POEMS

BY

ALFRED TENNYSON,

POET LAUREATE.

VOL. II.

BOSTON:

TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 1865.

0?

•5$

UNIVERSITY PRESS:

WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY,

CAMBRIDGE.

CONTENTS.

Page

IN MEMORIAM i

MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS.

MAUD 125

THE BROOK ; AN IDYL 181

THE LETTERS 189

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON . 191

THE DAISY 200

To THE REV. F. D. MAURICE 204

WILL 206

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE .... 207

IDYLLS OF THE KING.

DEDICATION 211

ENID 213

VIVIEN 270

ELAINE '296

GUINEVERE 341

ADDITIONAL POEMS.

AYLMER'S FIELD 365

SEA DREAMS 391

THE GRANDMOTHER 401

NORTHERN FARMER 408

TITHONUS 413

THE VOYAGE 416

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 419

THE FLOWER 420

REQUIESCAT 421

THE SAILOR-BOY 421

THE ISLET 422

THE RINGLET 424

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 426

IV

CONTENTS.

ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHI- BITION

A DEDICATION

THE CAPTAIN ; A" LEGEND OF THE NAVY

THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE

ON A MOURNER

SONG

SONG

EXPERIMENTS.

BOADICEA 436

IN QUANTITY , .... 441

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE 443

427 428 429 43i 433 434 43S

IN MEMORI AM.

VOL. II. I

STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove ;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ;

Thou madest life in man and brute ;

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust :

Thou madest man, he knows not why ; He thinks he was not made to die ;

And thou hast made him : thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : Our wills are ours, we know not how ;

Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day ;

They have their day and cease to be : They are but broken lights of thee,

And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

IN MEMORIAM.

We have but faith : we cannot know ;

For knowledge is of things we see ;

And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness : let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell ; That mind and soul, according well,

May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; We mock thee when we do not fear : But help thy foolish ones to bear ;

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ;

What seem'd my worth since I began ;

For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there

I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth ; Forgive them where they fail in truth,

And in thy wisdom make me wise.

1849.

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.

f»

I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

But who shall so forecast the years, And find in loss a gain to match ? Or reach a hand thro' time to catch

The far-off interest of tears ?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, Let darkness keep her raven gloss : Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,

To dance with death, to beat the ground,

Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, " Behold the man that loved and lost

But all he was is overworn."

IN MEMORIAM.

II.

OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head,

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again,

And bring the firstling to the flock ; And in the dusk of thee, the clock

Beats out the little lives of men.

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail

To touch thy thousand years of gloom :

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood

And grow incorporate into thee.

III.

O SORROW, cruel fellowship,

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and' bitter in a breath,

What whispers from thy lying lip ?

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly run ;

A web is wov'n across the sky ;

From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun :

IN MEMORIAM.

"And all the phantom, Nature, stands, — With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own, —

A hollow form with empty hands."

And shall I take a thing so blind,

Embrace her as my natural good ; Or crush her, like a vice of blood,

Upon the threshold of the mind ?

IV.

To Sleep I give my powers away ;

My will is bondsman to the dark ;

I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say :

O heart, how fares it with thee now,

That thou shouldst fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire,

" What is it makes me beat so low ? "

Something it is which thou hast lost,

Some pleasure from thine early years. Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost !

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darken'd eyes ; With morning wakes the will, and cries,

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."

IN MEMORIAM.

V.

I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel ; For words, like Nature, half reveal

And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies ; The sad mechanic exercise,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I '11 wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.

VI.

ONE writes, that " Other friends remain," That " Loss is common to the race," — And common is the commonplace,

And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more : Too common ! Never morning wore

To evening, but some heart did break.

O father, wheresoe'er thou be,

Who pledgest now thy gallant son ; A shot, ere half thy draught be done,

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.

IN AIEMORIAM.

O mother, praying God will save

Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud

Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well ; Who mused on all I had to tell,

And something written, something thought ;

Expecting still his advent home ; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day,

Or here to-morrow will he come.

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, That sittest ranging golden hair ; And glad to find thyself so fair,

Poor child, that waitest for thy love !

For now her father's chimney glows

In expectation of a guest ;

And thinking " This will please him best," She takes a riband or a rose ;

For he will see them on to-night ;

And with the thought her colour burns ;

And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right ;

And, even when she turn'd, the curse Had fallen, and her future lord Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,

Or kill'd in falling from his horse.

IN MEMORIAM.

O what to her shall be the end ?

And what to me remains of good ?

To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.

VII.

DARK house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more, — Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here ; but far away

The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

VIII.

A HAPPY lover who has come

To look on her that loves him well, Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell,

And learns her gone and far from home ;

He saddens, all the magic light

Dies off at once from bower and hah1, And all the place is dark, and all

The chambers emptied of delight :

IN MEMORIAM.

So find I every pleasant spot

In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street,

For all is dark where thou art not.

Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind,

Which once she foster'd up with care ;

So seems it in my deep regret,

0 my forsaken heart, with thee And this poor flower of poesy

Which little cared for fades not yet.

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,

1 go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom,

Or dying, there at least may die.

IX.

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains,

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn In vain ; a favorable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

IN MEMORIAM.

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above ;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow ;

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love ;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run ; Dear as the mother to the son,

More than my brothers are to me.

x.

I HEAR the noise about thy keel ;

I hear the bell struck in the night ;

I see the cabin-window bright ; I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife,

And travell'd men from foreign lands ; And letters unto trembling hands ;

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him : we have idle dreams : This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies : O to us,

The fools of habit, sweeter seems

IN MEMORIAM.

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains

The chalice of the grapes of God ;

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine ; And hands so often clasp'd in mine

Should toss with tangle and with shells.

XI.

CALM is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro' the faded leaf

The chestnut pattering to the ground :

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold :

Calm and still light on yon great plain

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers,

To mingle with the bounding main :

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall ; And in my heart, if calm at all,

If any calm, a calm despair:

IN MEMORIAM.

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast

Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

XII.

Lo, as a dove when up she springs

To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, Some dolorous message knit below

The wild pulsation of her wings ;

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ;

I leave this mortal ark behind,

A weight of nerves without a mind,

And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,

And reach the glow of southern skies, And see the sails at distance rise,

And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying, " Comes he thus, my friend ? Is this the end of all my care?" And circle moaning in the air :

" Is this the end ? Is this the end ? "

And forward dart again, and play About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn,

That I have been an hour away.

IN MEMORIAM. \$

XIII.

TEARS of the widower, when he sees A late-lost form that sleep reveals, And moves his doubtful arms, and feels

Her place is empty, fall like these ;

Which weep a loss forever new,

A void where heart on heart reposed ;

And, where warm hands have prest and clos'd,

Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weep the comrade of my choice,

An awful thought, a life removed,

The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice.

Come Time, and teach me, many years,

I do not suffer in a dream ;

For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears ;

My fancies time to rise on wing,

And glance about the approaching sails, As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,

And not the burthen that they bring.

XIV.

IF "one should bring me this report,

That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day, And I went down unto the quay,

And found thee lying in the port ;

IN MEMORIAM.

And standing, muffled round with woe, Should see thy passengers in rank Come stepping lightly down the plank,

And beckoning unto those they know ;

And if along with these should come The man I held as half-divine ; Should strike a sudden hand in mine,

And ask a thousand things of home ;

And I should tell him all my pain,

And how my life had droop'd of late, And he should sorrow o'er my state

And marvel what possess'd my brain ;

And I perceived no touch of change, No hint of death in all his frame, But found him all in all the same,

I should not feel it to be strange.

xv.

To-NIGHT the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day : The last red leaf is whirl'd away,

The rooks are blown about the skies ;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, The cattle huddled on the lea ; And wildly dash'd on tower and tree

The sunbeam strikes along the world :

IN MEMORIAM.

And but for fancies, which aver

That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass,

I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud ; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,

And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west,

A looming bastion fringed with fire.

XVI.

WHAT words are these have fall'n from me ? Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast,

Or sorrow such a changeling be ?

Or doth she only seem to take

The touch of change in calm or storm ;

But knows no more of transient form In her deep self, than some dead lake

That holds the shadow of a lark

Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? Or has the shock, so harshly given,

Confused me like the unhappy bark

IN MEMORIAM.

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, And staggers blindly ere she sink ? And stunn'd me from my power to think

And all my knowledge of myself ;

And made me that delirious man Whose fancy fuses old and new, And flashes into false and true,

And mingles all without a plan ?

XVII.

THOU comest, much wept for : such a breeze Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air

To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move

Thro' circles of the bounding sky, Week after week : the days go by :

Come quick, thou bringest ail I love.

Henceforth, wherever thou may'st roam, My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night,

And like a beacon guards thee home.

So may whatever tempest mars

Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark ; And balmy drops in summer dark

Slide from the bosom of the stars.

IN MEMORIAM.

So kind an office hath been done,

Such precious relics brought by thee ; The dust of him I shall not see

Till all my widow'd race be run.

XVIII.

'T IS well ; 'tis something ; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made

The violet of his native land.

'T is little ; but it looks in truth

As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest

And in the places of his youth.

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep,

And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing through his lips impart

The life that almost dies in me ;

That dies not, but endures with pain,

And slowly forms the firmer mind, » Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again.

20 IN MEMORIAM.

XIX.

THE Danube to the Severn gave

The darken'd heart that beat no more ; They laid him by the pleasant shore,

And in the hearing of the wave.

There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye,

And makes a silence in the hills.

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, And hush'd my deepest grief of all, When fill'd with tears that cannot fall,

I brim with sorrow drowning song.

The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls ; My deeper anguish also falls,

And I can speak a little then.

XX.

THE lesser griefs that may be said,

That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house

Where lies the master newly dead ;

Who speak their feeling as it is,

And weep the fulness from the mind : "It will be hard," they say, " to find

Another service such as this."

IN MEMORIAM. 2I

My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win ; But there are other griefs within,

And tears that at their fountain freeze ;

For by the hearth the children sit

Cold in that atmosphere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath,

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit :

But open converse is there none, So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think,

" How good ! how kind ! and he is gone."

XXI.

I SING to him that rests below,

And, since the grasses round me wave, I take the grasses of the grave,

And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then,

And sometimes harshly will he speak : " This fellow would make weakness weak,

And melt the waxen hearts of men."

Another answers, " Let him be,

He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain

The praise that comes to constancy."

22 IN MEMORIAM.

A third is wroth, "Is this an hour For private sorrow's barren song, When more and more the people throng

The chairs and thrones of civil power ?

" A time to sicken and to swoon,

When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms

Her secret from the latest moon ? "

Behold, ye speak an idle thing :

Ye never knew the sacred dust : I do but sing because I must,

And pipe but as the linnets' sing :

And one is glad ; her note is gay,

For now her little ones have ranged ; And one is sad ; her note is changed,

Because her brood is stol'n away.

XXII.

THE path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro' four sweet years arose and fell,

From flower to flower, from snow to snow :

And we with singing cheer'd the way, And crown'd with all the season lent, From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May :

IN MEMORIAM.

But where the path we walk'd began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended, following Hope,

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold,

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, And think that somewhere in the waste

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

XXIII.

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,

Or breaking into song by fits,

Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came,

Or on to where the pathway leads ;

And crying, " How changed from where it ran Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb ; But all the lavish hills would hum

The murmur of a happy Pan :

2 4 IN ME MORI AM.

" When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ;

""And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring

Moved in the chambers of the blood ;

" And many an old philosophy

On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang

To many a flute of Arcady."

XXIV.

AND was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say ? The very source and fount of Day

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night.

If all was good and fair we met,

This earth had been the Paradise It never look'd to human eyes X Since Adam left his garden yet.

And is it that the haze of grief

Makes former gladness loom so great ?

The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief?

IN MEMORIAM. 25

Or that the past will always win

A glory from its being far ;

And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein ?

XXV.

I KNOW that this was Life, — the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day prepared

The daily burden for the back.

But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear,

Because it needed help of love :

Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty Love would cleave in twain

The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him.

XXVI.

STILL onward winds the dreary way ; I with it ; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love,

Whatever fickle tongues may say.

And if that eye which watches guilt

And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder'd tree,

And towers fall'n as soon as built, —

26 IN MEMORIAM.

O, if indeed that eye foresee

Or see (in Him is no before)

In more of life true life no more,

And Love the indifference to be,

Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That Shadow waiting with the keys,

To shroud me from my proper scorn.

XXVII.

I ENVY not in any moods

The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods :

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the field of time, Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes ;

Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth, But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ;

Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall ;

I feel it, when I sorrow most ;

'T is better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

IN MEMORIAM. XXVIII.

THE time draws near the birth of Christ : The moon is hid ; the night is still ; The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound :

Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and good-will, good-will and peace,

Peace and good-will, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain, I almost wish'd no more to wake, And that my hold on life would break

Before I heard those bells again :

But they my troubled spirit rule,

For they controll'd me when a boy ; They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy,

The merry, merry bells of Yule.

XXIX.

WITH such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease,

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ;

27

28 IN MEMORIAM.

Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower'd largess of delight,

In dance and song and game and jest.

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font, Make one wreath more for Use and Wont

That guard the portals of the house ;

Old sisters of a day gone by,

Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; Why should they miss their yearly due

Before their time ? They too will die.

XXX.

WITH trembling fingers did we weave

The holly round the Christmas hearth ; A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense

Of one mute Shadow watching all. •

We paused : the winds were in the beech : We heard them sweep the winter land : And in a circle hand-in-hand

Sat silent, looking each at each.

IN MEMORIAM.

Then echo-like our voices rang ;

We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him

Last year : impetuously we sang :

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept

Upon us : surely rest is meet :

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet, r And silence follow'd, and we wept

Our voices took a higher range ;

Once more we sang : " They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy,

Nor change to us, although they change ;

" Rapt from the fickle and the frail

With gather'd power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame

From orb to orb, from veil to veil"

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,

Draw forth the cheerful day from night : O Father, touch the east, and light

The light that shone when Hope was born.

XXXI.

WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary's house return'd, Was this demanded, — if he yearn'd

To hear her weeping by his grave ?

29

IN MEMORIAM.

" Where wert thou, brother, those four days ? " There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die

Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbors met,

The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ !

The rest remaineth unreveal'd ;

He told it not ; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist.

xxxir.

HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits,

And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears,

Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet

With costly spikenard and with tears.

IN MEMORIAM.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure ; What souls possess themselves so pure,

Or is there blessedness like theirs ?

XXXIII.

O THOU that after toil and storm

Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere,

Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views ; Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse

A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good : O, sacred be the flesh and blood

To which she links a truth divine !

See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail no.t in a world of sin,

And ev'n for want of such a type.

xxxiv.

MY own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live forevermore, Else earth is darkness at the core,

And dust and ashes all that is ;

IN MEMORIAM.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works

Without a conscience or an aim.

What then were God to such as I ?

'T were hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use

A little patience ere I die ;

'T were best at once to sink to peace,

Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws

Of vacant darkness, and to cease.

XXXV.

YET if some voice that man could trust

Should murmur from the narrow house, " The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ;

Man dies : nor is there hope in dust" :

Might I not say, "Yet even here,

But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive " ?

But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,

The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Ionian hills, and sow

The dust of continents to be ;

33

IN MEMORIAM.

And Love would answer with a sigh, " The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more,

Half-dead to know that I shall die."

O me ! what profits it to put

An idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been,

Or been in narrowest working shut,

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape

Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape, And bask'd and batten'd in the woods.

xxxvi.

THO' truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name

Of Him that made them current coin ;

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers,

Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale

Shall enter in at lowly doors.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds,

More strong than all poetic thought ;

34 IN MEMORIAM,

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave

In roarings round the coral reef.

XXXVII.

URANIA speaks with darken'd brow :

" Thou pratest here where thou art least ; This faith has many a purer priest,

And many an abler voice than thou.

" Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet

About the ledges of the hill."

And my Melpomene replies,

A touch of shame upon her cheek : " I am not worthy ev'n to speak

Of thy prevailing mysteries ;

" For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart,

And render human love his dues ;

" But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine

To dying lips is all he said,)

IN MEMORIAM.

" I murmur'd, as I came along,

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; And loiter'd in the Master's field,

And darken'd sanctities with song."

XXXVIII.

WITH weary steps I loiter on,

Tho' always under alter'd skies The purple from the distance dies,

My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing

A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here

Survive in spirits render'd free, Then are these songs I sing of thee

Not all ungrateful to thine ear.

XXXIX.

COULD we forget the widow'd hour,

And look on Spirits breathed away, As on a maiden in the day

When first she wears her orange-flower !

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home, And hopes and light regrets that come

Make April of her tender eyes ;

35

IN MEMORIAM.

And doubtful joys the father move,

And tears are on the mother's face, As parting with a long embrace

She enters other realms of love ;

Her office there to rear, to teach, " Becoming, as is meet and fit, A link among the days, to knit

The generations each with each ;

And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In such great offices as suit

The full-grown energies of heaven.

Ay me, the difference I discern ! How often shall her old fireside Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride,

How often she herself return,

And tell them all they would have told,

And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss'd her most

Shall count new things as dear as old :

But thou and I have shaken hands, , Till growing winters lay me low ;

My paths are in the fields I know, And thine in undiscover'd lands.

IN MEMORIAAL

XL.

THY spirit ere our fatal loss

Did ever rise from high to higher ;

As mounts the heavenward altar-fire, As flies the lighter thro' the gross.

But thou art turn'd to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes ; here upon the ground,

No more partaker of thy change.

Deep folly ! yet that this could be, —

That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light,

And flash at once, my friend, to thee :

For tho' my nature rarely yields

To that vague fear implied in death ; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath,

The howlings from forgotten fields ;

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor

An inner trouble I behold,

A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more,

Tho' following with an upward mind

The wonders that have come to thee, Thro' all the secular to-be,

But evermore a life behind.

37

3 8 /A7" MEMORIAM.

XLI.

I VEX my heart with fancies dim : He still outstript me in the race ; It was but unity of place

That made me dream I rank'd with him.

And so may Place retain us still, And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train

To riper growth the mind and will :

And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves, but knows not, reaps

A truth from one that loves and knows ?

XLII.

IF Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit's folded bloom Thro' all its intervital gloom

In some long trance should slumber on ;

Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past

Be all the color of the flower :

So then were nothing lost to man ; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls

The total world since life began ;

IN MEMORIAM. 39

And love will last as pure and whole As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime

Rewaken with the dawning soul.

XLIII.

How fares it with the happy dead ?

For here the man is more and more ;

But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head.

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence)

A little flash, a mystic hint ;

And in the long harmonious years

(If Death so taste Lethean springs) May some dim touch of earthly things

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

If such a dreamy touch should fall,

O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; My guardian angel will speak out

In that high place, and tell thee all.

XLIV.

THE baby new to earth and sky,

What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast,

Has never thought that " this is I " :

IN MEMORIAM.

But as he grows he gathers much,

And learns the use of " I," and "me," And finds " I am not what I see,

And other than the things I touch."

So rounds he to a separate mind

From whence clear memory may begin, As thro' the frame that binds him in

His isolation grows defined.

This use may lie in blood and breath,

Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself anew

Beyond the second birth of Death.

XLV.

,

WE ranging down this lower track,

The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow'd by the growing hour,

Lest life should fail in looking back.

So be it : there no shade can last

In that deep dawn behind the tomb,

But clear from marge to marge shall bloom

The eternal landscape of the past :

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ;

The fruitful hours of still increase ;

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, And those five years its richest field.

IN MEMORIAM. 4I

O Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far ; Look also, Love, a brooding star,

A rosy warmth from marge to marge.

XLVI.

THAT each, who seems a separate whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall

Remerging in the general Soul,

Is faith as vague as all unsweet : Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside ;

And I shall know him when we meet :

And we shall sit at endless feast,

Enjoying each the other's good : What vaster dream can hit the mood

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least

Upon the last and sharpest height, Before the spirits fade away, Some landing-place, to clasp and say,

" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light."

XLVII.

IF these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed,

Then these were such as men might scorn :

IN MEMORIAM.

Her care is not to part and prove ;

She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit,

And makes it vassal unto love :

And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw

The deepest measure from the chords :

Nor dare she trust a larger lay,

But rather loosens from the lip

Short swallow-flights of song, that dip

Their wings in tears, and skim away.

XLVIII.

FROM art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance, Like light in many a shiver'd lance

That breaks about the dappled pools :

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe

To make the sullen surface crisp.

And look thy look, and go thy way,

But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break,

The tender-pencil'd shadow play.

IN MEMORIAM. 43

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, Ay me ! the sorrow deepens down, Whose muffled motions blindly drown

The bases of my life in tears.

XLIX.

BE near me when my light is low,

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle ; and the heart is sick,

And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame

Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust ; And Time, a maniac scattering dust,

And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,

And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing,

And weave their petty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,

To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life

The twilight of eternal day.

Do we indeed desire the dead

Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ?

No inner vileness that we dread ?

44

IN MEMORIAM.

Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame,

And I be lessen'd in his love ?

I wrong the grave with fears untrue :

Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? There must be wisdom with great Death

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'.

Be near us when we climb or fall :

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours,

To make allowance for us all.

LI.

I CANNOT love thee as I ought,

For love reflects the thing beloved ; My words are only words, and moved

Upon the topmost froth of thought.

" Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," The Spirit of true love replied ; " Thou canst not move me from thy side,

Nor human frailty do me wrong.

" What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears ? What record ? not the sinless years

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue :

IN MEMORIAM.

" So fret not, like an idle girl,

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin.

Abide : thy wealth is gather"d in, When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl."

Lit

How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise,

Who wears his manhood hale and green :

And dare we to this fancy give,

That had the wild-oat not been sown, The soil, left barren, scarce had grown

The grain by which a man may live ?

Oh, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth, Yet who would preach it as a truth

To those that eddy round and round ?

Hold thou the good :. define it well :

For fear divine Philosophy

Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell.

LIII.

OH yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will,

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ;

45

46 IN MEMORIAM.

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void,

When God hath made the pile complete ;

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire,

Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything ;

I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off — at last, to all,

And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light :

And with no language but a cry.

LIV.

THE wish, that of the living whole

No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have

The likest God within the soul ?

Are God and Nature then at strife,

That Nature lends such evil dreams ? So careful of the type she seems,

So careless of the single life ;

IN MEMORIAM.

That I, considering everywhere

Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds

She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,

And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs

That slope thro' darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all,

And faintly trust the larger hope.

LV.

" So careful of the type ? " but no.

From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, " A thousand types are gone

I care for nothing, all shall go.

" Thou makest thine appeal to me : I bring to life, I bring to death : The spirit does but mean the breath :

I know no more." And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

47

48 IN MEMORIAM.

Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law, — Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravin, shriek'd against his creed, —

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust,

Or seal'd within the iron hills ?

No more ? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime,

Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail !

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! .

What hope of answer, or redress ? Behind the veil, behind the veil.

LVI.

PEACE ; come away : the song of woe

Is after all an earthly song :

Peace ; come away : we do him wrong To sing so wildly : let us go.

Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; But half my life I leave behind : Methinks my friend is richly shrined ;

But I shall pass ; my work will fail.

IN MEMORIAM.

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul

That ever look'd with human eyes.

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, Eternal greetings to the dead ; And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said,

"Adieu, adieu" forevermore.

LVII.

I N those sad words I took farewell : Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls

In vaults and catacombs, they fell ;

And, falling, idly broke the peace

Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half conscious of their dying clay,

And those cold crypts where they shall cease.

The high Muse answer'd : "Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? Abide a little longer here,

And thou shalt take a nobler leave."

49

LVIII.

O SORROW, wilt thou live with me, No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life

As I confess it needs must be ;

3L. II. 3

IN MEMORIAM.

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside,

If thou wilt have me wise and good.

My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day ; But I '11 have leave at times to play

As with the creature of my love ;

And set thee forth, for thou art mine,

With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe'er I know thee, some

Could hardly tell what name were thine.

Lix.

HE past ; a soul of nobler tone :

My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set

On one whose rank exceeds her own.

He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what,

And envying all that meet him there.

The little village looks forlorn ;

She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways,

In that dark house where she was born.

IN MEMORIAM.

The foolish neighbors come and go, ' And tease her till the day draws by :

At night she weeps, " How vain am I ! How should he love a thing so low ? "

LX.

IF, in thy second state sublime,

Thy ransom'd reason change replies With all the circle of the wise,

The perfect flower of human time ;

And if thou cast thine eyes below,

How dimly character^ and slight,

How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and night,

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow !

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,

Where thy first form was made a man ; I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can

The soul of Shakespeare love thee more.

LXI.

THO' if an eye that 's downward cast

Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale,

And fading legend of the past ;

And thou, as one that once declined When he was little more than boy, On some unworthy heart with joy,

But lives to wed an equal mind ;

51

52

IN MEMORIAM.

And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes

Is matter for a flying smile.

LXII.

YET pity for a horse o'er-driven,

And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart

In its assumptions up to heaven ;

And I am so much more than these,

As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy,

And I would set their pains at ease.

So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round

A higher height, a deeper deep.

LXIII.

DOST thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began

And on a simple village green ;

, Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,

And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance,

And grapples with his evil star ;

I AT MEMO RI AM.

Who makes by force his merit known, And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees,

And shape the whisper of the throne ;

And moving up from high to higher,

Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope The pillar of a people's hope,

The centre of a world's desire ;

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,

When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill,

A secret sweetness in the stream,

The limit of his narrower fate,

While yet beside its vocal springs He play'd at counsellors and kings,

With one that was his earliest mate ;

Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labor of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands :

" Does my old friend remember me ? "

LXIV.

SWEET soul, do with me as thou wilt ;

I lull a fancy trouble-tost

With " Love 's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt."

53

54

IN MEMORIAM.

And in that solace can I sing,

Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought,

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing :

Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee,

And move thee on to noble ends.

LXV.

You thought my heart too far diseased ; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay,

Like one with any trifle pleased.

The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind,

And like to him whose sight is lost ;

Whose feet are guided thro' the land,

WThose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee,

And winds their curls about his hand :

He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; His inner day can never die,

His night of loss is always there.

IN MEMORIAM. 55

LXVI.

WHEN on my bed the moonlight falls,

I know that in thy place of rest,

By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls :

Thy marble bright in dark appears,

As slowly steals a silver flame

Along the letters of thy name, And o'er the number of thy years.

The mystic glory swims away ;

From off my bed the moonlight dies ;

And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray :

And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church, like a ghost,

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

LXVI I.

WHEN in the down I sink my head,

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath ;

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead :

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn,

When all our path was fresh with dew,

And all the bugle breezes blew Reveille"e to the breaking morn.

56 IN MEMORIAM.

But what is this ? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad, I know not -why,

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt :

But ere the lark hath left the lea

I wake, and I discern the truth ; It is the trouble of my youth

That foolish sleep transfers to thee.

LXVIII.

I DREAM'D there would be Spring no more, That Nature's ancient power was lost : The streets were black with smoke and frost,

They chatter'd trifles at the door :

I wander'd from the noisy town,

I found a wood with thorny boughs : I took the thorns to bind my brows,

I wore them like a civic crown :

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns

From youth and babe and hoary hairs : They call'd me in the public squares

The fool that wears a crown of thorns :

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child :

I found an angel of the night ;

The voice was low, the look was bright ; He look'd upon my crown and smiled :

IN" MEMORIAM.

He reach'd the glory of a hand,

That seem'd to touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief ;

The words were hard to understand.

LXIX.

I CANNOT see the features right,

When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know ; the hues are faint

And mix with hollow masks of night ;

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ;

And crowds that stream from yawning doors, And shoals of pucker'd faces drive ; Dark bulks that tumble half alive,

And lazy lengths on boundless shores :

Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll,- And thro' a lattice on the soul

Looks thy fair face and makes it still.

LXX.

SLEEP, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past

In which we went thro' summer France. 3*

57

58 IN MEMORIAM.

Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong

That so my pleasure may be whole ;

While now we talk as once we talk'd

Of men and minds, the dust of change, The days that grow to something strange,

In walking as of old we walk'd

Beside the river's wooded reach,

The fortress, and the mountain ridge, The cataract flashing from the bridge,

The breaker breaking on the beach.

LXXI.

RlSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white,

And lash with storm the streaming pane?

Day, when my crown'd estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom, Which sicken'd every living bloom,

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ;

Who usherest in the dolorous hour

With thy quick tears that make the rose • Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower ;

59

7JV MEMORIAM.

Who might'st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd A chequer-work of beam and shade

Along the hills, yet look'd the same,

As wan, as chill, as wild as now ;

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime When the dark hand struck down thro' time,

And cancell'd nature's best : but thou,

Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows

Thro' clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar,

And sow the sky with flying boughs,

And up thy vault with roaring sound

Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,

And hide thy shame beneath the ground.

LXXII.

So many worlds, so much to do,

So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee,

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ?

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,

The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath I curse not nature, no, nor death ;

For nothing is that errs from law.

6o IN MEMORIAM.

We pass ; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : What fame is left for human deeds

In endless age ? It rests with God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,

Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-infolds the large results

Of force that would have forged a name.

