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The  poetical  works  of  Alfred,  Lord  Teriny 


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THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 


POET  LAUREATE 


WITH  A  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION 


EUGENE  PARSONS 


NEW  YORE 

THOMAS  Y.  CEO  WELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYEIQHT,  1897  AND  1900, 

Bt  THOMAS  Y    CROWELL  &   CO. 


INTRODUCTION. 


LIFE  OF  TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  Aug.  6,  1S09,  in  Somersby,  a  wooded  hairnet 
it  Lincolnshire,  England.  "The  native  village  of  Tennyson,"  says  Howitt, 
who  visited  the  place  not  long  after  the  Tennysons  left  it,  "  is  not  situated  in 
/he  fens,  but  in  a  pretty  pastoral  district  of  softly  sloping  hills  and  large  ash- 
trees.  It  is  not  based  on  bogs,  but  on  a  clean  sandstone.  There  is  a  little  glen 
in  the  neighborhood,  called  by  the  old  monkish  name  of  Holywell." 

Here  he  was  brought  up  amid  the  lovely  idyllic  scenes  which  he  made  famous 
in  the  "  Ode  to  Memory  "  and  other  poems.  The  picturesque  "  Glen,"  with  its 
tangled  underwood  and  purling  brook,  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  poet  in  child- 
hood. On  one  of  the  stones  in  this  ravine  he  inscribed  the  words,  Byron  is 
Dead,  ere  he  was  fifteen. 

Alfred  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson,  LL.D., 
rector  of  Somersby  (1807-1831),  also  rector  of  Benniworth  and  Bag  Enderby, 
and  vicar  of  Grimsby  (1815).  Dr.  Tennyson  was  the  eldest  son  of  George 
Tennyson  (1750-1835),  who  belonged  to  the  Lincolnshire  gentry  as  the  owner 
of  Bayons  Manor  and  Usselby  Hall.  He  was  graduated  at  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  in  1801,  and  received  the  degree  of  M.A.  in  1805.  The  poet's 
father  (i  778-1831)  was  a  man  of  superior  abilities  and  varied  attainments,  who 
tried  his  hand  with  fair  success  at  architecture,  painting,  music,  and  poetry. 

Mrs.  Tennyson  (1781— 1865)  was  a  pious  woman  of  many  admirable  qualities, 
and  characterized  by  an  especially  sensitive  nature.  From  his  sweet,  gentle 
mother  the  poet  inherited  his  refined,  shrinking  nature.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  Stephen  Fytche  (1734-1799),  vicar  of  Louth  (1764)  and  rector  of  Withcall 
(1780),  a  small  village  between  Horncastle  and  Louth. 

Dr.  Tennyson  married  (Aug.  6,  1806)  Elizabeth  Fytche;  and  their  first  child, 
George,  died  in  infancy.  He  moved  to  Somersby  in  1808,  and  the  rectory  in 
this  quiet  village  was  their  home  for  many  years.  According  to  the  parish  regis- 
ters, the  Tennyson  family  consisted  of  eleven  children:  Frederick  (1807), 
Charles  (1808-1879),  Alfred  (1809-1892),  Mary  (1810-1884),  Emilia  (1811- 
1889),  Edward  (1813-1890),  Arthur  (1814),  Septimus  (1815-1866),  Matilda 
(1816),  Cecilia  (1817),  Horatio  (1819).  They  formed  a  joyous,  lively  house- 
hold, amusements  being  agreeably  mingled  with  their  daily  tasks.  They  were 
all  handsome  and  gifted,  with  marked  personal  traits  and  imaginative  temper- 
aments. They  were  very  fond  of  reading  and  story-telling.  At  least  four  of 
the  boys  —  Frederick,  Charles,  Alfred,  and  Edward  —  were  addicted  to  verse- 
writing. 

The  scholarly  rector  carefully  attended  to  the  education  and  training  of  his 
children.  He  turned  his  talents  and  accomplishments  to  good  account  in  stimu- 
lating their  mental  growth.     Alfred  was  a  pupil  of  Louth  Grammar  School  four 


iv  introduction: 


years  ( 1810-1820).  During  this  time  he  presumably  learned  something,  although 
no  flattering  reports  of  his  progress  have  come  down  to  us.  Then  private  teach- 
ers were  employed  by  Dr.  Tennyson  to  instruct  his  boys ;  but  he  took  upon  himself 
for  the  most  part  the  burden  of  fitting  them  for  college.  One  incident  con- 
nected with  the  poet's  intellectual  life  at  home  is  worth  repeating.  It  has  been 
said  that  his  father  required  him  to  memorize  the  odes  of  Horace,  and  to  recite' 
them  morning  by  morning  until  the  four  books  were  gone  through.  Perhaps  this 
practice  aided  him  in  cultivating  a  delicate  sense  for  metrical  music,  in  which  he 
certainly  surpassed  Horace 

Only  a  moderate  amount  of  study  being  imposed  by  his  father,  Alfred  was 
■out-of-doors  much  of  the  time,  rambling  through  the  pastures  and  wolds  about 
Somersby  and  Bag  Enderby.  The  two  brothers,  Charles  and  Alfred,  were  greatly 
attached  to  each  other,  and  frequently  were  together  in  their  walks.  They  were 
both  large  and  strong  for  their  age.  Charles  was  a  popular  boy  in  Somersby  on 
account  of  his  frank,  genial  disposition.  This  cannot  be  said  of  the  reticent 
Alfred,  who  was  solitary,  not  caring  to  mingle  with  other  lads  in  their  sports. 
He  was  shy  and  reserved,  moody  and  absent-minded,  exhibiting  when  a  boy  the 
■same  habits  and  peculiarities  which  characterized  him  as  a  man. 

From  his  twelfth  to  his  sixteenth  year  Alfred  was  apparently  idle  a  great  part 
■of  the  time,  yet  he  was  unconsciously  preparing  for  his  life-work  as  a  poet.  He 
was  gathering  material  and  storing  up  impressions  that  were  afterward  utilized. 
It  was  with  him  a  formative  period.  The  hours  he  spent  strolling  in  lanes  and 
woods  were  not  wasted.  The  quiet,  meditative  boy  lived  in  a  realm  of  the  imagi- 
oiation,  and  his  thoughts  and  fancies  took  shape  in  crude  poems. 

This  period  of  day-dreaming  was  followed  by  one  of  intellectual  activity. 
His  literary  career  began  in  his  youth,  his  boyish  rhymes  and  those  of  his  elder 
brother  Charles  being  collected  into  the  thin  volume,  "  Poems  by  Two  Brothers," 
published  in  1827.  The  pieces  by  Alfred  were  written  when  he  was  only  sixteen 
•or  seventeen.  They  show  that  these  were  busy  years.  The  Tennyson  youths  not 
only  scribbled  a  great  deal  of  verse,  they  ranged  far  and  wide  in  the  fields  of 
ancient  and  modern  literature.  Their  father  had  a  fine  library,  and  they  appre- 
ciated its  treasures;  In  the  footnotes  and  mottoes  of  their  poems  were  many 
curious  bits  of  information,  and  quotations  from  the  classics.  In  some  of  them 
are  echoes  from  Byron,  who  exercised  a  magical  spell  over  Alfred  in  his  teens. 

The  Tennyson  children  were  fortunate  in  having  cultured  parents.  They 
were  favored  in  another  respect.  Dr.  Tennyson  was  comfortably  well  off  for  a 
country  clergyman.  His  means,  which  he  shrewdly  husbanded,  enabled  the 
iamily  to  spend  the  summers  at  Mablethorpe  and  Skagness,  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  England.  Thus  Alfred's  passion  for  the  sea  was  developed  early  in  life,  it 
is  said  that  in  his  boyhood  he  occasionally  tramped  the  whole  distance  (a  dozen 
miles  or  more)  from  Somersby  to  the  coast. 

For  some  years  it  was  the  rector's  custom  to  occupy  a  dwelling  in  Louth  part 
of  the  school  year.  In  this  way  the  seclusion  and  monotony  of  Somersby  life 
were  broken.  The  young  Tennysons  saw  considerable  of  Lincolnshire.  They 
occasionally  visited  the  old  manor-house  of  Bayons,  and  were  often  welcomed  in 
the  home  of  their  aunt,  Miss  Fytche,  in  Westgate  Place.  Charles  and  Alfred 
were  at  times  the  guests  of  their  great -uncle,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Turner,  of  Caistor, 
who,  dying  about  1834,  left  hie  property  and  Grasby  living  to  Charles.  The  two 
young  poets  took  the  money  given  them  for  their  first  book  by  Messrs.  Jackson, 
and  spent  it  "in  a  tour  through  Lincolnshire,  inspecting  the  different  churchesi 
tor  which  the  county  is  so  justly  famous." 


INTROD  UCTION. 


Such  were  the  surroundings  and  experiences  of  Tennyson's  childhood  and 
youth  ;  they  influenced  his  whole  life,  and  inevitably  entered  into  his  poetry  of 
later  years.  He  illustrates  the  truth  that  a  poet  is  largely  what  his  environment 
makes  him. 

In  October,  1828,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  leaving  in  1831 
without  a  degree.  In  his  boyhood  Alfred  manifested  unmistakable  indications 
of  genius ;  and  during  his  university  career  he  was  generally  looked  upon  as  a 
superior  mortal,  of  whom  great  things  were  expected  by  his  teachers  and  fellow- 
collegians.  Dr.  Whewell,  his  tutor,  treated  him  with  unusual  respect.  It  was 
thought  to  be  no  slight  honor  for  a  young  man  of  twenty  to  win  the  chancellor's.^ 
gold  medal  for  the  prize  poem  "Timbuctoo,"  and  the  volume  of  his  poem?'^ 
published  in  1830  gave  him  a  sort  of  celebrity  beyond  his  set  of  college  acquain- 
tances. 

While  at  Cambridge,  Tennyson  formed  friendships  which  lasted  till  death 
ended  them  one  by  one.  It  was  indeed  a  company  of  choice  spirits  with  whom 
he  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  associated.  Among  them  were  Milnes,  Kemble,, 
Trench,  Alford,  Brookfield,  Spedding,  and  others.  Besides  these,  he  numbered 
among  the  friends  of  his  early  manhood,  Fitzgerald,  Kinglake,  Thackeray, 
Maurice,  Gladstone,  Carlyle,  Rogers,  Forster,  the  Lushingtons,  and  other 
famous  scholars  and  men  of  letters.  In  their  companionship  he  found  the 
stimulus  necessary  for  the  development  of  his  poetical  faculty.  They  all  re- 
garded him  with  feelings  of  warmest  admiration.  The  young  singer  had  at  least 
a  few  appreciative  readers  during  the  ten  or  twelve  years  of  obscurity  when  the 
public  cared  little  for  his  writings.  By  their  words  of  commendation  he  was 
encouraged  to  pursue  the  bard's  divine  calling,  to  which  he  was  led  by  an  over- 
mastering instinct. 

Much  as  Tennyson  owed  to  these  men,  he  owed  most  to  one  whose  name  is 
forever  associated  with  his  own,  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  a  son  of  the  historian. 
Soon  after  coming  to  Cambridge  he  met  Hallam,  a  young  man  of  extraordinary 
promise,  who  became  the  dearest  of  his  friends  — •  more  to  him  than  a  brother. 
They  were  inseparable  in  their  walks  and  studies.  They  shared  each  other's 
ambitions  and  enthusiasms.  In  the  summer  of  1830  the  two  comrades  travelled 
through  the  French  Pyrenees.  Their  intimate  fellowship  was  strengthened  by 
Arthur's  love  for  the  poet's  younger  sister,  Emilia.  It  was  apparently  his 
strongest  earthly  attachment;  and  the  beautiful  record  of  their  "  fair  companion- 
ship "  is  found  in  the  lyrics  of  "  In  Memoriam,"  written  to  perpetuate  the  mem- 
ory of  the  lost  Hallam,  whose  life  went  suddenly  out  in  Vienna,  Sept.  15,  1833. 

This  remarkable  elegy  remains,  and  is  likely  to  remain  through  all  time,  a 
nobler  monument  than  could  be  wrought  out  of  bronze  or  marble.  Equally 
enduring  is  the  melodious  wail,  "Break,  break,  break,"  one  of  the  sweetest 
dirges  in  all  literature,  written  shortly  after  Hallam's  death. 

The  noted  actress,  Fanny  Kemble,  knew  Tennyson  in  the  prime  of  manhood, 
and  in  her  journal  ("June  16,  1832)  tells  what  manner  of  man  he  was:  — 

"Alfred  Tennyson  dined  with  us.  I  am  always  a  little  disappointed  with  the  exte- 
rior of  our  poet  when  I  look  at  him,  in  spite  of  his  eyes,  which  are  very  fine ;  but  his 
head  and  face,  striking  and  dignified  as  they  are,  are  almost  too  ponderous  and  massive 
for  beauty  in  so  young  a  man  ;  and  every  now  and  then  there  is  a  slightly  sarcastic  ex- 
pression about  his  mouth  that  almost  frightens  me,  in  spite  of  his  shy  manner  anij 
habitual  silence."! 

1  "  Records  of  a  Girlhood,"  pp.  519-520. 


INTRODUCTION. 


After  leaving  college,  Tennyson  resided  chiefly  with  liis  widowed  mother  ai 
Somersby,  then  at  High  Beech  (1837-1840),  Tunbridge  Wells  and  Boxley 
(1840-1844),  and  Cheltenham  (1844-1850).  He  was  often  in  London  and 
elsewhere  visiting  friends.  Fitzgerald  speaks  of  his  staying  with  Tennyson  at 
the  Cumberland  home  of  James  Spedding  in  1835.  Here  Alfred  would  spend 
hour  after  hour  reading  aloud  "  Morte  d'Arthur,"  and  other  unpublished  poems, 
which  his  scholarly  friend  criticised.  In  1838  he  was  a  welcome  member  of  the 
.Anonymous  Club  in  London,  and  had  rooms  in  that  city  at  various  times  during 
the  next  ten  years. 

It  was  his  habit  to  make  long  journeys  through  the  country  on  foot,  studying  ' 
the  landscapes  of  England  and  Wales,  and  pondering  many  a  lay  unsung.  He 
also  made  occasional  trips  to  Ireland  and  the  Continent.  "From  1842,"  says 
Howitt,  "  he  became  pre-eminent  among  English  poets ; "  and  he  was  thenceforth 
often  to  be  found  in  the  society  of  prominent  literary  people.  The  Carlyles  were 
much  attached  to  him.  In  a  letter  written  in  1843,  Mrs.  Carlyle  calls  him  "a 
very  handsome  man,  and  a  noble-hearted  one,  with  something  of  the  gypsy  in  his 
appearance,  which  for  me  is  perfectly  charming."  In  1845  he  was  granted  a 
'jiension  of  £,100,  and  in  1850  he  was  appointed  poet-laureate  to  succeed  Words- 
worth;  in  1855  he  received  the  honorary  degree  of  D.C.L.  from  Oxford. 

Tennyson  married  (June  13,  1850)  at  Shiplake,  Oxfordshire,  Emily  Sarah 
Sellwood,  whom  he  had  known  and  loved  for  many  years.  Carlyle,  not  long 
afterward,  came  across  the  laureate  "with  his  new  wife,"  of  whom  he  pleasantly 
writes:  "  Mrs.  Tennyson  lights  up  bright  glittering  blue  eyes  when  you  speak  to 
her;  has  wit;  has  sense;  and  were  it  not  that  she  seems  so  very  delicate  in 
health,  I  should  augur  really  well  of  Tennyson's  adventure."  She  was  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Henry  Sellwood,  of  Peasmore  in  Berkshire,  afterward  a  soli- 
citor of  Horncastle,  Lincolnshire  ;  her  mother  was  a  sister  of  Sir  John  Franklin, 
and  her  youngest  sister  the  wife  of  Charles  Tennyson  Turner. 

A  lady  of  high  intelligence  and  gracious  manner,  she  was  in  every  way  fitted 
to  be  the  companion  of  her  poet  husband,  who  lovingly  bore  testimony  to  her 
loyalty  and  worth.  Exalted  as  was  his  ideal  of  woman  as  a  wife  and  mother, 
she  seems  to  have  met  his  exacting  requirements  almost  perfectly.  Though  a 
woman  of  more  than  ordinary  education  and  talent,  she  never  sought  public  rec- 
ognition. A  considerable  number  of  the  poet's  songs  she  set  to  music.  Content 
with  the  round  of  duties  in  a  domestic  sphere,  she  lived  for  husband  and  children. 
Their  wedded  life  was  exceptionally  harmonious  and  happy.  Their  union  was 
blessed  with  two  sons,  —  Hallam,  born  Aug.  II,  1852,  and  Lionel,  born  March 
16,  1854.  Bayard  Taylor  thought  the  Tennyson  household  a  "  delightful  family 
circle."  "  His  wife,"  he  wrote  in  1857,  "  is  one  of  the  best  women  I  ever  met 
with;   and  his  two  little  boys,  Ilallam  and  Lionel,  are  real  cherubs  of  children." 

Many  years  later  Professor  Palgrave  paid  Lady  Tennyson  a  well-deserved 
llribute  in  the  graceful  Dedication  of  "  Lyrical  Poems  by  Lord  Tennyson  " 
l(i885),  characterizing  hei  as  '■  the  counsellor  to  whom  he  has  never  looked  in 
vain  for  aid  and  comfort,  —  the  v/ife  whose  perfect  love  has  blessed  him  through 
these  many  years  with  large  and  faithful  sympathy."  1 

Three  years  they  lived  in  Chapel  House,  Twickenham.  In  1853  the  laureata 
bought  the  Farringford  domain  (now  over  four  hundred  acres),  near  Freshwater, 

*  Lady  Tennyson  Jied  at  Aldworth,  Aug.  10,  1896,  aged  eighty-three.  During  the  last  years 
of  her  life,  notwithstanding  ill-health,  she  materially  aided  her  son  Hallam  in  preparing  the 
*»iagraphy  of  his  father. 


INTR  VD  UVTION: 


In  the  Isle  of  Wight.  In  the  lines,  "To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,"  dated  Jan- 
uary, 1854,  the  poet  describes  his  pleasant  life  in  this  delightful  retreat.  In  1867 
he  purchased  the  Greenhill  estate,  in  the  northern  part  of  Sussex.  Here  he  built 
a  Gothic  mansion,  which  is  an  ideal  residence  for  a  poet.  This  house,  named 
Aldworth,  was  finished  and  first  occupied  in  1869.  Situated  far  up  on  Black- 
down  Heath,  it  overlooks  a  lovely  valley,  and  commands  a  view  of  one  of  the 
finest  landscapes  in  England.  Aldworth  was  his  summer  home  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  Here  he  found  the  peace  and  seclusion  that  he  coveted,  —  at  least 
part  of  the  time,  —  spending  his  days  removed  from  the  bustle  and  rush  and 
unrest  of  the  outside  world. 

It  should  not  be  supposed  from  this  that  Tennyson's  life  at  Farringford  was 
passed  in  monastic  isolation.  However  sequestered  Aldworth  was  from  the 
abodes  of  men,  the  poet's  mansion  near  Freshwater  was  not  a  hermitage.  Thither 
in  the  golden  years  of  his  long  career,  in  the  fifties  and  sixties  and  seventies, 
came  men  eminent  in  all  the  walks  of  life,  —  preachers,  statesmen,  artists,  and 
authors.  His  brothers  and  sisters,  especially  Horatio  and  Matilda,  were  with 
him  a  great  (deal  of  the  time.  Occasional  visits  from  his  young  nephews  and 
nieces,  and  afterward  the  presence  of  grandchildren,  gladdened  the  days  of  the 
aged  singer.  For  many  years  Mrs.  Julia  Margaret  Cameron  (who  achieved  fame 
by  her  marvellously  successful  photographs)  and  her  husband  were  near  neigh- 
bors of  Tennyson's,  their  cottage,  Dimbola,  being  not  far  from  Farringford.  The 
Camerons  and  the  Tennysons  lived  in  closest  intimacy,  visiting  each  other's 
homes  almost  daily.  Other  dear  friends  on  the  Isle  of  Wight  were  the  Prinseps, 
Mr.  W.  G.  Ward,  Sir  John  Simeon,  and  Mrs.  Hughes,  mother  of  Tom  Hughes. 

Tennyson's  life  was  never  that  of  a  recluse  long  at  a  time.  He  saw  much  ol 
the  world.  His  solitude  was  broken  by  occasional  trips  abroad,  and  by  frequent 
tours  through  the  counties  of  England  and  Wales.  During  his  entire  careerj 
after  leaving  Cambridge  in  183 1,  it  may  be  said  that  he  inevitably  gravitated  to 
London  to  stay  a  few  weeks  or  months,  and  refresh  himself  with  boon  companions. 
No  attempt  is  made  here  to  trace  all  the  wanderings  of  this  much-travelled  man. 
The  letters  of  Edward  Fitzgerald  afford  some  clews  to  Tennyson's  whereabouts 
during  his  early  manhood,  when  his  movements  were  not  so  closely  watched  and 
recorded  in  the  newspapers.  "I  have  just  come  from  Leamington,"  he  writes 
(June  7,  1840)  ;  "  while  there  I  met  Alfred  by  chance  ;  we  made  two  or  three 
pleasant  excursions  together;  to  Stratford-upon-Avon  and  Kenilworth,  etc." 

In  October,  1841,  he  writes:  "As  to  Alfred,  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him 
since  May,  except  that  some  one  saw  him  going  on  a  packet  which  he  believed 
was  going  to  Rotterdam." 

In  1 85 1  the  poet  and  his  wife  visited  Italy,  and  vivid  memories  of  their  trav- 
els are  recalled  in  "The  Daisy,"  written  in  Edinburgh  two  years  later;  this 
poem'was  suggested  by  the  finding  of  a  daisy  in  a  book,  the  flower  having  been 
plucked  on  the  Splugen,  and  placed  by  Mrs.  Tennyson  between  the  leaves  of  a 
little  volume  as  a  memento  of  their  Italian  journey.  Scotland  and  the  neighbor- 
ing isles  seem  to  have  exercised  a  strange  power  over  the  laureate ;  for  he  was 
often  attracted  to  the  Highlands,  Valentia,  and  Ireland.  He  travelled  in  Portu- 
gal in  1859  with  his  friend  Palgrave.  He  revisited  the  Pyrenees  in  1861,  this 
time  with  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  and  again  in  1876.  In  1865  he  was  at  Weimar 
and  Dresden;  in  1869  through  France  and  Switzerland  with  Frederick  Locker. 
He  went  to  Norway  in  1872,  where  he  had  journeyed  before,  led  thither  by 
reading  Bayard  Taylor's  "  Northern  Travel."  He  was  in  Italy  in  1879,  and  ii» 
Lombardy  in  1882. 


INTR  OD  UCTIOJV. 


In  1883  Tennyson  voyaged  with  Mr.  Gladstone  to  Copenhagen,  meeting  at 
King  Christian's  court  the  Princess  of  Wales  and  the  sovereigns  of  Greece  and 
Russia.  He  visited  the  Channel  Islands  in  1S87,  and  "in  the  spring  of  1891  he 
was  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean."  Only  a  few  months  before  his  death  he 
was  in  Jersey,  Guernsey,  and  London  ;  and  the  venerable  minstrel  was  preparing 
to  return  to  Farringford  for  the  winter  when  the  final  summons  came  in  October, 
1892.  So  the  spirit  of  roving  clung  to  him  even  to  the  end  of  his  earthly, 
.  pilgrimage. 

In  1865  Tennyson  declined  a  baronetcy  offered  by  the  queen  as  a  reward  foi« 
his  loyal  devotion  to  the  crown,  and  again  in  1868,  when  tendered  by  Disraeli,/: 
in  the  latter  part  of  1883  he  accepted  a  peerage  at  Gladstone's  earnest  solicita- 
tion. He  was  created  a  peer  of  the  realm  Jan.  24,  1884,  with  the  new  title, 
Baron  of  Aldworth,  Sussex,  and  of  Freshwater,  Isle  of  Wight.  He  took  his 
seat  in  the  House  of  Lords  March  11,  1884. 

Baron  Tennyson  had  a  splendid  lineage,  three  lines  of  noble  and  royal  fam- 
ilies being  mingled  in  his  descent.  The  poet  himself  writes;  "Through  my 
great-grandmother  [Elizabeth  Clayton],  and  through  Jane  Pitt,  a  still  remoter 
grandmother,  I  am  doubly  descended  from  Plantagenets  (Lionel,  Duke  of  Clar- 
ence, and  John  of  Lancaster),  and  this  through  branches  of  the  Barons  d'Eyn- 
court." 

The  pedigree  of  his  grandfather,  George  Tennyson,  is  traced  back  to  "  the 
middle-class  line  of  the  Tennysons,"  and  through  Elizabeth  Clayton  ten  genera- 
tions back  to  Edmund,  Duke  of  Somerset,  and  farther  back  to  Edward  III.  The 
laureate's  grandfather  was  a  well-known  lawyer  and  wealthy  landowner  of 
Lincolnshire,  who  "  sat  more  than  once  in  Parliament,  representing  Bletch- 
ingly;"  his  second  son,  Charles  Tennyson-d'Eyncourt,  who  succeeded  him  as 
the  possessor  of  the  family  estate  of  Bayons  Manor,  was  a  noted  public  man, 
having  represented  Lambeth  and  other  boroughs  in  Parliament  from  1818  to 
1852.  At  the  death  of  George  Tennyson  (July  4,  1835),  the  valuable  Clayton 
property  near  Great  Grimsby  was  left  to  the  rector's  family,  and  it  is  still  (1896) 
in  the  hands  of  Frederick  Tennyson,  the  poet's  elder  brother. 

The  poet's  last  years  were  saddened  by  the  bereavement  of  many  old  friends 
and  relatives.  He  suffered  a  severe  blow  in  the  death  of  his  second  son  Lionel, 
while  on  the  homeward  voyage  from  India.  He  mourns  his  loss  in  the  touching 
staiKas,  "  To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava."  The  Hon.  Lionel  Tennyson,  for 
several  years  connected  with  the  India  office,  was  attacked  by  jungle  fever  while 
on  a  visit  to  India,  and  died  on  board  the  Chusan,  near  Aden,  April  20,  1886, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-two. 

Honors  were  showered  plentifully  on  Lord  Tennyson  in  his  last  years,  but  he 
was  not  spoilt  by  vanity.  He  was  the  recipient  of  many  congratulations  on  the 
occasion  of  his  eightieth  birthday,  Aug.  6,  1889.  His  was  the  fruitful  old  age 
that  crowns  a  well-ordered  career.  His  powers  of  body  and  mind  were  well 
preserved  to  the  end,  owing  to  his  wonderful  constitution  and  his  quiet  way  of 
living.  He  read  Shakespeare  during  his  final  illness,  and  continued  to  compose 
even  on  his  death-bed,  dictating  "The  Silent  Voices"  sung  at  his  funeral.  In 
jthe  tranquil  evening  of  a  well-spent  life  he  peacefully  passed  away  Oct.  6,  1S92, 
ieceiving  burial  (Oct.  12)  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 


INTR  OD  UCTION. 


THE  POETRY  OF  TENNYSON. 

Tennyson  is  pre-eminently  a  lyric  poet.  His  lyrical  efforts  embrace  an 
extensive  range  of  subjects  and  a  wide  variety  of  metres.  Not  having  naturally 
the  rhythmical  facility  of  Byron  or  Shelley,  he  conquered  the  technical  difficul- 
.,  ties  of  the  minstrel's  art  by  painstaking  study  and  labor.  In  this  field  he  i 
^  became  a  master.  But,  not  realizing  his  limitations,  or  not  content  with  the  * 
renown  of  being  a  great  lyrist,  he  ambitiously  essayed  to  enter  fields  where 
supremacy  was  for  him  impossible.  In  the  epic  and  the  drama  he  achieved  only 
partial  success.  It  is,  therefore,  as  a  lyric  poet  that  Tennyson  is  chiefly  known 
and  will  be  remembered.  Such  incomparable  lyrics  as  "Break,  break,  break," 
"The  splendor  falls,"  and  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  prove  him  to  be  a  singer  by 
right  divine  —  one  whose  fame  is  immortal. 

In  some  of  his  blank-verse  idylls  he  was  scarcely  less  happy.  Noteworthy 
among  these  are  his  studies  and  imitations  of  the  antique,  —  "CEnone,"  "The 
Lotus-Eaters,"  "  Ulysses,"  "Tithonus,"  "Lucretius,"  "  Tiresias,"  "Demeter," 
and  "The  Death  of  CEnone,"  — which,  it  is  safe  to  say,  are  not  generally  popu- 
lar, however  much  they  may  be  admired  by  persons  of  scholarly  and  critical 
tastes.  "In  Memoriam"  and  "Maud"  are  merely  collections  of  lyrics.  Ten- 
nyson's dramas  are  often  lyrical  in  spirit  if  not  in  form;  they  are  distinctly 
undramatic.  Except  a  few  magnificent  passages  of  blank  verse,  the  lyrics  are 
the  best  things  in  them.  The  songs  in  "The  Princess,"  and  the  little  melodies 
scattered  through  the  "Idylls  of  the  King,"  will  be  prized  in  future  ages  when 
the  main  portions  of  these  works  may  have  lost  their  interest  for  the  average 
reader.  These  lyrics  have  been  set  to  music,  and  sung  in  many  a  household 
where  his  longer  poems  are  unread.  The  scenes  and  characters  described  in 
them  have  been  depicted  by  painters.  Thus  the  sister  arts  have  conspired  to 
popularize  them,  and  impress  them  on  the  memory. 

Tennyson's  lyrical  successes  are  numerous,  the  list  including  most  of  his 
shorter  poems.  An  array  of  versatile,  superior  productions !  They  make  up  a 
considerable  body  of  poetry,  much  greater  in  bulk  than  the  quantity  of  endur- 
ing verse  produced  by  Herrick,  Gray,  Collins,  Goldsmith,  Cowper,  Burns,  Col- 
eridge, Wordsworth,  Scott,  Keats,  Campbell,  Browning,  Bryant,  Poe,  Lowell,  or 
Whittier. 

Tennyson's  first  book  —  "Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical"  (1830)  —  was  made  up 
largely  of  metrical  diversions,  yet  it  contained  a  few  pieces  that  are  imperishable. 
They  show  plainly  that  when  a  young  man  he  was  as  much  addicted  to  word- 
music  and  word-color  as  he  was  in  later  years.  The  author  of  "  Mariana  "  and 
"The  Dirge"  was  a  poetic  artist  of  more  than  ordinary  equipment. 

His  second  book  of  "  Poems,"  published  late  in  1832,  included  some  of  his 
loveliest  lyrics, —"The  Lady  of  Shalott,"  "The  Miller's  Daughter,"  "The 
Palace  of  Art,"  "The  Lotus-Eaters,"  "A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,"  etc.,—, 
having  the  richness  of  melody  and  the  indescribable  witchery  of  style  whicK< 
constitute  Tennyson's  charm. 

In  the  two  volumes  of  "  Poems  "  appearing  in  1842  were  gathered  the  finest 
things  in  the  two  earlier  books,  but  changed  and  polished  until  well-nigh  perfect, 
together  with  a  number  of  new  works  — "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  "The  Talking 
Oak,"  "Ulysses,"  "  Locksley  Hall,"  "  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,"  "The  Two 
Voices,"  "St.  Agnes,"  "Sir  Galahad,"  "Godiva,"  "Break,  break,  break," 
^tc. that  are  justly  regarded  among  the  choicest  treasures  of  British  lyrical  and 


INTRODUCTION. 


idyllic  poetry.  These  poems,  new  and  old,  exhibited  not  only  a  complete  mas- 
tery of  rhetorical  effects  and  a  rare  aesthetic  susceptibility,  but  a  rich  vein  of 
sense  and  spirituality.  Here  were  exquisite  diction,  harmonious  versiircation,  a 
command  of  the  technical  resources  of  the  poetic  art,  and  unrivalled  ability  in 
word-painting.  The  writer  was  a  close  observer  of  nature  as  well  as  a  diligent 
student  of  books. 

More  than  Virgil,  he  was  a  "  landscape-lover,"  who  with  pictorial  fidelity 
and  vividness,  though  not  with  photographic  accuracy,  sketched  the  places  he 
.'visited.     Hamerton  rightly  called  him  the  "prince  of  poet  landscapists. "     But 
I  the  domain  of  beauty  was  too  narrow  for  him.     Beyond  any  mere  sesthetic  influ- 
1  ence  that  he  exerted,  Tennyson  was  a  power  for  good,  his  refined  verse  being  the 
graceful  vehicle  of  ethical  instruction  and  religious  uplift.     Like  Wordsworth,  he 
was  a  poet  with  a  mission.     His  countrymen  found  his  teaching  helpful,  stimulat- 
ing, liberalizing. 

Admirable  as  is  "The  Princess  "  (1847)  in  some  respects,  it  falls  somewhat 
below  the  level  reached  in  his  lyrics  and  idylls.  The  poem  as  a  whole  is  disap- 
pointing, being  richer  in  form  than  in  substance.  It  has  been  concisely  and 
accurately  described  as  a  "splendid  failure."  The  plot  is  the  work  of  a  literary 
artist,  rather  than  the  heaven-born  inspiration  of  genius.  As  an  incursion  into 
the  realm  of  the  romantic  and  the  fantastic,  the  story  is  pleasing  enough  with  its 
airy  fancies  and  dehghtful  reveries,  but  it  is  too  unreal  and  wildly  improbable  to 
be  impressive.  It  does  not  bear  the  test  of  rereading.  One  becomes  at  last 
cloyed  with  its  gorgeous  style,  overloaded  as  it  is  with  glittering  conceits  and 
ornate  commonplaces.  However,  the  closing  paragraphs,  which  deal  with  the 
woman  question  so  sensibly  and  felicitously,  compensate  for  some  shortcomings 
of  the  poem. 

In  producing  the  beautiful  elegy  known  as  "  In  Memoriam,"  Tennyson  con- 
ferred immortality  upon  his  lost  friend  and  gained  it  for  himself.  This  monu- 
mental work,  which  appeared  anonymously  in  1850,  had  been  in  process  of 
growth  during  the  seventeen  years  after  the  death  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam  in 
1833.  This  tribute  of  love  to  the  memory  of  the  dearest  of  his  companions  occu- 
pies a  unique  place  in  literature.  It  is  not  only  the  most  original  of  Tennyson's 
sustained  writings  —  it  is  his  best  reflective  poem  and  favorite  work.  Into  it  he 
poured  the  consecrated  fragrance  of  his  genius.  It  grew  out  of  the  author's  man- 
ifold experiences,  not  only  as  a  mourner,  but  as  a  thinker.  He  owed  nothing 
material  to  Petrarch,  as  has  been  claimed,  or  to  the  sonnets  of  Shakespeare.  The 
■work  is  English  and  modern.  It  is  emphatically  Tennysonian.  "  In  Memoriam  " 
may  be  classed  with  the  few  really  great  poems  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  is 
a  masterpiece,  worthy  of  a  place  among  the  classics  of  our  English  tongue.  Per- 
haps no_  other  poem  of  our  age  has  been  so  influential.  Perhaps  no  other  literary 
production  of  the  nineteenth  century  has  elicited  such  high  praise  from  eminent 
critics,  and  received  during  the  writer's  lifetime  such  loving,  sympathetic  study 
from  cultivated  readers. 

"  Maud,"  like  "  In  Memoriam,"  is  a  poem  with  a  history.  It  had  its  begin- 
ning in  the  stanzas,. "  O,  that  'twere  possible,"  contributed  to  The  Tribute  in 
1837.  This  Was  the  germ  of  "  Maud."  According  to  Mrs.  Ritchie,  we  owe  the 
expanded  poem  to  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  John  Simeon,  one  of  the  laureate's  most 
intimate  friends  and  neighbors  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  "  Sir  John  said  that  it 
seemed  to  him  as  U  something  were  wanting  to  explain  the  story  of  this  poem 
and  so  by  degrees  it  all  grew."  When  published  in  1855,  it  was  greeted  with  a 
Btorm  of  criticism  and  derision,  being  everywhere  misjudged  and  underrated.     Its 


INTRODUCTION. 


purpose  was  misconceived  on  account  of  the  Jingo  sentiments  and  hysterical  ra. 
vings  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  hero  (who  was  not  Tennyson  in  disguise,  but  a 
fictitious  character).  This  poem,  always  a  favorite  with  the  author,  won  its  way 
at  last  to  a  generous  appreciation  of  its  abundant  merits. 

_  The  threads  woven  into  the  fabric  of  "Maud"  are  a  commercial  swindle, 
suicide,  love-ma,king,  murder,  insanity,  and  an  unrighteous  war.  Says  a  critic  in. 
the  Norlh  British  Review  :  "  The  poem  is  a  lyric  monologue,  consisting  of  en- 
♦vious  invective,  gradually  mastered  by  love,  then  anger,  despair,  madness,  and 
patriotic  enthusiasm."  ' 

Out  of  these  melodramatic  elements  a  great  work  could  hardly  be  expected  to 
come  forth.  Something  is  wanting  in  the  leading  figure,  whose  morbid  solilo- 
quizing betrays  a  weak  character.  Notwithstanding  the  terribly  serious  and  tragic 
circumstances  of  his  history,  the  hero  does  not  always  keep  from  making  a  laugh- 
ing-stock of  himself.  While  not  an  unqualified  success,  a  work  'containing  one 
of  the  sweetest  love-lyrics  in  any  language,  "Come into  the  garden,"  certainly  is 
not  to  be  pronounced  a  failure.  This  exquisite  song  "  at  once  struck  the  fancy 
of  musicians,  and  seemed  spontaneously  to  clothe  itself  in  melody."  There  are 
other  strains  in  "  Maud  "  which  rank  among  the  lyrical  triumphs  with  which 
Alfred  Tennyson  enriched  English  literature. 

Of  all  his  extended  efforts,  "Enoch  Arden"  (1864)  has  been  read  most 
widely.  Its  popularity  is  partly  accounted  for  by  the  peculiar  incident  of  a  long- 
absent  husband  returning  home  to  find  his  wife  married  to  another  man.  The 
story  of  Enoch  Arden  passes  current  where  the  name  of  Arthur  Hallam  is 
nnheard.  It  has  been  twice  dramatized.  Judging  from  the  large  number  of 
translations  and  illustrated  editions  of  this  poem,  it  is  by  far  the  best  known 
of  the  laureate's  writings  in  foreign  lands,  having  been  translated  into  Danish, 
German,  Dutch,  French,  Bohemian,  Italian,  Hungarian,  and  Spanish.  School 
editions,  with  notes,  have  been  extensively  circulated  in  France  and  Germany. 

As  a  literary  production,  "Enoch  Arden"  is  a  poem  after  the  manner  of 
Tennyson's  English  idylls,  only  the  narrative  is  more  elaborate.  In  this  field  he 
achieved  eminent  success,  because  he  was  at  home  in  pastoral  subjects,  and  made 
the  most  of  his  material.  The  tale  is  said  to  be  literally  true,  at  least  in  it 
principal  details,  having  been  related  to  the  poet  by  Thomas  Woolner,  the 
sculptor  ;  a  similar  narrative  forms  the  groundwork  of  a  short  poem  by  Miss 
Procter,  published  in  her  "Legends  and  Lyrics"  about  i860.  The  style  is  not 
so  severe  and  bare  as  Wordsworth's,  yet  it  exhibits  a  noble  simplicity,  varied 
with  flashes  of  imaginative  splendor.  While  the  picture  of  the  fisher  village  is 
idealized,  it  is  wonderfully  sympathetic  and  faithful.  The  poet  invests  the  live; 
of  humble  folk  with  dignity  and  "with  glory  not  their  own."  In  dwelling  01. 
affecting  scenes  with  a  tender  pathos  that  but  few  story-tellers  have  equalled,  he 
shows  his  skill  as  an  artist  in  relieving  the  sombre  sadness  of  the  tale  with 
glimpses  of  domestic  felicity.  As  a  whole,  "Enoch  Arden  "  is  not  an  intellec- 
.tual  performance  of  a  high  order.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  poem  that  the  world  could 
ill  afford  to  lose. 

The  first  instalment  of  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "  was  given  to  the  world  in  1859, 
although  six  copies  of  the  first  two  in  cruder  form  were  privately  printed  in  1857- 
with  the  title  "Enid  and  Nimue."  Four  more  Arthurian  romaunts  were  added 
in  1869,  two  in  1872,  and  one  in  1885.  In  early  life  Tennyson  had  been 
attracted  by  the  Arthur  legends,  and  had  worked  several  isolated  episodes  or  pic- 
tures into  the  lyrics,  —"  The  Lady  of  Shalott "  (1832),  "Sir  Galahad  "  (1842), 
"Sir  Lancelot  and  O.ueen  Guinevere"  (1842),  —  and  the  blank-verse  fragment 


irTTRODUCTION. 


entitled  "  Morte  d'Arthur"  (1842),  afterward  incorporated  into  "The  Passing 
of  Arthur."  These  were  preludes  of  the  fuller  strain.  He  had  then  projected 
a  national  epic  in  twelve  books  on  King  Arthur,  but  abandoned  the  idea  for  a 
while.  In  "Enid,"  "Vivien,"  "Elaine,"  and  "Guinevere,"  he  versified  dis- 
connected incidents  from  the  "Mabinogion"  and  the  "Morte  Darthur "  of 
Thomas  Malory.  Their  appearance  in  1859  can  be  described  as  a  literary  sen- 
sation. Their  success,  it  would  seem,  impelled  him  to  carry  out  his  old  plan 
(perhaps  altered  somewhat)  of  an  Arthuriad. 

Seeing  unused  possibilities  for  new  poems  in  the  Middle  Age  romances  and 
chronicles  treating  of  pre-historic  Britain,  he  from  time  to  time  added  other  tales, 
making  the  series  named  the  Round  Table,  with  introductory  and  closing  poems, 
a  complete  cycle.     The  Dedication  appeared  in  1862,  and  the  epilogue  in  1873. 

The  Arthurian  idylls  occupied  the  poet's  attention  during  many  years.  From 
the  pains  bestowed  upon  them  and  their  elaborate  design,  it  is  evident  that  he 
intended  them  to  be  a  monumental  work.  Such  they  cannot  be,  owing  to  their 
unevenness  of  merit  and  their  want  of  coherent  structure.  They  have  been 
termed  an  epic.  When  arranged  in  their  true  order,  they  supply  a  tolerably 
clear  account  of  a  succession  of  events  more  or  less  connected.  They  trace  the 
rise  and  fall  of  the  Round  Table.  There  is  material  enough  for  an  epic  in 
the  deeds  of  King  Arthur  and  his  knights,  but  Tennyson's  mind  was  not  cast 
in  the  heroic  mould  requisite  to  sing  of  battles.  A  minstrel  must  live  among 
heroes  and  be  a  man  of  action  in  order  to  compose  a  popular  epic.  To  write 
an  Arthuriad  in  this  age  would  be  a  colossal  undertaking,  quite  beyond  the  powers 
of  any  modern  poet.  These  romantic  stories  are  idyllic,  not  epic,  in  tone  and 
manner.  At  times  there  is  something  of  the  Homeric  spirit  in  Tennyson's  lines, 
iiut  it  is  not  sustained. 

In  "  Idylls  of  the  King,"  Tennyson  borrowed  a  great  deal  from  mediaeval 
romance,  yet  he  added  something  of  his  own.  His  elegant  panel-paintings  of 
the  feudal  world  are  not  true  to  life.  There  is  less  in  them  of  historic  fact  than 
of  imaginative  enchantment.  They  are  full  of  incongruities.  Much  in  them 
seems  unreal  and  antiquated,  along  with  much  that  is  addressed  to  the  reader 
of  to-day.  These  mixed  elements  are  the  sources  of  strength  and  weakness. 
The  main  interest  of  the  idylls  lies  not  in  the  historicaj  fidelity  of  the  pictures  of 
legendary  Britain,  for  they  portray  the  English  aristocracy  of  the  nineteenth 
century  ;  it  is  rather  in  the  melodious  cadences  of  the  verse,  in  the  artistic  beauty 
of  the  word-painting,  and  in  the  spiritual  teaching  which  permeates  and  trans- 
figures them. 

Without  the  lessons  drawn  from  the  storied  pages  of  chivalry,  a  poetical  para- 
phrase of  the  Arthur  legend  would  not  have  much  permanent  value.  To  glorify 
a  past  with  which  our  own  age  is  not  in  sympathy  were  hardly  worth  while. 

Late  in  life  Tennyson  entered  the  difficult  field  of  historical  drama,  becoming 
a  rival  of  Shakespeare  himself.  "The  historic  trilogy,"  as  Dr.  van  Dyke  calls 
"Harold"  (1876),  "  Becket  "  (1884),  and  "Queen  Mary"  (1875),  perhaps 
affords  a  better  example  of  the  right  employment  of  poetic  genius  than  do  the 
Arthurian  romaunts.  They  are  valuable  studies  of  three  momentous  periods  of 
English  history.  Mr.  Arthur  Waugh  calls  "Harold"  "a  great  drama,"  the.' 
theme  being  "  full  of  tragic  pathos  and  dramatic  situation."  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, however,  that  "  Harold  "  is  weighted  down  with  a  great  deal  of  heavy 
poetry.  "Becket"  and  "Queen  Mary"  are  both  noble  poems.  They  are 
destined  to  become  classics.  "  Queen  Mary  "  will  rank  not  far  below  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  best  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.     "Becket"  is  Tennysoa''* 


INTRODUCTION. 


dramatic  masterpiece.  It  surpasses  all  his  other  extended  works  in  strength  and 
passion.  This  splendid  tragedy  deserves  a  wider  recognition,  not  only  from 
lovers  of  Tennyson,  but  from  all  admirers  of  virile  and  sonorous  blank  verse. 

The  three  shorter  plays  or  dramatic  sketches,  "The  Cup  "  (1884),  "The 
Falcon  "  (1884),  and  "  The  Promise  of  May  "  (1886),  are  comparative  failures; 
the  playwright's  instinct  is  absent,  although  here  and  there  are  gleams  of  poetic 
fire.     The  charming  idyllic  comedy  of  "  The  Foresters  "  (1892)  derives  its  inter- 
'  est  from  the  historic  and  romantic  features  of  the  story  rather  than  from  the 
'  poet's  handling  of  the  materials.     It  was  a  worthy  endeavor  on  the  part  of  the ; 
venerable   singer  to  retell  the  old  tale  or  tradition  of  Robin  Hood  and  Maid' 
Marian.     As  was  to  be  expected,  he  improved  the  occasion  to  introduce  several  j 
dainty  lyrics,  wherein  was  displayed  the  master's  old-time  power  of  exquisite 
versifying.     But  there  is  a  poverty  of  stirring  incidents,  of  moral  and  intellectual 
conflicts,  which  make  up  the  warp  and  woof  of  great  dramas. 

Tennyson's  dramas  are  not  adapted  to  the  stage  of  to-day,  being  deficient  in 
the  theatrical  effects  which  tell  with  an  audience.  He  lacked  a  knowledge  of 
stage  requirements  and  scenic  accessories.  Experience  as  an  actor  or  manager, 
or  even  as  a  theatre-goer,  would  have  be«n  of  advantage  to  him  here.  Notwith- 
standing Mr.  Frederick  Archer's  favorable  opinion  of  "Harold,"  no  player  has 
yet  tried  the  r6le  of  the  last  Saxon  king.  Brilliant  costumes  and  spectacular 
splendors  might  make  this  play  endurable  on  the  stage,  but  its  presentation 
would  be  a  doubtful  experiment. 

"  Queen  Mary  "  is  a  drama  to  be  read,  not  acted.  Its  action  drags,  and  its 
numerous  speeches  are  not  such  as  rouse  listeners  to  the  pitch  of  enthusiasm. 
Mr.  Irving  and  Miss  Bateman  essayed  its  production  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in 
1876  with  indifferent  success.  Without  its  enchanting  stage-pictures,  "The 
Foresters  "  jfould  sorely  try  the  patience  of  an  average  audience.  The  author's 
attempts  to  relieve  the  tediousness  with  humo^:  do  not  wholly  fail;  nevertheless, 
not  one  of  the  characters  bubbles  over  with  mirthful  sallies.  The  interchange 
of  conversation  is  not  enlivened,  as  it  is  in  Shakespeare,  by  sparkling  wit  and 
repartee.  To  the  superb  mounting  of  this  drama  by  Mr.  Augustin  Daly  and  the 
fascinating  personality  of  Miss  Ada  Rehan,  was  due  in  large  measure  whatever 
of  success  was  achieved  by  "The  Foresters."  "  Becket  "  alone  redeems 
Tennyson's  reputation  as  a  dramatist.  As  presented  by  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen 
Terry  in  1893,  it  proved  to  be  an  exceptionally  strong  performance.  Allowing 
all  the  credit  justly  belonging  to  this  honored  actor  for  adapting  it  to  the  stage, 
it  still  remains  true  that  the  laureate  is  entitled  to  the  chief  glory  for  this  impor- 
tant addition  to  England's  dramatic  literature.  His  other,  plays  failed  on  the 
boards;  they  lack  spirited  dialogue  and  exciting  action. 

What  of  the  minor  poems,  —  the  lyrics,  idylls,  and  ballads  written  during  the 
'  last  four  decades  of  Tennyson's  literary  career  ?  To  some  it  seemed  that  these 
poems  compare  unfavorably  with  the  songs  of  his  early  manhood.  So  thought 
Edward  Fitzgerald,  recalling  the  rapturous  sensations  which  those  poems  when 
first  written  produced  on  himself  and  other  enthusiastic  admirers  of  England's 
rising  poet.  But  readers  of  a  later  generation,  who  have  never  enjoyed  the  privi- 
lege of  personal  intercourse  with  the  bard,  are  able  to  appreciate  the  work  of 
his  later,  as  well  as  that  of  his  earlier,  years. 

