—
Those gallant five
Did save alive
Our crew from the “Northern Belle,”
With Robert Miller
And William Hiller
Hastings, Jan. 23, 1857.
267
A HOME SONG.
The swallow is come from his African home
To build on the English eaves;
The Sycamore wears all his glistering spears,
And the Almond rains roseate leaves;
And—dear Love!—with thee, as with bird and with tree,
'Tis the time of blossom and nest,
Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring
Shall I liken to thee—the best?
To build on the English eaves;
The Sycamore wears all his glistering spears,
And the Almond rains roseate leaves;
And—dear Love!—with thee, as with bird and with tree,
'Tis the time of blossom and nest,
Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring
Shall I liken to thee—the best?
Over the streamlet the rose-bushes bend
Clouded with tender green,
And green the buds grow upon every bough,
Though as yet no rose-tint is seen;
Like those, thou art come to thy promise of bloom,
Like theirs, thine shunneth the light;
Break, rose-bud!—and let a longing heart know
If the blossom be red or white!
Clouded with tender green,
And green the buds grow upon every bough,
Though as yet no rose-tint is seen;
268
Like theirs, thine shunneth the light;
Break, rose-bud!—and let a longing heart know
If the blossom be red or white!
Up the broad river with swelling sails,
A glorious vessel goes,
And not more clear in the soft blue air
Than in the still water she shows!
Dost thou not go with as brave a show,
And, sooth, with as swelling a state?
Oh, come into harbour with that thou bear'st,
Dear ship!—for I eagerly wait.
A glorious vessel goes,
And not more clear in the soft blue air
Than in the still water she shows!
Dost thou not go with as brave a show,
And, sooth, with as swelling a state?
Oh, come into harbour with that thou bear'st,
Dear ship!—for I eagerly wait.
Fair ship!—ah, Kate! none beareth a freight
As precious and rich as thine,
And where's the rose-bush that will burgeon and blush
With a blossom like thine and mine?
—Well! well!—we do, as the meadow birds too,
Since meadows with gold were dyed,
The hen sits at rest in the hidden nest,
And her mate sings glad at her side.
As precious and rich as thine,
And where's the rose-bush that will burgeon and blush
With a blossom like thine and mine?
—Well! well!—we do, as the meadow birds too,
Since meadows with gold were dyed,
The hen sits at rest in the hidden nest,
And her mate sings glad at her side.
Swanscombe, April 1857.
269
FOND FANCIES.
Fond fancies, past the telling,
Come o'er me—idly spelling
The mystic meanings dwelling
In what these Hindoos taught;
So fast they rise—and faster,
That I bid them over-master
Slow study;—and far past her
Carry my willing thought!
Come o'er me—idly spelling
The mystic meanings dwelling
In what these Hindoos taught;
So fast they rise—and faster,
That I bid them over-master
Slow study;—and far past her
Carry my willing thought!
Carry my thoughts, confessing
Each dear and separate blessing,
(Ah! how beyond expressing,
Except with eyes, sweet wife!)
Each help, from Love's hid heaven,
That thy gentle soul has given
To a soul else overdriven
In the eager race of life.
Each dear and separate blessing,
(Ah! how beyond expressing,
Except with eyes, sweet wife!)
270
That thy gentle soul has given
To a soul else overdriven
In the eager race of life.
Sweetheart! how dull beside them
Seems all that would outpride them!
How weak, what may betide them
To bring to fall or fear
This joy to live together
In changeless summer weather!
No clouds to gloom or gather!
No seasons in our year!
Seems all that would outpride them!
How weak, what may betide them
To bring to fall or fear
This joy to live together
In changeless summer weather!
No clouds to gloom or gather!
No seasons in our year!
Past all weak words the pleasure,
The luxury, the treasure,
Of knowing without measure
This fondness fully-grown;
So that love, no more careful,
Nor fanciful, nor fearful,
Takes—heart, and eye, and ear-full—
The love that is its own!
The luxury, the treasure,
Of knowing without measure
This fondness fully-grown;
So that love, no more careful,
Nor fanciful, nor fearful,
Takes—heart, and eye, and ear-full—
The love that is its own!
271
Let go old legends! sweeter
Than fruit of lotus-eater,
Diviner and completer,
Than Circe's anodyne;
To lessen sadness sent us,
And to double gladness lent us,
The true, unpressed, nepenthos
Is true love's honey-wine!
Than fruit of lotus-eater,
Diviner and completer,
Than Circe's anodyne;
To lessen sadness sent us,
And to double gladness lent us,
The true, unpressed, nepenthos
Is true love's honey-wine!
Let go the pride of learning,
The foolishness of spurning
Life's life, for large discerning
Of vain philosophies!
“The highest truth lies nearest!”
'Twas a Greek said it, Dearest!
Of sages the sincerest,
Grey old Pheidippides!
The foolishness of spurning
Life's life, for large discerning
Of vain philosophies!
“The highest truth lies nearest!”
'Twas a Greek said it, Dearest!
Of sages the sincerest,
Grey old Pheidippides!
And let go that mad battle
Which tempts us, with its rattle
To join—like June-mad cattle,
In sinful strife for place!
The sin is not worth sinning;
The end mocks the beginning;
The only prize worth winning
Is ours, without the race!
Which tempts us, with its rattle
To join—like June-mad cattle,
In sinful strife for place!
272
The end mocks the beginning;
The only prize worth winning
Is ours, without the race!
Therefore, when fears do fret me,
Whenever wild winds threat me,
I fold my sails and get me
To the harbour of thy breast;
Safe there from outer riot,
Like a bird whom fierce hawks fly at,
Escaped, and brooding quiet
Down in his happy nest!