LXXIII.

As sometimes in a dead man's face,

To those that watch it more and more, A likeness, hardly seen before,

Comes out — to some one of his race :

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, • I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below, • Thy kindred with the great of old.

But there is more than I can see, And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made

His darkness beautiful with thee.

LXXIV.

I LEAVE thy praises unexpress'd

In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ;

IN MEMORIAM. 61

What practice howsoe'er expert

In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings,

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ?

I care not in these fading days

To raise a cry that lasts not long,

And round thee with the breeze of song

To stir a little dust of praise.

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green,

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done

Is cold to all that might have been.

So here shall silence guard thy fame ;

But somewhere, out of human view,

Whate'er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.

LXXV.

TAKE wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ;

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' The secular abyss to come, And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb

Before the mouldering of a yew ;

62 IN MEMORIAM.

And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast,

Ere half the lifetime of an oak.

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; And what are they when these remain

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ?

LXXVI.

WHAT hope is here for modern rhyme To him who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ?

These mortal lullabies of pain

May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks ;

Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,

And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to something else,

Sung by a long-forgotten mind.

But what of that ? My darken'd ways Shall ring with music all the same ; To breathe my loss is more than fame,

To utter love more sweet than praise.

IN MEMORIAM. 63

LXXVII.

AGAIN at Christmas did we weave

The holly round the Christmas hearth ; The silent snow possess'd the earth,

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve :

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept

The quiet sense of something lost.

As in the winters left behind,

Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace,

And dance and song and hoodman-blind.

Who show'd a token of distress ?

No single tear, no mark of pain : O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ?

O grief, can grief be changed to less ?

O last regret, regret can die !

No, — mixt with all this mystic frame,

Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry>

LXXVIII.

" MORE than my brothers are to me," — Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! I know thee of what force thou art

To hold the costliest love in fee.

6 4 IN MEMORIAM.

But thou and I are one in kind,

As moulded like in nature's mint ; And hill and wood and field did print

The same sweet forms in either mind.

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd

Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same All winds that roam the twilight came

In whispers of the beauteous world.

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows,

One lesson from one book we learn'd, Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd

To black and brown on kindred brows.

And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more

As his unlikeness fitted mine.

LXXIX.

I F any vague desire should rise,

That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side,

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ;

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can,

The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought,

But stay'd in peace with God and man.

IN MEMORIAM. 65

I make a picture in the brain ;

I hear the sentence that he speaks ;

He bears the burthen of the weeks ; But turns his burthen into gain.

His credit thus shall set me free ;

And, influence-rich to soothe and save,

Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me.

LXXX.

COULD I have said while he was here,

" My love shall now no further range ; There cannot come a mellower change,

For now is love mature in ear."

Love, then, had hope of richer store : What end is here to my complaint ? This haunting whisper makes me faint,

" More years had made me love thee more."

But Death returns an answer sweet : " My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain

It might have drawn from after-heat"

LXXXI.

I WAGE not any feud with Death

For changes wrought on form and face ;

No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him can fright my faith.

66 /A" MEMORIAM.

Eternal process moving on,

From state to state the spirit walks ;

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.

Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth : I know transplanted human worth

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.

For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart ; He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak.

LXXXII.

DIP down upon the northern shore, O sweet new-year, delaying long ; Thou doest expectant nature wrong ;

Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place ? Can trouble live with April days,

Or sadness in the summer moons ?

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell's darling blue, Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew,

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

IN MEMORIAM. 67

O thou, new-year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud,

And flood a fresher throat with song.

LXXXIII.

, WHEN I contemplate all alone

The life that had been thine below,

And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown ;

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,

On all the branches of thy blood ;

Thy blood, my friend, 'and partly mine ; •

For now the day was drawing on

When thou shouldst link thy life with one 4

Of mine own house, and boys of thine

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ;

But that remorseless iron hour

Made cypress of her orange-flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.

I seem to meet their least desire,

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine

Beside the never-lighted fire.

68 IN MEMORIAM.

I see myself an honor'd guest,

Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk,

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ;

While now thy prosperous labor fills The lips of men with honest praise, And sun by sun the happy days

Descend below the golden hills

With promise of a morn as fair ;

And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of growing powers

To reverence and the silver hair ;

Till slowly worn her earthly robe,

Her lavish mission richly wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought,

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ;

What time mine own nlight also flee, As link'd with thine in love and fate, And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait

To the other shore, involved in thee,

Arrive at last the blessed goal,

And He that died in Holy Land Would reach us out the shining hand,

And take us as a single soul.

What reed was that on which I leant ? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break

The low beginnings of content ?

IN MEMORIAM. 69

LXXXIV. .

THIS truth came borne with bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 'T is better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all

O true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief,

What kind of life is that I lead ;

And whether trust in things above

Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; And whether love for him have drain'd

My capabilities of love ;

Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast, Thro' light reproaches, half exprest,

And loyal unto kindly laws.

My blood an even tenor kept,

Till on mine ear this message falls, That in Vienna's fatal walls

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept.

The great Intelligences fair

That range above our mortal state, In circle round the blessed gate,

Received and gave him welcome there ;

7o

IN MEMORIAM.

And led him thro' the blissful climes,

And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh

Shall gather in the cycled times.

,

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim,

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, To wander on a darken'd earth,

Where all things round me breathed of him.

O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

0 sacred essence, other form, O solemn ghost, O crowned soul !

Yet none could better know than I,

How much of act at human hands

The sense of human will demands, By which we dare to live or die.

Whatever way my days decline,

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, His being working in mine own,

The footsteps of his life in mine ;

J A life that all the Muses deck'd

With gifts of grace, that might express

All-comprehensive tenderness, All-subtilizing intellect :

And so my passion hath not swerved

To works of weakness, but I find

An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved.

IN MEMORIAM.

Likewise the imaginative woe,

That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro' all my life,

But in the present broke the blow.

My pulses therefore beat again

For other friends that onge I met ; Nor can it suit me to forget

The mighty hopes that make us men.

I woo your love : I count it crime

To mourn for any overmuch ;

I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master'd Time ;

Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : • The all-assuming months and years

Can take no part away from this :

But Summer on the steaming floods,

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks,

That gather in the waning woods,

And every pulse of wind and wave

Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb,

And my prime passion in the grave :

My old affection of the tomb,

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : " Arise, and get thee forth and seek '

A friendship for the years to come.

IN MEMORIAM.

" I watch thee from the quiet shore ;

Thy spirit up to mine can reach ;

But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more."

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free ? How is it ? Canst thou feel for me

Some painless sympathy with pain ? "

And lightly does the whisper fall :

" 'T is hard for thee to fathom this ; I triumph in conclusive bliss,

And that serene result of all."

So hold I commerce with the dead ;

Or so methinks the dead would say ;

Or so shall grief with symbols play, And pining life be fancy-fed.

Now looking to some settled end,

That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love,

I crave your pardon, O my friend ;

If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands, aver I could not, if I would, transfer

The whole I felt for him to you.

For which be they that hold apart

The promise of the golden hours ? First love, first friendship, equal powers,

That marry with the virgin heart.

IN MEMORIAM. 73

Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place, That yet remembers his embrace,

But at his footstep leaps no more,

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone, But seeks to beat in time with one

That warms another living breast

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, Knowing the primrose yet is dear, The primrose of the later year,

As not unlike to that of Spring.

LXXXV.

SWEET after showers, ambrosial air,

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom

And meadow, slowly breathing bare

The round of space, and rapt below Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, And shadowing down the horned flood

In ripples, fan my brows and blow

The fever from my cheek, and sigh

The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death,

111 brethren let the fancy fly

74

IN MEMORIAM.

From belt to belt of crimson seas

On leagues of odor streaming far, To where in yonder orient star

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace."

LXXXVI.

I PAST beside the reverend walls

In which of old I wore the gown ; I roved at random thro' the town,

And saw the tumult of the halls ;

And heard once more in college fanes

The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ;

And caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows ; paced the shores

And many a bridge, and all about

The same gray flats again, and felt

The same, but not the same ; and last Up that long walk of limes I past

To see the rooms in which he dwelt.

Another name was on the door : I lingered ; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor ;

IN MEMORIAM. 75

Where once we held debate, a band

Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labor, and the changing mart,

And all the framework of the land ;

When one would aim an arrow fair,

But send it slackly from the string ; And one would pierce an outer ring,

And one an inner, here and there ;

And last the master-bowman, he

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear

The rapt oration flowing free

From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw

The God within him light his face,

And seem to lift the form, and glow

In azure orbits heavenly- wise ;

And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo.

LXXXVII.

WILD bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, O tell me where the senses mix,

O tell me where the passions meet,

7 6 IN MEMORIAM.

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief

Thy passion clasps a secret joy :

And I — my harp would prelude woe — I cannot all command the strings ; The glory of the sum of things

Will flash along the chords and go.

Lxxxvnr.

WITCH-ELMS that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; And thou, with all thy breadth and height

Of foliage, towering sycamore ;

How often, hither wandering down,

My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air

The dust and din and steam of town :

He brought an eye for all he saw ;

He mixt in all our simple sports ;

They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law.

O joy to him in this retreat,

Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark

The landscape winking thro' the heat :

IN MEMORIAM.

O sound to rout the brood of cares,

The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew,

And tumbled half the mellowing pears !

O bliss, when all in circle drawn

About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read

The Tuscan poets on the lawn :

Or in the all-golden afternoon

A guest, or happy sister, sung,

Or here she brought the harp and flung

A ballad to the brightening moon :

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day

With banquet in the distant woods ;

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss'd the books to love or hate, Or touch'd the changes of the state,

Or threaded some Socratic dream ;

But if I praised the busy town,

He loved to rail against it still, For " ground in yonder social mill,

We rub each other's angles down,

" And merge," he said, " in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man." We talk'd : the stream beneath us ran,

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,

77

7 8 fJV MEMORIAM.

Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star

Had fall'n into her father's grave,

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,

We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail,

And buzzings of the honeyed hours.

LXXXIX.

HE tasted love with half his mind,

Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who first could fling

This bitter seed among mankind ;

That could the dead, whose dying eyes

Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but find in child and wife

An iron welcome when they rise :

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o'er, to wish them here,

To count their memories half divine ;

But if they came who passed away,

Behold their brides in other hands ; The hard heir strides about their lands,

And will not yield them for a day.

IN MEMORIAM.

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these,

Not less the yet-loved sire would make Confusion worse than death, and shake

The pillars of domestic peace.'

Ah dear, but come thou back to me :

Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought

That cries against my wish for thee.

XC.

WHEN rosy plumelets tuft the larch,

And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; Or underneath the barren bush

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ;

Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; The hope of unaccomplish'd years

Be large and lucid round thy brow.

When summer's hourly-mellowing change May breathe, with many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat,

That ripple round the lonely grange ;

Come : not in watches of the night,

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, beauteous in thine after form,

And like a finer light in light.

79

8o IN MEMORIAM.

XCI.

IF any vision should reveal

Thy likeness, I might count it vain, As but the canker of the brain ;

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal

To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind

Of memory murmuring the past.

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year ; And tho' the months, revolving near,

Should prove the phantom-Warning true,

They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments, And such refraction of events

As often rises ere they rise.

XCII.

I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land,

Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ?

No visual shade of some one lost,

j rnrnt*

But he, the Spirit himself, may come

Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost.

IN MEMORIAM. 8 1

O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, O, from the distance of the abyss

Of tenfold-complicated change,

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear

The wish too strong for words to name ; That in this blindness of the frame

My Ghost may feel that thine is near.

XCIII.

How pure at heart and sound in head,

With what divine affections bold,

Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead.

In vain shall thou, or any, call

The spirits from their golden day, Except, like them, thou too canst say,

My spirit is at peace with all.

They haunt the silence of the breast,

Imaginations calm and fair,

The memory like a cloudless air, The conscience as a sea at rest :

But when the heart is full of din,

And doubt beside the portal waits, They can but listen at the gates,

And hear the household jar within.

>L. II. 4* F

8 2 IN MEMORIAM.

XCIV.

BY night we linger'd on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry ; And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky

The silvery haze of summer drawn ;

And calm that let the tapers burn

Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : The brook alone far-off was heard,

And on the board the fluttering urn :

And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ;

While now we sang old songs that peal'd

From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease, The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees

Laid their dark arms about the field.

But when those others, one by one,

Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light

Went out, and I was all alone,

A hunger seized my heart ; I read

Of that glad year that once had been,

In those fall'n leaves which kept their green,

The noble letters of the dead :

And strangely on the silence broke

The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love's dumb cry defying change

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke

IN MEMORIAM. 83

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell

On doubts that drive the coward back, And keen thro' wordy snares to track

Suggestion to her inmost cell.

So word by word, and line by line,

The dead man touch'd me from the past, And all at once it seem'd at last

His living soul was flash'd on mine,

And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd About empyreal heights of thought, And came on that which is, and caught

The deep pulsations of the world,

Ionian music measuring out

The steps of Time, the shocks of Chance, The blows of Death. At length my trance

Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech, Or ev'n for intellect to reach

Thro' memory that which I became :

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd

The knoll once more where, couch'd at ease, The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees

Laid their dark arms about the field :

And, suck'd from out the distant gloom, A breeze began to tremble o'er The large leaves of the sycamore,

And fluctuate all the still perfume,

84 IN MEMORIAM.

And gathering freshlier overhead,

Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung

The lilies to and fro, and said,

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; And East and West, without a breath, Mixt their dim lights, like life and death,

To broaden into boundless day.

xcv.

You say, but with no touch of scorn,

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies,

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.

I know not : one indeed I knew

In many a subtle question versed, Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,

But ever strove to make it true :

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,

At last he beat his music out.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind .

And laid them : thus he came at length

IN MEMORIAM. 85

To find a stronger faith his own ;

And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light,

And dwells not in the light alone,

But in the darkness and the cloud, As over Sinai's peaks of old, While Israel made their gods of gold,

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud.

XCVI.

MY love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; He finds on misty mountain-ground His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ;

He sees himself in all he sees.

Two partners of a married life, —

I look'd on these, and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery,

And of my spirit as of a wife.

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June,

Their every parting was to die.

Their love has never past away ; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet,

Whate'er the faithless people say.

86 IN MEMORIAM.

Her life is lone, he sits apart,

He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep

He seems to slight her simple heart.

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, He reads the secret of the star, He seems so near and yet so far,

He looks so cold : she thinks him kind.

She keeps the gift of years before, A wither'd violet is her bliss ; She knows not what his greatness is ;

For that, for all, she loves him more.

For him she plays, to him she sings Of early faith and plighted vows ; She knows but matters of the house,

And he, he knows a thousand things.

Her faith is fixt and cannot move,

She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes,

" I cannot understand : I love."

XCVII.

You leave us : you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail'd below, When I was there with him ; and go

By summer belts of wheat and vine

IN MEMORIAM. 87

To where he breathed his latest breath, That City. All her splendor seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams

On Lethe in the eyes of Death.

Let her great Danube rolling fair

Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : I have not seen, I will not see

Vienna ; rather dream that there,

A treble darkness, Evil haunts

The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend

Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey

By each cold hearth, and sadness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings :

And yet myself have heard him say,

That not in any mother town

With statelier progress to and fro

The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown

Of lustier leaves ; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud

With sport and song, in booth and tent,

Imperial halls, or open plain ;

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks

The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain.

IN MEMORIAM.

XCVIII.

RlSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, So thick with lowings of the herds,

Day, when I lost the flower of men ;

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red

On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past,

And woodlands holy to the dead ;

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there

A fiery finger on the leaves ;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath, To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth,

And unto myriads more, of death.

O, wheresoever those may be,

Betwixt the slumber of the poles, To-day they count as kindred souls ;

They know me not, but mourn with me.

XCIX.

I CLIMB the hill : from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe

Some gracious memory of my friend ;

IN- MEMORIAM. 89

No gray old grange, or lonely fold,

Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead,

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench'd along the hill,

And haunted by the wrangling daw ;

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock ; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves To left and right thro' meadowy curves,

That feed the mothers of the flock ;

But each has pleased a kindred eye,

And each reflects a kindlier day ;

And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die.

UNWATCH'D, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown,

This maple burn itself away ;

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,

Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed

With summer spice the humming air ;

9°

IN MEMORIAM.

Onloved, by many a sandy bar,

The brook shall babble down the plain, ;

At noon, or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star ;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,

And flood the haunts of hern and crake ; Or into silver arrows break

The sailing moon in creek and cove ;

Till from the garden and the wild

A fresh association blow,

And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child ;

As year by year the laborer tills

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; And year by year our memory fades

From all the circle of the hills.

Cl.

WE leave the well-beloved place

Where first we gazed upon the sky ; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry

Will shelter one of stranger race.

We go, but ere we go from home,

As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love

Contend for loving masterdom.

IN MEMORIAM. 91

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird

In native hazels tassel-hung.

The other answers, " Yea, but here

Thy feet have strayed in after hours With thy lost friend among the bovvers,

And this hath made them trebly dear."

These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game,

That will not yield each other way.

I turn to go : my feet are set

To leave the pleasant fields and farms ;

They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret.

CII.

ON that last night before we went

From out the doors where I was bred, I dream'd a vision of the dead,

Which left my after-morn content

Methought I dwelt within a hall,

And maidens with me : distant hills

From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall

IN MEMORIAM.

The hall with harp and carol rang.

They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood

A statue veil'd, to which they sang ;

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love Forever : then flew in a dove

And brought a summons from the sea :

And when they learnt that I must go,

They wept and wail'd, but led the way To where a little shallop lay

At anchor in the flood below ;

And on by many a level mead,

And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks

Of iris, and the golden reed ;

And still as vaster grew the shore,

And roll'd the floods in grander space, The maidens gather'd strength and grace

And presence, lordlier than before ;

And I myself, who sat apart

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb ;

I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan's heart ;

As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be,

And one the shaping of a star ;

IN MEMORIAM.

Until the forward-creeping tides

Began to foam, and we to draw, From deep to deep, to where we saw

A great ship lift her shining sides.

The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went,

And fell in silence on his neck :

Whereat those maidens with one mind

Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong :

" We served thee here," they said, " so long,

And wilt thou leave us now behind ? "

So rapt I was, they could not win

An answer from my lips, but he

Replying, " Enter likewise ye And go with us : " they enterd in.

And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud

That landlike slept along the deep.

cm.

THE time draws near the birth of Christ ;

The moon is hid, the night is still ;

A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist

93

94

IN MEMORIAM.

A single peal of bells below,

That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast,

That these are not the bells I know.

Like strangers' voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days,

But all is new unhallow'd ground.

CIV.

THIS holly by the cottage-eave,

To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand : We live within the stranger's land,

And strangely falls our Christmas eve.

Our father's dust is left alone

And silent under other snows :

There in due time the woodbine blows,

The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse

The genial hour with mask and mime ; For change of place, like growth of time,

Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast,

By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved,

And hold it solemn to the past.

IN MEMORIAM. 95

But let no footstep beat the floor,

Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; For who would keep an ancient form

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more ?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ;

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ;

No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.

Long sleeps the summer in the seed ;

Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good.

cv.

RING out wild bells to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night ;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : The year is going, let him go ;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

96 IN MEMORIAM.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ;

Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

CVI.

IT is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank

Of vapour, leaving night forlorn.

IN MEMORIAM,

The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs

Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass

To darken on the rolling brine

That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass ;

Bring in great logs and let them lie,

To make a solid core of heat ;

Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev'n as he were by ;

We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him whate'er he be,

And sing the songs he loved to hear.

CVII.

I WILL not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone,

Nor feed with sighs a passing wind :

97

98 IN MEMORIAM.

What profit lies in barren faith,

And vacant yearning, tho' with might To scale the heaven's highest height,

Or dive below the wells of Death ?

What find I in the highest place,

But mine own phantom chanting hymns ?

And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face.

I '11 rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies : 'T is held that sorrow makes us wise,

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee.

CVIII.

HEART-AFFLUENCE in discursive talk

From household fountains never dry ; The critic clearness of an eye,

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ;

Seraphic intellect and force

To seize and throw the doubts of man ;

Impassion'd logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course ;

High nature amorous of the good,

But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; And passion pure in snowy bloom

Thro' all the years of April blood ;

/<V MEMORIAM.

\ love of freedom rarely felt,

Of freedom in her regal seat

Of England ; not the schoolboy heat,

The blind hysterics of the Celt ;

And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine,

And find his comfort in thy face ;

All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look'd on : if they look'd in vain, My shame is greater who remain,

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise.

Cix.

THY converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years : The feeble soul, a haunt of fears,

Forgot his weakness in thy sight.

On thee the loyal-hearted hung,

The proud was half disarm'd of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side

To flicker with his double tongue.

The stern were mild when thou wert by, The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool

Was soften'd, and he knew not why ;

99

I00 IN MEMORIAM.

While I, thy dearest, sat apart,

And felt thy triumph was as mine ;

And loved them more, that they were thine,

The graceful tact, the Christian art ;

Not mine the sweetness or the skill

But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire

That spurs an imitative will.

CX.

THE churl in spirit, up or down

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all, To him who grasps a golden ball,

By blood a king, at heart a clown ;

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil

His want in forms for fashion's sake, Will let his coltish nature break

At seasons thro' the gilded pale :

For who can always act ? but he,

To whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all

The gentleness he seem'd to be,

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower

And native growth of noble mind ;

IN MEMORIAM.

Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye,

Where God and Nature met in light ;

And thus he bore without abuse

The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan,

And soil'd with all ignoble use.

CXI.

HIGH wisdom holds my wisdom less,

That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies,

Set light by narrower perfectness.

But thou, that fillest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye

On souls, the lesser lords of doom.

For what wert thou ? some novel power Sprang up forever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much,

In watching thee from hour to hour,

Large elements in order brought,

And tracts of calm from tempest made, And world-wide fluctuation sway'd

In vassal tides that follow'd thought.

z IN MEMORIAM.

CXII.

'T is held that sorrow makes us wise ;

Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me,

But served the seasons that may rise ;

For can I doubt who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — •

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been :

A life in civic action warm,

A soul on highest mission sent, A potent voice of Parliament,

A pillar steadfast in the storm,

Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth

And roll it in another course,

With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries,

And undulations to and fro.

CXIII.

WHO loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty ? May she mix With men and prosper ! Who shall fix

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail.

IN MEMORIAM.

But on her forehead sits a fire :

She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance,

Submitting all things to desire.

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain, She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith,

But some wild Pallas from the brain

Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst

All barriers in her onward race

For power. Let her know her place ;

She is the second, not the first.

A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain ; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side

With wisdom, like the younger child :

For she is earthly of the mind,

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O friend, who earnest to thy goal

So early, leaving me behind,

I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour

In reverence and in charity.

I03

104

IN MEMORIAM.

CXIV.

Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue

The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail

On winding stream or distant sea ;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky

To build and brood ; that live their lives

From land to land ; and in my breast Spring wakens too ; and my regret Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.

CXV.

Is it, then, regret for buried time

That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives an3 takes

The colors of the crescent prime?

IN MEMORIAM.

Not all : the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust

In that which made the world so fair.

Not all regret : the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone ; And that dear voice I once have known

Still speak to me of me and mine :

Yet less of sorrow lives in me

For days of happy commune dead ; Less yearning for the friendship fled,

Than some strong bond which is to be.

CXVI.

O DAYS and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace,

For fuller gain of after bliss ;

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; And unto meeting when we meet,

Delight a hundred-fold accrue,

For every grain of sand that runs,

And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels,

And all the courses of the suns.

5*

I06 IN MEMORIAM.

CXVII.

CONTEMPLATE all this work of Time, The giant laboring in his youth ; Nor dream of human love and truth,

As dying Nature's earth and lime ;

But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day, Forever nobler ends. They say,

The solid earth whereon we tread

In tracts of fluent heat began,

And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms,

Till at the last arose the man ;

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place

If so he type this work of time

Within himself, from more to more ; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show

That life is not as idle ore,

But iron dug from central gloom,

And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears,

And batter'd with the shocks of doom

To shape and use. Arise and fly

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; Move upward, working out the beast,

And let the ape and tiger die.

IN MEMORIAM. 107

CXVIII.

DOORS, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more ; the city sleeps ;

I smell the meadow in the street ;

I hear a chirp of birds ; I see

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn,

And think of early days and thee,

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland,

And bright the friendship of thine eye ; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh

I take the pressure of thine hand.

CXIX.

I TRUST I have not wasted breath : I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain,

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death ;

Not only cunning casts in clay :

Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men,

At least to me ? I would not stay.

Let him, the wiser man who springs

Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape,

But I was born to other things.

I08 IX MEMORIAM.

cxx.

•

SAD Hesper o'er the buried sun,

And ready, thou, to die with him,

Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done :

The team is loosen'd from the wain,

The boat is drawn upon the shore ;

Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken'd in the brain.

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,

By thee the world's great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird :

Behind thee comes the greater light ;

The market boat is on the stream,

And voices hail it from the brink ;

Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, And see'st the moving of the team.

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name

For what is one, the first, the last,

Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed ; thou art the same.

CXXI.

•'

OH, wast thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom,

To bare the eternal Heavens again,

IN MEMORIAM.

To feel once more, in placid awe, The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul,

In all her motion one with law.

If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow,

Till all my blood, a fuller wave,

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy,

I slip the thoughts of life and death :

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow,

And every thought breaks out a rose.

CXXII.

THERE rolls the deep where grew the tree.

O earth, what changes thou hast seen !

There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands,

Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

JIO IN MEMORIAM.

But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true ;

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.

CXXIII.

THAT which we dare invoke to bless ;

Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest doubt ;

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; The Power in darkness whom we guess ;

I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; Nor thro' the questions men may try,

The petty cobwebs we have spun :

If e'er, when faith had fall'n asleep,

I heard a voice, " Believe no more," And heard an ever-breaking shore

That tumbled in the Godless deep ;

A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason's colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart

Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt."

No, like a child in doubt and fear :

But that blind clamor made me wise ; Then was I as a child that cries,

But, crying, knows his father near ;

IN MEMORIAM.

And what I am beheld again

What is, and no man understands ;

And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro' nature, moulding men.

cxxiv.

WHATEVER I have said or sung,

Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live

A contradiction on the tongue,

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ;

She did but look thro' dimmer eyes ;

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies Because he felt so fix'd in truth :

And if the song were full of care,

He breathed the spirit of the song ; And if the words were sweet and strong,

He set his royal signet there ;

Abiding with me till I sail

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps

A thousand pulses dancing, fail.

CXXV.

LOVE is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend,

Which every hour his couriers bring.

IN MEMORIAM.

Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho' as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep

Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel

Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space,

In the deep night, that all is well.

CXXVI.

AND all is well, tho' faith and form Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; Well roars the storm to those that hear

A deeper voice across the storm,

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine

Should pile her barricades with dead.

But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags : They tremble, the sustaining crags ;

The spires of ice are toppled down,

And molten up, and roar in flood ;

The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky,

And the great ALon sinks in blood,

IN MEMORIAM.

And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O'erlook'st the tumult from afar,

And smilest, knowing all is well

CXXVII.

THE love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when we met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith

That sees the course of human things.

No doubt vast eddies in the flood

Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade ;

Yet, O ye mysteries of good,

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new ;

If this were all your mission here,

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, To fool the crowd with glorious lies, To cleave a creed in sects and cries,

To change the bearing of a word,

To shift an arbitrary power,

To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ;

IN MEMORIAM.

Why then my scorn might well descend On you and yours. I see in part .That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil cooperant to an end.

CXXVIII.

'DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal ; O loved the most, when most I feel

There is a lower and a higher ;

Known and unknown ; human, divine ;

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ;

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ;

Strange friend, past, present, and to be ;

Love deeplier, darklier understood ;

Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee.

CXXIX.

THY voice is on the rolling air ;

I hear thee where the waters run ;

Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.

What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; But tho' I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power,

I do not therefore love thee less :

IN MEMORIAM. 115

My love involves the love before ;

My love is vaster, passion now ;

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh ;

I have thee still, and I rejoice ;

I prosper, circled with thy voice ; I shall not lose thee tho' I die.

CXXX.

O LIVING will that shalt endure

When all that seems shall suffer shock,

Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,

That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquered years

To one that with us works, and trust,

With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved,

And all we flow from, soul in soul.

OTRUE and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay ; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song.

Nor have I felt so much of bliss

Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house ; nor proved

Since that dark day a day like this ;

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er

Some thrice three years : they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame,

And yet is love not less, but more ;

No longer caring to embalm

In dying songs a dead regret,

But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm.

Regret is dead, but love is more

Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown

To something greater than before ;

Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes,

The sport of random sun and shade.

IN MEMORIAM,

But where is she, the bridal flower,

That must be made a wife ere noon ? She enters, glowing like the moon

Of Eden on its bridal bower :

On me she bends her blissful eyes,

And then on thee ; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook

Betwixt the palms of paradise.

O when her life was yet in bud,

He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows

Forever, and as fair as good.

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, Consistent ; wearing all that weight

Of learning lightly like a flower.