Passing  by  the  two  memorable  patriotic  lyrics,  "  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington,"  and  "The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  also  the  per- 
sonal poems  (which  include  some  of  his  sincerest,  manliest  utterances),  we  find 
among  the  things  printed  between  1850  and  1870  such  jewels  as  "  The  Brook," 


introduction: 


"  Aylmer's  Field,"  "  The  Voyage,"  "  The  Grandmother,"  "  Northern  Farmer," 
■"The  Victim,"  "Wages,"  "The  Higher  Pantheism,"  and  "Flower  in  the 
crannied  wall."  As  if  to  prove  that  his  fertility  in  the  province  of  the  lyric  was 
not  exhausted,  the  laureate,  though  past  sixty,  made  fresh  incursions  into  fields 
of  poetry  long  familiar  to  him.  The  last  two  decades  of  his  life  were  excep' 
tionally  productive  of  short  poems,  which  are  stamped  with  dignity  of  thought, 
felicitous  expression,  and  musical  versification.  The  list  of  his  notable  successes 
■would  comprehend  nearly  all  the  contents  of  "  Ballads,  and  Other  Poems,"  pub- 
lished in  1880, — a  book  which  Theodore  Watts  characterized  as  "the  most 
richly  various  volume  of  English  verse  that  has  appeared  in  his  own  century." 
But  the  volumes  "  Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems"  (1885),  and  "Demeter,  and 
Other  Poems"  (1889),  were  scarcely  less  rich  in  lays  comparable  with  the 
finest  efforts  of  his  earlier  days.  Such  poems  as  "  The  Ancient  Sage," 
"  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,"  "To  Virgil,"  "Freedom,"  "Vastness," 
■"  Happy,"  "The  Progress  of  Spring,"  "  Merlin  and  The  Gleam,"  "  Far-far- 
away," "Crossing  the  Bar,"  "The  Silent  Voices,"  and  many  more  in  the 
books  of  his  last  years,  would  be  sufficient  of  themselves  to  give  their  author  a 
firm  footing  on  Parnassus. 

Tennyson  is  not  a  world-poet.  He  is,  assuredly,  not  to  be  classed  with  the 
few  chosen  spirits  who  reared  majestic  edifices  of  thought  like  the  "Iliad,"  the 
"Divina  Commedia,"  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  "  Faust."  His  appeal  is  more  or 
less  insular.  Much  of  his  verse  has  but  little  bearing  on  humanity  at  large.  It 
is  national  rather  than  universal.  Tennyson's  poetry  is  distinctively  English,  as 
the  Bard  of  Abbotsford  is  Scottish.  The  local  element  is  prominent  in  most 
of  his  writings.  The  lovely  setting  and  coloring  of  "  In  Memoriam  "  cannot  be 
appreciated  by  those  who  have  never  gazed  upon  the  scenery  of  England.  "  The 
Princess,"  "  Maud,"  and  the  dramas  are  manifestly  not  for  mankind  ;  and  this 
is  true  of  the  "  Idylls  of  the  King."  Their  author's  audience  must  always  be 
composed  chiefly  of  English-speaking  peoples. 

In  spite  of  the  provincialisms  and  local  allusions  of  Burns,  he  has  a  large  fol- 
lowing of  ardent  lovers.  Robert  is  the  poet  of  man,  and  his  bays  are  ever  green. 
He  found  his  inspiration,  not  in  books,  but  in  nature  and  the  heart.  There  is 
the  same  vein  of  human  interest  in  Homer,  whose  growing  fame  is  accounted 
for  by  the  vitality  of  the  Greek  factor  in  our  civilization.  In  his  poems  are  the 
seeds  of  Hellenic  culture.  The  heart  of  Greece  is  so  accurately  and  completely 
mirrored  in  Homer,  that  he  has  become  an  inseparable  and  undying  part  of  her 
legacy  to  the  world. 

Arthur  and  Lancelot  have  not  acquired  such  universal  currency  as  have 
Achilles  and  Ulysses.  They  belong  rather  with  the  Roderick  Dhus  of  the  High- 
lands, with  the  Siegfrieds  and  other  heroes  of  epic  times  in  Germany  and  Norse- 
land.  Tennyson's  Lancelot  is  something  more  than  a  name,  but  the  mythic 
monarch  of  Camelot  is  a  shadowy  abstraction.  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims  are  more 
familiar  figures  than  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  The  former  are  charged 
with  life  and  dramatic  power  ;  the  latter  are  a  set  of  bloodless  apparitions,  that 
suffer  in  comparison  with  the  mailed  warriors  of  Scott's  romances. 

Horace  reflects  not  only  fleeting  phases  of  Roman  manners,  but  in  a  large 
degree  universal  experience.  Tennyson  is  in  some  respects  the  British  Horace, 
and  his  fame  is  as  imperishable  as  is  that  of  the  Augustan  lyrist.  He  has  not  so 
closely  identified  himself  with  the  nation's  life  as  did  Shakespeare  and  Milton;  he 
does  not  loom  up  so  large  as  a  historical  personage,  and  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  he  will  ever  become  so  intimately  associated  with  English  thought  and 


INTR  OD  UCTION. 


character.  Granting  that  Tennyson  is  the  best  exponent  of  the  Victorian  era,  is 
he  a  great  representative  poet,  like  Lucretius,  Dante,  or  Chaucer?  Does  he  not 
interpret  some  of  the  temporary  phases  of  his  generation,  rather  than  the  Ufe  and 
spirit  of  the  nineteenth  century  ?  And  may  not  the  representative  element  in 
his  verse  be  of  secondary  moment  and  ephemeral?  The  poems  which  are  peren- 
nially fresh,  like  "The  Miller's  Daughter,"  and  "  Rizpah,"  are  so  because  they 
appeal  to  the  heart  and  intellect  of  all  times.  Upon  these  and  such  as  these, 
Tennyson's  following  and  reputation  must  ultimately  rest,  not  upon  such  fugitive 

.  pieces  as  "  Hands  all  Round  "  and  "  Riflemen  form." 

I  Tennyson's  charm  is  as  subtle  and  potent  as  is  that  of  the  courtly,  polished 
Horace;  but  his  charm  consists  largely  of  verbal  felicities  that  are  untranslatable. 
According  to  Dryden,  if  Shakespeare's  "embroideries  were  burned  down,  there 
would  be  silver  at  the  bottom  of  the  melting-pot."  Tennyson's  songs  do  not 
translate  so  well  as  Uhland's.  If  turned  into  prose,  their  charm  vanishes.  He 
is  great  in  small  things,  not  in  grand  ideas.  Nature  did  not  endow  him  with  the 
pure,  fresh,  joyous  imagination  of  Homer,  — the  calm,  brooding,  radiant  atmos- 
phere through  which  the  old  bard  saw  so  clearly  and  buoyantly.  His  pages 
fairly  bristle  with  subtleties  in  thought  and  expression,  with  fantastic  novelties 
and  meretricious  ornaments,  which  lose  half  of  their  effect  and  beauty  when 
transferred  into  a  foreign  language.  His  "  distilled  thoughts  in  distilled  words," 
as  Matthew  Arnold  calls  them,  must  be  read  in  English. 

Much  of  Tennyson's  verse  is  open  to  criticism,  being  cold  and  labored,  also 
lacking  in  sustained  force  and  elevation.     A  vast  deal  that  he  wrote  can  be 

'  described  as  polished  mediocrity.  With  all  their  rich  music  and  color,  most  of 
his  shorter  pieces  have  not  the  majesty  which  the  highest  imagination  alone  can 
confer.  All  of  his  longer  productions  show  the  varying  character  of  his  work, 
by  turns  superb  and  weak.  His  mannerisms  are  carried  to  excess.  His  felicities 
are  often  such  as  only  the  cultivated  reader  can  appreciate.  Ordinary  people 
would  enjoy  less  of  refinement  and  more  of  vigor. 

Tennyson  is  not,  then,  one  of  the  mighty  cosmopolitan  forces  of  literature. 
Not  one  of  those  who  suffered  for  poetry's  sake,  whose  words  are  graven  into 
the  heart  of  civilized  humanity.  He  sang  so  sweetly,  and  did  so  much  to  brighten 
and  to  dignify  the  life  of  mortals,  that  his  name  must  needs  long  remain  a  house- 
hold word  wherever  the  Saxon  tongue  is  heard.  Much  of  his  brilliant  metrical 
foliage  will  wither  "  with  the  process  of  the  suns."  Nevertheless,  his  fame  is 
enduring.  He  is  more  than  a  skilful  versifier  or  literary  artist,  whose  mellifluous 
lines  and  clear-cut,  pithy  phrases  will  continue  to  be  quoted  in  after  ages.  Alfred 
Tennyson's  poetical  performances  won  for  him  the  lasting  distinction  of  being  a 

Igenuine  bard,  one  whose  seat  is  far  up  among  the  throned  sovereigns  of  British 
Bong. 

EUGENE  PARSONS. 


^     AfZ'  v>,  iSaSk 


BIBLIOGRAPHY   OF  FIRST  EDITIONS. 


1827  Poems  by  Two  Brothers.  London.  Printed  for  W.  Simpkin  and  R.  Marshal^ 
and  J.  &  J.  Jackson,  Louth.     MDCCCXXVIL  pp.  xii.,  228. 

1829  Timbuctoo  :  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at  the  Cambridge 

Commencement,  MDCCCXXIX.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege. Printed  in  "  Prolusiones  Academicae;  MDCCCXXIX.  Cantabrjgiae : 
typis  academicis  excudit  Joannes  Smith." 

1830  Poems,  Chiefly  Lyrical.     By  AlfreI)  Tennyson.    London :  Effingham  Wilson, 

Royal  Exchange,  Cornhill,  1830.    pp.  154,  and  leaf  of  Errata. 

1832  Poems  by  Alfred  Tennyson.  London :  Edward  Moxon,  64  New  Bond  Street. 
MDCCCXXXIIL    pp.  163.     Post-dated  ;  pubhshed  late  in  1832. 

1843  Poems  by  Alfred  Ten.nyson.  In  Two  Volumes.  London :  Edward  Moxon, 
Dover  Street.     MDCCCXLII.    pp.  vii.,  233  ;  vii.,  231. 

1847  The  Princess  :  A  Medley.  By  Alfred  Tennyson.  London :  Moxon. 
MDCCCXLVIL     pp.  164.     Intercalary  lyrics  added  in  third  edition,  1850. 

1850  In  Memoriam.  London:  Moxon.  MDCCCL.  pp.  vii.,  210.  Section  LIX, 
inserted  in  the  fourth  edition,  185 1;  and  XXXIX.  in  1869. 

1852  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  Poet- 
Laureate.     London:  Moxon.     pp.  16. 

1855  Maud,  and  Other  Poems.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate. 
London:  Moxon,     pp.  154. 

1859  Idylls  of  the  King.  By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate.  London  i 
Moxon  &  Co.  pp.  261.  The  two  idylls,  "Enid"  and  "Vivien,"  privately 
printed  in  1857  with  the  title  "Enid  and  Nimue."  The  "Dedication"  first 
appeared  in  1862  ;  the  epilogue  "  To  the  Queen  "  in  1873. 

1864  Enoch  Aiden,  etc.     By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate.    London: 

Moxon.     pp.  178. 

1865  A  Selection  from  the  Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson.     London:  Moxon.    This 

volume  contains  seven  new  poems  :  "  The  Captain,"  "  On  a  Mourner,"'  three 

"  Sonnets,"  and  two  "  Songs."    pp.  256. 
jiSfip  The  Holy  Grail,   and  Other  Poems.     By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet. 

Laureate.     Strahan,  56  Ludgate  Hill,  London,     pp.  222. 
1870  The  Window;  or,  The  Song  of  the  Wrens.     London:  Strahan. 
1872  Gareth  and  Lynette,  etc.     By  Alfred  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  Poet-Laureate^ 

Strahan.     pp.  136. 
187s  Queen  Mary :  A  Drama.     By  Alfred  Tennyson,  London,    pp.  viii.,  278. 
1876  Harold :  A  Drama.    By  Alfred  Tennyson.   London :  H.  S.  King.   pp.  viii.,  i6t 

xvii 


BIBLIOGRAPHY   OF  pIRST  EDITIONS. 


1879  The  Lover's  Tale.    By  Alfred  Tennyson.    London:  C.  Kegan  Paul.    pp. 

vi.,  18^. 
(884  The  Cup  and  The  Falcon.     By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate. 

London :  Macmillan  &  Co,     pp.  146. 
Becket.     By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate.     London :  Macmillan. 

pp.  213. 

1885  Tiresias,  and  Other  Poems.      By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  D.C.L.,  P.L. 

London  :  Macmillan.     pp.  viii.,  204.  / 

1886  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,  etc.     By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  P.L., 

D.C.L.     London:  Macmillan.     pp.201. 

1889  Demeter,  and  Other  Poems.    By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  P.L.,  D.C.L. 
London;  Macmillan.     pp.  vi.,  175, 

1892  The  Foresters :  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian.     By  Alfred,  Lord  Tenny- 
son, Poet-Laureate.     London :  Macmillan.    pp.155. 
The  Death  of  CEnone,  Akbar's  Dream,  and  Other  Poems.     By  Alfred,  Lord 
Tennyson,  Poet-Laureate.    London:  Macmillan.    pp.  vi.,  113. 


OONTEl^TS. 


oXKo 


PAGE 

Adnillen  over  the  Trench 691 

AdeltM 23 

Alexander.    (Early  Sonnets.) 28 

All  Things  wUl  die 4 

Amphion 113 

Ancient  Sage,  The 605 

AtrlTOl,  The.     (The  Day  Dream.) 116 

"Ask  me  no  more."     (Princess.) 431 

As  through  the  land.    (Princess.) 390 

Audley  Court 87 

Aylmer's  Field 140 

Balin  and  Balan 619 

Ballad  of  Oriana,  The 20 

Ballads  and-other  Poems 552 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 589 

Beautiful  City 686 

Beggar  Maid,  The 130 

Blackbird,  The 66 

Boadicea 190 

Break,  break,  break 135 

Bridesmaid,  The.    (Early  Sonnets.) 30 

Brook,  The 186 

Buonaparte 29 

By  an  Evolutionist 685 

Captain,  The 126 

ciaress'd  or  Chidden.    (Early  Sonnets.)..    29 

Character,  A 16 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 631 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 170 

Chorio  Song.    (The  Lotos  Eaters.) 59 

Oircumstanee 21 

City  ChUd,  The 185 

Claribel 8 

Columbus 579 

Come  down,  O  maid.     (Princess.) 435 

toming  of  Arthur,  The 198 

Come  into  the  garden.     (Maud.) 454 

Come  not  when  I  am  dead 130 

Crossing  the  Bar 687 

Daisy,  The 181 

Day  Dream,  The 114 


PAGE 

Dead  Prophet,  The 634 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The 67 

Dedication,  A 190 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess  Alice . .  572 

Defence  of  Lucknow,  The 573 

Demeter  and  Persephone 652 

De  Profundis 587 

Deserted  House,  The 18 

Despair 601 

Dirge,  A 19 

Dora 84 

Dream  of  Fair  "Women,  A 61 

Dying  Swan,  The 19 

Eagle,  The 130 

Early  Sonnets 28 

Early  Spring 

Edward  Gray 121 

Edwin  Morris 91 

Eleanore 25 

England  and  America  in  1782 71 

English  Idyls 73 

Enoch  Arden 468 

Epic,  The 73 

Epilogue 632 

Epilogue.    (Day  Dream.) 118 

Epitaph  on  Caxton 637 

Epitaph  on  General  Gordon 637 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Stratford  de  Eedoliffe . .  637 
Experiments 190 

Farewell,  A 129 

Far  —  far  —  away 685 

Fatima 43 

First  Quarrel,  The 553 

Fleet,  The C43 

Flight,  The 609 

Flower,  The 184 

Forlorn 670 

Frater  Ave  atque  Vale 686 

Freedom 638 

Gardener's  Daughter,  The 79 

Gareth  and  Lynette 208 

Geraint  and  Enid 235 

xix 


CONTENTS. 


FAOB 

Godiva 1. 118 

Golden  Tear,  The 103 

Go  not,  happy  day.    (Maud.) 460 

Goose,  The 72 

Grandmother,  The 178 

Guinevere 856 

I 

Hands  all  Kound 637 

Happy 671 

Helen's  Tower 687 

,  Hendecasyllabics 193 

'  Hexameters  and  Pentameters 192 

Higher  Pantheism,  The...l 188 

Holy  Grail,  The 818 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior.    (Prin- 
cess.)    425 

I  come  from  haunts.    (The  Brook.) 136 

Idyls  of  the  King 197 

If  I  were  loved.    (Early  Sonnets.) 80 

In  Memoriam 480 

In  Memoriam.    (W.  G.  Ward.) 687 

In  the  Children's  Hospital 570 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 184 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 188 

Isabel 7 

Islet,  The 186 

It  is  the  Miller's  Daughter 41 

Juvenilia 8 

Kraken,  The 7 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 63 

Lady  Clare 124 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 81 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 287 

Last  Tournament,  The 2 

Late,  late,  so  late.    (Guinevere.) 369 

L'Envoi.    (Day  Dream.) 117 

Leonine  Elegiacs 4 

Letters,  The 180 

Lilian 7 

•Literary  Squabbles 186 

'Locksley  Hall 107 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  years  After 640 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  The 127 

Lotos  Eaters,  The 68 

Love  and  Death 20 

Love  and  Duty 101 

Lover's  Tale,  The 525 

Love  that  hath  us.    (Miller's  Daughter.)  42 

Love  thou  thy  Land 70 

Lucretius - 160 


PAGE 

Madeline H 

Margaret 24 

Mariana 8 

Mariana  in  the  South 9 

Maud •••  440 

May  Queen,  The 54 

Merhn  and  the  Gleam 679 

Merlin  and  Vivien 268 

Mermaid,  The 22; 

Merman,  The 22( 

Miller's  Daughter,  The 89 

Milton.    (Alcaics.) 192 

Mine  be  the  strength.    (Early  Sonnets.)    28 

Minnie  and  Winnie 186 

Montenegro 588 

Moral.    (Day  Dream.) 117 

Morte  d'Arthur 74 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth 130 

My  life  is  fhll  of  weary  days 27 

Northern  Cobbler,  The 557 

Northern  Parmer,    (ifew  Style.) 179 

Northern  Farmer.    (Old  Style.) 177 

Nothing  will  die 3 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal.     (Prin- 
cess.)  485 

Oak,  The 687 

Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington    165 

Ode  sung  at  Opening  of  International 

Exhibition 171 

Ode  to  memory.    Addressed  to 14 

(Enone 48 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights 68 

On  a  mourner 68 

On  one  who  affected  an  Effeminate  Man- 
ner   686 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria 650 

Opening  of  the  Indian  and  Colonial  Ex- 
hibition by  the  Queen 649 

0  swallow,  swallow,  flying.     (Princess.)  406 

Our  enemies  have  fallen.    (Princess.) 425 

Owd  EoS 655 

Palace  of  Art,  The 48 

Parnassus 684 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The 869 

Pelleas  and  Bttarre 880  - 

Play,  The 6B« 

Poet,  The 19 

Poets  and  their  Bibliographies 639 

Poet's  Mind,  The 17 

Poet's  Song,  The 135 

Poland.    (Early  Sonnets.) 29 

Politics 686 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother's  Sonnets  686 
Prefatory    Sonnet    to    the    "  Nineteenth 

Century  " 588 

Princess,  The 881 

Progress  of  Spring,  The 677 

Prologue.     (Day  Dream.) 114 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley 630 

I  EecoUections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 12 

'  Bequiescat 184 

Eeyenge,  The 659 

Revival,  The.    (Day  Dream.) 116 

Eing,  The 660 

Eizpah 554 

Eoraney's  Eemorse 681 

Eosallnd 25 

Eoses  on  the  Terrace,  The 686 

Eound  Table,  The 208 

Sailor  Boy,  The 184 

Sea  Dreams 155 

Sea  Fairies,  The 18 

Sir  Galahad 120 

Sir  John  Franklin 592 

Sir  John  Oldcastle 575 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 129 

Sisters,  The 47 

Sisters,  The 662 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The.    (Day  Dream.)...  115 

Sleeping  Palace,  The.    (Day  Dream.) 115 

Snowdrop,  The 686, 

Song: 

A  spirit  haunts 15 

The  Owl 11 

To  the  same 12 

The  winds  as  at  their  hour 7 

Specimen  of  Translation  Homer's  Iliad . .  192 

Spinster's  Sweet-arts,  The 615 

Spiteful  Letter,  The 186 

St.  Agnes's  Eve 120 

St.  Suneon  Stylites 94 

Supposed    Confessions    of    a    Sensitive 

Mind 4 

Sweet  and  Low.    (Princess.)  398 

Talking  Oak,  The 9^ 

i  Tears,  idle  tears.     (Princess.) 405" 

'  The  form,  the  form  alone.    (Early  Son- 
nets.)      30 

The  splendor  falls.    (Princess.)  404 

Third  of  February,  The 169" 

Throstle,  The ^^f 


PAGE 

Thy  voice  is  heard.    (Princess.) 414 

Tu-esiaa 593 

Tithonus 106 

Tomorrow 613 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters.  134 

To ,  "As  when  with  downcast  eyes  "    28 

To ,  "  Clearheaded  friend  " 10 

To ,  with  the  following  Poem 48 

To  Dante 692. , 

To  E.  Fitzgerald » 593  ; 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 185  ' 

To  H.E.H.  Princess  Beatrice 689 

To  J.  M.  K 28 

To  J.  S 67 

To  Mary  Boyle 676 

To  one  who  ran  down  the  Enghsh 686 

To  Princess  Frederica 592 

To  Professor  Jebb 651 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll 687 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava 649 

To  the  Queen 1 

To  the  Queen 878 

To  the  Eev.  P.  D.  Maurice 182 

To  the  Key.  W.  H.  Brookfleld 688 

To  Ulysses 675 

To  Victor  Hugo 689 

To  Vu-gU 683 

Two  Voices,  The 38 

Ulysses 104 

'  Vastness 658 

Victim,  The 186 

Village  Wife,  The 567 

Vision  of  Sin,  The 131 

Voice  and  the  Peak,  The 188 

Voyage,  The 128 

Voyage  of  Maeldune,  The 588 

Wages 188 

Walking  to  the  Mail 89 

Wan    sculptor,    weepest   thou.      (Early 

Sonnets.) SO 

Welcome  to  Alexandra 172 

Welcome  to  Marie  Alexandrovna 172 

What  does  little  birdie  say  ? 160 . 

-Will 183', 

Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue...  122 

Window,  The 193 

Wreck,  The 697 

Tou  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease 09 


TO   THE  QUEEN. 


Revered,  beloved —  0  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brains,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  utter' d  nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 

That  yoJces  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  he  there; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Talt,-  Madam,  this  poor  hook  of  song; 
For  thd   the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 


TO    THE   QUEEN. 


In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  tnist 
Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

A.nd  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"  Ser  court  was  pure;    her  life  serene; 

Ood  gave  her  peace;    her  land  reposed; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,    Wife,  and  Queen; 

"  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  hnew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree, 

Which  kept  her  throne  wnshaken  stilt. 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  mil, 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 


March,  185L 


JUTEI^TILIA. 


CLAEIBEL. 


A    MELODY. 


■Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial. 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
"Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone : 
At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  headstone ; 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth. 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
rhe  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth. 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth. 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING  WILL  DEE. 
Wnku  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of 
flowing 
Under  my  eye  ? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of 
blowing 
Over  the  sky  1 


When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of 

fleeting '! 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of 
beating  ? 
And  nature  die  ? 
Never,  oh !  never,  nothing  will  die  j 
The  stream  flows, . 
The  wind  blows. 
The  cloud  fleets. 
The  heart  beats, 
Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 
AH  things  will  change 
Thro'  eternity. 
'Tis  the  world's  winter; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago ; 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre. 
But  spring,  a  new  comer, 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Bound  and  round. 
Thro'  and  thro'. 

Here  and  there. 

Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill'd  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made ; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade 
So  let  the  wind  range  ; 
For  even  and  morn 

Ever  will  be 

Thro'  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born ; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change . 


ALL    THINGS    WILL  DIE. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its 
flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds 
are  blowing 

Oyer  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 

fleeting ; 
Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joy- 
ance  is  beating 

EuU  merrily ; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet  ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 
For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh !  vanity ! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  the  merrymaking. 
We  are  call'd  —  we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still ; 
The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh!  misery! 
Hark !  death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling, 
The  red  cheek  paling, 
The  strong  limbs  failing; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing ; 
The.eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth. 

As  all  men  know, 

Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range. 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 
]j"or  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Thro'  etfsmity. 


AH  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


LEONINE  ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaminp 
the  broad  valley  dimm'd  in  the 
gloaming : 

Thoro'  the  black-stemm'd  pines  only 
the  far  river  shines. 

Creeping  thro'  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  bab- 
ble and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly ;  the 
grasshopper  carolleth  clearly; 

Deeply  the  wood-dove  coos;  shrilly 
the  owlet  halloos ; 

Winds  creep ;  dews  fall  chilly :  in  her 
first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnats 
murmur  and  Hiourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth :  the  glim- 
mering water  out-floweth.: 

Twin  peaks  shadow'd  with  pine  slope 
to  the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 
the  two  peaks ;  but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  mild  unrest  holds  him 
beneath  in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  poetess  singeth,  that  Hes- 
perus all  things  bringeth, 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind:  bring 
me  my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  or  even;  she 
Cometh  not  morning  or  even. 

Ealse-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is 
my  sweet  Rosalind  ? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OP  A  SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  Thon 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me. 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A   SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Among  the  thorns  that  girt  Thy  brow, 

Wounding  Thy  soul.  —  That  evennow, 

In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive   tht   slumbrous   summer 

noon 
While  I  do  pray  to  Thee  alone. 
Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow : 
Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 
The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still? 
The  joy  I  had  in  my  freewill 
All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like 

grown  ? 
And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  Thou 
And  faith  in  Thee  ?    Men  pass  me  by; 
Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 
And  children  all  seem  full  of  Thee ! 
And    women    smile    with    saint-like 

glances 
Like  Thine  own  ■  mother's  when  she 

bow'd 
Above  Thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud. 
And  Thou  and  peace  to  earth  were 

born, 
Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 
I  one  of  them :  my  brothers  they  : 
Brothers  in  Christ  —  a  world  of  peace 
And  confidence,  day  after  day ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 

cease, 
And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith ! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death !    i 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 
The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and 

eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not 

fear, 
With    hopeful    grief,    were    passing 

sweet ! 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee ! 
Who  lets  his  rosy  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day ; 
They  light  his  little  life  alway; 


He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death ; 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart. 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart. 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath. 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Pulfils  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt. 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple-mailfed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propt  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I  listen'd  to  thy  vows, 
For  me  outpour'd  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy !  ^  and  beheld 
Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  thatknew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  thro'. 
Oh !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  ■?  why 

dare 
Paths  in  the  desert  ?     Ceuld  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast 

knelt. 
To   the  earth  —  until  the  ice  would 

melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hads>.  rear'd  —  to  brush 

the  dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay  ? 
Myself?    Is  it  thus?    Myself?    Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ?     But  why 
Prevail'd  not  thy  pure  prayers  ?    Why 

pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not?     Great  in  faith,  and 

strong 


COJVITESS/OJVS  OF  A  SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  tliou,  and  yet  unheard.   What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Thro'  utter  dark  a  full-sail'd  skiff, 
XJnpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk !     I  know 
At  matins  and  at  eyensong, 
That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st 

strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At    heart,    thou    wouldest    murmur 

still  — 
"  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  Thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  Thy  will." 
Would'st  tell,  me  I  must  brook  the  rod 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 
That  hitherto  I  had  defied 
And  had  rejected  God  —  that  grace 
Would  drop   from  his  o'er-brimming 

love, 
As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 
If  I  would  pray — that  God  would 

move 
And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and 

thence, 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life. 

Alas! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Nor  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void, 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ■?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor'd  and  rested  ?    Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp   slope 

waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  mere  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and 

pares 


The  other  ?     I  am  too  forlorn. 
Too  shaken :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls. 
Moved  from  beneath'with  doubt  and 
fear. 

"  Yet,"  said  I  in  my  mom  of  youth, 
The  unsunn'd  freshness  of  my  strength, 
When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
"  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt,  , 

If  BO  be  that  from  doubt  at  length,      ,' 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  ot 

change, 
An  image  with  profulgent  brows. 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.    For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about, 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
tJnfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.    And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year. 
And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere. 
And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 
Prom  the  flower'd  furrow.    In  a  time. 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Thro'  his  warm  heart ;  and  then,  from 

whence 
He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A  shadow;  and  his  native  slope. 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb. 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  % 
Shall  we  not  look, into  the  laws 
Of  life  and   death,   and  things  that 

seem. 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one. 
If  one  there  be  1 "    Ay  me !     I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.   Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  I  Idol  ?     Let  TTiy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 


THE  KRAKEN. 


3e  unremember'd,  and  Thy  love 
Enlighten  me.  Oh  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O  weary  life  !     O  weary  death ! 
( )  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate  ! 
O  damned  vacillating  state ! 


THE  KKAKEK 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper 
deep ; 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded 
sleep 

The  Kraken  sleepeth:  faintest  sun- 
lights flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides  :  above  him 
swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth 
and  height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and 
secret  cell 

TJnnumber'd  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  arms  the  slumber- 
ing green. 

There  hath.he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his 
sleep, 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the 
deep; 

Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be 
seen, 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the 
surface  die. 


SONG. 
The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 

Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 
'  Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow   preludes,   "We    are 
free." 

The  streams  through  many  a  liliedrow 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 
Atween    the    blossoms,    "  We    are 
free." 


LILIAiT. 
I. 
AiKY,  fairy  Lilian, 
Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can ; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs. 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me. 
Smiling,  never  speaks : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prithee  weep.  May  Lilian  ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 

Prithee  weep.  May  Lilian. 


Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee. 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 

I. 
Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright, 
but  fed 
With    the    clear-pointed   flame   or 

chastity. 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  trans- 
lucent fane 


8 


MARIANA. 


Of  her  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide-dis- 
pread, 
Madonna^wiee  on  either  side  her 

head; 
Sweet  lips-  whereon  perpetually 
did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity. 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 
Eevered   Isabel,  the   crown   and 
head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude. 
Of  perfect  wifehood    and    pure 
lowlihead. 


The  intuitiye  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  fropi  crime ;  a  prudence  to 

withhold; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd 
in  goW 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her 
hear^ ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving 

light 
To  read  those  laws;  un  accent  very 

low 
In  blandishment,  buta  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  dis- 
tress. 
Bight   to   the   heart   and   brain,  tho' 
undescried, 
Winning  its  way  with  extreme 
gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious 

pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life. 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect 
wife. 

111. 
The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy 
one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
'  With  swifter  movement   and  in 

purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother : 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 


Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 
fallen  quite 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  am- 
brosial orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on 

each  other  — 
Shadow  forth  thee: — the  world 
hath  not  another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types, 

of  thee. 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 


MARIANA. 

"Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.'* 

Measure  for  Measwre.. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable, 
wall. 
The    broken    sheds   look'd  sad    and 
strange ; 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 
Her  tears  fell   ere  the  dews  were 
dried ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven. 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the 

sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glancedath  wart  thegloomingflats. 
She  only  said, "  The  night  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl 
crow: 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light  .- 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 


MARIANA   IN   THE  SOUTH. 


Came  to  her :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said, "  The  day  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept. 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 
And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and 
away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 

cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 
'     The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane;  the 
mouse 
Behind    the    mouldering    wainscot 
shriek'd. 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  Tvere  dead ! " 


The  sparrows  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confo.und 

Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the- 

hour 

When  the  thick-moated  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  hiswestern  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary„ 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said ; 

She  wept,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary^ 

Oh,  God,  that  I  were  dead ! " 


MARIANA   m  THE   SOUTH. 
With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet. 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines;- 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat. 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right. 
An  empty  river-bed  before. 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore. 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But "  Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan. 
And  "Ave   Mary,"  night   and 
morn, 
And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  alt 
alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  do^vn 
Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her    streaming    curls    of    deepest 
brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine. 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 
"  Madonna,   sad  is   night   and^ 
morn," 
And  "Ah,"  she  sang,  "to  be  all 
alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 
Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 


10 


TO- 


Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 

Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she ; 

Complaining,  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 

To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 

Arid  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 

The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"That  won  his  praises  night 
and  morn  ■? " 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said, "  but  I  wake 
alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  for- 
lorn." 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat. 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 
On  stony  drought  and  steaming  »a  J; ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again. 
And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain 

grass. 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  gleji. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower 
moan. 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
mom. 
She  thought,  "  My  spirit  is  here 

alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 

Fell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
iShrank  one  sick  willow  sear  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or 
morn, 
"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here 
alone 
Live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn." 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth. 
Sat  "  Love,"  they  said,  "  must  needs 
be  true. 


To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away. 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  0  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her 
tone, 
"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 
scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  for- 
lorn ?  " 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  P\t  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 
From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased. 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 
"  The  day  to  night,"  she  made  hsr 
moan, 
"  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
mom. 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 

And    deepening    thro'    the    silent 
spheres 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 
And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

"The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
not  mom. 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 


TO . 

I. 

Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful 
scorn, 
Edgea  with   sharp    laughte?,  cut» 
atwain 


MADELINE. 


W 


The  knots   that    tangle    human 
creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and 
strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Eay-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 


I.ow-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 
Falsehood    shall  bare   her  plaited 

brow: 
Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not 
now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor    martyr  -  flames,    nor    trenchant 
swords 
Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie ; 
A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'   and  thro'  with    cunning 
words. 

HI. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost 

need, 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  sha  be  an  athlete  bold, 
And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs   of  lightning 
speed ; 
Jjike  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 

Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 
Past   Yabbok  brook    the   livelong 
night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 
I. 
Thou  are  not  steep'd  in  golden  lan- 
guors, 
•'    No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost 

range. 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers. 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  1 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter. 

Who  may  know  ? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 
Like    little  clouds    sun-fringed,    are 
thine. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


A  subtle,  sudden  flame. 

By  veering  passion  f  ann'd. 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances  ■- 

When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand. 
The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances. 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown : 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 
But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG :  THE  OWL. 

I. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb. 


a 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown 
hay, 
A.nd  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the 
thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  fire  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND   SONG. 

TO   THE    SAME. 
I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  luU'd,  I  wot. 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat. 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 
So  took  echo  "with  delight. 
That  her  voice  untuueful  grown. 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

II. 
I  would  mock  thy  chant  anew ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo- 

0-0. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OE  THE 

ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

^IVhen  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn 

blew  free 
In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
A.down  the  Tigris  I  was  borne. 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn. 


Eor  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Akaschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and 

clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 
Eor  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where    clear-stemm'd  platans 

guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  swArd 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms   unmown,  which 

crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, , 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm. 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,   as  they 

clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the 
dome 
Of  hollow  boiighs.  —  A  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical. 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


13 


A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time,     - 
Eor  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large. 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not  he :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight. 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love. 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd. 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd:,  the   solemn  palms  were 

ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind: 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold- 
green. 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
Por  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame . 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat. 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn^- 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-checker'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And    deep    myrrh-thickets    blowing 

round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks. 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn. 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  visions  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Calipliat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
lian  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side. 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 


14 


ODE    TO  MEMORY. 


Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 

Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 

With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of 

gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime. 
The  Good  Hakoun  Alkaschid. 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED    TO   . 

JL. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire, 
from  the  fountains  of  the  past. 
To  glorify  the  present ;  oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  1 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  not  as  thou  camest  of  late. 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ;  but  robed  in  soft- 
en'd  light 
Of  orient  state. 
Whilom  thou  camest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist, 
Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds   of    dawn 
have  kiss'd. 
When,  she,  as  thou. 
Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 

freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest 

shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of 

fruits. 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


Whilom  thou  camest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist. 
And  with  the  evening  cloud, 

Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 
open  breast 

(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the 
rudest  wind 


Never  grow  sear, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden   of  the 

mind, 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 

year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 

rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 

Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 

from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and 

the  cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 
Tho'  deep  not  fathomless. 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars 

which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  in- 
fancy. 
Small  thought  wa^  there  of  life's  dis- 
tress ; 
Eor  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth 

could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful : 
Sure    she    was    nigher    to    heaven's 

spheres. 
Listening  the  lordly  music   flowing 

from  > 

The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  1 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 
Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 

eyes ! 
Thou   comest   not   with   showers   of 
flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory ! 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  watej> 
fall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  tho 

gray  hill-side. 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  ptand  beside  my  father's  dcor. 


SONG. 


IS 


And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 

To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed 
sand. 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 

Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 
In  every  elbow  and  turn. 

The  fllter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  wood- 
land, 
O  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 

Pour  round  mine   ears  the   livelong 
bleat 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wat- 
tled folds. 
Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 

"When     the    fii-st     matin-song     hath 
waken'd  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn. 

What  time  the  amber  morn 

3Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 


Xarge  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

Withmusicandsweetshowers 
Of  festal  flowers, 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well    hast   thou   done,   great    artist 
Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-workof  wrought 
gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 

essay. 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where   sweetest  sunlight 

falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 
Por  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased 

thee. 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of 
fairest 
Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  tliy  genius.     Artist- 
like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days : 


No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be ; 

Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bush- 
less  Pike, 

Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 

Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 

Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh. 

Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 

Stretch'd  wide   and  wild  the  waste 
enormous  marsh, 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 

Like  emblems  of  infinity. 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to 
sky; 

Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight 
grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavender : 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 

From  brawling  storms. 

From  weary  wind. 

With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all 
forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind. 

And  those   whom  passion  hath  not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  1 

(->  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  1 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling      amid      these      yellowing 
bowers : 
To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 
In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 


16 


A    CHARACTER. 


Of  the  mouldering  flowers : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over    its    grave    i'    the    earth   so 

chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-Uly. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close. 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 
An  hour  before  death ; 
My  very  heart  faints  ajid  my  whole 

soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves. 
And  the  breath 

Of    the    fading    edges    of    box 
beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its   grave   i'  the  earth  so 
chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily 


A  CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty ;  that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 
Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air ; 
Then  looking  as  'twere  in  a  glass, 
He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his 

hair. 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm. 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye. 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 


Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries. 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes. 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  f  eed : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold. 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE   POET. 
The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born. 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate   of  hate,  the 
scorn  of  scorn. 
The  love  of  love. 

He   saw  thro'  life   and  death,  thf» 
good  and  ill. 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay :  with  echoing  feet  he 

threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame : 

The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts 

were  headed 

And  wing'd  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  sil- 
ver tongue. 
And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
Prom  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung 
Pilling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower. 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took    root,  and  springing 
forth  anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold. 


THE  POET'S  MIND. 


1? 


liike   to   the   mother  plant    in   sem- 
blance, grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to 
fling 
Thy  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with   stately  blooms   the 
breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their   orbs 
with  beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth, 
the  world 
Like  one  great  garden  show'd. 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august 
sunrise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow. 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden 
robes 
Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies ; 
But  round  about  the   circles   of  the 
globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced 
in  flame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred 
name. 
And  when  she  spake. 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thun- 
der 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of 
man. 
Making  earth  wonder, 


So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words. 
No  sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with 
his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE   POET'S   MIND. 
I. 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear  j 
All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of   the  laurel-shrubs   that  hedge  it 

around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel 
cheer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death. 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hea» 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 

bird  chants. 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 
in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning. 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- , 

tain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yon- 
der : 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And    the    mountain    draws  it    from 
Heaven  above. 


IS 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 


And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And  yet,  tho'  ita  voice  be  so  clear  and 

full, 
You  never  would  hear  it;  your  ears 

are  bo  dull  ; 
So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul 

with  sin ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you 

came  in. 


THE   SEA-FAIEIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and 
saw, 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and  while  they 
mused 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 

Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  '\  fly  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the   high   green 
field,  and  the  happy  blossoming 
shore  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They    freshen    the    silvery- crimson 

shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea : 
O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your 

sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and 

play  ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and 

dales. 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 


And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay. 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on 

the  land 
Over  the  islands  free; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 

the  sand ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poisingj 

wave,  i 

And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and 

cave. 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be ; 
O  hither,   come  hither,  and  be  our 

lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 

sweet  words  : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubUee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the 

golden  chords 
Euns  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 
Whither    away  ■?     listen     and    stay : 

mariner,  mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 
I. 
Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  i 
Careless  tenants  they  I 

II. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night ; 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door. 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

III. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close. 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 


THE  DYING   SWAN. 


19 


The  house  was  huilded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 


Come  away:  for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city — have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  staid  with  us ! 


THE   DYING   SWAN. 
I. 
The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare. 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky. 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did 

sigh; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow. 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will. 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green 

and  still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 
Shot  ovei  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 

III. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the 

soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow :  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was   low,   and  full   and 

clear ; 
And  floating  about  the  nnder-sky. 
Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach 

stole 


Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear ; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold ; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  wiili  cymbals,  and 
harps  of  gold. 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is 
roU'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar. 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the 
evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clamber- 
ing weeds. 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and 
dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing 
reeds. 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echo- 
ing bank. 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that 
throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 
I. 
Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  workj 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 
Let  them  rave. 


20 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Bain  makes  music  io  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  fclds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Hound  thee  blow,  self -pleached  deep, 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  raye. 


Wild  words  wander  here  and  there : 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused': 

But  let  them  rave.       • 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them«rave. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

What    time  the  mighty  moon  was 

,'  gathering  light 

.  Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Para- 
dise, 

And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous 
eyes; 

When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in 
view. 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a 
yew. 


And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 

sight: 
"  You    must    begone,"    said    Death, 

"  these  walks  are  mine." 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 

for  flight ; 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "  This  hour  is 

thine : 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as 

the  tree 
'Stands  in   the  sun  and  shadows  all 

beneath. 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life   eminent   creates    the   shade   of 

death ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when   the  tree 

shall  fall, 
But  I  shall  reign  forever  over  all." 


THE   BALLAD   OF    0RL4.NA. 
My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd 

with  snow. 
And    loud   the    Norland    whirlwind* 
blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 
\  Oriana.  ^ 


Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing. 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

,  Oriana; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana., 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night,  , 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the, fight, 

Oriana, 
WJiile  blissful  tears  blindejd  my  sight , 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


21 


She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a  f oeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside. 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace. 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  % 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 
Oriana. 

0  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ! 
O  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak. 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 
What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou 
seek, 

Oriana  "i 


I  cry  aloud :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Ori.ina. 
Thou  eomest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

0  cursed  hand !  O  cursed  blow  I 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tre^ 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy- 
leas; 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival  ; 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with 
golden  ease; 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray 
church-tower, 

Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy  blos- 
somed ; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and 
bred; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  irom  houl 
to  hour. 


22 


THE  MERMAN. 


THE   MERMAN. 

I. 
Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  tlie  sea. 
With  a  croivn  of  gold, 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  merman  bold, 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 

day; 
1  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice 

of  power; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and 

play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  'the 

rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea^ 

flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flow- 
ing locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd 

me 
Laughingly,  laughingly ; 
Ahd  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight 

and  high. 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 


There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 

us  afar — 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic 
night  — 
Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy 
^  dells, 

■  Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 
All  night,  merrily,  merrily ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  span- 
gles and  shells, 
Laughing   and   clapping   their  hands 
between. 
All  night,  merrily,  merrily : 
But  I  would  throw  to  them  back  in 
mine 


Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh  !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
TJnder  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE   MERMAID. 

I. 
Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of 

the  day; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb 

my  hair ; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and 

say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ■?  who  loves  not 

me?" 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 
would  fall 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around. 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of 
gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central 

deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look 

in  at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love 
of  me. 


ADEtmE. 


23 


And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 

Would  feel  their  immortality 

Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


But  at  night  I  would  wander  away, 

away, 
I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks, 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 

play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks ; 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide 

and  seek. 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crim- 
son shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the 

sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and 

shriek, 
And  ad  own  the  steep  like  a  wave  I 

would  leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut 

from  the  dells ; 
For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who 

would  list. 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the 

sea; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 

flatter  me. 
In   the  purple    twilights    under   the 

sea; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry 

me. 
Woo  me,  and  win   me,   and    marry 

me, 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the 

sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would    curl    round    my   silver    feet 

silently, 
I  All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
'  And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 

and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 

of  the  sea, 
AH  looking   down   for  the    love   of 

rae. 


ADELINE. 
I. 

Mtstekt  of  mysteries. 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest. 

But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  hean,    ^'rom    out    my 
breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ■? 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 
Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 

Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline. 
And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 

Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 
As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 
Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 

Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 
Of  a  maiden  past  away. 

Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold  ? 

Wherefore    those   faint   smiles  of 
thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline  'i 


What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 
Do    beating    hearts    of    salient 
springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  1 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What    they    say    betwixt    their 

wings  ■? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise. 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  % 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  'i 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreamy  Adeline  3 


84 


MARGARET. 


Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  Boften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 
I        And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
'         Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 

V. 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 
Wander   from    the  side  of  the 
mom. 
Dripping  with  Sabsean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn. 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooplng  twined 

Bound  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays. 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


MAKGAKET. 
I. 
O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect 

pale, 
Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ^ 
From  the  westward-winding  flood. 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak. 
That     dimples    your    transparent 
cheek, 


Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedetli 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound. 
Like  the  tender  amber  roijid. 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spread- 
eth. 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife. 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 
Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea. 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 
You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining    betwixt    dark     and 
bright : 
LuU'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow 

light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of 
night. 

III. 
What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below   the  waning 
stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang   looking   thro'   his    prison 
bars  1 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can 
tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true 
heart. 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so 
well? 

IV. 

A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade. 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes. 

You  are  not  less  divine. 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker 
hue, 

An4  less  aerially  blue. 


ROSALIND. 


2S 


But  ever-trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  daiuty-woful  sympathies. 


O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 


jTie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady. 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen. 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady. 
Where    all     day    long    you    sit 
between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 
Look  down,   and  let  your  blue  eyes 
dawn 
Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


ROSALIND. 
I. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes. 
Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height 

of  rapid  flight. 
Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My    bright-eyed,    wild-eyed     falcon 

whither. 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather. 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye. 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 


The     quick     lark's     closest-caroll'd 

strains. 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains. 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea. 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way. 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains. 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains. 


Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy. 

Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life   shoots  and  glances  thro'  youi 

veins, 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways. 
Thro'  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro'  with  pointed  light: 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glittet 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill. 
And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter. 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
Prom  excess  of  swift  delight. 

III. 
Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill. 
And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view, 
Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touch'd  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Past,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you 

love : 
When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by 

day  or  night, 
Prom  North  to  South, 
We'll  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
Prom  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


ELEANORE. 
I. 
Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not. 
Nor  first    reveal'd    themselves    to 
English  air, 
Por  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 

brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 
Thou  wert  born,   on  a  summer 
morn. 


26 


ELEANORE. 


A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy    bounteous    forehead    was    not 
fann'd 
With    breezes    from   our   oaken 


But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
land 
Of    lavish    lights,    and    floating 
shades: 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth. 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills. 
And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny 
shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of   all  the 
earth. 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees. 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 
Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone. 
With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cuU'd  — 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone. 
In    silk-soft    folds,  upon   yielding 
down. 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 
Into  dreamful  slumber  Ml'd. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 
■  To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
•Jrape-thicken'd  from  the  light,  and 
blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven. 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  alorfg  the  shadowing  shore. 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  1 


How  many  full-sail'd  verse  express. 
How  many  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 
That  stays  upon  thee '!  For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine. 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.    Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  f 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies. 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  1 


Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling 

asleep, 
Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd 

quite. 


ELEANORB. 


27 


I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 

As  the'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it. 

Should  slowly   round    his    orb,   and 

slowly  grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again. 
And  draw  itself    to   what   it  was 
before ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Bleanore. 


As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Boof 'd  the  world  with  doubt  and 
fear. 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere. 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passion- 
less, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
l/osing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation. 
Falling  into  a  still  delight. 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move. 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
ControUeth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding 
thee. 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined. 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
Breathes   low  between  the   sunset 
and  the  moon ; 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cusliions  half  reclined : 


I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its 
place 
My    heart    a    charm'd   slumber 
keeps. 
While  I  muse  upon  thy  face ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  mt  name 
Floweth ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon. 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  « 
rife. 
My  tremulous  tongue  f  altereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with   delirious   draughts   of 
warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from 

thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore. 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


Mt  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways  : 

I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof. 

Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


When  in  the  darkness  over  me 
The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape. 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree. 
Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful 

crape. 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery 
gray. 
And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud 


28 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


And  thro'  damp  holts  new-flush'd 

with  may, 
King  sudden  scritchea  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will. 
And  on  my  clay  het  darnel  grow ; 

Come  only,  when  the  days  are  still. 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low. 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbin6s  blow. 


EARLY   SONNETS. 
I. 

TO  . 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse 

and  brood. 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  some  confused 

dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 
If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 

chair. 
Ever  the  wonder   waxeth   more   and 

more, 
So  that  we  say,  "  All  this  hath  been 

before, 
All  this  hath  been,  I  know  not  when 

or  where." 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  look'd  upon 

your  face. 
Our  thought  gave  answer  each  to  each, 

so  true  — 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each — 
That  tho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or 

place, 
JVIethought  that  I  had  often  met  with 

you. 
And  either  lived  in  either's  heart  and 

speech. 

II. 

TO  J.  M.  K. 

Mr  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou 

wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To    scare    church-harpies    from    the 

master's  feast ; 
Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need 

of  thee  ; 
Thou  art  no   sabbath-drawler  of  old 


Distill'd   from    some    worm-canker'd 
homily ; 

But  epurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy 
cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit- 
drone 

.Half   God's  good  sabbath,  while  the 
worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats   his   desk    below.     Thou 
from  a  throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the 
dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.    I  will  stand  and 
mark. 

III. 

Mine   be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full 
and  free. 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down 
alone. 

With  the  self -same  impulse  wherewith 
he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 
lea:  — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 
and  isle. 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many 
a  mile. 

Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its 
sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by 
degrees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow ; 

Ev'n    as    the    warm    gulf-stream   of 
Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mex- 
ico. 

IV. 

ALEXANDER. 
Wakrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right 

arm  debased 
The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap 

bled 
At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 
Beyond  the   Memmian  naphtha-pits, 

disgraced 


EARLY  SONNETS 


29 


Forever  —  thee  (thy  pathway  sand- 
erased) 

Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  ser- 
pents led 

Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 

There  in  a  silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 

Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 

Shelter'd  his  uuapproached  mysteries ; 

High  things  were  spoken  there,  un- 
handed down ; 

Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret 
shrine 

Returning  with  hot  cheek  and  kindled 
eyes. 

V. 