Whenever wild winds threat me,
I fold my sails and get me
To the harbour of thy breast;
Safe there from outer riot,
Like a bird whom fierce hawks fly at,
Escaped, and brooding quiet
Down in his happy nest!
June 1860.
273
HE AND SHE.
“She is dead!” they said to him. “Come away;
Kiss her! and leave her!—thy love is clay!”
Kiss her! and leave her!—thy love is clay!”
They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair;
On her forehead of marble they laid it fair:
On her forehead of marble they laid it fair:
Over her eyes, which gazed too much,
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;
With a tender touch they closed up well
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About her brows, and her dear, pale face
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace;
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace;
And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes;—
Which were the whiter no eye could choose!
Which were the whiter no eye could choose!
284
And over her bosom they crossed her hands,
“Come away,” they said,—“God understands!”
“Come away,” they said,—“God understands!”
And then there was silence;—and nothing there
But the Silence—and scents of the eglantere,
But the Silence—and scents of the eglantere,
And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;
For they said, “As a lady should lie, lies she!”
For they said, “As a lady should lie, lies she!”
And they held their breath as they left the room,
With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom.
With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom.
But he—who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful Dead,—
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful Dead,—
He lit his lamp, and took the key,
And turned it!—Alone again—he and she!
And turned it!—Alone again—he and she!
He and she; but she would not speak,
Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek;
Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek;
He and she; yet she would not smile,
Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile;
Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile;
He and she; and she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love!
To any one passionate whisper of love!
285
Then he said, “Cold lips! and breast without breath;
Is there no voice,—no language of death,
Is there no voice,—no language of death,
“Dumb to the ear, and still to the sense,
But to heart and to soul distinct,—intense?
But to heart and to soul distinct,—intense?
“See, now,—I listen with soul, not ear—
What was the secret of dying, Dear?
What was the secret of dying, Dear?
“Was it the infinite wonder of all,
That you ever could let life's flower fall?
That you ever could let life's flower fall?
“Or was it a greater marvel to feel
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
“Was the miracle greater to find how deep,
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep?
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep?
“Did life roll backward its record, Dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
“And was it the innermost heart of the bliss
To find out, so, what a wisdom love is?
To find out, so, what a wisdom love is?
“Oh, perfect Dead! oh, Dead most dear,
I hold the breath of my soul to hear;
I hold the breath of my soul to hear;
286
“I listen—as deep as to horrible hell,
As high as to heaven! and you do not tell!
As high as to heaven! and you do not tell!
“There must be pleasures in dying, Sweet,
To make you so placid from head to feet!
To make you so placid from head to feet!
“I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed.
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed.
“I would say, though the Angel of death had laid
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
“You should not ask, vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise;
Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise;
“The very strangest and suddenest thing
Of all the surprises that dying must bring.”
Of all the surprises that dying must bring.”
Ah! foolish world! Oh! most kind Dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the soft rich voice, in the sweet old way:—
With the soft rich voice, in the sweet old way:—
“The utmost wonder is this,—I hear,
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear;
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear;
287
“I can speak, now you listen with soul alone;
If your soul could see, it would all be shown
If your soul could see, it would all be shown
“What a strange delicious amazement is Death,
To be without body and breathe without breath.
To be without body and breathe without breath.
“I should laugh for joy if you did not cry;
Oh, listen! Love lasts!—Love never will die.
Oh, listen! Love lasts!—Love never will die.
“I am only your Angel who was your Bride;
And I know that, though dead, I have never died.”
And I know that, though dead, I have never died.”
288
ON A DEAD LADY.
Non può far Morte il dolce viso amaro,
Ma 'l dolce viso dolce può far Morte.
Ma 'l dolce viso dolce può far Morte.
Death cannot change her face, tender and fair!
'Tis she who changes Death, and makes him dear.
'Tis she who changes Death, and makes him dear.
291
SERENADE.
Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear,
Sing while she sleeps, “Ah! belle dame, aimezvous?”
Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here,
And wake to find it, as my love is, true;
Then, while she listens in her warm white nest,
Say in slow music,—softer, tenderer yet,
That lute-strings quiver when their tone's at rest,
And my heart trembles when my lips are set.
Sing while she sleeps, “Ah! belle dame, aimezvous?”
Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here,
And wake to find it, as my love is, true;
Then, while she listens in her warm white nest,
Say in slow music,—softer, tenderer yet,
That lute-strings quiver when their tone's at rest,
And my heart trembles when my lips are set.
Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies,
Shine through the roses for a lover's sake;
And send your silver to her lidded eyes,
Kissing them very gently till she wake;
Then, while she wonders at the lay and light,
Tell her, though morning endeth star and song,
That ye live still, when no star glitters bright,
And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
Shine through the roses for a lover's sake;
And send your silver to her lidded eyes,
Kissing them very gently till she wake;
292
Tell her, though morning endeth star and song,
That ye live still, when no star glitters bright,
And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
293
LYDIA.
He.As long as I was dear to you, and none—
Not one, save I—
Dared lock his arms about your neck, the Sun
Saw no King happier underneath the sky.
She.
As long as you loved Lydia more than all,
And Chloe's face
Had not made Lydia's naught, men might me call
The happiest girl of all the Roman race.
294
Well! now, that's past! and Chloe binds my heart
With lute and voice;
Whom so I love that, if Death's fatal dart,
Aimed at her life, struck mine, I should rejoice.
She.