But now set out : the noon is near, And I must give away the bride ; She fears not, or with thee beside

And me behind her, will not fear :

For I that danced her on my knee,

That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm,

At last must part with her to thee ;

Now waiting to be made a wife,

Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; Their pensive tablets round her head,

And the most living words of life

117

n8 IN MEMORIAM.

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,

The "wilt thou" answer'd, and again The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twain

Her sweet " I will " has made ye one.

Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn ;

The names are sign'd, and overhead

Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze ; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees

The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

O happy hour, and happier hours

Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them — maidens of the place,

That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

O happy hour, behold the bride

With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave

That has to-day its sunny side.

To-day the grave is bright for me,

For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast,

Who rest to-night beside the sea.

Let all my genial spirits advance

To meet and greet a whiter sun ; My drooping memory will not shun

The foaming grape of eastern France.

IN MEMORIAM. 119

It circles round, and fancy plays,

And hearts are warm'd, and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom

We wish them store of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest,

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favor'd horses wait ; They rise, but linger ; it is late ;

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

A shade falls on us like the dark

From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass

To range the woods, to roam the park,

Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed, And how she look'd, and what he said,

And back we come at fall of dew.

Again the feast, the speech, the glee,

The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health,

The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

And last the dance ; — till I retire :

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud,

And on the downs a rising fire :

j IN MEMORIAM.

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapor sail

And pass the silent-lighted town,

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, And catch at every mountain head, And o'er the friths that branch and spread

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ;

And touch with shade the bridal doors, With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; And breaking let the splendor fall

To spangle all the happy shores

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast

And strike his being into bounds,

And, moved thro' life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link

Betwixt us and the crowning race

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look

On knowledge ; under whose command Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand

Is Nature like an open book ;

No longer half- akin to brute,

For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed

Of what in them is flower and fruit ;

IN MEMORIAM.

Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe,

That friend of mine who lives in God,

That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event,

To which the whole creation moves.

121

* ^ ItiL

MAUD,

AND OTHER POEMS

MAUD.

I.

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled wjth bloc

red heath, ^=p>-f/c7vx*_s a-*e0 The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers ' Death.'

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life — O father ! O God ! was

it well ? — Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the

ground : There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast

speculation had fail'd, And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd

with despair,

I26 MAUD.

And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken world-

ling wail'd, And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro'

the air.

4-

I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were

stirr'd By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whis-

per'd fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my

heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shudder-

ingTnlght ^>/

5-

Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains

all. Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be

maintain'd : But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the

Hall, Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid

and drain'd.

,

A

Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have

made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its

own ; And lust "f gain] in the spirit of Cain, is it better or

worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own

hearthstone ?

MAUD.

I27

7- But these are the days of advance, the works of the men

of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's

ware or his word ? Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a

kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print

Of the golden age — why not ? I have neither hope nor

trust ;

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die : who knows ? we are

ashes and dust

9- Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days

gone by, When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each

sex, like swine, When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men

lie; Peace injher vineyard — yes ! — but a company forges

the wine.

10.

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled

wife, While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor

for bread, And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.

128 MAUD.

II.

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous cen- tre-bits

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights,

While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits

To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights.

*£jJl 12.

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial

fee, And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's

bones, Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and

by sea, War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred

thrones.

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by

the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker

out of the foam, That the smoothfaced snubnosed rogue would leap from

his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating

yardwand, home. —

14- What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his

mood ? Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down

and die

MA UD.

129

Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood

On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swin- dler's lie?

15-

Would there be sorrow for ms f there was love in the

passionate shriek, Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to

the grave — Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would

rise and speak And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to

rave.

1 6.

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the

moor and the main. Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to

me here ? O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of

pain, Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and

the fear ?

17-

There are workmen up at the Hall : they are coming

back from abroad ; The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a mil-

lionnaire : I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular

beauty of Maud ; I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then

to be fair.

VOL. II. 6 * I

I3o MAUD.

1 8.

Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes,

Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall,

Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes,

Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced dar- ling of all, —

19. What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may

bring me a curse. No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me

alone. /^ >6v\=/A£-\_

Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or

man be the worse. I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe

to his own.

II.

LONG have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find

it at last ! .It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor

nor salt, But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her car- j (7,

riage past, Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the

fault ? All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be

seen)

MAUD.

'3*

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null,

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not

been For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of

the rose,

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive

nose, From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little

touch of spleen.

III.

COLD and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly

.meek> S/eep . ////^.W

Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was

drown'd, Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the

cheek, Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom

profound ; Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient

wrong Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale

as before Growing. and fading and growing upon me without a

sound, Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night

long Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it

no more,

I32 MAUD.

But arose, and all by myself in my own dark gardery/yX -

ground, Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwreck-

ing roar, Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down

by the wave, Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and

found fjc^r u*JW V9*W '

The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave.

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot

I be Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season

bland, When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer

clime, Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of

sea, The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the

land?

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet

and small ! And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal,

and spite ; And Jack on his alehouse bench has as many lies as a

Czar ;

MAUD.

'33

And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers

the Hall ; And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a

light ; But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading

star !

3-

When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of

the race ? I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her

brother I bow'd ; I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the

moor ; But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful

face.

0 child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so

proud ;

Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor.

4-

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander

and steal ; aJk^tZ^ +

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or

.

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can

heal ; /*>6hauj

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spearM

by the shrike, £*-£<••>*//" ' And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of

plunder and -prey.

134

MAUD.

5- We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in

her flower ; Do weT move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen

hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever

succeed ? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an

hour ; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a

brother's shame ; However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.

A monstrous eft was of old the .Lord and Master of

Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing

ran, And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning

race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his

birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of .

man : He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too base ?

7-

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and

poor ; The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly

and vice. I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate

brain ;

A

MAUD> 135 L i

For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it,

were more ^Je^^-

Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden ,

of spice.

6:

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil.

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ?

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide.

Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hun- gary fail ?

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout ?

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide.

9-

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland

ways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my

lot, Far-oTTYrom the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub

of lies ; From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever

hissing dispraise, Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed

it or not, Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of

poisonous flies.

136 MAUD.

10. And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of

love,

The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. . ouS~\ AhJMaud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for

a wife. Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in

marble above ; Your father is ever in London, you wander about at

your will ;

You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of ~

V.

i.

A VOICE by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall ! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, Ajnartial song like a trumpet's call ! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, Singing of men that in battle array, Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land.

2.

Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,

MAUD. 137

Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and_base.

3-

Silence, beautiful voice ! Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall nqt^find. L,e>^ 'j '

Still ! I will hear you no more, f0** For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore, Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, Not her, not her, but a voice.

vi.

i.

MORNING arises stormy and pale,

No sun, but a wannish glare

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud,

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd

Caught and cuff'd by the gale :

I had fancied it would be fair.

2.

Whom but Maud should I meet Last night, when the sunset burn'd On the blossom'd gable-ends At the head of the village street, Whom but Maud should I meet ?

138 MAUD.

And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet She made me divine amends For a courtesy not return'd.

3-

And thus a delicate spark Of glowing and growing light Thro' the livelong hours of the dark Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; Till at last, when the morning came In a cloud, it faded, and seems But an ashen-gray delight.

4-

What if with her sunny hair, And smile as sunny as cold, She meant to weave me a snare Of some coquettish deceit, Cleopatra-like as of old To entangle me when we met, To have her lion roll in a silken net And fawn at a victor's feet.

5-

Ah, what shall I be at fifty Should Nature keep me alive, If I find the world so bitter When I am but twenty-five ? Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she seem'd, And her smile were all that I dream'd, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet.

MAUD.

What if tho' her eye seem'd full ^Afe

Of a kind intent to me,

s What if that dandy-despot, he,

That jewelTd mass of millinery, /•

That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull

Smelling of musk and of insolence,

Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, j T*

Who wants the finer politic sense , *•

To mask, tho' but in his own behoof,

With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, —

What if he had told her yestermorn <

How prettily for his own sweet sake ^X

A face of tenderness might be feigtfd, /

And a moist mirage in desert eyes,^ —

That so, when the rotten hustings shake

In another month to his brazen lies, / J^j.5 -

A wretched vote may be gain'd.

For a raven ever croaks, at my side, Keep watch and ward, keep watch and Or thou wilt prove their tool. Yea too, myself from myself I guard, For often a man's own angry pride Is cap and bells for a fool.

8.

Perhaps the "smile and tender tone Came out of her pitying womanhood, For am I not, am I not, here alone So many a summer since she died, My mother, who was so gentle and good ? Living alone in an empty house,

140

MAUD.

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, Where I hear the dead at midday moan, And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, And my own sad name in corners cried, When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown About its echoing chambers wide, Till a morbid hate and horror have grown Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, And a morbid eating lichen fixt On a heart half-turn'd to stone.

9-

0 heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught By that you swore to withstand ?

For what was it else within me wrought But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, That made my tongue so stammer and trip When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand, Come sliding out of her sacred glove, And the sunlight broke from her lip ?

10.

1 have play'd with her when a child ; She remembers it now we meet. J^to^ Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled By some coquettish deceit.

Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she seem'd, And her smile had all that I dream'd, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet.

MAUD.

VII.

DID I hear it half in a doze Long since, I know not where ?

Did I dream it an hour ago, When asleep in this arm-chair ?

Men were drinking together, Drinking and talking of me ;

' Well, if it prove a girl, the boy Will have plenty : so let it be.'

Is it an echo of something Read with a boy's delight,

Viziers nodding together In some Arabian night ?

Strange, that I hear two men, Somewhere, talking of me ;

' Well, if it prove a girl, my boy Will have plenty : so let it be.'

VIII.

SHE came to the village church,

And sat by a pillar alone ;

An angel watching an urn

Wept over her, carved in stone ;

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes,

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd

To find they were met by my own ;

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger

And thicker, until I heard no longer

The snowy-banded, dilettante,

Delicate-handed priest intone ;

And thought, is it pride, and mused and si

' No surely, now it cannot be pride.'

IX.

^

£>«*

V

I WAS walking a mile,

More than a mile from the shore,

The sun look'd out with a smile

Betwixt the cloud and the moor,

And riding at set of day

Over the dark moor land,

Rapidly riding far away,

She waved to me with her hand.

There were two at her side,

Something flash'd in the sun,

igh'd V

\v

MAUD. 143

Down by the hill I saw them ride, In a moment they were gone : Like a sudden spark Struck vainly in the night, And back returns the dark With no more hope of light.

X.

I.

SlCK, am I sick of a jealous dread ? Was not one of the two at her side This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks The slavish hat from the villager's head ? Whose old grandfather has lately died, Gone to a blacker pit, for whom Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine Master of half a servile shire, And left his coal all turn'd into gold To a grandson, first of his noble line, Rich in the grace all women desire, Strong in the power that all men adore, And simper and set their voices lower, And soften as if to a girl, and hold Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, New as his title, built last year, There amid perky larches and pine, And over the sullen-purplq moor (Look at it) pricking a cockney ear.

1 44

MAUD.

What, has he found my jewel out ? For one of the two that rode at her side Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, A bought commission, a waxen face, A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? And therefore splenetic, personal, base, A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, At war with myself and a wretched race, Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I.

3-

Last week came one to the county town, To preach our poor little army down, And play the game of the despot kings, Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well This broad-brim'd hawker of holy things, Whose ear is stuff 'd with his cotton, and rings Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, This huckster put down war ! can he tell Whether war be a cause or a consequence ? Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! Pown with ambition, avarice, pride, Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind The bitter springs of anger and fear ; Down too, down at your own fireside, With the evil tongue and the evil ear, For each is at war with mankind.

MAUD, I45

4-

I wish I could hear again The chivalrous battle-song That she warbled alone in her joy ! I might persuade myself then She would not do herself this great wrong To take a wanton, dissolute boy For a man and leader of men.

5-

Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, Like some of the simple great ones gone For ever and ever by, One still strong man in a blatant land, Whatever they call him, what care I, Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one Who can rule and dare not lie.

6. And ah for a man to arise in me,

That the man I am may cease to be !

XL

I.

0 LET the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet

Before my life has found

What some have found so sweet ; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad,

1 shall have had my day.

I46 MAUD.

2.

Let the sweet heavens endure,

Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure

That there is one to love me ; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day.

XII.

BIRDS in the high Hall-garden When twilight was falling,

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,

They were crying and calling.

2.

Where was Maud ? in our wood ;

And I, who else, was with her, Gathering woodland lilies,

Myriads blow together.

Birds in our wood sang

Ringing thro' the valley.s,

Maud is here, here, here K-* In among the lilies.

MAUD.

4-

I kiss'd her slender hand,

She took the kiss sedately ;

Maud is not seventeen,

But she is tall and stately.

5-

I to cry out on pride

Who have won her favor ! O Maud were sure of Heaven

If lowliness could save her.

6.

I know the way she went

Home with her maiden posy,

For her feet have touch'd the meadows And left the daisies rosy.

7-

Birds in the high Hall-garden

Were crying and calling to her,

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, One is come to woo her.

8.

Look, a horse at the door,

And little King Charles is snarling, Go back, my lord, across the moor,

You are not her darling.

MAUD.

xi n.

SCORN'D, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, •

Is that a matter to make me fret ?

That a calamity hard to be borne ?

Well, he may live to hate me yet.

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride !

I past him, I was crossing his lands ;

He stood on the path a little aside ;

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite,

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white,

And six feet two, as I think, he stands ;

But his essences turn'd the live air sick,

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands.

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, I long'd so heartily then and there To give him the grasp of fellowship ; But while I past he was humming an air, Stopt, and then with a riding whip r«/- Leisurely tapping a glossy boojtj- And curving a contumelious lip, "Gorgonized me from head to foot With a stony British stare.

3-

Why sits he here in his father's chair ? That old man never comes to his place : Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ?

MAUD.

For only once, in the village street, Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, A gray old wolf and a lean. Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, She might by a true descent be untrue ; And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet : Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due To the sweeter blood by the other side ; Her mother has been a thing complete, However she came to be so allied. And fair without, faithful within, Maud to him is nothing akin : Some peculiar mystic grace Made her only the child of her mother, And heap'd the whole inherited sin On that huge scapegoat of the race, All, all upon the brother.

4-

Peace, angry spirit, and let him be ! Has not his sister smiled on me ?

XIV.

i.

MAUD has a garden of roses And lilies fair on a lawn ; There she walks in her state And tends upon bed and bower And thither I climb'd at dawn

149

150 MAUD.

• And stood by her garden gate ; A lion ramps at the top, He is claspt by a passion-flower.

2.

Maud's own little oak- room (Which Maud, like a precious stone Set in the heart of the carven gloom, Lights with herself, when alone She sits by her music and books, And her brother lingers late With a roystering company) looks Upon Maud's own garden gate : And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid On the hasp of the window, and my Delight Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide, Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, There were but a step to be made.

3-

The fancy flatter'd my mind, And again seem'd overbold ; Now I thought that she cared for me, Now I thought she was kind Only because she was cold.

I heard no sound where I stood

But the rivulefon from the lawn

Running down to my own dark wood ;

Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd

Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ;

But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld

MAUD. I5I

The death- white curtain drawn ; Felt a horror over me creep, Prickle my skin and catch my breath, Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep, Yet I shuddered and thought like a fool of the sleep of death.

XV.

So dark a mind within me dwells, And I make myself such evil cheer,

That if I be dear to some one else, Then some one else may have much to fear ;

But if I be dear to some one else, Then I should be to myself more dear.

Shall I not take care of all that I think,

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink,

If I be dear,

If I be dear to some one else ?

XVI.

i.

THIS lump of earth has left his estate

The lighter by the loss of his weight ;

And so that he find what he went to seek,

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town,

He may stay for a year who has gone for a week :

152 MAUD,

But this is the day when I must speak, And I see my Oread 'coming down, O this is the day !

0 beautiful creature, what am I That I dare to look her way ; Think I may hold dominion sweet,

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, And dream of her beauty with tender dread, From the delicate Arab arch of her feet To the grace that, bright and light as the crest Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, And she knows it not : O, if she knew it, To know her beauty might half undo it.

1 know it the one bright thing to save My yet young life in the wilds of Time, Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime, Perhaps from a selfish grave.

What, if she be fasten'd to this fool lord,

Dare I bid her abide by her word ?

Should I love her so well if she

Had given her word to a thing so low ?

Shall I love her as well if she

Can break her word were it even for me ?

I trust that it is not so.

3-

Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye, For I must tell her before we part, I must tell her, or .die,

MAUD. 153

XVII.

Go not, happy day,

From the shining fields, Go not, happy day,

Till the maiden yields. Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth. When the happy Yes

^i^akers from her lips, Pass and blush the news

O'er the blowing ships. Over blowing seas,

Over seas at rest, Pass the happy news,

Blush it thro' the West ; Till the red man dance

By his red cedar-tree, And the red man's babe

Leap, beyond the sea. Blush from West to East,

Blush from East to West, Till the West is East,

Blush it thro' the West. Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

7*

154

MAUD.

XVIII.

I HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend.

There is none like her, none.

And never yet so warmly ran my blood

And sweetly, on and on

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end,

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

None like her, none.

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk,

And shook my heart to think she comes once more ;

But even then I heard her close the door,

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.

There is none like her, none.

Nor will be when our summers have deceased.

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon

In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,

Sighing for Lebanon,

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased,

Upon a pastoral slope as fair,

And looking to the South, and fed

With honey'd rain and delicate air,

And haunted by the starry head

Of her whose gentle will has changed my- fate,

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ;

And over whom thy darkness must have spread

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great

MAUD.

155

Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came.

4-

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway, And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play, Who am no more so all forlorn,

v / As when it seem'd far better to be born

v,

t% To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand,

v\.

Than nursed at ease and brought to understand A sad astrology, the boundless plan That makes you tyraptg in your iron skies, Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, ' Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand His nothingness into man. K>» \**^-

5-

But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl The countercharm of space and hollow sky, And do accept my madness, and would die To save from some slight shame one simple girl.

6.

Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; It seems that XaruJhappy, that to me A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,

A pnrpr sapphjrp mplts intn t.hg. sea.

7-

Not diejJjuHiye a lifej)f_truest breath, And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs.

I56 MAUD.

O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? Make answer, Maud my bliss, Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss, Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? -r f* 'The dusky strand of Death inwoven here' ^p With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear.'

Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay ? And hark the clock within, the silver knell Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, And died to live, long as my pulses play ; But now by this my love has closed her sight And given false death her hand, and stol'n away To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell Among the fragments of the golden day. May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. My bride to be, my evermore delight, My own heart's heart and ownest own farewell ; It is but for a little space I go And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow .Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? / have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe That seems to draw — but it shall not be so : Let all be well, be well.

MAUD. 157

XIX.

HER brother is coming back to-night, Breaking up my dream of delight

2.

My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 1 have walk'd awake with Truth.

0 when did a morning shine So rich in atonement as this For my dark-dawning youth, Darken'd watching a mother decline

And that dead man at her heart and mine : For who was left to watch her but I ? Yet so did I let my freshness die.

3-

1 trust that I did not talk To gentle Maud in our walk (For often in lonely wanderings

I have cursed him even to lifeless things)

But I trust that I did not talk,

Not touch on her father's sin :

I am sure I did but speak

Of my mother's faded cheek

When it slowly grew so thin,

That I felt she was slowly dying

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with debt :

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet,

Shaking her head at her son and sighing

A world of trouble within !

158 MAUD.

4-

And Maud too, Maud was moved To speak of the mother she loved As one scarce less forlorn, Dying abroad and it seems apart From him who had ceased to share her heart, And ever mourning over the feud, The household Fury sprinkled with blood By which our houses are torn : How strange was what she said, When only Maud and the brother Hung over her dying bed, — That Maud's dark father and mine Had bound us one to the other, Betrothed us over their wine, On the day when Maud was born ; Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death, Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn.

5-

But the true blood spilt had in it a heat To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet : And none of us thought of a something beyond, A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, As it were a duty done to the tomb, To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ; And I was cursing them and my doom, And letting a dangerous thought run wild While often abroad in the fragrant gloom Of foreign churches, — I see her there, Bright English lily, breathing a prayer To be friends, to be reconciled !

MAUD.

6.

But then what a flint is he ! Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, I find whenever she touch'd on me This brother had laugh'd her down, And at last, when each came home, He had darken'd into a frown, Chid her, and forbid her to speak To me, her friend of the years before ; And this was what had redden'd her cheek, When I bow'd to her on the moor.

7-

Yet Maud, altho' not blind To the faults of his heart and mind, I see she cannot but love him, And says he is rough but kind, And wishes me to approve him, And tells me, when she lay Sick once, with a fear of worse, That he left his wine and horses and play, Sat with her, read to her, night and day, And tended her like a nurse.

8.

Kind ? but the death-bed desire Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — Rough but kind ? yet I know He has plotted against me in this, That he plots against me still. Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be so : For shall not Maud have her will ?

159

160 MAUD.

9-

For, Maud, so tender and true, •

As long as my life endures I feel I shall owe you a debt, That I never can hope to pay ; And if ever I should forget That I owe this debt to you And for your sweet sake to yours ;

0 then, what then shall I say ? — If ever I should forget, May-God make rriemore wretched Than ever I have been yet !

10.

So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate,

1 feel so free and so clear

By the loss of that dead weight,

That I should grow light-headed, I fear,

Fantastically merry ;

But that her brother comes, like a blight

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night.

XX.

STRANGE, that I felt so gay, Strange, that I tried to-day To beguile her melancholy ; The Sultan, as we name him, — She did not wish to blame him -

MAUD. 161

But he vext her and perplext her With his worldly talk and folly : Was it gentle to reprove^her For stealing out of view From a little lazy lover Who but claims her as his due ? Or for chilling his caresses By the coldness of her manners, Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? Now I know her but in two, Nor can pronounce upon it If one should ask me whether The habit, hat, and feather, Or the frock and gipsy bonnet Be the neater and completer ; For nothing can be sweeter Than maiden Maud in either.

2.

But to-morrow, if we live, Our ponderous squire will give A grand political dinner To half the squirelings near ; And Maud will wear her jewels, And the bird of prey will hover, And the titmouse hope to win her With his chirrup at her ear.

3-

A grand political dinner To the men of many acres, A gathering of the Tory, A dinner and then a dance For the maids and marriage-makers,

1 62 MAUD.

And every eye but mine will glance At Maud in all her glory.

4-

For I am not invited, But, with the Sultan's pardon, I am all as well delighted, For I know her own rose-garden, And mean to linger in it v " Till the dancing will be over ; And then, oh then, come out to me For a minute, but for a minute, Come out to your own true lover, That your true lover may see Your glory also, and render All homage to his own darling, ^ Queen Maud in all her splendor.

XXI.

RIVULET crossing my ground,

And bringing me down from the Hall

This garden-rose that I found,

Forgetful of Maud and me,

And lost in trouble and moving round

Here at the head of a tinkling fall,

And trying to pass to the sea ;

O Rivulet, born at the Hall,

My Maud has sent it by thee

(If I read her sweet will right)

On a blushing mission to me,

Saying in odor and color, "Ah, be

Among the roses to-night."

MAUD.

XXII.

COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into, the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

3- All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd

To the dancers dancing in tune ; Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

4- I said to the lily, ' There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone ?

She is weary of dance and play.'

X64 MAUD.

Now half to the setting moon are gone,

And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone

The last wheel echoes away.

5- I said to the rose, ' The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are ^hose,

For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,

' For ever and ever, mine.'

6.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,

As the music clash'd in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all ;

7- From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

That whenever a March- wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet

And the valleys of Paradise.

8. The slender acacia would not shake

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; '

MAUD. 165

But the rose was awake all night for your sake,

Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

9- Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,

Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,

To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ;

She is coming, my life, my fate ; The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is near ; '

And the white rose weeps, ' She is late ; ' The larkspur listens, ' I hear, I hear ; '

And the lily whispers, ' I wait.'

it. She is coming, my own, my sweet ;

Were it ever so airy a tread, M^Jie^rtjvould_iiear_hgr_and beat,

Were it earth jn^n_ej.rthybeJl My dusLw_ouldJiear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

1 66 MAUD.

XXIII.

' THE fault was mine, the fault was mine ' —

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still,

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ?

It is this guilty hand ! —

And there rises ever a passionate cry

From underneath in the darkening land —

What is it, that has been done ?

O dawn of Eden bright over earth .and sky,

The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun,

The fires of Hell and of Hate ;

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word,

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate,

He came with the babe-faced lord ;

Heap'd on her terms of disgrace,

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool,

He fiercely gave me the lie,

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,

And he struck me, madman, over the face,

Struck me before the languid fool,

Who was gaping and grinning by :

Struck for himself an_gvil stroke ;

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ;

For front to front in an hour we stood,

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood,

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code,

That must have life for a blow.

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow.

MAUD. 167

Was it he lay there with a fading eye ?

' The fault was mine,' he whisper"d, ' fly ! '

Then glided out of the joyous wood

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ;

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,

A cry for a brother's blood :

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die.

tSjfi'fcr

Is it gone ? my pulses beat — sf^j. «

What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ?

Yet I thought I saw her stand,

A shadow there at my feet, f

High over the shadowy land. J-*

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, (F'~ \/\f*

When they should burst and drown with deluging storms

The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, /)ft/^

The little hearts that know not how to forgive : f i4_ £ '

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, -

Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms,

That sting each other here in the dust ;

We are not worthy to live.

XXIV.

SEE what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl,

j68 MAUD.

How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design !

i

2.

What is it ? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same.

3-

The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill ? Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, A golden foot or a fairy horn Thro' his dim water-world ?

4-

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine, Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand !

5-

Breton, not Briton ; here Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast Of ancient fable and fear, —

MAUD.

Plagued with a flitting to and fro,

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost

That never came from on high

Nor ever arose from below,

But only moves with the moving eye,

Flying along the land and the main, —

Why should it look like Maud ?

Am I to be overawed

By what I cannot but know

Is a juggle born of the brain ?

6.

Back from the Breton coast, Sick of a nameless fear, Back to the dark sea-line Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; An old song vexes my ear ; But that of Lamech is mine. /, v^***

7-

For years, a measureless ill, For years, forever, to part, — But she, she would love me still ; And as long, O God, as she Have a grain of love for me, So long, no doubt, no doubt, Shall I nurse in my dark heart, However weary, a spark of will •

Not to be trampled out.

J

8.

Strange, that the mind, when fraught i With a passion so intense One would think that it well 8

MAUD.

Might drown all life in the eye, —

That it should, by being so overwrought,

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense

For a shell, or a flower, little things

Which else would have been past by !

And now I remember, I,

When he lay dying there,

I noticed one of his many rings

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought

It is his mother's hair.

9-

Who knows if he be dead ? Whether I need have fled ? Am I guilty of blood ? However this may be, Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, While I am over the sea ! Let me and my passionate love go by, But speak to her all things holy and high, Whatever happen to me ! Me and my harmful love go by ; But come to her waking, find her asleep, Powers of the height, Powers of the deep. And comfort her tho' I die.

XXV.

COURAGE, poor heart of stone ! I will not ask thee why Thou canst not understand That thou art left forever alone :

MAUD.

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. —

Or if I ask thee why,

Care not thou to reply :

She is bu^dead, and the time is at hand

When thou shall more than die.

XXVI.

O THAT 't were possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again !

When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter Than anything on earth.

3-

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee ; Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

MAUD.

4-

It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me, When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights, And the roaring of the wheels.

5-

Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies ; In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

6.

'T is a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendor falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls ; 'T is a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet ; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings ; In a moment we shall meet ; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

MAUD. i

7-

Do I hear her sing as of old, My bird with the shining head, My own dove with the tender eye ? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; For a tumult shakes the city, And I wake, my dream is fled ; In the shuddering dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of my bed That abiding phantom cold.

8.

Get thee hence, nor come again, Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, Pass and cease to move about, 'T is the blot upon the brain That will show itself without.

9-

Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide ; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.

10.

Thro' the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there,

I74 MAUD.

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same ; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame.

11.

Alas for her that met me,

That heard me softly call,

Came glimmering thro' the laurels

At the quiet evenfall,

In the garden by the turrets

Of the old manorial hall.

12.

Would the happy spirit descend, From the realms of light and song, In the chamber or the street, As she looks among the blest. Should I fear to greet my friend Or to say ' forgive the wrong,' Or to ask her, ' take me, sweet, To the regions of thy rest ? '

13-

But the broad light glares and beats, And the shadow flits and fleets And will not let me be ; And I loathe the squares and streets, And the faces that one meets, fHearts with no love for me : Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep, There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee.j

vA

,/

MAUD.

XXVII.

•75

I.

DEAD, long dead, Long dead ! And my heart is a handful of dust, And the wheels go over my head, And my bones are shaken with pain, For into a shallow grave they are thrust, Only a yard beneath the street, And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, The hoofs of the horses beat, Beat into my scalp and my brain, With never an end to the stream of passing feet, Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter, And here beneath it is all as bad, For I thought the dead had peace, btit it is not so ; To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? But up and down and to and fro, Ever about me the dead men go ; And then to hear a dead man chatter Is enough to drive one mad.