BUONAPARTE. 
He    thought  to   quell   the  stubborn 

hearts  of  oak, 
Madman !  —  to  chain  with  chains,  and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  who  sways  the  floods 

and  lands, 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 

woke. 
When  from  her  wooden  walls,  —  lit  by 

sure  hands,  — 
With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings, 

and  with  smoke,  — 
Peal  after    peal,   the    British  battle 

broke. 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic 

sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when 

Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant 

sea. 
Rocking  with    shatter'd   spars,   with 

sudden  fires 
Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once 

more 
We    taught    him :    late    he    learned 

humility 
Perforce,   like    those    whom    Gideon 

sohool'd  with  briers. 

VI. 

POLAND. 
How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden 
down. 


And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and 
least 

Of  men  1  The  heart  of  Poland  hath 
not  ceased 

To  quiver,  tho'  her  sacred  blood  doth 
drown 

The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smoulder- 
ing town 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased. 

Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the 
East 

Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some 
new  crown :  — 

Cries  to  Thee,  "  Lord,  how  long  shall 
these  things  be  ? 

How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 

Oppress  the  region  ?  "  Us,  O  Just  and 
Good, 

Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 
in  three ; 

Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should 
aid  the  right  — 

A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of 
blood! 


Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender 

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  laj-  from  fairy 

land. 
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 

reede. 


30 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


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  accomplish- 
ment : 

Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  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  con- 
tent. 

A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of 
tears, 

The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could 
more, 

A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  re- 
store — 

For  ah  !  the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 

And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand 
years. 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and 
care  no  more. 


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  — 
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. 


If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be. 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of 

the  earth. 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 

birth. 
That  I  should  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved 

by  thee  ? 
All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of 

pain 
Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave, 

if  thou  wert  mine. 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in 

the  main, 
Fre.sh-water  springs  come  up  through 

bitter  brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee. 
To  wait  for  death  —  mute  —  careless 

of  all  ills, 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  tho'  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into 

the  gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


THE  BRIDESMAID. 
O   BRIDESMAID,  ere   the   happy  knot 

was  tied, 
Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could 

hardly  see ; 
Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  "No  tears 

for  me  ! 
A  happy  bridesmaid  makes  a  happy 

bride." 
And  then,  the  couple  standing  side  by 

side. 
Love  lighted  down  between  them  full 

of  glee. 
And  over  his  left  shoulder  laugh'd  at 

thee, 
"  0  happy  bridesmaid;  make  a  happy 

bride." 
And  all  at  once  a  pleasant  truth  I 

learn'd, 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


31 


I'or  while  the  tender  service  made  thee 
weep, 

I  loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst 
not  hide, 

And   prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the 
press  return'd, 

And  thought,  "  My  life  is  sick  of  sin- 
gle sleep : 
,iO  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy 
bride ! " 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

PAKT  I. 

On  either  side  of  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go. 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Kound  an  island  there  below 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers. 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  embowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd. 
By  slow  horses ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  httth  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

OnXy  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley. 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  eheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary. 


Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott." 


Theke  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PAKT  m. 
A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 


32 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


A  red-cross  knight  forever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free. 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
.And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slimg 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd     shone     the     saddle- 
leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'dlike  one  burningflame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night. 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His    broad    clear   brow  in   sunlight 

glow'd ; 
Dn   bumish'd   hooves  his  war-horse 

trode ; 
Prom  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom. 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room. 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
Tbe  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PAKT  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 


The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  com. 

plaining. 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining. 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  o  wn  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white. 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy. 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken 'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
Por  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her 
name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


33 


Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 
A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery. 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?  " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said ; 
"Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply ; 

"  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clearplates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"He  dried  his  wings  :  like  gauze  they 

grew ; 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

J  said,  "  When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest. 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.'' 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied; 

"  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 

Look  up  thro'night :  the  world  is  wide. 

"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse. 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"  Think  you.  this  mould  of  hopes  and 

fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  1 " 


It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

"  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind. 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scofiingly ; 

"  Good  soul !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee^ 

Who'll  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense. 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  ?  " 

I  would  have  said,  "  Thou  canst  not 

know," 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Kain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me : 
"  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery. 
Surely  'twere  better  not  to  be. 

"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep. 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 
Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt 
weep." 

I  said,  "  The  years  with  change  ad- 
vance : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might 

take, 
Ev'n  yet."    But  he  :  "  What  drug  can 

make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ?  " 

I  wept,  "Tho' I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow ; 

'■  And  men,   thro'  novel  spheres   of 

thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought. 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 


34 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


"Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "some 

time, 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for 

light. 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight. 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and 

night. 

"  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells. 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells. 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "  all  the  years  invent ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power?  " 

"  The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain. 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  1 

"  Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold 

crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down. 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and 

town? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  kno  wledge,dream'd  not  yet. 

"  Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

'"Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak. 
Than  cry  for  strength,remaining  weak, 
4.nd  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 
Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  re- 

sign'd, 
A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 


I  said,  "  When  I  am  gone  away, 
'  He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say. 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"  This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and 

sigh, 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"  Sick  art  thou  —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee  ?     Art  thon  so 

bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fiU'd  with  dust. 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

"  Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yeam'd  for  human  praise. 

"When,  wide   in  soul  and   bold   of 

tongue. 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung. 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear. 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear— 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 
To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 
And  mete   the   bounds  of  hate  and 
love  — 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


35 


"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That    the    whole    mind    might    orb 
about  — 

"  To  search  through  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law : 

"  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed. 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass  when  Life  her  light  with- 
draws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause  — 

"  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown ; 

"Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious 

tears, 
When  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  tlirill  his  ears : 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke. 
What  time  the  f  oeman's  line  is  broke. 
And  all  the  war  is  rolled  in  smoke." 

"jYea !  "  said  the  voice,  "  thy  dream 

was  good. 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower. 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  7 

"  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change, 

the  fall. 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  mouth  to  month  with  such  a 

chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and 

birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 


"  That  men  with  knowledge   merely 

play'd, 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

"  Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and 

blind. 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to 

find. 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  diifercnt  threads,  and  late  and 

soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"  Cry,  faint  not :  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

"  Cry,  faint  not,  climb  :  the  summits 

slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope. 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to 

cope. 

"  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines. 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pinea. 

"  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique. 
Thou    know'st  not.     Shadows    thou 

dost  strike,  ' 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like ; 

"  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

"  Than  angels.     Cease  to  wail   and 

brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  every  thing  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die  ? 


36 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A.  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven ; 

'  Who,rowing  hard  against  the  stream. 
Saw  distant  gate^  of  Eden  gleam. 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream ; 

•"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead. 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

"  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire. 
Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
iike  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

■"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 
Kor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'  cursed  and  scorn'd,  and  bruised 
with  stones : 

"But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
<jrod's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

"  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were 

fix'd, 
The  elements  were  kindlier  raix'd." 

I  said,  "  I  toil  beneath  the  curse. 
But,  knowing  not' the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo. 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new : 

"  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
tJnmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  fix'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence  : 

"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here : 
Uaked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer  : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  rnt  fear  1 " 


"  Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 
"  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath 

died; 
Wilt  thou  find  passion, pain  or  pride? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"  His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  expressed 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the 

cheek. 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace. 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

"  His  sons  growup  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,— 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"  These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread. 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"  The  sap  dries  up :  the  plant  declines. 
A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 
Know  I  not  Death  1  the  outward  signs? 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few,- 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew. 
And  darkness  In  the  village  yew. 

"From   grave  to  grave   the   shadow 

crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept; 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 


37 


"  The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head : 
■■  Omega !  thou  art  Lord,'  tliey  said, 
'  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by 

these, 
!Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

"  Who  forged  that  other  influence. 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ■? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes. 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

■"  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly : 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"'  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason :  many  things  perplex, 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counter- 
checks. 

■"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something 

good, 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

"  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn. 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half   shown,   are   broken   and  with- 
drawn. 

"Ah!  sure  within  him  and  without. 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out. 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 


"The   doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not 

solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.'' 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against. 
Falls   back,  the  voice  with  which 

fenced 
A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

"  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father 

play'd 
In  his  free  fleld,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ? 

"  A  merry  boy  they  call'd  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man : 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race. 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face. 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  !  " 

"These  words,"  I  said,  "are  like  th* 

rest; 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  mightst  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — . 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end ; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  1 

"  1  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found. 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 


38 


THE   TWO    VOICES. 


"  As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then. 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much, 
I''or  those  two  likes  might  meet  and 
touch. 

"But  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place. 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height. 
Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of 
night; 

"Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

"  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

"And  men,  whose  reason  long  was 

blind. 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined. 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free. 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory: 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time. 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  1 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
'iliat  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

"Of  something  felt,  like  something 

here; 
Of  something  done,  I  knownotwhere ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 


The   still  voice  laugh'd.     "I  talk," 

said  he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.     SufiSce  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality."  * 

"  But  thou,"  said  I,  "  hast  missed  thy 

mark. 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  thy  mortal 

ark. 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

"  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  t 

"  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith. 

No   life   that   breathes   with    human 

breath 
Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"'Tis  life,   whereof    our  nerves  are 

scant. 
Oh  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

I  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  mom." 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blovring  steal. 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal. 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest. 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child. 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild. 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure. 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


39 


These  tnree  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Eemembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  "Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

^'  I  may  not  speak  of  ,what  I  know.'' 

Xike  an  -iEolian  harp  that  wakes 

^o  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Par  thought  with  music  that  it  makes : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side : 
"What    is    it    thou   knowest,   sweet 

voice  ?  "  I  cried. 
"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
JTrom  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the    rainbow  from    the 
shower. 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove. 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went. 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

'  1  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours. 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for 
flowers. 

I  wonder'd  while  I  paced  along  : 
The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of 
wrong; 


And  all  so  variously  wrought, 

I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 

To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Thau  him  that  said,  "Rejoice!    Re- 
joice 1 " 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly'  size. 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without. 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  1 


In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit. 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver 
cup  — 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So    healthy,   sound,   and    clear   and 
whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life. 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife. 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of 
pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — • 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 


40 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Hare  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before    I    dream'd    that    pleasant 
dream  — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like    those    long    mosses    in    the 
stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The   milldam   rushing    down  with 
noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that 
hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 
When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 
Below  the   chestnuts,  when    their 
buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 
And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
^  I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 
But  angled  in  the  liigher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain, 
lit  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came   a  thousand 
times, 


Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood,  " 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 
And  you  were  leaning  from  the 
ledge : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 
They   met  with  two   so  full   and 
bright — 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love. 
That  these  have  never  lost  their 
light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere. 

And   fill'd  the  breast  with  purer 
breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the 
boyi 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy. 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor. 

The   dark  round  of  the   dripping 
wheel. 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow. 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below  • 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hopej, 
From  offi  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAVGifTER. 


4» 


The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the 
mill; 
And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought, 
"  she  sits  !  " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  0  that  I  were  beside  her  now ! 

0  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 

O  would  she  gire  me  vow  for  vow. 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?  " 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin : 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak. 
The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white 
with  may, 
Tour  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your 
cheek 
Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  waS' — -half-sly,  half -shy. 
You  would,  and  would  not,  little 
one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 
And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher ; 
And  I  was  young —too  young  to  wed : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said : 
Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride : 
But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease ; 

This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 
Too  fearful  that  you  should  not 


J  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 
I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 

And  dews,  that  woiild  have  fall'n  in 
tears, 
I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 


I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings. 

The   doubt  my  mother  would  not 
see ; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face. 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to 
heart. 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
AYith  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem. 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper 

ty. 

It  IB  the  miller's  daughter 
And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  de^ 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear : 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white^ 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  mCa. 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night, 

A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells — * 

True  love  interprets — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

Per  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early 

rage  ^ 

Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth^ 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone. 
Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art^ 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  iu 
one. 


«2 


FATIMA. 


Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  eong  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  ub  in  the  net 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Luve  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love?  for  we  forget: 

Ah,  no!  no  I 

Look  thro' mine  eyes  with  thine.  True 
wife. 
Bound  my  true  heart  thine  arms  in- 
twine 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine ! 
tJntouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

BJay  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 
Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them 
well. 

Tet  tears  they  shed:  they  had  their 
part 

Of  sorrow:  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  has  brought  us  pain. 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

"With  farther  lookings  on.    The  kiss. 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
"Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who 
wrought 
Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With    blessings     beyond     hope     or 
thought. 
With  blessings  which  no  words  can 
find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 
To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 


For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 
Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 

And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass. 
Touching  the  sullen  pool  belo'pr  • 

On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 
Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 
O  Love,  Love,  Love!    0  withering 
might ! 

0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight. 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and 

blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers : 

1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers . 
I  roU'd  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

I  crush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my 

mouth ; 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his 

name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and 

came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 
0  Love,  0  fire  !  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul 

thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  Cometh  quickly  :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from   deep   gardens, 

blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening    from    swoon    to 

swoon. 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire. 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 


(ENONE. 


43 


1«  pour'd  upca  the  hills,  and  nlgher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
M7  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce 

delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 

AH  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 

■'Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 

I  mU  possess  him  or  will  die. 
I  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place. 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


CENONE. 

Thbkb  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart 
the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from 
pine  to  pine. 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either 
hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  mid- 
way down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below 
them  roars 

The    long   brook    falling  thro'    the 
clov'n  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning :  but 
in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel. 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 

Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 

Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the 
hills. 

Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 
her  neck 

Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in 
rest. 

She,  leaning  on   a  fragment  twined 
with  vine. 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 
upper  clifE. 


"O  mother    Ida,  many-fotmtain'd 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Por  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the 

hill: 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass : 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the 

stone. 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds 

are  dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops :  the  goldea 

bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of 

love. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyea 

are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  O  mother   Ida,  many-f ountain'd 

Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills, 

0  Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake !  O 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  Eiver  God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  buUd 

up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder 

walls 
Eose     slowly    to     a     music    slowly 

breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape:  for  it 

may  he 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  maj'  wander  from  its  deeper 

woe. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-f  ountain'd 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 

Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy- 
dark, 

And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountaia 
pine : 

Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd, 
white-hooved, 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone^ 


44 


(ENONE. 


"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

TmvofE  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the 
cleft : 

Par  np  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With 
down-dropt  eyes 

t  sat  alone :  white-breasted  like  a  star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leop- 
ard skin 

Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  hut  his 
sunny  hair 

Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a 
God's: 

And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and 
all  my  heart 

VTent  forth  to  embrace  him  coming 
ere  he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 
white  palm 

Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian 
gold. 

That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I 
look'd 

And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of 
speech 

Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

" '  My  own  CEnone, 

Beautif  ul-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul. 

Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 
ingrav'n 

"For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to 
award  it  thine. 

As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 

The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 

Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  mar- 
ried brows.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  Idle. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 

And  added  '  This  was  cast  upon  the 
board, 

When  all  the  fnll-faced  presence  of 
the  Gods 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  where- 
upon 

Eose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
'twere  due: 


But  light-foot  Iris  brought  11  yestei* 

eve. 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 

voice 
Elected  umpire,  Herfe  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphroditfe,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.    Thou,  witliin 

the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest 

pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them   unbeheld, 

unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of 

Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon :  one  silverj 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  pinej 

sides 
Of  this  long  glen.    Then  to  the  bower 

they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to    that    smooth- 
swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 

fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
liOtos  and  lilies  :  and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and 

vine. 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild 

festoon 
Kan    riot,    garlanding    the    gnarled 

boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 

and  thro'. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud, 

and  lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant 

dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Parifi 

made 


CENONE. 


4S 


ftofler  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
TJnquestion'd  overfiowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  '  from 

many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn. 
Or  labor'd  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  '  and  homage,  tax 

and  toll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing 

citadel 
In   glassy  bays    among    her    tallest 

towers.' 

"  0  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 
of  power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom- 
bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all 
neighbor  crowns 

Alliance  and  Allegiance,  till  thy  hand 

Fail  from  the  sceptre-stafE.  Such 
boon  from  me, 

From  me.  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to 
thee  king-born, 

A  shepherd  all  tliy  life  but  yet  king- 
bom. 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing 
men  in  power 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 

Eest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 

Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 

In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly 

fruit 
Out    at  arm's-length,   so    much    the 

thought  of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where 

she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 

Umbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest 

eye 


Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry 

cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting   decision,  made 

reply. 

j  "  '  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge, 
V^_       self-control. 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sover 
eign  power. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live 
by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said  :  '  I  woo  thee  not  with 

gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  roe 
To  fairer.    Judge  thou  me  by  what  ji 

am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed. 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of 

fair, 
Uubiass'd  by  self-profit,  oh  I  rest  thee 

sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave 

to  thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 

God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of 

shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance 

grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will. 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceas'd, 
And  Paris  ponder' d,  and  I  cried,  '  O 

Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas ! '  but  he  heard  me 

not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is 

me! 


46 


CENQNE. 


"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'dlda, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphroditfe  beautiful, 
Presh  as   the  foam,  new-bathed    in 

Papliian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward 

drew 
Prom  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,   golden  round  her    lucid 

tliroat 
And  shoulder :  from  the  violets  her 

light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between   the   shadows   of    the  vine- 
bunches 
floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 


"Dearmother Ida, hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild 

eyes. 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing 

nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  'I  promise 

thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in 

Greece,' 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd :  I  shut  my 

sight  for  fear : 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised 

his  arm. 
And  I  beheld  great  Herd's  angry  eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone. 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife'?  am  I  not 
fair? 

My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand 
times. 

Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 

When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton 
pard. 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  play- 
ful tail 

Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most 
loving  is  she  ? 


Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  thai 
my  arms 

Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot 
lips  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick- 
falling  dew 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn 
rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest 

pines, 
My  tall  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the 

craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all 

between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cata. 

raet 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet —  from  be. 

neath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 

dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while 

I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.    Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning 

mist 
Sweep   thro'  them;  never  see  them 

overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver 

cloud. 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem. 

bling  stars. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yetbeforel  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd 

folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from 

the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with 

her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  th» 

board. 
And  bred  this  change ;  that  I  might 

speak  my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  1 

hate 
Her  presence,  hated,  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 


THE  SISTERS. 


47 


"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  hs  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green 

hill, 
EVn  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  ? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses  ?  water'd  it  with 

tears  ? 
0  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to 

these ! 
O  happy  Hearen,  how  canst  thou  see 

my  face  ? 
0  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear 

my  weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-float- 

ing cloud. 
There   are  enough  imhappy  on  this 

earth. 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to 

live : 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of 

life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul  that  I  may 

die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart 

within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids  :  let  me 

die. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  flery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the 

inmost  hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.    I  dimly  see 
My  far-off    doubtful    purpose,   as   a 

mother 
Conjectures   of  the  features   of  her 

child 
Ere  it  is  born :  her  child !  —  a  shudder 

comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's 

eyes ! 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.    I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come 
to  me 


Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 

Death 
TJncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise 

and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars 

come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  sh?, 

says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound  i 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men.* 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I 

know 
That,  whereso'er  I  am  by  night  and 

day. 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning 

fire." 


THE    SISTERS. 
We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face : 
The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 
0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 

She   mix'd   her    ancient   blood  with 

shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and 

tree. 

Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early 

and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 
O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and 
tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see !  i 

1  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest ; 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tre« 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  welL 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  J 


48 


TO 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
■  Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and 
thro\ 
O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
Me  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet. 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


TO  . 

WITH    THE    FOLLOWING   POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  spacious   garden  full  of  flowering 

weeds, 
A  glorious  DeTil,  large  in  heart  and 

brain. 
That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty 

seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 
And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty ;  or  if 

Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge, 

are  three  sisters 
That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to 

man, 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof. 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without 

tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn 
shall  be 
"."Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.    Not  for 

this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  com- 
mon earth 
Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with 

the  tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OE  ART. 
I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure- 
house. 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I   said,  "  0   Soul,  make  merry  and 
carouse. 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well."  | 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  bur- 
nish'd  brass 
I    chose.      The    ranged    ramparts 
bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or 
shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and 

round,"  I  said, 

"  Eeign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 

Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead. 

fast  shade 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.'' 

To    which    my   soul    made    answer 
readily: 
"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion  that  is  built  for 
me. 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 
»  *  »  * 

*  »  *  * 

Four  courts  I  made.  East,  West  and 
South  and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted 
forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  theiw 
ran  a  row 
Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty 
woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to   that  sonorotie 
flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


THE  PALACE   OF  ART. 


49 


And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 
That  lent  broad  verge  to   distant 
lands. 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where 
the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in 
one  swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they 
fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high   on  every  peak  a  statue 
seem'd 
To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall 
gaze  upon 
My  palace  with  imblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  1 " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail'd. 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted 
higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd. 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced. 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson 
fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  inter- 
laced. 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

#  «  *  * 

Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom. 
Thro'  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul 
did  pass. 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms   and   small  the 
palace  stood, 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 


From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green, 
and  blue. 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-mom, 
Where  with  puff'd  cheek  the  belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract 
of  sand, 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone. 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering 
land. 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry 
waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and 
fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellow- 
ing caves. 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow- 
By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding 
low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry 
toil. 
In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves. 
Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in 
oil. 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And   one  a    foreground  black  with 
stones  and  slags. 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And   one,   an  English    home  —  gray 
twilight  pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep  — all  tlungs  in  orde« 
stored, 
A  haimt  of  ancient  Peace. 


50 


THE  PALACE   OF  ART. 


Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape 
fair, 
As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern, 
was  there 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 
«  *  «  « 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardo- 
nyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  ,the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,   slept   St. 
Cecily ; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and 
eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or    mythic  Uther's   deeply-wounded 
son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Xiay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 
And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice. 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly 
sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  un- 
clasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward 
borne : 
From  one  hand  dfoop'd  a  crocus :  one 
hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 


Or  else  flush'd   Ganymede,  his  rosy 
thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was 
there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 
#  *  #  « 

Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung. 
Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver 
sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men 
I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph 
strong. 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and 
mild; 
And    there    the   world-worn    Dante 
grasp'd  his  song. 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there   the  Ionian  father  of  the 

rest; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin ; 

A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his 

breast. 

From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,   the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately- 
set 
Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every 
land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden 
slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads 
and  stings ; 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings  ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break 
or  bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  en- 
dure, 
•  And  here  once  more  like  some  sick 
man  declined, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod:   and  those 
great  bells 
Began  to   chime.      She    took  her 
throne : 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  colored 

flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below ; 

Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Veru- 

1am, 

The  first  of  those  who  know. 

Ani  all  those  names,  that  in  their 
motion  were 
Full-welling       fountain-heads      of 
change. 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  bla- 
zon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange : 

Thro'  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber, 
emerald,  blue, 
riush'd  in  her  temples,  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,   as   morn   from 
Memnon,  drew 
Elvers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd 
song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  f  east- 
ful  mirth. 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 
earth. 
Lord  of  the  senses  five ; 


Communing  with  herself  :  "  All  the«r 
are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  at 
wars, 
'Tis  one  to  me."    She  —  when  young 
night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars. 

Making  sweet  close  of   his  delicious 

toils  — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 

And  pure   quintessences  of   precious 

oils 

In  hoUow'd  moons  of  gems. 

To  mimic  heaven ;     and   clapt    her 
hands  and  cried, 
"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and 
wide, 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  variou* 
eyes! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me 

well! 
O  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 
My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

"  0  God'like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain,     ' 
What  time   I  watch  the   darkening 

droves  of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"  In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient 
skin. 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and 
sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she 
prate  ; 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead. 
As  hers  by  right  of  .full-accomplish'd 
Fate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said : 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and 
deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawL 


52 


THE  PALACE    OF  ART. 


I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 
But  contemj,lating  all." 

*  *  »  » 

*  *  *  * 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  tts  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn 
mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd :  so 
three  years 
She  prosper'd:    on  the  fourth   she 
fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in 
his  ears, 
Struoi  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Xest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  beft/re  whom  ever  lie  hare 
The  abysmai  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  wouid  think,  where'er  she 

turn'd  her  sight 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

"Wrote,   "Mene,   mene,"  and  divided 

quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  soli- 
tude 
Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was 
born 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that 
mood 
Laughter  at  her  self -scorn. 

"What!    is  not    this    my  place    of 
strength,"  she  said, 
"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me. 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ?  " 

But  in  dark  comers  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes ;  and  unawares 
On    white-eyed    phantasms    weeping 
tears  of  blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares, 


And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame. 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all. 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon 
she  came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without 
light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my 
soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars 
of  sand. 
Left  on  the  shore ;    that  hears  all 
night 
The    plunging    seas   draw   backward 
from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the   choral  starry 
dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing 
saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circum- 
stance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  hacl 
curl'd. 
"No  voice,''   she   shriek'd  in  that 
lone  hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness 
of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !  " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame. 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining     utterly    confused    with 
fears. 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 


LADY  CLARA    VERB  DE    VERB. 


53 


And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt 
roimd 
With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  oil  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully 
sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walk- 
ing slow, 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a 
sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 
cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ;  then  thinketh, 
"  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?" 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  fin- 
ished. 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she 
said, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

"Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others 

there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERE. 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  prcud  to  bear  your 
name. 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine. 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms, 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
Eor  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love; 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 
Since   I  beheld    young    Laurence 
dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies ' 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus   he   met  his   mother's 
view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 
She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall ; 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 
You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to 
gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 
To   make    him    trust    his    modest 
worth, 


54 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


And,  last,  you  fix'd  a  yacant  stare. 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 
bent 
The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And    simple    faith    than    Norman 
blood. 

J  fenow  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
You  pine  among  your  halls   and 
towers : 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In   glowing    health,  with    boundless 
wealth. 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time. 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks 
as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands. 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

ToTJ  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day ; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say. 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake. 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break: 

But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 

But  Eobin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday. 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white, 

And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light.  ' 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 

Por  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  —  what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  Ma/, 

little  Effle  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green. 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen; 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.  55 


For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass. 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day. 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

Tor  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  M»j^ 

NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

If  you're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  :  we  had  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  :  the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again  : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o  er  the  ware. 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine. 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine. 


56  THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
•I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  1  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now ; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place  ; 
Tho'  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  forevermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Eifie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall  never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rosebush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

€rood-night,  sweet  mother  :  call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies. 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  1 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.  57 


But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 

And  that  good  nrian,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  his  wliole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there  I 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again  if  that  could  be, 
Tor  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine. 
And  Bffie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resign'd. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  —  Iknownot  what  was  said ; 
Por  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them :  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  come  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  a  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have  been  his  wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 


i8 


T.HE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  Toice,  tliat  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
Porever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  7  why  make  we  such  ado  ■? 

Porever  and  forever,  all  in  a  ISlessed  home  — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you.and  Effie  come  — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS. 
■"Coueagb!"   he    said,   and  pointed 

toward  the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will    roll  us 

shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a 

land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon. 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary 

dream. 
Pull-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 

moon; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slen- 
der stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and 

fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  down- 
ward smoke, 
Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn, 

did  go ; 
And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and 

shadows  broke. 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam 

below. 
They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 

flow 
From  the  inner  land:  far  off,  three 

mountain-tops, 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  sunset-flush'd ;  and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
XJp-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed     sunset    linger'd    low 

adown 
In  ihe  red  West ;  thro'  mountain  clefts 

the  dale 


\ 

"Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow 
down 

Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  wind, 
ing  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galin- 
gale; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 
the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keei  with  faces 
pale, 

Darkfacespale  against  that  rosy  flame. 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos- 
eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 

stem. 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof 

they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso   did  receive  of 

them. 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the 

wave 
Ear  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and 

rave 
On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow 

spake. 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave ; 
And  deep-asleep  he   seem'd,  yet  all 

awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow 
sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the 
shore; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father- 
land, 

Of  child  and  wife,  and  slave;  but 
evermore 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


y> 


Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the 

oar, 
"Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 

foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return 

no  more ; " 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island 
I  home 

Is  far  heyond  the  wave;  we  will  no 

longer  roam." 


CHORIC   SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 

falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the 


Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 

walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in   a  gleaming 

pass; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies. 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down 

from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moso  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the   stream  the  long-leaved 

flowers  weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 

II. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 
tress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from 
weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we 
toil  alone. 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of 
things. 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another 
thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 

And  cease  from  wanderings. 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 
balm; 


Nor   hearken    what   the   inner   spirit 

sings, 
"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things  ? 


Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

"•he  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the 

bud 
With  winds    upon  the  branch,  and 

there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 

care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed ;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  fioats  adown  the  air. 
Lo !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over- 
mellow. 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 
The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Eipens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath 

no  toil, 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onv/ard 

fast. 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb- 
Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be> 

come 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful 

Past. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we 

have 
To  war  with  evil  ■?  Is  there  any  peace 
In   ever    climbing  up  the   climbing 

wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 

the  grave 
In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  deaths 

or  dreamful  east!. 


€0 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream, 
"With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Palling  asleep  in  a  half -dream  ! 
To   dream   and   dream,   like   yonder 

amber  light, 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush 

on  the  height ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ;| 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day. 
To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 

beach. 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy 

spray ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirit  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  mel- 
ancholy ; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 

memory, 
"With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in 
an  urn  of  brass ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded 

lives. 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our 

wives 
And  their  warm  tears :  but  all  hath 

suffer'd  change : 
i'or  surely  now  our  household  hearths 

are  cold : 
Our  sons  inherit  us :  our  looks  are 

strange : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to 

trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  min- 
strel sihgs, 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in 

Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half -forgotten 

things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
TiCt  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 


Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath. 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 

wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on 

the  pilot-stars. 


^ut. 


But,  propt  on  bedS  of  amaranth  and 
raoly, 

sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us, 
blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy. 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  draw- 
ing slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From   cave  to  cave   thro'  the  thick- 
twined  vine  — 
To  watch  the   emerald-color'd  water 

falling 
Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath 

divine ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  spar- 
kling brine. 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 
beneath  the  pine. 


The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren 

peak  : 
The  Lotos   blows   by  every-winding 

creek : 
All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with 

mellower  tone : 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  roundHhe  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and 

of  motion  we, 
RoU'd  to  starboard,  roU'd  to  larboard, 

when  the   surge  was   seething 

free. 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted 

his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 

an  equal  mind. 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and 

lie  reclined 


A  DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


61 


On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  care- 
less of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and 

the  bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and 

the  clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Bound  their   golden   houses,  girdled 

with  the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking 

over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth-;j 

quake,  roaring  deeps  and  fiery 

'  sands. 
Clanging  fights,  and   fiaming   towns, 

and  sinking  ships,  and  praying 

hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  cen- 
tred in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an 

ancient  tale  of  wrong. 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the 

words  are  strong ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men 

that  cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest 

with  enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat, 

and  wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  — 

some, 'tis  >vhisper'd — down  in 

hell 
Suffer    endless     anguish,    others    in 

Elysian  valleys  dwell. 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds 

of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet 

than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the   deep   mid-ocean, 

wind  and  wave  and  oar ; 
Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will 

not  wander  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I  BEAD,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 
"  The  Legend  of  Good  Women,"  long 
ago 
Simg  by  the    morning-star   of  song, 
who  made 
His  music  heard  below ; 


Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 
Preludedthosemelodious  bursts  that 
fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of 
his  art 
Held    me    above   the    subject,    as 
strong  gales 
Hold   swollen   clouds   from   raining, 
tho'  my  heart. 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales. 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears. 
In  every  land 
I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth. 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in 
hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient 
song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars. 
And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame, 
and  wrong. 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ; 

And  clattering    flints    batter'd  with 
clanging  hoofs ; 
And  I    saw  crowds    in    column'd 
sanctuaries ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows 
and  on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes 
tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro'  with 
heated  blasts 
That     run    before    the    fluttering 
tongues  of  fire ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails 
and  masts. 
And  ever  climbing  higher 


62 


A  DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


Squadrons    and  squares   of   men  in 
brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,    still    sheets     of    water, 
divers  woes, 
Ranges   of    glimmering  vaults  with 
iron  grates. 
And  hush'd  seraglios. 

So   shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as, 
when  to  land 
Bluster    the   winds   and   tides    the 
self-same  way. 
Crisp    foam-flakes    scud    along    the 
level  sand. 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in 
pain, 
Resolved    on    noble    things,    and 
strove  to  speak. 
As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along 
the  brain. 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew 
down 
A  cavalier  from  oH  his  saddle-bow. 
That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd 
town; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how. 

All  those  sharp    fancies,  by  down- 
lapsing  thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 
Koll'd    on     each     other,    rounded, 
smooth'd,  and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wan- 
der'd  far 
In  an  old  wood :   fresh-wash'd  in 
coolest  dew 
The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning 
star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles    did    stoop 
and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
neath 


Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged 
with  clearest  green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The    dim    red    morn  had  died,  her 
journey  done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 
Half-fall'n   across   the   threshold    of 
the  sun,  ^ 

Never  to  rise  again. 

/ 
There  was  no  motion  in  the   dumb 
dead  air, 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of 
rill; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide   forest.      Growths    of 
jasmine  turn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree 
to  tree, 
And    at    the  root  thro'  lush  green 
grasses  bum'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves, 
I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 
On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench'd  in  dew. 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the 
green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul 
and  frame 
The  times  when  I  remember  to  have 
been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under- 
tone 
Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful  clime, 
"Pass  freely  thro':   the  wood  is  aU 
thine  own. 
Until  the  end  of  time." 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


63 


At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 
Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  stand- 
ing there ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with 
»  surprise 

Proze  my  swift  speech :  she  turning 
on  my  face 
The   star-like   sorrows    of    immortal 
eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"I  had  great  beauty:  ask  thou  not 
my  name : 
No   one  can  be    more   wise    than 
destiny. 
Many      drew      swords      and      died. 
Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady :  in  fair 
field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly 
died," 
I  auswer'd  free;    and  turning  I  ap- 
peal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse. 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stat- 
ure draws; 
"  My  youth,"  she  said  ''  was  blasted 
with  a  curse : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad 

place, 
.    WMch  men  call'd  Aulis  in  those 

iron  years : 
My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"  Still  strove  to  speak :  my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 
As  in   a  dream.     Dimly  I  could 
descry 
The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with 
wolfish  eyes. 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 


"  The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay 
afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd, 
and  the  shore ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  vic- 
tim's throat ; 
Touch'd ;  and  I  knew  no  more.'' 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward' 
brow: 
"I  would  the  white   cold  heavy- 
plunging  foam, 
Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roU'd  me 
deep  below. 
Then  when  I  left  my  home.'' 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the 
silence  drear. 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping 
sea: 
Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried, 
"Come  here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery 
rise. 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  un» 
roll'd; 
A  queen,  with   swarthy  cheeks  and 
bold  black  eyes. 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile, 
began : 
"I  goveru'd  men  by  change,  and 
so  I  sway'd 
All  moods.    "Tis  long  since  I  have 
seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"The    ever-shifting  currents   of  the 
blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and 
flow. 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"  Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could 
not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 


64 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


That      dull     cold-blooded      Cjesar. 
Prythee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

"The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I 
rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck :  we  sat  as  God 
by  God: 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 
time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"  We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 
and  lit 
Lamps  which  out-burn'd  Canopus. 
0  my  life 
In  Egypt !  0  the  dalliance  and  the  wit. 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war's  alarms. 
My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my 
arms. 
Contented  there  to  die  ! 

"  And  there  he  died :  and  when  I  heard 
my  name 
Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not 
brook  my  fear 
Of  the  other:  with  a  worm  I  balk'd 
his  fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  look  here ! " 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart, 
and  half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  her  breast  to 
sight 
Laid  bare.    Thereto  she  pointed  with 
a  laugh. 
Showing  the  aspick's  bite.) 

"  I  died  a  Queen.    The  Roman  soldier 
found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 
A  name  forever !  —  lying  robed  and 
crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 


Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest 
range 
Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance 
From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 
change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for 
delight : 
Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 
She  rais'd  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  flres  Love  tipt  his  keen- 
est darts ; 
As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I 
heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro' 
the  lawn. 
And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested 
bird 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

"  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon, 
Sound  all  niglit  long,  in  falling  thro' 
the  dell. 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 
Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  • 
beams  divine : 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 
the  delf 
With  spires  of  silver  shine."  ' 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sun- 
shine laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro' 
the  door 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


A  DREAM   OF  FAIR    WOMEN. 


65 


Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied 
To   where  he  stands,  —  so  stood  I, 
when  that  flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite ; 
A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went 
along 
From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
come light. 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  f  ortli :  "  Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."    She  render'd 
answer  high : 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand 
times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root 
Creeps   to  the  garden  water-pipes 
beneath 
Feeding  the  flower ;  but  ere  my  flower 
to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

'  My  God,  my  land,  my  father  —  these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 
tower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord 
of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

'  And    I    went    mourning,   '  No   fair 
Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 
The   Hebrew  mothers'  —  emptied  of 
all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal 
bower, 
The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 


"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 
by  one. 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"  When  the  next  moon  was  roU'd  into 
the  sky. 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd 
my  desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
ITor  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought 
to  dwell. 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's 
will; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I 
fell. 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 
On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.''     Here  her 
face 
Glow'd  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

She  lock'd  her  lips :  she  left  me  where 
I  stood : 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past 


Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 
wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively. 
As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans 
his  head. 
When  midnight  bells   cease   ringing 
suddenly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 


66 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 


"  Alas  !   alas  !  "  a  low  voice,  full  of 
care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me :  "  Turn  and 
look  on  me : 
I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"  Vould    I  had  been  some  maiden 
coarse  and  poor ! 
0  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the 
light ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope 
and  trust : 
To  whom  the  Egyptian :  "  0,  you 
tamely  died ! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's 
waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With    that    sharp    sound    the    white 
dawn's  creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery 
Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on   the  borders  of 
the  dark. 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her 
last  trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan 
of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France ; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  van- 
quish Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  king, 
Drew  forth  the  poisoa  with  her  balmy 
breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the 
deep 
Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the 
hidden  ore 


That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With 
what  dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to 
strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams 
again ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath 
been  blest. 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
years. 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  xears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cnll'd  with 
choicest  art, 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the 
sweet. 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the 
heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 
O  blackbird!    sing  me    something 
well: 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee 

round, 
I  keep  smooth    plats  of   fruitful 
ground. 
Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat  and 
dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine ;   the  range  of  lawn  and 

park: 
The    unnetted    black-hearts    ripen 
dark. 
All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring. 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry: 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE   OLD    YEAR. 


67 


Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when 
young: 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 
Now  thy  flute  notes  are  changed  to 

coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are 
new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLB 
YEAR. 
Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow. 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily 
sighing : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow. 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
Eor  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 
Tou  came  to  us  so  readily. 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true- 
love. 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
,         Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

,  He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 

And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him. 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Oid  year,  if  you  must  die. 


He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend. 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold 
my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps:   the  light  burns 

low: 
Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die 
Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  foryoui 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  t 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  ii^ 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor, 
my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 
The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain, 
blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold. 
And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made,] 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow     / 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade- 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on 
most. 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limb* 
are  nursed, 


6a 


ON  A  MOURNER. 


Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  lore  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us;  but,  when  lore  is 
grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

this  is  the  curse  of  time.    Alas ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn'd ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did 


One  went,  who  never   hath  re- 
turned. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.    Two  years  his  chair 
is  seen 
Empty  before  us.    That  was  he 

Without  whose  life   I  had  not 
been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer ;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven^  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother  :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh. 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall'n 
asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro'  the 
brain, 

I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"  Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward 

I  pain." 

let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.  Let  her 
will 

Be  done  —  to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say,  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind" ; 


For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun. 
And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the 
night. 

Vain  solace  !  Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her 
throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.     In  truth. 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both ;  yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would 
make 
Grief    more.      'Twere    better    I 
should  cease 
Although  myself  could  almost  take 
The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in 
peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 

While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  in- 
crease. 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 
Nothing   comes   to    thee  new  or 
strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
Lie    still,    dry    dust,   secure    of 
change. 


ON  A  MOURNER. 
I. 
Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies. 

Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 
To  every  land  beneath  the  skies. 


rOU  ASK  ME,    WHY,    THO'   ILL  AT  EASE. 


69 


Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 

base, 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  drop- 
ping snipe. 
With  moss  and  braidedmarish-pipe ; 


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.'' 


And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice. 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger 
choice. 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  Will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  for- 
lorn. 
Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and 
bride, 
Prom  out  the  borders  of  the  morn. 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them 
born. 

VI. 

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 


Promising  empire  ;  such  as  those 

Once  heard  at  dead  of  night  to  greet 
Troy^s  wandering  prince,  so  that  he 
rose 


With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist. 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose. 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends 
or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The   strength  of  some  diffusive 
thought 
Hath  time  and   space  to  work  and 
spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When    single    thought    is    civil 
crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land 
to  land 
Thename  of  Britain  trebly  great — ■ 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 
Should  fill   and  choke  with  golden 
sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind  !  I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  f  eefe 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 


TO 


LOWE    THOU   THY  LAND. 


There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro'  town  and 
;  field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  hy  part  to  men  rereal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down  : 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks. 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown ; 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdoin  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and 
shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light 
our  dreams. 
Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes ! 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far- 
brought 
From  out   the   storied   Past,   and 

used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 
Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For    English     natures,     freemen, 
friends, 
j  Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
I     Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble 
wings 
That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

DeU"-"!  not  the  tasks  of  might 

weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 


From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day. 
The'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make    knowledge    circle    with    the 
winds ; 
But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of    men  and    growth  of 
minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the 
years ; 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain ; 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw ; 

Nor  master'd  by  some  modern  term ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but 
firm: 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly, 

binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interest  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long. 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees. 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  Ise 
free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that  which 

flies. 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 
Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA   IN  1782. 


71 


A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

learning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

Kew  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour. 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them   sea  and  air  are 
dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd. 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires. 
And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 
Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud. 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes; 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time   shall 
close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 

*Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and 

guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 
Would  pace   the  troubled  land,  like 
Peace ; 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and 
word, 


Certain,  if    knowledge   bring    the 
sword, 
That    knowledge    takes    the    sword 
away  — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 
broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should ' 
rise 
Would  strike,   and  firmly,   and  one 
stroke : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor 
wed 

Haw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 

IN   1782. 

O  THOir,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 
Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 
Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 

Who  wreuch'd  their  rights    from 
thee! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 

Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 

Eetaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught. 

And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought  — 

Who  sprang  from  English  blood ! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy. 

Lift  up  thy  rocky  face. 
And   shatter,   when    the   storms  are 

black. 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back. 

The  seas  that  shock  thy  base  ! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume. 
Thy  work  is  thine  —  The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 
smote 
Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


72 


THE   GOOSE. 


THE  GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor. 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together ; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  -weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 

"  Here,  take  the  goo^e,  and  keep  you 
warm. 
It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goose  —  'twas  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the 
pelf. 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors ; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff'd. 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid,  " 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder : 

But  ah !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle  : 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair. 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 


"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note ! " 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"  Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  hei 
throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the 
cat; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  fiU'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder'd  all  together. 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning ; 

"  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and 
plain. 

And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 
Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out. 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up. 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder : 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she, "  The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger  1" 


EB-QLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHEE  POEMS. 


oi<Ho 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas- 
eve, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done  —  the  girls 

all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the   sacred  bush  and  past 

away  — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 

Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassaU- 

bowl. 
Then  half-way  ebb'd:    and  there  we 

held  a  talk. 
How  all    the    old    honor  had  from 

Christmas  gone, 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some 

odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ;   till  I, 

tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 

pond. 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 

outer  edge, 
1  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several 

stars, 
Pell  in  a   doze ;   and  half  awake  I 

heard 
The  parson   taking  wide   and  wider 

sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commis- 
sioners. 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism ; 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled 

down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Eight  thro'  the  world,  "  at  home  was 
little  left 


And    none    abroad:     there    was    no 

anchor,  none, 
To  hold  by."    Francis,  laughing,  clapt 

his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  I  hold 

by  him." 
"And   I,"  quoth  Everard,   "by  the 

wassail-bowl." 
"  Why  yes,"  I  said,  "  we  knew  your 

gift  that  way 
At  college :  but  another  which  you 

had, 
I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it 

then), 
What  came  of  that  f  "    "  You  know," 

said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 
His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve- 
books  "  — 
And  then  to   me   demanding  why? 

"  Oh,  sir. 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 

or  else 
Something  so   said  'twas  nothing  — 

that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the 

day: 
God  knows  :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons : 

ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."     "Nay, 

nay,"  said  Hall, 
"  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  ' 

times  ? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mas- 
todon, 
Nor  we  those  times ;  and  why  should 

any  man 
Remodel  models  t  these  twelve  books 

of  mine 


74 


MORTE  V ARTHUR. 


Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing- 
worth, 

Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better 
burnt."     "  But  I," 

Said  Francis,  "pick'd  the  eleventh 
from  this  hearth 

And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use 
will  come. 

I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 

He  laugh'd,  and  I,  tho'  sleepy,  like  a 
horse 

That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd 
my  ears ; 

For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college 
fame 

When  we  were  Freshmen :  then  at  my 
request 

He  brought  it;  and  the  poet  little 
urged. 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparage- 
ment, 

Kead,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes 
and  aes. 

Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'AETHUE. 

Bo  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 

roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 

sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by 

man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their 

Lord, 
King  Arthur :  then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir    Bedivere,   the    last    of    all    his 

knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the 
I  field, 

»A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 
J'hen   spake  King    Arthur  to   Sir 

Bedivere ; 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 


The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 

knights 
Whereof    this    world    holds    record. 

Such  a  sleep 
They   sleep  —  the   men    I    loved.     I 

think  that  we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  tlie 

halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were 
I    perish    by    this    people    which    I 

made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will 

be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till 

mom. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Ex- 

calibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:   for  thou  re- 

memberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  roVd 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it  like  a 

king: 
And,    wheresoever    I    am    sung    or 

told 
In  af  tertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 

mere: 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 

bring  me  word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere: 
"It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave 

thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the 

helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a,  wounded 

man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


75 


Watch  what  I  see,  and  Ughtly  bring 
thee  word." 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine 
he  stept 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs. 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men, 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He, 
stepping  down 

By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock. 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There   drew    he  forth    the    brand 
Excalibur, 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

Por  all  the  haft  twinkled  with   dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.    He  gazed  so  long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as 
he  stood. 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw:   but  at  the  last  it 
seem'd 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  couceal'd 

There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags. 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to    Sir 
Bedivere : 

"Hast  thou  perform'd    my  mission 
which  I  gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?   or  what 
hast  heard  ?  " 
And   answer  made   the    bold    Sir 
Bedivere : 

"I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in   the 
reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag." 


To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and 

thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true   answer,   as    be- 

seem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either 

hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
Tills  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to 

lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go 

again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 

the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 

hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 

he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 
"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand 

away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy 

note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 

earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes 

of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done? 
What  harm,  undone  I  deep  harm  to 

disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  them,  if  a  king 

demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  \ 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to   aftertime,  but  empty 

breath 
And  rumors   of   a  doubt  1   but  were 

this  kept. 


76 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


Stored    in    some    treasure-house    of 

mighty  kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms, 
Saying,  '  Iting  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 

bur. 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 

the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
'  So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 

conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 
And    so    strode    back    slow   to    the 

wounded  liing. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 

heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what 

hast  heard  ■? " 
And  answer  made    the    bold    Sir 

Bedirere ; 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the 

crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 

reeds." 
To  whom    replied    King    Arthur, 

much  in  wrath  : 
'  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
TJnknightly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is 

me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of    the  power  in  his 

eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of   all  my 

knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou    wouldst    betray   me    for    the 

precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence . 
But,  if  thou  spare-  to  fling  Excalibur, 


I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 

hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 

ran. 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it. 

The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 

the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 

whirl'd  In  an  arch, 
Shot  Uke  a  streamer  of  the  northern 

morn. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  win- 
ter shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 

sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 

arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
And  caught    him  by  the  hilt,  and 

brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the 

King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 

thicker  breath: 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen  ?  " 
And   answer  made    the    bold    Sir 

Bedivere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 

saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 

die. 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 

men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hUt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him, 

wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm, 


MORTE  D ARTHUR. 


TJ 


Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
That  caught   him  by  the   hilt,   and 

brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere." 
And  answer  made    King   Arthur, 

breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws  nigli ;  'tis  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 

fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 

shall  die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 

half  rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his 

arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 

eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Eemorsef  uUy  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands. 
And  rising  bore  Mm  thro'  the  place 

of  tombs. 
But,  as   he   walk'd.   King  Arthur 

panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on 

his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is   mute.      So 

sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the   other    swiftly  strode  from 

ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.     His  o;vn  thought  drove  him, 

like  a  goad. 
I?ry  clash'd  his   harness   in  the  icy 

caves 


And   barren   chasms,  and  all  to  left 

and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round 

him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake. 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 

moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there   hove  a 

dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 

stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they 

were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 

stately  forms 
Black-stoled,     black-hooded,    like    a 

dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  — 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd   to  the  tingling 

stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 
Of    lamentation,   like    a    wind,  that 

shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no 

one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 

the  world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me 

in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 

all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 

lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands,  i 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  com- 
plaining loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 

brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood:  for  all  his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd 

moon 


78 


MORTE  n ARTHUR. 


Smote    by  the    fresh    beam   of    the 

springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
Tliat  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 

sun 
High    from    the    da'is-throne  —  were 

parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and    hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the 

King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 

in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment. 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 

charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere, 
"  Ah !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 

light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  eoond  table  is 

dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 

world ; 
i-And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 
less. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 

the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from 

the  barge : 
*  The   old   order  chaugeth,  yielding 

place  to  new, 


And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

the  world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  con;.fort  is  in 

me'! 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure! 

but  thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 

again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 

or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 

brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 

of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 

call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 

of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long 

way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I 

go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 

doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd,     happy,    fair     with 

orchard-lawns 
And    bowery  hollows    crown'd  with! 

summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievoui  \ 

wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 

and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 
That,   fluting  a  wild  carol   ere   her 

death. 


THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


79 


iluffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir 

Bedivere 
Eevolving  many  memories,   till  the 

hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn, 
■  And   on  the  mere   the  wailing  died 

away. 