Ah! yes—'tis past! I love a Thurian boy,
Who dotes on me;
And for his dear sake I would die with joy,
Nay, or twice over—were the thing to be.
He.
But—just suppose—the old love could come back
As good as new!
That Chloe with her golden hair should pack,
And my heart open all its gates to you!
She.
Supposing that—oh! well!—my Thurian's dear,
And you—alas!
Are wild as Adria, and more light than air,
Yet, Love! with you life and dark Death I'd pass.
295
DANTE AND HIS VERSES.
Dante had writ two lines:—the lines
Talked;—Quoth the one, “Fame's gateway shines
Open for us.”
Talked;—Quoth the one, “Fame's gateway shines
Open for us.”
“Oh! 'tis but ink
We are!” says t'other.
We are!” says t'other.
“Dost thou think
Thoughts perish?” the first line replied;
Thoughts perish?” the first line replied;
“What's Thought but Nought?” the second cried.
“Nay! feel'st thou not th' immortal stir
In every word and character?”
Asks one.
In every word and character?”
Asks one.
Sighs t'other, “Not a jot!
I feel dead letters!”
I feel dead letters!”
296
To the spot
Comes Dante, reads his lines;—thinks deep:—
Then blots one verse, and one will keep.
They knew!—his pen was Destiny!
One was to live, and one to die.
Comes Dante, reads his lines;—thinks deep:—
Then blots one verse, and one will keep.
They knew!—his pen was Destiny!
One was to live, and one to die.
311
AMADIS OF GAUL TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA.
Thou, who didst imitate the mournful mannerOf my most lonely and despisëd life,
And—leaving joy for suffering and strife—
Upon the bare hill-side didst pitch thy banner!
Thou, whose unshamëd eyes with tears oft ran o'er—
Salt, dripping tears!—when, giving up all proper
Vessels of use, silver, and tin, and copper,
Thou atest earth's herbs on the earth,—a woeful dinner!
Rest thou content, Sir Knight! Ever and ever—
312
Golden Apollo drives his glittering mares—
Famous and praised shall be thy high endeavour!
Thy land of birth the glory of all nations!
Thy chronicler's, the crown of reputations!
313
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS.
[_]
[Suggested by the well-known picture of Mr. Holman Hunt, in which the uplifted form of Christ, resting with extended arms from His labour in the carpenter's shop at Nazareth, throws upon the wall of the Virgin's house a figure of a Cross.]
Light and Shadow! Shadow and Light!
Twins that were born at the birth of the sun!
One the secret of all things bright;
The secret of all things sombre, one;
Twins that were born at the birth of the sun!
One the secret of all things bright;
The secret of all things sombre, one;
One the joy of the radiant day;
One the spell of the dolorous night:
One at the dew-fall bearing sway;
One at the day-break, rosy and white.
One the spell of the dolorous night:
One at the dew-fall bearing sway;
One at the day-break, rosy and white.
Sister and brother, born of one mother,
Made of a thought of the Infinite One
Made by the wisdom of God—and none other—
In times when the times were not begun.
Made of a thought of the Infinite One
Made by the wisdom of God—and none other—
In times when the times were not begun.
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One with the morning-star for its gem,
Glad Eösphorus, herald of beams;
One that wears for its diadem
Pale, sad Hesperus, planet of dreams.
Glad Eösphorus, herald of beams;
One that wears for its diadem
Pale, sad Hesperus, planet of dreams.
One for the glory and one for the gloom;
One to show forth and one to shroud;
One for the birth and one for the tomb;
One for the clear sky and one for the cloud.
One to show forth and one to shroud;
One for the birth and one for the tomb;
One for the clear sky and one for the cloud.
Sister and brother, for ever and ever,
Nowise disparted, and nowhere a-twain;
Mysteries no man's thinking shall sever;
Marvels none can miss, or explain.
Nowise disparted, and nowhere a-twain;
Mysteries no man's thinking shall sever;
Marvels none can miss, or explain.
Light, which without a shadow shines not!
Shadow, which shows not unless by light!
(For that which we see to sight combines not,
Except by the sides that escape the sight.)
Shadow, which shows not unless by light!
(For that which we see to sight combines not,
Except by the sides that escape the sight.)
Is this the parable? this the ending?
That nothing lives for us unless with a foil;
That all things show by contrast and blending—
Pleasure by Pain, and Rest by Toil?
That nothing lives for us unless with a foil;
That all things show by contrast and blending—
Pleasure by Pain, and Rest by Toil?
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Strength by Weakness, and Gladness by Sorrow;
Hope by Despair, and Peace by Strife;
The Good by the Evil, the Day by the Morrow;
Love by Hatred, and Death by Life?
Hope by Despair, and Peace by Strife;
The Good by the Evil, the Day by the Morrow;
Love by Hatred, and Death by Life?
Ah! then I hate you, Shadow! Shadow!
Ghost and ghoul of the glittering Light!
If the gold of wisdom, the El Dorado
Of Art must be had in this sorrowful sight.
Ghost and ghoul of the glittering Light!
If the gold of wisdom, the El Dorado
Of Art must be had in this sorrowful sight.
Shadow! we know how lovely and tender
Are the deeds you do with your witchcraft dim;
What wonderful sorcery tempers the splendour
Of light, in your sisterly play with him!
Are the deeds you do with your witchcraft dim;
What wonderful sorcery tempers the splendour
Of light, in your sisterly play with him!
We know what rose-leaf lips would be cold
Without the soft finish of warm half-light;
We know what tresses would lose their gold
If you did not gloss it and gild it aright.
Without the soft finish of warm half-light;
We know what tresses would lose their gold
If you did not gloss it and gild it aright.