Wretchedest age, since Time began,

They cannot even bury a man ;

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone,

Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ;

It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead ;

There is none that does his work, not one ;

A touch of their office might have sufficed,

176 MAUD.

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

3-

See, there is one of us sobbing, No limit to his distress ; And another, a lord of all things, praying To his own great self, as I guess ; And another, a statesman there, betraying His party-secret, fool, to the press ; And yonder a vile physician, blabbing The case of his patient, — all for what ? To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, And wheedle a world that loves him not, For it is but a world of the dead.

4-

Nothing but idiot gabble ! For the prophecy given of old And then not understood, Has come to pass as foretold ; Not let any man think for the public good, But babble, merely for babble. For I never whisper'd a private affair Within the hearing of cat or mouse, No, not to myself in the closet alone, But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house ; Everything came to be known : Who told him we were there ? (^

5-

Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie ; He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp to

crack ; Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.

MAUD. 177

6.

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat ; I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, But I know that he lies and listens mute In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! It is all used up for that.

7-

Tell him now : she is standing here at my head ; Not beautiful now, not even kind ; He may take her now ; for she never speaks her mind, But is ever the one thing silent here. She is not of us, as I divine ; She comes from another stiller world of the dead, Stiller, not fairer than mine.

But I know where a garden grows,

Fairer than aught in the world beside,

All made up of the lily and rose

That blow by night, when the season is good,

To the sound of dancing music and flutes :

It is only flowers, they had no fruits,

And I almost fear they are not roses, but" blood ;

For the keeper was one, so full of pride,

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ;

For he, if he had not1 been a Sultan of brutes,

Would he have that! hole in his side ?

But what will the old man say ? He laid a cruel snare in a pit

V;

i78 MAUD.

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ;

Yet now I could even weep to think of it ;

\ viryv For what will the old man say /u^^^

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ?

10.

Friend, to be struck by the public foe, Then to strike him and lay him low, That were a public merit, far, Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; But the red life spilt for a private blow — I swear to you, lawful and lawless war Are scarcely even akin.

0 me, why have they not buried me deep enough ? Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? Maybe still I am but half-dead ; Then I cannot be wholly dumb ;

1 will cry to the steps above my head,

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.

P.

XXVIII.

MY life has crept so long on a broken wing Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last fo'r a little thing : My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year

MAUD. 179

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang likejiarious crowns

Over Orion's grave low

fown injhe^west, That like a sileliFIiglTtmng Tmder the stars She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — ' And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to Mars As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast.

And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair When I thought that a war would arise in defence of

the right,

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire : No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. /_/<>

3-

And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, ' It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I (For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), ' It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, That old hysterical mock-disease should die.' And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath

j8o MAUD.

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.

4- .

Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd ! Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims, Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar ; And many a darkness into the light shall leap, And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, And noble thought be freer under the sun, And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.

5-

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble

still,

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; It is better to fight for the goodj than to rail at the ill ; I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd.

THE BROOK

AN I D V I. .

' f T ERE, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East

•*- A And he for Italy — too late — too late : One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; Nor could he understand how money breeds, Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make The thing that is not as the thing that is.

0 had he lived ! In our school-books we say, Of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd On such a time as' goes before the leaf, When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved, For which, in branding summers of Bengal,

Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air,

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy,

To me that loved him ; for " O brook," he says,

1 82 THE BROOK.

" O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme,

" Whence come you ? " and the brook, why not ? replies.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

' Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

THE BROOK'. 183

' But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird ; Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

' O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within.

' Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, James Willows, of one name and heart with her. For here I came, twenty years back, — the week Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost,

!84 THE BROOK.

Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon,

And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate,

Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge,

Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, " run "

To Katie somewhere in the walks below,

" Run, Katie ! " Katie never ran : she moved

To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers,

A little fluttered, with her eyelids down,

Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon.

' What was it ? less of sentiment than sense Had Katie ; not illiterate ; neither one Who dabbling in the fount of fictive tears, And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthropies, Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed,.

' She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why ? What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause ; James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, I learnt that James had flickering jealousies Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James ? I said. But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, And sketching with her slender pointed foot Some figure like a wizard's pentagram On garden gravel, let my query pass Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd If James were coming. " Coming every day,'' She answer'd, " ever longing to explain, But evermore her father came across With some long-winded tale, and broke him short ; And James departed vext with him and her." How could I help her ? " Would I — was it wron^ ? " (Claspt hands and that petitionary grace Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke)

THE BROOK. 185

" O would I take her father for one hour, " For one half-hour, and let him talk to me ! " And even while she spoke, I saw where James Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet.

' O Katie, what I suffered for your sake ! For in I went, and call'd old Philip out To show the farm : full willingly he rose : He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he went. He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; His pigeons, who in session on their roofs Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : Then crost the common into Darnley chase To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : " That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire." And there he told a long, long-winded tale Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd, And how he sent the bailiff to the farm To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, Hut he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; He gave them line : and five days after that He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece,

1 86 THE BROOK.

Who then and there had offer'd something more, But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; He gave them line : and how by chance at last (It might be May or April, he forgot, The last of April or the first of May) He found the bailiff riding by the farm, And, talking from the point, he drew him in, And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand.

' Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, Poor fellow, could he help it ? recommenced, And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest, Till, not to die a listener, I arose. And with me Philip, talking still ; and so We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, And following our own shadows thrice as long As when they follow'd us from Philip's door, Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ;

I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

THE BROOK'. 187

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses ;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

Yes, men may come and go ; and these are gone,

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps,

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire,

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome

Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he,

Poor Philip, of all His larvish waste of words

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb :

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks

By the long wash of Australasian seas

Far off, and holds her head to other stars,

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone.'

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath Of tender air made tremble in the hedge The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings ; And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within :

1 88 THE BROOK.

Then, wondering, ask'd her 'Are you from the farm ?' ' Yes ' answer'd she. ' Pray stay a little : pardon me ; What do they call you ? ' ' Katie.' ' That were strange. What surname ? ' ' Willows.' ' No ! ' ' That is my

name.'

' Indeed ! ' and here he look'd so self-perplext, That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. Then looking at her ; ' Too happy, fresh and fair, Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, To be the ghost of one who bore your name About these meadows, twenty years ago.'

' Have you not heard ? ' said Katie, ' we came back. We bought the farm we tenanted before. Am I so like her ? so they said on board. Sir, if you knew her in her English days, My mother, as it seems you did, the days That most she loves to talk of, come with me. My brother James is in the harvest-field : But she — you will be welcome — O, come in ! '

189

THE LETTERS.

STILL on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, I peer'd athwart the chancel pane

And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet,

A band of pain across my brow ; ' Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.'

I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song

That mock'd the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong,

We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry ;

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; I saw with half-unconscious eye

She wore the colors I approved.

3- She took the little ivory chest,

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,

And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings,

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please ; As looks a father on the things

Of his dead son, I look'd on these.

1 90

THE LETTERS.

4- She told me all her friends had said ;

I raged against the public liar ; She talk'd as if her love were dead,

But in my words were seeds of fire. ' No more of love ; your sex is known :

I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone,

The woman cannot be believed.

5- ' Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell

(And women's slander is the worst), And you, whom once I lov'd so well,

Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' I spoke with heart, and heat and force,

I shook her breast with vague alarms — Like torrents from a mountain source

We rush'd into each other's arms.

6. We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars,

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars,

As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appear'd to smile,

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; ' Dark porch ' I said ' and silent aisle

There comes a sound of marriage bells.'

ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON,

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

I.

T) URY the Great Duke -^ With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones forevermore.

3-

Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow ; The last great Englishman is low.

4-

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the Past

192

ODE ON THE DEATH

No more in soldier fashion will he greet

With lifted hand the gazer in the street.

O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute :

Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,

Whole in himself, a common good.

Mourn for the man of amplest influence,

Yet clearest of ambitious crime,

Our greatest yet with least pretence,

Great in council and great in war,

Foremost captain of his time,

Rich in saving common-sense,

And, as the greatest only are,

In his simplicity sublime.

O good gray head which all men knew, .

O voice from which their omens all men drew,

O iron nerve to true occasion true,

O fall'n at length that tower of strength

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew !

Such was he whom we deplore.

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.

The great World-victor's victor \vill be seen no more.

5-

All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll'd. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest forever Among the wise and the bold.

OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 193

Let the bell be toll'd :

And a reverent people behold

The towering car, the sable steeds :

Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds,

Dark in its funeral fold.

Let the bell be toll'd :

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ;

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ;

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ;

He knew their voices of old.

For many a time in many a clime

His captain's-ear has heard them boom

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ;

When he with those deep voices wrought,

Guarding realms and kings from shame ;

With those deep voices our dead captain taught

The tyrant, and asserts his claim

In that dread sound to the great name,

Which he has worn so pure of blame,

In praise and in dispraise the same,

A man of well-attemper'd frame.

O civic muse, to such a name,

To such a name for ages long,

To such a name,

Preserve a broad approach of fame,

And ever-ringing avenues of song.

6.

Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ?

Mighty seaman, this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea.

I94 ODE ON THE DEATH

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,

The greatest sailor since our world began.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; ,

For this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea ;

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ;

O give him welcome, this is he,

Worthy of our gorgeous rites,

And worthy to be laid by thee ;

For this is England's greatest son,

He that gain'd a hundred fights,

Nor ever lost an English gun ;

This is he that far away

Against the myriads of Assaye

Clash'd with his fiery few and won ;

And underneath another sun,

Warring on a later day,

Round affrighted Lisbon drew

The treble works, the vast designs

Of his labor'd rampart-lines,

Where he greatly stood at bay,

Whence he issued forth anew,

And ever great and greater grew,

Beating from the wasted vines

Back to France her banded swarms,

Back to France with countless blows,

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew

Past the Pyrenean pines,

Follow'd up in valley and glen

With blare of bugle, clamor of men,

Roll of cannon and clash of arms,

And England pouring on her foes.

Such a war had such a close.

OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 195

Again their ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings,

And barking for the thrones of kings ;

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ;

A day of onsets of despair !

Dash'd on every rocky square

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ;

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ;

Thro' the long-tormented air

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,

And down we swept and charged and overthrew.

So great a soldier taught us there,

What long-enduring hearts could do

In that world 's-earthquake, Waterloo !

Mighty seaman, tender and true,

And pure as he from taint of craven guile,

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,

If aught of things that here befall

Touch a spirit among things divine,

If love of country move thee there at all,

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine !

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice

In full acclaim,

A people's voice,

The proof and echo of all human fame,

A people's voice, when they rejoice

At civic revel and pomp and game,

Attest their great commander's claim

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,

Eternal honor to his name.

196 ODE ON THE DEATH

7-

A people's voice ! we are a people yet. Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Saxon in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of freedom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, And drill the raw world for the march of mind, Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. But wink no more in slothful overtrust. Remember him who led your hosts ; He bad you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; His voice is silent in your council-hall Forever ; and whatever tempests lour Forever silent ; even if they broke In thunder, silent ; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; Whose life was work, whose language rife

OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

With rugged maxims hewn from life ; Who never spoke against a foe ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the right : Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; Truth-lover was our English Duke ; Whatever record leap to light He never shall be shamed.

8.

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Follow'd by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory : He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory : He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail'd, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled

197

198 ODE ON THE DEATH

Are close upon the shining table-lands

To which our God Himself is moon and sun.

Such was he : his work is done.

But while the races of mankind endure,

Let his great example stand

Colossal, seen of every land,

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ;

Till in all lands and thro' all human story

The path of duty be the way to glory :

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame

For many and many an age proclaim

At civic revel and pomp and game,

And when the long-illumined cities flame,

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,

Eternal honor to his name.

Peace, his triumph will be sung

By some yet unmoulded tongue

Far on in summers that we shall not see :

Peace, it is a day of pain

For one about whose patriarchal knee

Late the little children clung :

O peace, it is a day of pain

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.

Ours the pain, be his the gain !

More than is of man's degree

Must be with us, watching here

At this, our great solemnity.

Whom we see not we revere.

We revere, and we refrain

From talk of battles loud and vain,

OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 199

And brawling memories all too free For such a wise humility As bents a solemn fane : We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music's golden sea Setting toward eternity, Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, Until we doubt not that for one so true There must be other nobler work to do Than when he fought at Waterloo, And Victor he must ever be. For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will ; Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul ? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; He is gone who seem'd so great. — Gone ; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. But speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him. 1852.

2oo THE DAISY.

THE DAISY.

WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH.

o

LOVE, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine ; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.

What Roman strength Turbia show'd In ruin, by the mountain road ;

How like a gem, beneath, the city Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.

How richly down the rocky dell The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters, That only heaved with a summer swell.

What slender campanili grew

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ;

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove,

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to him.

THE DAISY. 201

Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the dipt palm of which they boast ;

But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast,

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green ;

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,

Where oleanders flush'd the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ;

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head.

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould,

A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old.

At Florence too what golden hours, In those long galleries, were ours ;

What drives about the fresh Cascine, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.

In bright vignettes, and each complete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet.

But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain ;

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 9*

THE DAISY.

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ;

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.

0 Milan, O the chanting quires, The giant windows' blazon'd fires,

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! A mount of marble, a hundred spires !

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.

I stood among the silent statues, And statued pinnacles, mute as they.

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, Was Monte Rosa, hanging there

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys And snowy dells in a golden air.

Remember how we came at last To Como ; shower and storm and blast Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded ; and how we past • .

From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day,

The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way,

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, As on the Lariano crept

To that fair port below the castle Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ;

THE DAISY. 203

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake A cypress in the moonlight shake,

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agav& above the lake.

What more ? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew,

But ere we reach'd the highest summit

I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. t

It told of England then to me, And now it tells of Italy.

O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer across the sea ;

So dear a life your arms enfold Whose crying is a cry for gold :

Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nurseling of another sky

Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by :

And I forgot the clouded Forth,

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,

The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North.

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,

Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again.

2O4

TO THE REV, F. D. MAURICE.

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.

COME, when no graver cares employ, God-father, come and see your boy : Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy.

.

For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due,

Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder ' Anathema,' friend, at you ;

Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight ;

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down.

You '11 have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine,

And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine :

For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand ; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ;

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 205

Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin ;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :

.

Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood ;

Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God ;

How best to help' the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor ;

How gain in life, as life advances, Valor and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come : the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy- wet ;

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,

For those are few we hold as dear ;

Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year.

January, 1854.

206 WILL.

WILL.

OWELL for him whose will is strong ! He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong : For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, Who seems a promontory of rock, That, compass'd round with turbulent sound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.

2.

But ill for him who, bettering not with time, Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime, Or seeming-genial venial fault, Recurring and suggesting still ! He seems as one whose footsteps halt, Toiling in immeasurable sand, And o'er a weary, sultry land, Far beneath a blazing vault, Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill, The city sparkles like a grain of salt.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

207

,- THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

H

i.

ALF a league, half'a league,

Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Charge for the guns ! " he said : Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. >

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

3-

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

208 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

4-

Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right thro' the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke ^

Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

5-

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made !

All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred !

IDYLLS OF THE KING.

' Flos Regum Arthurus."

JOSEPH OF EXETER.

DEDICATION.

I^HESE to His Memory — since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself — I dedicate, 1 dedicate, I consecrate with tears — These Idylls.

And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, ' Who reverenced his conscience as his king ; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it ; Who loved one only and who clave to her — ' Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss moved like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone : We know him now : all narrow jealousies Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly ; Not swaying to this faction or to that ; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground

212 DEDICATION.

For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot : for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor — Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good.

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure ; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made One light together, but has past and left The Crown a lonely splendor.

May all love,

His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again !

\

ENID.

' I ^HE brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day, In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendor ; and the Queen herself, Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done, Loved her, and often with her own white hands Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest, Next after her own self, in all the court And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth.

214

ENID.

And seeing them so tender and so close,

Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.

But when a rumor rose about the Queen,

Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,

Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard

The world's loud whisper breaking into storm,

Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,

Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere,

Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint

In nature : wherefore going to the king,

He made this pretext, that his princedom lay

Close on the borders of a territory,

Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights,

Assassins, and all flyers from the hand

Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law :

And therefore, till the king himself should please

To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm,

He craved a fair permission to depart,

And there defend his marches ; and the king

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last,

Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode,

And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores

Of Severn, and they past to their own land ;

Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife

True to her lord, mine shall be so to me,

He compass'd her with sweet observances

And worship, never leaving her, and grew

Forgetful of his promise to the king,

Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt,

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament,

Forgetful of his glory and his name,

Forgetful of his princedom and its cares.

And this forgetfulness was hateful to her.

ENID. 215

And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller companies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, And molten down in mere uxoriousness. And this she gather'd from the people's eyes : This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more : And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy ; While he that watch'd her sadden, was the m<jre Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by other) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room, And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, And bared the knotted column of his throat; The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself, Was ever man so grandly made as he ? Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him, Low to her own heart piteously she said :

' O noble breast and all-puissant arms, Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men

2i6 ENID.

Reproach you, saying all your force is gone ?

I am the cause because I dare not speak

And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here ;

I cannot love my lord and not his name.

Far liever had I gird his harness on him,

And ride with him to battle and stand by,

And watch his mightful hand striking great blows

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

Far better were I laid in the dark earth,

Not hearing any more his noble voice,

Not to be folded more in these dear arms,

And darken'd from the high light in his eyes,

Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame.

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,

And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,

Or may be pierced to death before mine eyes,

And yet not dare to tell him what I think,

And how men slur him, saying all his force

Is melted into mere effeminacy ?

O me, I fear that I am no true wife.'

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast, And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. And then he thought, ' In spite of all my care, For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall.' Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act,

ENID. 217

Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, ' My charger and her palfrey,' then to her, ' I will ride forth into the wilderness ; For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. And you, put on your worst and meanest dress And ride with me.' And Enid ask'd, amazed, ' If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault' But he, ' I charge you, ask not but obey.' Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil, And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded reverently With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array'd herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall, Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart Taller than all his fellows, milky-white, First seen that day : these things he told the king. Then the good king gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.

VOL. II. JO

218 ENID.

And when the Queen petition'd for his leave

To see the hunt, allow'd it easily.

So with the morning all the court were gone.

But Guinevere lay late into the morn,

Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love

For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ;

But rose at last, a single maiden with her,

Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood ;

There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd

Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard instead

A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint,

Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress

Nor weapon, save a golden-hiked brand,

Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ford

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll.

A purple scarf, at either end whereof

There swung an apple of the purest gold,

Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up

To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly

In summer suit and silks of holiday.

Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she,

Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace

Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him :

' Late, late, Sir Prince,' she said, ' later than we ! '

' Yea, noble Queen,' he answer'd, ' and so late

That I but come like you to see the hunt,

Not join it.' ' Therefore wait with me,' she said ;

' For on this little knoll, if anywhere,

There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds

Here often they break covert at our feet.'

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt, And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode

ENID.

Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf ; Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight Had visor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf ; Who being vicious, old, and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know. ' Then will I ask it of himself,' she said. ' Nay, by my faith, thou shall not,' cried the dwarf; ' Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ; ' And when she put her horse toward the knight, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 1 ndignant to the Queen ; at which Geraint Exclaiming, ' Surely I will learn the name,' Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, Who answer'd as before ; and when the Prince Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : But he, from his exceeding manfulness And pure nobility of temperament, Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd From ev'n a word, and so returning said :

'I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to yourself : And I will track this vermin to their earths : For tho' 1 ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms

219

220 ENID.

On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found, Then will I fight him, and will break his pride, And on the third day, will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell.'

' Farewell, fair Prince,' answer'd the stately Queen. ' Be prosperous in this journey, as in all ; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love : But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun.'

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode, By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither came Geraint, and underneath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side of which, White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose ; And on one side a castle in decay, Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine : And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night.

ENID. 221

And onward to the fortress rode the three, And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 'So,' thought Geraint, '1 have track'd him to his earth.' And down the long street riding wearily, Found every hostel full, and everywhere Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd His masters armor ; and of such a one He ask'd, ' What means the tumult in the town?' Who told him, scouring still ' The sparrow-hawk ! ' Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here ? Who answer'd gruffly, ' Ugh ! the sparrow-hawk.' Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : ' Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk Has little time for idle questioners.' Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : ' A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk ! Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead ! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world ! What is it to me ? O wretched set of sparrows, one and all,. Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, Where can I get me harborage for the night ? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? Speak ! ' At this the armorer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks,

222 ENID.

Came forward with the helmet yet in hand And answer'd, ' Pardon me, O stranger knight ; We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here, Harborage ? truth, good truth, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder.' He spoke and fell to work again.

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : ' Whither, fair son ? ' to whom Geraint replied, ' O friend, I seek a harborage for the night.' Then Yniol, ' Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd.' ' Thanks, venerable friend,' replied Geraint ; ' So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast.' Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, And answer'd, ' Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk : But in, go in ; for, save yourself desire it, We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest.'

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern ;

ENID. 223

And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers : And high above a piece of turret stair, Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove.

And while he waited in the castle court, The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, ' there is the nightingale ; ' So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, ' Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.'

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang :

' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ;

224

ENID.

Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

' Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

' Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; For man is man and master of his fate.

' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.'

' Hark, by the bird's song you may learn the nest' Said Yniol ; ' Enter quickly.' Entering then, Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd Hall, He found an ancient dame in dim brocade ; And near her, like a blossom vermeil- white, That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, ' Here by God's rood is the one maid for me.' But none spake word except the hoary Earl : ' Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court ; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; And we will make us merry as we may. Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.'

He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught

ENID. 22 c

0

His purple scarf, and held, and said 'Forbear ! Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, 0 my Son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself.' And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore.

So Enid took his charger to the stall ; And after went her way across the bridge, And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel bore The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board, And stood behind, and waited on the three. And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb, That crost the trencher as she laid it down : But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made summer in his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work, Now here, now there, about the dusky hall ; Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl :

' Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy ; This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me of him. His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it : For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn

VOL. II. IQ * O

226 ENID.

From his his own lips to have it — I am Geraint Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold, And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world ; They would not hear me speak : but if you know Where I can light on arms, or if yourself Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name, Avenging this great insult done the Queen.'

Then cried Earl Yniol. ' Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt you were somewhat, yea and by your state And presence might have guess'd you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear ; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : O never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine,

ENID.

227

Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead

I know not, but he past to the wild land.

The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk,

My curse, my nephew, — I will not let his name

Slip from my lips if I can help it — he,

When I that knew him fierce and turbulent

Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ;

And since the proud man often is the mean,

He sow'd a slander in the common ear,

Affirming that his father left him gold,

And in my charge, which was not render'd to him ;

Bribed with large promises the men who served

About my person, the more easily

Because my means were somewhat broken into

Thro' open doors and hospitality ;

Raised my own town against me in the night

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house ;

From mine own earldom foully ousted me ;

Built that new fort to overawe my friends,

For truly there are those who love me yet ;

And keeps me in this ruinous castle here,

Where doubtless he would put me soon to death,

But that his pride too much despises me :

And I myself sometimes despise myself ;

For I have let men be, and have their way ;

And much too gentle, have not used my power :

Nor know I whether I be very base

Or very manful, whether very wise

Or very foolish ; only this I know,

That whatsoever evil happen to me,

I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb,

But can endure it all most patiently.'

' Well said, true heart,' replied Geraint, ' but arms :

228 ENID.

That if, as I suppose, your nephew fights In next day's tourney I may break his pride.'

And Yniol answer'd 'Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty, .Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours. But in this tournament can no man tilt, Except the lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, And over these is laid a silver wand, And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. But you, that have no lady, cannot fight.'

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, ' Your leave ! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if I fall her name will yet remain Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live, So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, As I will make her truly my true wife.'

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days.

ENID. 229

And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had slipt away) But that old dame, to whom full tenderly And fondling all her hand in his he said, ' Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her understood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince.'

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she With frequent smile and nod departing found, Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face, And told her all their converse in the hall, Proving her heart : but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her ; While slowly falling as a scale that falls, When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast ; Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Rapt in the fear and in the wonder of it ; So moving without answer to her rest She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own unworthiness ; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint.

230 ENID.

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force, Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms Were on his princely person, but thro' these Princelike his bearing shone ; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. And there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed a silver wand And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd, ' Advance and take as fairest of the fair, For I these two years past have won it for thee, The prize of beauty.' Loudly spake the Prince, ' Forbear : there is a worthier,' arid the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, So burnt he was with passion, crying out, ' Do battle for it then,' no more ; and thrice They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears. Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still The dew of their great labor, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, ' Remember that great insult done the Queen,' Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft,

ENID,

And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone,

And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast,

And said, ' Thy name ? ' To whom the fallen man

Made answer, groaning, 'Edyrn, son of Nudd !

Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee.

My pride is broken : men have seen my fall.'

' Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd,' replied Geraint,

' These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest.

First, thou thyself, thy lady, and thy dwarf,

Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being there,

Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen,

And shalt abide her judgment on it ; next,

Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin.

These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.'

And Edyrn answer'd, ' These things will I do,

For I have never yet been overthrown,

And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride

Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall ! '

And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court,

And there the Queen forgave him easily.

And being young, he changed himself, and grew

To hate the sin that seem'd so like his own

Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last

In the great battle fighting for the king.

But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendor in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds, Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — So bent he seem'd on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her promise given —

231

232

ENID.

To ride with him this morning to the court,

And there be made known to the stately Queen,

And there be wedded with all ceremony.

At this she cast her eyes upon her dress,

And thought it never yet had look'd so mean.

For as a leaf in mid-November is

To what it was in mid-October, seem'd

The dress that now she look'd on to the dress

She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint.

And still she look'd, and still the terror grew

Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court,

All staring at her in her faded silk :

And softly to her own sweet heart she said :

' This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him ! Would he could tarry with us here awhile ! But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us, Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, To seek a second favor at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two, Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, Far liefer than so much discredit him.'

And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birthday, three sad years ago, That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house, And scatter'd all they had to all the winds : For while the mother show'd it, and the two Were turning and admiring it, the work

ENID.

233

To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry

That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled

With little save the jewels they had on,

Which being sold and sold had bought them bread :

And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight,

And placed them in this ruin ; and she wish'd

The Prince had found her in her ancient home ;

Then let her fancy flit across the past,

And roam the goodly places that she knew ;

And last bethought her how she used to watch,

Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ;

And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless

Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool ;

And half asleep she made comparison

Of that and these to her own faded self

And the gay court, and fell asleep again ;

And dreamt herself was such a faded form

Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool ;

But this was in the garden of a king ;

And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew

That all was bright ; that all about were birds

Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ;

That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ;

And lords and ladies of the high court went

In silver tissue talking things of state ;

And children of, the king in cloth of gold

Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ;

And while she thought ' they will not see me,' came

A stately queen whose name was Guinevere,

And all the children in their cloth of gold

Ran to her, crying, ' if we have fish at all

Let them be gold ; and charge the gardeners now

To pick the faded creature from the pool,

234

ENID.

And cast it on the mixen that it die.' And therewithal one came and seized on her, And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, And lo ! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake ; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly :

' See here, my child, how fresh the colors look, How fast they hold, like colors of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not ? it never yet was worn, I trow : Look on it, child, and tell me if you know it.'

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first, Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, And answer'd, ' Yea, I know it ; your good gift, So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; Your own good gift ! ' ' Yea, surely,' said the dame, ' And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jousts were ended yesterday, Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere He found the sack and plunder of our house All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town ; And gave command that all which once was ours, Should now be ours again : and yester-eve, While you were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand, For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn.

ENID.

235

Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise ?

For I myself unwillingly have worn

My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours,

And howsoever patient, Yniol his.

Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house,

With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare,

And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal,

And pastime both of hawk and hound, and all

That appertains to noble maintenance.

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ;

But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade,

And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need

Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ;

So clothe yourself in this, that better fits

Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride :

For tho' you won the prize of fairest fair,

And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair,

Let never maiden think, however fair,

She is not fairer in new clothes than old.

And should some great court-lady say, the Prince

Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge,

And like a madman brought her to the court,

Then were you shamed, and, worse, might shame the

Prince

To whom we are beholden ; but I know, When my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, tho' they sought Thro' all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match.'

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay ; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by

236 ENID.

Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose,

And left her maiden couch, and robed herself,

Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye,

Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ;

Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said,

She never yet had seen her half so fair ;

And call'd her like that maiden in the tale.

Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers,

And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun,

Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first

Invaded Britain, but we beat him back,

As this great prince invaded us, and we,

Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy.

And I can scarcely ride with you to court,

For old am I, and rough the ways and wild ;

But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream

I see my princess as I see her now,

Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay.'

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid gay In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately queen, He answer'd ; ' Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk.' Yniol with that hard message went ; it fell, Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not why, Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her,

ENID. 237

Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, And robed them in her ancient suit again, And so descended. Never man rejoiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; And glancing all at once as keenly at her, As careful robins eye the delver's toil, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, But rested with her sweet face satisfied ; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow, • Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said.

' O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At your new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet, Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hold, Beholding one so bright in dark estate, I vow'd that could I gain her, our kind Queen, No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perhaps, That service done so graciously would bind The two together ; for I wish the two To love each other : how should Enid find A nobler friend ? Another thought I had ; I came among you here so suddenly, That tho' her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof that I was loved, I doubted whether filial tenderness, Or easy nature, did not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, overbore

238 ENID.

Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ;

And such a sense might make her long for court

And all its dangerous glories : and I thought,

That could I someway prove such force in her

Link'd with such love for me, that at a word

(No reason given her) she could cast aside

A splendor dear to women, new to her,

And therefore dearer ; or if not so new,

Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power

Of intermitted custom ; then I felt

That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows,

Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest,

A prophet certain of my prophecy,

That never shadow of mistrust can cross

Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts :

And for my strange petition I will make

Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day,

When your fair child shall wear your costly gift

Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees,

Who knows ? another gift of the high God,

Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks.'