Hebe  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 

that  long 
Had  wink'd  and  threaten'd  darkness, 

flared  and  fell : 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to   sleep 

with  sound. 
And   waked    with    silence,    grunted 

"Good!"  but  we 
Sat  rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which 

he  read — • 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here 

and  there 
Bedeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  noth- 
ingness — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized 

his  work ; 
I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said. 
The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time 

of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for 

dawn: 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a,  man 

ill-used, 
"There  now  —  that's  nothing!"  drew 

a  little  back. 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoul- 

der'd  log. 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the 

flue: 
And  so  to  bed ;  Where  yet  in  sleep  I 

seem'd 
To   sail  with  Arthur  under  looming 

shores, 
I'oint  after  point;    till  on  to   dawn, 

when  dreams 
Begin   to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of 

day. 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 

crowd. 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  for- 
ward, bore 


King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentle- 
man 
Of  stateliest  port ;  and  all  the  people 

cried, 
"Arthur  is   come  again:   he  cannot 

die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills 

behind 
Repeated  —  "  Come  again,  and  thrice 

as  fair ; " 
And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed  — 

"Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall 

be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal. 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard 

indeed 
The   clear  church-bells   ring    in  the 

Christmas-morn. 


THE  GARDENER'S 
DAUGHTER; 

OR,    THE    PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the 

day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the   city 

went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter;   I 

and  he. 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  com- 
plete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that 

we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 
My  Eustace  might  have  sat    for 

Hercules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of 

breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love, 

and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up   and  closed  in  little;  — 

Juliet,  she    * 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  — 

oh, she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 

moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 


80 


THE    GARDENER'S'  DAUGHTER. 


Unto  the  shores  of   nothing!    Know 

you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of 

love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he 

found 
Empire  for  life  ?  but  Eustace  painted 

her. 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us 

then, 
"  When  will  you  paint  like  this  ?  "  and 

I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half 

in  jest,) 
"  'Tis  not    your  work,  but    Love's. 

Love,  unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you, 

made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 

hair 
More  black  than  as.hbuds  in  the  front 

of  March." 
And  Juliet  answer'd  laughing,  "Go 

and  see 
The  Gardener's  daughter:  trust  me, 

after  that. 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  mas- 
terpiece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 

went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor 

quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I 

love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes 

to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage 

hells; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves, 

you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster 

clock ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden 

lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow 

broad  stream. 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the 

oar. 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on. 
Barge-laden,   to   three   arches    of    a 

bridge 


Crown 'd  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are   dewy-fresh,  browsed   ly    deep- 

udder'd  kine. 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers 

low. 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmur- 
ous wings. 
In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in 

herself, 
Grew,  seldom  seen ;  not  less  among  us 

lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had 

not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the   Gardener's   daughter  1 

Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in 

grief. 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?    The  com- 
mon mouth. 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise 

of  her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the 

world. 
And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by 

Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and 

images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her 

name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my 

heart. 
And  told  me  I  should  love.    A  crowd 

of  hopes. 
That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like 

winged  seeds. 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and 

saw, 
Elutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 

balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the 

air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds   of 

thought, 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than 

the  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the 

dark  East, 


THE    GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


81 


Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal 

mom. 
And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory 

folds 
For  ever  in  itself  the  daj  we  went 
To  see  her.     All  the  land  in  flowery 

squares. 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing 

wind. 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one 

large  cloud 
Drew   downward :    but    all    else    of 

heaven  was  pure 
Xjp  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge 

to  verge. 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

And  now, 
As  tho'  'twere   yesterday,  as  tho'  it 

were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  mom  with 

all  its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the 

life  of  these,) 
Bings  in  mine  ears.    The  steer  forgot 

to  graze. 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the 

pathway,  stood. 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor 

field. 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.    From  the 

woods 
Came  voices    of    the  well-contented 

doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

for  joy. 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he 

near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

and  right. 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the 

hills; 
,The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm ; 
IThe  redcap  whistled;  and  the  night- 
ingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of 

day. 
And  Eustace  tum'd,  and  smiling 

said  to  me, 
"Hear  how  the  bushes  echo !  by  my 

life. 
These  birds   have    joyful    thoughts. 

Think  you  they  sing 


Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they 

sing'? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens 

for  what  they  have  ?  " 
And   I   made   answer,    "  Were   there 

nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but 

only  love. 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 

praise." 
Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read 

my  thought. 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had 

pass'd, 
We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the 

North; 
Down   which    a  well-worn    pathway 

courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge ; 
This,  yielding,   gave   into    a    grassy 

walk 
Thro'  crowded    lilac-ambush    trimly 

pruned; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.    In 

the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-greon  layers 

of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and    mo- 
mently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver 

lights. 
"Eustace,"    I    said,   "this  wonder 

keeps  the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  "  Look !  look ! "    Before  he 

ceased  I  tum'd. 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  veheld  her 

there. 
For  up  the  porch   there   grew  an 

Eastern  rose. 
That,  flowering  high,  thi  last  night's 

gale  had  caught. 
And  blown  across  the  walk.    One  arm 

aloft  — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to 

the  shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she 

stood, 


82 


THE   GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown 
hair 

Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the 
flowers 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wav- 
ering 

Lovingly    lower,    trembled    on    her 
waist  — 

Ah,  happy    shade  —  and    still    went 
wavering  down. 

But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might 
have  danced 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles, 
dipt. 

And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  com- 
mon ground ! 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows, 
and  sunn'd 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe 
bloom. 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against 
her  lips. 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 
breast 

As  never  pencil  drew.     Half   light, 
half  shade. 

She   stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old 
man  young. 
So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house ;  but 
she,  a  Rose 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant 
toil. 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tend- 
ance turn'd 

Into  the  world  without;  till  close  at 
hand. 

And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  in- 
tent, 

^his  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of 
that  air 

Which  brooded  round  about  her  : 

"  Ah,  one  rose, 

One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 
cull'd, 

VVere  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd 
on  lips 

Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

Shelook'drbut  all 

Suffused  with  blushes  —  neither  self- 
possess'd 

tfor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood 
and  that. 


Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet  —  paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and 

turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd 

her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

came. 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it. 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-i 

like. 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd 

there 
Till   every  daisy  slept,   and    Love's 

white  star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in 

the  dusk. 
So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  live- 
long way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter 

me. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  will  you  climb  the 

top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to 

dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ■?  you,  not  you,  —  the  Mas- 
ter, Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 
So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  featvires  in  the 

gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and 

o'er. 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the 

glance 
That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise 

of  life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such 

a  voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,: 

and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the 

dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watch- 
man peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I 

heard 
The  heavy  clocks  kaolling  the  drowsj 

hours. 


THE   GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


S3 


The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all 

good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded 

wings. 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 
Love  at  first  sight,  first-bom,  and 

heir  to  all. 
Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward 

squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where 

she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me ;  sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For  tulips;  then  for  roses,  moss  or 

musk, 
To  grace  my  city  rooms ;  or  fruits  and 

cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm ;  and  more 

and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my 

cheek ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with 

happy  dew  ; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 

each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year. 
One  after  one,  thro'  that  still  garden 

pass'd ; 
Each    garlanded    with  her    peculiar 

flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the 

shade ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day 

by  day. 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly 

known. 
Her  beauty  grew ;  till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep 

"I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God, 

to  hold 
iTrom  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds  :  but 

I  rose  up 
Pull  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her 

dark  eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I 

reach'd 


The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  stand- 
ing there. 
There  sat  we  "lown  upon  a  garden 

mound. 
Two  mutually  enfolded;   Love,   the 

third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both  ;  and  over  many  a 

range 
Of  waning  lime  the   gray  cathedral 

towers. 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows  :  from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells ;  we  listen'd ;  with  the  time 

we  play'd, 
We  spoke  of  other  things ;  we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  Jieart,  more  near 

and  near. 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke 

to  her, 
Kequiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine 

own. 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  tu 

hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I 

loved; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  an- 

swer'd  me. 
And  in  the   compass  of  three  little 

words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one. 
The   silver   fragments   of   a  broken 

voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  "  I  am 

thine." 
Shall  I  cease  here  ?    Is  this  enough 

to  say 
That  my  desire,   like    all    strongest 

hopes. 
By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself. 
Merged  in  completion  ?     Would  you 

learn  at  full 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  in- 
deed 


8* 


VUKA. 


X  had  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding   the   folded    annals    of  my 
youth ; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit 
brows  went  by, 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips. 

And  spake,  "  Be  wise  :  not  easily  for- 
given 

Are  those,  who  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers   of  the 
heart, 

Let  in  the  day."   Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of   that  which  came  between,  more 
sweet  than  each. 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  — 
in  sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  ut- 
terance. 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might 
I  not  tell 

Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges 
given. 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows. 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one 
wild  leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as 
above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleet- 
ing stars  ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit. 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores, 

And  in  the  hollows  ;  or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of 
sighing  wind. 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 
But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 


On  that  veil'd   picture  —  veil'd,  for 

what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common 

day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.    Raise 

thy  soul ; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine 

eyes ;  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart. 
My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my 

youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  1 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 

age. 


DORA. 


With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his 

son. 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd 

at  them. 
And  often  thought,  "  I'll  make  them 

man  and  wife.'' 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William ;  but  the 

youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the 

house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said, 

"  My  son : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I 

die: 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora;  she  is 

well 
To  look  to ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 

he  died 
In  foreign  lands ;  but  for  his  sake  I 

bred 
His  daughter  Dora :  take  her  for  your 

wife ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  day. 


DORA. 


8J 


For  many  years."    But  William  an- 

swer'd  short; 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said ; 
"  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  an- 
swer thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was 

law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look 

to  it ; 
Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to 

think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my 

wish; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you 

shall  pack. 
And  never  more   darken  my   doors 

again." 
But  William  answer'd  madly ;  bit  his 

lips, 
And  broke  away.    The  more  he  look'd 

at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways 

were  harsh; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then 

before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 

fields ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd 

and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love 

you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was 

my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his 

wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.    My  will 

is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.    She 

thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will 

change ! " 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was 

born  a  boy 


To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on 

him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's 

gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd 

him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 

save. 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did 

they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he 

died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.    Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy, 

and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and 

said: 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  how. 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro' 

me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's 

gone. 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to 

you: 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 

five  years 
So  full  a  harvest:   let  me  take  the 

boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the 

boy. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him 

that's  gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 

her  way 
Across  the  wheat,   and  sat  upon  a 

mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 

grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his 

men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the 

child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone 

to  him. 


86 


DORA. 


But  her  heart  fail'd  her ;  and  the  reap- 
ers reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 
and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the 

flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 

hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's 

eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the 

iield 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at 

•  work. 
And  came  and  said :  "  Where  were  70U 

yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that  ?     What  are  you 

doing  here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answer'd  softly,  "This  is  Wil- 
liam's child ! " 
"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "did  I 

not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ■?"   Dorasaid  again : 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child. 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him 

that's  gone ! " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman 

there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet 

you  dared 
To  slight  it.    Well  — for  I  will  take 

the  boy ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me 

more." 
\    So  saying,  he  took  the  boy  that  cried 
i  aloud 

And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of 

flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her 

hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the 

field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd 

down  her  head, 


Remembering  the  day  when  first  she 

came. 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.    She 

bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers 

reap'd. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  ah  the  land  was 

dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house, 

and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.    Mary  saw  the 

boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out 

in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the 

boy; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with 

you: 
He  says   that  he  will  never  see  me 

more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "  This  shall  never 

be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble 

on  thyself : 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have 

the  boy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and 

to  slight 
His  mother ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will 

go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring 

him  home ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee 

back: 
But  if  he  will  not   take   thee  back 

again. 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one 

house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until 

he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd 

the  farm. 
The    door  was   off  the  latch:   they 

peep'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsrre's 

knees. 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his 

arm, 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


8? 


And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on 

the  clieeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  :  and  the  lad 

stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that 

hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and.  sparkled  by 

the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary 

said: 
"  0   Father !  —  if  you  let  me  call 

you  so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I 

come 
Tor  Dora :  take  her  back ;  she  loves 

you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying 

me  — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife :   but,  Sir, 

he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 

thus; 
•  God  bless  him ! '  he  said,  '  and  may 

he  never  know 
The  troubles  I   have    gone    thro' ! ' 

Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that  I 

am! 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 

you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  take  Dora 

back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the 

room; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs : — 
"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame. 

1  have  killed  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him 

my  dear  son. 


May  God  forgive  me !  —  I  have  been 
to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children.'' 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him 
many  times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse ; 

And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold; 

And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er 
William's  child 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;   and  as 
years 

Went  forward,   Mary  took    another 
mate; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  Tier 
death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"  The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd, 

and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.    Let  us  picnic 

there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the 

narrow  quay, 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm. 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat. 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.    "  With  all 

my  heart," 
Said  Francis.     Then  we   shoulder'd 

thro'  the  swarm. 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the 

beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest 

horn. 
We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 

lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite;  so  by  many  a 

sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath 

we  reach'd 
The  griflin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd 

thro'  all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of   sounding  syoa> 

mores. 


88 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gar- 
dener's lodge. 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 

walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy 

vine. 
There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Fran- 
cis laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 

and  hound, 
'Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt 

of  home, 
And,  half-cut-down,   a  pasty  costly- 
made. 
Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  lev- 
eret lay. 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden 

yolks 
Imbedded  and    injellied;    last,  with 

these, 
A  flask  of    cider  from  his  father's 

vats. 
Prime,  which  I  knew ;  and  so  we  sat 

and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  matters  over;  who  was 

dead. 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 

how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent 

the  hall ; 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how 

scarce  it  was 
This    season;   glancing    thence,   dis- 

cuss'd  the  farm. 
The  four-field  system,  and  the  price  of 

grain; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 

we  split. 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces;   till  he  laugh'd 

aloud ; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 

hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine 

and  sang — 
"  Oh !  who  would  fight  and  march 

and  countermarch. 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field. 
And  shovell'd  up  into  some  bloody 

trench 
Where  no  one  knows  1  but  let  me  live 

my  life. 


"Oh!  who  would  cast  and  balance 

at  a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three- 

legg'd  stool. 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his 

joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  1  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"  Who'd  serve  the  state  ?  for  if  I 

carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native 

land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the 


The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"  Oh !  who  would  love  ■?  I  woo'd  a 

woman  once. 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern 

wind. 
And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as 

a  thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea ;  but  let  me  live 

my  life." 
He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with 

mine: 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  a,ll  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir 

Robert's  pride. 
His  books  —  the  more  the  pity,  so  I 

said  — 
Came  to  the  hanimer  here  in  March — 

and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I 

knew. 
"  Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and 

dream  of  me : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine. 
"Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's 

arm; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thon. 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 
"  Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace 

upon  her  breast : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  agjunst 

her  lip : 
I  go  to-night :  I  come  to-morrow  mom. 
"I  go,  but  I  return :  I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of   the   darkness   and  the 

dream. 


WALKING    TO    THE  MAIL. 


m 


Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 

of  me." 
So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis 

Hale, 
The  farmer's  son,  who  liyed  across  the 

bay, 
My  friend ;  and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 
4.  rolling  stone   of  here   and  every- 
where, 
Did  what  I  would ;  but  ere  the  night 

we  rose 
And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the 

leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 

quay. 
The  town  was  hush'd   beneath    us : 

lower  dov/n 
The  bay  was  oily   ;alm;   the  harbor 

buoy, 
Sole  star  of  phosp  lorescence  in  the 

calm,   • 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at 

heart. 


WALKING  TC    THE  MAIL. 

John.   I'm  glad  I  walk'd.    How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago, 
The  whole  hill-side  was  redder  than  a 

fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway 

joins 
The  turnpike? 
James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by? 
James.  The  mail  1  At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now  ■? 

James.  A  quarter  to. 
John.      Whose  house  is  that  I  see  ? 
No,  not  the   County  Member's  with 

the  vane : 
Up  higher  with  the  yew-tree  by  it, 
and  half 


A  score  of  gables. 

James.   That '    Sir  Edward  Head's : 
But  he's  abroad :  the  place  is  to  be 

sold. 
John.   Oh,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 
James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd   with   a  morbid   devil   in    his 

blood 
That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice, 

hid  his  face 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with 

himself. 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily 

life  — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or 

less  — 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for 

change. 
John.   And  whither  ■? 
James.   Nay,  who  knows  ?  he's  here 

and  there. 
But  let  him  go;  his  devil  goes  with 

him. 
As  well   as   with  his  tenant,  Jocky 

Dawes. 
John.   What's  that  ? 
James.  You  saw  the  man  —  on  Mon- 
day, was  if?  — 
There    by  the    humpback'd  willow; 

half  stands  up 
And    bristles;    half    has   fall'n  and 

made  a  bridge ;   ^ 
And  there  he   caught   the    younker 

tickling  trout  — 
Caught  in  flagrante  — what's  the  Latin 

word  ?  — 
Delicto :   but   his  house,  for  so  they 

say. 
Was  haunted  with  a  jolly  ghost,  that 

shook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt 

at  doors. 
And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servant 

stay'd : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds 

and  chairs. 
And  all  his  household  stuff;  and  with 

his  boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the 

tilt. 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

him,  "  What  1 


90 


WALKING    TO    THE  MAIL. 


You're  flitting!"      "Yes,   we're   flit- 
ting," says  tlie  ghost 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among 

the  beds,) 
"  Oh  well,"  says  he,  "  you  flitting  with 

us  too  — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

again." 
John.  He  left  Us  wife  behind ;  for 

so  I  heard. 
James.   He  left  her,  yes.    I  met  my 

lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as 

crabs. 
John.   Oh  yet  but  I  remember,  ten 

years  back  — 
Tis  now  at  least  ten  years  —  and  then 

she  was  — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter 

thing : 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a 

pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a 

foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a 

skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 

flowers. 
James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades, 

and  they  that  loved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat 

and  dog. 
She  was  the  (lg,ughter  of  a  cottager. 
Out  of  her  sphere.     What  betwixt 

shame  and  pride. 
New  things  ano  old,  himself  and  her, 

she  sour'd 
To    what    she    is :    a    nature    never 

kind! 
I/ike  men,  like  manners :  like  breeds 

like,  they  say : 
Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  man- 
ners next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand ; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the 

great. 
John.   But  I  had  heard  it  was  this 

bill  that  past. 
And  fear  of   change  at  home,  that 

drove  him  hence. 
James.   That  was  the  last  drop   in 

the  cup  of  gall. 


I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailifl 

brought 
A  Chartist  pike.    You  should  have 

seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing  •.  he  thought 

himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a 

cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and 

his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs ,  but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 

.world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that 

have ;  and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from 

age  to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.    Now  I 

myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I 

would. 
I  was  at  school  —  a  college  in  the 

South: 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near ;  we  stol£ 

his  fruit, 
His  hens,  his  eggs ;  but  there  was  law 

for  us  ; 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow, 

sir.    She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  con- 
tent. 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun 

and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  col- 
lege tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  cork- 
screw stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the 

groaning  sow, 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  ~ 

pigg'd. 
Large    range    of    prospect   had    tlic ' 

mother  sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  but  for 

this  — 
As    never  sow   was    higher  in    this 

world  — 


EDWIN  MORRIS;    OR,    THE  LAKE. 


91 


Might  have  been  happy :  but  what  lot 

is  pure  ^ 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left 

alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
^.nd   so  return'd  unfarrow'd  to  her 

sty. 
J-ihn.   They  found  you  out  "^ 
James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  —  after  all  — 

#hat  know  we  of   the  secret  of  a 

man? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.    What  ails 

us,  who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool 

the  world. 
Which  charts  us   all  in    its    coarse 

blacks  or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm. 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity  —  more  from  ignorance  than 

will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or 

I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here 

it  comes 
With  five  at  top :  as  quaint  a  four-in- 
hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  tliree  pyebalds  and 

a  roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS; 

OR,    THE    LAKE. 

0  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters 

of  a  year. 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing :  curves  of  moun- 
tain, bridge. 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock : 
And  here   new-comers  in  an  ancient 

hold. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  milhon- 

aires. 
Here  lived  the  Hills  —  a  Tudor-chim- 
nied  bulk 


Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of 

bowers. 
0  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 

lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward 

Bull 
The  curate;  he  was  fatter  than  his 

cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 

names. 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss 

and  fern. 
Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks. 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row, 

to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own  —  I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for 

he  seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early 

life, 
And  his  first  passion ;  and  he  ahswer'd 

me; 
And  well  his  words  became  him :  was 

he  not 
A  f  ull-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  fiowers  t    Poet-like  he 

spoke. 

"My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to 

that. 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 

for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for 

her. 
Of    different    ages,   like    twin-sisters 

grew. 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the 

sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move 

and  change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the 

dark. 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  be- 
tween ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfiU'd,  to  rise  again- 


92 


EDWIN  MORRIS;     OK,    THE  LAKE. 


Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it 

sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to 

breathe." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 

spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate  Edward 

Bull, 
"  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 

the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well. 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us 

up, 
And  keeps  us  tight ;  but  these  unreal 

ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and 

indeed 
Worn  threadbare.    Man  is  made  of 

solid  stuff. 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the 

man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I, "  you  pitch  the  pipe 

too  low ; 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can 

run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his : 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  have  other  music :  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such 

a  dream  ? " 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardonically. 

"  Give  ? 
Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a 

light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy 

cheek ; 
"  I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my 

heart. 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No   deeper  than  the  skin ;  my  ears 

could  hear 
Her  lightest  breath ;  her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went 

and  came ; 


Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer 

land; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.   Thrice-happy 


The  flower  of  each,  those  moments 

when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no 

more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a 

beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  1  but  something 

jarr'd ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ;  that 

there  seem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self 

conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness :  howsoe'er  it  was, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said : 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  your- 
self alone 
Of  all  men  happy.     Shall  not  Love  to 

me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right 

and  left  ? 
But  you  can  talk :  yours  is  a  kindly 

vein : 
I  have,  I  think,  —  Heaven  knows  —  as 

much  within ; 
Have,   or    should    have,  but    for   a 

thought  or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the 

greens 
Looks  out  of  place :  'tis  from  no  want 

in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modem 

mind 
Dissecting  passion.    Time  will  set  me 

right." 

So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things 

that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull: 
"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of 

man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world  " 


EDWIN  MORRIS;    OR,    THE  LAKE. 


93 


And  I  and  Edwin  laughed  ;  and  now 
we  paused 

About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to 
hear 

The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy- 
holms 

And  alders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we 
left 

The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 

By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 

Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the 
sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on 
their  crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by 

him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroU  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'Tis  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  I  had,  no 

more : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous 

suitj 
The  close,  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours  " ; 

and  this 
Thrice    underscored.      The    friendly 

mist  of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.     I  boated  over,  ran 
My   craft  aground,  and   heard   with 

beating  heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelv- 
ing keel ; 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept :  she 

moved, 
Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering 

flowers  : 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  wliistled  thrice ; 

and  she. 
She  turn'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet :  a  silent  cousin 

stole 
Upon  us  and  departed :  "  Leave,"  she 

cried, 
"  O     leave    me ! "     "  Never,    dearest, 

never :  here 
I  brave   the  worst : "  and   while  we 

stood  like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and   out 

they  came 
Trustees     and    Aunts     and     Uncles.  I 


"  What,  with  him ! 
Go "     (shrill'd    the     cotton-spinning 

chorus ) ;  "  him ! " 
I  choked.     Again  they  shriek'd  the 

burthen  —  "  Him ! " 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  reiection 

"Go!  — 
Girl,  get  you  in ! "'  She  went  —  and  in 

one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand 

pounds. 
To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in 

York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me, 
They    set    an    ancient    creditor    to 

work: 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force 

and  arms : 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the 

king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy ! 
I  read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying 

turn'd : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  be- 
low: 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-button'd  to 

the  storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have 

seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared 

to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear  ?  perhaps :  yet 
long  ago 

I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty;  not  in- 
deed. 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but 
this. 

She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days 
to  me; 

'Eor  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  Lon- 
don life 

She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the 
lake. 

While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his 
wing,  or  then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  over- 
head 

The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the 
summer  crag. 


94 


ST.   SIMEON  STYLITES. 


ST.   SIMEON   STYLITES. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
From  scalp  to  sole   one  slough  and 

crust  of  sin, 
Unfit    for    earth,  unfit    for   heaven, 

scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blas- 
phemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I 

hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn 

and  sob. 
Battering  the  gates   of  heaven  with 

storms  of  prayer, 
Ha ve'- mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my 

sin. 
Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 

God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 

years. 
Thrice    multiplied    by    superhuman 

pangs. 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and 

cold. 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous 

throes  and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the 

cloud. 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp, 

and  sleet,  and  snow ; 
And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period 

closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 

thy  rest. 
Denying    not    these    weather-beaten 

limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe 

and  the  palm. 
0  take  the  meaning.  Lord :  I  do  not 

breathe, 
Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  com- 
plaint. 
'Fain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this, 

were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to 

bear. 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O  Lord,  Lord, 


Thou  knowest  I  bore   this  better  at 

the  first. 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body 

then ; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are 

dropt  away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all 

my  beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the 

moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl 

with  sound 
Of    pious    hymns    and    psalms,   and 

sometimes  saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I 

sang. 
Now  am   I  feeble    grown;    my  end 

draws  nigh ; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh :  half  deaf 

I  am. 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people 

hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost 

blind. 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I 

know; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with 

the  dew; 
Yet  cease  I  not   to  clamor  and  to 

cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my 

weary  head. 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from 

the  stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy:   take  away  my 

sin. 
0  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my 

soul. 
Who  may  be  saved  %  who  is  it  may  be 

saved  ? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fail 

here? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer'd  more 

than  I.  I 

For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one! 

death  1 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  cruci- 
fied. 
Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or 

sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ;  but  I  die 

here 


?r.   SIMEON  STYLITES. 


95 


To-day  and  whole  years  long,  a  life 

01  death 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a 

way 
(And     heedfuUy    I    sifted    all    my 

thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to   subdue   this 

home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and 

hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  God. 
For  not  alone   this    pillar-punish- 
ment, 
Not  this   alone  I  bore :   but  while  I 

lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 

there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  robe  that  haled  the  buckets  from 

the  well. 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the 

noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that 

all 
My  brethren  marvell'd  greatly.    More 

than  this 
1  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest 

all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might 

grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain 

side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I 

lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless   close   of   ragged 

stones ; 
Inswathed    sometimes    in  wandering 

mist,  and  twice 
Black'd  with   thy  branding  thunder, 

and  sometimes 
Sucking  the   damps    for  drink,   and 

eating  not. 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those 

that  ;ame 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and 

live: 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  mir- 
acles. 
Whereof   my  fame  is  loud  amongst 

mankind, 


Cm-ed     lameness,     palsies,     cancers. 

Thou,  0  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy !  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone 

with  thee, 
Three  years   I  lived   upon  a  pillar, 

high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of 

twelve ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on 

one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure;    last  of  all,   I 

grew 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to 

this. 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the 

soil. 
I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much 

as  this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a 

time. 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow 

light, 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 

crowns — 
So  much — even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 

say, 
"Fall  down,  O  Simeon :   that  hast 

sufler'd  long 
For  ages  and  for  ages  ! ' '  then  they 

prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro' , 
Perplexing  me  with  lies ;   and  oft  I 

fall, 
Maybe  for  months,    in  such    blind 

lethargies 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time 

are  chocked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and 

all  the  saints 
Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men 

on  earth 
House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable 

roofs, 
Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 
And  wear  warm  clothes,   and   even 

beasts  have  stalls. 


96 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


I,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of 

the  light, 
Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred times, 
To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 

saints ; 
Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 
I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle ;  I  am 

wet 
With  drenching  dews,  or  stifE  with 

crackling  frost. 
I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my 
'  back ; 

A    grazing    iron    collar    grinds    my 

neck; 
And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 

cross. 
And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till 

Idle: 

0  mercy,  mercy !  wash  away  vaj  sin. 
O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man 

I  am; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in 
sin: 

1  IS  their  own  doing ;  this  is  none  of 

mine; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.    Am  I  to  blame  for 

this. 
That  here  come  those  that  worship 

me'!     Ha!  ha! 
They    think    that  I    am    somewhat. 

What  am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 
And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and 

flowers  : 
And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 

here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 

more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 

names 
Are  register'd    and    calendar'd    for 

saints. 
Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to 

me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit 

this? 
I  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 
It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  mira- 
cles, 
And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd ;  but 

what  of  that  ? 


It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the 

saints. 
May  match  his  pains  with  mine ;  but 

what  of  that  ? 
Yet  do  not  rise ;  for  you  may  look  on 

me. 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel 

to  God. 
Speak!  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or 

maim'd  ? 
I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power 

with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 

his  wish. 
Yes,  I  can  heal  him.    Power  goes 

forth  from  me. 
They  say  that  they  are  heald     Ah, 

hark !  they  shout 
"  St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.   Omysoul> 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.  If  this  be. 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.    They  were 

faints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  safved ; 
Yea,  crown'd   a   saint.     They   shout, 

"Behold  a  saint!" 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon !  This  dull  chrys- 
alis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope 

ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 

God  hath  now 
Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimefuj 

record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

0  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine 

bakes ; 
I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours, 

become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
Trom  my  high  nest  of  penance  here 

proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.    On  the  coals 

Hay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin :  all  hell  beneath 


THE   TALKING  OAK. 


97 


Made  me  boil  over.    Devils  pluck'd 

my  sleeve, 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I  smote   them  with   the  cross;   they 

swarm'd  again. 
In    bed    like    monstrous    apes    they 

crush'd  my  chest : 
They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read :  I 

saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 

book ; 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hog- 
gish whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way 

was  left, 
And  by  this   way  I   'scaped    them. 

Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with    scourges 

and  with  thorns  ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it 

may  be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,   and   pray.     I  hardly, 

with  slow  steps, 
With   slow,   faint    steps,  and    much 

exceeding  pain. 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 

that  stQl 
Sing  in  mine  ears.    But  yield  not  me 

the  praise : 
God  only  through  his  bounty  hath 

thought  fit. 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 

world. 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind. 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do 

not  say 
But  that  a  time  may  come — yea,  even 

now. 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps    smite   the 

threshold  stairs 
Of  life  —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without 

reproach ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about 

my  dust. 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my 

bones. 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious 
saints. 
Whilfr    I    spake   then,   a  sting  of 
slirewdest  pain 


Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloud- 
like change. 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made 

thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eye's.    The  end  S 

the  end! 
Surely  the    end !     What's   here  ?     a 

shape,  a  shade, 
A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel 

there  t 

That  holds  a  crown  ■?     Come,  blessed 

brother,  come. 
I  know  thy  glittering  face.     I  waited 

long; 
My  brows  are  ready.     What !  deny  it 

now  ? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.     So   I 

clutch  it.     Christ ! 
'Tis  gone ;  'tis  here  again ;  the  crown ! 

the  crown ! 
So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet!  sweet!   spikenard,  and  balm> 

and  frankincense. 
Ah !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints: 

I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven. 
Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man 

of  God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  pres- 
ently 
Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the 

shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  0  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people ;  let  them 

take 
Example,  pattern :  lead  them  to  thy 

light. 


THE   TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 


98 


THE    TALKING    OAK. 


Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke ; 

And  ah !  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint. 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 
And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour ; 
Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

"  0  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 
A     Whatever  maiden  grace 

The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year 
'     Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat. 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift. 


Bluff  Harry  broke  into  thtf  spence 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift ; 

"  And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Preeh  faces,  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 

"And  all  that  from  the  town  would 
stroll, 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 

Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

"  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood. 
And  others,  passing  praise. 

Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays : 

"  And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 
Of  beauties,  that  were  born 

In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 
Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 

"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day. 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick. 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago ; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"From  when  she  gamboU'd  on  the 
greens 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

"  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 
Did  never  creature  pass 


THE   TALKING   OAK. 


99 


So  slightly,  musically  made, 
So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

••For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit. 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

Oh,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace ; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 
That  oft  has  heard  my  vows. 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"  0  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town ; 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair. 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

•■  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy  ; 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"An    hour    had    past  —  and,   sitting 
straight 

"Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise. 
Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 

Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went. 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come. 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"  She  left  the  novel  half -uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf ; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

'  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing. 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild. 

As  close  as  might  be  would  hd  cling 
About  the  darling  child: 


"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir. 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and 
rose. 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

"  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me 
play'd. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  yea  mHf"i> 

About  my  '  giant  bole ; ' 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands. 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each. 
She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"Yet  seem'd  the  pressure   thrice   as 
sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold. 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  muflle  round  thy  knees  with  fern. 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  ? 

"O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she 
found. 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"  A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 
But  I  believe  she  wept. 

"Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosjr 
light. 
She  glanced  across  the  plain : 


soo 


THE   TALKING   OAK. 


But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight : 
She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

■"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd : 

"  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
Xike  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

*'  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  halm  — 

The  cushions   of  whose  touch  may 
press 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

*'  For  ah !  my  friend,  the  days  were 
brief 
Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
"When  that,  which  breathes  within  the 
leaf. 
Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

"  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 

With  usury  thereto." 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 


"  'Tis  little  more  :  the  day  was  warm ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids    dropp'd    their    silken 
eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 
The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly ; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck. 
From  head  to  ankle  fine, 

"Then  close  and  dark   my  arms  i 
spread. 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up. 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup. 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  waa 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

0  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"  0  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me. 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


101 


Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace, 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Lore  is  blest. 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Lore  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint. 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

Erom  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery-top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze    around    thee 
blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes ! 

The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot. 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain. 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep. 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath. 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth. 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 


And  when  my  marriage  morn  may 
fall. 

She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 

In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme. 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth. 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat. 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak. 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim. 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode. 
And  humm'd  a  stirly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 
Of  love  that' never  found  his  earthly 

close. 
What  sequel  ■?     Streaming  eyes   and 

breaking  hearts  ■? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 
Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round 

of  time 
Still  father  Truth  '\     O  shall  the  brag. 

gart  shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse   of  freedom 

work  itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to 

law 
System   and  empire  ■?     Sin  itself  be 

found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the 

Suni 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  be- 
come 
Mere  highway  dust  ?  or  year  by  year 

alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of 

himself  ? 
If  this  were   thus,  if  this,  indeed, 

were  all. 
Better  the   narrow  brain,  the  stony 

heart. 


102 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sap- 
less days, 
The  long  tnechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apatlietic  end. 
But   am   I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy 

lore? 
O  three  times  less  unworthy !  likewise 

thou 
Art  more  tltto'  Lore,  and  greater  than 

thy  years 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the 

Moon 
Her  circle.    "Wait,  and  Love  himself 

will  bring 
The   drooping  flower   of   knowledge 

changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large 

in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  per- 
fect end. 
"Will  some  one  say,  Then  why  not  ill 

for  good  ■? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  1     To 

that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew 

the  right 
And  did  it;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a 

man. 
—  So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee 

and  me  — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my 

heart  so  slow 
To  feel  it !  For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to 

me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid   thro'   half 

tears  would  dwell 
One   earnest,  earnest  moment   upon 

mine. 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low 

voice, 
■Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 

keep 
My  own  full-tuned,  —  hold  passion  in 

a  leash, 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy 

neck. 
And    on    thy  bosom    (deep  desired 

relief!) 
Eain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh'd 


Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  soull 
For  Love  himself  took  part  against 

himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of 

Love  — 
0  this  world's   curse,  —  beloved  but 

hated  —  came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace 

and  mine. 
And  crying,   "  Who  is  this  ?   behold 

thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these  — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine:   thou 

knowest  it  all. 
Could  Love  part  thus?  was  it  not 

well  to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once  ?    It  could  not 

but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  good. 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  ill. 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 

the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hoUow'd  all  the 

heart. 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an 

eye, 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred 

times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the 

last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived 

and  died. 
Then.  foUow'd   counsel,  comfort,  and: 

the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speak- 
ing truth; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  over- 
head 
The  lights  of   sunset  and  of  sunrise 

mix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night) 

that  paused 


THE    GOLDEN   YEAR. 


103 


Among  her  stars   to  hear  us;   stars 

that  hung 
Love-oharm'd  to  listen :  all  the  wheels 

of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end 

had  come. 
0  then  like  those,  who  clench  their 

nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There  —  closing    like  'an    indiridual 

life  — 
In  one  blind  cry  of   passion  and  of 

pain. 
Like  bitter  accusation  er'n  to  death. 
Caught  up   the  whole   of   lore   and 

utter'd  it, 
And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  — ■  yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  know- 
ing all 
Life    needs   for   life    is    possible    to 

will  — 
Live  happy ;    tend  thy  flowers ;  .  be 

tended  by 
My    blessing!     Should    ray    Shadow 

cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it 

thou 
Tor  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  dark- 
est hold. 
If    not    to    be    forgotten  —  not    at 

once  — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross 

thy  dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks 

content. 
With  quiet   eyes   unfaithful   to    the 

truth, 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant 

light, 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy 

heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake 

refresh'd 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp 

hath  grown 
Full  quire,  and  morning  driv'n  her 

plow  of  pearl 
F.ir  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 

rack, 
Beyon'1  the  fair  green  field  and  east- 
ern sea. 


THE    GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Weli,,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 

Leonard  wrote : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales : 
Old  James  was  with  me  ;  we  that  day 

had  been 
Up  Snowdon  ;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leon- 
ard there. 
And  found  him  in  Llanberis  :  then  we 

crost 
33etween  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  half 

way  up 
The  counter  side  ;  and  that  same  song 

of  his 
He  told  me  ;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and 

swore 
They  said  he  lived   shut  up  within 

himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous 

days. 
That,  setting  the  liow  much  before  the 

how, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse- 
leech, "  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me 

the  herd ! 
To  which  "They  call  me  what  they 

will,"  he  said : 
"  But  I  was  born  too  late :  the  fair  new 

forms. 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an 

age, 
Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be 

caught  — 
Catch  me  who   can,  and  make  the 

catcher  prown'd  — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if    you   care    indeed   to    listen, 

hear 
These  njeasured  words,  my  work  of 

yestermorn. 
"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but 

all  things  move  ; 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother 

Sun; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her 

ellipse ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 
Move  onward,  leadmg  up  the  golden 

year. 


104 


ULYSSES. 


"  Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 

thought  can  bud, 
A.re  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they 

flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the 

shore, 
Hare  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their 

march, 
And  slow  and  sure    comes  up    the 

golden  year. 
"When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest 

in  mounded  heaps. 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly 

melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands. 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be 

liker  man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden 

year. 
"  Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles '  wrens 

be  wrens  ? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of 

that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.    Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 

year. 
"  My,  happy  happy  sails,  and  bear 

the  I'ress ; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the 

Cross ; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  hayen- 

ward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll. 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
"But  we  grow  old.    Ah!  when  shall 

all  men's  good  ■ 
Be  each  man's    rule,  and  universal 

Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the 

sea. 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of   the   golden 

year  ?  " 
Thus    far    he    flow'd,  and  ended; 

whereupon 
■■  Ah,  folly ! "  in  mimic   cadence  an- 

swer'd  James  — 
"  Ah,  folly  1  for  it  lies  so  far  away. 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's 

time. 


'Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that 
lire ; 

'Twere  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 
Heaven 

As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 
«he  rocks 

And  broke  it,  —  James,  —  you  know 
him,  —  old,  but  full 

Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  hia 
feet. 

And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter 
woods, 

O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis : 

Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

"  What  stufe  is  this ! 

Old  writers  push'd  the  happy  season 
back, — 

The  more  fools  they,  —  we  forward: 
dreamers  both : 

You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every 
hour 

Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the 
death. 

Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seeds- 
man, rapt 

Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 
plunge 

His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I 
know 

That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels- 
he  works. 

This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  th& 
doors." 
He  spoke ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard, 
them  blast 

The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great- 
echo  flap 

And  buffet  round  the  hills,  from  bluff 
to  bluff. 


LT.YSSES. 
It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  bar- 
ren crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  an* 
know  not  me. 


UL  YSSES. 


lOS 


I  cannot  rest  from  travel ;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  en- 

joy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both 

with  those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore, 

and  when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vextthedimsea:  lambecomeaname; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry 

heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities 

of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov- 
ernments. 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them 

all; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 

peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy 

Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met  ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where- 

thro' 
Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose 

margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in 


As 


Life 


tho'  to  breathe  were  life. 

piled  on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 

more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it 

were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking 

star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human 

thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema- 

chus. 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the 

isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 

mild 


A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the 

good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  th& 

sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work, 

I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs 

her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought^ 

and  thought  with  me  — • 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The   thimder  and  the  sunshine,  and 

opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and 

I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ;. 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere 

the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 

done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  th& 

rocks : 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon 

climbs :  the  deep 
Moans    round    with    many    voices^ 

Come,  my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push   off,  and  sitting  well   in   order 

smite 
The   sounding  furrows;  for  my  pur- 
pose holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  th& 

baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die.    ' 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 

down  ; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 

Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and 

tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which 

in  old  days 


106 


TITHONUS. 


Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which 

we  are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but 

strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 

yield. 


TITHONUS. 
The  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  world, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a 

dream 
The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Par-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 

seem'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, 
I/ike  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 

they  give. 
,  But    thy    strong    Hours    indignant 

work'd  their  wills. 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'd  and 

wasted  me, 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left 

mo  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'  ever 

now. 
Close   over  us,   the   silver  star,  thy 

guide, 
Shines  ir  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  glim- 
mer steals 
Prom  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 

shoulders  pure. 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  re- 

new'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  beauti- 
ful 

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  canaot  recall 

their  gifts." 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


107 


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  crim- 

son'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I 

lay. 
Mouth,    forehead,    eyelids,    growing 

dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-open- 
ing 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  seest  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. 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest. 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  i  fruitful  land  reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  • 


108  I.OCKSLEY  HALL. 


When  1  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see  ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  hreast ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  youngj 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  pheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd  —  her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong"; 
Saying, "  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ?  "  weeping, "  I  have  loved  thee  long, ' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring.    ' 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted !     0  my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !     O  the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

raiser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs- have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  t.  —  having  known  me  —  to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine ! 

Vet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day. 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is :  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  dowii. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  109 


He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  haye  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

"What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy :  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought  : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand  — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tlio'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
KoU'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well  —  'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster!  —  Hadst  thou  less  unworthy 

proved  — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ■? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  1 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore? 
No  —  she  never  loved  me  truly :  love  is  love  for  evermore. 

Comfort  ■?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings. 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proofj      _ 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall. 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep. 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 


110  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Thou  Shalt  hear  the  "  Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years. 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

*'  They  were   dangerous   guides   the  feelings  —  she  herself   was  ao^ 

exempt  — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  "  — ■  Perish  in  thy  self-contempt  I 

Overlive  it  —  lower  yet  —  be  happy !  wherefore  should  I  care  1 
1  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these  * 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roU'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?     I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  thy  deep  emotion,  0  thou  wondrous  Mother-Age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield. 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn. 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  be  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men: 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  lU 


Men,  ray  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do; 

Tor  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see. 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue ; 

Par  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-stormj 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe. 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye? 

Eye.  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point: 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creeping  nigher. 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  wideu'd  with  the  process  of  the  sung. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
?ull  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  mv  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn. 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain- 
Nature  made  them  blinder  mot'nns  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain : 


1x2  LOVKSLEY  HALL. 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine. 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd ;  — 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to  wander  far  away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mfeJ'ow  moons  and  happy  skies. 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palius  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing 

space  ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron  jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run. 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books  — 

Tool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild. 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains  I' 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one. 

Than  that  earth  should  sland  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalou 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.    Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 


GODIVA. 


113 


Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  ram  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


GODIVA. 

t  waited  for  the  tram  at  Coventry  ; 

I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridge, 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires  ;  and  there 

I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this :  — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that 

prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 

people  well. 
And  loathed  to  see  them  over-tax'd ; 

but  she 
Did  more,  and  vinderwent,  and  over- 
came. 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers 

back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who 

ruled 
Tn  Coventry :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers 
j  brought 

Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay, 

we  starve ! " 
She  sought  her  lord,  .and  found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone. 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his 

hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 


And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve." 
Whereat    he    stared,    replying,    half- 
amazed, 
"You  would  not  let  your  little  finger 

ache 
For  such  as  these?"  —  "But  I  would 

die,"  said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 

Paul: 
Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her 

ear; 
"  Oh  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk ! "  —  "  Alas !" 

she  said, 
"  But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not 

do." 
And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's 

hand. 
He  answer'd,  "  Ride  you  naked  thro' 

the  town. 
And  I  repeal  it " ;  and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn. 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among 

his  dogs. 
So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her 

mind. 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift 

and  blow. 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour. 
Till  pity  won.    She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of 

trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition;    but    that    she 

would  loose 


114 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


The  people :  therefore,  as  they  loved 

her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should 

pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing ;  but 

that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and 

window  barr'd. 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 

and  there 
Undasp'd  the  wedded  eagles   of  her 

belt. 
The  grim  Earl's  gift;  but  ever  at  a 

breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer 

moon 
Half -dipt  in  cloud:  anon  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to 

her  knee  ; 
TJnclad  herself  in  haste;  adown  the 

stair 
Stole  on ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sun- 
beam, slid 
From    pillar  unto    pillar,  until    she 

reach'd 
The  gateway ;  there  she  found  her 

palfrey  trapt 
In    purple    blazon'd    with    armorial 

gold. 
Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity : 
The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she 

rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon 

the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  :  the  barking 

cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame :  her  palfrey's 

footfall  shot 
Like  horrors  thro'  her  pulses :   the 

blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes;  and 

overhead 
Fantastic    gables,  crowding,   stared : 

but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 

saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from 

the  field 


Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archway  in  the 

wall. 
Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 

chastity : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thank. 

less  earth. 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will. 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his 

head. 
And  dropt  before  him.    So  the  Powers, 

who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  mis- 
used; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd  :  and 

all  at  once. 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound, 

the  shameless  noon 
Was  clash'd  and  hammer'd  from  a 

himdred  towers. 
One  after  one:   but  even   then  she 

gain'd 
Her  bower ;  whence  reissuing,  robed 

and  crown'd. 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax 

away 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PEOLOGUE. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  passed  away 
While,    dreaming    on   your    damask 
cheek. 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming  —  and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm. 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I 
had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw. 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 


2'HE  DAY-DREAM. 


115 


And  I  will  tell  it.     Turn  your  face, 
Nor    look    with    that    too-earnest 
eye  — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their 
place, 
And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 


THE   SLEEPING  PALACE. 
I. 
The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 
Clothes   and  reclothes    the  happy 
plains. 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf. 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  eurl'd. 
Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows 
come. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 
To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower. 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires. 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


Roof-haunting    martins    warm    their 
eggs : 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay  d. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the 
wall. 

IV. 

Eere  sits  the  Butler  with  a  flask 
Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd ;  and 
there 

The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 
The  maid-of -honor  blooming  fair; 

The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his  : 
Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak : 


His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss : 
The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass. 

The  beams,  that  thro'  the  Oriel  shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass. 

And   beaker  briram'd   with    noble 
wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 

Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as 
blood ; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and 
brier. 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 


When  will  the  hundred  summers  die. 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again. 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of 
men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain. 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and 
Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE   SLEEPING  BEAUTY, 
i. . 
Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet. 

The   maiden's    jetblack   hair   has 
grown. 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 
Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of 
pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 
And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  ourL 


il6 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


The  silk  etar-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
"Languidly  ever ;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward 
roU'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 
With    bracelets    of    the     diamond 
bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness  with  love,   and  day  with 
light. 


She  sleeps :   her  breathings  are  not 
heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps :  on  either  hand  upswells 

The    gold-fringed     pillow    lightly 
prest : 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  ARRIVAL. 


AiiL  precious  things,  discover'd  late. 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden 
worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass. 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close. 

Or  scatter'd  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

"  They    perish'd    in    their    daring 
deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"The  many  fail :  the  one  succeeds." 


He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  l.j 
seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge :    he  entei  ^ 
there : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  f  ai) , 
Tor  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 

And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 


More   close  and  close  his  footsteps 
wind: 
The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
The  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 
He  stoops  —  to  kiss  her  —  on  his 
knet. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 
How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  murt 
be!" 


THE   REVIVAL. 
I. 
A  TOUCH,  a  kiss !  the  charm  was  snapt. 
There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks. 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 
And   barking    dogs,    and    crowing 
cocks ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall. 
And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 


The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 
The    butler    drank,    the     steward 
scrawl'd. 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew. 
The  parrot  scream'd,  the  peacock 
squall'd, 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 
The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd  and 
clackt. 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


117 


And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd. 
And  yawn'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard ! 
How  say  youl  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'Twas  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "but  still 

My  joints  are  somewhat  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago  ?  " 
Tlie  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply  : 
But  dallied  with  liis  golden  chain. 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE  DEPAETUEE. 
I. 
And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant. 

And  round  her  waisb  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  this  utmost  purple  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  f oUow'd  him. 


"I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss;" 
"  0  wake  for  ever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  'twas  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star. 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar. 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

III. 
"O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep !  "  ^^ 
"  0  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled !  "^ 
"O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  ! " 
"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the 
dead ! " 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 


Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark. 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change» 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And   whither    goest  thou,  tell  me 
where '  " 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For    there     are    greater    wonderc 
there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  f  ollow'd  him. 


MOEAL. 
I. 
So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there. 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 
What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
Oh,  tc  what  uses  ohall  we  put 
"The  wildweed  flower  that  simply 
blows  ■? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead. 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend ; 
So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L'ENVOI. 

J. 

You   shake   your  head.     A  random 

string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well  —  were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 


lis 


AMPIIION. 


And    learn    the   world,   and    sleep 
again ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars. 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forras  of  stronger  hours. 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow. 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 
Tor  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth. 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 


So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decadesnewand  strange. 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The    flower    and    quintessence    of 
change. 

III. 
Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
Tor,  am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not 
care ; 
You'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song. 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro', 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you ; 
l&OT  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 


Por  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower. 
What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken'd 
hopes. 

What  lips,  like  thine,   so  sweetly 
joln'd  1 
Wliere  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind ; 


Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved. 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see : 
But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife, 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may 
give. 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life, 

And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 


EPILOGUE. 
So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me 
fair?" 
What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise. 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light  ■? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  —  earnest  wed  with  sport. 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 
My  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree. 