We know how weary the dawns would go
Lacking the promise of placid eves;
We know how fiercely the hours could glow
Without the kind shadows under the leaves;
Lacking the promise of placid eves;
We know how fiercely the hours could glow
Without the kind shadows under the leaves;
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Yes! and we know how joy would tire,
And gladness turn madness, and life be undone;
And strength prove weakness, and Hope expire,
And Love droop wingless, if change were none.
And gladness turn madness, and life be undone;
And strength prove weakness, and Hope expire,
And Love droop wingless, if change were none.
And, Holiest Shadow of God's great hand!—
That makest the sleep and the spangled night—
I know that by Thee we understand
The stars which in silver His glories write.
That makest the sleep and the spangled night—
I know that by Thee we understand
The stars which in silver His glories write.
And we seem to know that, to eyes like ours,
Dawn by Dusk must usher its state;
That hearts win hope from the darkest hours,
And Love kisses best with a shudder at Hate.
Dawn by Dusk must usher its state;
That hearts win hope from the darkest hours,
And Love kisses best with a shudder at Hate.
But, Shadow! Shadow! Ghost of the Light!
Be Sadness! be Softness! be solemn Gloom!
Be Death! be Doubt! be the secret of Night!
Be the spell of Beauty! but past the tomb
Be Sadness! be Softness! be solemn Gloom!
Be Death! be Doubt! be the secret of Night!
Be the spell of Beauty! but past the tomb
Thou wendest not with us, accursed Shadow!
That makest a fable of all real things:—
The gold of wisdom, the El Dorado
Of art, a happier musing brings
That makest a fable of all real things:—
The gold of wisdom, the El Dorado
Of art, a happier musing brings
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Far off—worlds off—in the Pleiads seven
Is a Star of the Stars—Alcyonë—
The orb which moves never in all the Heaven,
The centre of all sweet Light we see.
Is a Star of the Stars—Alcyonë—
The orb which moves never in all the Heaven,
The centre of all sweet Light we see.
And there, thou Shadow of Earth's pale seeming!
The wisest say no shadow can be,
But perfect splendours, lucidly streaming,
And Life and Light at intensity.
The wisest say no shadow can be,
But perfect splendours, lucidly streaming,
And Life and Light at intensity.
Then why did the artist show it thus—
The Sorrow of Sorrows personified—
Painting the carpenter's Son for us
And the Shadow behind of the Crucified?
The Sorrow of Sorrows personified—
Painting the carpenter's Son for us
And the Shadow behind of the Crucified?
Meek and sweet in the sun He stands,
Drinking the air of His Syrian skies;
Lifting to Heaven toil-wearied hands,
Seeing “His Father” with those mild eyes;
Drinking the air of His Syrian skies;
Lifting to Heaven toil-wearied hands,
Seeing “His Father” with those mild eyes;
Gazing from trestle and bench and saw,
To the Kingdom kept for His rule above.
O Christ, the Lord! we see with awe!
Ah! Joseph's son! we look with love!
To the Kingdom kept for His rule above.
O Christ, the Lord! we see with awe!
Ah! Joseph's son! we look with love!
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Ah! Mary Mother! we watch with moans
Marking that phantom thy sweet eyes see,
That hateful Shadow upon the stones,
That sign of a coming agony!
Marking that phantom thy sweet eyes see,
That hateful Shadow upon the stones,
That sign of a coming agony!
Did it happen so once in Nazareth?
Did a Christmas sun show such a sight,
Making from Life a spectre of Death,
Mocking our “Light of the World” with Light?
Did a Christmas sun show such a sight,
Making from Life a spectre of Death,
Mocking our “Light of the World” with Light?
He tells us—this artist—one Christmas-tide,
The sunset painted that ominous Cross;
The shadows of evening prophesied
The hyssop to Him, and to us the loss.
The sunset painted that ominous Cross;
The shadows of evening prophesied
The hyssop to Him, and to us the loss.
For, her pang is the pang of us, every one:
Wherever the Light shines the Shadow is;
Where beams a smile must be heard a moan;
The anguish follows the flying bliss.
Wherever the Light shines the Shadow is;
Where beams a smile must be heard a moan;
The anguish follows the flying bliss.
Yon crown which the Magi brought to her,
It makes a vision of brows that bleed;
Yon censer of spikenard and balm and myrrh,
It looks on the wall like a “sponge and reed.”
It makes a vision of brows that bleed;
Yon censer of spikenard and balm and myrrh,
It looks on the wall like a “sponge and reed.”
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And, therefore, long ago was it written—
Of a Christmas to come in the realms of Light—
“The curse shall depart and death shall be smitten,
And then there shall be no more night.”
Of a Christmas to come in the realms of Light—
“The curse shall depart and death shall be smitten,
And then there shall be no more night.”
O Christ, our Lord, in that Shadowless Land,
Be mindful of these sad shadows which lie!
Look forth and mark what a woeful band
Of glooms attend us across Thy sky!
Be mindful of these sad shadows which lie!
Look forth and mark what a woeful band
Of glooms attend us across Thy sky!
“Christmas!” and hear what wars and woe!
“Christmas!” and see what grief o'er all!
Lord Christ! our suns shine out to show
Crosses and thorns on Time's old wall!
“Christmas!” and see what grief o'er all!
Lord Christ! our suns shine out to show
Crosses and thorns on Time's old wall!
So, if Thou art where that star gleams,
Alcyonë, or higher still,
Send down one blessed ray which beams
Free of all shadows—for they kill!
Alcyonë, or higher still,
Send down one blessed ray which beams
Free of all shadows—for they kill!