He spoke : the mother smiled, but half in tears, Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away.

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea ; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow, till she saw them come ; And then descending met them at the gates,

EXID.

Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honor as the Prince's bride, And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, Remembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress, And all his journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court.

And now this morning when he said to her, ' Put on your worst and meanest dress,' she found And took it, and array'd herself therein.

O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true ; Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen !

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passionately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : ' Not at my side ! I charge you ride before,

239

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ENID.

Ever a good way on before ; and this

I charge you, on your duty as a wife,

Whatever happens, not to speak to me,

No, not a word ! ' and Enid was aghast ;

And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,

When crying out ' Effeminate as I am,

I will not fight my way with gilded arms,

All shall be iron ; ' he loosed a mighty purse,

Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire.

So the last sight that Enid had of home

Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown

With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire

Chafing his shoulder : then he cried again,

' To the wilds ! ' and Enid leading down the tracks

Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past

The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,

Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,

And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode :

Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon :

A stranger meeting them had surely thought,

They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale,

That each had suffer'd some exceeding wrong.

For he was ever saying to himself

' O I that wasted time to tend upon her,

To compass her with sweet observances,

To dress her beautifully and keep her true ' -

And there he broke the sentence in his heart

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue

May break it, when his passion masters him.

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens

To save her dear lord whole from any wound.

And ever in her mind she cast about

For that unnoticed failing in herself,

Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ;

ENID.

Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again ' if there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it."

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall' knights On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; And heard one crying to his fellow, ' Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.'

Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said : ' I will, go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liever by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame/

Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said : ' My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them- boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armor, and your damsel should be theirs.'

He made a wrathful answer. ' Did I wish Your warning or your silence ? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me,

VOL. II. II P

241

242

ENID.

And thus you keep it ! Well then, look — for now, Whether you wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost.'

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast And out beyond ; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on him A lance that splinter'd like an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armor which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armor on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on Before you ; ' and she drove them thro' the waste.

He follow'd nearer : ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch'd The being he loved best in all the world, With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smouldered wrong that burnt him all within ; But evermore it seem'd an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry ' Halt,' and to her own bright face

ENID.

Accuse her of the least immodesty :

And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more

That she could speak whom his own ear had heard

Call herself false : and suffering thus he made

Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time

Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk,

Before he turn to fall seaward again,

Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold

In the first shallow shade of a deep wood,

Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks,

Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd,

Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord,

And shook her pulses, crying, ' Look, a prize !

Three horses and three goodly suits of arms,

And all in charge of whom ? a girl : set on.'

' Nay,' said the second, ' yonder comes a knight.'

The third, ' A craven ; how he hangs his head.'

The giant answer'd merrily, ' Yea, but one ?

Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.'

And Enid ponderM in her heart and said, ' I will abide the coming of my lord, And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good ; How should I dare obey him to his harm ? Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.'

And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, ' Have I leave to speak ? ' He said, ' You take it, speaking,' and she spoke.

243

244

ENID.

' There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while you pass.'

To which he flung a wrathful answer back : ' And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limb'd than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.'

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strain'd, Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd, And there lay still ; as he that tells the tale, Saw once a great piece of a promontory, That had a sapling growing on it, slip From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall

ENID. 245

At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent.

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on Before you,' and she drove them thro' the wood.

He folio w'd nearer still : the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart : And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government.

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it : And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : Than, moving downward to the meadow ground,

246 ENID.

He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said,

' Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint.'

' Yea, willingly,' replied the youth ; ' and you,

My lord, eat also, tho1 the fare is coarse,

And only meet for mowers ; ' then set down

His basket, and dismounting on the sward

They let the horses graze, and ate themselves.

And Enid took a little delicately,

Less having stomach for it than desire

To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint

Ate all the mowers' victual unawares,

And when he found all empty, was amazed ;

And ' Boy,' said he, ' I have eaten all, but take

A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best.'

He, reddening in extremity of delight,

' My lord, you overpay me fifty fold.'

' You will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince.

' I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy,

' Not guerdon ; for myself can easily,

While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch

Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ;

For these are his, and all the field is his,

And I myself am his ; and I will tell him

How great a man you are : he loves to know

When men of mark are in his territory :

And he will have you to his palace here,

And serve you costlier than with mowers' fare.'

Then said Geraint, ' I wish no better fare : I never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! And if he want me, let him come to me. .

ENID. 247

But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know.'

' Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went, Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappear^, Leading the horse, and they were left alone.

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; Then with another humorous ruth remark'd The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, And all the windy clamor of the daws About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge, And into many a listless annulet, Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd And told them of a chamber, and they went ; Where, after saying to her, ' If you will, Call for the woman of the house,' to which She answer'd, ' Thanks, my lord ; ' the two remain'd Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield.

248 ENID.

•

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowze ; and either started while the door, Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye, .

And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously .

According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends, And feast with these in honor of their earl ; ' And care not for the cost ; the cost is mine.'

And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it, And made it of two colors ; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, ' Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely ? ' ' My free leave,' he said ; ' Get her to speak : she does not speak to me.' Then rose Limours and looking at his feet,

249

ENID.

Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly :

' Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, Enid my early and my only love, Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me wild — What chance is this ? how is it I see you here ? You are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. I thought, but that your father came between, In former days you saw me favorably. And if it were so do not keep it back : Make me a little happier : let me know it : Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost ? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy — You sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you — does he love you as of old ? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Tho' men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes, Not while they loved them ; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now : A common chance — right well I know it — pall'cl — For I know men : nor will you win him back, For the man's love once gone never returns. But here is one who loves you as of old ; With more exceeding passion than of old : 11*

250

ENID.

Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round

He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ;

They understand : no ; I do not mean blood :

Nor need you look so scared at what I say :

My malice is no deeper than a moat,

No stronger than a wall : there is the keep ;

He shall not cross us more ; speak but the word :

Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me

The one true lover which you ever had,

I will make use of all the power I have.

O pardon me ! the madness of that hour,

When first I parted from you, moves me yet.'

At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; And answer'd with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said :

' Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence ; Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death.'

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord.

But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint,

ENID.

Debating his command of silence given,

And that she now perforce must violate it,

Held commune with herself, and while she held

He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart

To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased

To find him yet unwounded after fight,

And near him breathing low and equally.

Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd

The pieces of his armor in one place,

All to be there against a sudden need ;

Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd

By that day's grief and travel, evermore

Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then

Went slipping down horrible precipices,

And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ;

Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door,

With all his rout of random followers,

Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her ;

Which was the red cock shouting to the light,

As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world,

And glimmer'd on his armour in the room.

And once again she rose to look at it,

But touch'd it unawares : jangling, the casque

Fell, and he started up and stared at her.

Then breaking his command of silence given,

She told him all that Earl Limours had said,

Except the passage that he loved her not ;

Nor left untold the craft herself had used ;

But ended with apology so sweet,

Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd

So justified by that necessity,

That tho' he thought ' was it for him she wept

In Devon ?' he but gave a wrathful groan,

Saying ' your sweet faces make good fellows fools

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ENID.

And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring

Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out

Among the heavy breathings of the house,

And like a household Spirit at the walls

Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd :

Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd,

In silence, did him service as a squire ;

Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried,

' Thy reckoning, friend ? ' and ere he learnt it, ' Take

Five horses and their armors ; ' and the host,

Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze,

' My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one ! '

' You will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince,

And then to Enid, ' Forward ! and to-day

I charge you, Enid, more especially,

What thing soever you may hear, or see, *

Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use

To charge you) that you speak not but obey.'

And Enid answer'd, ' Yea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey ; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see : Then not to give you warning, that seems hard ; Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.'

' Yea so,' said he, ' do it : be not too wise ; Seeing that you are wedded to a man, Not quite mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams.'

With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her

ENID.

As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied.

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom- his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride More near by many a rood than yester-morn, It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say ' You watch me,' sadden'd all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond

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ENID.

'The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, And overthrew the next that follow'd him, And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ; So, scared but at the motion of the man, Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way ; So vanish friendships only made in wine.

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. ' Horse and man,' he said, ' All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! Not a hoof left : and I methinks till now Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : And so what say you, shall we strip him there Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armor ? shall we fast, or dine ? No ? — then do you, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest.' Thus he said : And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way.

ENID. 255

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not, But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armor secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd ; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, Suddenly came, and at his side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing off her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's life. Then after all was done that hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murder'd mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower : One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ;

256 ENID.

Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear ; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man.

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up ; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, Cried out with a big voice, ' What, is he dead ? ' ' No, no, not dead ! ' she answer'd in all haste. ' Would some of your kind people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun : Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.'

Then said Earl Doorm ; ' Well, if he be not dead, Why wail you for him thus ? you seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or not, You mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : An if he live, we will have him of our band ; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one.'

He spake, and past away, But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone

ENID.

Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians growl'd, Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, Their chance of booty from the morning's raid ; Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded ; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her : she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one.

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. And at the last he waken'd from his swoori, And found his own dear bride propping his head, And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; And said to his own heart, ' she weeps for me : ' And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead, That he might prove her to the uttermost, And say to his own heart ' she weeps for me.'

But in the falling afternoon return'd

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257

258 ENID.

The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.

His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise :

Each hurling down a heap of things that rang

Against the pavement, cast his lance aside,

And doff'd his helm : and then there flutter'd in,

Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,

A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues,

And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm

Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board,

And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears.

And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,

And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh :

And none spake word, but all sat down at once,

And ate with tumult in the naked hall,

Feeding like horses when you hear them feed ;

Till Enid shrank far back into herself,

To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,

He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found

A damsel drooping in a corner of it.

Then he remember'd her, and how she wept ;

And out of her there came a power upon him ;

And rising on the sudden he said, ' Eat !

I never yet beheld a thing so pale.

God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.

Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,

For were I dead who is it would weep for me ?

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath,

Have I beheld a lily like yourself.

And so there lived some color in your cheek,

There is not one among my gentlewomen

Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.

But listen to me, and by me be ruled,

And I will do the thing I have not done,

ENID. 259

For you shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest, And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will.'

He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning stared ; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear What shall not be recorded — women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things. But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have helped him to it : and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, ' I pray you of your courtesy, He being as he is, to let me be.'

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, * yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine.'

She answer'd meekly, ' How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me ? '

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, , And thrust the dish before her, crying, ' Eat.'

260 ENID.

' No, no,' said Enid, vext, ' I will not eat, Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me.' ' Drink, then,' he answer'd. 'Here!' (And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) ' Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger — often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : Drink therefore, and the wine will change your will.'

' Not so,' she cried, ' by Heaven, I will not drink, Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.'

At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, And coming up close to her, said at last ; ' Girl, for I see you scorn my courtesies, Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, Beholding how you butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown, This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : I love that beauty should go beautifully : For see you not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one, Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ! Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey.'

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen

ENID. 26l

Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Play'd into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gems.

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come ; and Enid said :

' In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall : In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd : And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it I have griefs enough : Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : I never loved, can never love but him : Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be.'

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth ; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, ' I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand, However lightly, smote her on the cheek.

262 ENID.

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness,

And since she thought, ' he had not dared to do it,

Except he surely knew my lord was dead,'

Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry,

As of a wild thing taken in the trap,

Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood.

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield), Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said :

' Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man ; Done you more wrong : we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own : Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on myself, Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester-morn — You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife : I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt.'

And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : She only prayed him, ' Fly, they will return And slay you ; fly, your charger is without,

ENID. 2 $3

My palfrey lost' ' Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.' ' Yea,' said Enid, ' let us go.' And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd With a low whinny toward the pair : and she Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away.

And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart, And felt him hers again : she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain : Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his' lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood, She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shriek'd to the stranger, ' Slay not a dead man ! ' ' The voice of Enid,' said the knight ; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again,

264 ENID.

' O cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : ' My lord Geraint, I greet yo.u with all love ; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. • For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.'

' He hears the judgment of the King of Kings,' Cried the wan Prince ; ' and lo the powers of Doorm Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast, While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, ' Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced ; you surely have endured Strange chances here alone ; ' that other flush'd, And hung his head, and halted in reply, Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question ask'd : Till Edyrn crying, ' If you will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,'

ENID. 265

' Enough,' he said, ' I follow,' and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scatter'd in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said :

' Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame ; being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturn'd him ; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism, So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved ; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, The truest eyes that ever answer'd heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, I should not less have kill'd him. And you came,— But once you came, — and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow

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266 ENID.

My proud self, and my purpose three years old,

And set his foot upon me, and give me life.

There was I broken down ; there was I saved :

Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life

He gave me, meaning to be rid of it.

And all the penance the Queen laid upon me

Was but to rest awhile within her court ;

Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged,

And waiting to be treated like a wolf,

Because I knew my. deeds were known, I found,

Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn,

Such fine reserve and noble reticence,

Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace

Of tenderest courtesy, that I began

To glance behind me at my former life,

And find that it had been the wolf's indeed :

And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint,

Who, with mild heat of holy oratory,

Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness,

Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man.

And you were often there about the Queen,

But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw ;

Nor did I care or dare to speak with you,

But kept myself aloof till I was changed ;

And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed.'

He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in. friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reaclvd the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held

ENID. 267

In converse for a little, and return'd, And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse, And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like, And show'd an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said :

' Prince, when of late you pray'd me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes, And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own : but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others : have you look'd At Edyrn ? have you seen how nobly changed ? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents : And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom does a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient : and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful

268 ENID.

Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death.'

So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent ; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; And Enid tended on him there ; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days.

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On whom his father Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King : He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land.

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past

ENID. 269

With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk.

There the great Queen once more embraced her friend,

And clothed her in apparel like the day.

And tho' Geraint could never take again

That comfort from their converse which he took

Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon,

He rested well content that all was well.

Thence after tarrying for a space they rode,

And fifty knights rode with them to the shores

Of Severn, and they past to their own land.

And there he kept the justice of the King

So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts

Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died :

And being ever foremost in the chase,

And victor at the tilt and tournament,

They call'd him the great Prince and man of men.

But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call

Enid the Fair, a grateful people named

Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose

The cry of children, Enids and Geraints

Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more

But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd

A happy life with a fair death, and fell

Against the heathen of the Northern Sea

In battle, fighting for the blameless King.

VIVIEN.

A STORM was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow huge and old It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay.

The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court : She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, And flutter'd adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most ; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by : But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace : It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King.

VIVIEN.

And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times, Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; The people called him Wizard ; whom at first She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk, And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there ; And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch her at her petulance, and play, Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and she, Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd, Began to break her sports with graver fits, Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love, And half believe her true : for thus at times He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. Then fell upon him a great melancholy ; And leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach ; There found a little boat, and stept into it ; And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not. She took the helm and he the sail ; the boat Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, And touching Breton sands, they disembark'd. And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm,

271

272

VIVIEN.

The which if any wrought on any one 'With woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower, From which was no escape for evermore ; And none could find that man for evermore, Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charm Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quench'd.

There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet, As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In color like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March : And while she kiss'd them, crying, ' Trample me, Dear feet, that I have folio w'd thro' the world, And I will pay you worship ; tread me down And I will kiss you for it ; ' he was mute : So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence : wherefore,' when she lifted up A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, ' O Merlin, do you love me ? ' and again, ' O Merlin, do you love me ? ' and once more, ' Great Master, do you love me ? ' he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel,

273

Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat,

Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet

Together, curved an arm about his neck,

Clung like a snake ; and letting her left hand

Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf,

Made with her right a comb of pearl to part

The lists of such a beard as youth gone out

Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said,

Not looking at her, ' who are wise in love

Love most, say least,' and Vivien answer'd quick,

' I saw the little elf-god eyeless once

In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot :

But neither eyes nor tongue, — O stupid child !

Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think

Silence is wisdom : I am silent then

And ask no kiss ; ' then adding all at once,

1 And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom,' drew

The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard

Across her neck and bosom to her knee,

And call'd herself a gilded summer fly

Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web,

Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood

Without one word. So Vivien call'd herself,

But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star

Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly smiled :

' To what request for what strange boon,' he said,

' Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries,

0 Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, For these have broken up my melancholy.'

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, ' What, O my Master, have you found your voice ?

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last ! But yesterday you never open'd lip,

274

VIVIEN,

Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offer'd you it kneeling : then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; O no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well, And I was faint to swooning, and you lay Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? And yet no thanks : and all thro' this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you : Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so strange How had I wrong'd you ? surely you are wise, But such a silence is more wise than kind.'

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said ; ' O did you never lie upon the shore, And watch the curl'd white of the coming wave Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks ? Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. . And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You follow'd me unask'd ; And when I look'd, and saw you following still, My mind involved yourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you truth ? You seem'd that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from my hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child.

VIVIEN.

Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols : wherefore ask ; And take this boon so strange and not so strange.'

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully ; ' O not so strange as my long asking it, Nor yet so strange as you yourself are strange, Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever fear'd you were not wholly mine ; And see, yourself have own'd you did me wrong. The people call you prophet : let it be : But not of those that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself, Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love, That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd Your fancy when you saw me following you, Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as you are named, Not muffled round with selfish reticence.

275

276 VIVIEN.

How hard you look and how denyingly ! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you unawares, To make you lose your use and name and fame, That makes me most indignant ; then our bond Had best be loosed forever : but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk :

0 Merlin, may this earth, if ever I,

If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treachery — May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; And grant my re-reiterated wish, The great proof of your love : because I think, However wise, you hardly know me yet.'

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, ' I never was less wise,- however wise, Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted, when I told you that, And stirr'd this vice in you which ruin'd man Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world, In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised, when I spell the lines,

1 call it, — well, I will not call it vice :

But since you name yourself the summer fly,

VIVIEN. 277

I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weariness : But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame, Why will you never ask some other boon ? Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much.'

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. ' Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid ; Caress her : let her feel herself forgiven Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think you hardly know the tender rhyme Of " trust me not at all or all in all." I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it.

"In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

" It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

" The little rift within the lover's lute, Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

" It is not worth the keeping : let it go : But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all."

278 VIVIEN.

O, master, do you love my tender rhyme ? '

And Merlin look'd and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower : And yet he answer'd half indignantly.

' Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit : For here we met, some ten or twelve of us, To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. It was the time when first the question rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds. And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd, And into such a song, such fire for fame, Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together, And should have done it ; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet, And like a silver shadow slipt away Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind, That glorious roundel echoing in our ears, And chased the flashes of his golden horns Until they vanish'd by the fairy well That laughs at iron — as our warriors did — Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry,

VIVIEN. 279

" Laugh little well," but touch it with a sword.

It buzzes wildly round the point ; and there

We lost him : such a noble song was that

But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme,

I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm,

Were proving it on me, and that I lay

And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame.'

And Vivien answer'd smiling mournfully ; ' O mine have ebb'd away for evermore, And all thro' following you to this wild wood, Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mount As high as woman in her selfless mood. And touching fame, howe'er you scorn my song Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — this :

" My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all."

' Says she not well ? and there is more — this rhyme Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt ; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck — so is it with this rhyme : It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differently ; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls ; " Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love." True : Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves

28o VIVIEN.

A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is nothing to us ; And what is Fame in life but half-disfame, And counterchanged with darkness ? you yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, And since you seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all Vice.'

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, ' I once was looking for a magic weed, And found a fair young squire who sat alone, Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood, And then was painting on it fancied arms, Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief; the scroll " I follow fame." And speaking not, but leaning over him, I took his brush and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in a graff, With this for motto, " Rather use than fame." You should have seen him blush ; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well ; For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him you say you love : but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon !

VIVIEN. 281

What other ? for men sought to prove me vile,

Because I wish'd to give them greater minds :

And then did Envy call me Devil's son :

The sick weak beast seeking to help herself

By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought

Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart.

Sweet were the days when I was all unknown,

But when my name was lifted up, the storm

Broke on the mountain and I cared not for it.

Right well know I that Fame is half-disfame,

Yet needs must work my work. That other fame,

To one at least, who hath not children, vague,

The cackle of the unborn about the grave,

I cared not for it : a single misty star,

Which is the second in a line of stars

That seem a sword beneath a belt of three,

I never gazed upon it but I dreamt

Of some vast charm concluded in that star

To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear,

Giving you power upon me thro' this charm,

That you might play me falsely, having power,

However well you think you love me now

(As sons of kings loving in pupillage

Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to power)

I rather dread the loss of use than fame ;

If you — and not so much from wickedness,

As some wild turn of anger, or a mood

Of overstrain'd affection, it may be,

To keep me all to your own self, or else

A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,

Should try this charm on whom you say you love.'

And Vivien answer'd smiling as in wrath. ' Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. Good !

282 VIVIEN.

Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out ; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your'misfaith ; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman's jealousy, O why not ?

0 to what end, except a jealous one, And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by yourself ?

1 well believe that all about this world You cage a buxom captive here and there, Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for evermore.'

Then the great Master merrily answer'd her. ' Full many a love in loving youth was mine, I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours Whereof you prattle, may now assure you mine ; So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought it first, The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones Who paced it, ages back : but will you hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ?

•' There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port, Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless isles ;

VIVIEN. 283

And passing one, at the high peep of dawn,

He saw two cities in a thousand boats

All fighting for a woman on the sea.

And pushing his black craft among them all,

He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off,

With loss of half his people arrow-slain ;

A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful,

They said a light came from her when she moved :

-And since the pirate would not yield her up,

The King impaled him for his piracy ;

Then made her Queen : but those isle-nurtur'd eyes

Waged such unwilling tho' successful war

On all the youth, they sicken'd ; councils thinn'd,

And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ;

And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back

That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees

Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands,

To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells.

What wonder, being jealous, that he sent

His horns of proclamation out thro' all

The hundred under-kingdoms that he swa/d

To find a wizard who might teach the King

Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen

Might keep her all his own : to such a one

He promised more than ever king has given,

A league of mountain full of golden mines,

A province with a hundred miles of coast,

A palace and a princess, all for him :

But on all those who tried and fail'd, the King

Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it

To keep the list low and pretenders back,

Or like a king, not to be trifled with —

284 VIVIEN.

Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and fail'd, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own : And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the walls : And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers.'

And Vivien breaking in upon him, said : ' I sit and gather honey ; yet, methinks, Your tongue has tript a little : ask yourself. The lady never made unwilling war With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair ? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poison'd rose ? Well, those were not our days ; but did they find A wizard ? Tell me, was he like to thee ? '

She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own, the first of men.

He answer'd laughing, ' Nay, not like to me. At last they found — his foragers for charms — A little glassy-headed hairless man, Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away with thought, So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine.

VIVIEN. 285

And since he kept his mind on one sole aim,

Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh,

Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall

That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men

Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it,

And heard their voices talk behind the wall,

And learnt their elemental secrets, powers

And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye

Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud,

And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm ;

Or in the noon of mist and driving rain,

When the lake whiten'd and the pine wood roar'd,

And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd

The world to peace again : here was the man.

And so by force they dragg'd him to the King.

And then he taught the King to charm the Queen

In such- wise, that no man could see her more,

Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm,

Coming and going, and she lay as dead,

And lost all use of life : but when the King

Made proffer of the league of golden mines,

The province with a hundred miles of coast,

The palace and the princess, that old man

Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass,

And vanish'd, and his book came down to me.'

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily ; ' You have the book : the charm is written in it : Good : take my counsel : let me know it at once : For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty-fold, And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep,

286 VIVIEN.

I yet should strike upon a sudden means To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then ? '

And smiling as a Master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school But that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, On all things all day long ; he answer'd her.

' You read the book, my pretty Vivien ! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot, The text no larger than the limbs of fleas ; And every square of text an awful charm, Writ in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks — you read the book ! And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye ; but the long sleepless nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I ; And none can read the comment but myself ; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple ; a mere child Might use it to the harm of any one, And never could undo it : ask no more : For tho' you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath you swore, you might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Table Round, And all because you dream they babble of you.'

VIVIEN. 287

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : ' What dare the full-fed liars say of me ? They ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. They bound to holy vows of chastity ! Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can understand The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. Not one of all the drove should touch me : swine ! '

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her words. ' You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If you know, Set up the charge you know, to stand or fall ! '

And Vivien answer'd frowning wrathfully. ' O, ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to distant lands ; Was one year gone, and on returning found Not two but three : there lay the reckling, one But one hour old ! What said the happy sire ? A seven months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.'

Then answer'd Merlin ' Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame : Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife : One child they had : it lived with her : she died : His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth.'

' O ay,' said Vivien, ' overtrue a tale. What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore,

288 VIVIEN.

That ardent man ? " to pluck the. flower in season ; " So says the song, " I trow it is no treason."

0 Master, shall we call him overquick

To crop his own sweet rose before the hour ? '

And Merlin answer'd ' Overquick are you To catch a lothly plume fall'n from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man's good name : he never wrong'd his bride.

1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puff'd out his torch among the myriad-room'd And many-corridor'd complexities

Of Arthur's palace : then he found a door And darkling felt the sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own ; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; And either slept, nor knew of other there ; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely down, Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her : But when the thing was blazed about the court, The brute world howling forced them into bonds, And as it chanced they are happy, being pure.'

' O ay,' said Vivien, ' that were likely too. What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought, The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard, Among the knightly brasses of the graves, And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! '

VIVIEN. 289

And Merlin answer'd careless of her charge. ' A sober man is Percivale and pure ; But once in life was fluster'd with new wine, Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard ; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark ; And that he sinn'd, is not believable ; For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd, The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more ? '

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in wrath ; ' O ay ; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend ? Traitor or true ? that commerce with the Queen, I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, Or whisper'd in the corner ? do you know it ?'

To which he answer'd sadly, ' Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, To fetch her, and she took him for the King ; So fixt her fancy on him : let him be. But have you no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man ?

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh ; ' Him ? is he man at all, who knows and winks ? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks ? By which the good king means to blind himself, And blinds himself and all the Table Round To all the foulness that they work. Myself

VOL. ii. 13 s

290

VIVIEN.

Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular name such manhood earns, Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, and fool.'

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said ; ' O true and tender ! O my liege and king !

0 selfless man and stainless gentleman,

Who would'st against thine own eye-witness fain

Have all men true and leal, all women pure ;

How, in the mouths of base interpreters,

From over-fineness not intelligible

To things with every sense as false and foul

As the poach'd filth that floods the middle street,

Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame ! '

But Vivien deeming Merlin overborne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean.

Her words had issue other than she will'd. He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And mutter'd in himself, ' tell her the charm ! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not, So will she rail. What did the wanton say ? " Not mount as high ; " we scarce can sink as low : For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.

1 know the Table Round, my friends of old ;

VIVIEN. 291

All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. I think she cloaks the wounds of loss with lies ; I do believe she tempted them and fail'd, She is so bitter : for fine plots may fail, Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as faci With colors of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know : nine tithes of times Face-flatterers and backbiters are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, Wanting the mental rage ; or low- desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all ; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain, To leave an equal baseness ; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of clay, Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual fire, And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.'

He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-winter'd fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood, And hearing ' harlot ' mutter'd twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight, How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death ! White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of anger puff'd Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half-clench'd

292

VIVIEN.

Went faltering sideways downward to her belt,

And feeling ; had she found a dagger there

(For in a wink the false love turns to hate)

She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not :

His eye was calm, and suddenly she took

To bitter weeping like a beaten child,

A long, long weeping, not consolable.

Then her false voice made way broken with sobs.

' O crueller than was ever told in tale, Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd love !

0 cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful, for what shame in love, So love be true, and not as yours is — nothing Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust

Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her crime, All — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers.'

She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together with a wailing shriek, and said : ' Stabb'd through the heart's affections to the heart ! Seeth'd like the kid in its own mother's milk ! Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows !

1 thought that he was gentle, being great :

0 God, that I had loved a smaller man !

1 should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw

The knights, the court, the king; dark in your light,

Who loved to make men darker than they are,

Because of that high pleasure which I had

To seat you sole upon my pedestal

Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth

The course of life that seem'd so flowery to me

With you for guide and master, only you,

VIVIEN:

Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short, And ending in a ruin — nothing left, But into some low cave to crawl, and there, If the- wolf spare me, weep my life away, Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness.'

She paused, she turn'd away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died Within him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true : Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, ' Come from the storm,' and having no reply, Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching terms To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, And as the cageling newly flown returns, The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing Came to her old perch back, and settled there. There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, About her, more in kindness than in love, The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislink'd herself at once and rose, Her arms upon her breast across, and stood A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd, Upright and flush'd before him : then she said :

' There must be now no passages of love

293

294

VIVIEN.

Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore.

Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd,

What should be granted which your own gross heart

Would reckon worth the taking ? I will go.

In truth, but one thing now — better have died

Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make me stay —

That proof of trust — so often ask'd in vain !

How justly, after that vile term of yours,

I find with grief ! I might believe you then,

Who knows ? once mofe. O*, what was once to me

Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown

The vast necessity of heart and life.

Farewell ; think kindly of me, for I fear

My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth

For one so old, must be to love you still.

But ere I leave you let me swear once more

That if I schemed against your peace in this,

May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send

One flash, that, missing all things else, may make

My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.'