And  waster  than  a  warren : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call. 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  flddle  to  the  gate,  ' 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great; 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

'Tis  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue, 

Such  happy  intonation. 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation ; 


AMPHION. 


119 


Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 
He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes. 

The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 
And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown. 

And,  as  tradition  teaches, 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches ; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 

Kan  forward  to  his  rhyming, 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 

The  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her. 
And  down  the  middle,  buzz !  she  went 

With  all  her  bees  behind  her ; 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded. 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shod  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie ; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the 
grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  wasn't  it  a  sight  to  see. 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended. 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree. 

The  country-side  descended ; 
And   shepherds  from  the  mountain- 
eaves 

Look'd    down,    half-pleased,    half- 
frighten'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd ! 

Oh,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 
And  wanton  without  measure  ; 

So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 
You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 

Twang  out,  my    fiddle  I    shake    the 
twigs! 


And  make  her  dance  attendance ; 

Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs. 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 


'Tis  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle  ; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear  '  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading ; 
O  Lord ! — 'tis  in  my  neighbor's  ground. 

The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And    Works    on   Gardening   thro' 
there. 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses  !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen, 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places. 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt. 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt. 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil 

And  years  of  cultivation, 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom : 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom 


J20 


ST.   AGNES'  EVE. 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE. 
Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shadows  of  tlie  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and 
dark', 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  far. 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  tliy  bride,  a  glittering  star. 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors. 

And  strows  her  lights  below. 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the    Heavenly    Bridegroom 
waits. 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR   GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of 
men. 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high. 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 


The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and 

fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel ; 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above. 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and 
shrine : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier   'transports  move  and 
thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wid^ 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth. 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings. 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-mere* 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides. 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  star». 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 


EDWARD    GRAY. 


i2r 


The  cock  crows   ere   the   Christmas 
morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand 
and  mail ;  , 

But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
J  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams. 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear. 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and 
eyes. 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
■'  0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and 
pale, 
All-arra'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD   GRAY. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland   of  yonder 
town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
"And  have  you  lost  your  heart  ■?  " 
she  said ; 
"  And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 
Gray  ?  " 


Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 

Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away  : 
"  Sweet    Emma    Moreland,  love    no 
more 
Can   touch   the   heart   of   Edward 
Gray. 

"  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well. 
Against  her  father's  and  mother's 
will: 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hilL 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold ; 
Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over 
the  sea ; 
Eill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite. 
When  Ellen  Adair  was   dying  for 
me. 


"  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 
'You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'To  trouble  the   heart  of  Edward 
Gray.' 

"  There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  -~ 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did ; 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair ! ' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair ; 
And    here    the    heart  of    Edward 
Gray ! ' 

"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go. 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to 
tree; 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more,       ^ 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"  Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair! 
And  there   the   heart    of   Edward 
Gray ! " 


122 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S 
LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

MADE   AT    THE    COCK. 

0  PLTJMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 
To  which  I  most  resort. 

How  goes  the  time  '  'Tis  fire  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port ; 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  Tain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind. 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes. 

Ere  they  be  half -forgotten ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips. 
These  f avor'd  lips  of  mine ; 

Until  the  charm  hare  power  to  make 
New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom. 

And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans. 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways. 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days : 
1  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer ; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  mist. 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence. 


Which  vexes  public  men. 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them  — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  thd'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather ; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new ; 
Ten    thousand    broken    lights    and 
shapes. 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound : 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and 
shade 

Comes  out  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And  set  in  Heaven's  third  s'tory, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half -mused,  or  reeling  ripe, 
The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise. 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  "i 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn. 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head. 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 


WILL    WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


123 


For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  ; 
Each  month,  a  birth-day  coming  on. 

We  drink  defying  trouble. 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one. 

And  then  we  drank  it  double ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo ; 
Or  stow'd,  when  classic  Canning  died, 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers. 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call. 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this. 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop  ; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  earlj^, 
Bipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and 
good, 


Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 
Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spirev 

And  foUow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bo^ev 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door. 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks ! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  com- 
mon ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high :   what  draws  me 
down 

Into  the  common  day  ^ 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown. 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first. 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit,  my  empty  glass  reversed, 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask : 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare 

To  prove  myself  a  poet : 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can. 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  wba' 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 


124 


LADY  CLARE. 


Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone  ; 

"lis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone:  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more  ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door. 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the   Poet's  words  and 
looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow : 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd, 

He  flasli'd  his  random  speeches. 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  couldst  thou 
last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should 
pass: 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things 
suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots : 
Thy  latrer  days  increased  with  pence 


Go  down  among  the  pots : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  oiuf 
skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 

Returning  like  the  pewit. 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes. 
Till  mellow  Death,  like    some   late 
guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt 
cease 
To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of 
Death, 
Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,   and,  under- 
neath, 
A  pint-pot  neatly  graven. 


LADY  CLARE. 
It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow. 

And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 

To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 

They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn: 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  1 


LADY  CLARE. 


125 


"  He  does  not  love  me  lor  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  "  "Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ■?  " 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  O  God  be  thank'd ! "  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair  : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so 
wild  ■?  " 
"As   God's   above,"   said    Alice    the 
nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth .   vou  are  my 
child. 

"  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  maj^  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And    all    you    have    will    be    Lord 
Ronald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the' brooch  of  gold,^^ 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 


"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?  "   said  Alice 
the  nurse, 
"  The    man  will    cleave   unto  his 
right." 
"And  he   shall  have  it,"  the    lady 
replied, 
"  Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give   one  kiss  to  your  mother 
dear! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head. 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down. 
With  a  single  rose  in  her  air. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  follow'd  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his 
tower  : 
"O   Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your 
worth ! 
Why  come  you  drest  like   a  village 
maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  '' 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 


126 


THE   CAPTAIN 


"Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ro- 
nald, 
"For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
iShe  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 
He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her  where  she 
stood : 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  horn. 
And  I,"    said    he,    "the    next    in 
blood  — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "the  lawful  heir, 

"We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


THE   CAPTAIN. 

A    LEGEND   OF    THE    NAVT. 

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 
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 

Ear  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  for 
ward. 

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  f  oeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom ; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom. 
Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shat- 
ter'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 
sjSoken  — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
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     con' 
founded. 

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. 


THE   LORD    OF  BURLEIGH. 


127 


THE   LORD   OF  BURLEIGH. 
In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"  There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter. 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter. 

Presses  his  without  reproof  : 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present : 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand ; 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses. 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended. 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse. 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady. 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great. 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady. 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their 


0  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns  ; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before : 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call. 


While  he  treads  with  footsteps  firmer. 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine. 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin: 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove : 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  clieer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meebi' 
ness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  :  ■ 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her. 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn. 
With  the  burthen  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

And  she  murmur'd,  "  Oh,  that  he 
Were    once    more    that    landscape- 
painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me ! " 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early. 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town,   i 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her. 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


128 


THE    VOYAGE. 


THE  VOYAGE. 
I. 
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 ! 


How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire. 

And  bum  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 ! 


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 ; 


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 


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. 


O  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 
How   swiftly  stream'd  ye  by   the 
bark! 
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  foUow'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." 


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. 


SIJi  LAUNCELOT  AND  -QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 


129 


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. 
"  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. 


And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd. 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn ; 
We  lov'd  the  glories  of  the  world. 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn. 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and 
cease. 

But  whence  were  those  tliat  drove 
the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter  gale  ? 


Again  to  colder  climes  we  came. 

For  still  we  f oUow'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. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND 
QUEEN   GUINEVERE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

LiKe  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven 
again 
I  The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
'  Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 

Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 

And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 

The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

Erom  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song: 
Sometimes     the     throstle     whistled 

strong : 
Sometimes     the     sparhawk,    wheel'd 

along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of 

wrong : 
By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 
Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer. 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She    seem'd  a    part    of    joyous 
Spring : 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore. 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net. 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream- white  mule  his  pastern  set ; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the 
plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland 
rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade. 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd. 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  wordly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 

A  FAREWELL. 
Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 


130 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 


Mow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river : 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree. 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 
Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can 
say: 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  slept  down. 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 

She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen : 
One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome 
mien. 
So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  ne-^er  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath; 

"This   beggar  maid  shall    be  aiy 
queen ! " 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He    clasps    the    crag  with    crooked 

hands ; 
(Jlose  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow : 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
0,  happy  planet,  eastward  go ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  bornev 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light. 

And  more  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead. 
To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head. 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There   let  the  wind  sweep   and  the 
plover  cry ; 

But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error   or  thy 
crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest: 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick 
of  Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leaye  me 
where  I  lie : 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE   LETTERS. 
I. 
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." 

11. 
I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human 
heart. 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


131 


And  then  we  met  in  wratli  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. 

in. 
She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  com- 
prest, 
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. 

IV. 

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. 

V. 

"  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. 

VI. 

We  parted  :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars. 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue. 
Low  br(  ezes  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, 
Kiere  comes  a  sound  of  marriage 
bells. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late  r 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace- 
gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown. 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  I 

down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of 

sin. 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led 

him  in. 
Where   sat  a  company  with  heated 

eyes. 
Expecting  when  a    fountain  should 

arise : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 

lips — 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclipse. 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 

and  capes  — 
Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 

shapes. 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 


Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow 
sound. 

Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled 

Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 

Wov'n  in  circles :  they  that  heard  it 
sigh'd. 

Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale. 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones 
replied ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering 
wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and 
died. 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to 
fail, 

Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing 
Bale; 


132 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited, 
As  'twere  a  hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale. 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound. 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles. 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid 

mazes, 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue. 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces. 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew. 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces. 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces. 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Mutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  moun- 
tain-tract. 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn: 

I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn, 

Unheeded :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold. 

From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold. 

Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month 
and  year, 

Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  would 
have  spoken, 

And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew 
too  late : 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.  Mine 
was  broken. 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch'd  the 
palace  gate. 

And  link'd  again.  I  saw  within  my 
head 


A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean 

as  death. 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd 

heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruln'd  inn,  and  said  ; 


"  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin ! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

"  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed ; 
What !  the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  ha  ?e  a  quiet  hour, 
Let  us  1  ob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips. 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee : 

What  care  I  for  any  name  % 
What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

"Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg  : 
Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine : 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg  ■? 

Which  is  thinnest  '  thine  or  mine  1 

"  Thou  Shalt  not  be  saved  by  works: 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too : 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks. 
Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you ! 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  mom  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


I3i 


"  We  are  men  of  ruind  blood ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"Name  and  fame!  to  fly  sublime 
Thro'  the   courts,  the  camps,  the 
schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 
Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

"Friendship !  —  to  be  two  in  one  — 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack ! 

Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 
How|slie  mouths  behind  my  back. 

"  Via^Jue  !  —  to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

"  0  !  we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 

Have  a  rouse  before  the  mom : 
Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  horn. 

"  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave : 
They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave. 
For  they  know  not  what  they  mean 

"  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power ', 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

'  "  Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread ; 
In  her  right  a  civic  wreath. 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new ; 
She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 


And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go  !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs. 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-horn  of  her  sons. 

"  Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave. 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise. 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

"  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue ; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"  Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance ; 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads : 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 
Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  I 

"  Tou  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full. 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat. 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones. 
Madam  —  if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 


134 


THE    VISION  OF  SIN. 


"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip : 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 
Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo  !    God's  likeness  —  the  ground- 
plan — 
Neither     modell'd,      glazed,     nor 
framed : 
Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Tar  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death ! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near : 

What !  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all. 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"  Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can : 
Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 

Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man : 
Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 


The  voice  grew  faint;  there  came  a 

further  change : 
Once  more  uprosethemystic  mountain- 
range  ; 
Bslow  were  men  and  horses  pierced 

with  worms, 
And    slowly  quickening   into   lower 

forms ; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 

of  dross. 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  pateh'd 

with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake  :  "  Behold  1  it 

was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore 

with  time." 
Another  said  :   "  The  crime  of  sense 

became 


The  crime   of  malice,  and  is  equal 
blame." 

And    one  :     "  He    had    not    wholly 
quench'd  his  power ; 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour." 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to   the   summit,  "Is  there  any 
hope '  " 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that  j 
high  land. 

But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  under- 
stand ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rdSe'of 
dawn.  * 


TO , 

AFTER  READING  A  LIFE    AND  LETTERS. 

"  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bonee." 

Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now. 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent 
doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown: 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die, 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old. 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry : 

"Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not 
show: 
Break  lock  and  seal :  betray  the 

trust ; 
Keep  nothing  sacred :   tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 


TO  E.  L.,    ON  HIS   TRA  VELS  IN  GREECE. 


135 


Ah  shameless !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its 

worth ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 
His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown 
and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 


Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree. 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


TO  E.  L,,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS   IN 
GREECE. 

Illtrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass. 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  thmgs  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen. 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page, 
And  track'd   you  still  on  classic 

ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 
And  glisten'd  —  here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb'd  Gods  at  random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns ;  —  and  Naiads  oar  d 


A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars ;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell ; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 


Erom  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could 
utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at 
play! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  I 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd 
hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is 
still ! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET'S   SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of 
the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of 
the  sun. 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 


136 


THE  BROOK. 


And  chanted  a   melody  loud   and 

sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 

cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet, 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the 
bee. 
The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down 
on  his  beak, 
And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the 
prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought, "  I  have 
sung  many  songs. 
But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 
When  the  years  have  died  away." 


THE  BEOOK. 

Heke,  by  this  brook,  we  parted ;  I  to 

the  East 
And  he  for  Italy  —  toolate — toolate: 
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. 
O  had  he  lived !    In  our  schoolbooks 

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  Neil- 

gherry  air 
I  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, 
"  0  babbling  brook,"  says  Edmund  in 

his  rhyme, 
"Whence  come  you?  "  and  the  brook, 

why  not "?  replies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

1  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  lidges. 

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  for  ever. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 
worn  out. 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Darn- 
ley  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  for  ever. 

"But  Philip   ehatter'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  sub* 

mer  grass. 


THE  fiROOK. 


13? 


I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
Witli  here  a  bloseom  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  for  ever. 

"  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  be- 
trothed, 

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 
J  gleam 

Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry  — 
crost. 

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  case- 
ment, 'Kun' 

To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks 
below. 


'  Run,  Katie ! '    Katie  never  ran :  she 

moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 

bowers, 
A  little  flutter'd,  with    her    eyelids 

down, 
Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a 

boon. 

"What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment 
than  sense 

Had  Katie";  not  illiterate ;  nor  of  those 

Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  Active 
tears. 

And  nursed  by  mealy-mouth'd  philan- 
thropies. 

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  I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once^ 

from  mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 

foot 
Some  figm-e  like  a  wizard  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  wrong  1  ' 
(Claspt  hands   and  that  petitionary 

grace 
Of   sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere 

she  spoke) 


138 


THE  BROOK. 


'0  would  I  take  her  father  for  one 

hour, 
Por  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    hrook,   waist-deep    in 

meadow-sweet. 

"  0  Katie,  what  I  suffer'd  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-Buburh,  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.  Ids  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, 
.^nd  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  tlie  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 

mad. 
But  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, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing 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  1  recom. 

menced. 
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  fall- 
ing sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice 

as  long 
As  when  they  foUow'd  us  from  Philip's 

door, 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet 

content 


THE  BROOK. 


139 


Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  tilings 
well. 


I  steal  by  lawna  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  ray  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

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  .ioin  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ;  and  these 
are  gone, 

All  gone.  My  dearest  brother,  Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and 
rustic  spire. 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 

Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace :  and 

'^^' 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  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 
Par  ofE,  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  tolling  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-beils  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 : 
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 


"  Have  you  not  heard  ?  "  said  Katie, 

"  we  came  back. 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be- 
fore. 
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  —  0, 

come  in ! " 


140 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 

1793. 

DtjST  are  our  frames ;  and,  gilded  dust, 
our  pride 

Looks  only  for  a  moroent  whole  and 
sound ; 

Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king. 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  orna- 
ments, 

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 

I  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    Atlmer    Aylmer,    that    al- 
mighty 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  wyrern  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 
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 

com. 
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  followed  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  ths 

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  mar- 
riage once. 

When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than 
itself. 

And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lan. 
caster's. 

With  wounded  peace  which  each  had 
prick'd  to  death. 

"  Not  proven  "  Averill  said,  or  laugh- 
ingly 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


141 


"  Some  other  race  of  Averills" — pror'n 

or  no. 
What  cared  he  ■?  what,  if  other  or  the 

same^ 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  him- 
self. 
But  Leolin,  liis  brotlier,  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  neigh- 
borhood, 
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  play- 
mates, he 

(Since  Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 

His  elder,  and  their  parents  under- 
ground) 


Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite, 
and  roll'd 

His  hofip  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her 
dipt 

Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the 
prone  swing, 

Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  ar- 
ranged 

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 

AH  at  one  mark,  all  hitting:  make- 
believes 

Eor  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  per- 
haps 

Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 

Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

And  thus  together,  save  for  college, 
times 

Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 

As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 

Or  Heaven  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'dj 
lastly  there 


542 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


At  Christmas;   ever  welcome  at  the 

Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide 

of  youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  charm- 
ing even 
My  lady;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had 

laid 
No  bar  between  them  :  dull  and  self- 

inrolved, 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his 

height 
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  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 
Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walk- 
ing with  her 
Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 

they  ran 
To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he 

rose 
Two  footed  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 
Roaring  to  make  a,  third :   and  how 

should  Love, 
Whom   the  cross-lightnings   of   four 

chance-met  eyes 
Plash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing, 

follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  1 
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 
xiound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  and  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  — 
VlTho  knows  1  but  so  they  wander'd, 

hour  by  hour 


Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd, 

and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  filled  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  her- 
self. 
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 
About  them :  here  was  one  that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd. 
Was    parcel-bearded  with   the  trav- 
eller'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, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


143 


Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  pass- 
ing 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 

Bevered  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 

The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby- 
soles, 

Heard  the  good  mothei  softly  whis- 
per "  Bless, 

God  bless  'em :  marriages  are  made 
in  Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it 
to  her. 

My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unan- 
nounced 

With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces 
came. 

His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly, 

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  kins- 
man! good!" 


My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen :  unawares  they  flitted  off. 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flow- 

erage 
That  stood  from  out  a  stifE  brocade 

in  which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she. 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Stept  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 
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 
Eine  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, 


144 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


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 
"  Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  work- 
manship ! " 
Slight  was  his  anwser  "  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  lore  it " :  but  Sir  Aylmer 

past. 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing 

he  heard. 

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  ac- 
cent) 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  opeu'd,  she  cast  back 

upon  him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.     He, 

as  one 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


145 


Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected 
storm. 

And  pelted  with  outrageous  epi- 
thets, 

Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the 
House 

On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant  ; 
her, 

Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather- 
fan. 

Him,  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil 
spurr'd. 

And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breath- 
ing hard. 

"  Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base. 

Presumptuous !  trusted  as  he  was  with 
her. 

The  sole  sueceeder,  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  impos- 
sible. 

Far  as  we  track  ourselves  —  I  say 
that  this  — 

Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  counte- 
nance 

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 ! 
).mpuo.sible,  prodigious ! "    These  were 

words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 
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, 


146 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Went  LeoUnj   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  Aver- 

ill's  ear : 
Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might, 

amazed : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  fath- 
er'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. 
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  my- 
self— 
What  is  their  pretty  saying?  jilted, 

is  it? 
Jilted  I  was  :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 
Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the 

shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 
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, 
ii  nd  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  Mam- 
mon 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  mig'nt  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  thou- 
sand years, 

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  ieep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler  ? 
fools. 

With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness! 

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  pow- 
ers, he  knew  it-. 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  8 
name. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


147 


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  A  verill 

seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

fetoh'd 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  re- 
served 
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 
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 ;  wc 

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  our- 
selves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smat- 

teringly 
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  ard 

fame. 
The  jests,  thatflash'd  about  the  pleaa- 

er's  room. 
Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the 

scurrilous  tale,  — 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 

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. 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exer- 
cise, 
Kxcept  when  for  a  breathing- while  at 

eve. 


148 


AYUfER'S  FIELD. 


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 
Seem'd  harder  too ;  but  the  soft  river- 
breeze, 
"Which  f  ann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 

rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him 

breathed 
Par  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  after- 
noon. 
Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or 

twice. 
Ran  a   Malayan   amuck   against   the 

times. 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all 

mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at 

home 
With  a  heaved  shoxilder  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  : 
Por  heart,  1  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  tilj 

he  saw 
An  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  upon 

him. 

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  ban- 
quets, made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent 

hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.    All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  retum'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  dowA  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; 
Forbade  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, 
S3  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a 

part 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


149 


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  flourish- 
ing spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 

Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood- 
dust 

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. 

Sut  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  be- 
tray'd ;  and  then. 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 
went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot 

dream 
The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  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  child. 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at 

last 
Hopeless  of  answer :  then  tho'  Averill 

wrote  ' 

And  bade  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, 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly 

hurt. 
Raging return'd :  norwas  itwellforher 
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  acrimo- 
nies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly 

word  : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from 

all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 


ISO 


AYLMES'S  FIELD. 


With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 

lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on 

life. 
Last,  some  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  — 
Gave  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  'i 

or  why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she 

named  his  name. 
Did  the  keen  shriek  "  Yes  love,  yes, 

Edith,  yes," 
Shrill,  till  tlie  comrade  of  his  cham- 
bers 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  '.etter  edged  with 

death 


Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  him- 
self 

Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's 
blood  : 

"  Frorri  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  mar^y  thou- 
sand 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 
Sent  out  a  listener;   many  too  had 

known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and 

since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hap- 
less loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  mur- 

miir'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 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


151 


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  liv- 
ing God  — 

Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer 
world  — 

When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 
thunder,  wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idola- 
tries, 

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, 

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  heral- 
dries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy 

God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  himi 

for  thine 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
RuSied  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  fol- 
low 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  bom  unhappily  from  thee. 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight 

and  fair — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a 

one 


152 


AYLMEICS  FIELD. 


By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sor- 
row for  her  — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  hy  the  palmy  well. 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of 
com. 

Fair  as  the  angel  that  said  '  Hail ! ' 
she  seem'd. 

Who  entering  flll'd  the  house  with 
.  sudden  light. 

For  so  mine  ovra.  was  brighten'd: 
where  indeed 

The  roof  so  lowly  hut  that  beam  of 
Heaven 

Dawn'd  sometime  thro'  the  doorway  ■? 
whose  the  bate 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 

Warm'd  at  her  bosom  1  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  inno- 
cent eyes 

Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their 
blue. 

That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 

Brolse  into  nature's  music  when  they 
saw  her. 

Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysteri- 
ous 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  diSerence 
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    roUing    wave    of 

Galilee! 
And  one — of  him  I  was  not  bid  to, 

speak —  I 

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; 
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  imto  me  desolate.' " 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers 
wept ;  but  some, 

Sous  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, 
hut  fork'd 

Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his 
head. 

Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  sol- 
dier-like, 

Erect:  but  when  the  preacher's  ca- 
dence flow'd 

Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attri- 
butes 

Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 
his  face, 


AyjMS/CS  FtSLDs 


1^3 


P«t«d  »t  a  sadclon  twitch  of  his  iron 

moati) ; 
And  "  O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up" 

sho  thought 
"Or  smrly  I  shiUl  slmmo  niysoif  and 

him." 

"Nor  yt>urs  tho  Mamo— for  who 

b«iid«  jtmr  hearths 
Cm  tak«  her  placo — if  echoing  mo 

youtaty 
'Oxir  houso  is  left  unto  us  desolah) '  * 
Bxtt  ttwu,  0  thou  tJ>at  killost,  hadst 

thou  known, 
O  tl»ou  that  stvMxost,  hadst  thovi  under- 
stood 
The  thin^  bolonginj^  to  thy  poaeo 

and  oui-s ! 
Is  thopft  nopv<>}»hot  hut  tho  voice  that 

rails 
Doom  upon  kiujys,  or  in  tlw  wasto 

•  lioix^nt '  * 
Is  not  our  own  dtild  on  the  narrow 

wa;(% 
Who  down  h>  tltoso  that  saunu>r  in 

ti>o  broad 
Cries  "  Cowo  up  hitixfr,*  as  a  prophet 

to  us  f 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint 

and  r»wlj  t 
Yes,  as  tl«e  dead  we  weep  for  testify — 
No  desolation  l«»t  by  sword  and  lite « 
Yes,  as  ^•xwr  moaninss  witness,  and 

«>yself 
An\  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  ft>r  n»y 

U'vss, 
C8im  TOe  ,v\>ttr  prayers,  far  he  is  i>ast 

y»>ur  pr*yt»rs. 
Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in 

Heaven, 
But  I  that  titoniiht  myself  long^uffer- 

ing,  meek, 
Sxewding " poor  it*  spirit*  —how  the 

xwrds 
Rav«  twisted  baek  upon  theiiiselv«s, 

and  mean 
Vnen«ss,  we  «»«  groww  so  proud  —  I 

■wishM  «\y  voiee 
A  (ttshinj!  tempest  of  tii*  wratl*  of  God 
Ttt  Wow  these  saeriflees    thro'  the 

world — 
S«nt  like  tho  twelv«-<ttvided  concubine 


To  Inflaivi©  tho  tribes;  but  there- 
out yonder — eartli 
Lightens  mm  her  own  central  Hell 

— O  there 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry — 
Tho  heads  of  cldefs  and  princes  fall 

so  fast, 
They  cling  togetlier  in  tlxe  ghastly 

sack —  ^ 

The  land  all  shambles  —naked  mar  . 

riages 
Flash  fwM«  the  bridge,  and  ever-mur- 

dor'd  Frai\ce, 
By  shores  that  darken  with  tlie  gatli> 

ering  wolf. 
Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 
Is  tids  a  time  to  madden  madness  tlieni 
Was  this  a  time  tor  these  to  flaunt 

theh' pride? 
May  Fharaoli's   darkness,  folds    as 

dense  as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  tlie  peo<> 

pie's  ojn>s 
Kre  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 

sin  from  all! 
Doubtless   our  narrow  world  must 

ean\*ass  it ; 
O  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 
Who,  thro'  tlieir  own  desire  accom- 

pli&hM,  bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  witli  sorrow  to 

the  grave — 
Who  broke   the  bond  which   tlicy 

desired  to  break. 
Which  els«  had  link'd  their  race  with 

■  times  to  cvmm — 
Who  wove  coarse  webs  t«  snare  her 

purity. 
Grossly  contriving  tlieir  dear  dauglt> 

ter's  good — 
Poor  souls,  and  know  not  what  tl»ey 

did,  but  sal 
I^oi«nt,  devising  their  own  daughr 

trap's  death ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement 


Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left 

them  bare  ( 
Will  not  anotlier  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will  tl»ere  be  cluldiva's  laughter  la 

their  hall 
Fter  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stou» 


154 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


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   deso- 
late"!" 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd 
no  more : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly. 

Her  cramptup  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and 
a  sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  Text  her ;  for  on  en- 
tering 

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 

Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  mea- 
gre face 

Beam'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 
Keel'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  o:  painted  ances- 
tors 
Staring  for  ever  from   their  gilded 

walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 

head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  be> 

came 
Imbecile;  his   one  word  was  "deso- 
late " ; 
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 


iiEA   DREAMS. 


155 


At  golden  thresholds  ;  nor  from  tender 

hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  van- 

ish'd  race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
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  plan- 
tain 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  ciTT  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  ger- 
mander 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,  how- 
ever 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  credu- 
lousness. 

And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which 
lured  him,  rogue. 


To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peru- 
vian 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, 

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  ful- 
minated 

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  him- 
self 

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. 

Ban  in  and  out  the  long  sea-franiing 
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  promon- 
tories, 

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  Chris- 
tian hope. 

Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 


156 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Returning,   as   the   bird   returns,  at 

night, 
"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 

wrath," 
Said,  "LoTB,  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 
Eose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 

foremost  rocks 
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, '  for- 
give,' 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 

besti 
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'dl    ruin'd!    the 

sea  roars 
Ruin :  a  fearful  night ! " 

"  Not  fearful ;  fair," 
Said  the  good  wife,  "if  every  star  in 

heaven 
Can  make  it  fair:  you  do  but  hear 

the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ■?" 

"  0  yesj"  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  thro'  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, 
I  A  pickaxe  in  her  hand :  then  out  I  slipt 


SEA  DREAMS. 


157 


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 : ' 
O  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 

hill 
Trod  out  a  path :  I  f oUow'd ;  and  at 

top 
She  pointed  seaward :  there  a  fleet  of 


That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thun- 
der, past 
In  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  f  ear'd 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splin- 
ter 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, 

Touoh'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  hon- 
est Work ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of 
glass 

Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled 
down  and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medi- 
cine 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 
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. 


158 


SEA  DREAMS. 


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. 
f  I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a 

blow  : 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  ac- 
counts, 
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  lionest  shoulders  of  the 

crowd, 
Eead  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back. 
And  scoundrel  in   the   supple-sliding 

knee." 

"  "Was  he  so  bound,  poor  bouI?  " 

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 

liis  friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears 

about 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  him- 
self 
The  prisoner  at   the  bar,  ever  con- 

demn'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." 

"  •  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  fol 

gain. 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in 

vain. 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 

liis  tool. 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe 

and  fool; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace 

he  forged. 
And  snake-like  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  him- 
self had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  1 " 

"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  vapon 

lay. 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
SwelI'd    up    and     died;    and,   as    it 

Bwell'd,  a  ridge 


SEA   DREAMS. 


159 


Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and 

still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fullness, 

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 
Ban  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great 

wave 
Eeturning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on 

the  crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with   awful  light,   and 

show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  with  passionate   looks,  and 

swept  away 
Ihe  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  min- 
ster-fronts — 
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  crieti, 
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  tha 

hymns  of  heaven : 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl 

in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! " 

"'True 'indeed! 

One  out  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-furbe- 
low flap, 

Good  man,  to  please  the  child.  Sh* 
brought  strange  news 


160 


LUCRETIUS. 


"Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke 

to-night  % 
I  liad  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving 

him 
Before  you  knew.    We  must  forgive 

the  dead." 

"  Dead !  who  is  dead  ?  " 

"  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 

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  longei. 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say. 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
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 : 
I  do  forgive  him ! " 

"Thanks, 'my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and 
they  slept. 


LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold ;  for  when  the  morn- 
ing flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had 

died 
Between  them,  tho'  he  lov'd  her  none 

the  les_s. 
Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his 

foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and 

ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master 

took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for  — his 

mi*^-^ 


LUCRETIUS. 


161 


Half  Tiuried  in  some  weightier  argu- 
ment, 

Or  fancy,  borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 

And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  lie 
past 

To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher,  whom  he  held 
dirine. 

She  brook'd  it  not ;  but  wrathful,  pet^ 
ulant. 

Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and 
found   a   witch 

Who  brew'd  the  philtre  which  had 
power,  they  said. 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with 
his  drink. 

And  this  destroy 'd  him ;  for  the  wicked 
broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the 
blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within 
the  man's 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 
and  check'd 

His  power  to  shape  :  he  loathed  him- 
self ;  and  once 

After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 

That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm, 
and  cried : 

"  Storm  in  the  night !  for  thrice  I 
heard  the  rain 

Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a, 
thunderbolt  — ■ 

Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a 
fork  — 

Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain- 
side, and  show'd 

A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 

Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow 

of  it, 
'  Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty- 
dry. 

•     "  Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 

Gods,  what  dreams ! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd   after  dreams. 

Perchance 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that 

come 


Just  ere  the  waking :  terrible !  for  it 

seem'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her 

bonds 
Crack'd;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom- 
streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Kuining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and 

make  , 

Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever :  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 

knew  it  — 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 

plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland :  but  tha 

next ! 
I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla 

shed 
Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on 

earth. 
And  where  it  dash'd  the  reddening 

meadow,  sprang 
No   dragon  warriors  from   Cadmean 

teeth, 
For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would 

show  to  me, 
But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art. 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that 

made 
The  mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies 

worse 
Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet 

Gods. 
And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and 

round  me  drove 
In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 
Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and 

saw  — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest 

day? 

"  Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood. 

out  the  breasts. 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly 

a  sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct. 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 

shamed 
At  all  that  beauty ;  and  as  I  stared,  a 

fire. 


162 


LUCRETIUS. 


The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Ilion, 
Shot  out  of   them,  and  scorch'd  me 
that  I  woke. 

"  Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 

thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own 

,  doves. 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  olfer'd  to  thee  ? 

thine, 
Forgetful    how    my    rich    prooemion 

makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

"  Deity  ?  nay,  thy  worshippers.  My 
tongue 

Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.  Which  of 
these 

Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at 
all? 

Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far 
aloof 

JProm  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite 
and  scorn. 

Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  great- 
est fain 

"Would  follow,  center'd  in  eternarcalm . 

"  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  O  Goddess,  like 
ourselves 

Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I 
cry  to  thee 

To  kiss  thy  Mayors,  roll  thy  tender 
arms 

Hound  him,  and  keep  him  from  the 
lust  of  blood 

That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter- 
house of  Rome. 

"  Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant 

not  her, 
J  Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to 

see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers, 

and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 

abroad ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter 

wept 
Jler  Deity  false  in  human-amorous 

tears ; 


Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.  Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 

forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial 

heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  tho 

thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 

are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and   the 

bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze 

of  flowers : 
Which   things   appear    the   work    of 

mighty  Gods. 

"  The  Gods !  and  if  I  go,  my  work  is 

left 
TJnfinish'd — (/I  go.     The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The   lucid   interspace   of   world    and 

world. 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves 

a  wind. 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of 

snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  rpll  of  thunder  moans. 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm!   and 

such. 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm. 
Not  such,  aor  all  unlike  it,  man  may 

gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The  Gods, 

the  Gods ! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the 

Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble. 
Not  follow  the  great  law  ?    My  master  - 

held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so 

believe. 
I  prest  my  footsteps   into  his,  and 

meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless. 


LUCRETIUS. 


163 


Meant  1     I  meant  ■? 
I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant :  my 

mind 
Stumbles,  and   all  my  faculties   are 

lamed. 

"  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods, 

the  Sun, 
ApoDo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
A.ll-seeing      Hyperion  —  what     you 

will  — 
Has  mounted  yonder ;  since  he  never 

Bware, 
Except  his  wrath  were   wreak'd  on 

wretched  man, 
I'hat  he  would  only  shine  among  the 

dead 
Hereafter;  tales!   for  never  yet   on 

earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  hits  of  roast- 
ing ox 
Moan  round  the  spit  —  nor  knows  he 

what  he  sees ; 
liing  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and 

girt 
With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance, 

slowly  lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled 

stairs 
That  climb  into   the  windy  halls   of 

heaven  : 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new- 
born. 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of 

pain ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing 

orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 

last; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  f all'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a 

friend  in  vain, 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 

more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can 

tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  my- 
self, 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 
Ttit  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit 

the  post 


Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that 
holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need 
he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge 
at  once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight, 
and  sink 

Past  earthquake  —  ay,  and  gout  and 
stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death- 
in-life, 

And  wretched  age  —  and  worst  disease 
of  all. 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  naked- 
nesses. 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeak- 
able. 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every 
dish. 

The  phantom  husks  of  something- 
foully  done, 

And  fleeting  thro'  the  boundless  uni- 
verse. 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my 
breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

"How  should  the  mind,  except  it 

loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself  ?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinnfer,  and  now  thicker,  like 

the  flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an 

hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and 

bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their 

rags  and  they 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of 

the  land  ■? 

"  Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  ofE  me 

again, 
Seeing  with   how  great  ease  Nature 

can  smile, 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of 

storm, 


164 


LIjCRETIUS. 


At  random  ravage  ?  and  how  easily 
The    mountain    there    has    cast    his 

cloady  slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A   mountain   o'er  a  mountain, — ^ay, 

and  within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of 

men? 

"  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  gar- 
den snared 
Pious  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ?   a  tale 
To  laugh  at — more  to  laugh  at  in 

myself  — 
Nor  look !   what  is  it  ?    there  ?   yon 

arbutus 
Totters ;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 

tops  quivering  — 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph 

and  Fauu ; 
And  here  an  Oread  —  how  the  sun 

delights 
To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 

sides. 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  rounded- 

ness. 
And  budded  bosom-peaks  —  who  this 

way  runs 
Before  the  rest  —  A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see, 
Tollows ;  but  him  I  proved  impossible ; 
Twy-natured   is   no  nature:    yet   he 

draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him 

now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his 

kind 
That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother- 
brute 
I"or  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 
I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him ;  and 

she 
Loathes  him  as  well ;  such  «  precipi- 
tate heel. 
Fledged  as  it  were  with   Mercury's 

ankle-wing. 
Whirls  her  to  me  :  but  will  she  fling 

herself. 
Shameless    upon    me  ?      Catch    her, 

goat-foot ;  nay. 
Hide,     hide     them,     million-myrtled 

wilderness. 


And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hidet 
do  I  wish  — 

What  ?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless  1 
or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  1     0  ye 
Gods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to 
you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I 
call  — 

I   thought  I  lived  securely  as   your- 
selves — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite. 

No    madness    of    ambition,    avarice, 
none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  cr 
pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass, 
to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly- 
warm. 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  —^ 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  mon- 
ster lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon   my 
will. 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his ;  and 
spoils 

My  bliss  in  being;   and  it  was  not 
great ; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 
rhythm. 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often 
grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life. 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an 
hour 

Crown'd   with   a   flower   or  two,  and 
there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems 
to  fade. 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  my- 
self, 

Not  manlike  end  myself  ?  —  our  privi- 
lege — 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  1     And 
what  man. 


ODE  GN  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.     165 


What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  tri- 
umph thus  ? 

Not  I ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name 
with  her 

"Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 
doom  of  kings, 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in 
her  veins. 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Col- 
latine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless 
air. 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in 
her  heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Common- 
wealth, which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now  ! 

"  And  therefore  now 
liBt  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb 

of  all. 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far 

apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  thathave  made 

me  man. 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro'  all  her  cycles  —  into  man  once 

more, 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent 

flower : 
3ut  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one 

day 
•Cracks  all  to  pieces,  —  and  that  hour 

perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to 

himself. 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes. 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within 

the  grave. 
The  very  sides   of  the   grave   itself 

shall  pass. 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and 

void. 
Into  the  unseen  for  ever,  —  till   that 

hour, 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel. 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-snake, 

and  plucks 


The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal 

hell. 
Shall  stand  :  ay,  surely  :  then  it  fails 

at  last 
And  perishes  as  I  must ;  for  0  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the 

wise. 
Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou 

art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 

pain, 
Howbeit  I  know  thou  surely  must  be 

mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so 

they  win  — 
Thus  —  thus  :  the  soul  flies  out  and 

dies  in  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into 

his  side  : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 

ran  in. 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon 

herself 
As  having  fail'd    in    duty  to    him, 

shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back, 

fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kiss'd  him,  wail'd :   he  an- 

swer'd,  "  Care  not  thou ! 
Thy  duty'?     What  is   duty?     Fare 

thee  well ! " 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED  m  1852. 


Bdry  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 


166     ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


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  for  evermore. 


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. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 

Past. 
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,  res- 
olute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influ- 
ence, ' 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime. 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
G'eat  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  wili 
be  seen  no  more. 


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  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  reverent  peopl-e  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds : 

Bright   let    it    be  with   its   blazon'd 

deeds, 
Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd : 
And  d,  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 

knoU'd ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 
them roU'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,  belloM'ing  doom: 
When    he    with     those  deep  voices 

wrought. 
Guarding    realms     and    kings    from 

shame ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 
The  tj'rant,  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-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  IHE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.    167 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  hon- 

or'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. 
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  ; 
Tor  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. 
Bound  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  fiew 
Beyond  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. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadow- 
ing 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  them- 
selves away; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
fleaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  r.iy. 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there. 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world  earthquake,  Waterloo  1 
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 

tlaine ! 
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. 


A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 

Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 
forget, 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  law- 
less Powers ; 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and 
roughly  set 

His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  stormiufj 
showers. 

We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay 
the  debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and 
regret 


468     ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and 

kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute 

control ; 
0  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 

the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England 

whole. 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  free- 
dom 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  man- 
kind 
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  over- 
trust. 
Eemember  him  who  led  your  hosts ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  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 
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  ovir  England's  Alfred 

named ; 
Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


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  stare. 
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 
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  en- 
dure. 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  states- 
man pure : 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human 
story 


THE    THIRD    OF  FEBRUARY,   1852. 


169 


The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 
And  let  the   land  whose  hearts   he 

saved  from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when   the   long-illimiined  cities 

flame. 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame. 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 

liim. 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  he  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. 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  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'  worl  don  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  oiir 

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. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


THE   THIRD   OF  FEBRUARY, 

1862. 

Mt  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak :  you 

told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went 

too  far ; 
That  our  free  press  should  cease  to 

brawl. 
Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 

war. 
It  was  our  ancient  privilege,  my  Lords, 
To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing, 

into  words. 

We  love  not  this   French  God,  the 
child  of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse 
of  the  wise ; 

But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so 
well. 
We  dare  not  e v'n  by  silence  sanction 
lies. 

It  might  be  safe  our  censures  to  with- 
draw ; 

And  yet,  my  Lords,  not  well :  there  is 
a  higher  l?'"". 


170 


THE   CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak 

free, 
Tho'  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us 

break ; 
No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe :  we 

must  speak ; 
That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were 

struck  dead, 
There  might  be  left  some  record  of 

the  things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be 

bold. 
Oui  Britain  cannot  salve  a  tyrant 

o'er. 
Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roU'd 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 
What !  have  we  fought  for  Freedom 

from  our  prime. 
At  last  to   dodge  and  palter  with  a 

public  crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ?  our  own  we  never 

fear'd. 
From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we 

wrung  our  claims. 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 
We  flung  the  burden  of  the  second 

James. 
I  say,  we  never  feared !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove 

them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  Lords,  you  make  the 

people  muse 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons' 

breed  — 
Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at 

Lewes .' 
,     Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runny- 

mede? 
O  fall'n  nobility,  thac  overawed. 
Would   lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of 

this  monstrous  fraud  1 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here 
were  sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 
hosts  — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 


Have  left  the  last  free  race  with 

naked  coasts ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they 

had  to  guard : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant 

one  hard  word. 

Tho'  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 

may  bawl. 
What  England  was,  shall  her  true 

sons  forget  1 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all. 

But  some   love  England  and  her 

honor  yet. 
And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall 

stand, 
And  hold  against  the  world  this  honor 

of  the  land. 


THE  CHARGE  OF   THE   LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league. 
Half  a  league  onward. 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Kode  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  disniay'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. 


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, 


OPENING    OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION.       171 


Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Bode  the  six  hundred. 


Kash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
riash'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 
Eight  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. 


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. 


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 ! 


ODE   SUNG  AT    THE   OPENING 
,     OF      THE      INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 
I. 
Upldt  a  thousand  voices  full  and 
sweet. 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inven- 
tion stored. 
And  praise  the  invisible  universal 
Lord, 


Who  lets  once  more  in  pea:ce  the  na- 
tions meet, 
Where    Science,   Art,    and    Labor 
have  outpour'd 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our 
feet. 


0  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 ! 

III. 
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  enginery. 
Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine. 
Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine. 
Fabric  rough,  or  fairy-fine. 
Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 
Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 
Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 
And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 
All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 
That  one  fair  planet  can  produce, 

Brought  from  under  eveiy  star. 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain. 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of 
war. 

IV. 

Is  the  goal  so  far  away  ? 

Far,  how  far  no  tongue  can  say. 

Let  us  dream  our  dream  to-day. 


O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 
reign. 

From  growing  commerce  loose  her 
latest  chain. 

And  let  the  fair  white-wing'd  peace- 
maker fly 

To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky. 

And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 
hours ; 

Till  each  man  find  his  own  in  all 
men's  good, 


172 


A    WELCOME    TO  MARIE  ALEXANDROVNA. 


And  all  men  work  in  noble  brother- 
hood, 

Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and 
armed  towers, 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's 
powers. 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  earth 
and  crown'd  with  all  her  flow- 


A  "WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 
MARCH  7, 1863. 

Sba-kings'  daughter  from  oyer  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  flow- 
ers! 
Make  music,  0  bird,  in  the  new-budded 

bowers ! 
Plazou  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 

prayer ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours! 
Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 
JFlags,  flutter   out  upon   turrets   and 

towers ! 
i"lames,  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 ! 
Bush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 

higher 
Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire ! 
Boll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 
Boll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the 

strand, 
JKoar  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  — 
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 ! 


A  WELCOME  TO  HER  ROYAL 
HIGHNESS  MARIE  ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS  OF 
EDINBURGH. 

MAECH  7, 1874. 
I. 
The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power  — 
Whose   will   is    lord   thro'   all   his 

world-domain  — 
Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  buret 
his  chain  — 
Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And    welcome,    Russian    flower,    a 
people's  pride. 
To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin 

to  blow ! 
From  love  to  love,  from  home  to 
home  you  go. 
From    mother  unto  mother,  stately 
bride, 

Marie  Alexandrovna! 


The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown. 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents 

are  stirr'd ; 
Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have 
heard ; 
And  all  the   sultry  palms   of  India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER. 


173 


The  voices  of  our  universal  sea 
On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  clifis  of 

Kent, 
The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Conti- 
nent, 
And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur 
thee, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


Fair  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty 
life!  — 
Yet  Harold's  England  fell  to  Nor- 
man swords ; 
Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow'd  to 
Tartar  hordes 
Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne 
a  wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing. 
And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 

flow; 
But  who   love  best  have  best  the 
grace  to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie  Alexandrovna! 


And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land. 


Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly 

say  their  say ;  — 
See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to- 
day, 
As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  west,    » 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious 

to  thy  poor : 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  nar- 
row door ; 
Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be 
blest, 

Marie  Alexandrovna! 


Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame 
again  ■? 
Or  at  thy  coming.  Princess,  every- 
where. 
The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some 
diviner  air 
Breathe  thro'  the  world  and  change 
the  hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna ! 
But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that 
cannot  cease, 
And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of 

,  soul  in  soul ! 
And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may 
roll, 
Between  your  people's  truth  and  man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred  —  Alexandrovna  1 


THE   GRANDMOTHEE. 


And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ■? 
Euddy  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  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 


I"or,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Hadn'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  wouldn't  hear  me  —  and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 


174  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 


Willy,  my  teauty,  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  habe  of  a  week !  "  says  doctor ;  and  he  would  be  bound, 

There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  roimd. 

IT. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue  I 
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. 


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. 


Tor  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. 


Tor  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time :  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  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. 


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. 


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. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 


And  I  cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  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  mo  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  175 


All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
"Willy,  —  he  didn'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  angi-y  now. 


Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  curtsey  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the  same. 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  lore  not  my  good  name." 


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. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  apeak  of  you  well  or  ill; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand :  we  two  shall  be  happy  still." 


"  Marry  you,  Willy ! "  said  I,  "  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  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  j  * 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


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. 


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  lie  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 


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. 

Tor  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  bor!«. 


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. 


176  THE   GRANDMOTHER. 


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. 


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. 


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. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 


And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive  j 
Por  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. 


Por  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  :        i 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  1 5 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  hare  long  gone  by. 


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. 


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. 
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. 


So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-b6m,  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-     Wliat  time  have  I  to  be  vext  t 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  17? 


And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  neTer  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, 
^ut  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  PARMER. 
OLD  STYLE. 

I. 

Wheer  'asta  beSn  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere  alo^n  % 

Hoorse  ?  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy.  Doctor's  abeS.n  an'  agoan  t 

Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aaie  :  but  I  beant  a  fool : 

Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beSnt  a-gooin'  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  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'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 


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  bond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 


liarn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  lam. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy  Harris's  barne. 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an'  staate. 

An*  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 


An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to's  choorch  afoor  moy  Sally  war  dead. 
An'  'eerd  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock^  ower  my  'ead. 
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  coom'd  awaay. 


Bessy  Harris's  barne !  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 
"Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

1  Cockchafer. 


1/8  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


But  Parson  a  cooras  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 

"  The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'iss^n,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 

I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summum  said  it  in  'aaste : 

But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste 


D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass '  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  'um  mysen ; 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,^  fur  I  'eerd  'um  aboot  an'  aboot. 

But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved  an'  rembled  'um  ooV, 


Reaper's  it  wur ;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid  of  'is  faaco 
Doon  i'  the  woild  'enemies  "  afoor  I  coom'd  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  'ed  shot  'um  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize  —  but  git  ma  my  aale. 


X. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste :  theer  wam't  not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at  it  now — 
"Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  doon  i'  seead. 


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  me  aloSn, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an'  lond  o'  my  oftn. 


Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beSnt  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea ; 

An'  Squoire  'nil  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear  a'  dear ! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty  year. 


A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  nor  a  'aSpoth  o'  sense. 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins  —  a  nirer  mended  a  fence : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby  hoaims  to  plow ! 


Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoUes  when  they  seeas  ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessfe  naw  doubt  "  what  a  man  a  bea  sewer-loy ! " 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All; 
J  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy  duty  boy  hall. 

*  Bittern.  ^  Anemoufis, 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  173 


XV. 

Sqnoire's  i'  liOimon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to  wroite. 
For  whoS's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  nirer  gire  it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  mo^t  to  Robins  —  a  niver  remhles  the  stoans. 


But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
Sin'  I  muu  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loite  they  says  is  sweet. 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldu  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  aale  1 
Doctor's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a's  haUus  i'  the  owd  taale ; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 
NEW  STTtE. 


Doss't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters  awaSy  ? 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  thafs  what  I  'ears  'em  saSy. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  Sam,  thou's  an  ass  for  thy  paalns: 
Theer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braains. 

n. 

Woa — theer's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam  :  yon's  parson's  'onse- 
Dosn'tthou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eather  a  man  or  a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then ;  for  thou'll  be  twenty  to  weeak.' 
Proputty,  proputty  —  woa  then  woa — let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 


Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o' thee_; 
Thou's  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  teLin'  it  me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  mimny  —  thou's  sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 
Noa thou'll  marry  for  luvv  —  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  i 


Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by  — Saaint's  daay — they  was  ringing  the  bell& 
She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  —  an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'as  mimny  an'  all —  wot's  a  beauty  ?  —  the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

i  This  week. 


180  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


Do'ant  be  stunt :  i  taake  time  :  I  knaws  what  maSkes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  myse'n  when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this ; 
"  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny  is ! " 

VI. 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war :  an'  thy  muther  coom  to  'and, 
Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laa'id  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 
MaSybe  she  warn't  a  beauty — I  nirer  giv  it  a  thowt  — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  nowt  ? 


Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when  'e's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle  ^  her  bread  : 
Why  ?  fur  'e's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant  niver  git  naw  'igher  ; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 


An  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taa'il  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  noSn  to  lend  'im  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  f ar-welter'd  ^  yowe :  fur,  Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luTV. 


Xuvv  ■?  what's  luvv  ■?  thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they've  good  right  to  do. 
Could'n  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laa'id  by  ? 
Uaay — fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it :  reason  why. 


Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  burn ;  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
WoS,  then,  proputty,  wiltha  1  —  an  ass  as  near  as  mays  nowt*  "— 
"Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha  !  —  the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.^ 


Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the  fence ! 
Gentleman  burn !  what's  gentleman  burn  ?  is  it  shillins  an'  pence  ? 
Proputty,  proputty's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I'm  blest 
If  it  isn't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it's  the  best. 


Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an'  steals. 
Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes  their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal's  to  be  'ad. 
Ta&ke  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

^  Obstinate.  2  Earn. 

3  Or  fow-welter*d,  —  said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back  in  the  furrow, 

«  Makes  nothing.  <•  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


THE  DAISY. 


183 


Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  bean  a  laazy  lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Teyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leastways  'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moU'd  'iss€n  deSd,  an  'e  died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 


lioook  thou  theer  wheer  "Wrigglesby  beck  coons  out  by  the  'ill 
I'eyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  oop  to  the  mill ; 
An'  I'll  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou'll  live  to  see ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I'll 'leave  the  land  to  thee. 


Thim's  my  noS.tions,  Sammy,  wheerhy  I  means  to  stick ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I'll  leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that's  what  I  'ears  'im  saay  — 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  canter  an'  canter  awaay 


THE   DAISY. 

"WRITTBN  AT  EDISTBUEGH. 

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. 

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  Cascinfe, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 


182 


TO    THE  REV.   F.   £>.   MAURICE. 


In   bright  vignettes,  and  each   com- 
plete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd. 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crest  the  Lombard  plain 
Eeraember  what  a  plague  of  rain ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

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,  0  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  f  aintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair. 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 
A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  val- 
leys 
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 ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake. 
The    moonlight    touching    o'er    a 
terrace 
One  tall  Agavfe  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. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me. 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

0  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  nursling  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  be- 
side me. 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO   THE   REV.  F.  D.   MAURICE. 

JANUARY,  1854. 
Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
Godfather,  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  youj 

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; 


WILL. 


183 


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  dowii. 

You'll  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  groTes  of  pine  on  either  hand. 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  billow  on  chalk  and  sand ; 

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. 


WILL. 


0  WELL  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  con- 
found. 

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. 


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  in  the  monstrous 
hill. 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


IN  THE   VALLEY   OF 
CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that 
flashest  white. 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  night. 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 
flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and 
thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd 
to-day, 


184 


IN  THE   GARDEN  AT  SWAINSTON. 


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. 


IN  THE   GARDEN  AT 
SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without. 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee : 

Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk'd  in  the  walks  with  me. 
Shadows  of   three  dead  men  and 
thou  wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 
The  Master  was  far  away : 

Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day ; 
Still  in  the  house  in  his  coflSn  the 
Prince  of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I  known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee : 

Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 
With  a  love  that  ever  will  be : 
Three  dead  men  have  I  loved,  and 
thou  art  last  of  the  three. 


THE  ELOWER. 

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  arid  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. 

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. 

"  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." 


THE  ISLET. 


185 


"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   ISLET. 

"Whithee,  0  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  f oUow'd  the  day  she 

was  wed, 
"Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we 

go?" 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Tum'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, 
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,  0  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." 


CHILD-SONGS. 


THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 
Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the 
home  where  mother  dwells  ? 

"  Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty 
little  maiden, 

"  All  among  the  gardens,  auriculas, 
anemones, 
Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury- 
bells." 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 

you  wander  ? 
Whither  from   this  pretty  house, 

this  city-house  of  ours  ? 
"  Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainly 

little  maiden, 
"  All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover 

and  the  clematis. 
Daisies   and  kingcups  and  hone^ 

suckle-flowers." 


136 


MINNIE  AND    WINNIE. 


MESTNIE   AND   WIKNIE. 

Minnie  and  Winnie 

Slept  in  a  shell. 
Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

And  they  slept  well. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within. 

Silver  without ; 
Sounds  of  the  great  sea 

Wander'd  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

Wake  not  soon ! 
Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 
Peep'd  into  the  shell. 

"  What  are  they  dreaming  of  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  " 

Started  a  green  linnet 

Out  of  the  croft ; 
Wake,  little  ladies. 

The  sun  is  aloft  I 


THE   SPITEFUL  LETTER, 

Sbee,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year, 
And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 

My  name  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong, 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  little  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  ? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine, 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

Rhymes  and  rhymes  in  the  range  of 
the  times ! 

Are  mine  for  the  moment  stronger  ? 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot, 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

This  faded  leaf,  our  names   are   as 
brief ; 
What  room  is  left  for  a  hater? 


I  Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf. 
For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I  —  is  that  your  cry  ? 

And  men  will  lire  to  see  it. 
Well  — if  it  be  so  —  so  it  is,  you  know ; 

And  if  it  be  so,  so  be  it. 

Brief,  brief  is  a  summer  leaf, 
But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 

O  hollies  and  ivies  and  evergreens, 
How  I  hate  the    spites    and    the 
follies ! 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 

Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars : 

Who  hate  each  other  for  a  song, 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 

And.pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot 
hear 
The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 

On  them  and  theirs  and  all  thingr 
here: 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 

Than  if  the  crowned  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great: 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 
I  talk  of.     Surely,  after  all. 

The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


THE   VICTIM. 
I. 


A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low. 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  flre^ 


THE    VICTIM. 


187 


For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe ; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 
"The  Gods  are  moved  against  the 
land." 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand- 
"  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 
"What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  0  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 


But  still  the  f  oemanspoil'd  and  burn'd, 
And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood. 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way. 
Or  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with 
flame: 
And   ever  and  aye    the    Priesthood 
moan'd, 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 
came. 
"  The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 
The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old. 
His  beauty  still  with  his  years  in- 
creased, 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"  The  Gods  have  answer'd : 
We  give  them  the  boy." 


The  King  return'd  from  out  the  wild, 
He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand  ; 


The  mother  said,  "They  have  takeJ* 
the  child 
To    spill   his   blood   and  heal  the 
land: 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 
And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the 
lea: 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased. 
So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son. 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest  ? 
Or  I,  the  wife  "i  " 


The   King  bent   low,  with  hand   on- 
brow. 
He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee : 
"  0  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  f 
For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for 
me." 
The    King    was    shaken    with    holy 
fear; 
"The  Gods,"  he  said,  "would  have 
chosen  well ; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear^ 
And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  telll" 
But  the  Priest  was  happy. 
His  victim  won : 
"  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son !  " 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 
"The    knife    uprising    toward    th& 
blow 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

"  Me,  not  my  darling,  no !  " 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden 
cry; 
Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking  "  /  am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/  am  his  dearest !  "  rush'd  on  the 
knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"0,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest  f 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd; 
We  give  them  the  wife  1 " 


188  WAGES. 


WAGES. 

Gloet  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song. 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the  wrong  — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she : 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be  dust. 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ! 

She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just. 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer  sky ; 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE   HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  0  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He  seems  1 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb. 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee ;  thyself  art  the  reason  why ; 

Tor  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  "  I  am  I "  ? 

<Tlory  about  thee,  without  thee ;  and  thou  fulfiUest  thy  doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet- 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise ;  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
I'or  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Xaw  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 

I"or  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  —  were  it  not  He  ? 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 


I. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn. 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  1 


All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar. 

But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven. 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 


A  DEDICATION. 


189 


Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all  ? 

"  I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 
I  roar  and  rave  for  I  fall. 


"  A  thousand  voices  go 

To  North,  South,  East,  and  West ; 
They    leave     the    heights     and    are 
troubled. 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 


"  The  fields  are  fair  beside  them. 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom ; 

But  they  —  they  feel  the  desire  of  the 
deep  — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 


"The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And  the  height  has  power  on  the 
deep; 

They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
Aid  sink  again  into  sleep." 


Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er. 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the 
star 
Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 


The  Peak  is  high  and  flush'd 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire ; 

The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are 
high, 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 


A  deep  below  the  deep. 

And  a  height  beyond  the  height  1 
Onr  hearing  is  not  hearing. 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 


The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Par  into  heaven  withdrawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 


Flowek  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my 

hand, 
Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  under- 
stand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 

all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


A  DEDICATION. 

Deak,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time 

himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  ever- 
more 
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  after  praise 

and  scorn. 
As   one  who  feels  the  immeasurable 

world. 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the 

wise; 
And  after  Autumn  past  —  if  left  to 


His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless 
days  — 

Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  long- 
est night. 

Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 
fruit 

Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks 
a  flower.i 

1  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  (_Ev.ony 
mus  Murop(EUS). 


190  BOADICEA. 


EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

■While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  DruidesB, 
Far  in  the  East  Boadioe'a,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  lieard  her  in  her  fierce  Tolubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 
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,  Trinobant ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering  ? 
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  wolfkin,  from  the  wUderness,  wallow  in  it. 
Till  the  face  of  ]3el  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended !  low  their  colony,  Camulodiine  ! 
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,  0  Icenian,  0  Coritanian ! 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
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 ; 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary ; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me  —  down  their  statue  of  Victory  f elJ» 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune, 
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,  Trinobant ! 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 
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  the^ 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 


BOADICEA.  191 

Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  tlie  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 

Thine  the  myriad-roUing  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thme  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 

So  they  chanted  :  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier  % 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

"  Hear  Iceman,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Me  tlie  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty. 
Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated. 
Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruifian  violators ! 
See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy! 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodiine ! 
There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory. 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness  — 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
liike  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Ciinobeline  ! 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 
Eolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted ;  there — there — they  dwell  no  mora 
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  voluptuousness, 
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  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted. 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  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  roaring  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 
Cls,sh  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. 
Ou'c  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ban  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Pe  rish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary, 
Jell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  Londoi^  Verulam,  Camulodiine. 


192 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 


IN  QUANTITY. 

ON  TRANSLATIONS   OF  HOMEE, 

nexameters  and  Pentameters. 

These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music  of  Homer ! 

No  —  but  a  most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment. 
When  was  a  harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye  Muses,  in  England  ? 

When  did  a  frog  coarser  croak  upon  our  Helicon  % 
Hexameters  no  worse  than  daring  Germany  gave  us, 
Barbarous  experiment,  barbarous  hexameters. 


MILTON. 
Alcaics. 
O  mightt-mouth'd  inventor  of  har- 
monies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternitj^, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for 
ages  ; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  ar- 
mories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Eings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  on- 
set— 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmur- 
ing, 
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  palm- 
woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights   of 
even. 

Sendecasyllabics, 
O  Ton  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  re- 
viewers. 

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  mo- 
ment— 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  in- 
most 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLA- 
TION OF  THE  ILIAI)  IN 
BLANK   VEESE.  i 

So  Hector  spake ;  the  Trojans  rdar'd 
applause ;  ', 

Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses 
from  the  yoke,  | 

And  each  beside  his  chariot  boundlhis 
own ;  ', 

And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly 


THE    WINDOW. 


193 


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 
Eoll'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  jut- 
ting peak 

1  Or  ridge. 


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 

fite; 
And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the 

steeds, 
Fixt  by  their  cars,  waited  the  golden 

dawn.  Iliad  viii.  542-561. 


THE   WINDOW; 

OR,  THE   SONG  OF  THE  WEENS. 

!Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for 
him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as  "  Or- 
pheus with  his  lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a  puppet,  whose  almost 
only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my 
four- year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  th6se  days;  but  the 
music  is  now  completed,  and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise, 

Becemtter,  1870.  A.  Tenntson. 

THE    WINDOW. 


ON   THE    HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's 
eye! 
Oh  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool,  or  her 
window  pane. 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning  ? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 
And  winds  and  lights   and  shadows 
that  cannot  be  still, 
All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love. 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing! 


Follow,  follow  the  chase ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
qtiick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
0  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her 
sweet  little  face  ? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come,  and  gone. 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear. 
And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and 
brightens  like  my  hope. 
And  it  darkens   and  brightens   and 
darkens  like  my  fear. 
And    the   winds  are  up  in  the- 
morning. 


i94 


THE    WINDOW. 


AT    THE    WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine ! 
Bose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss,    . 
Kiss,  kiss ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower. 
Drop  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  1 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  —  and  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 

GONE. 

<jone! 

Gone,  till  the  end  of  the  year, 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her,  and 

Veft  me  in  shadow  here ! 
Gone  —  flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and 

the  sun  from  the  day  ! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 

storm  in  the  air ! 
■piown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted 

I  know  not  where ! 
Down  in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a 

groan :    she  is  there !    she  is 

there ! 


The  frost  is  here. 
And  fuel  is  dear, 
And  woods  are  sear, 
And  fires  burn  clear, 
And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going 
year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue  wood-louse,  and  the  plump 

dormouse, 
And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies 

are  kill'd. 
And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 

house, 
But  not  into  mine. 


Bite,  frost,  bite! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer. 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer. 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer. 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer. 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth. 
But  not  into  mine. 

SPRINO. 

Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there. 
Birds'  song  an^  birds'  love. 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

Passing  with  the  weather. 
Men's  song  and  men's  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love. 

And  women's  love  and  men's ! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of 
gold, 

You  my  queen  of  the  wrens ! 
You  the  queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I'll  be   King  of    the   Queen  of  the 
wrens. 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 

THE    LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her  ^  shall  I  go  1 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  ? 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ■? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

B'ly; 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  —  "^ 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye : 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay ! 

NO    ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and 
the  rain  1 


THE    WINDOW. 


195 


Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ' 
And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window 
pane! 
And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will 
grow, 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am 

gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 

will  go  on. 
Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm. 
Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 
And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and 

gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and 
the  wet ! 
Wet  west  wind  how  you  blow,  you 
blow! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 

NO    ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb, 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  ! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you'll  love  me  then  : 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 

THE    ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet  ■? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 
Take,  take  —  break,  break  — 
Break  —  you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 
Break,  break,  and  all's  done, 


Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day. 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never 
were  merry  before, 
Be  merry  in  heaven,  0  larks,  and  far 
away. 
And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and 
one  day  more. 

Whyr 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 
Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 
The  flre-orown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom, 
the  mad  little  tits ! 
"  Cuck-oo !     Cuok-oo ! "  was  ever  a 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  fiind  a  rhyme. 
CT  merry  the  linnet  and  dove. 
And    swallow    and    sparrow    and 
throstle,  and  have  your  desire  I 
O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten 
the  wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wreng 
with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why? 
For  its  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


Sun  comes,  tnoon  comet. 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets. 

Love,  fix  a  day. 

"  A  year  hence,  a  year  hence.* 
"  We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"  A  month  hence,  a  month  hencav' 
"  Far  far  away." 

"  A  week  hence,  a  week  hence.*" 

"  Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

You  shall  fix  a  day." 

"To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow. 
And  that's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun. 
And  honor  all  the  day. 


196 


THE    WINDOW. 


MARRIAGE    MORNING. 

Light,  SO  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun. 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
Oh,  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

VVcods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met ! 

Light,  so  low  in  the  rale 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar, 
ti'or  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love. 


And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood, 
Oh,  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart, 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  1 

Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires  ? 
0  heart,  are  you  greatenoughforlove  1 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers. 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  XING. 


oJ«Ko 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  uncon- 
sciously 

Some  image  of  himself  —  I  dedicate, 

I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears  — 

These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce   other  than  my  king's  ideal 

knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  liis  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  im- 
minent war, 
The  shadow   of  His   loss   drew  like 

eclipse. 
Darkening  the  world.     We  have  lost 

him  :  he  is  gone : 
We  know  him  now :  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 
Are   silent;   and  we  see   him   as  he 

moved. 
How  modest,  kindly,  aU-accomplish'd, 

wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
self, 
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 

For  pleasure ,  but  thro'  all  this  tract 
of  years 

Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blame- 
less 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  in- 
heritance 

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   summouer  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. 


198 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the 
Good. 

Break  not,   0  woman's-heart,  but 

still  endure ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but 

endure, 
Eemembering  all  the  beauty  of  that 

star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee  that 

ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 

leaves 
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 ! 


THE   COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogean,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 

child ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on 

earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur 

came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging 

war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land; 
And    still    from    time    to    time    the 

heathen  host 
Swann'd  overseas,  and  harried  what 

was  left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness, 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 

came. 


For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought 

and  died, 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 

died. 
But  either  f  ail'd  to  make  the  kingdom 

one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a 

space. 
And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 

him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 

and  reign'd. 


And  thus   the  land  of  Cameliard 

was  waste, 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a 

beast  therein, 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 

beast ; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar 

and  bear 
Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in 

the  fields, 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the 

King. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would 

steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then. 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 

fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings ;  and  the  children, 

housed 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 

would  growl. 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 

feet. 
Till,  straighten'd,   they  grew  up  to 

wolf-like  men. 
Worse  than  the  wolves.     And  King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman  legions  here 

again. 
And  Caesar's  eagle:  then  his  brother 

king, 
Urien,  assail'd  him :   last  a,  heathen 

horde. 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and 

earth  with  blood. 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


199 


And    on    the    spike    that    split    the 

mother's  heart 
Spitting  the  child,  hrake  on  him,  till, 

amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 

for  aid. 

But  — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
^  crown'd, 

Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 

those 
Who  cried,  "  He  is  not  Uther's  son " 

—  the  King 
Sent  to  him,  saying,  "  Arise,  and  help 

us  thou ! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast 

we  die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed 

of  arms. 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came :  and 

Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 

shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood. 
But  rode  a  simple  knight  among  his 

knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms 

than  he. 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she 

saw. 
One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was 

bare. 
But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 

past. 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 

pitch'd 
His  tents  beside  the  forest.     Then  he 

drave 
The  heathen ;   after,  slew  the  beast, 

and  fell'd 
The  forest,  letting  in  the  sun,  and 

made 
Broad   pathways  for  the  hunter  and 

the  knight 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd  in  the 
hearts 


Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of 

his  realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war ;  for  most 

of  these, 
CoUeaguing    with  a  score   of    petty 

kings. 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  "  Who 

is  he    ■ 
That  he   should  rule  us?   who  hath 

proven  him 
Eng  Uther's  son  ">■.  for  lo  !  we  look  at 

him. 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs 

nor  voice. 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 

knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the 

King ; 
This  is  the   son  of  Anton,  not  the 

King." 

And    Arthur,    passing    thence    to 

battle,  felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 

life. 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "  Her  father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 

thoy  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of 

beasts 
Up   to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side 

with  me  ? 
What   happiness   to  reign  a  lonely 

king. 
Text  —  0  ye  stars  that  shudder  over 

me, 

0  earth  that  soimdest  hollow  under 

me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?   for  saving 

I  be  join'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 

realm 
Victor  and  lord.    But  were  I  join'd 

with  her. 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  on* 

life. 


too 


THE   COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  reigning  with  one  will  in  every- 
thing 

Have  power  in  this  dark  land  to 
lighten  it, 

And  power  on  this  dead  world  to 
make  it  live." 

Thereafter  —  as  he  speaks  who  tells 

the  tale  — 
When  Arthur  reaeh'd  a  fleld-of -battle 

bright 
With  pitch'd  pavilions  of  his  foe,  the 

world 
Was  all  so  clear  about  him,  that  he 

saw 
The  smallest  rock  far  on  the  faintest 

hill. 
And  even  in  high  day  the  morning 

star. 
So  when  the  ICing  had  set  his  banner 

broad, 
Atonce  from  either  side,  with  trumpet- 
blast, 
And  shouts,  and  clarions  shrilling  unto 

blood. 
The  long-lanced  battle  let  their  horses 

run. 
And  now  the  Barons  and  the  kings 

prevail'd. 
And  now  the  King,  as  here  and  there 

that  war 
Went  swaying;  but  the  Powers  who 

walk  the  world 
Made  lightnings  and  great  thunders 

over  him. 
And  dazed  all  eyes,  till  Arthur  by 

main  might. 
And  mightier  of  his  hands  with  every 

blow. 
And  leading  all  his  knighthood  threw 

the  kings 
Car^dos,  Urien,  Cradlemont  of  Wales, 
Claudias,  and  Clariance  of  Northum- 
berland, 
The  King  Brandagoras  of  LatangoE, 
With  Anguisant  of  Erin,  Morganore, 
And  Lot  of  Orkney.    Then,  before  a 

voice 
As  dreadful  as  the  shout  of  one  who 

sees 
Tc  one  who  sins,  and  deems  himself 

alone 


And  all  the  world  asleep,  they  swerved 

and  brake 
Flying,  and  Arthur  call'd  to  stay  the 

brands 
That  hack'd  among  the  flyers,  "  Ho ! 

they  yield ! " 
So  like  a  painted  battle  the  war  stood 
Silenced,  the  living  quiet  as  (he  dead. 
And  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  joy  was 

lord. 
He  laugh'd  upon  his  warrior  whom 

he  loved 
And  honor'd  most.    "  Thou  dost  not 

doubt  me  King, 
So  well  thine  arm  hath  wrought  for 

me  to-day." 
"  Sir  and  my  liege,"  he  cried,  "  the 

fire  of  God 
Descends  upon  thee  in  the  battle-field ; 
I  know  thee  for  my  King ! "    Whereat 

the  two, 
For  each  had  warded  either  in  the 

fight, 
Sware  on  the  field  of  death  a  deathless 

love. 
And  Arthur  said,  "  Man's  word  is  God 

in  man : 
Let  chance  what  will,  I  trust  thee  to 

the  death." 

Then  quickly  from  the  foughten 

field  he  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leo- 

dogran. 
Saying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served 

thee  well. 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to 

wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran 

in  heart 
Debating  —  "  How  should  I  that  am  a, 

king, 
However  much  he  holp  me   at  my 

need. 
Give  my  one   daughter  saving  to  a 

king. 
And  a  king's  son  ?  "  —  lifted  his  voice, 

and  call'd 
A  hoary  man,  his   chamberlain,   to 

whom 


THE   COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


201 


He   trusted   all  things,   and   of  him 

required 
His  counsel  i  "  Knowest  thou  aught  of 

Arthur's  birth  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 

and  said, 
''  Sir  King,  there  be  but  two  old  men 

that  know : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Js   Merlin,  the  wise  man   that  ever 

served 
King  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art ;  and 

one 
Is  Merlin's  master  (so  they  call  him) 

Bleys, 
Who   taught    him    magic ;    but    the 

scholar  ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that 

Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 

wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  aunal-book,  where  after 

years 
Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur's 

birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran 
replied, 

"  O  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as 
well 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to- 
day. 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 
share  of  me : 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once 
more 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 
the  King  said, 

"I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by 
lesser  fowl, 

And  reason  in  the  chase :  but  where- 
fore now 

Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat 
of  war, 

Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 

Others  of  Anton  ■?  Tell  me,  ye  your- 
selves. 


Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther's 
son  ?  " 

And  Ulfius  and  Brastius  answer'd, 

"  Ay." 
Then  Bedivere,   the   first  of  all  his 

knights 
Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 

spake  — 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word 

was  he. 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against 

the  King  — 

"  Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this 

head : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in 

their  hearts. 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet. 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less 

than  man : 
And  there  be  those  who  deem  him 

more  than  man. 
And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven :  but 

my  belief 
In  all  this  matter  —  so  ye   care  to 

learn  — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's 

time 
The   prince  and  warrior   Gorlois,  he 

that  held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea. 
Was  wedded  with   a  winsome  wife, 

Ygerne : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  — 

one  whereof. 
Lot's  .wife,  the    Queen    of    Orkney, 

Bellicent, 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,  —  but  a  son  she  had  not 

borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 

love, 
That  Gorlois  £ind  King  Uther  went  to 

war : 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in   his  wrath  and  heat 

besieged 


202 


THE   COMING    OF  ARTHUR- 


Ygerne  ivithin  Tintagil,   where    her 

men, 
Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 

walls, 
iJeft  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd 

in. 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the 

King, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her 

tears, 
And  with  a  shameful  swiftness  :  after- 
ward, 
Not  many  moons.  King  Uther  died 

himself. 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  t» 

rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year. 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 

time 
Was  Arthur  bom,  and  all  as  soon  as 

born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come  ;  because 

the  lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 

this. 
Wild  beasts,  and   surely  would  have 

torn  the  child 
Piecemeal   among    them,    had    they 

known ;  for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self 

and  hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.     Wherefore  Merlin  took 

the  child, 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old 

knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther ;  and  his 

wife 
Nursed  the  young  prinpe,  and  rear'd 

him  with  her  own ; 
And  no  man  knew.    And  ever  since 

the  lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves, 


So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack ; 

but  now. 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 

had  come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in 

the  hall, 
Proclaiming,  'Here   is  Uther's  heir, 

your  king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  'Away  with 

him! 
No  king  of  ours !   a  son  of  Gorlois 

he. 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no 

king. 
Or  else  baseborn.'     Yet  Merlin  thro' 

his  craft, 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a 

king, 
Had  Arthur  crown'd;  but  after,  the 

great  lords 
Banded,  and  so  brake   out  in  open 

war." 

Then  while  the  King  debated  with 

himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamef  ul- 

ness, 
Or  born    the   son  of   Gorlois,  after 

death, 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  bom  before  hia 

time. 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to 

Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her 

two  sons. 
Lot's  wife,    the    Queen  of    Orkney, 

Bellicent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would, 

the  King 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at 

meat, 

"  A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  sum- 
mer seas. 

Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court.  Victor 
his  men 

Report  him !  Yea,  but  ye  —  think  ye 
this  king  — 

So  many  those  that  hate  him,  and  so 
strong, 


THE    COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


203 


So   few  his  knights,  however  brave 

they  be  — 
Hath  body  enow  to  hold  his  foemen 

down  ?  " 

"  0  King,''  she  cried,  "  and  I  will 

tell  thee :  few. 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 

with  him ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage 

yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 

sat 
Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 

cried, 
'Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 

thy  will 
Who  love  thee.'    Then  the  King  in 

low  deep  tones. 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority. 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  tows  to  his 

own  self. 
That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost. 
Some  flush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

"  But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd 

his  Table  Round 
With  large  divine   and   comfortable 

words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to   tell  thee  —  I 

beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order 

flash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  King : 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the 

cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 

smote 
j'Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 

rays, 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair 

queens, 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 

the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 

bright 


Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 
need. 


"And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin, 

whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 

hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of 

the  Lake, 
Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 

own  — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
She  gave  the  King  his  huge  cross- 

hilted  sword. 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out :  a 

mist 
Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her 

face 
Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster 

gloom ; 
But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 

hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a   deep,  calm,  whatsoever 

storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 

surface  rolls, 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like 

our  Lord. 

"  There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 

sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

lake. 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  iti 

—  rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye — the  blade 

so  bright 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it  —  on  one 

side. 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

world, 
'  Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  ye 

shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  spea!» 

yourself. 


204 


THE    COMING    OF  ARTHUR. 


'  Cast    me    away ! '      And    sad    was 

Arthur's  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd 

him, 
•  Take  thou  and  strike !  the  time  to 

cast  away 
Is  yet  far-off.'     So  this  great  brand 

the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 

down." 

Thereat  Leodogram  rejoieed,  but 

thought 
To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and 

ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her 

face, 
"  The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near 

akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister ; "  and  she 

said, 
"  Daughter  of  Gorlois  and  Ygerne  am 

I;" 
"  And    therefore    Arthur's    sister  ?  " 

ask'd  the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "These  be  secret  things,'' 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let 

them  be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into 

song 
Sprang  out,  and  f oUow'd  by  his  flying 

hair 
Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he 

saw: 
But  Modred  laid  his   ear  beside  the 

doors. 
And  there  half -heard ;  the  same  that 

afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking 

found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer, 

"  What  know  I  ? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 

hair, 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;  and 

dark 
Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 

too. 


Wellnigh  to  blackness ;  but  this  King 

is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover,  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
'  0  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 

one. 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of 

the  world.'" 

"  Ay,"  said  the  King,  "  and  hear  ye 
such  a  cry  1 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon 
thee  first  ?  " 


"  O  King !  "  she  cried,  "  and  I  will 

tell  thee  true : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little 

maid : 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty ;  and  out  I 

ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of 

heath. 
And  hated  this   fair  world   and  all 

therein. 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were 

dead ;  and  he  — 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he 

came. 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 

can  walk 
Unseen  at  pleasure  —  he  was  at  my 

side 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 

my  heart, 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with 

me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  ever- 
more 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me ;  and 

sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 

was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved 

him  not, 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him 

well. 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


205 


But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours- 

for  me, 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would 

be  king. 

"  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another 

tale; 
.For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as 

they  say. 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 

me, 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 

life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay 

the  mage ; 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  him- 
self 
And  Merlin   ever  served  about  the 

King, 
Uther,  before  he   died;   and  on  the 

night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 

two 
Left  the  still  King,  and  passing  forth 

to  breathe. 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 

chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night  — 

a  night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and 

earth  were  lost  — 
Beheld,   so   high    upon    the    dreary 

deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 
A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem 

to  stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the 

decks. 
And  gone  as  soon  as  seen.    And  then 

the  two  I 

Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the 

great  sea  fall. 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 

the  last. 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half 

the  deep 
And  full  of   voices,  slowly  rose  and 

plunged 
Eoaring,  and   all  the  wave  was  in  a 

flame: 


And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 

was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's 

feet, 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried  '  The  King ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther ! '    And  the 

fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up 

the  strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 

word, 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in 

fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 

in  fire. 
And    presently    thereafter    foUow'd 

calm, 
Free  sky  and  stars :  '  And  this  same 

child,'  he  said, 
'  Is  he  who  reigns ;  nor  could  I  part 

in  peace 
Till  this  were  told.'     And  saying  this 

the  seer 
Went  thro'  the   strait  and  dreadful 

pass  of  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side ;  but  when  I 

met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things 

were  truth  — 
The   shining  dragon  and  the  naked 

child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 
He  laugh'd   as  is  his  wont,  and  an- 

swer'd  me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and 

said : 

"  '  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow 
in  the  sky ! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by ; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he 
die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun !  a  rainbow  on 
the  lea ! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 

thee; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it 
be. 
Rain,  run,  and  rain !  and  the  free 
blossom  blows ; 


206 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Sun,  rain,  and  sun !  and  where  is  he 

who  knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes.' 

"So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me; 

but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  King  thine  only- 
child, 
GuineTere :  so  great  bards  of  him  will 

sing 
Hereafter ;  and  dark  sayings  from  of 

old 
Banging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds 

of  men, 
And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their 

fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 

done, 
Speak  of  the  King ;  and  Merlin  in  our 

time 
Bath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and 

sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come  ;  and  then  or 

now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for 

their  king." 

She    spake  and  King    Leodogran 

rejoiced, 
But  musing  "  Shall  I  answer  yea  or 

nay  % " 
Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and 

slept,  and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever 

grew. 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the 
r  peak 

Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom 

king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on 

the  slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven, 
Fire  glimpsed ;  and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  rick. 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling 

wind. 


Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled 
with  the  haze 

And  made  it  thicker ;  while  the  phan< 
tom  king 

Sent  out  at  times  a  voice ;  and  here 
or  there 

Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the 
voice,  the  rest 

Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "  No  king 
of  ours, 

No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours ; " 

Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was 
changed,  the  haze 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  be- 
came 

As  nothing,  but  the  King  stood  out 
in  heaven, 

Crown'd.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and 
sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias  and  Bedivere, 

Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answer- 
ing yea. 

Then   Arthur  charged  his  warrior 

whom  he  loved 
And  honor'd  most.  Sir  Lancelot,  to 

ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen ;  —  and  watch'd 

him  from  the  gates : 
And  Lancelot  past  away  among  the 

flowers, 
(For    then    was    latter    April)    and 

return'd 
Among    the    flowers,  in   May,  with 

Guinevere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 

saint. 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and 

before 
The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the 

King 
That  mom  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white. 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 
And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him, 

his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 

joy. 
Far  shone   the  fields   of  May  thro' 

open  door. 
The  sacred  altar  blossom'd  white  with 

May. 


THE    COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


207 


The  Sun  of  May  descended  on  their 

King, 
They  gazed  on  all  earth's  beauty  in 

their  Queen, 
EolI'd  incense,  and  there  past  along 

the  hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  while  the  two 
Sware  at  the  shrine  of  Christ  a  death- 
less love : 
And  Arthur  said,  "  Behold,  thy  doom 

is  mine. 
Let  chance  what  will,  I  love  thee  to 

the  death ! " 
To   whom    the   Queen    replied  with 

drooping  eyes, 
"  King  and  my  lord,  I  love  thee  to  the 

death ! " 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands 

and  spake, 
"Eeign  ye,  and  live  and   love,  and 

make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one 

with  thee. 
And   all    this    Order  of    thy  Table 

Round 
Fulfil  tlie  boundless  purpose  of  their 

King ! " 

So  Dubric  said ;  but  when  they  left 
the  shrine 

Great  Lords  from  Rome  before  the 
portal  stood, 

Li  scornful  stillness  gazing  as  they 
past; 

Then  while  they  paced  a  city  all  on 
fire 

With  sun  and  cloth  of  gold,  the  trum- 
pets blew. 

And  Arthur's  knighthood  sang  before 
the  King :  — 

"Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is 

white  with  May ; 
Blow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath 

roll'd  away ! 
Blow  thro'  the    living  world  — 'Let 

the  King  reign.' 

"Shall  Rome  or  Heathen  rule  in 
Arthur's  realm  ? 
Flash  brand  and  lance,  fall  battleaxe 
upon  helm, 


Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand  I    Let 
the  King  reign. 

"  Strike  for  the  King  and  live !  hia 

knights  have  heard 
That  God  hath  told  the  King  a  secret 

word. 
Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand !     Let 

the  King  reign. 

"Blow  trumpet!    he  will    lift    us 

from  the  dust. 
Blow  trumpet !  live  the  strength  and 

die  the  lust ! 
Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand !  Let 

the  King  reign. 

"  Strike  for  the  King  and  die !  and 

if  thou  diest, 
The  King  is  King,  and  ever  wills  the 

highest. 
Clang    battleaxe,   and  clash   brand  1 

Let  the  King  reign. 

"  Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mighty  in  his 

May! 
Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mightier  day  by 

day! 
Clang  battleaxe,   and    clash    brand: 

Let  the  King  reign. 

"The  King  >vill  follow  Christ,  and 

we  the  King 
In  whom  high  God  hath  breathed  a 

secret  thing. 
Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand !    Let 

the  King  reign." 

So  sang  the  knighthood,  moving  to 

their  hall. 
There   at  the   banquet    those    great 

Lords  from  Rome, 
The    slowly-fading    mistress   of    the 

world, 
Strode  in,  and  claim'd  their  tribute  aa 

of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  "  Behold,  for  these 

have  sworn 
To  wage  my  wars,  and  worship  me 

their  King ; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new ; 


208 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father 

Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 

old 
To    drive    the    heathen    from   your 

Roman  wall. 
No  tribute  will  we  pay":  so  those 

great  lords 
Drew    back    in   wrath,  and    Arthur 

stroTe  with  Rome. 


And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for 

a  space 
Were  all  one    wUI,  and    thro'   that 

strength  the  King 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 

him. 
Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles 

overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 

and  reign'd. 


THE   ROUND   TABLE. 


GARETH  AND  LTl^TTB. 
OEKAINT  AND  ENID. 
MEELIN  AND  VIVIEN. 
LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

The  last  tall  sou  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful 

spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.   A  slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd 

away. 
"  How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth, 

"  as  a  false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use  —  O  senseless  cata- 
ract. 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — ■ 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with 

cold  snows 
And  mine  is  living  blood :  thou  dost 

His  will. 
The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I 

that  know. 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good 

mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and 

whistled  to  — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still 

a  child ! 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  I 
A  worse  were  better;  yet  no  worse 

would  L 


THE  HOLT  GBAIL. 
PELLEAS  AND  ETTABBB. 
THE  LAST  TOnSNAMENT. 
GUINEVERE. 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 

force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 

prayer, 
Until    she    let    me    fly  discaged    to 

sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 

swoop 
Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash 

them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his 

will. 
To  cleanse  the  world.     Why,  Gawain, 

when  he  came 
With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer- 
time, 
Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 

knight. 
Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 

judge. 
Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 

said, 
'  Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me,' 

said  so  —  he  — 
Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was 

mute, 
For  he  is  alway  sullen :  what  care  I  ?  " 

And    Gareth   went,  and    hovering 
round  her  chair 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


209 


Ask'd, "  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still 

the  child, 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ?  " 

She  laugh'd, 
"  Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  ques- 
tion it." 
"  Then,  mother,  an  ye  lore  the  child," 

he  said, 
"  Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than 

wild, 
Hear  the  child's   story."     "Yea,  my 

well-beloved. 
An  'twere   but  of  goose  and  golden 

eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 
"  Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg 

of  mine 
Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can 

lay; 
Tor  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond   eye-reach,  on  such  a 

palm 
As   glitters    gilded  in  thy  Book   of 

Hours. 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round 

the  palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often 

saw 
The   splendor  sparkling  from   aloft, 

and  thought 
•  An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 

upon  it. 
Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of 

kings,' 
But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to 

climb, 
One,  that  had   loved   him   from   his 

childhood,  caught 
And  stay'd  him,  '  Climb  not  lest  thou 

break  thy  neck, 
I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the 

boy. 
Sweet    mother,    neither    clomb,    nor 

brake  his  neck. 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining 

for  it. 
And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  him- 
self and  climb'd, 


And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him." 

And  Gareth  aaswer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 
"  Gold  ?  said  I  gold  ?  —  ay  then,  whj 

he,  or  she, 
Or  whoso'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured  —  had  the  thing  I  spake 

of  been 
Mere  gold  —  but  this  was  all  of  that 

true  steel. 
Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Ex- 

calibur. 
And  lightnings  play'd  about  it  in  the 

storm. 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried 

at  it. 
And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in 

the  nest. 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses :  let  me 

go." 

Then    Bellicent    bemoan'd  herself 

and  said, 
"  Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneli- 
ness ? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the 

hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd 

out! 
Eor  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the 

King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons' 

war. 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  terri. 

tory. 
His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now 

lies  there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburia- 

ble, 
No   more;   nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor 

speaks,  nor  knows. 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 

hall. 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full 

love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such   a 

love : 
Stay  therefore  thou ;  red  berries  charm 

the  bird. 
And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts 

the  wars, 


210 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor 

pang 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb  —  an  often 

chance 
In  those   brain-stunnmg  shocks,  and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart ;  but  stay :  follow 

the  deer 
By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling 

burns ; 
So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day 

by  day; 
Sweet  is  the  chase:  and  I  will  seek 

thee  out 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to 

grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my 

prone  year. 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetftilness 
I  know  not   thee,  myself,  nor  any- 
thing. 
Stay,  my  best  son !  ye  are  yet  more 

boy  than  man." 

Then  Gareth,  "  An  ye  hold  me  yet 

for  child. 
Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the 

child. 
For,  mother,  there  was  once  a,  King, 

like  ours. 
The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and 

marriageable, 
Ask'd  for  a  bride ;  and  thereupon  the 

King 
Set  two  before  him.     One  was  fair, 

strong,  arm'd  — 
But  to  be  won  by  force  —  and  many 

men 
Desired  her ;  one,  good  lack,  no  man 

desired. 
And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 

King: 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force, 

he  needs 
Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man 

desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself 

so  rile. 
That  evermore  she  long'd  to  hide  her- 
self, 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to 

eye  — 


Yea  —  some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they 

died  of  her. 
And  one  —  they  call'd  her  Fame ;  and 

one,  —  0  Mother, 
How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you 

—  Shame ! 
Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must 

I  do. 
Follow  the  deer  ?  follow  the  Christy 

the  King, 
Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong, I 

follow  the  King  — 
Else,  wherefore  born  ?  " 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"  Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who 

deem  him  not. 
Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 

King  — 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him 

King, 
When  I  was  frequent  with  him  in  my 

youth. 
And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and 

doubted  him 
No  more  than  he,  himself;  but  felt 

him  mine. 
Of  closest  kin  to  me  :  yet  —  wilt  thou 

leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk 

thine  all. 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 

King? 
Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  roimd 

his  birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet 

son." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly,  "  Not 

an  hour. 
So  that  ye  yield  me  —  I  will  walk  thro' 

fire. 
Mother,  to  gain  it  —  your  full  leave  to 

go. 
Not  proven,  who    swept  the  dust  of 

ruin'd  Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm, 

and  crush'd 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people 

free? 
Who  should  be  King  save  him  who 

makes  us  free  ?  " 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


211 


So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had 

sought  in  vain 
I'd  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which 

he  grew, 
iFound  her  son's  will  unwaveringly 

one, 
She  answer'd  craftily,  "  Will  ye  walk 

thro'  Are  'i 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed 

the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must:  only  one 

proof. 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 

knight. 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to 

me. 
Thy  mother,  — I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 
"  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay  —  quick !  the  proof  to  prove  me 
to  the  quick  !  " 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  look- 
ing at  him, 

"Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur's  hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats 
and  drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves. 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across 
the  bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any- 
one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth 
and  a  day." 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 

Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 

Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen-vas- 
salage, 

Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 

To  pass  thereby;  so  should  he  rest 
with  her. 

Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then 
replied. 


"  The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 

soul, 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.    Thy  son 

am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 

obey. 
I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 
For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 

myself  j 

To    serve    with    scullions    and  with 

kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  —  no,  not  the 

King." 

Gareth     awhile      linger'd.        The 
mother's  eye 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 

go, 
And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er 

he  turn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an 

hour. 
When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with 

full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on 

to  dawn, 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling 

two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 

birth. 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 

went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of 

the  soil. 
Southward  they  set  their  faces.    The 

birds  made 
Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid 

air. 
The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd 

into  green, 
And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into 

flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 

the  plain 
That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of 

Camelot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
KoUing  her  smoke  about  the  Eoyal 

mount, 


212 


CARET H  AND  LYNETTE. 


That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flash'd ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Prick'd  thro'  the  mist;  at  times  the 
great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disap- 
pear'd. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 

were  amazed, 
One  crying,  "Let  us  go  no  further, 

lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  kings."    The  second  echo'd 

him, 
"  Lord,  we  have  lieard  from  our  wise 

man  at  home 
To  Northward,  that,  this  King  is  not 

the  King, 
But  only  changeling  out  of    Fairy- 
land, 
"Who   drave  the  heathen  hence    by 

sorcery 
And  Merlin's  glamour.''  Then  the  first 

again, 
"  Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answer'd  them 
With    laughter,     swearing    he    had 

glamour  enow 
In  his  own  blood,  liis  princedom,  youth 

.and  hopes. 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 

sea; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilliog  toward 

the  gate. 
And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 

heaven. 
I"or  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 

was  lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood :  all  her 

dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing 

away; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 

arms 


Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and 

upheld : 
And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either 

hand; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 

from  one 
A  censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and 

storm ; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred 

fish; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and 

right, 
Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  device* 

done. 
New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  it 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that 

men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there;   and  over 

all 
High  on  the   top  were   those  three 

Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at 

his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long 

a,  space 
Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it 

seem'd 
The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish   em- 

blemings 
Began  to   move,   seethe,  twine    and 

curl :  they  call'd 
To   Gareth,   "Lord,  the   gateway  is 

alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  iixt  his 

eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd 

to  move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 

to  whom 
From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient 

man. 
Long-bearded,  saying,  "  Who  be  ye, 

my  sons  ?  " 

Then  Gareth,  "  We  be  tillers  of  the 
soil. 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to 
see 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


213 


The  glories  of  our  King :  but  these, 

my  men, 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the 

mist) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 

come 
From  Fairyland ;   and  whether   this 

be  built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings   and 

Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou 

these  the  truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made   answer 

playing  on  him 
And  saying,  "Son,  I  have  seen  the 

good  ship  sail 
Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 

the  heavens. 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air : 
And  here  is  truth;  but  an  it  please 

thee  not. 
Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told 

it  me. 
For  truly  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 

son ; 
Thfey  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 
Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp 

in  hand. 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted, 

son. 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King ;  tho'  some  there  be 

that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so 

thou  pass 
Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 

become 
■  A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the 

King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 

shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet 

the  which 
No  man  can  keep ;  but,  so  thou  dread 

to  swear. 


Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but 

abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  deld. 
For  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city- 
is  built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all. 
And  therefore  built  for  ever. 

Gareth  spake 
Anger'd, "  Old  Master,  reverence  thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth, 

and  seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured 

tall! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that 

hath  been 
To  thee  fair-spoken  ?  " 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
"  Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of 

the  Bards  ^ 
'  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation. 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion '  ? 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 

me, 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 

who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who 

thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 

King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 

lie." 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending 
here 

Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along 
the  plain; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said, "  My 
men. 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 

Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enter- 
prise. 

Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  nor  she,  nor 
I: 

Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh'd,  then  enter'd 
with  his  twain 


214 


CARET ff  AND  LYNETTE. 


Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the 

work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 

stone; 
Which   Merlin's   hand,  the  Mage   at 

Arthur's  court, 
Knowing   all  arts,  had   touch'd,  and 

everywhere 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessen- 
ing peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire 

to  heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :  his 

arms 
Clash'd ;  and  the  sound  was  good  to 

Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly 

glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars 

of  love ; 
And  all  about  a  healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending 

heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  be- 
held 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted 

hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the 

King 
Throned,  and  delivering  doom  —  and 

look'd  no  more  — 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering 

in  his  ears. 
And  thought,  "For  this  half-shadow 

of  a  lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when 

I  speak." 

^  Tet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 

Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 

Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 

Of  those  tall  knights,   that  ranged 

about  the  throne, 
Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 

with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory. 
And  glory  gain'd,  and  evermore  to 

gain. 


Then  came  a  widow  crying  to  the 
King, 

"A  boon,  Sir  Ifing!  Thy  father, 
Ilther,  reft 

From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  vio- 
lence : 

For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  proffer'd  gold, 

Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our 
eyes, 

We  yielded  not ;  and  then  he  reft  us  | 
of  it 

Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor 
field." 

Said  Arthur,  "  Whether  would  ye  ? 
gold  or  field  ■?  " 

To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  "Nay, 
my  lord. 

The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  hus- 
band's eye." 

And  Arthur,  "Have  thy  pleasant 

field  again. 
And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther's  use 

thereof, 
According  to  the  years.     No  boon  is 

here. 
But  justice,   so  thy  say  be  proven 

true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his 

father  did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right  I " 

And  while  she  past, 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to 

him, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!     Thine  enemy, 

King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  U ther  in  the  Barons'  war. 
When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 

fought 
Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely 

born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask 

thee  aught. 
Yet  lo !  my  husband's  brother  had  my 

son 
Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 

him  dead ; 
And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


215 


Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast 

left  the  son. 
So  the'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for 

hate. 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 

for  me, 
Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for 

my  son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 

"A  boon,  Sir  King!  I  am  her  kins- 
man, I. 

Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay 
the  man." 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

and  cried, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!  ev'n  that  thou 

grant  her  none. 
This  railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in 

full  hall  — 
None ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 

and  gag." 

But  Arthur,  "We  sit  King,  to  help 

the  wrong'd 
Thro'  all  our  realm.    The  woman  loves 

her  lord. 
Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves 

and  hates ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to 

the  flames, 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged 

thee  dead. 
And  TJther  slit  thy  tongue :  but  get 

thee  hence  — 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 

old 
Return  upon  me !     Thou  that  art  her 

kin. 
Go   likewise ;  lay  him  low  and  slay 

him  not. 
But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge 

the  right. 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King : 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless 

King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 

shall  die." 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 
Mark, 


A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.    In  either  hand  he 

bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as 

shines 
A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest 

gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 

and  knelt. 
Delivering,  that  his  lord,  the  vassal 


Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 
For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his 

grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 

knight. 
And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater 

state. 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
AVouId  yield  him  this  large  lienor  all 

the  more ; 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 

of  gold. 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  feSlty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 

to  rend 
In   pieces,   and    so    cast   it   on   the 

hearth. 
An  oak-tree  smoulder'd  there.     "  The 

goodly  knight ! 
What !  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 

among  these  ? " 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 

hall 
A  stately  pile, —  whereof  along  the 

front, 
Some  blazon'd,  some  but  carven,  and 

some  blank, 
There  ran   a  treble  range  of  stony 

shields,  — 
Eose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'dthe 

hearth. 
And  under  every  sliield  a  knight  was 

named : 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his 

hall; 
When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 

noble  deed, 
His   arms  were  carven  only ;  but  if 

twain 


216 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


His  arms  were  blazon'd  also;  but  if 

none 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without 

a  sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath ;  and  Gareth 

saw 
The  shield  of  Gawaiu  blazon'd  rich  and 

bright, 
<  A.nd  Modred's  blank  as   death ;  and 

Arthur  cried 
To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the 

hearth. 

"  More  like  are  we  to  reave  liim  of 
his  crown 

Than  make  him  knight  because  men 
call  him  king. 

The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we 
stay'd  their  hands 

Prom  war  among  themselves,  but  left 
them  kings ; 

Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merci- 
ful. 

Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers, 
them  we  enroU'd 

Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our 
hall. 

But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great 
name  of  king. 

As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of 
cliurl : 

And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of 
gold, 

Keturn,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from 
our  eyes. 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 
lead. 

Silenced  for  ever  —  craven  —  a  man 
of  plots, 

Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside 
ambushings  — 

No  fault  of  thine :  let  Kay  the  senes- 
chal 

Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  sat- 
isfied — 

Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the 
hand  be  seen ! " 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying 

came 
With  noise  of    ravage  wrought    by 

beast  and  man. 


And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride 
away. 

Last,   Gareth  leaning  both  hands 

heavily 
Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain, 

his  men, 
Approaeh'd  between  them  toward  the 

King,  and  ask'd, 
"  A  boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all  , 

ashamed). 
For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger- 
worn 
I  seem  —  leaning  on  these  ?  grant  me 

to  serve 
For    meat    and    drink    among    thy 

kitchen-knaves 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek 

my  name. 
Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King, 
"  A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a  good- 
lier boon ! 
But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then 

must  Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks, 
be  thine." 