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CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN.
Master, well done! thy sombre colours stoop,
As what they paint did, to the root of things!
Thy Christ hath eyes, whose weary glances droop,
Marred with much love, and all the ache it brings:
Thy children—soft, albeit, their Syrian grace—
Clasp sun-burnt breasts, and drink of milk that cost
Sweat to provide it; from each mother's face
Is gone the bridal beauty; lapsed and lost
Bliss from these bondsmen; yet, how the Divine
Breaks through the clay! how Truth's gold gilds the story!
How longing for heaven's light makes earth's gloom shine!
How lovely, at its lowest, is love's glory!
We see Him as He sate in Palestine.
As what they paint did, to the root of things!
Thy Christ hath eyes, whose weary glances droop,
Marred with much love, and all the ache it brings:
Thy children—soft, albeit, their Syrian grace—
Clasp sun-burnt breasts, and drink of milk that cost
Sweat to provide it; from each mother's face
Is gone the bridal beauty; lapsed and lost
Bliss from these bondsmen; yet, how the Divine
Breaks through the clay! how Truth's gold gilds the story!
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How lovely, at its lowest, is love's glory!
We see Him as He sate in Palestine.
Lord Christ! these are the little ones that come!
Thou spakest, “Suffer them;” yea, Thou didst say,
“Forbid them not, for in my kingdom some
Are like to such!” O Lord! do Angels lay
Small aching heads on sorrow-laden bosoms?
Do Thy young angels toil, and starve, and weep?
Hardly for these will ope life's morning blossoms
Before their days bring griefs, their nightly sleep
Dreams of the Roman whip. Ah, Master Mild!
Be some great secret of Thy kingdom said
To keep the grown man glad as this male child,
The woman pure as is that tender maid!
They “see Thy Father's face!” Then, how beguiled?
Thou spakest, “Suffer them;” yea, Thou didst say,
“Forbid them not, for in my kingdom some
Are like to such!” O Lord! do Angels lay
Small aching heads on sorrow-laden bosoms?
Do Thy young angels toil, and starve, and weep?
Hardly for these will ope life's morning blossoms
Before their days bring griefs, their nightly sleep
Dreams of the Roman whip. Ah, Master Mild!
Be some great secret of Thy kingdom said
To keep the grown man glad as this male child,
The woman pure as is that tender maid!
They “see Thy Father's face!” Then, how beguiled?
Little sweet sister, standing at His knee!
Small peasant sister! sucking at thy thumb,
Touched to thy tiny heart with the mystery,
Glad to be brought, but far too shy to come;
Ah! tremble, but steal closer; let it cover
All of thy head, that potent, piteous hand;
And, mothers! reach your round-eyed babies over
To take their turn, nought though they understand.
For these thereby are safe, being so kissed
By that Love's lips which kisses out of heaven;
And we, with little children, but no Christ,
Press near; perchance the blessing may be given
From theirs to ours, though we His face have missed.
Small peasant sister! sucking at thy thumb,
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Glad to be brought, but far too shy to come;
Ah! tremble, but steal closer; let it cover
All of thy head, that potent, piteous hand;
And, mothers! reach your round-eyed babies over
To take their turn, nought though they understand.
For these thereby are safe, being so kissed
By that Love's lips which kisses out of heaven;
And we, with little children, but no Christ,
Press near; perchance the blessing may be given
From theirs to ours, though we His face have missed.
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A DISCOURSE OF BUDDHA.
Herewith, a broken gem of Buddha's lore
One beamlet of the brightness of his love!
Rose-light which lingers when the sun is down
Such space that men may find a path thereby.
Ananda told his Brethren of the robe
In the full Sangha, saying, “I have heard!”
One beamlet of the brightness of his love!
Rose-light which lingers when the sun is down
Such space that men may find a path thereby.
Ananda told his Brethren of the robe
In the full Sangha, saying, “I have heard!”
Ananda said: “Upon a certain morn
At Rajagriha, in Wasanta-time,
Lord Buddha sate—the great Tathâgato—
Speaking with wayfarers words such as these.
There was a temple built to Surya
Between the dyers' sheds and grain-market,
With white porch sheltered by a peepal-tree;
Whereby he sate; and a priest questioned him—
“Which is Life's chief good, Master?” And he spake:
At Rajagriha, in Wasanta-time,
Lord Buddha sate—the great Tathâgato—
Speaking with wayfarers words such as these.
There was a temple built to Surya
Between the dyers' sheds and grain-market,
With white porch sheltered by a peepal-tree;
Whereby he sate; and a priest questioned him—
“Which is Life's chief good, Master?” And he spake:
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“Shadows are good when the high sun is flaming,
From wheresoe'er they fall;
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,
Some by the prison-wall.
From wheresoe'er they fall;
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,
Some by the prison-wall.
“The King's gilt palace-roof shuts out the sunshine,
So doth the dyers' shed!
Which is the chiefest shade of all these shadows?”
“They are alike!” one said.
So doth the dyers' shed!
Which is the chiefest shade of all these shadows?”
“They are alike!” one said.
“So is it,” quoth he: “with all shows of living;
As shadows fall, they fall!
Rest under, if ye must, but question not
Which is the best of all.
As shadows fall, they fall!
Rest under, if ye must, but question not
Which is the best of all.
“Yet, some trees in the forest wave with fragrance
Of fruit and bloom o'erhead;
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches,
Whence poisonous air is spread.”
Of fruit and bloom o'erhead;
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches,
Whence poisonous air is spread.”