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck, Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining WTith darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw The tree that shone white-listed thro' the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, And deafen'd with the stammering cracks and claps That follow'd, flying back and crying out, ' O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save, Yet save me ! ' clung to him and hugg'd him close ; And call'd him dear protector in her fright,

VIVIEN.

295

Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,

But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close.

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch

Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd.

She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales :

She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept

Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and liege,

Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,

Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love

Of her whole life ; and ever overhead

Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain

Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom

Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ;

Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent,

Moaning and calling out of other lands,

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more

To peace ; and what should not have been had been,

For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn,

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, And lost to life and use and name and fame.

Then crying ' I have made his glory mine,' And shrieking out ' O fool ! ' the harlot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echo'd ' fool.'

ELAINE.

ELAINE the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All -the devices blazon'd on the shield In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower, And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day- Leaving her household and good father climb'd That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, Stript oft" the case, and read the naked shield, Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms, Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle ;

ELAINE. 297

That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : And ah God's mercy what a stroke was there ! And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God Broke the strong lance, and roll'd his enemy down, And saved him : so she lived in fantasy.

How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name ? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts, Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize.

For Arthur when none knew from whence he came, Long ere the people chose him for their king, Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side : For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together ; but their names were lost. And each had slain his brother at a blow, And down they fell and made the glen abhoiVd : And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, And lichen'd into color with the crags : And he that once was king had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, , '3*

298

ELAINE.

And set it on his head, and in his heart

Heard murmurs 'lo, thou likewise shall be king.'

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights, Saying ' these jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom's not the king's — For public use : henceforward let there be, Once every year, a joust for one of these : For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The Heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder.' • Thus he spoke : And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won ; but meaning all at once To snare her royal fancy with a boon Worth half her realm, had never spoken word.

Now far the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere ' Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move To these fair jousts ?' 'Yea, lord,' she said, 'you know it.' ' Then will you miss,' he answer'd, ' the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight you love to look on.' And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there,

ELAINE.

' Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more Than many diamonds,' yielded, and a heart, Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearn'd to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, ' Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle ; ' and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began.

' To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame. Why go you not to these fair jousts ? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful king is gone ! ' Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain : ' Are you so wise ? you were not once so wise, My Queen, that summer, when you loved me first. Then of the crowd you took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allow'd Of all men : many a bard, without offence, Has link'd our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the king Would listen smiling. How then ? is there more ? Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself, Now weary of my service and devoir, Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ?'

299

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ELAINE.

She broke into a little scornful laugh. ' Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, That passionate perfection, my good lord — But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven ? He never spake word of reproach to me, He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, He cares not for me : only here to-day There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : . Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him — else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible, To make them like himself : but, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all : For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; The low sun makes the color : I am yours, Not Arthur's, as you know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest ; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting.'

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. ' And with what face, after my pretext made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a king who honors his own word, As if it were his God's ? '

' Yea,' said the Queen, ' A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, If I must find you wit : we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch. But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name, This conquers : hide it therefore ; go unknown : Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true king

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ELAINE.

Will then allow your pretext, O my knight,

As all for glory ; for to speak him true,

You know right well, how meek soe'er he seem,

No keener hunter after glory breathes.

He loves it in his knights more than himself :

They prove to him his work : win and return.'

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself : not willing to be known, He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often lost in fancy, lost his way ; Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, That all in loops and links among the dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made and wound the gateway horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man ; And issuing found the Lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court ; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house There was not : some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approach'd them : then the Lord of Astolat. ' Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name Livest between the lips ? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those, After the king, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown.'

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ELAINE.

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights. ' Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one unknown At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, Hereafter you shall know me — and the shield — I pray you lend me one, if such you have, Blank, or at least with some device not mine.'

• Then said the Lord of Astolat, ' Here is Torre's :

Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His you can have.' Then added plain Sir Torre, ' Yea since I cannot use it, you may have it.' Here laugh'd the father saying ' Fie, Sir Churl, I s that an answer for a noble knight ? Allow him : but Lavaine, my younger here, He is so full of lustihood, he will ride Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour And set it in this damsel's golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as before.'

'Nay, father, nay good father, shame me net Before this noble knight ' said young Lavaine ' For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : A jest, no more : for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand, And that it was too slippery to be held, And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike ; and then I said That if I went and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among ourselves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest.

ELAINE. 303

But father give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : Win shall I not, but do my best to win : Young as I am, yet would I do my best.'

4 So you will grace me,' answer'd Lancelot, Smiling a moment, ' with your fellowship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend ; And you shall win this diamond — as I hear, It is a fair large diamond, — if you may, And yield it to this maiden, if you will.' 4 A fair large diamond,' added plain Sir Torre, 4 Such be for Queens and not for simple maids.' Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd. 4 If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only Queens are to be counted so, Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, Not violating the bond of like to like.'

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before she look'd, Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world, Had been the sleeker for it : but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose

ELAINE.

And drove him into wastes and solitudes For agony, who was yet a living soul. Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man, That ever among ladies ate in Hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marr'd, of more than twice her years, Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom.

Then the great knight, the darling of the court, Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind : Whom they with meats and vintage of their best And talk and minstrel melody entertain'd. And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, And ever well and readily answer'd he : But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. ' He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd ; But I my sons and little daughter fled From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman's hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.'

' O there, great Lord, doubtless,' Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, ' you have fought.

ELAINE.

3°5

O tell us ; for we live apart, you know

Of Arthur's glorious wars.' And Lancelot spoke

And answer'd him at full, as having been

With Arthur in the fight which all day long

Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ;

And in the four wild battles by the shore

Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war

That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts

Of Celidon the forest ; and again

By castle Gurnion where the glorious King

Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head,

Carved of one emerald, center'd in a sun

Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ;

And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord,

When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse

Set every gilded parapet shuddering ;

And up in Agned Cathregonion too,

And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit,

Where many a heathen fell ; ' and on the mount

Of Badon I myself beheld the King

Charge at the head of all his Table Round,

And all his legions crying Christ and him,

And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand

High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume

Red as the rising sun with heathen blood,

And seeing me, with a great voice he cried

" They are broken, they are broken " for the King,

However mild he seems at home, nor cares

For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts —

For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs

Saying, his knights are better men than he —

Yet in this heathen war the fire of God

Fills him : I never saw his like : there lives

No greater leader.'

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ELAINE.

While he utter'd this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid ' Save your great self, fair lord ; ' and when he fell From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — She still took note that when the living smile Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness Of manners and of nature : and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived, As when a painter, poring on a face, Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him. that h'is face, The shape and color of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest ; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First as in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating : Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, ' This shield, my friend, where is it ? ' and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'd The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw

ELAINE. 307

The maiden standing in the dewy light.

He had not dream'd she was so beautiful.

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear,

For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood

Rapt on his face as if it were a God's.

Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire,

That he should wear her favor at the tilt.

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it.

' Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is,

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear

My favor at this tourney ?' ' Nay,' said he,

4 Fair lady, since I never yet have worn

Favor of any lady in the lists.

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know.'

' Yea, so,' she answer'd ; ' then in wearing mine

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord,

That those who know should know you.' And he turn'd

Her counsel up and down within his mind,

And found it true, and answer'd, ' true, my child.

Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me :

What is it ?' and she told him ' a red sleeve

Broider'd with pearls,' and brought it : then he bound

Her token on his helmet, with a smile

Saying, ' I never yet have done so much

For any maiden living,' and the blood

Sprang to her face, and fill'd her with delight ;

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine

Returning brought the yet-unblazon'd shield,

His brother's ; which he gave to Lancelot,

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine ;

' Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield

In keeping till I come.' 'A grace to me,'

She answer'd, ' twice to-day. I am your Squire.'

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, ' Lily maid,

3o8 ELAINE.

For fear our people call you lily maid

In earnest, let me bring your color back ;

Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence to bed :

So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand,

And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute,

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there —

Her bright hair blown about the serious face

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss —

Paused in the gateway, standing by the shield

In silence, while she watch'd their arms far-off

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs.

Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield,

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

Meanwhile the new companions past away Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and pray'd And ever laboring had scoop'd himself In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry ; The green light from the meadows underneath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode.

But when the next day broke from underground, And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away : Then Lancelot saying, ' hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake,'

ELAINE.

Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant reverence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, But left him leave to stammer, ' is it indeed ? ' And after muttering ' the great Lancelot ' At last he got his breath and answer'd ' One, One have I seen — that other, our liege lord, The dread Pendragon, Britain's king of kings, Of whom the people talk mysteriously, He will be there — then were I stricken blind That minute, I might say that I had seen.'

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run thro' the peopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known, Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable . Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found The new design wherein they lost themselves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : And, in the costly canopy o'er him set, Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king.

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said, ' Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat, The truer lance : but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it ; and in me there dwells

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310

ELAINE.

No greatness, save it be some far-off touch

Of greatness to know well I am not great :

There is the man.' And Lavaine gaped upon him

As on a thing miraculous, and anon

The trumpets blew ; and then did either side,

They that assail'd, and they that held the lists,

Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move,

Meet in the midst, and there so furiously

Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive,

If any man that day were left afield,

The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms.

And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw

Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it

Against the stronger : little need to speak

Of Lancelot in his glory : King, duke, earl,

Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew.

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot ; and one said to the other ' Lo ! What is he ? I do not mean the force alone, The grace and versatility of the man — Is it not Lancelot ! ' ' When has Lancelot worn Favor of any lady in the lists ? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know.' ' How then ? who then ? ' a fury seized on them, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds and

thus,

Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him

ELAINE. 3 1

Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, And him that helms it, so they overbore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd.

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully ; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure, And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle To those he fought with — drave his kith and kin, And all the Table Round that held the lists, Back to the barrier ; then the heralds blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights, His party, cried ' Advance, and take your prize The diamond ; ' but he answer'd, ' diamond me No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air ! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! Hence will I and I charge you, follow me not.'

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, Gasping to Sir Lavaine, ' draw the lance-head : ' ' Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot,' said Lavaine, ' 1 dread me, if I draw it, you will die.'

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ELAINE.

But he 'I die already with it : draw —

Draw ' — and Lavaine drew, and that other gave

A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan,

And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank

For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away.

Then came the hermit out and bare him in,

There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt

Whether to live or die, for many a week

Hid from the wide world's rumor by the grove

Of poplars with their noise of falling showers,

And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay.

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him ' Lo, Sire, our knight thro' whom we won the day Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death.' ' Heaven hinder,' said the King, ' that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen to-day — He seem'd to me another Lancelot — Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — He must not pass uncared for. Gawain, rise, My nephew, and ride forth and find the knight. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. I charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honor : since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Wherefore take This diamond, and deliver it, and return,

ELAINE. *

\f

And bring us what he is and how he fares, And cease not from your quest, until you find.'

So saying from the carven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose, With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Lamorack, a good knight, but therewithal Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house, Nor often loyal to his word, and now Wroth that the king's command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings.

So all in wrath he got to horse and went ; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, Past, thinking 'is it Lancelot who has come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and has added wound to wound, And ridd'n away to die ? ' So fear'd the King, And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. Then when he saw the Queen, embracing ask'd, ' Love, are you yet so sick?' ' Nay, lord,' she said. ' And where is Lancelot ? ' Then the Queen amazed ' Was he not with you ? won he not your prize ? ' ' Nay, but one like him.' ' Why that like was he.' And when the King demanded how she knew, Said ' Lord, no sooner had you parted from us, Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch,

VOL. II. 14

3*4

ELAINE.

But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, ev'n the king, and to this end Had made the pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decay'd: And added, " our true Arthur, when he learns, Will well allow my pretext, as for gain Of purer glory." '

Then replied the King : ' Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, To have trusted me as he has trusted you. Surely his king and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, these ! His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; So that he went sore wounded from the field : Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, Some gentle maiden's gift.'

' Yea, lord,' she said,

'Your hopes are mine,' and saying that she choked, And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, Moved to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it, And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm, And shriek'd out ' traitor ' to the unhearing wall,

ELAINE.

Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again, And moved about her palace, proud and pale.

315

Gawain the while thro' all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove, And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid Glanced at, and cried ' What news from Camelot, lord ? What of the knight with the red sleeve ?' ' He won.' ' I knew it,' she said. ' But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side,' whereat she caught her breath. Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; Thereon she smote her hand : well-nigh she swoon'd : And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The lord of Astoiat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridden wildly round To seek him, and was wearied of the search. To whom the lord of Astolat ' Bide with us, And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince ! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; This will he send or come for : furthermore Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, Needs must we hear.' To this the courteous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : Where could be found face daintier ? then her shape From forehead down to foot perfect — again From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 'Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for me ! ' And oft they met among the garden yews,

316

ELAINE.

And there he set himself to play upon her

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height

Above her, graces of the court, and songs,

Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence

And amorous adulation, till the maid

Rebell'd against it, saying to him, ' Prince,

O loyal nephew of our noble King,

Why ask you not to see the shield he left,

Whence you might learn his name ? Why slight your King,

And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove

No surer than our falcon yesterday,

Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went

To all the winds ?' ' Nay, by mine head,' said he,

' I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven,

0 damsel, in the light of your blue eyes : But an you will it let me see the shield.'

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd ;

1 Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! ' ' And right was I,' she answer'd merrily, ' I,

Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all.' ' And if / dream'd,' said Gawain, ' that you love This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, you know it ! Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? ' Full simple was her answer ' What know I ? My brethren have been all my fellowship, And I, when often they have talk'd of love, Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so myself— I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, Methinks there is none other I can love.' ' Yea, by God's death,' said he, ' you love him well,

ELAINE. 317

Hut would not, knew you what all others know,

And whom he loves.' ' So be it,' cried Elaine,

And lifted her fair face and moved away :

But he pursued her calling ' Stay a little !

One golden minute's grace : he wore your sleeve :

Would he break faith with one I may not name ?

Must our true man change like a leaf at last ?

May it be so ? why then, far be it from me

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves !

And, damsel, for I deem -you know full well

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave

My quest with you ; the diamond also : here !

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it ;

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it

From your own hand ; and whether he love or not,

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well

A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell !

Yet, if he love, and his love hold,, we two

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think,

So you will learn the courtesies of the court,

We two shall know each other.'

Then he gave,

And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went A true-love ballad, lightly rode away.

Thence to the court he past ; there told the King What the King knew ' Sir Lancelot is the knight.' And added ' Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all round The region : but I lighted on the maid, Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him ; and to her, Deeming our courtesy is the truest law,

318 ELAINE.

I gave the diamond : she will render it ;

For by mine head she knows his hiding-place.'

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, ' Too courteous truly ! you shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that you forget Obedience is the courtesy due to kings.'

He spake and parted. Wroth but all in awe, For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, Linger'd that other, staring after him ; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed : ' The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat.' Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire in dry stubble a nine days' wonder flared : Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen who sat With lips severely placid felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged.

ELAINE. 319

But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone, Sat on his knee, stroked his gray face and said. ' Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? ' ' Nay,' said he, ' surely.' ' Wherefore let me hence,' She answer'd, ' and find out our dear Lavaine.' ' You will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : Bide,' answer'd he : 'we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other.' ' Ay,' she said, 4 And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, And with mine own hand give his diamond to him, Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, My father, to be sweet and serviceable To noble knights in sickness, as you know, When these have worn their tokens : let me hence I pray you.' Then her father nodding said, ' Ay, ay, the diamond : wit you well, my child, Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole, Being our greatest : yea, and you must give it — And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — • Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone, Being so very wilful you must go.'

320

ELAINE.

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, ' Being so very wilful you must go,' And changed itself and echoed in her heart, ' Being so very wilful you must die.' But she was happy enough and shook it off, As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; And in her heart she answer'd it and said, ' What matter, so I help him back to life ? ' Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers : Whom when she saw, ' Lavaine,' she cried, ' Lavaine^ How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? ' He amazed, ' Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir Lancelot ! How know you my lord's name is Lancelot ? ' But when the maid had told him all her tale, Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange-statued gate, Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot ; And her Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart she laugh'd, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gain'd the cell in which he slept,

ELAINE.

321

His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands

Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream

Of dragging down his enemy made them move.

Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn,

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself,

Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry.

The sound not wonted in a place so still

Woke the sick knight, and while he roll'd his eyes

Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying

' Your prize the diamond sent you by the King : '

His eyes glisten'd : she fancied 'is it for me ?'

And when the maid had told him all the tale

Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest

Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt

Full lowly by the corners of his bed,

And laid the diamond in his open hand.

Her face was near, and as we kiss the child

That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face.

At once she slipt like water to the floor.

' Alas,' he said, ' your ride has wearied you.

Rest must you have.' ' No rest for me,' she said ;

' Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest.'

What might she mean by that ? his large black eyes,

Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her,

Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself

In the heart's colors on her simple face ;

And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind,

And being weak in body said no more ;

But did not love the color ; woman's love,

Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd

Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept.

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, And past beneath the wildly-sculptured gates VOL. ii. 14* u

322

ELAINE.

Far up the dim rich city to her kin ;

There bode the night : but woke with dawn, and past

Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields,

Thence to the cave : so day by day she past

In either twilight ghost-like to and fro

Gliding, and every day she tended him,

And likewise many a night : and Lancelot

Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt

Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem

Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid

Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him

Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,

Milder than any mother to a sick child,

And never woman yet, since man's first fall,

Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love

Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd in all

The simples and the science of that time,

Told him that her fine care had saved his life.

And the sick man forgot her simple blush,

Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,

Would listen for her coming and regret

Her parting step, and held her tenderly,

And loved her with all love except the love

Of man and woman when they love their best

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death

In any knightly fashion for her sake.

And peradventure had he seen her first

She might have made this and that other world

Another world for the sick man ; but now

The shackles of an old love straiten'd him,

His honor rooted in dishonor stood,

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

ELAINE,

323

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made Full many a holy vow and pure resolve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live : For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the sweet image of one face, Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight, And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmur'd ' vain, in vain : it cannot be. He will not love me : how then ? must I die.' Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing -the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, ' must I die ? ' And now to right she turn'd, and now to left, And found no ease in turning or in rest ; And ' him or death ' she mutter'd, ' death or him,' Again and like a burthen, ' him or death.'

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, To Astolat returning rode the three. There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best, She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 'If I be loved, these are my festal robes, If not, the victim's flowers before he fall.'

324

ELAINE.

And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid

That she should ask some goodly gift of him

For her own self or hers ; ' and do not shun

To speak the wish most near to your true heart ;

Such service have you done me, that I make

My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I

In mine own land, and what I will I can.'

Then like a ghost she lifted up her face,

But like a ghost without the power to speak.

And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish,

And bode among them yet a little space

Till he should learn it ; and one morn it chanced

He found her in among the garden yews,

And said, ' Delay no longer, speak your wish,

Seeing I must go to-day : ' then out she brake ;

' Going ? and we shall never see you more.

And I must die for want of one bold word.'

' Speak : that I live to hear,' he said, ' is yours.'

Then suddenly and passionately she spoke :

' I have gone mad. I love you : let me die.'

' Ah sister,' answer'd Lancelot, ' what is this ? '

And innocently extending her white arms, "

' Your love,' she said, ' your love — to be your wife.'

And Lancelot answer'd, ' Had I chos'n to wed,

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine :

But now there never will be wife of mine.'

' No, no,' she cried, ' I care not to be wife,

But to be with you still, to see your face,

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world.'

And Lancelot answer'd, ' Nay, the world, the world,

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue

To blare its own interpretation — nay,

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love,

ELAINE. 325

And your good father's kindness.' And she said ' Not to be with you, not to see your face — Alas for me then, my good days are done.' 1 Nay, noble maid,' he answer'd, ' ten times nay ! This is not love : but love's first flash in youth, Most common : yea I know it of mine own self: And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in womanhood, More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and territory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas, So that would make you happy : furthermore, Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were my blood, In all your quarrels will I be your knight. This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot.'

While he spoke

She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-pale Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied ; ' Of all this will I nothing ; ' and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower.

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father. ' Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. I pray you, use some rough discourtesy To blunt or break her passion.'

Lancelot said,

' That were against me : what I can I will ; ' And there that day remain'd, and toward even

3 2 6 ELAINE.

Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bad farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used.

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : His very shield was gone ; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. But still she heard him, still his picture form'd And grew between her and the pictured wall. Then came her father, saying in low tones ' Haye comfort,' whom she greeted quietly. Then came her brethren saying, ' Peace to thee Sweet sister,' whom she answer'd with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the moanings of the wind.

And in those days she made a little song, And call'd her song ' The Song of Love and Death,' And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing.

" Sweet is true love, tho' given in vain, in vain ; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

ELAINE. 327

" Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me.

0 Love, if death be sweeter, lee me die.

" Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

" I fain would follow love, if that could be ; I needs must follow death, who calls for me ; Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die."

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, All in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering ' Hark the Phantom of the house That ever shrieks before a death,' and call'd The father, and all three in hurry and fear Ran to her, and lo ! the bloodred light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling ' Let me die ! '

As when we dwell upon a word we know Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder and we know not why, So dwelt the father on her face and thought ' Is this Elaine?' till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. At last she said ' Sweet brothers, yesternight I seem'd a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when you used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat

328 ELAINE.

Only you would not pass beyond the cape

That has the poplar on it : there you fixt

Your limit, oft returning with the tide.

And yet I cried because you would not pass

Beyond it, and far up the shining flood

Until we found the palace of the king.

And yet you would not ; but this night I dream'd

That I was all alone upon the flood,

And then I said " Now shall I have my will : "

And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd.

So let me hence that I may pass at last

Beyond the poplar and far up the flood,

Until I find the palace of the king.

There will I enter in among them all,

And no man there will dare to mock at me ;

But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me,

And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ;

Gawain, who bad a thousand farewells to me,

Lancelot, who coldly went nor bad me one :

And there the King will know me and my love,

And there the Queen herself will pity me,

And all the gentle court will welcome me,

And after my long voyage I shall rest ! '

' Peace,' said her father, ' O my child, you seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to go, So far, being sick ? and wherefore would you look On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all ? '

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, ' I never loved him : an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down,

ELAINE. 329

Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house.'

To which the gentle sister made reply, ' Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest.'

' Highest ? ' the Father answer'd, echoing ' highest.' (He meant to break the passion in her) 'nay, Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; But this I know, for all the people know it, He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : And she returns his love in open shame. If this be high, what is it to be low ? '

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat ; ' Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger : these are slanders : never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, My father, howsoe'er I seem to you, Not all unhappy, having loved God's best And greatest, tho' my love had no return : Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner ; wherefore cease, Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die.'

33°

ELAINE.

So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word ; and when he ask'd ' Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord ? Then will I bear it gladly ; ' she replied, ' For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, But I myself must bear it.' Then he wrote The letter she devised ; which being writ And folded, ' O sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not,' she said — ' you never yet Denied my fancies — this, however strange, My latest : lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my heart, Then take the little bed on which I died For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. And let there be prepared a chariot-bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors.'

She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh

ELAINE. 33 1

Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat

But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone FullTSummer, to that stream whereon the barge, Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house, Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck, Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazonings, And kiss'd her quiet brows,* and saying to her ' Sister, farewell forever,' and again ' Farewell, sweet sister,' parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead SteerM by the dumb went upward with the flood — In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last The price of half a realm, his costly gift, Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow,

332

ELAINE.

With deaths of others, and almost his own,

The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw

One of her house, and sent him to the Queen

Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed

With such and so unmoved a majesty

She might have seem'd her statue, but that he,

Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet

For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye

The shadow of a piece of pointed lace,

In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls,

And parted, laughing in his courtly heart.

All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, They met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, ' Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for you, These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on earth, Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words : Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. Our bond, is not the bond of man and wife, Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect : let rumors be : When did not rumors fly ? these, as I trust That you trust me in your own nobleness, I may not well believe that you believe.'

While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen

ELAINE. 333

Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied.

' It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill, It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! For her ! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful : and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur's queen I move and rule : So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down : An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer — as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds — hers not mine — Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself,

334

ELAINE.

Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — She shall not have them.'

Saying which she seized,

And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the

stream.

Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were, Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night.

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. There two stood arm'd, and kept the door ; to whom, All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd ' What is it ? ' but that oarsman's haggard face, As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said, ' He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair ! Yea, but how pale ! what are they ? flesh and blood ? Or come to take the King to fairy land ? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die, But that he passes into fairy land.'

While thus they babbled of the King, the King

ELAINE.

335

Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueless man

From the half-face to the full eye, and rose

And pointed to the damsel, and the doors.

So Arthur bad the meek Sir Percivale

And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ;

And reverently they bore her into hall.

Then came the fine Gawain and wonder'd at her,

And Lancelot later came and mused at her,

At last the Queen herself and pitied her :

But Arthur spied the letter in her hand,

Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was all.

' Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no farewell, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. And therefore to our lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan. Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too, Sir Lancelot, As thou art a knight peerless.'

Thus he read,

And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips, Who had devised the letter, moved again.

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all ; ' My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden's death

336 ELAINE.

Right heavy am I ; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love : To this I call my friends in testimony, Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature : what I could, I did. I left her and I bad her no farewell. Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use, And help'd her from herself.'

Then said the Queen

(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) ' You might at least have done her so much grace, Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death.' He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, He adding,

' Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her — then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, poor, Estate them with large land and territory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance : more than this I could not ; this she would not, and she died.'

ELAINE.

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, ' O my knight, It will be to your worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worshipfully.'

So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshall'd order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see The maiden buried, not as one unknown, Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them, ' Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon. And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb In letters gold and azure ! ' which was wrought Thereafter ; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door streaming, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sigh'd in passing ' Lancelot, Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love.' He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, ' That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, forgiven.' But Arthur who beheld his cloudy brows Approach'd him, and with full affection flung One arm about his neck, and spake and said.

' Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have

VOL. II. 15 V

337

338 ELAINE.

Most joy and most affiance, for I know

What thou hast been in battle by my side,

And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt

Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight,

And let the younger and unskill'd go by

To win his honor and to make his name,

And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man

Made to be loved ; — but now I would to God,

For the wild people say wild things of thee,

Thou could'st have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems,

By God for thee alone, and from her face,

If one may judge the living by the dead,

Delicately pure and marvellously fair,

Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man

Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons

Born to the glory of thy name and fame,

My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.'

Then answer'd Lancelot, ' Fair she was, my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye, To doubt her pureness were to want a heart, — Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.'

' Free love, so bound, were freest,' said the King. ' Let love be free ; free love is for the best : And, after heaven, on our dull side of death, What should be best, if not so pure a love Clothed in so pure a loveliness ? yet thee She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know.'

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went,

ELAINE. 339

And at the inrunning of a little brook

Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd

The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes

And saw the barge that brought her moving down,

Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said

Low in himself ' Ah simple heart and sweet,

You loved me, damsel, surely with a love

Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ?

Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last —

Farewell, fair lily. "Jealousy in love ?"

Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ?

Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love,

May not your crescent fear for name and fame

Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ?

Why did the King dwell on my name to me ?

Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach,

Lancelot, whom the Lady of the lake

Stole from his mother — as the story runs — •

She chanted snatches of mysterious song

Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn

She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my child,

As a king's son, and often in her arms

She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere.

Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be !

For what am I ? what profits me my name

Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it :

Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ;

Now grown a part of me : but what use in it?

To make men worse by making my sin known ?

Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great ?

Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man

Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break

These bonds that so defame me : not without

She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ? nay,

ELAINE.

Who knows ? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me by the hair and bear me far, And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.'

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, Not knowing he should die a holy man.

GU INEVERE.

QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice : one low light betwixt them burn'd Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred ; he the nearest to the King, His nephew, ever like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance : for this, He chill'd the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end ; and all his aims Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot.

342 GUINEVERE.

For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the May, Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, Climb'd to the high top of the garden-wall To spy some secret scandal if he might, And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court The wiliest and the worst ; and more than this He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way ; But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, Made such excuses as he might, and these Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn ; But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him By those whom God had made full-limb'd and tall, Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, And he was answer'd softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went : But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast.

But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd

GUINEVERE. 343

Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries ' I shudder, some one steps across my grave ; ' Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be forevermore a name of scorn. Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye : Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — Held her awake : or if she slept, she dream'd An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun, And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — When lo ! her own, that broadening from her feet, And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. And all this trouble did not pass but grew ; Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, And trustful courtesies of household life, Became her bane ; and at the last she said, ' O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land,

344

GUINEVERE.

For if thou tarry we shall meet again,

And if we meet again, some evil chance

Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze

Before the people, and our lord the King.'

And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd,

And still they met and met. Again she said,

' O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.'

And then they were agreed upon a night

(When the good King should not be there) to meet

And part forever. Passion-pale they met

And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye,

Low on the border of her couch they sat

Stammering and staring : it was their last hour,

A madness of farewells. And Modred brought

His creatures to the basement of the tower

For testimony ; and crying with full voice

' Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off

And all was still : then she, ' the end is come

And I am shamed forever ; ' and he said

' Mine be the shame ; mine was the sin : but rise,

And fly to my strong castle overseas :

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end,

There hold thee with my life against the world.'

She answer'd ' Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so ?

Nay friend, for we have taken our farewells.

Would God, that thou could'st hide me from myself !

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou

Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly,

For I will draw me into sanctuary,

And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse,

Set her thereon, and mounted on his own,

GUINEVERE.

345

And then they rode to the divided way, There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for he past, ' Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan, as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : And in herself she moan'd ' too late, top late ! ' Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, Croak'd, and she thought ' he spies a field of death ; For now the heathen of the Northern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.'