He  rose  and  past ;  then  Kay,  a  man 

of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the   plant  that  feels 

itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

"  Lo  ye  now ! 
This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some 

Abbey,  where, 
God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 

enow. 
However  that  might  chance !  but  an 

he  work. 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop. 
And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any 

hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  "  Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray, 

and  all  the  hounds ; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost 

not  know : 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


217 


Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair 

and  fine, 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine, 

and  hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine!  —  some  young 

lad's  mystery  — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall, 

the  boy 
Is  noble-natured.     Treat  him  with  all 
;  grace, 

Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy 

judging  of  him." 

Then  Kay,  "  What  murmurest  thou 

of  mystery  ? 
Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 

King's  dish ' 
Nay,    for    he    spake    too    fool-like : 

mystery ! 
Tut,  an  tlie  lad  were  noble,  he  had 

ask'd 
For  horse  and  armor :  fair  and  fine, 

forsooth ! 
Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  1  but  see 

thou  to  it 
That  thine   own    fineness,  Lancelot, 

some  fine  day 
Undo  thee  not  —  and  leave  my  man 

to  me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by 

the  door. 
And  couch'd  at    night  with    grimy 

kitchen-knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleas- 
antly, 
But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him 

not 
Would    hustle   and  harry  him,   and 

labor  him 
Beyond  his   comrade  of  the  hearth, 

and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or 

hew  wood. 
Or  grosser  tasks;  and  Gareth  bow'd 

himself 
With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 

wrought 
All  kind    of    service   with   a    noble 

ease 


That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing 

it. 
And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among 

themselves. 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that 

linkt  the  King 
And  Lancelot  —  how  the  King  had 

saved  his  life 
In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 

King's  — 
For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tourna- 
ment, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle- 
field— 
Gareth  was  glad.     Or  if  some  other 

told. 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at 

dawn. 
Far  over   the  blue   tarns   and   hazy 

seas, 
On   Caer-Eryri's  highest    found  the 

King, 
A  naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet 

spake, 
"  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cannot 

die  "  — 
Gareth  was  glad.     But  if  their  talk 

were  foul, 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any 

lark. 
Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so 

loud 
That  first    they  mock'd,  but,   after, 

reverenced  him. 
Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bub- 
bling way 
Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon, 

held 
All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good 

mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 
Charm'd ;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

would  come 
Blustering  upon  them,  like  a  sudden 

wind 
Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them 

all  apart. 
Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among 

themselves. 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 


218 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or 

stone 
Was    counted    best;     and    if    there 

chanced  a  joust, 
So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to 

go, 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he 

saw  the  knights 
Clash  like   the  coming  and  retiring 

ware, 
And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse 

reel,  the  hoy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among 
the  thralls ; 

But  in  the  weeks  that  foUow'd,  the 
good  Queen, 

Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 
swear. 

And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle, 
sent. 

Between  the  in-crescent  and  de-cres- 
cent moon. 

Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 
his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire 

of  Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 

once. 
When    both  were    children,  and    in 

lonely  haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the 

sand. 
And  each  at  either  dash  from  either 

end  — 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than 

Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh'd  ;  he  sprang.     "  Out  of  the 

smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's 

knee  — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's  — 
i  nay,  the  King's  — 

Descend  into  the  city :  "  whereon  he 

sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told 

him  all. 

"I  have  stagger'd  thy  strong  Ga- 
wain  in  a  tilt 


For  pastime ;  yea,  he   said  it :   joust 

can  I. 
Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret!  let 

my  name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest, 

I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him 

flush,  and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd 

him, 
"  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know 

thee  here, 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield 

thee  thine. 
Make   thee  my  knight  ■?  my  knights 

are  sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness. 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love. 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King." 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from 
his  knees, 

"  My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  prom- 
ise thee. 

For  uttermost  obedience  make  de- 
mand 

Of  whom  ye  gave  rae  to,  the  Seneschal, 

No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and 
drinks ! 

And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not 
yet, 

But  love  I  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the  King  — 
' '  Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ■?  yea, 

but  he. 
Our  noblest  brother,  arid   our  truest 

man. 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he   needs 

must  know." 

"Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know. 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest ! " 

And  the  King  — 
"  But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should 
wonder  at  you  ? 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


219 


Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their 

King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood 

do  the  deed. 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 

Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 
"  Have  I  not  earn'd  my  cake  in  baking 

of  it? 
Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my 

name  ! 
My-  deeds  will  speak :  it  is  but  for  a 

day." 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's 

arm 
Smiled    the    great    King,   and    half- 

un  willingly 
Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded 

to  him. 
Then,    after     summoning     Lancelot 

privily, 
"  I  have  given  him  the  first  quest :  he 

is  not  proven. 
Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this 

in  hall. 
Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far 

away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en 

nor  slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 

May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple- 
blossom. 

Hawk-eyes  ;  and  lightly  was  her  slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower ; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

"  0  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the 

foe  without. 
See  to   the  foe  within!  bridge,  ford, 

beset 
By    bandits,   everyone  that   owns   a 

tower 
The  Lord  for  half  a  league.     Why  sit 

ye  there  ? 
Rest  would  I  not.  Sir  King,  an  I  were 

king. 


Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as 
free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 

From  that  best  blood  it  is  a  sin  to 
spill." 

"  Comfort  thyself,"  said  Arthur,  "  I 

nor  mine 
Eest:    so  my  knighthood  keep  the 

vows  they  swore. 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm 

shall  lie 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
"What  is  thy  name  ?  thj'  need  ?  " 

"  My  name  ?  "  she  said  — 

"  Lynette  my  name  ;  noble ;  my  need, 
a  knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 

A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands. 

And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than 
myself. 

She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous :  a  river 

Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living- 
place  ; 

And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and 
three  knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a 
fourth 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holdg 
her  stay'd 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed 
with  him  : 

And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou 
send 

To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 
man 

Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  over- 
throw. 

Then  wed,  with  glory :  but  she  will 
not  wed 

Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 

Now  therefore  have  I  come  for 
Lancelot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 
ask'd, 
"  Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to 
crush 


220 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.     But  say, 

these  four, 
Who  he  they  ?     What  the  fashion  of 

the  men  ? " 

"  They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir 
King, 

The     fasliion     of    that    old     knight- 
errantry 

Who  ride   abroad  and  do  but  what 
they  will; 

Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 
such 

As  have  nor  law  nor  king ;  and  three 
of  these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves 
the  Day, 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and 
Evening-Star, 

Being  strong  fools  ;  and  never  a  whit 
more  wise 

The  fourth  who  alway  rideth  arm'd 
in  black, 

A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night,  and 
oftener  Death, 

And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a 
skull, 

And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms, 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape 
the  three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless 
night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men. 

And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where 
he  rose, 

A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

"  A  boon,  Sir  King  —  this  quest !  " 
then  —  for  he  mark'd 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 
bull  — 

"  Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I, 


And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,"  and  Arthur  glanc- 
ing at  him, 

Brought  down  a  momentary  brow. 
"  Rough,  sudden. 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 

Go,  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  wert 
amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath 

Slew  the  May-white :  she  lifted  either 
arm, 

"  Fie  on  thee.  King !  I  ask'd  for  thy 
chief  knight. 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen- 
knave." 

Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn'd, 

Med  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the 
King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street;, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring 
"  kitchen-knave." 

Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from 

the  hall. 
At  one   end  one,  that  gave  upon  a 

range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King 

would  pace 
At   sunrise,   gazing   over  plain    and 

wood; 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway 

sloped 
Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of 

towers ; 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past 

the  King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth, 

and  rose 
High  that  the   highest-crested  helm 

could  ride 
Tharethro'  nor  graze :  and  by  this  entry 

fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to 

this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without 

the  door 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


221 


King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half 

a  town, 
A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it 

stood 
The   two  that  out  of  north  had  fol- 

low'd  him : 
This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a,  casque  ; 

that  held 
The   horse,   the   spear;   whereat   Sir 

Gareth  loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone 

to  heel, 
A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it 

down. 
And  from  it  like  a  fuel-smother'd  fire. 
That  lookt  half -dead,  brake  bright,  and 

flash'd  as  those 
Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide 

apart 
Their   dusk  wing-cases,   all   beneath 

there  burns 
A  jewell'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and 

fly- 

So  Gareth  ere  he   parted  flash'd  in 

arms. 
Then  as  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and  took 

the  shield 
And  mounted    horse    and    graspt  a, 

spear,  of  grain 
Storm-strengthen'd  on  a  windy  site, 

and  tipt 
With    trenchant    steel,   around    him 

slowly  prest 
The  people,  while  from  out  of  kitchen 

came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 

had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 

but  love. 
Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps 

and  cried, 
"God    bless    the   King,   and  all  his 

fellowship ! " 
And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 

rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  with- 
out the  gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the 
cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with, 
ere  his  cause 


Be  cool'd  by  fighting,  follows,  being 

named. 
His  owner,  but  remembers   all,  and 

growls 
Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the 

door 
Mutter'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he 

used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With  horse  and  arms — the  King  hath 

past  his  time  — 
My  scullion  knave  1    Thralls  to  your 

work  again, 
Por  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle 

mine! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve 

in  East  ? 
Begone !  • —  my  knave  !  —  belike  and 

like  enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 

youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his 

prime  — 
Crazed !  how  the  villain  lifted  up  his 

voice. 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut :  he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 
•  me. 

Till    peacock'd  up    with    Lancelot's 

noticing. 
Well  —  I  will  after  my  loud  knave, 

and  learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master 

yet. 
Out'  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 

lance 
Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into 

the  mire  — 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his 

craze. 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said, 
"  Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against 

the  King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in 

thee? 
Abide :  take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is 

great 


222 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTB. 


And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 

and  sword." 
"  Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  "  ye  are 

overfiue 
To  mar  stout    knaves  with    foolish 

courtesies : " 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces 

rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond 

the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  Imger- 

ing  yet 
Mutter'd  the  damsel,  "  Wherefore  did 

the  King 
Scorn  me  ?    for,  were  Sir  Lancelot 

lackt,  at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of 

those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love   and  glory 

here. 
Rather  than  — 0   sweet  heaven!     O 

fie  upon  him  — 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 

than  he) 
Shining  in  arms,  "  Damsel,  the  quest 

is  mine.  • 

Lead,  and  I  follow."     She  thereat,  as 

one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the 

holt, 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  wood- 
land thing, 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender 

nose 
With    petulant    thumb    and     finger, 

shrilling,  "  Hence ! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen- 
I  grease. 

And   look   who   comes   behind,"  for 

there  was  Kay. 
"  Knowest  thou  not  me  1  thy  master  1 

I  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
"  Master  no  more !   too  well  I  know 
thee,  ay  — 


The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's 

hall." 
"  Have  at  thee  then,"  said  Kay :  they 

shock'd,  and  Kay 
Pell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried 

again, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow,"  and  fast  away 

she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to 

fly 

Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 

horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 

beat. 
Perforce   she   stay'd,  and   overtaken 

spoke. 

"What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my 

fellowship  ? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught 

the  more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some 

device 
Full  cowardly,,  or  by  mere  unhappi- 

ness. 
Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy 

master  —  thou  !  — ■ 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon ! 

—  to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  be- 
fore." 

"  Damsel,"    Sir    Gareth    answer'd 

gently,  "  say 
Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye 

say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefore." 

"  Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  'y 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he 

talks ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the 

manner  of  it.  'i 

But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met 

with,  knave. 
And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for 

all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 

face." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


223 


"I  shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a 

smile 
That   madden'd   her,    and   away   she 

flash'd  again 
Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless 

wood. 
And  Garetli  following  was  again  be- 

knaved. 

"  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd 

the  only  way 
Where  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the 

wood; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 

leaves  : 
If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee ;  but 

yet, 

Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit 

of  thine  ? 
Kght,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd 

the  only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  f  ollow'd  even- 
song 

Eode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled ; 

Then    after     one     long     slope     was 
mounted,  saw, 

Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thou- 
sand pines 

A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 

To  westward  —  in  the  deeps  whereof 
a  mere. 

Bound  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle- 
owl, 

Under  the   half-dead   sunset  glared; 
and  shouts 

Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  serving- 
man 
iriying  from  out  the  black  wood,  and 

crying, 
."They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast 
him  in  the  mere." 

Then  Gareth,  "  Bound  am  I  to  right 
the  wrong'd. 

But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 
thee." 

And  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
uously, 

"Lead,  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried 
again, 

"  Follow,  I  lead ! "  so  down  among  the 
pine3 


He  plunged ;  and  there,  blackshadow'd 

nigh  the  mere. 
And  mid-thigh-deep  in  bulrushes  and 

reed. 
Saw   six  tall   men  haling  a  seventh 

along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him 

in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 

three 
Fled  thro'  the  pines ;  and  Gareth  loosed 

the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere 

beside 
Tumbled  it;   oilily  bubbled   up  the 

mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on 

free  feet 
Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's 

friend. 

"  Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these 
caitiff  rogues 

Had  wreak'd  themselves  on  me  ;  good 
cause  is  theirs 

To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever 
been 

To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  ver- 
min here 

Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about 
his  neck  ; 

And  under  this  wan  water  many  of 
them 

Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the 
stone, 

And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly 
light 

Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye 
have  saved  a  life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of 
this  wood. 

And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 

What  guerdon  will  ye  ?  " 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 
"  None !  for  the  deed's  sake  have  t 

done  the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  wilt  thou  yield  this  damsel  har- 
borage ?  " 


224 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  "  I  well 

believe 
You  be  of  Arthur's  Table,''  a  light 

laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette,  "  Ay,  truly  of  a 

truth. 
And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 

knaye ! — 
But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 

more, 
Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 

spit 
Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 
A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd 

them. 
Nay  — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 

still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbor- 
age, 
Well." 

So  she  spake.     A  league  beyond 

the  wood. 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich. 
His  towers  where  that  day  a  feast  had 

,         been 
Held  in  high  wall,  and  many  a  viand 

left. 
And  many  a  costly  cate,  received  the 

three. 
And  there  they  placed  a,  peacock  in 

his  pride 
Before  the  damsel,   and   the  Baron 

set 
Gareth  beside   her,  but  at  once  she 

rose. 

"Meseems,  that  here  is  much  dis- 
courtesy. 

Setting  this  knave.  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me  —  this  morn  I  stood  in 
Arthur's  hall, 

And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night  — 

The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 

Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I 
call'd  — 

Suddenly  bawls  tiis  frontless  kitchen- 
knave, 


•The  quest  is  mine;  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and 
drinks  am  I.' 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad 
replies, 

'  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest 
to  him  — 

Him  —  here  —  a  villain  fitter  to  stick 
swine 

Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women's 
wrong. 

Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 

Then  half -ashamed  and  part- 
amazed,  the  lord 

Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other, 
left 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his 
pride. 

And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board. 

Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then 
began. 

"  Priend,  whether  thou  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not. 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
liing. 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I  ask  not :  but  thou  strikest  a  strong 
stroke, 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal, 

And  saver  of  my  life ;  and  therefore 
now, 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  dam- 
sel back 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
King. 

Thy  pardon;  I  but  speak  for  thine 
avail. 

The  saver  of  my  life.'' 

And  Gareth  said, 
"Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up   the 

quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death 

and  Hell." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


225 


So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 

life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them 

on  their  way 
And  left   them  with  God-speed,   Sir 

Gareth  spake, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow."     Haughtily  she 

replied, 

"  I  fly  no  more :  I  allow  thee  for  an 

hour. 
Lion  and   stoat  have  isled  together, 

knave. 
In  time  of  flood.     Nay,  furthermore, 

methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.     Back 

wilt  thou,  fool  ? 
Tor  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee :  then  will  I  to  court 

again. 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yield- 
ing me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his 

hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  cour- 
teously, 

"  Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou 
wilt  find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  who  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the 
King's  son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those 

long  loops 
Wherethro'   the  serpent  river  coil'd, 

they  r.ame. 
Eough-thiiketed  were  the  banks  and 

steep ;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow  :  this  a  bridge  of  single 
^  arc 

Took  at  a  leap;  and  on  the  further 

side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily 

in  hue. 
Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and 

above. 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 


And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior 

paced 
TJnarm'd,   and    calling,   "Damsel,  is 

this  he. 
The  champion  thou  hast  brought  from 

Arthur's  hall  ? 
For  whom  we  let  thee  pass."     "  Nay, 

nay,"  she  said, 
"  Sir  Morning-Star.   'The  King  in  uttei 

scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 

thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave  :  and  look  thou  t« 

thyself : 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly^ 
And  slay  thee   unarm'd:    he  is  iiot 

knight  but  knave." 

Then  at  his  call,  "  0  daughters  of 

the  Dawn, 
And  servants   of  the  Morning-Star, 

approach. 
Arm  me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 
Bare-footed  and   bare-headed    three 

fair  girls 
In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  :  their 

feet 
In   dewy  grasses   glisten'd;  and  the 

hair 
All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 

gem 
Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 
These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and 

gave  a  shield 
Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning 

star. 
And   Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the 

knight, 
"Who  stood  a  moment  ere  his  horse 

was  brought, 
Glorying ;  and  in  the  stream  beneath 

him, shone 
Immingled  with  Heaven's  azure  wav- 

eringly. 
The    gay    pavilion    and    the    naked 

feet,  ' 

His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the 

star. 

Then     she     that     watch'd      Yeaa, 
"  Wherefore  stare  ye  so  ? 


226 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear :  there  yet  is 

time : 
Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 

horse. 
Who  will  cry  shame  ■?     Thou  art  not 

knight  but  knave." 

Said  Gareth,  "  Damsel,  whether 
knave  or  knight, 

Far  liefer  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 

Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  re- 
vile. 

Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who 
fights  for  thee ; 

But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they 
send 

That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine 
arms,  I  know 

That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from 

o'er  the  bridge, 
"  A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn 

of  me ! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn 

with  scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 

wrong 
Thau  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 

horse 
And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the 

King, 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

"Dog,  thou  liest. 

I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than 
4  thine  own." 

He  spake ,  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the 
two 

Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge,  and 
either  spear 

Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 
at  once, 

Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  cata- 
pult 

Beyond  his  horse's  crupper  and  the 
bridge. 


Fell,  as  if  dead ;  but  quickly  rose  and 

drew. 
And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his 

brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down 

the  bridge. 
The   damsel  crying,  "Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave ! " 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven ;  but 

one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on 

the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,  "  Take  not  my 

life:  I  yield." 
And  Gareth,  "  So  this  damsel  ask  it 

of  me 
Good  —  I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace.'' 
She  reddening,  "  Insolent  scullion :  I 

of  thee'? 
I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd! " 
"Then   shall  he  die."    And   Gareth 

there  unlaced 
His  helmet  as   to  slay  him,  but  she 

shriek'd, 
"Be   not  so    hardy,  scullion,  as  to 

slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself."    "  Damsel, 

thy  charge 
Is    an    abounding    pleasure    to    me. 

Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine   at  her  command. 

Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall, 

and  say 
His    kitchen-knave    hath    sent  thea 

See  thou  crave 
His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his 

laws. 
Myself,  when  I  return,  will  plead  for 

thee. 
Thy  shield  is  mine  —  farewell ;  and, 

damsel,  thou, 
Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 

"  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking 

on  the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon 

me 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


in 


A  little  f  aintlier :  but  the  wind  hath 

changed : 
I  scent  it  twenty-fold."    And  then  she 

sang, 
"'O  morning  star'  (not  that  tall  felon 

there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some    device,   hast    foully    over- 
thrown), 
'0  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the 

blue, 
O    star,    my    morning    dream    hath 

proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou !  my  love   hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"But  thou  begone,  take   counsel, 

and  away. 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 

ford  — 
The   second    brother  in  their  fool's 

parable  — 
Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to 

boot. 
Care  not  for  shame :   thou  art  not 

knight  but  knave." 

To    whom    Sir    Gareth    answer'd, 

laughingly, 
"  Parables  ?     Hear  a  parable  of  the 

knave. 
When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among  the 

rest 
Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my 

co-mates 
Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast 

his  coat, 
'  Guard   it,'  and  there  was   none  to 

meddle  with  it. 
And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee 

the  King 
Gave   me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog 

am  I, 
To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  —  and  — 

knight  or  knave  — 
The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as 

full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

"  Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a 
knight. 


Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the 
more." 

"  Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship 
me  the  more. 
That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine 
enemies." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  she  said, "  but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match." 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second 

river-loop. 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  house,  and  all  in 

mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 
day Sun 
Beyond  a  raging  shallow.    As  if  the 

flower. 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets. 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash'd 

the  fierce  shield. 
All  sun ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying 

blots 
Before   them  when  he   turn'd   from 

watching  him. 
He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow 

roar'd, 
"What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my 

marches  here  ?  " 
And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd 

again, 
"  Here     is    a    kitchen-knave     from 

Arthur's  hall 
Hath    overthrown  thy  brother,  and 

hath  his  arms." 
"  Ugh !  "  cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring 

up  a  red 
And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolish- 
ness, 
Push'd  horse  across  the  foamings  of 

the  ford. 
Whom  Gareth  met    midstream ;   no 

room  was  there 
For    lance    or    tourney-skili  .•     four 

strokes  they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ; 

the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as 

the  Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike' 

the  fifth. 


228 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  hoof  of   his  horse   slipt  in   the 

stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd 

away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart 

the  ford ; 
So  drew  him  home ;  but  he  that  fought 

no  more, 
As  being  all  boue-batter'd  on  the  rock. 
Yielded ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the 

King. 
"  Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for 

thee." 
■"Lead,  and  I  follow."     Quietly  she 

led. 
"Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel, 

changed  again  ?  " 
"  Nay,  not  a  point ;  nor  art  thou  victor 

here. 
There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the 

ford; 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled  —  ay,  for 

I  saw  it. 

" '  0   Sun '   (not  this  strong   fool 

whom  thou.  Sir  Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro'  mere  unhappi- 

ness), 
■*  0  Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or 

pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again. 
Shine  sweetly:   twice  my  love  hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong 

or  of  love  ? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 

born, 
Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.     Yea, 

perchance,  — 

" '  O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the 

sun, 
0  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 

done. 
Blow  sweetly:   twice  my  love  hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  flowers, 
except,  belike. 


To  garnish  meats  with  %  hath  not  oup 
good  King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of 
kitchendom, 

A  foolish  love  for  flowers  ^  what  stick 
ye  round 

The  pasty?  wherewithal  deck  the 
boar's  head  ? 

Flowers?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rose- 
maries and  bay. 

" '  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morn- 
ing sky, 

O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes 
by, 

Sing  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 

mavis,  merle, 
Linnet  ?  what  dream  ye  when  they 

utter  forth 
May-music  growing  with  the  growing 

light. 
Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?  these  be  for 

the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the 

spit. 
Larding  and  basting.     See  thou  have 

not  now 
Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and 

fly- 
There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their 

allegory." 

Por  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble 

bow, 
All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and 

all 
Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 

knight, 
That    named    himself    the    Star    of 

Evening,  stood. 

And  Gareth,  "  Wherefore  waits  the 

madman  there 
Naked  in  open  dayshine  ■?  "     "  Nay," 

she  cried, 
"  Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden'd 

skins 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


229 


That  fit  him  like  his  own ;  and  so  ye 

cleave 
His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 

blade." 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'ev 

the  bridge, 
"  O  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so 

low? 
Thy  ward  is  higher  up  :  but  have  ye 

slain 
The  damsel's   champion  t  "   and  the 

damsel  cried, 

"No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from 

Arthur's  heaven 
With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 
i"or  both  thy  younger  brethren  have 

gone  down 
Before  this  youth ;  and  so  wilt  thou, 

Sir  Star; 
Art  thou  not  old  1  " 

"  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old,  with  the  might   and  breath  of 

twenty  boys." 
Said  Gareth,  "  Old,  and  over-bold  in 

brag! 
But  that  same  strength  which  threw 

the  Morning  Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 
"  Approach  and  arm  me ! "    With  slow 

steps  from  out 
An   old  storm-beaten,  russet,   many- 

stain'd 
Pavilion,    forth    a    grizzled    damsel 

came, 
And   arm'd    him    in   old   arms,   and 

brought  a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest;, 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of 

Even 
Half-tamish'd    and     half-bright,   his 

emblem,  shone. 
But  when  it  glitter'd  o'er  the  saddle- 
bow, 
They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the 

bridge;  -~     I 


And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted, 

drew. 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew 

him  again, 
But  up  like  fire  he  started:  and  as 

oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on 

his  knees. 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again ; 
Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great 

heart, 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in 

vain, 
Labor'd  within  him,  for  he  eeem'd  as 

one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life. 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and 

cry, 
"  Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst 

not  put  us  down!" 
He  half  despairs ;  so  Gareth  seem'd  to 

strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the 

while,  ' 

"  Well     done,      knave-knight,     well 

stricken,      0      good     knight" 

knave  — 
O  knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the 

knights  — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.    I  have 

prophesied  — '' 
Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table 

Round  — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hard- 

en'd  skin  — 
Strike  —  strike  —  the  wind  will  never 

change  again." 
And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier 

smote. 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor 

off  him. 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd 

skin. 
And    could    not    wholly  bring    him 

under,  more 
Than    loud     Southwesterns,    rolling 

ridge  on  ridge. 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  «nd  dips 

and  springs 
For  ever ;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's 

brand 


230 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 

hilt. 
"  I  have  thee  now ;  "  but  forth  that 

other  sprang, 
And,  all   unknightlike,   writhed    his 

wiry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his 

mail. 
Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  utter- 
most 
Cast,  and  so  hurl'd  him  headlong  o'er 

the  bridge 
Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 

cried, 
"Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 
"  I  lead  no  longer ;  ride  thou  at  my 

side ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

"  '  O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy 
plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain. 
Shine  sweetly :  thrice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

"  Sir,  —  and,  good  faith,  I  fain  had 

added  — Knight, 
But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a 

knave,  — 
Shamed  am   I    that    I    so  rebuked, 

reviled, 
Missaid    thee ;    noble    I    am ;    and 

thought  the  King 
Scorn'd  me  and  mine ;  and  now  thy 

pardon,  friend. 
For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  cour- 
teously, 
And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek 

withal 
As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being 

knave. 
Hast  mazed  my  wit ;  I  marvel  what 

thou  art. 

"  Damsel,"  he  said,  "  you  be  not  all 
to  blame. 
Saying  that  you  mistrusted  our  good 
King 


Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you, 

asking,  one 
Not  fit  to  cope  your  quest.    You  said 

your  say;  ^       „     3 

Mine  answer  was  my  deed.      Gooa 

sooth !  I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man, 

nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who 

lets 
His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish 

heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed  ■?  care  not !  thy  foul  sayings 

fought  for  me : 
And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair, 

methinks 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot, 

his  great  self. 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 

When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  mel- 
ancholy, • 

Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretch- 
ing, dreams 

Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 

Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling 
at  him. 

And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at 
hand. 

Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and 
good  red  wine 

Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyo- 
nors 

Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon   they  past    a  narrow  comb 

wherein 
Were    slabs    of   rock    with    figures, 

knights  on  horse 
Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly-wan- 
ing hues. 
"  Sir  Knave,  ray  knight,  a  hermit  once 

was  here. 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on 

the  rock 
The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of 

man. 
And  yon  four  fools  have  suck'd  their 

allegory 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


231 


Trom  these  damp  walls,  and  taken 
but  the  form. 

Know  ye  not  these?"  and  Gareth 
lookt  and  read  — 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  Texillary 

Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  stream- 
ing Gelt  — 

"  Phosphokus,"  then  "  Meridies  "  — 
"  Hesperus  "  — 

*'  Nox  "  —  "  Mors,"  beneath  five  fig- 
ures, armed  men. 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward 
all. 

And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape 
that  fled 

"With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 
loose  hair, 

Tor  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's 
cave. 

'■Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it. 
Look, 

"Who  comes  behind  ?  " 

For  one  —  delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter 

chanced. 
The  damsel's  headlong  error  thro'  the 

wood  — 
Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river- 
loops  — 
"FTia  blue  shield-lions  cover'd  —  softly 

.       drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw 

the  star 
Gleam,   on   Sir  Gareth's   turning  to 

him,  cried, 
"  Stay,  felon-knight,  I  avenge  me  for 

my  friend." 
And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the 

cry; 
'  But  when  they  closed  —  in  a  moment 

—  at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  wonder  of 

the  world  — 
"Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell. 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within 

his  hands 
He  laugh'd ;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon 

Lynette  : 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  "  Shamed  and 

overthrown, 


And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen- 
knave, 
Why  laugh  ye  %  that  ye  blew  your 

boast  in  vain  1  " 
"Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the 

son 
Of  old  Ifing  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bel- 

licent. 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford. 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 

by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappi- 

ness  — 
Device    and    sorcery   and    unhappi- 

ness  — 
Out,  sword ;  we  are  thrown ! "    And 

Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Prince, 
O  Gareth  —  thro'  the  mere  unliappi- 

ness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to 

harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee 

whole. 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted 

him." 

Then   Gareth,  "Thou — Lancelot! 
,  ■ — thine  the  hand 
That  threw  me  ?     An  some  chance  to 

mar  the  boast 
Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  —  which 

could  not  chance  — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser 

spear. 
Shamed    had  I    been,   and   sad  —  O 

Lancelot  —  thou !  " 


"Whereat    the    maiden,     petulant, 

"  Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd  ?  and 

wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd  ■?  I  gloried  in  my 

knave, 
Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer 

still 
Courteous  as  any  knight — but  now, 

if  knight. 
The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd 

and  trick'd, 
And  only  wondering  wherefore  play'd 

upon: 


232 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be 

scorn'd. 
Where    should  be    truth    if    not   in 

Arthur's  hall, 
In     Arthur's      presence  ■*        Knight, 

knave,  prince  and  fool, 
I  hate  thee  and  for  ever." 


And  Lancelot  said, 
"  Blessed  be  thou.  Sir  Gareth !  knight 

art  thou 
To  the  King's  best  vrish.     O  damsel, 

be  you  wise 
To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown 1 
Thrown  have   I  been,  nor  once,  but 

many  a  time. 
Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the 

last, 
And   overthrower   from  being  over- 
thrown. 
With  sword  we  have  not  striven ;  and 

thy  good  horse 
And  thou  are  weary ;  yet  not  less  I 

felt 
Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance 

of  thine. 
Well  hast  thou  done;    for  all    the 

stream  is  freed. 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on 

his  foes. 
And    when    reviled,    hast    answer'd 

graciously, 
And  makest  merry  when  overthrown. 

Prince,  Knight, 
Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 

Table  Round ! " 


And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette 

he  told 
The  tale   of   Gareth,  petulantly  she 

said, 
•■  Ay  well  —  ay  well  —  for  worse  than 

being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.    A 

cave. 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats 

and  drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 

fire. 


But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,  till  we  find."    And  when  they 

sought  and  found. 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his 

life 
Past  into  sleep  ;  on  whom  the  maiden 


"  Sound  sleep  be  thine !  sound  cause 

to  sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty!  seem  I  not  as  tender  to, 

him 
As  any  mother  ?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her 

child. 
And  vext  his   day,  but  blesses  him 


Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the 
honeysuckle 

In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world 
were  one 

Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentle- 
ness ! 

0  Lancelot,  Lancelot "  —  and  she 
clapt  her  hands  — 

"  Pull  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly 
knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.  See  now,  sworn 
have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me 


To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle 
with  him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee 
first  ; 

Who  doubts  thee  victor  ?  so  will  my 
knight-knave 

Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accom- 
plishment." 


Said  Lancelot,  "  Peradveuture  he, 
you  name. 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth, 
an  he  will. 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my 
charger,  fresh. 

Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as 
well 

As  he  that  rides  him."  "Lancelot- 
like," she  said, 

"  Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  all." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


233 


And     Gareth,    wakening,     fiercely 

clutch'd  the  shield ; 
"  Ramp  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 

whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks !  ye  seem  agape  to 

roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 

lord !  — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care 

for  you. 

0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on 

these 
Streams  virtue — fire  — thro'  one  that 

will  not  shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under 

shield. 
Hence :  let  us  go.'' 

Silent  the  silent  field 
They  traversed.     Arthur's  harp  tho' 

summer-wan. 
In    counter  motion    to    the    clouds, 

allured 
The  glance  of  Gareth   dreaming  on 

his  liege. 
A  star  shot :  "  Lo,''  said  Gareth,  "  the 

foe  falls ! " 
An  owl  whoopt :   "  Hark  the   victor 

pealing  there ! " 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Climg  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 

him,  crying, 
"  Yield,  yield  ,him  this  again :  'tis  he 

must  fight : 

1  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yes- 

terday 
Eeviled   thee,  and  hath  wrought  on 

Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield :  won- 
ders ye  have  done ; 
Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 
In  having  flung  the  three  :  I  see  thee 

maim'd. 
Mangled  :  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling 

the  fourth." 
"  And  wherefore,  damsel  ?  tell  me 

all  ye  know. 
You  cannot  scare  me ;  nor  rough  face, 

or  voice. 
Brute    bulk    of    limb,   or  boundless 

savagery 
Appal  nie  from  the  quest.'' 


"  Nay,  Prince,"  she  cried, 

"God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  the 
face, 

Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by 
day; 

But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling  the  night :  nor  have  I  heard 
the  voice. 

Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 
page 

Who  came  and  went,  and  still  re- 
ported him 

As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of 
ten, 

And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  mas- 
sacring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl  —  yea,  the 
soft  babe ! 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd 
infant  flesh. 

Monster !  O  Prince,  I  went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 

The  quest  is  Lancelot's  :  give  him 
back  the  shield." 


Said  Gareth  laughing,  "  An  he  fight 
for  this. 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  : 
Thus  — ■  aud  not  else  ! " 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
When  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than 

himself ; 
How    best  to   manage   horse,  lance, 

sword  and  shield. 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force 

might  fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.    Instant  were 

his  words. 

Then  Gareth,   "Here  be  rules.     I 

know  but  one  — 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to 

win. 
Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  the 

joust, 
And  seen  thy  way."     "  Heaven  help 

thee,"  sigh'd  Lynette. 


234 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud 
that  grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars, 

they  rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey 

halt, 
lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper'd, 

"There." 
And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the 

marge, 
Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long 

black  horn 
Seside  it  hanging;  which  Sir  Gareth 

grasp  t. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder 

him. 
Bent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all 

the  horn. 
Echo'd  the  walls ;  a  light  twinkled ; 

anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 

he  blew ;, 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up 

and  down 
And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 

past ; 
Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her 

maids. 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 

him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy ;  but  when 

the  Prince 
Three  times  had  blown  —  after  long 

hush  —  at  last  — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which 
,  housed  therein. 

High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  night- 
black  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren 

ribs  of  Death, 
And  crown'dwithfleshless  laughter  — 

some  ten  steps  — 
In  the  half-light  —  thro'  the  dim  dawn 

-—advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and 

spake  no  word. 


But  Gareth  spake   and  all  indig- 
nantly, 
"Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the 

strength  of  ten. 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the   limba   thy 

God  hath  given. 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee 

more. 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with, 

and  the  clod. 
Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hido  with 

mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pity  ?  "     But  he  spake  no 

word; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher :  a  maiden 

swoon'd ; 
The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands 

and  wept. 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night 

and  Death ; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his 

helm; 
And  ev'n  Sir  Lancelot  thro'  his  warm 

blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him 

were  aghast. 

At    once    Sir    Lancelot's    charger 

fiercely  neigh'd, 
And  Death's  dark  war-horse  bounded 

forward  with  him. 
Then  those   that  did  not  blink  the 

terror,  saw 
That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and 

slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split 

the  skull. 
Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 

lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove 

the  helm 
As  throughly  as  the  skull;   and  out 

from  this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming 

boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying, 

"  Knight, 
Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bade 

me  do  it. 
To    make   a   horror    all    about    {he 

house. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


235 


A.nd  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyon- 

ors. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would 

he  past." 
Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 
^fot  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "  My 

fair  child, 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge 

the  chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  halH  "     "  Fair  Sir,  they 

hade  me  do  it. 
They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 

King's  friend. 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere 

on  the  stream, 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could 

be  past." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from 

underground ; 
And  Lady  Lyonors   and   her  house, 

with  dance 
And  revel  and  scig,  made  merry  over 

Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
And  horrors  only  proven  a  blooming 

boy. 
So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won 

the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older 
times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


GERAINT   AND  ENID. 

I. 

The    brave     Geraint,    a    knight    of 

Arthur's  court, 
I  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  love- 
liest. 
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. 
And  seeing  them  so   tender  and  se 

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  Guin- 
evere, 
Had  suffer'd,   or  should  suffer  any 

taint 
In  nature :   wherefore   going  to   the 

King, 
He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince- 
dom lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitifi 

knights, 
Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,   and  whatever  loathes  i 

law: 


236 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


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  compase'd  her  with  sweet  observ- 
ances 

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  f orgetfulness  was  hateful  to 
her. 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 
met 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  com- 
panies. 

Began  to  seofi  and  jeer  and  babble  of 
him 

As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all 
gone. 

And  molten  down  in  mere  uxorious- 
ness. 

And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  peo- 
ple's eyes : 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her 
head, 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  bound- 
less love. 

Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd  her  the 
more: 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell 
Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashfiil  delicacy ; 

While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was 
the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 


At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer 

morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  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  uver 

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 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force 

is  gone? 
I  am  the  cause,  because  I  dare  not 


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  liefer  had  I  gird  his  harness  on 

him, 
Acii  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 

by. 


GERAINT  AN'D  ENID. 


IVJ 


And  watch  his  mightf  ul  hand  striking 

great  blows 
At  caitifEs   and   at  wrongers   of  the 

world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the   dark 

earth. 
Not  hearing  anymore  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  maybe  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  1 
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  f  ear'd  she  was  not  a  true 

wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "  In  spite  of  all 

my  care, 
iPor  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. 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted 

the  pang 


That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face 

of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  mis- 
erable. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out 

of  bed, 
And  shook  liis  drowsy  squire  awake 

aud  cried, 
"  My  charger  and  her  palfrey ;  "  then 

to  her,  s 

"  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness', 
Tor  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to 

win, 
I  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would 

wish. 
And  thou,  put  on  thy  worst  and  mean- 
est dress 
And  ride  with  me."    And  Enid  ask'd, 

amazed, 
"If    Enid  errs,  let   Enid  learn  her 

fault." 
But  he,  "  I  charge  thee,  ask  not,  but 

obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded 

silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil. 
And  moving  toward  a  cedam  cabinet. 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  rever- 
ently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 

the  folds, 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself 

therein, 
Eemembering  when  first  he  can!e  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. 


Eor    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 


238 


GERAINT  AND  £NW. 


Taller  than  all  his    fellows,  milky- 
white, 
First  seen  that  day  :  these  things  he 

told  the  King. 
Then  the  good  King  gare  order  to  let 

blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 
>  morn. 

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 

Por  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, 

Xate  also,  wearing  neither  hunting- 
dress 

INor    weapon,    save    a    golden-hilted 
brand, 

■Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shal- 
low 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  gal- 
lop'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  dis- 
tant hunt. 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King    Arthur's     hound    of    deepest 

mouth,  there  rode 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and 

dwarf ; 
Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and 

the  knight 
Had  vizor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful 

face. 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 
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  shalt  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 
Indignant    to    the    Queen;    whereat 

Geraint 
Exclaiming,  "Surely  I  will  learn  the 

name," 
Made  sliarply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd 

it  of  him. 


GERATf/T  AND  ENID. 


239 


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  manful- 

ness 
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  your- 
self: 

And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their 
earths : 

For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 

To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at, 
arms 

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.  Fare- 
well." 

"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  under 

neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In     a    long    valley,     on     one     side 

whereof. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  for- 
tress 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. 


And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 

three, 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the 

walls. 
"  So,"    thought    Geraint,     "  I    have 

track'd  him  to  his  earth." 
And    down    the    long    street    riding 

wearily. 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every- 
where 
Was   hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the 

hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth 

who  scour'd 
His  master's  armor;   and  of  such  a 

one 
He  ask'd,  "What  means  the  tumult 

in  the  town  'i  " 


240 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Who   told   him,  scouring  still,  "  The 

sparrow-hawk !  " 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 

churl. 
Who,  snAitten  by  the   dusty  sloping 

beam. 
Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of 
corn, 

ijAsk'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 : 

■"  Briend,  he  that  labors  for  the  spar- 
row-hawk 

Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 

Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden 
spleen : 

"  A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  spar- 
row-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  ye  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 !  " 

Whereat    the    armorer    turning    all 
amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 
hand 

And  answer'd,  "  Pardon  me,  0  stran- 
ger knight ; 

We  hold  a  tourney  here   to-morrow 
morn,  j 


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  spleen- 
ful yet, 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the 
dry  ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnifi- 
cence. 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said: 

"  Whither,  fair  son  ?  "  to  whom  Ger- 
aint 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  spaiv 
row-hawks 

Eor  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  de- 
sire 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 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


241 


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; 

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  sian,  and  monstrous  ivy- 
stems 

Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy- 
fibred  arms. 

And  suek'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  night- 
ingale " ; 

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,  Tortune,  turn    thy  wheel 

and  lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 

nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Eortune,  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  ye  may 
learn  the  nest," 

Said  Yniol ;  "  enter  quickly."  Eutep 
ing  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, 


?42 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower- 
sheath, 
Mored  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 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said, 

"  Forbear ! 
Eest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O 

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  unfolded,  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  tho 

three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  service. 

able, 
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  1  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 
Hide  into  that  new  fortress  by  your 

town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then 

have  I  sworn 
From  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 

swo»e 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his 

hold, 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and 

liave  it  of  him. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


243 


And  all  unarra'd  I  rode,  and  thought 

to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 

are  mad ; 
Tliey  talse  the  rustic  murmur  of  their 

hourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round 

the  world ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak :  but 

if  ye  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I 

hare  sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn 

his  name,  , 
Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the 

Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Tniol,  "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  ye  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  flat- 
tery ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard 

me  praise 
Tour  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 
j  wrong : 

'  0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 
Of  suitors  as  this  maiden ;  first  Lim- 

ours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine. 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd;  and  be 

he  dead 
I  know  not,  but  he  passed  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  tur- 
bulent 
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, 
Afilrming   that  his   father   left  him 

gold, 
And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 

der'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  my- 
self; 
For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 

way; 
Am  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  suHer   nothing    heart   or 

limb. 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 


244 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


"Well    said,   true    heart,"  replied 

Geraint,  "  but  arms. 
That,    if     the     sparrow-hawk,     this 

nephew,  fight 
In  next  day's   tourney  I  may  break 

his  pride.'' 

And  Yniol  answer'd, "  Arms,  indeed, 

]  but  old 

^&iid  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince 
Geraint, 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  thine  ask- 
ing, thine. 

But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man 
tilt. 

Except  the  lady  he  lores  best  be 
there. 

Two  forks  are  flxt  into  the  meadow 
ground. 

And  over  these  is  placed  a  silver 
wand, 

And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 

The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest 
there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in 
field 

Jjays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his 
side. 

And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon. 

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  spar- 
row-hawk. 

But  thou,  that  hast  no  lady,  canst  not 
fight." 

To  whom    Geraint  with   eyes   all 

bright  replied, 
Iieaning  a  little  toward  him,  "Thy 

leave ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  0  noble  host. 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never 

saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our 

time, 
Jfor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so 

fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 


Untamish'd  as  before ;  but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  ut- 
termost. 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true 
wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's 
heart 

Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better 
days. 

And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid 
there, 

(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had. 
stol'n  away) 

But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  ten- 
derly 

And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he 
said, 

"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 

And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  under- 
stood. 

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  depart- 
ing 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 ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


245 


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. 

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 
Mow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 

lists. 
And  there  they  flxt  the  forks  into  the 

ground, 
And  over  these  they  placed  the  silver 

wand. 
And  over  that  the   golden   sparrow- 
hawk. 
Then  Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet 

blown. 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 

claim'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,"  and 

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 

liands. 
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  either's  force  was  match'd  till 

Yniol's  cry, 
"  Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 

Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his 

blade  aloft. 
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,  oi 

else  thou  diest, 


246 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


First,  thou  thyself,  with  damsel  and 

with  dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  com- 
ing 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  and 

came  to  loathe 
His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  him- 
self 
Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  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 
Iv'o    later    than    last  eve  to    Prince 

Geraint  — 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third 

day, 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  prom- 
ise given  — 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 

court. 


And  there  be  made  known  to   the 

stately  Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 
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  dis- 
credit 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  birth  day,  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 


GERAINT  A^-D  ENID. 


247 


Were   turning  and   admiring  it,  the 

work 
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  tlie 

gardeners  now 
To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the 

pool. 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 

on  her. 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  hei 

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  exult-' 

ingly : 

"  See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 

colors  look,  I 

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  ye 

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  re- 
joiced. 

And  answer'd,  "  Yea,  I  know  it ;  youi 
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  yes- 
terday, 


248 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 

house 
All  seatter'd  thro'  the  houses  of  the 

town; 
And  gave  command  that  all  which 

once  was  ours 
Should  now  be  ours  again  :  and  yes- 

ter-eve. 
While  ye  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. 
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  swerved  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'  ye  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  ye   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 
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,  tum'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  Cas- 

sivelaun, 
Flur,  for    whose    love    the    Roman 

Caesar  iirst 
Invaded  Britain,  "But  we  beat  him 

back. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


249 


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, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broid- 

er'd  gift. 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 

again. 
And   so  descended.     Never  man  re- 
joiced 
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  eye- 
lid fall. 


But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satis- 
fied; 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's 
brow. 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and 
sweetly  said, 

"  0  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth 

or  grieved 
At  thy  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 

hall, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  fair 

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;  fain  I  would  the 

two 
Should    love    each    other:  how   can 

Enid  find 
A  nobler  friend  ?     Another  thought 

was  mine ; 
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  daughter's  tender-' 

ness,  J 

Or  easy  nature,  might  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her 

weal; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her 

own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  over- 
bore 
Her    fancy   dwelling  in  this   dusky 
I  hall; 


250 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  such  a  sense  might  make  her 

long  for  court 
And  all  its  perilous  glories :  and  I 

thought, 
That  could  I  someway  proTe  such 

force  in  her 
Link'd  with  such  lore  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  usage ;  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  wtiite  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, 
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 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubrio,  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  our- 
selves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for 

true  ; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 
world 


GERAINT  Ai7D  ENID. 


251 


Crroping,  how  many,  vintil  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 

seen! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issu- 
ing forth 

That  morning,  when  they  both  had 
got  to  horse, 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately. 

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  thee  ride 
before, 

Ever  a  good  way  on  before ;  and  this 

I  charge  thee,  on  thy  duty  as  a  wife, 

Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to 
me. 

No,   not    a  word!"    and    Enid  was 


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  bandithaunted 

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  exceed- 
ing wrong. 

Eor  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 

"01  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 
her. 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  obser- 
vances, 

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  mas- 
ters 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 

Eor  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself. 

Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and 
so  cold; 

Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle 
amazed 

Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the 
waste  she  fear'd 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambus- 
cade. 

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. 


252 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


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  armor,  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  liefer  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. 
And  thus  ye  keep  it!  Well  then,  look 

—  for  now. 
Whether  ye  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  sorrow- 
ful. 

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  buffetj 

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  f ollow'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  smoulder'd  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 
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 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


253 


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,  be- 
hold 
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  1 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall 

upon  him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 

said, 
"I  will  abide  the  coming  of  ray  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
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,  anc5  said 

to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  "  Have  I  leave 

to  speak  ■? " 
He  said,  "Ye  take  it,  speaking,"  and 

she  spoke. 


"There  lurk  three  vlUains  yondei 

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  ye 

pass." 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  an^ 

swer  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  corse- 
let home. 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his 

enemy  roU'd, 
And  there  lay  still;  as  he  that  tells 

the  tale 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promon- 
tory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  shde 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls 

to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew: 
So  lay  the  man  transflxt.    His  craven 

pair 
Of  comrades  making  slowlier  at  the 

Prinee, 


254 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


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  moimtain- 

brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 

bears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 

fall 
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  foUow'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  govern- 
ment. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 

they  past. 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  be- 
held 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock. 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlikej 

chased  r 

In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mow-^ 

ing  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 ; 
Then,    moving     downward    to     the 

meadow  ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came 

by  him,  said, 
"Priend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  so 

faint." 
"  Yea,  willingly,"  replied  the  youth ; 

"  and  thou. 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'   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, 
Leas  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." 
"  Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried 

the  Prince. 
"  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  th» 

hoy. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


2S5 


"  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  vrill  tell 

him 
How  great  a  man  thou  art :  he  loves 

to  know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  terri- 
tory: 
And  he  will  have  thee  to  his  palace 

here. 
And  serve   thee   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  dinner- 
less. 

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. 

But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 
night. 

And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  re- 
turn 

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  him- 
self a  knight. 

And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disap- 
pear'd, 

£*ading  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  h« 

sigh'd ; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 

mark'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  mead- 
ow's edge, 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage 

ring. 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 

turn'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 

went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "If  ye 

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. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along 

the  street, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echo 

ing,  burst 
Their  drowse ;  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. 


256 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


He  moving  up  with  pliant   courtli- 
ness, 

Greeted      Geraint     full      face,    but 
stealthily. 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and 
graspt  hand, 

Pound  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his 
eye, 
i  And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
( Then    cried    Geraint    for    wine   and 
goodly  cheer 

To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sump- 
tuously 

According  to  his  fashion,  bade  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  ap- 
plause. 
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, 
A.nd  seems   so   lonely  ?  "     "  My  free 

leave,"  he  said ; 
"  Get  her  to  speak :  she  doth  not  speak 
I  to  me." 

Then  rose  Limours,  and  looking  at  his 

feet, 
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  whisper- 

ingly : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid,  ray  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid,  the  loss  of  whom  hath  turn'd  me 

wild  — 
What  chance  is  this  '  how  is  it  I  see 

you  here  ? 
Ye  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  wilder- 
ness. 
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  with  joy, 
Ye  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him. 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid. 
To  serve  you  —  doth  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  f 

Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you.j 

no  more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  liim  now : 
A  common  chance  —  right  well  I  know 

it  —  pall'd  — 
For  I  know  men :  nor  will  ye  win  him 

back. 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  nc"** 

returns. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


257 


But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 

old:    I 
Good,  speak  the  word :  my  followers 

I'ing  him  round : 
He  sits  unarm'd ;  I  hold  a  finger  up ; 
They  understand  :  nay ;  I  do  not  mean 

Wood ; 
Nor  need  ye  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 ;  hut  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The  one  true  lover  whom  you  ever 

own'd, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 
O   pardon  me !  the  madness  of  that 

hour, 
"When  first  I  parted  from  thee,  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  f ear'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  bran- 
dish'd  plume 
Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the   all- 
ajaorous  Earl. 