“Therefore, though all be false, seek, if ye must,
Right shelter from life's heat.
Lo! those do well who toil for wife and child
Threading the burning street!
Right shelter from life's heat.
Lo! those do well who toil for wife and child
Threading the burning street!
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“Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell
Blameless and just to all;
Good to give alms, with goodwill in the heart,
Albeit the store be small!
Blameless and just to all;
Good to give alms, with goodwill in the heart,
Albeit the store be small!
“Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be
Merciful, patient, mild;
To hear the Law, and keep it, leading days
Innocent, undefiled.
Merciful, patient, mild;
To hear the Law, and keep it, leading days
Innocent, undefiled.
“These be chief goods—for evil by its like
Ends not, nor hate by hate:
By love hate ceaseth; by well-doing ill;
By knowledge life's sad state.
Ends not, nor hate by hate:
By love hate ceaseth; by well-doing ill;
By knowledge life's sad state.
“But see where soars an eagle! mark those wings
Which cleave the blue, cool skies!
What shadow needeth yon proud Lord of Air
To shield his fearless eyes?
Which cleave the blue, cool skies!
What shadow needeth yon proud Lord of Air
To shield his fearless eyes?
“Rise from this life; lift upon pinions bold
Hearts free and great as his;
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise
Greater or lesser bliss!”
Hearts free and great as his;
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise
Greater or lesser bliss!”
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THE TWELVE MONTHS.
JANUARY.
Rain—hail—sleet—snow!—But in my East
This is the time when palm-trees quicken
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.
This is the time when palm-trees quicken
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.
Palms,—he and she—in sight they grow;
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted,
On light airs of the After-glow,
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted,
On light airs of the After-glow,
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.
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Ah, happy trees! who feel no frost
Of winter-time, to chill your gladness;
And grow not close enough for cost
Of bliss fulfilled, which heightens sadness;
Of winter-time, to chill your gladness;
And grow not close enough for cost
Of bliss fulfilled, which heightens sadness;
No grey reality's alloy
Your green ideal can diminish!
You have love's kiss, in all its joy,
Without love's lips, which let it finish!
Your green ideal can diminish!
You have love's kiss, in all its joy,
Without love's lips, which let it finish!
FEBRUARY.
Fair Grecian legend, that, in Spring,
Seeking sweet tale for sunnier hours,
Fabled how Enna's queen did bring
Back from the under-world her flowers!
Seeking sweet tale for sunnier hours,
Fabled how Enna's queen did bring
Back from the under-world her flowers!
Whence come ye else, goblets of gold,
Which men the yellow crocus call?
You snowdrops, maiden-meek and cold,
What other fingers let you fall?
Which men the yellow crocus call?
You snowdrops, maiden-meek and cold,
What other fingers let you fall?
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What hand but hers, who, wont to rove
The asphodel in Himera,
Torn thence by an ungentle love,
Flung not her favourites away?
The asphodel in Himera,
Torn thence by an ungentle love,
Flung not her favourites away?
King of dark death! on thoughts that roam
Thy passion and thy power were spent:
When blossom-time is come at home,
Homeward the soul's strong wings are bent.
Thy passion and thy power were spent:
When blossom-time is come at home,
Homeward the soul's strong wings are bent.
So comes she, with her pleasant wont,
When Spring-time chases Winter cold,
Couching against his frozen front
Her tiny spears of green and gold.
When Spring-time chases Winter cold,
Couching against his frozen front
Her tiny spears of green and gold.
MARCH.
Welcome, North-wind! from the Norland;
Strike upon our foremost foreland,
Sweep away across the moorland,
Do thy lusty kind!
Thou and we were born together
In the black Norwegian weather;
Birds we be of one brave feather,
Welcome, bully wind!
Strike upon our foremost foreland,
Sweep away across the moorland,
Do thy lusty kind!
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In the black Norwegian weather;
Birds we be of one brave feather,
Welcome, bully wind!
Buss us! set our girls' cheeks glowing;
Southern blood asks sun for flowing,
North blood warms when winds are blowing,
Most of all winds, thou;
There's a sea-smack in thy kisses
Better than all breezy blisses,
So we know, our kinsman this is:
Buss us! cheek and brow.
Southern blood asks sun for flowing,
North blood warms when winds are blowing,
Most of all winds, thou;
There's a sea-smack in thy kisses
Better than all breezy blisses,
So we know, our kinsman this is:
Buss us! cheek and brow.
Rollick out thy wild sea-catches,
Roar thy stormy mad sea-snatches,
What bare masts and battened hatches
Thou hast left behind;
Ring it, till our ears shall ring, too,
How thou mad'st the Frenchman bring-to:
That's the music Northmen sing to,
Burly brother wind!
Roar thy stormy mad sea-snatches,
What bare masts and battened hatches
Thou hast left behind;
Ring it, till our ears shall ring, too,
How thou mad'st the Frenchman bring-to:
That's the music Northmen sing to,
Burly brother wind!
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Go! with train of spray and sea-bird,
Fling the milky waves to leeward,
Drive the ragged rain-clouds seaward,
Chase the scudding ships;
To the south wind take our greeting,
Bid him bring the Spring—his Sweeting—
Say what glad hearts wait her meeting,
What bright eyes and lips.
Fling the milky waves to leeward,
Drive the ragged rain-clouds seaward,
Chase the scudding ships;
To the south wind take our greeting,
Bid him bring the Spring—his Sweeting—
Say what glad hearts wait her meeting,
What bright eyes and lips.
APRIL.