And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, ' mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you ' and her beauty, grace and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it.

So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns ; Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessncss Which often lured her from herself ; but now, This night, a rumor wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot : then she thought, '5*

346 GUINEVERE.

' With what a hate the people and the King

Must hate me,' and bow'd down upon her hands

Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd

No silence, brake it, uttering 'late ! so late !

What hour, I wonder, now ? ' and when she drew

No answer, by and by began to hum

An air the nuns had taught her ; ' late, so late ! '

Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said,

' O maiden, if indeed you list to sing,

Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.'

Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.

" Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and chill ! Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now.

" No light had we : for that we do repent ; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now.

" No light : so late ! and dark and chill the night ! O let us in, that we may find the light ! Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now.

" Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet ? O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now."

So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, remembering Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her.

' O pray you, noble lady, weep no more ; But let my words, the words of one so small,

GUINEVERE.

347

Who knowing nothing knows but to obey,

And if I do not there is penance given —

Comfort your sorrows ; for they do not flow

From evil done ; right sure am I of that,

Who see your tender grace and stateliness.

But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's,

And weighing find them less ; for gone is he

To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there,

Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen ;

And Modred whom he left in charge of all,

The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief

For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm,

Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours.

For me, I thank the saints, I am not great.

For if there ever come a grief to me

I cry my cry in silence, and have done :

None knows it, and my tears have brought me good :

But even were the griefs of little ones

As great as those of great ones, yet this grief

Is added to the griefs the great must bear,

That howsoever much they may desire

Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud :

As even here they talk at Almesbury

About the good King and his wicked Queen,

And were I such a King with such a Queen,

Well might I wish to veil her wickedness,

But were I such a King, it could not be.'

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen. ' Will the child kill me with her innocent talk ? ' But openly she answer'd ' must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? '

348 GUINEVERE.

' Yea,' said the maid, ' this is all woman's grief, That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.'

Then thought the Queen within herself again ; ' Will the child kill me with her foolish prate ? ' But openly she spake and said to her ; ' O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? '

To whom the little novice garrulously. ' Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table — at the founding of it ; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused and turning — there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them — headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west : And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn.

GUINEVERE.

So said my father — yea, and furthermore, Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall ; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dream'd ; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served By hands unseen ; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran : so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen.'

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly. ' Were they so glad ? ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm ? '

To whom the novice garrulously again. ' Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave ; And many a mystic lay of life and death

349

35°

GUINEVERE.

Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops,

When round him bent the spirits of the hills

With all their dewy hair blown back like flame :

So said my father — and that night the bard

Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King

As well-nigh more than man, and rail'd at those

Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois :

For there was no man knew from whence he came ;

But after tempest, when the long wave broke

All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos,

There came a day as still as heaven, and then

They found a naked child upon the sands

Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea ;

And that was Arthur ; and they foster'd him

Till he by miracle was approven king :

And that his grave should be a mystery

From all men, like his birth ; and could he find

A woman in her womanhood as great

As he was in his manhood, then, he sang,

The twain together well might change the world.

But even in the middle of his song

He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp,

And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n,

But that they stay'd him up ; nor would he tell

His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw

This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? '

Then thought the Queen ' lo ! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me,' and bow'd her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, ' and, sweet lady, if I seem

35*

GUINEVERE.

To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too : Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back, And left me ; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy — And pray you check me if I ask amiss — But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King ? '

Then the pale Queen look'd up and answerd her. 1 Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly-manner'd men of all ; For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.'

' Yea,' said the maid, ' be manners such fair fruit ? Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumor runs, The most disloyal friend in all the world.'

To which a mournful answer made the Queen. ' O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls, What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe ? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight,

352

GUINEVERE.

Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her, who drew him to his doom.'

' Yea,' said the little novice, ' I pray for both ; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.'

So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would

heal ;

For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, ' Such as thou art be never maiden more Forever ! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, And when the Queen had added ' get thee hence ' Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself ' the simple, fearful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. For what is true repentance but in thought — Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : And I have sworn never to see him more, To see him more.'

GUINEVERE.

353

And ev'n in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they, Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time Was may time, and as yet no sin was dream'd,) Rode under groves that look'd a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before ; and on again, Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, That crown'd the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well.

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving thro' the past unconsciously, Came to that point, when first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, ' Not like my Lancelot' — while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armed warrior to the doors. A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran,

354

GUINEVERE.

Then on a sudden a cry, ' the King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovell'd with her face against the floor : There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King : And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her ; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed the King's.

' Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire, Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea. Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come — from him, From waging bitter war with him : and he, That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their -troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.

GUINEVERE.

355

And of this remnant will I leave a part,

True men who love me still, for whom I live,

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd.

Fear not : thou shall be guarded till my death.

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies

Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom.

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,

That I the King should greatly care to live ;

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.

Bear with me for the last time while I show,

Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd.

For when the Roman left us, and their law

Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways

Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed

Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong.

But I was first of all the kings who drew

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all

The realms together under me, their Head,

In that fair order of my Table Round,

A glorious company, the flower of men,

To serve as model for the mighty world,

And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear

To reverence the King, as if he were

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,

To love one maiden only, cleave to her,

And worship her by years of noble deeds,

Until they won her ; for indeed I knew

Of no more subtle master under heaven

356 GUINEVERE.

Than is the maiden passion for a maid,

Not only to keep down the base in man,

But teach high thought, and amiable words

And courtliness, and the desire of fame,

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.

And all this throve until I wedded thee !

Believing " lo mine helpmate, one to feel

My purpose and rejoicing in my joy."

Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ;

Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ;

Then others, following these my mightiest knights,

And drawing foul ensample from fair names,

Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite

Of all my heart had destined did obtain,

And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine

I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong,

Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think

How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,

To sit once more within his lonely hall,

And miss the wonted number of my knights,

And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds

As in the golden days before thy sin.

For which of us, who might be left, could speak

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee ?

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk

Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,

And I should evermore be vext with thee

In hanging robe or vacant ornament,

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.

For think not, tho' thou would'st not love thy lord,

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee.

I am not made of so slight elements.

Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame.

I hold that man the worst of public foes

GUINEVERE. 357

Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house : For being thro' his cowardice allow'd Her station, taken everywhere for pure, She like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane.'

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh'd As at a friend's voice, and he spake again.

'Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God

358 GUINEVERE,

Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved ?

0 golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee —

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine,

But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the King's.

I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh,

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd ; and mine own flesh,

Here looking down on thine polluted, cries

" I loathe thee : " yet not less, O Guinevere,

For I was ever virgin save for thee,

My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life

So far, that my doom is, I love thee still.

Let no man dream but that I love thee still.

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul,

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ,

Hereafter in that world where all are pure

We two may meet before high God, and thou

Wilt spring to me, and claim me' thine, and know

I am thine husband — not a smaller soul,

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that,

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence.

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow :

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts

Far down to that great battle in the west,

Where I must strike against my sister's son,

Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights

Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom.

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event ;

But hither shall I never come again,

Never lie by thy side, see thee no more,

Farewell ! '

GUINEVERE. 359

And while she grovell'd at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest

' Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement : ' peradventure ' so she thought, ' If I might see his face, and not be seen.' And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her forevermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain ; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn'd ; and more and more The moony vapor rolling round the King, Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud ' Oh Arthur ! ' there her voice brake suddenly, Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — Went on in passionate utterance.

' Gone — my lord !

36°

GUINEVERE.

Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain !

And he forgave me, and I could not speak.

Farewell ? I should have answer'd his farewell.

His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King,

My own true lord ! how dare I call him mine ?

The shadow of another cleaves to me,

And makes me one pollution : he, the King,

Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself ?

What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin,

If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ;

No, nor by living can I live it down.

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months,

The months will add themselves and make the years,

The years will roll into the centuries,

And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

I must not dwell on that defeat of fame.

Let the world be ; that is but of the world.

What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope,

Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ;

His hope he call'd it ; but he never mocks,

For mockery is the fume of little hearts.

And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven

My wickedness to him, and left me hope

That in mine own heart I can live down sin

And be his mate hereafter in the heavens

Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord,

Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint

Among his warring senses, to thy knights —

To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took

Full easily all impressions from below,

Would not look up, or half-despised the height

To which I would not or I could not climb —

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air

That pure severity of perfect light —

GUINEVERE. 361

I wanted warmth and color which I found In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art, Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is their none Will tell the King I love him tho' so late ? Now — ere he goes to the great Battle ? none : Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah my God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? It was my duty to have loved the highest : It surely was my profit had I known : It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.'

Here her hand

Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes : she look'd and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her ' Yea, little maid, for am / not forgiven ? ' Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said.

' Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King.

0 shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying " shame."

1 must not scorn myself: he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you ; Wear black and white, and be a nun like you ; Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys,

VOL. H. l6

362 GUINEVERE.

But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ;

Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your shrines ;

Do each low office of your holy house ;

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole

To poor sick people, richer in his eyes

Who ransom'd us, and haler too than I ;

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own ;

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer

The sombre close of that voluptuous day,

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.'

She said : they took her to themselves ; and she Still hoping, fearing ' is it yet too late ? ' Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, And for the power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace.

ADDITIONAL POEMS.

AYLMER'S FIELD.

1793-

DUST are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound ; Like that long-buried body of the king, Found lying with his urns and ornaments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven. Slipt into ashes and was found no more.

Here is a story which in rougher shape Came from a grizzled cripple, whom 1 saw Sunning himself in a waste field alone — Old, and a mine of memories — who had served, Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, And been himself a part of what he told.

SIR AYLMER AYLMER that almighty man, The county God — in whose capacious hall, Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire, Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates And swang besides on many a windy sign — Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head

3 66 AYLME&S FIELD.

Saw from his windows nothing save his own —

What lovelier of his own had he than her,

His only child, his Edith, whom he loved

As heiress and not heir regretfully ?

But ' he that marries her marries her name '

This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife,

His wife a faded beauty of the Baths,

Insipid as the Queen upon a card ;

Her all of thought and bearing hardly more

Than his own shadow in a sickly sun.

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, Little about it stirring save a brook ! A sleepy land where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year ; Where almost all the village had one name ; Where Aylmer folio w'd Aylmer at the Hall And Averill Averill at the Rectory Thrice over ; so that Rectory and Hall, Bound in an immemorial intimacy, Were open to each other ; tho' to dream That Love could bind them closer well had made The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up With horror, worse than had he heard his priest Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land.

And might not Averill, had he will'd it so, Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs, Have also set his many-shielded tree? There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once, When the red rose was redder than itself, And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death.

AYLMER'S FIELD. 367

' Not proven ' Averill said, or laughingly

1 Some other race of Averills ' — prov'n or no,

What cared he ? what, if other or the same ?

He lean'd not on his fathers but himself.

But Leolin, his brother, living oft

With Averill, and a year or two before

Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away

By one low voice to one dear neighborhood,

Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim

A distant kinship to the gracious blood

That shook the heart of Edith hearing him.

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers, Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, But subject to the season or the mood, Shone like a mystic star between the less And greater glory varying to and fro, We know not wherefore ; bounteously made, And yet so finely, that a troublous touch Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. And these had been together from the first. Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers : So much the boy foreran ; but when his date Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he (Since Averill was a decad and a half His elder, and their parents underground) Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt

3 68 AYLMEFS FIELD.

Against the rush of the air in the prone swing,

Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged

Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green

In living letters, told her fairy-tales,

Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass,

The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms,

The petty marestail forest, fairy pines,

Or from the tiny pitted target blew

What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd

All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes

For Edith and himself: or else he forged,

But that was later, boyish histories

Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck,

Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love

Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint,

But where a passion yet unborn perhaps

Lay hidden as the music of the moon

Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.

And thus together, save for college-times

Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair

As ever painter painted, poet sang,

Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew.

And more and more, the maiden woman-grown,

He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first

The tented winter-field was broken up

Into that phalanx of the summer spears

That soon should wear the garland ; there again

When burr and bine were gather'd ; lastly there

At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall,

On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth

Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even

My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid

No bar between them : dull and self-involved,

Tall and erect, but bending from his height

AYLMEFS FIELD. 369

With half-allowing smiles for all the world,

And mighty courteous in the main — his pride

Lay deeper than to. wear it as his ring —

He, like an Aylnier in his Aylmerism,

Would care no more for Leolin's walking with her

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran

To loose him at the stables, for he rose

Twofooted at the limit of his chain,

Roaring to make a third : and how should Love,

Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes

Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow

Such dear familiarities of dawn ?

Seldom, but when he does, Master of all.

So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar Between them, nor by plight or broken ring Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied By Averill : his, a brother's love, that hung With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace, Might have been other, save for Leolin's — Who knows ? but so they wander'd, hour by hour Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank The magic cup that fill'd itself anew.

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. For out beyond her lodges, where the brook Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls That dimpling died into each other, huts At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought

VOL. II. l6* X

370

AYLMEFS FIELD.

About them : here was one that, summer-blanch'd,

Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy

In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here

The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth

Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle :

One look'd all rosetree, and another wore

A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars :

This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers

About it ; this, a milky-way on earth,

Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens,

A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ;

One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves

A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ;

Each, its own charm ; and Edith's everywhere ;

And Edith ever visitant with him,

He but less loved than Edith, of her poor :

For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving,

Queenly responsive when the loyal hand

Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past,

Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by,

Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height

That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice

Of comfort and an open hand of help,

A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs

Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves

To ailing wife or wailing infancy

Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ;

He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp

Having the warmth and muscle of the heart,

A childly way with children, and a laugh

Ringing like proven golden coinage true,

Were no false passport to that easy realm,

Where once with Leolin at her side the girl,

Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth

AYLMEFS FIELD. 371

The tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, Heard the good mother softly whisper ' Bless, God bless 'em ; marriages are made in Heaven.'

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. My Lady's Indian kinsman unannounced With half a score of swarthy faces came. His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair ; Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd Into the chronicle of a deedful day, Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile Of patron ' Good ! my lady's kinsman ! good ! ' My lady with her fingers interlock'd, And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 'CalPd all her vital spirits into each ear To listen : unawares they flitted off, Busying themselves about the flowerage That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, The meteor of a splendid season, she, Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, Slept thro' the stately minuet of those days : But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life : Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye Hated him with a momentary hate. Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he : I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd His oriental gifts on everyone And most on Edith : like a storm he came, And shook the house, and like a storm he went.

Among the gifts he left her (possibly

372 AYLMEFS FIELD.

He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return

When others had been tested) there was one,

A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it

Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself

Fine as ice-ferns on January panes

Made by a breath. I know not whence at first,

Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told

The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves

He got it ; for their captain after fight,

His comrades having fought their last below,

Was climbing up the valley ; at whom he shot :

Down from the beetling crag to which he clung

Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet,

This dagger with him, which when now admired

By Edith whom his pleasure was to please,

At once the costly Sahib yielded to her.

And Leolin, coming after he was gone, Tost over all her presents petulantly : And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying 4 Look what a lovely piece of workmanship ! ' Slight was his answer ' Well — I care not for it : ' Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand, ' A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ' ' But would it be more gracious ' ask'd the girl ' Were I to give this gift of his to one That is no lady ? ' ' Gracious ? No ' said he. ' Me ? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' ' Take it ' she added sweetly ' tho' his gift ; For I am more ungracious ev'n than you, I care not for it either ; ' and he said ' Why then I love it : ' but Sir Aylmer past, And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard.

AYLMER'S FIELD.

373

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, he thought : Then of the latest fox — where started — kill'd In such a bottom : ' Peter had the brush, My Peter, first : ' and did Sir Aylmer know That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught ? Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, And rolling as it were the substance of it Between his palms a moment up and down — ' The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him ; We have him now : ' and had Sir Aylmer heard — Nay, but he must — the land was ringing of it — This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew — Raw from the nursery — who could trust a child ? That cursed France with her egalities ! And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially With nearing chair and lower'd accent) think — For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise To let that handsome fellow Averill walk So freely with his daughter ? people talk'd — The boy might get a notion into him ; The girl might be entangled ere she knew. Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke : ' The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences ! ' ' Good ' said his friend ' but watch ! ' and he ' enough, More than enough, Sir ! I can guard my own.' They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd.

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house Had fallen first, was Edith that same night ; Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece Of early rigid color, under which Withdrawing by the counter door to that Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him

374

AYLMEFS FIELD.

A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as one

Caught in a burst of unexpected storm,

And pelted with outrageous epithets,

Turning beheld the Powers of the House

On either side the hearth, indignant ; her,

Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan,

Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd,

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard.

' Ungenerous, dishonorable, base,

Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her,

The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands,

The last remaining pillar of their house,

The one transmitter of their ancient name,

Their child.' « Our child ! ' 'Our heiress ! ' ' Ours ! ' for

still,

Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came Her sicklier iteration. Last he said ' Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. I swear you shall not make them out of mine. Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, Perplext her, made her half forget herself, Swerve from her duty to herself and us — Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible, Far as we track ourselves — I say that this, — Else I withdraw favor and countenance From you and yours for ever — shall you do. Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her — No, you shall write, and not to her, but me : And you shall say that having spoken with me, And after look'd into yourself, you find That you meant nothing — as indeed you know That you meant nothing. Such a match as this ! Impossible, prodigious ! ' These were words, As meted by his measure of himself,

AYLMEFS FIELD.

375

Arguing boundless forbearance : after which,

And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, ' I

So foul a traitor to myself and her,

Never oh never,' for about as long

As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused

Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within,

Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying

' Boy, should I find you by my doors again,

My men shall lash you from them like a dog ;

Hence ! ' with a sudden execration drove

The footstool from before him, and arose ;

So, stammering ' scoundrel ' out of teeth that ground

As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still

Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man

Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood

Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face

Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now,

Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon,

Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd.

Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye That watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous door Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land, Went Leolin ; then, his passions all in flood And masters of his motion, furiously Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran, And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear : Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : The man was his, had been his father's, friend : He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; He must have known, himself had known : besides, He never yet had set his daughter forth Here in the woman-markets of the west, Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold.

376 AYLMER'S FIELD.

Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him.

' Brother, for I have loved you more as son

Than brother, let me tell you : I myself—

What is their pretty saying ? jilted, is it ?

Jilted I was : I say it for your peace.

Paih'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame

The woman should have borne, humiliated,

I lived for years a stunted sunless life ;

Till after our good parents past away

Watching your growth, I seem'd again to grow.

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you :

The very whitest lamb in all my fold

Loves you : I know her : the worst thought she has

Is whiter even than her pretty hand :

She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength,

And you are happy : let her parents be.'

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, wealth, Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough was theirs For twenty matches. Were he lord of this, Why twenty boys and girls should marry on it, And forty blest ones bless him, and himself Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made The harlot of the cities : nature crost Was mother of the foul adulteries That saturate soul with body. Name, too ! name, Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; its worth Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd Darling, to-night ! they must have rated her Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords, These partridge-breeders of a thousand years,

AYLMEFS FIELD.

377

Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing nothing Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace ! Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools, With such a vantage-ground for nobleness ! He had known a man, a quintessence of man, The life of all — who madly loved — and he, Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, Had rioted his life out, and made an end. He would not do it ! her sweet face and faith Held him from that : but he had powers, he knew it : Back would he to his studies, make a name, Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves : Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — ' O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief — Give me my fling, and let me say my say.'

At which, like one that sees his own excess, And easily forgives it as his own, He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but presently Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd His richest beeswing from a binn reserved For banquets, praised the waning red, and told The vintage — when this Aylmer came of age — Then drank and past it ; till at length the two, Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed That much allowance must be made for men. After an angry dream this kindlier glow Faded with morning, but his purpose held.

Yet once by night again the lovers met, A perilous meeting under the tall pines

378 AYLMEFS FIELD.

That darken'd all the northward of her Hall.

Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest

In agony, she promised that no force,

Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her :

He, passionately hopefuller, would go,

Labor for his own Edith, and return

In such a sunlight of prosperity

He should not be rejected. ' Write to me !

They loved me, and because I love their child

They hate me : there is war between us, dear,

Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must remain

Sacred to one another.' So they talk'd,

Poor children, for their comfort : the wind blew ;

The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears,

Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt

Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other

In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine.

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves To learn a language known but smatteringly In phrases here and there at random, toil'd Mastering the lawless science of our law, That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances, Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room, Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale, — Old scandals buried now seven decads deep In other scandals that have lived and died, And left the living scandal that shall die — Were dead to him already ; bent as he was To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, And prodigal of all brain-labor he,

AYLMERS FIELD.

Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise, Except when for a breathing-while at eve, Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran Beside the river-bank : and then indeed Harder the times were, and the hands of power Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men Seein'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze, Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose Yet fragrant in a heart remembering His former talks with Edith, on him breathed Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, After his books, to flush his blood with air, Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon, Drove in upon the student once or twice, Ran a Malayan muck against the times, Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, Answer'd all queries touching those at home With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, And fain had haled him out into the world, And air'd him there : his nearer friend would say ' Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.' Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him Approvingly, and prophesied his rise : For heart, I think, help'd head : her letters too, Tho' far between, and coming fitfully Like broken music, written as she found Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him.

379

380 AYLMEKS FIELD.

But they that cast her spirit into flesh, Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves To sell her, those good parents, for her good. Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth Might lie within their compass, him they lured Into their net made pleasant by the baits Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. So month by month the noise about their doors, And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made The nightly wirer of their innocent hare Falter before he took it. All in vain. Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit So often, that the folly taking wings Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind With rumor, and became in other fields A mockery to the yeomen over ale, And laughter to their lords : but those at home, As hunters round a hunted creature draw The cordon close and closer toward the death, Narrow'd her goings out and comings in ; Forbad her first the house of Averill, Then closed her access to the wealthier farms, Last from her own home-circle of the poor They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her cheek Kept color : wondrous ! but, O mystery ! What amulet drew her down to that old oak, So old, that twenty years before, a part Falling had let appear the brand of John — Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now The broken base of a black tower, a cave Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust

AYLMEKS FIELD. 381

Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ;

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read

Writhing a letter from his child, for which

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary,

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly,

But scared with threats of jail and halter gave

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits

The letter which he brought, and swore besides

To play their go-between as heretofore

Nor let them know themselves betray'd, and then,

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went

Hating his own lean heart and miserable.

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream Panting he woke, and oft as early as dawn Aroused the black republic on his elms, Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, brush'd Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who made A downward crescent of her minion mouth, Listless in all despondence, read ; and tore, As if the living passion symbol'd there Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and burnt, Now chafing at his own great self defied, Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn In babyisms, and dear diminutives Scatter'd all over the vocabulary Of such a love as like a chidden babe, After much wailing, hush'd itself at last Hopeless of answer : then tho' Averill wrote And bad him with good heart sustain himself — All would be well — the lover heeded not, But passionately restless came and went, And rustling once at night about the place,

382

AYLMER'S FIELD.

There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt,

Raging return'd : nor was it well for her

Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines,

Watch'd even there ; and one was set to watch

The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all,

Yet bitterer from his readings : once indeed,

Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her,

She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly

Not knowing what possess'd him : that one kiss

Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ;

Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit,

Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then ensued

A Martin's summer of his faded love,

Or ordeal by kindness ; after this

He seldom crost his child without a sneer ;

The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies :

Never one kindly smile, one kindly word :

So that the gentle creature shut from all

Her charitable use, and face to face

With twenty months of silence, slowly lost

Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life.

Last, £ome low fever ranging round to spy

The weakness of a people or a house,

Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men,

Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt —

Save Christ as we believe him — found the girl

And flung her down upon a couch of fire,

Where careless of the household faces near,

And crying upon the name of Leolin,

She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past.

Star to star vibrates light : may soul to soul Strike thro' a finer element of her own ? So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or why

ALYMEKS FIELD. 383

That night, that moment, when she named his name,

Did the keen shriek ' yes love, yes Edith, yes,'

Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke,

And came upon him half-arisen from sleep,

With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling,

His hair as it were crackling into flames,

His body half flung forward in pursuit,

And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer :

Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ;

And being much befool'd and idioted

By the rough amity of the other, sank

As into sleep again. The second day,

My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in,

A breaker of the bitter news from home,

Found a dead man, a letter edged with death

Beside him, and the dagger which himself

Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood :

' From Edith ' was engraven on the blade.

Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. And when he came again, his flock believed — Beholding how the years which are not Time's Had blasted him — that many thousand days Were dipt by horror from his term of life. Yet the sad mother, for the second death Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first, And being used to find her pastor texts, Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him To speak before the people of her child, And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose : Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens Stifled and chill'd at once : but every roof

384 AYLMEFS FIELD.

Sent out a listener : many too had known Edith among the hamlets round, and since The parents' harshness and the hapless loves And double death were widely murmur'd, left Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, except For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd Above them, with his hopes in either grave.

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, His face magnetic to the hand from which Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse ' Behold, Your house is left unto you desolate ! ' But lapsed into so long a pause again As half amazed half frighted all his flock : Then from his height and loneliness of grief Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart Against the desolations of the world.

Never since our bad earth became one sea, Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, And all but those who knew the living God — Eight that were left to make a purer world — When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought Such waste and havock as the idolatries, Which from the low light of mortality Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest ? ' Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal, And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself,

AYLMER'S FIELD. 385

For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God.'

Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal.

The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose.

Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts ! —

No coarse and blockish God of acreage

Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to —

Thy God is far diffused in noble groves

And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns,

And heaps of living gold that daily grow,

And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries.

In such a shape dost thou behold thy God.

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; for thine

Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair

Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while

The deathless ruler of thy dying house

Is wounded to the death that cannot die ;

And tho' thou numberest with the followers

Of One who cried ' leave all and follow me.'

Thee therefore with His light about thy feet,

Thee with His message ringing in thine ears,

Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven,

Born of a village girl, carpenter's son,

Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God,

Count the more base idolater of the two ;

Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire

Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke,

The blight of low desires — darkening thine own

To thine own likeness ; or if one of these,

Thy better born unhappily from thee,

Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair —

Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one

By those who most have cause to sorrow for her —

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well,

VOL. ii. 17 Y

3 86 AYLMEFS FIELD.

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn,

Fair as the Angel that said ' hail ' she seem'd,

Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light.

For so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed

The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven

Dawn'd sometimes thro' the doorway ? whose the babe

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap,

Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child of shame,

The common care whom no one cared for, leapt

To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart,

As with the mother he had never known,

In gambols ; for her fresh and innocent eyes

Had such a star of morning in their blue,

That all neglected places of the field

Broke into nature's music when they saw her.

Low was her voice, but won mysterious way

Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one

Was all but silence — free of alms her hand —

The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers

Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ;

How often placed upon the sick man's brow

Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth !

Had you one sorrow and she shared it not?

One burthen and she would not lighten it ?

One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ?

Or when some heat of difference sparkled out,

How sweetly would she glide between your wraths,

And steal you from each other ! for she walk'd

Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love,

Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee !

And one — of him I was not bid to speak —

Was always with her, whom you also knew.

Him too you loved, for he was worthy love.

And these had been together from the first ;

AYLMER'S FIELD. 387.

They might have been together till the last. Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt, Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame ? Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, "My house is left unto me desolate/'

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; but some, Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl'd At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd Of the near storm, and aiming at his head, Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldierlike, Erect : but when the preacher's cadence flow'd. Softening thro' all the gentle attributes Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his face, Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; And ' O pray God that he hold up ' she thought ' Or surely I shall shame myself and him.'

' Nor yours the blame — for who beside your hearths Can take her place — if echoing me you cry " Our house is left unto us desolate ? " But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, O thou that stonest, hadst thou understood The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! Is there no prophet but the voice that calls Doom upon kings, or in the waste ' Repent' ? Is not our own child on the narrow way, Who down to those that saunter in the broad Cries ' come up hither,' as a prophet to us ?

AYLMERS FIELD.

Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ?

Yes, as the dead we weep for testify —

No desolation but by sword and fire ?

Yes, as your meanings witness, and myself

Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss.

Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers,

Not past the living. fount of pity in Heaven.

But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek,

Exceeding "poor in spirit" — how the words

Have twisted back upon themselves, and mean

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd my voice

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God

To blow these sacrifices thro' the world —

Sent like the twelve-divided concubine

To inflame the tribes : but there — out yonder — earth

Lightens from her own central Hell — O there

The red fruit of an old idolatry —

The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast,

They cling together in the ghastly sack —

The land all shambles — naked marriages

Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France,

By shores that darken with the gathering wolf,

Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea.

Is this a time to madden madness then ?

Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ?

May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those

Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes

Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all :

Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it :

O rather pray for those and pity them,

Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave —

Who broke the bond which they desired to break, —

Which else had link'd their race with times to come —

AYLMER'S FIELD. 389

Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity,

Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good —

Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat

Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death !

May not that earthly chastisement suffice ?

Have not our love and reverence left them bare ?

Will not another take their heritage ?

Will there be children's laughter in their hall

For ever and for ever, or one stone

Left on another, or is it a light thing

That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend,

I made by these the last of all my race

Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried

Christ ere His agony to those that swore

Not by the temple but the gold, and made

Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord,

And left their memories a world's curse — " Behold,

Your house is left unto you desolate ? " '

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more : Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense Of meanness in her unresisting life. Then their eyes vext her ; for on entering He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — Black velvet of the costliest — she herself Had seen to that : fain had she closed them now, Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd His face with the other, and at once, as falls A creeper when the prop is broken, fell The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd. Then her own people bore along the nave

39°

AYLMEKS FIELD.

Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : And her the Lord of all the landscape round Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways Stumbling across the market to his death, Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd Always about to fall, grasping the pews And oaken finials till he touch'd the door ; Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood, Strode from the porch, tall and erect again.

But nevermore did either pass the gate Save under pall with bearers. In one month, Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, The childless mother went to seek her child ; And when he felt the silence of his house About him, and the change and not the change, And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors Staring for ever from their gilded walls On him their last descendant, his own head Began to droop, to fall ; the man became Imbecile ; his one word was ' desolate ' ; Dead for two years before his death was he ; But when the second Christmas came, escaped His keepers, and the silence which he felt, To find a deeper in the narrow gloom By wife and child ; nor wanted at his end The dark retinue reverencing death At golden thresholds ; nor from tender hearts, And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave.

SEA-DREAMS.

39*

Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms ; And where the two contrived their daughter's good, Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run, The hedgehog underneath the.plaintain bores, The rabbit fondles his own harmless face, The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there Follows the mouse, and all is open field.

SEA DREAMS.

A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : They, thinking that her clear germander eye Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom, Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea : For which his gains were dock'd, however small : Small were his gains, and hard his work ; besides, Their slender household fortunes (for the man Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : And oft, when sitting all alone, his face Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue, To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave, At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next,

392

SEA-DREAMS.

The Sabbath, pious variers from the church,

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer,

Not preaching simple Christ to simple men,

Announced the coming doom, and fulminated

Against the scarlet woman and her creed :

For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd

' Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he held

The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself

Were that great Angel ; ' Thus with violence

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ;

Then comes the close.' The gentle-hearted wife

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ;

He at his own : but when the wordy storm

Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore,

Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves,

Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed

(The sootflake of so many a summer still

Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea.

So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff,

Lingering about the thymy promontories,

Till all the sails were darken'd in the west,

And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed :

Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope

Haunting a holy text, and still to that

Returning, as the bird returns, at night,

' Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'

Said, ' Love, forgive him : ' but he did not speak ;

And silenced by that silence lay the wife,

Remembering her dear Lord who died for all,

And musing on the little lives of men,

And how they mar this little by their feuds.

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks

SEA-DREAMS.

393

Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke The mother, and the father suddenly cried, ' A wreck, a wreck ! ' then turn'd, and groaning said,

' Forgive ! How many will say, " forgive," and find A sort of absolution in the sound To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin That neither God nor man can well forgive, Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? Not first, and third, which are a riper first ? Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast Something divine to warn them of their foes : And such a sense, when first I fronted him, Said, " trust him not ; " but after, when I came To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; Made more and more allowance for his talk ; Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all, All my poor scrapings from a dozen years Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine, None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars Ruin : a fearful night ! '

' Not fearful ; fair,'

Said the good wife, ' if every star in heaven 17*

394

SEA-DREAMS.

Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. Had you ill dreams ? '

.

' O yes,' he said, ' I dream'd Of such a tide swelling toward the land, And I from out the boundless outer deep Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. I thought the motion of the boundless deep Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it In darkness : then I saw one lovely star Larger and larger. " What a world," I thought, " To live in ! " but in moving on I found Only the landward exit of the cave, Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond : And near the light a giant woman sat, All over earthy, like a piece of earth, A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt Into a land all sun and blossom, trees As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : And here the night-light flickering in my eyes Awoke me.'

' That was then your dream,' she said, ' Not sad, but sweet.'

' So sweet, I lay,' said he, ' And mused upon it, drifting up the stream In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still The motion of the great deep bore me on, And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : " It came," she said, " by working in the mines : "

SEA- DREAMS.

395

0 then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. And then the motion of the current ceased, And there was rolling thunder ; and we reach'd A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ;

But she with her strong feet up the steep hill Trod out a path : I follow'd ; and at top She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass, That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, Sailing along before a gloomy cloud That not one moment ceased to thunder, past

1 n sunshine : right across its track there lay, Down in the water, a long reef of gold,

Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first

To think that in our often-ransack'd world

Still so much gold was left ; and then I fear'd

Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it,

And fearing waved my arm to warn them off;

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet

(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd,

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke,

I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see

My dream was Life ; the woman honest Work ;

And my poor venture but a fleet of glass

Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.'

' Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him, ' You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it ; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream : A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.'

' No trifle,' groan'd the husband ; 'yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd

3 9 6 SEA-DREAMS.

That which I ask'd the woman in my dream.

Like her, he shook his head. " Show me the books ! "

He dodged me with a long and loose account.

" The books, the books ! " but he, he could not wait,

Bound on a matter he of life and death :

When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten)

Were open'd, I should find he meant me well ;

And then began to bloat himself, and ooze

All over with the fat affectionate smile

That makes the widow lean. " My dearest friend,

Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith," said he ;

" And all things work together for the good

Of those " — it makes me sick to quote him — last

Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went.

I stood like one that had received a blow :

I found a hard friend in his loose accounts,

A loose one in the hard grip of his hand,

A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes

Pursued him down the street, and far away,

Among the honest shoulders of the crowd,

Read rascal in the motions of his back,

And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.'

' Was he so bound, poor soul ? ' said the good wife ; ' So are we all : but do not call him, love, Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : And that drags down his life : then comes what comes Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant, Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.'

SEA-DREAMS. 397

' " With all his conscience and one eye askew " — Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn A man is likewise counsel for himself, Too often, in that silent court of yours — " With all his conscience and one eye askew, So false, he partly took himself for true ; Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; Who, never naming God except for gain, So never took that useful name in vain ; Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged ; And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest Arising, did his holy oily best, Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, To spread the Word by which himself had thriven." How like you this old satire ? '

' Nay,' she said,

' I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind, Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. But will you hear my dream, for I had one That altogether went to music ? Still It awed me.'

Then she told it, having dream'd Of that same coast.

— ' But round the North, a light, A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, And ever in it a low musical note

SEA-DREAMS.

Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge Of breaker issued from the belt, and still Grew with the growing note, and when the note Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those cliffs Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that Living within the belt) whereby she saw That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, But huge cathedral fronts of every age, Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, One after one : and then the great ridge drew, Lessening to the lessening music, back, And past into the belt and swell'd again Slowly to music : ever when it broke The statues, king or saint, or founder fell ; Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left Came men and women in dark clusters round, Some crying, " Set them up ! they shall not fall ! " And others " Let them lie, for they have fall'n." And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find Their wildest wailings never out of tune With that sweet note ; and ever as their shrieks Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyes Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, To the waste deeps together.

' Then I fixt

My wistful eyes on two fair images, Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars, — The Virgin Mother standing with her child High up on one of those dark minster-fronts —

SEA-DREAMS.

399

Till she began to totter, and the child

Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry

Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke,

And my dream awed me : — well — but what are dreams ?

Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,

And mine but from the crying of a child.'

' Child ? No ! ' said he, ' but this tide's roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms (Altho' I grant but little music there) Went both to make your dream : but if there were A music harmonizing our wild cries, Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, Why, that would make our passions far too like The discords dear to the musician. No — One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven : True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune With nothing but the Devil ! '

' " True " indeed !

One of our town, but later by an hour

Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ;

While you were running down the sands, and made

The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap,

Good man, to please the child. She brought strange

news.

Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ? I had set my heart on your forgiving him Before you knew. We must forgive the dead.'

' Dead ! who is dead ?'

' The man your eye pursued.

4oo

SEA-DREAMS.

A little after you had parted with him, He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.'

' Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had he To die of? dead!'

' Ah, dearest, if there be A devil in man, there is an angel too, And if he did that wrong you charge him with, His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep Without her " little birdie ? " well then, sleep, And I will sing you "birdie."'

Saying this,

The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night Her other, found (for it was close beside) And half embraced the basket cradle-head With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd The cradle, while she sang this baby song.

What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day ?

THE GRANDMOTHER,

Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away.

' She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, And I shall sleep the sounder ! '

Then the man,

' His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : 1 do forgive him ! '

' Thanks, my love,' she said, ' Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

I.

AND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like

a man.

And Willy's wife has written : she never was over- wise, Never the wife for Willy : he would n't take my advice.

4o2 THE GRANDMOTHER.

II. For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to

save, Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his

grave. Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for

one. Eh ! — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say,

is gone.

in.

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the

flock; Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a

rock. ' Here 's a leg for a baby of a week ! ' says doctor ; and

he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes

round.

IV.

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of

his tongue ! I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went

so young.

I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far

away.

v.

Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard

and cold ;

But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the

best.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

VI.

403

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my

dear,

All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world

of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

VII.

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and 1

knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would

hot tell. And she to be coming and slandering me, the base

little liar ! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the

tongue is a fire.

VIII.

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said

likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of

lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought

with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to

fight

IX.

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week

and a day ; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle

of May.

404

THE GRANDMOTHER.

Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been !

But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.

x.

And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an even- ing late

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

I.

All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the

farm,

Willy, — he did n't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew

how ; Ah, there 's no fool like the old one — it makes me

angry now.

XII.

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that

he meant ; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and

went. And I said, ' Let us part : in a hundred years it '11 all

be the same, You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good

name.'

XIII. And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet. in the sweet

moonshine : ' Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is

mine.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

405

And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well

or ill ; But marry me out of hand : we too shall be happy

still'

XIV.

' Marry you, Willy ! ' said I, 'but I needs must speak

my mind, And I fear you '11 listen to tales, be jealous and hard

and unkind.' But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd,

'No, love, no ; ' Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

XV.

So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the

ringers a crown.

But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.

XVI.

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn

a breath.

I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had

fought for his life.

XVII.

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or

pain : I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all

been in vain.

4o6 THE GRANDMOTHER.

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another

morn : But I wept like a child for the child that was dead

before he was born.

XVIII.

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said

me nay : Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have

his way :

Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; And he died, and I could not weep — my own time

seem'd so near.

XIX.

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then

could have died : I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his

side.

And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet.

XX.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her

will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing

the hill.

XXI.

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing

to their team : Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a

dream.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

407

They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my

bed- I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

XXII.

And yet I know for a truth, there 's none of them left

alive ;

For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten ; I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly

men.

XXIII.

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at

eve : And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so

do I ; 1 find myself often laughing at things that have long

gone by.

XXIV.

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make

us sad : But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to

be had ; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life

shall cease ; And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of

Peace.

xxv.

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again.

4o8 NORTHERN FARMER.

I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

XXVI.

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my

flower ; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an

hour, — Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the

next ; I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be

vext ?

XXVII.

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keep my

eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past

away. But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have

long to stay.

NORTHERN FARMER.

OLD STYLE. I.

\\ 7HEER 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere

' * aloan ?

Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, doctor 's abean an' agoan :

NORTHERN FARMER.

409

Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale : but I beant a

fool: Git ma my yaale, for I beant a-gooin' to break my

rule.

II.

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what's nawways

true :

Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. I Ve 'ed my point o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry markct-noight for foorty

year.

ill.

Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. ' The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,'

'a said, An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe were due, an' I gied

it in hond ; I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond.

IV.

Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn. Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch

an staate, An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate.

« v.

An' I hallus corned to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur

dead, An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock *

ower my yead,

* Cockchafer.

VOL. II. 1 8

4IO NORTHERN FARMER.

An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad

summut to saay, An I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I coined

awaay.

VI.

Bessy Harris's barn ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt 'a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 'Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understond ; I done my duty by un as I 'a done by the lond.

VII.

But Parson a conies an' a goos, an' a says it easy an'

freea ' The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend,'

says 'ea. I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in

'aaste : But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd

Thornaby waaste.

VIII. D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw, tha was

not born then ;

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd un mysen ; Moast loike a butter-bump,* for I 'eerd un aboot an

aboot, But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raaved an'

rembled un oot.

IX.

Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun un theer a laaid on 'is

faace Boon i' the woild 'enemies t afoor I corned to the

plaace.

Bittern. f Anemones.

NORTHERN FARMER.

411

Noaks or Thimbleby — toner 'ed shot an as dead as

a naail. Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma

my yaale.

X.

Dubbut looak at the waaste : theer warn't not fead

for a cow ; Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it

now — Warn't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o'

fead, Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doon in

sead.

XI.

Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to a' stubb'd

it at fall, Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it

an' all,

If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' load o'

my oan.

XII.

Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o'

mea ?

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas

thirty year.

XIII.

A mowt 'a taaken Joanes, as 'ant a 'aapoth o' sense, Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins — a niver mended a fence :

4I2 NORTHERN FARMER.

But godamoighty a moost taake mea an' taake ma

now Wi 'auf the cows to cauve an' Thornaby holms to

plow !

XIV.

Looak 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a

passin' by, Says to thessen naw doot ' what a mon a be sew-

er-ly ! ' For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a

corned to the 'All ; I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by

all.

xv.

Squoire's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to

wroite, For who's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles

ma quoit ; Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to

Joanes, Neither a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the

stoans.

XVI.

But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle

o' steam Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's

oan team. Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is

sweet, But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to

see it.

TITHONUS.

XVII.

413

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the

yaale ? Doctor's a 'tottler, lass, and a's hallus i' the owd

taale ; I weant break rules for Doctor, a knaws naw moor

nor a floy ; Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun

doy.

TITHONUS.

*" I ^HE woods decay, the woods decay and fall, -^ The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the Avorld, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seein'd To his great heart none other than a God ! I ask'd thee, ' Give me immortality.' Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,

414

TITHONUS.

And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,

And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd

To dwell in presence of immortal youth,

Immortal age beside immortal youth,

And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,

Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,

Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears

To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift :

Why should a man desire in any way

To vary from the kindly race of men,

Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ?

A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? ' The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.'

TITHONUS.

415

Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East : How can my nature longer mix with thine ? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground ; Thou see'st all things, thou wilt see my grave : Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

4I6 THE VOYAGE.

A

THE VOYAGE.

WE left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; And madly danced our hearts with joy,

As fast we fleeted to the South : How fresh was every sight and sound

On open main or winding shore !

We knew the merry world was round,

And we might sail for evermore.

„

Warm broke the breeze against the brow,

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : The Lady's-head upon the prow

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel,

And swept behind : so quick the run, We felt the good ship shake and reel,

We seem'd to sail into the Sun !

in.

How oft we saw the Sun retire,

And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire,

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! How oft the purple-skirted robe

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As thro' the slumber of the globe

Again we dash'd into the dawn !

THE VOYAGE. 417

IV.

New stars all night above the brim

Of waters lighten'd into view ; They climb'd as quickly, for the rim

Changed every moment as we flew. Far ran the naked moon across

The houseless ocean's heaving field, Or flying shone, the silver boss

Of her own halo's dusky shield ;

V.

The peaky islet shifted shapes,

High towns on hills were dimly seen, We past long lines of Northern capes

And dewy Northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep

Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove.

VI.

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade,

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brine With ashy rains, that spreading made

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; By sands and steaming flats, and floods

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, And hills and scarlet-mingled woods

Glow'd for a moment as we past

VII.

O hundred shores of happy climes, How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark !

4Ig THE VOYAGE.

At times the whole sea burn'd, at times With wakes of fire we tore the dark ;

At times a carven craft would shoot From havens hid in fairy bowers,

With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers.

VIII.

For one fair Vision ever fled

Down the waste waters day and night, And still we follow'd where she led,

In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen,

And fixt upon the far sea-line ; But each man murmur'd ' O my Queen,

I follow till I make thee mine. '

IX.

And now we lost her. now she gleam'd

Like Fancy made of golden air, Now nearer to the prow she seem'd

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed,

She bore the blade of Liberty.

x.

And only one among us — him

We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : He saw not far : his eyes were dim :

But ours he swore were all diseased.

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ, 419

' A ship of fools ' he shriek'd in spite, 'A ship of fools ' he sneer'd and wept.

And overboard one stormy night He cast his body, and on we swept.

XI.

And never sail of ours was furl'd,

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; We loved the glories of the world,

But laws of nature were our scorn ; For blasts would rise and rave and cease,

But whence were those that drove the sail Across the whirlwind's heart of peace,

And to and thro' the counter-gale ?

XII.

Again to colder climes we came,

For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame,

And half the crew are sick or dead. But blind or lame or sick or sound

We follow that which flies before : We know the merry world is round,

And we may sail for evermore.

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ.

'

A LL along the valley, stream that flashest white, **• Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow, I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago.

420

THE FLOWER.

All along the valley while I walk'd to-day,

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ;

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

THE FLOWER.

ONCE in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went Thro' my garden-bower,

And muttering discontent Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall

It wore a crown of light,

But thieves from o'er the wall Stole the seed by night.

Sow'd it far and wide

By every town and tower,

Till all the people cried ' Splendid is the flower.'

Read my little fable : He that runs may read.

Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

THE SAILOR-BOY.

And some are pretty enough, And some are poor indeed ;

And now again the people Call it but a weed.

REQUIESCAT.

FAIR is her cottage in its place, Where yon broad water sweetly slowly glides. It sees itself from thatch to base Dream in the sliding tides.

And fairer she, but ah how soon to die !

Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease. Her peaceful being slowly passes by

To some more perfect peace.

THE SAILOR-BOY.

HE rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star.

And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaiden cry,

' O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt lie.

421

422 THE ISLET.

( The sands and yeasty surges mix

In caves about the dreary bay, And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.'

' Fool,' he answer'd, ' death is sure To those that stay and those that roam,

But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home.

' My mother clings about my neck, My sisters crying " stay for shame ; "

My father raves of death and wreck, They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

' God help me ! save I take my part

Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart,

Far worse than any death to me.'

THE I SLET.

° whither love shall we go, For a score of sweet little summers or so ' The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that follow'd the day she was wed, ' Whither O whither love shall we go ? ' And the singer shaking his curly head Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys There at his right with a sudden crash, Singing, ' and shall it be over the seas With a crew that is neither rude nor rash,

THE ISLET.

But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, In a shallop of crystal ivory -beak'd, With a satin sail of a ruby glow, To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ;' Waves on a diamond shingle dash, Cataract brooks to the ocean run, Fairily-delicate palaces shine Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd With many a rivulet high against the Sun The facets of the glorious mountain flash Above the valleys of palm and pine.'

' Thither O thither, love, let us go.'

' No, no, no !

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear,

There is but one bird with a musical throat,

And his compass is but of a single note,

That it makes one weary to hear.'

' Mock me not ! mock me not ! love, let us go.'

' No, love, no.

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree, And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, And a worm is there in the lonely wood, That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, And makes it a sorrow to be.'

423

424 THE RINGLET.

THE RINGLET.

' \7rOUR ringlets, your ringlets,

JL That look so golden-gay, If you will give me one, but one,

To kiss it night and day, Then never chilling touch of Time

Will turn it silver-gray ; And then shall I know it is all true gold To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, Till all the comets in heaven are cold,

And all her stars decay.' ' Then take it, love, and put it by ; This cannot change, nor yet can I.'

' My ringlet, my ringlet,

That art so golden-gay, Now never chilling touch of Time

Can turn thee silver-gray ; And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint,

And a fool may say his say ; For my doubts and fears were all amiss, And I swear henceforth by this and this, That a doubt will only come for a kiss.

And a fear to be kiss'd away.' 'Then kiss it, love, and put it by : If this can change, why so can I.'

II. O Ringlet, O Ringlet,

I kiss'd you night and day,

THE RINGLET.

And Ringlet, O Ringlet,

You still are golden-gay, But Ringlet, O Ringlet,

You should be silver-gray : For what is this which now I 'm told, I that took you for true gold, She that gave you 's bought and sold, Sold, sold.

2.

O Ringlet, O Ringlet,

She blush'd a rosy red, When Ringlet, O Ringlet,

She clipt you from her head, And Ringlet, O Ringlet,

She gave you me, and said, ' Come, kiss it, love, and put it by : If this can change, why so can I.' O fie, you golden nothing, fie You golden lie.

3-

O Ringlet, O Ringlet,

I count you much to blame,

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, You put me much to shame,

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, I doom you to the flame.

For what is this which now I learn,

Has given all my faith a turn ?

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn,

425

Burn, burn.

426 A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

MARCH 7, 1863.

SEA-KINGS' daughter from over the sea, Alexandra !

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee,

Alexandra !

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, Scatter the blossom under her feet ! Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers ! Blazon your mottos of blessing and prayer ! Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! Flames, on the windy headland flare ! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air ! Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land, And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, Blissful bride of a blissful heir, Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea —

ODE. 427

O joy to the people, and joy to the throne, Come to us, love us, and make us your own : For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee,

Alexandra !

ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION.

UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet, In this wide hall with earth's inventions stored, And praise th' invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the nations meet,

Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpoured Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet.

O silent father of our Kings to be

Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee,

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee !

The world-compelling plan was thine, And, lo ! the long laborious miles Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, Rich in model and design ; Harvest-tool and husbandry, Loom and wheel and engin'ry, Secrets of the sullen mine, Steel and gold, and corn and wine, Fabric rough, or Fairy fine, Sunny tokens of the Line,

428 A DEDICATION.

Polar marvels, and a feast

Of wonder, out of West and East,

And shapes and hues of Part divine !

All of beauty, all of use,

That one fair planet can produce.

Brought from under every star, Blown from over every main, And mixt, as life is mixt with pain,

The works of peace with works of war.

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, From growing commerce loose her latest chain, And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly To happy havens under all the sky, And mix the seasons and the golden hours, Till each man finds his own in all men's good, And all men work in noble brotherhood, Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers, And ruling by obeying Nature's powers, And gathering all the fruits of peace and crown'd with all her flowers.

A DEDICATION.

EAR, near and true — no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that he, Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, May trust himself ; and spite of praise and scorn, As one who feels the immeasurable world,

THE CAPTAIN.

429

Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; And after Autumn past — if left to pass His autumn into seeming-leafless days — Draw toward the long frost and longest night, Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.*

THE CAPTAIN.

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY.

HE that only rules by terror Doeth grievous wrong. Deep as Hell I count his error,

Let him hear my song. Brave the Captain was : the seamen

Made a gallant crew, Gallant sons of English freemen,

Sailors bold and true. But they hated his oppression,

Stern he was and rash ; So for every light transgression

Doom'd them to the lash. Day by day more harsh and cruel

Seem'd the Captain's mood. Secret wrath like smother'd fuel

Burnt in each man's blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory,

Hoped to make the name

The fruit of the Spindle-tree (Euanyntus Evro/xeus.}

THE CAPTAIN.

Of his vessel great in story,

Wheresoe'er he came. So they past by capes and islands,

Many a harbor-mouth, Sailing under palmy highlands

Far within the South. On a day when they were going

O'er the lone expanse, In the North, her canvas flowing,

Rose a ship of France. Then the Captain's color heighten'd,

Joyful came his speech : But a cloudy gladness lighten'd

In the eyes of each. " Chase," he said : the ship flew forward,

And the wind did blow ; Stately, lightly, went she Norward,

Till she near'd the foe. Then they look'd at him they hated,

Had what they desired : Mute with folded arms they waited —

Not a gun was fired. But they heard the foeman's thunder

Roaring out their doom ; All the air was torn in sunder,

Crashing went the boom, Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter'd,

Bullets fell like rain ; Over mast and deck were scatter'd

Blood and brains of men. Spars were splinter'd ; decks were broken :

Every mother's son — Down they dropt — no word was spoken —

Each beside his gun.

THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 431

On the decks as they were lying,

Were their faces grim. In their blood, as they lay dying,

Did they smile on him. Those, in whom he had reliance

For his noble name, With one smile of still defiance

Sold him unto shame. Shame and wrath his heart confounded,

Pale he turn'd and red, Till himself was deadly wounded

Falling on the dead. Dismal error ! fearful slaughter !

Years have wander'd by, Side by side beneath the water

Crew and Captain lie ; There the sunlit ocean tosses

O'er them mouldering, And the lonely seabird crosses

With one waft of the wing.

THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE.

/~*ARESS'D or chidden by the dainty hand,

^ — And singing airy trifles this or that,

Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand,

And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ;

And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band,

And chased away the still-recurring gnat, And woke her with a lay from fairy land.

432 THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE.

But now they live with Beauty less and less, For Hope is other Hope and wanders far,

Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; And Fancy watches in the wilderness, Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, That sets at twilight in a land of reeds.

2.

The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest,

And win all eyes with all accomplishment :

Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went, My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast

That once had power to rob it of content.

A moment came the tenderness of tears,

The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love,

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years,

She still would take the praise, and care no more.

3-

Wan Sculptor weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie?

0 sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past,

In painting some dead friend from memory ? Weep on : beyond his object Love can last :

His object lives : more cause to weep have I : My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast,

No tears of love, but tears that Love can die.

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup,

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits —

ON A MOURNER.

433

Ah pity — hint it not in human tones, But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death forever, in the pits

Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones.

ON A MO URNER.

NATURE, so far as in her lies, Imitates God, and turns her face To every land beneath the skies,

Counts nothing that she meets with base, But lives and loves in every place ;

Fills out the homely quick-set screens, And makes the purple lilac ripe,

Steps from her airy hill, and greens The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, With moss and braided marish-pipe ;

3-

And on thy heart a finger lays, Saying, 'beat quicker, for the time

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime.'

4-

And murmurs of a deeper voice, Going before to some far shrine,

5L. ii. 19 B B

434

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, Till all thy life one way incline With one wide will that closes thine.

5- And when the zoning eve has died

Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, From out the borders of the morn, With that fair child betwixt them born.

6.

And when no mortal motion jars

The blackness round the tombing sod,

Thro' silence and the trembling stars

Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, And Virtue, like a household god

7- Promising empire ; such as those

That once at dead of night did greet Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose With sacrifice, while all the fleet Had rest by stony hills of Crete.

SONG.

LADY, let the rolling drums Beat to battle where thy warrior stands : Now thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands.

SOArG.

Lady, let the trumpets blow, Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : Now their warrior father meets the foe,

And strikes him dead for thine and thee.

SONG.

HOME they brought him slain with spears. They brought him home at even-fall : All alone she sits and hears Echoes in his empty hall,

Sounding on the morrow.

The Sun peep'd in from open field, The boy began to leap and prance, Rode upon his father's lance,

Beat upon his father's shield —

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow."

435

EXPERIMENTS.

BOADICEA.

~\ 1 7HILE about the shore of Mona those Neronian

* • legionaries Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and

Druidess,

Far in the East Boadice*a, standing loftily charioted, Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce

volubility, Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony

Cdmulodune, Yell'd and. shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild

confederacy.

' They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's

barbarous populaces, Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me

supplicating ? Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be

supplicated ? Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trino-

bant !

BOADICEA.

437

Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon anni- hilate us ?

Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quiv- ering?

Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable,

Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton,

Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolf kin, from the wilderness, wallow in it,

Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be pro- pitiated.

Lo their colony half-defended ! lo their colony, Camu- lodune !

There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary.

There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot.

Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun !

' Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian,

O Coritanian ! Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian,

Trinobant.

These have told us all their anger in miraculous utter- ances, Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard

aerially, Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy

massacred, Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous

agonies. Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of

horses and men ;

438

BOADICEA.

Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent

estuary ;

Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily totter- ing- There was one who watch'd and told me — down their

statue of Victory fell. Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camu-

lodiine, Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be

pitiful ?

Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ?

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Tri- nobant !

While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly medi- tating,

There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony,

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses.

" Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets !

Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee,

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet !

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated,

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illim- itable,

Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises,

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the bat- tle-thunder of God."

BOADICEA.

439

So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries

happier ? So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a

victory now.

' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Tri- nobant !

Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of lib- erty,

Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated,

Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian vio- lators !

See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in igno- miny !

Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated.

Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Cdmulo- dune !

There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flour- ishing territory,

Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness —

Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inex- orable.

Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Tri- nobant,

Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipi- tously

Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd.

Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cuno- beline !

440 BOAD1CEA.

There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay,

Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effemi- nacy.

There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more.

Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary,

Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable,

Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptu- ousness,

Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated,

Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out,

Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us.'

So the Queen Boadice'a, standing loftily charioted, Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances

lioness-like, Yell'd and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce

volubility.

Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous

lineaments, Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver

in January, Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blanch

on the precipices, Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a

promontory. So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries

IN QUANTITY. 441

Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid

unanimous hand, Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless

avarice, Till she felt the heart within her fall and ' flutter

tremulously, Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted

away. Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny

buds. Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous

agonies. Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous

legionary. Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam,

Camulodune.

I N QUANTITY.

Alcaics.

OMIGHTY-MOUTH'D inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Milton, a name to resound for ages ; Whose Titan 'angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean

Rings to the roar of an angel onset —

442 IN QUANTITY.

Me rather all that bowery loneliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods Whisper in odorous heights of even.

Hendecasyllabics.

OYOU chorus of indolent reviewers, Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem All composed in a metre of Catullus, All in quantity, careful of my motion, Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, Lest I fall unawares before the people, Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Thro' this metrification of Catullus, They should speak to me not without a welcome, All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, So fantastical is the dainty metre. Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost Horticultural art, or half coquette-like Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION. 443

SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE.

SO Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host ; Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke And each beside his chariot bound his own ; And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. And these all night upon the * bridge of war Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed : As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, And every height comes out, and jutting peak And valley, and the immeasurable heavens Break open to their highest, and all the stars Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : So many a fire between the ships and stream Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, A thousand on the plain ; and close by each Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire ; And champing golden grain, the horses stood Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.f

Iliad 'VIII. 542-561.

* Or, ridge.

t Or more literally, —

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morn.

Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.