Blossom of the almond-trees,April's gift to April's bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora's fairest daughterling!—
Coming when no flow'rets dare
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal king-cup bold
Will not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy blackthorn spray
Keeps its silver for the May;—
Coming when no flow'rets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood
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Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us
That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died.
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson 'broidery,
Long before a leaf of green
On the bravest bough is seen;
Ah! when wintry winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell,
Almond bloom, we greet thee well!
MAY.
Who cares on the land to stay,
Wasting the wealth of a day?
The yellow fields leave
For the meadows that heave,
And away to the sea—away!
Wasting the wealth of a day?
The yellow fields leave
For the meadows that heave,
And away to the sea—away!
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To the meadows far out on the deep,
Whose ploughs are the winds that sweep
The green furrows high,
When into the sky
The silvery foam-bells leap.
Whose ploughs are the winds that sweep
The green furrows high,
When into the sky
The silvery foam-bells leap.
At sea!—my bark—at sea!
With the winds, and the wild clouds and me;
The low shore soon
Will be down with the moon,
And none on the waves but we!
With the winds, and the wild clouds and me;
The low shore soon
Will be down with the moon,
And none on the waves but we!
Thy wings are abroad, my bird,
And the sound of their speed is heard;
The scud flieth west,
And the gull to her nest,
But they lag far behind us, my bird!
And the sound of their speed is heard;
The scud flieth west,
And the gull to her nest,
But they lag far behind us, my bird!
White as my true love's neck
Are the sails that shadow thy deck;
And thine image wan,
Like the stream-mirrored swan,
Lies dim on thy dancing track.
Are the sails that shadow thy deck;
And thine image wan,
Like the stream-mirrored swan,
Lies dim on thy dancing track.
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On! on! with a swoop and a swirl,
High over the clear waves' curl;
Under thy prow,
Like a fairy, now,
Make the blue water bubble with pearl!
High over the clear waves' curl;
Under thy prow,
Like a fairy, now,
Make the blue water bubble with pearl!
Lo! yonder, my lady, the light!
'Tis the last of the land in sight!
Look once—and away!
Bows down in the spray;
Lighted on by the lamps of the night!
'Tis the last of the land in sight!
Look once—and away!
Bows down in the spray;
Lighted on by the lamps of the night!
JUNE.
Lily of June, pearl-petalled, emerald-leaved!
A sceptre thou, a silver-studded wand
By lusty June, the Lord of Summer, waved,
To give to blade and bud his high command.
A sceptre thou, a silver-studded wand
By lusty June, the Lord of Summer, waved,
To give to blade and bud his high command.
Nay! not a sceptre, but a seated Bride,
The white Sultana of a world of flowers,
Chosen, o'er all their passion and their pride,
To reign with June, Lady of azure hours.
The white Sultana of a world of flowers,
Chosen, o'er all their passion and their pride,
To reign with June, Lady of azure hours.
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Ah, vestal-bosomed! Thou that, all the May,
From maidenly reserve would'st not depart,
Till June's warm wooing won thee to display
The golden secret hidden at thy heart.
From maidenly reserve would'st not depart,
Till June's warm wooing won thee to display
The golden secret hidden at thy heart.
Lay thy white heart bare to the Summer King!
Brim thy broad chalice for him with fresh rain!
Fling to him from thy milky censers, fling
Fine fragrances, a Bride without a stain!
Brim thy broad chalice for him with fresh rain!
Fling to him from thy milky censers, fling
Fine fragrances, a Bride without a stain!
Without?—look, June! thy pearly love is smutched!
That which did wake her gentle beauty, slays;
Alas! that nothing lovely lasts, if touched
By aught more earnest than a longing gaze.
That which did wake her gentle beauty, slays;
Alas! that nothing lovely lasts, if touched
By aught more earnest than a longing gaze.
JULY.
Proud, on the bosom of the river,
White-winged the vessels come and go,
Dropping down with ingots to deliver,
Drifting up stately on the flow.
Mirrored in the sparkling waters under,
Mightily rising to the sky,
Kings of the sunshine and the thunder,
Come they and go they, in July.
White-winged the vessels come and go,
Dropping down with ingots to deliver,
Drifting up stately on the flow.
Mirrored in the sparkling waters under,
Mightily rising to the sky,
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Come they and go they, in July.
Quiet, in the reaches of the river,
Blooms the sea-poppy all alone;
Hidden by the marshy sedges ever,
Who knows its golden cup is blown?
Who cares if far-distant billows,
Rocking the great ships to sea,
Underneath the tassels of the willows
Rock the sea-poppy and the bee?
Blooms the sea-poppy all alone;
Hidden by the marshy sedges ever,
Who knows its golden cup is blown?
Who cares if far-distant billows,
Rocking the great ships to sea,
Underneath the tassels of the willows
Rock the sea-poppy and the bee?
Rock the marsh-blossom with its burden,
Only a worker bee at most!
Working for nothing but the guerdon
To live on its honey in the frost.
The outward-bound ye watch, and the incomer;
The bee and the blossom none espy!
But those have their portion in the summer,
In the glad, gold sunshine of July.
Only a worker bee at most!
Working for nothing but the guerdon
To live on its honey in the frost.
The outward-bound ye watch, and the incomer;
The bee and the blossom none espy!
But those have their portion in the summer,
In the glad, gold sunshine of July.
337
AUGUST.
[From the German.]
Once, with a Landlord wondrous fine,
A weary guest, I tarried,
A golden pippin was his sign,
Upon a green branch carried!
A weary guest, I tarried,
A golden pippin was his sign,
Upon a green branch carried!
Mine host—he was an apple-tree
With whom I took my leisure;
Fair fruit, and mellowed juicily,
He gave me from his treasure.
With whom I took my leisure;
Fair fruit, and mellowed juicily,
He gave me from his treasure.
There came to that same hostel gay
Bright guests, in brave adorning;
A merry feast they made all day,
And sang, and slept till morning.
Bright guests, in brave adorning;
A merry feast they made all day,
And sang, and slept till morning.
I, too, to rest my body laid
On bed of crimson clover;
The landlord with his own broad shade
Carefully spread me over.
On bed of crimson clover;
The landlord with his own broad shade
Carefully spread me over.
338
I rose;—I called to pay the score,
But “No!” he grandly boweth;
Now, root and fruit, for evermore
God bless him, while he groweth!
But “No!” he grandly boweth;
Now, root and fruit, for evermore
God bless him, while he groweth!
SEPTEMBER.
The harvest-moon stands on the sea,
Her golden rim's adrip;
She lights the sheaves on many a lea,
The sails on many a ship;
Glitter, sweet Queen! upon the spray,
And glimmer on the heather;
Right fair thy ray to gild the way
Where lovers walk together.
Her golden rim's adrip;
She lights the sheaves on many a lea,
The sails on many a ship;
Glitter, sweet Queen! upon the spray,
And glimmer on the heather;
Right fair thy ray to gild the way
Where lovers walk together.
The red wheat rustles, and the vines
Are purple to the foot;
And true-love, waiting patient, wins
Its blessed time of fruit:
Lamp of all lovers, Lady-moon!
Light these ripe lips together
Which reap alone a harvest sown
Long ere September weather.
Are purple to the foot;
And true-love, waiting patient, wins
Its blessed time of fruit:
Lamp of all lovers, Lady-moon!
Light these ripe lips together
Which reap alone a harvest sown
Long ere September weather.
339
OCTOBER.
A bold brunette she is, radiant with mirth,
Who comes a-tripping over corn-fields cropped;
Fruits and blown roses, from her full arms dropped,
Carpet her feet along the gladdened earth;
Who comes a-tripping over corn-fields cropped;
Fruits and blown roses, from her full arms dropped,
Carpet her feet along the gladdened earth;
Around her brow glitters a careless crown
Of bronzëd oak, and apple-leaves, and vine;
And russet-nuts and country berries twine
About her gleaming shoulders and loose gown.
Of bronzëd oak, and apple-leaves, and vine;
And russet-nuts and country berries twine
About her gleaming shoulders and loose gown.
Like grapes at vintage, where the ripe wine glows,
Glows so her sweet cheek, summer-touched but fair,
And, like grape-tendrils, all her wealth of hair,
Gold on a ground of brown, nods as she goes:
Glows so her sweet cheek, summer-touched but fair,
And, like grape-tendrils, all her wealth of hair,
Gold on a ground of brown, nods as she goes:
Grapes too, a-spirt, her brimming fingers bear,
A dainty winepress, pouring wet and warm
The crimson river over wrist and arm,
And on her lips—adding no crimson there!
A dainty winepress, pouring wet and warm
The crimson river over wrist and arm,
And on her lips—adding no crimson there!
340
Ah! golden autumn hours—fly not so fast!
Let the sweet Lady long with us delay;
The sunset makes the sun so wished-for,—stay!
Of three fair sisters—loveliest and the last!
Let the sweet Lady long with us delay;
The sunset makes the sun so wished-for,—stay!
Of three fair sisters—loveliest and the last!
But after laughter ever follows grief,
And Pleasure's sunshine brings its shadow Pain;
Even now begins the dreary time again,
The first dull patter of the first dead leaf.
And Pleasure's sunshine brings its shadow Pain;
Even now begins the dreary time again,
The first dull patter of the first dead leaf.
NOVEMBER.
Come! in thy veil of ashen cloud
With mists around thee, like a shroud,
And wan face coloured with no light
Of sun or moon, by day or night;
I would not see thee glad and gay
Dark month! that called my Love away!
With mists around thee, like a shroud,
And wan face coloured with no light
Of sun or moon, by day or night;
I would not see thee glad and gay
Dark month! that called my Love away!
I would not see thee otherwise
Grey month! that hast the dying eyes;
Cold month! that com'st with icy hands
Chaining the waters and the lands!
So didst thou chill two hearts at play,
Dark month! that called my Love away!
Grey month! that hast the dying eyes;
Cold month! that com'st with icy hands
Chaining the waters and the lands!
341
Dark month! that called my Love away!
And yet, I know, behind thy mists
The bright Sun shines, Love's star subsists!
If we could lift thy veil, may be,
Thy hidden face were good to see!
Come as thou wilt—I say not nay,
Dark month! that called my Love away!
The bright Sun shines, Love's star subsists!
If we could lift thy veil, may be,
Thy hidden face were good to see!
Come as thou wilt—I say not nay,
Dark month! that called my Love away!
November 1864.
DECEMBER.
In fret-work of frost and spangle of snowUnto his end the year doth wend;
And sadly for some the days did go,
And glad for some were beginning and end!
But—sad or glad—grieve not for his death,
Mournfully counting your measures of breath,
You, that, before the stars began,
Were seed of woman and promise of man,
You who are older than Aldebaran!
It was but a ring round about the Sun,
One passing dance of the planets done;
342
Which the great worlds pace, to a music set
By Life immortal and Love divine:
Whereof is struck, in your threescore and ten,
One chord of the harmony, fair and fine,
Of that which maketh us women and men!
In fret-work of frost and spangle of snow,
Sad or glad—let the old year go!
THE END.
| Poems (1885) | |