And  the  stout  Prince  bade  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, 

Debating  his  command  of  silence 
given. 

And  that  she  now  perforce  must  vio- 
late it. 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 
slie  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  hear  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  orer- 
toil'd 

By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  prec- 
ipices. 

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,  sum- 
moning 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  armor  in  the 
room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it. 

But  touch'd  it  unawares:  jangling, 
the  casque 

Eell,  and  he  started  up  and  staretl  at 
her. 


258 


GERAINl^  AND  ENID. 


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 
And  traitors.     Call  the  host  and  bid 

him  bring 
Charger  and  pallfrey."     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 
Kve  horses  and  their  armors";  and 

the  host 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
■"My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the 

worth  of  one ! " 
"Ye  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  ye  may  hear,  or  see. 
Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
Xo  charge  you)  that  ye  speak  not  but 

obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "  Yea,  my  lord, 
I  know 


Your  wish,  and  would  obey ;  but  rid- 
ing 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  ho,  "  do  it :  be  not 

too  wise ; 
Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a  man, 
Not    all  mismated   with  a  yawning 

clown. 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 

and  j'ours. 
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 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's 
toil ; 

And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton 
fool. 

Or  hasty  judger  would  havecall'd  her 
guilt. 

Made  her  cheek  bum  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satis- 
fled. 

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  yes- 

termorn. 
It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful ;   till 

Geraint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should 

say 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


259 


'■Yewatchme,"sadden'daU  her  heart 

again. 
But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy 

blade, 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-gallop- 
ing 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  wliich  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  thun- 
der-cloud 
"Whose   skirts   are    loosen'd    by  the 

breaking  storm, 
Half  ridden  ofi  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 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd 

or  dead. 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  f  ollow'd 

him. 
And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout 

behind. 
But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the 

man 
They  iranish'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  ia 

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  ye,  shall  we  strip 

him  there 
Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart 

enough 
To  bear  his  armor  ?  shall  we  fast,  op 

dine  ? 
No  ?  —  then  do  thou,  being  right  hon- 
est, 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  a  word,  she  led  the 

way. 

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 ; 


260 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


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  blister- 
ing 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, 

Por  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbu- 
lence, 

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 ; 


Half  whistling  and  half    singing  a 

coarse  song, 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veillesg 

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  rus- 
set 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,  i 

Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ?  ye  seem  a 

child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a 

fool; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him : 

dead  or  not. 
Ye  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  oui 

band; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


261 


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 
I  advanced, 

'Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his 

good  bone 
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  morn- 
ing'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 
Pown  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  call- 
ing to  him. 

Till  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his 
swoon, 

And  found  his  own  dear  bride  prop- 
ping 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  utter- 
most, 

And  say  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps 
for  me." 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder 

to  the  hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  foUow'd  him  with 

noise : 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things 

that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 

aside, 
And  doffd  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. 


262 


GERAINT  AND  EtilD. 


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  roU'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, 
Por  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  gentle- 
women 
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. 
For  ye  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  1  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  ser- 
pent 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  help'd  him  to  it ;  and 

all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought-  n 

of  them. 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek 

head  yet 
Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy. 
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  gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed  that  she  had  thank'd  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  any- 
thing. 

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,  cry- 
ing, "Eat." 

"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  fiU'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held 

it  to  her,J 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


263 


"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 : 
IDrink   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 

Up, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at 

last: 
"  Girl,  for  I  see  ye  scorn  my  courte- 
sies, 
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  ye  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  beauti- 
fully : 
For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 

one 
Who   loves    thaX  beauty  should  go 

beautifully  ? 
Rise  therefore ;  robe  yourself  in  this  : 

obey."' 


He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gen- 
tle women 
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  un- 
avenged. 

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  hut  him : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentle- 

ness. 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 


264 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


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. 

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). 
Hade  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a 

sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 

a  ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roU'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  pena  nee  on  my- 
self, 

Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you 
yestermorn  — 

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  pray'  d  him,  "  Fly,  they  will 

return 
And  slay  you ;  fly,  your  charger  is 

without, 
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  tum'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  Para- 
dise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


265 


Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  per- 
ilous hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  hus- 
band'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, 
"  O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 

life." 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward 

spake : 
"  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  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  half-way  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 

liing." 

"  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  th& 

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;  ye  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  ye  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 

you." 
"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. 


266 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


When  Edym  rein'd  his  charger  at 

her  side, 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land, 
Prom  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  re- 
pulsed 
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  para- 
mour; 
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  ti'uest  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)  over^ 

throw 
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'i 

indeed : 
And  oft  X  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint. 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory, 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentle- 
ness. 
Which,  when  it  weds  wiSi  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 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


267 


Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 

or  foe, 
There  most  in  those  who  most  hare 

done  them  ill. 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the 

King  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  hehold- 

ing  her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a 

word. 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 

held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  return'd. 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifte.''  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  ye  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 

ye  look'd 
At  Edyrn  ?  have  ye  seen  how  nobly 

changed  ? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonder- 
ful. 
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. 


Pull  seldom  doth  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of 

him. 
And  make  aU  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  won- 
derful 
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  won- 
derful. 
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, 
Eill'd  all  the   genial  courses  of  his 

blood 
With  deeper   and  with  ever  deeper 

love. 
As  the  south-west  that  blowing-  B?.U. 

lake 


268 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


3?ills  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  each  of  all  whom  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  here- 
tofore. 
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  every- 
where 
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 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced 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  the  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. 


MEKLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

A  STOKM  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. 

Whence  came  she  ■?     One  that  bare 
in  bitter  grudge 
The  scorn  of  Arthur  and  his  Table, 

Mark 
The  Cornish  King,  had  heard  a  wan- 
dering voice, 
A  minstrel  of  Caerleon  by  strong  storm 
Blown  into  shelter  at  Tintagil,  say 
That  out  of  naked  knightlike  purity 
Sir  Lancelot  worshipt  no  unmarried 
girl 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


269 


But  the  great  Queen  herself,  fought 
in  her  name, 

Sware  by  her  —  vows  like  theirs,  that 
high  in  heaven 

Love  most,  but  neither  marry,  nor  are 
given 

In  marriage,  angels  of  our  Lord's  re- 
port. 

He   ceased,  and  then  —  for  Vivien 

sweetly  said 
(She  sat  beside  tlie  banquet  nearest 

Mark), 
"  And  is  the  fair  example  follow'd, 

Sir, 
In  Arthur's  household  ■?  "  —  answer'd 

innocently : 

"  Ay,  by  some  few  —  ay,  truly  — 
youths  that  hold 

It  more  beseems  the  perfect  virgin 
knight 

To  worship  woman  as  true  wife  be- 
yond 

All  hopes  of  gaining,  than  as  maiden 
girl. 

They  place  their  pride  in  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen. 

So  passionate  for  an  utter  purity 

Beyond  the  limit  of  their  bond,  are 
these, 

Eor  Arthur  bound  them  not  to  single- 
ness. 

Brave  hearts  and  clean!  and  yet  — 
God  guide  them  —  young." 

Then  Mark  was  half  in  heart  to 

hurl  his  cup 
Straight  at  the  speaker,  but  forbore : 

he  rose 
To  leave  the  hall,  and,  Vivien  follow- 
ing him, 
Turn'd   to   her:    "Here   are    snakes 

within  the  grass ; 
And  you  methinks,  O  Vivien,  save  ye 

fear 
The  monkish  manhood,  and  the  mask 

of  pure 
Worn  by  this  court,  can  stir  them  till 

they  sting." 


And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  scorn- 
fully, 
"  "Why  fear  !  because  that  f oster'd  at 

iliy  court 
I  savor  of  thy  —  virtues  '*  fear  them  * 

no. 
As  Love,  if  Love  be  perfect,  casts  out 

fear. 
So  Hate,  if  Hate  be  perfect,  casts  out 

fear. 
My  father  died  in  battle  against  the 

King, 
My  mother  on  his  corpse  in  open  field  ; 
She  bore   me   there,  for   born   from 

death  was  I 
Among  the  dead  and  sown  upon  the 

wind- — 
And  then  on  thee!   and  shown  the 

truth  betimes, 
That  old  true  filth,  and  bottom  of  the 

well. 
Where  Truth  is   hidden.      Gracious 

lessons  thine 
And  maxims  of  the   mud  I      '  This 

Arthur  pure ! 
Great  Nature  thro'  the  flesh  herself 

hath  made 
Gives  him  the  lie !    There  is  no  being 

pure. 
My  cherub  ;  saith  not  Holy  Writ  the 

same  ■? '  — 
If  I  were  Arthur,  I  would  have  thy 

blood. 
Thy  blessing,  stainless  King !    I  bring 

thee  back. 
When  I  have  ferreted  out  their  bur- 
rowings. 
The  hearts  of  all  this  Order  in  mine 

hand  — 
Ay  —  so  that  fate  and  craft  and  folly 

close. 
Perchance,    one     curl    of    Arthur's 

golden  beard. 
To  me   this  narrow  grizzled  fork  of 

thine 
Is   cleaner-fashion'd  —  Well,  I  loved 

thee  first. 
That  warps  the  wit." 

Loud  laugh'd  the  graceless  Mark. 
But  Vivien  into    Camelot    stealing, 
lodged 


270 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Low  in  the  city,  and  on  a  festal  day 
When  Guinevere  was   crossing    the 

great  hall 
Cast  herself  down,  knelt  to  the  Queen, 

and  wail'd. 

"  Why  kneel  ye  there  ?     What  evil 

have  ye  wrought  ? 
Else ! "   and  the  damsel  bidden  rise 

arose 
And    stood  with  folded    hands  and 

downward  eyes 
Of  glancing  corner,  and  all  meekly 

said, 
"None  wrought,  but  suffer'd  much, 

an  orphan  maid ! 
My  father  died  in  battle  for  thy  King, 
My  mother  on  his  corpse  —  in  open 

field. 
The  sad  sea-sounding  wastes  of  Lyon- 

esse  — 
Poor  wretch  —  no  friend !  —  and  now 

by  Mark  the  King 
For  that  small  charm  of  feature  mine, 

pursued  — 
If  any  such  be  mine  —  I  fly  to  thee. 
Save,  save    me    thou  —  Woman    of 

women  —  thine 
The  wreath  of  beauty,  thine  the  crown 

of  power. 
Be  thine  the  balm  of  pity,  0  Heaven's 

own  white 
Earth-angel,  stainless  bride  of  stain- 
less King  — 
Help,  for  he  follows  !  take  me  to  thy- 
self! 
O  yield  me  shelter  for  mine  innocency 
Among  thy  maidens  !  " 

Here  her  slow  sweet  eyes 

Fear-tremulous,  but  humbly  hopeful, 
rose 

Fixt  on  her  hearer's,  while  the  Queen 
who  stood 

All  glittering  like  May  sunshine  on 
May  leaves 

In  green  and  gold,  and  plumed  with 
green  replied, 

"Peace,  child!  of  overpraise  and  over- 
blame 

We  choose  the  last.  Our  noble 
Arthur^  him 


Ye  scarce  can  overpraise,  will  hear 

and  know. 
Nay  —  we   believe   all    evil    of    thy 

Mark  — 
Well,  we  shall  test  thee  farther ;  but 

this  hour 
We  ride  a-hawking  with  Sir  Lancelot. 
He  hath  given  us  a  fair  falcon  which 

he  train'd ; 
We  go  to  prove  it.    Bide  ye  here  the 

while." 

She  past;    and  Vivien  murmur'd 

after  "  Go ! 
I  bide  the  while."     Then   thro'  the 

portal-arch 
Peering     askance,     and     muttering 

broken-wise. 
As  one  that  labors  Avith  an  evil  dream. 
Beheld  the  Queen  and  Lancelot  get  to 

horse. 

"  Is  that  the  Lancelot  1  goodly  — 

ay,  but  gaunt : 
Courteous —  amends  for  gauntness  — 

takes  her  hand  — 
That  glance  of  theirs,  but  for  the 

street,  had  been 
A  clinging  kiss  —  how  hand  lingers 

in  hand! 
Let  go  at  last !  —  they  ride  away  — 

to  hawk 
For  waterfowl.     Royaller    game   Is 

mine. 
For  such  a  supersensual  sensual  bond 
As  that  gray  cricket  chirpt  of  at  our 

hearth  — 
Touch  flax  with  flame  —  a  glance  wil' 

serve  —  the  liars  ! 
Ah  little  rat  that  borest  in  the  dyke 
Thy  hole  by  night  to  let  the  boundless 

deep 
Down  upon  far-off  cities  while  they 

dance  — 
Or  dream  —  of  thee  they  dream'd  not 

—  nor  of  me 
These  —  ay,  but  each  of  either :  ride, 

and  dream 
The  mortal  dream  that  never  yet  was 

mine  — 
Ride,  ride  and  dream  until  ye  wake  — ■ 

to  me! 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


271 


Then,  narrow  court  and  lubber  King, 

farewell ! 
For  Lancelot  will  be  gracious  to  tlie 

rat, 
And  our  wise  Queen,  if  knowing  that 

I  know, 
Will  hate,   loathe,  fear  —  but  honor 

me  the  more." 

Yet  while  they  rode  together  down 

the  plain. 
Their  talk  was  all  of  training,  terms 

of  art, 
Diet  and  seeling,  jesses,  leash  and  lure. 
"  She  is  too  noble  "  he  said  "  to  check 

at  pies. 
Nor  will  she  rake ;  there  is  no  base- 
ness in  her." 
Here  when  the  Queen  demanded  as  by 

chance 
"  Know  ye    the    stranger  woman  '^  " 

"  Let  her  be," 
Said  Lancelot  and  unhooded  casting 

off 
The  goodly  falcon  free ;  she  tower'd ; 

her  bells, 
Tone  under  tone,  shrill'd;  and  they 

lifted  up 
Their  eager  faces,  wondering  at  the 

strength. 
Boldness  and  royal  knighthood  of  the 

bird 
Who  pounced  her  quarry  and  slew  it. 

Many  a  time 
As  once  —  of  old  —  among  the  flowers 

—  they  rode. 

But  Vivien  half-forgotten  of  the 

Queen 
Among  her  damsels  broidering  sat, 

heard,  watch'd 
And  whisper'd :    thro'   the  peaceful 

court  she  crept 
And  whisper'd :  then  as  Arthur  in  the 

highest 
Leaven'd  the  world,  so  Vivien  in  the 

lowest. 
Arriving  at  a  time  of  golden  rest. 
And  sowing  one  ill  hint  from  ear  to 

ear. 
While  all  the  heathen  lay  at  Arthur's 

feet, 


And  no  quest  came,  but  all  was  joust 

and  play, 
Leaven'd  his  hall.     They  heard  and 

let  her  be. 

Thereafter  as  an  enemy  that  has  left 
Death  in  the  living  waters,  and  with- 
drawn. 
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  issued  from  herself 
Of  some  corruption  crept  among  his 

knights. 
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. 
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  call'd  him  Wizard;  whom 

at  first 
She   play'd    about  with    slight    and 

sprightly  talk. 


272 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


And  Tivid  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  dis- 
dain'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  on  Merlin  a  great  melan- 
choly ; 
He  walk'd  with  dreams  and  darkness, 

and  he  found 
A  doom  that  ever  poised  itself  to  fall. 
An  ever-moaning  battle  in  the  mist. 
World-war  of  dying  flesh  against  the 

life, 
Death  in  all  life  and  lying  in  all  love, 
The  meanest  having  power  upon  the 

highest, 
And  the  high  purpose  broken  by  the 
worm. 

So  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd 
the  beach ; 
There  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept 
into  it ; 


And  Vivien  f  oUow'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  dis- 

embark'd. 
And  then  she  f  ollow'd  Merlin  all  the 

way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a 

charm, 
The  which  if  any  wrought  on  anyone 
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  ever- 
more; 
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 
TJpon  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, 


■MERLIN  AND    ^IV7EN. 


273 


Dear  feet,  that  I  have  f ollow'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  ye   love  me  ■? "   and 

again, 
"O  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  %  "  and  once 

more, 
"  Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me  ?  "  he 

was  mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his 

heel, 
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 

ans'wer'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, 


"  And  lo,   I  clothe  myself  with  wis- 
dom," 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  f    yet  my 

thanks, 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  sau- 
cily, 
"  What,  0  my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ■? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Thanks 

at  last! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip, 
Except  indeed  to  drink :  no  cup  had 

we: 
In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cuU'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 ; 
0  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 


274 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


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,  ay,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not 

so  strange  — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  ye 

are  wise. 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than 

kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said  : 
"  0  did  ye  never  lie  upon  the  shore. 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the 

coming  wave 
Glass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 

breaks  1 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasur- 
able, 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presagef  ul 

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  f  oUow'd  me 

unask'd ; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  fol- 
lowing 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. 
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  mourn- 
fully: 
"  0  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking 

it. 
Not  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  arj 

strange. 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 

of  yours. 
I  ever    fear'd  ye  were    not    wholly 

mine ; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  ye  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  presagef  ul  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  ye  saw  me  follow- 
ing you, 
Mup*  lanake  me  fear  still  more  you  are 

/lot  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. 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


275 


I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy 
trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 
you  mine. 

And  therefore  be  as  great  as  ye  are 
named, 

Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reti- 
cence. 
iHow  hard  you  look   and  how  deny- 
'  ingly ! 

O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 

That  I  should  pro\'e  it  on  you  una- 
wares. 

That  makes  me  passing  wrathful ;  then 
our  bond 

Had  best  be  loosed   for  ever :   but 
think  or  not, 

By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the 
clean  truth, 

As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white 
as  milk; 

O  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  treach- 
ery— 

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,  ye  hardly  know  me 
yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from 

hers  and  said, 
"  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  the'  you  talk  of 

trust, 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a 

charm. 
Vea,  if  ye  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;    fpr 

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, 
I  call  it,  —  well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice : 
But    since  you   name    yourself    the 

summer  fly, 
I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the 

gnat. 
That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 

back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness: 
But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you 

power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 
Why  will  ye  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  for- 
given 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another 

boon. 
I  think  ye  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. 


276 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


Paith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  te  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.' 

0    Master,   do  ye    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 
1  golden  horns. 

It  was  the  time  when  first  the  ques- 
tion 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  young- 
est 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  tlie  flashes  of  his  golden 

horns 
Until  tliey  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That  laughs  at  iron  —  as  our  warriors 

did— 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and 

nails,  and  cry, 
'  Laugh,  little  well ! '  but  touch  it  with 

a  sword. 
It  buzzes  fiercely  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  slowlv  ebbing,  name 

and  fame." 

And  "Vivien  answer'd  smiling 
mournfully : 

"  0  mine  have  ebb'd  away  for  ever- 
more. 

And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this 
wild  wood, 


MERLIN  AND   TIVIEN. 


277 


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  ye  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 
Ean  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   differ- 
ently ; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 

pearls : 
'  Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 

wakes  to  love.' 
Yea !  Love,  tho'  Love  were   of  the 

grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless   of  the  rest;  but 

Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  noth- 
ing to  us ; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half- 

disfame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness  ? 

ye  yourself 


ICnow  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son, 
And  since  ye  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   ia 


With  this  for  motto,  '  Eather  use  than 

fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush ;  bu(< 

afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.    0  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  ye  say  ye  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 ! 


278 


MERLIN  AND    FIVTEN. 


What  otlier  ?  for  men  sought  to  prove 

me  vile, 
Because  I  fain  had  given  them  greater 

wits: 
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 
Brake  on  the  mountain   and  I  cared 

not  for  it. 
Eight  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  imborn  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,  hav- 
ing power. 
However  well  ye  think  ye  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
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  ye  say 
ye  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  as  iu 

wrath : 
"  Have  I  not  sworn  'i  I  am  not  trusted. 

Good! 
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  your- 
self? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and 

there, 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow 

tower 
From  which   is  no   escape  for  ever- 

more." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer'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  ye  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 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


279 


Who  paced  it,  ages  back ;  but  will  ye 

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 ; 

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  won- 
derful. 

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- 
nurtured  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful 
war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd ;  coun- 
cils 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 

JThat  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 

sway'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,  mean- 
ing by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders 

back. 
Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 
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,  me- 

thinks, 
Thy  tongue  has  tript  a  little  :  ask  thy- 
self. 
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, 


280 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 

fairT 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  lier 

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 


Head  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. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one 

sole  aiin. 
Nor  e ver  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 

flesh, 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the 

wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing 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  proHer  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  sau- 
cily: 
"Ye  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  tins  beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 
As    after   furious    battle    turfs    the 

slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 

deep, 
I  yet  should  strike  upon  a   sudden 

means 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


28l 


To  dig,  pick,  open,  iind  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,  una- 
shamed. 

On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answer'd 
her: 

"Thou  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  —  thou  read 
the  book ! 

And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost, 
and  cramm'd 

With  comment,  densest  condensation, 
hard 

To  mind  and  eye ;  but  the  long  sleep- 
less 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  And  the 

charm. 
0,   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  ye    sware,  ye 

might,  perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table 

Eound, 
And  all  because  ye  dream  they  babble 

of  you." 

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! 
Thexj  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale 
But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 
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  ye  know. 
Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand 

or  fall!" 


And    Vivien     answer'd    frowning 

wrathfuUy : 
"  0  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence, 

him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er 

his  wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  dis- 
tant 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  ? 


282 


MERLIN  AJVD    VIVIEN. 


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." 

"  0  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  overtrue  a 

tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sag- 

ramore. 
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 

art  thou 
To  catch  a  loathly  plume  fall'u  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  PercivaK 
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!" 

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. 


MERLIN  AATD    VIVIEN. 


28J 


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  "i  " 

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  elamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner  ■?    do  ye 

know  iti  " 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly,  "  Yea, 
I  know  it. 

Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at 
first. 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  watch'd  him 
from  her  walls. 

A  rumor  rvms,  she  took  him  for  the 
King, 

So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  them  be. 

But  have  ye  no  one  word  of  loyal 
praise 

For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stain- 
less man  ■?  " 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuck- 
ling laugh : 
"Man!  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 
Could    call    him    (were    it    not    for 

womanhood) 


The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 
hood 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 : 

"  0  true  and  tender !  0  my  liege  and 
King ! 

0  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentle- 
man. 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye- 
witness fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 
pure  ; 

How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  inter- 
preters, 

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  accounte(i 
blame ! " 

But  Vivien,  deeming  Merlin  over- 
borne 

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  sTie  rail  on  me 

To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it 
not 

So  will  she  rail.  What  did  the  wan- 
ton say? 


284 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


'  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. 
I  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends 

of  old ; 
All  brave,   and  many  generous,  and 

some  chaste. 
She  cloaks  the  scar  of  some  repulse 

with  lies ; 
I  well  believe  she  tempted  them  and 

fail'd. 
Being   so  bitter :   for  fine  plots  may 

fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well 

as  face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 

theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know :  nine  tithes  of 

times 
Face-flatterer  and  backbiter  are  the 

same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  im- 
pute a  crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 
selves. 
Wanting  the  mental  range ;  or  low 

desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level 

all; 
Tea,  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  spir- 
itual 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  raany-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, 
Mash'd  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of 

death ! 
White  was  her  cheek ;  sharp  breaths 

of  anger  pufE'd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out ;  her  hand  half- 

clench'd 
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 !     0  vainly  lavish'd 

love ! 
O  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." 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


285 


Slie  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt 
her  hands 

Together  with  a,  wailing  shriek,  and 
said  ; 

"  Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affec- 
tions to  the  heart ! 

Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's 
milk! 

KiU'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life 
of  blows ! 

I  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. 
0,  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. 
Becomes  the  sea^clifE  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'dwith  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 
I'or  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed 

her  true : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak. 


"  Come  from  the  storm,^'  and  liaving 

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  re- 
turns. 
The   seeming-injured,  simple-hearted 

thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  set- 
tled 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 

eye-lid  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 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever- 
more ; 
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  "oati — better 

have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once  —  could 

make  me  stay  — 
That  proof  of  trust  —  so  often  ask'd 

in  vain ! 


286 


MERLIN  AND    VIVIEN. 


How  justly,  after  that  rile  term  of 

yours, 
I  find  with  grief !  I  might  heliere  you 

then, 
Who  knows  ?   once  more.     Lo  !  what 

was  once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  hath 

grown 
;  The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
^  Farewell ;  think  gently  of  me,  for  I 

fear 
My  fate  or  folly,  passing  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  thee 

still. 
But  ere  I  leave  thee  let  me  swear  once 

more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  thy  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 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of 

the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.     He  raised  his 

eyes  and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  wliite-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  foUow'd,  flying  back  and  crying 
\  o>it> 

I  "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, 
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  faul, 

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  passion- 
ate 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  "  0  fool ! "  the  har- 
lot leapt 

Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket 
closed 

Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo'd 
"fool." 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


287 


LANCELOT   AND  ELAINE. 

Blaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  loveahle, 
Eiaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to 

the  east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lance- 
lot; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morn- 
ing's earliest  ray- 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with 

the  gleam ; 
Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  f ashion'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  off  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 ; 
That  at  Caerleon  ;  this  at  Camelot : 
.ind  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  roU'd  his 

enemy  down. 
And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in  fan- 
tasy. 

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. 

Eor     Arthur,     long     before    they 

crown'd  him  King, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 

nesse, 
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 

abhorr'd : 
And  theire  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 
Eoll'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. 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs,  "Lo,  thou  likewise 

shalt  be  King." 


2SS 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


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  — 
Por   public    use :    henceforward    let 

there  he. 
Once  GTery  year,  a  joust  for  one  of 

these : 
For  so  hy  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  for  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  can- 
not move 
To  these  fair  jousts  ^  "     "  Yea,  lord," 

she  said,  "ye  know  it." 
"Then  will  ye   miss,"  he   answer'd, 

"the  great  deeds 


Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the 

lists, 
A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."    And  the 

Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  lan- 
guidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he   stood  beside 

the  King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 

there, 
"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  i* 

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  ye  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  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once 

so  wise. 
My  Queen,   that  summer,   when  ye 

loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more 

account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the 

mead. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 


289 


When  its  own  voice   clings   to  each 

hiade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.     As  to 

Icnights, 
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  %  " 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful 
laugh : 

"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  fault- 
less 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  un- 
truth. 

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 

Kapt  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  ye  know,  save  by 

the  bond. 
'And  therefore  hear  my  words:  goto 

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,  th»  chief 
of  knights : 

•'  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pre- 
text made, 

Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  CameTot, 
I 

Before  a  King  who  honors  his  own 
work, 

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 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  0  my 

knight. 
As  all  for  glory;  for  to  speak  him 

true. 
Ye  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. 


290 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


He  left  the  barren-beaten  thorough- 
fare, 

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 

Tired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gate- 
way horn. 

Then   came  an   old,   dumb,  myriad- 
wrinkled  man. 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  dis- 
arm'd. 

And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  word- 
less 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 

Kound, 
Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are 
unknown." 

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  un- 
known 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me 

not, 
Hereafter  ye   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  ye  can  have.''    Then  added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"  Yea,  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ye  may 

have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father  saying,  "Fie, 

Sir  Churl, 
Is  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  be- 
fore." 

"Nay,    father,    nay    good    father, 

shame  me  not 
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. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


291 


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  our- 
selves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All 

was  jest. 
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." 

"So  ye  will  grace  me,"  answer'd 
Lancelot,j 

Smiling  a  moment, "  with  your  fellow- 
ship 

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  ye 
may, 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye 
will." 

"  A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

"  Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  sim- 
ple maids." 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

riush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  dispar- 
agement 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her. 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus 
return'd : 

"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is 
fair. 

And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 

Eash  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  linea- 
ments. 

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  witk 
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 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

Eor  agony,  wlio  was  yet  a  living  soul- 

Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  good- 
liest 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 


292 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  enter- 

tain'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 
Jrom  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." 

"0  there,   great  lord,   doubtless," 

Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion 

of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "you 

have  fought. 
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 

,Bang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  vio- 
lent Gletn  ; 
And  in  the  four  loud  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  ag^n 


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  helped  his 

lord. 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering ; 
And  up  in  Agued-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 
Pills  him  ;  I  never  saw  his  like :  there 

lives 
No  greater  leader.'' 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily 

maid, 
"Save  your   great   self,  fair  lord;" 

and  when  he  fell 


lANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


293 


rrom  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleas- 
antry — 
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  ten- 
derness 
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  his 

face. 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  arid 

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,  hesitat- 
ing: 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  m 

the  court, 
"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  "i " 

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 
The  maiden    standing  in  the   dewy 

light. 
He  had  not  dream'd  she  was  so  beau- 
tiful. 
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, 
"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 


294 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face  and  fiU'd  her  with 

delight ; 
But    left    her    all   the    paler,  when 

Lavaine 
Beturning  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 ! " 
Whereait    Lavaine     said,    laughing, 

"  Lily  maid. 
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  by  the  gateway,  standing  near 

the  shield 
In  silence,  while    she  watch'd  their 

arms  far-oflf 
Sparkle,  until   they   dipt  below  the 

downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and 

took  the  sliield, 
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 
IJot  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty 

years 


A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and 
pray'd, 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  him- 
self 

In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a  shoreclifE 
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." 
Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rev- 
erence. 
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  thej 
reaoh'd  the  lists 


LANCELOT  ANP  ELAINE. 


'6 


295 


By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his 

eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  whicli 

half  round  j  4f 

Lay  like   a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  tne 

grass, 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 

who  sat 
Eobed    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  innu- 
merable 
Pled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 

found 
The    new   design  wherein  they  lost 

them  selves. 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 

work : 
And,  in  the  costly  canopy   o'er  him 

set. 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  name- 
less 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 
i  And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there 
'  dwells 

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,etrike  spur,  suddenly 

move. 
Meet    in    the    midst,    and    there    so 

furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-ofE  might  well 

perceive. 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thun- 
der 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 
Pavor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know 

him,  know." 
"  How  then  ?    who   then  ?  "    a  fury 

seized  them  all, 
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 
Bare,  as   a   wild   wave   in  the  wide 

North-sea, 


296 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


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  over- 
bore 
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  wor- 

shipf  ally ; 
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    seem'd    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  trum- 
pets blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore 

the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 

knights, 
His  party,  cried  "  Advance  and  take 

thy  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, 
Gilsping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  "Draw  the 

&Bce-head : " 
"  Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 

Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will 

die." 
But  he,  "  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — 
Draw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  Sir 

Lancelot  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  des- 
olate 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— 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


29) 


Yea,   twenty   times    I    thought    him 

Lancelot —  ■ 

He     must    not     pass    uncared     for. 

Wherefore,  rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 
TT'ounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he 
be  near. 

1  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 : 
Bis  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.     Rise  and 

take 
This   diamond,   and  deliver    it,   and 

return, 
And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he 

fares. 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until 

ye  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    Gareth,    a    good    knight,    but 

therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  and  the  child 

of  Lot, 
Nor  often    loyal    to    his   word,   and 

now 
Wroth  that  the  King's  command  to 

sally  forth 


In  quest  of  whom  lie  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 

hath  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 

gain 
Of  glory,  and  hath  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,  em- 
bracing 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  1 " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  him."    "  Why  that 

like  was  he." 
And  when  the   King  demanded  how 

she  knew. 
Said,  "  Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted 

from  us. 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common 

talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear 

at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his 

great  name 
Conquer'd ;  and  therefore  would  he 

hide  his  name 
Prom  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 

deoay'd ; 
And  added,  'Our  true  Arthur,  whea 

he  learns. 


298 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King : 
-'  Par  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it 

been, 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted 

thee. 
Surely  his  ICing  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,  this !  — 
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,  broider'd  with 

great  pearls. 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
•"Thy  liopes   are  mine,"  and  saying 

that,  she  choked. 
And  sharply  turn'd  about  to  hide  her 

face. 
Past  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, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 

again, 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud 

and  pale. 


Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of 

the  quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  pop- 
lar 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 :  wellnigh 

she  swoon'd : 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at 

her,  came 
The  Lord  of  Astolat  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  ridd'n  a  random 

round 
To  seek  him,  and  had  wearied  of  the 

search. 
To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Bide 

with  us. 
And  ride  no  more  at  random,  noble 

Prince ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left 

a  shield ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  fur- 
thermore 
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 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


299 


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. 
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 
Eebell'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  her  at, 

and  went 
To  all  the  winds  1 "     "  Nay,  by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in 

heaven, 
O  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue 

eyes; 
But  an  ye   will  it  let  me   see    the 

shield." 
And  when  tli«  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's   azure    lions,   crown'd 

with  gold, 
Eamp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 
;  and  mock'd : 

"  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, 

ye  know  it ! 
Speak  therefore :  shall  I  waste  myself 

in  v^in  1 " 
Full  simple  was  her  answer,  "What 

know  I  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 
ship ; 
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, 
I  know  there  is  none  other  I  can 

love." 
"  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "  ye 

love  him  well. 
But  would  not,  knew  ye   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  ■? 
Nay  —  like  enow :  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 


300 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


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  ye  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, 
I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render  it ; 
S'or  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hid- 
ing-place." 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd, 
and  replied, 

"Too  courteous  truly  !  ye  shall  go  no 
more 

On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  for- 
get 

Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to 
kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth,  but 
all  in  awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  with- 
out 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  Lance- 
lot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Asto- 
lat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 

but  most 
Predooni'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old 

dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

sliarp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it 

before. 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's   aim  with    pale 

tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the 

court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine-days'  won- 
der 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. 

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  graiy 

face  and  said. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


301 


"  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."  "Where- 
fore, let  me  hence," 

She  answer'd,  "  and  find  out  our  dear 
Lavaine." 

"Te  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, 

"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must 
hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he 
be. 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond 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  him- 
self. 

Death -pale,  for  lack  of  gentle 
maiden's  aid. 

The  gentler-bom  the  maiden,  the 
mo'-e  bound, 

My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  service- 
able 

To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye 
know 

When  these  have  worn  their  tokens : 
let  me  hence 

I  pray  you."  Then  her  father  nod- 
ding said, 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond :  wit  ye  well, 
my  child. 

Eight  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 

Tor  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a 
queen's  — 


Nay,  I  mean  notliing :  so  then,  get  you 

gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

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  echo'd  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  an' 

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  bush- 
less  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gatea 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy 

face 
Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
Por   pleasure  all    about  a    field  of 

flowers : 
Whom  when  she  saw,  "Lavaine,"  sh& 

cried,  "Lavaine, 
How  fares   my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ?  " 

He  amazed, 
"  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?     Sir 

Lancelot ! 
How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lan- 
celot ?  " 
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 ; 


302 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar 

grove 
Xed  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. 
jVnd  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  wherein 

he  slept. 
His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty 

hands 
Xay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,   and  a 

dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made 

them  move. 
Then  she  that  saw  liim  lying  unsleek, 

unshorn, 
Oaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, 
Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so 

still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 

roU'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  T  " 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 

the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
r  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  hath 

wearied  you. 
Eest  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  weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 
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 

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. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


30J 


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  ten- 
derly. 
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. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 

Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  re- 
solve. 

These,  as  but  bom  of  sickness,  could 
not  live : 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again. 

Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one 
face. 

Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his 
heart. 

Dispersed  ■  his  resolution  lite  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,  hut- 

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  maii 
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  ia 

rest; 
And  "Him  or  death,"  she  mutter'd, 

"  death  or  him," 
Again   and  like  a  burthen,  "Him  op 

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'tt 

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." 
And   Lancelot   ever  prest   upon  the 

maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift 

of  him 


304 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


For  her  own  self  or  hers ;  "  and  do  not 

shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your 

true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 

make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 

am  I 
tin  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I 
'  can." 

tThen  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  hode  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  go  to-day "  •-    then    out  she 

brake : 
"  Going  1  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  1  " 
And  innocently  extending  her  white 

arms, 
"Your  love,"  she  said,  "your  love  — 

to  be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd, "  Had  I  chosen 
(  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. 
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." 
"  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  woman- 
hood, 
More    specially    should    your    good 

knight  be  poor. 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  ter- 
ritory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond 

the  seas, 
So    that    would    make    you    happy: 

furthermore, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  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  not  shook,  but 
deathly-pale 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


305 


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  ye,  fair  Lord  Lance- 
lot. 

I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  dis- 
courtesy 

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 
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  look- 
ing at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand, 
Nor  bade  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  pic- 
tured wall. 

Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 
tones, 

"Have  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  dis- 
tant 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  L 

"Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter 

death  must  be : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death 

to  me. 
O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me 

die. 


"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made 

to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 

loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 


306 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


"  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  the   tower,  the  brothers 

heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "Hark  the  Phan- 
tom of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death," 

and  call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 

fear 
Eau  to  her,  and  lo !  the  blood-red  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, "  Swset  brothers,  yes- 

ter-night 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among 

the  woods. 
And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with 

the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's 

boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the 

cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it:  there  ye 

fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the 

tide. 


And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not 

pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining 

flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of    the 

King. 
And  yet  ye  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  bade  a  thousand  fare- 
wells to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  hade 

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,  ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours 

to  go 
So  far,  being  sick?   and  wherefore 

would  ye  look 
On   this   proud   fellow    again,   who 

scorns  us  all  t  " 

Then  the  rough   Torre   began  to 
heave  and  move, 
And  bluster    into   stormy  sobs  and 
say. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAfNU. 


307 


strike 


"  T  never  loved  him :  an  I  meet  with 

him, 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  stril 

him  down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike 

him  dead. 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 

house." 

To  whom  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  1 " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Asto- 

lat; 
"  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  ray  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  me 


My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's 

best 
And   greatest,  thp'  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." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 

and  gone, 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  for- 
given. 
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  re- 
plied, 
"  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  —  "ye  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,  i' 

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  oa 

it. 


308 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


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  a,nd  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 
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 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon 

the  barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 

lay. 
There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 

house, 
lioyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck. 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his 

face. 
ha  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  blazon 
ings, 

And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 
to  her 

"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 

"  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in 
tears. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 
the  dead, 

Oar'd  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with 
the  flood  — 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down  — 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 

Drawn  to  lier  waist,  and  she  herself 

in  white 
,  All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 
dead. 

But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  slie 
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. 
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  some  piece  of  pointed 

lace. 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls. 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly 

heart. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


309 


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  hare  my 

joy. 

(Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for 
•I  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,  as  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  noble- 
ness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  be- 
lieve." 

While  thus  he   spoke,  half  turn'd 

away,  the  Queen 
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 ! 
Por  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 
0  as  much  fairer — as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  — 

hers  not  mine  — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him- 
self. 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work 

my  will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 


310 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


I         Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat, 
i'lung  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 

disdain 
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  1 "  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, 
Xook    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  Fairyland." 


While  thus  they  babbled  of   the 

King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights  :  then  tum'd 

the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to   the  full  eye, 

and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 

doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  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  won- 

der'd  at  her. 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused 

at  her. 
And  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  fare- 
well. 

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  Lao' 
celot, 

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. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


311 


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 
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. 
1  left  her  and  I  bade  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) 
"  Ye  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  ter- 
ritory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 

seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance:  more 

than  this 
I  could  not;  this  she  would  n^t,  and 

she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "O 
my  knight, 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my 
knight. 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully." 

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  un- 
known, 

Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obse- 
quies. 

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  he» 
feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 


-J12 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


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, 
i'orgive  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  affec- 
tion said. 


"Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in 

whom  I  have 
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  prac- 
tised knight. 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd 

goby 
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, 
Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine 

eyes, 
Thou  couldst  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,  soni 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and 

fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 

the  Lake." 


Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  Pair  she 

was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights 

to  be. 
To  do.ubt  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, 
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, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


315 


Ye  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  ? ' 
vNot  rather   dead  love's   harsh  heir, 

jealous  pride  ■? 
Queen,  if  1  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 
Caught    from  his  mother's    arms  — 

the  wondrous  one 
Who  passes   thro'  the  vision  of  the 

night  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious 

hymns 
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  ? 

I  To  make  men  worse  by  making  my 

sin  known  1 
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, 
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  remorse- 
ful pain. 
Not  knowing  he   should  die  a  holy 
man. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From    noiseful    arms,    and    acts    of 

prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom   Arthur  and  his  knighthood 

call'd  The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd    into  the   silent    life   of 

prayer, 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms ;  and  leaving 

for  the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long 

after,  died. 

And    one,   a    fellOw-monk    among 

the  rest, 
Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 

the  rest, 
And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into 

his  heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love 

within. 
To  answer  that  which  came :  and  as 

they  sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darken- 
ing half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 
That  puff'd  the  swaying  branches  into 

smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when 

he  died, 


314 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The    monk     Ambrosius     question'd 
Percivale ; 

"  O  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew- 
tree  smoke, 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hun- 
dred years : 
For  never  have  I  known  the  world 

without. 
Nor  ever  stray'd  beyond  the  pale :  but 

thee. 
When    first    thou    earnest  —  such  a 

courtesy 
Spake    thro'  the   limbs  and  in   the 

voice  — 

I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's 

hall; 
JFor  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to 

coins. 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one 

of  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King ; 

and  now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the 

Table  Round, 
My  brother  1  was  it  earthly  passion 

crost  ? " 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight;  "for  no 

such  passion  mine 
But  the  sweet  vision  of    the    Holy 

Grail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries. 
And  earthly  heats  that  spring   and 

sparkle  out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 

■  watch 
Who  wins,  who  falls ;  and  waste  the 

spiritual  strength 
Within    us,    better    offer'd    up    to 

Heaven." 

To  whom  the  monk:   "The  Holy 

Grail !  —  I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes ;  but 

here  too  much 
We  moulder  —  as  to  things  without  I 

mean  — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  I 

of  ours,  ' 


Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory. 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so 

low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said. 

What  is  it  ■? 
The   phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes 

and  goes "[ " 

"  Nay,    monk  !     what    phantom  1  " 

answer'd  Percivale. 
"  The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which' 

our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 

own. 
This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aro- 

mat  — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the 

dead 
Went  wandering  o'er  Moriah  —  the 

good  saint 
Arimathsan      Joseph,      journeying 

brought 
To    Glastoabury,  where    the  winter 

thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of 

our  Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode ;  and  if  a 

man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd 

at  once, 
By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.    But  then  the 

times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and 

disappear'd." 

To  whom  the  monk :  "  From  our 
old  books  I  know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvi- 
ragus. 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 
build ; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 
the  marsh  ( 

A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore. 

For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 
but  seem 

Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have  read. 

But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to- 
day ?  " 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


315 


"A  woman,"  answer'd  Percivale, 
"  a  nun, 

And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 
me 

Than  sister;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 

With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the 
stone, 

A    holy    maid ;    tho'  never  maiden 

,  glow'd, 

'But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maiden- 
hood, 

With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human 
love, 

Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced 
and  shot 

Only  to  holy  things;  to  prayer  and 
praise 

She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms. 
And  yet, 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the 
Court, 

Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table 
Eound, 

And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 
ous race, 

Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 

Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all 
the  more. 

"  And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 

or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for 

sin, 
A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six. 
And  eacli  of  these  a  hundred  winters 

old. 
From  our  Lord's  time.     And  when 

King  Arthur  made 
His  Table  Eound,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 
Clean  for  a  season,   surely  he  had 

thought 
That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 

again ; 
But  sin  broke  out.    Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

would  come. 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness ! 
'O  Father ! '  ask'd  the  maiden, '  might 

it  come 


To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  "  '  '  Nay,' 

said  he, 
'  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  ia  pure  as 

snow.' 
And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the 

sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her, 

and  I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when 

I  saw  her. 

"For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak 

with  me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 

her  eyes 
Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beauti- 
ful, 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  won- 
derful. 
Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 
And  '0  my  brother  Percivale,'  she 

said, 
'  Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy 

Grail: 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard 

a  sound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hill? 
Blown,  and   I   thought,   "  It  is   not 

Arthur's  use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight ; ''  and  the  slen- 
der sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance 

grew 
Coming  upon  me  —  O  never  harp  nor 

horn, 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 

touch  with  hand. 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ;  and 

then 
Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and 

silver  beam. 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 

Holy  Grail, 
Eose-red  with   beatings    in  it,  as   if 

alive, 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 

dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the 

Grail 
Past,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  fro»» 

the  walls 


316 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


The  rosy  quiverings   died   into   the 

night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  hrotJier,  fast  thou  too  and 

pray, 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast 

and  pray, 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 

seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world 

be  heaVd.' 

"  Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 
of  this 

To  all  men ;  and  myself  fasted  and 
pray'd 

Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 
week 

Tasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  utter- 
most, 

Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 
be. 

"And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 

moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 
'God  make  thee   good  as  thou  art 

beautiful,' 
Said  Arthur,  when   he   dubb'd  him 

knight ;  and  none, 
In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 

knight 
Till  Galahad ;  and  this  Galahad,  when 

he  heard 
My  sister's  vision,  flU'd  me  with  amaze; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 

seem'd 
Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more 

than  I. 

"  Sister  or  brother  none  had  he ;  but 

some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 

said 
Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 

they, 
Life  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 

down. 
That  gape  for  flies  —  we  know  not 

whence  they  come ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly 

lewd? 


"But  she,  the  wan  svreet  maiden, 

shore  away 
Clean   from   her   forehead    all   that 

wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for 

her  feet ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 

long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with 

silver  thread 
Ar.d  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange 

device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and 

bound  it  on  him. 
Saying,   '  My  knight,   my  love,   my 

knight  of  heaven, 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  ia  one 

with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind 

my  belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I 

have  seen. 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city : '  and  as  she 

spake 
She  sent  her  deathless  passion  in  her 

eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and 

laid  her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

"  Then  came  a  year  of  miracle :  O 

brother. 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant 

chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures ;  and 

in  and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could 

read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  •  The  Siege  peril- 
ous.' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill ;  '  for  there,' 

he  said, 
'  No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 

himself . ' 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  iost ;  but 

he, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


317 


Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried,  '  If  I  lose  myself,  I  save  my- 
self!' 

"  Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came 
to  pass, 

Whila  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall. 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin's chair. 

"  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 

we  heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  Toofs, 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  over- 
head 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 

hall 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more 

clear  than  day: 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 

Holy  Grail 
All  over  co ver'd  with  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and 

it  past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's 

face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb 

men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware 

a  vow. 

"I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all, 

that  I, 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 

ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of 

it. 
Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware 

the  vow. 
And  good   Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's 

cousin,  sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than 

the  j-est." 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius, 
asking  him. 


"  What  said  the  King  "i     Did  Arthur 
take  the  vow  ■?  " 


"  Nay,  for  my  lord,"  said  Percivale, 

"  the  King, 
Was  not  in  hall :  for  early  that  same 

day. 
Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit 

hold, 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the 

hall 
Crying  on  help :  for  all  her  shining 

hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either 

milky  arm 
Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 

all  she  wore 
Tarn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 

torn 
In  tempest:  so  the  King  arose  and 

went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 
That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm. 

Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
Eeturning  o'er  the  plain  that  then 

began 
To  darken  under  Camelot ;  whence  the 

King 
Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo,  there  I 

the  roofs 
Of  our  great  hall  are  roll'd  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 

the  bolt.' 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of 

ours. 
As  having  there  so   oft  with  all  his 

knights 
Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under 

heaven. 

i 
"0  brother,  had  you  known  our 
mighty  hall. 
Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long 

ago! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by 

roof. 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire. 


318 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rush- 
ing brook. 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the 

hall: 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 

men, 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying 

beasts, 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 

men. 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings. 
And  oyer  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a 

crown. 
And  peak'd  wings    pointed    to    the 

Northern  Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and 

the  crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise   till    the    people    in    far 

fields. 
Wasted    so    often    by   the    heathen 

hordes, 
Behold  it,  crying,  'We  have  still  a 

King.' 

"  And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 

hall  within, 
Broader  ai>d  higher  than  any  in  all 

the  lands ! 
Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon 

Arthur's  wars. 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 

board 
Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles 

of  our  King. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end. 
Wealthy    with    wandering    lines    of 

mount  and  mere, 
,  Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand  Excali- 

bur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 

to  it, 
And  blank :  and  who  shall  blazon  it  % 

when  and  how  ?  — 


0  there,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 

are  done. 
The  brand    Excalibur  will    be  cast 

away. 

"  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode 

the  King, 
In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin 

wrought. 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 
In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and 

saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over,  all : 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the 

hold,  their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed 

with  smoke,  and  sear'd, 
FoUow'd,  and  in  among  bright  faces, 

ours. 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  'Perci- 

vale,' 
(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  — 

some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  '  what 

is  this  ? ' 

"  O  brother,  when  I  told  him  what 

had  chanced. 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his 

face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once. 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be 

done  in  vain. 
Darken ;  and  '  Woe  is  me,  my  knights,' 

he  cried, 
'  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn 

the  vow.' 
Bold  was  mine  answer,  '  Had  thyself 

been  here. 
My  King,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.' 

'  Yea,  yea,'  said  he, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen 

the  Grail  ? ' 

" '  Nay,  lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  1 
%a.iB  xhf  Ughf, 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


319 


But   since   I  did  not   see  the   Holy 

Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 

"  Then  when  he  ask'd  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 

one: 
'Nay,  lord,  and  therefore   have  we 

sworn  our  vows.' 

" '  Lo  now,'  said  Arthur,  •  have  ye 
seen  a  cloud  1 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness   to 
seel' 

"  Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur, 

call'd, 
•But   I,  Sir  Arthur,   saw   the   Holy 

Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry — 
"  O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow 
me." ' 

" '  Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the 

King,  '  for  such 
As  thou  art  is   the   vision,  not  for 

these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a 

sign  — 
Holier  is   none,  my  Percivale,  than 

«he  — 
A  sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I 

made. 
But  ye,  that  follow  but  the  leader's 

bell' 
(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 

knights) 
'  Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song. 
And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb 

will  sing. 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 
Five    knights    at    once,    and    every 

younger  knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns  —  and 

ye, 

What  are  ye  ?   Galahads  ?  —  no,  nor 
Perci  vales ' 


(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

me  close 
After  Sir  Galahad);   'nay,'  said  he, 

'  but  men 
With  strength  and  will  to  right  the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence 

flat. 
Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles 

splash'd  and  dyed 
The  stlrong  White  Horse  in  his  own 

heathen  blood  — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind 

will  see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 

made : 
Yet — for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 

realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall  —  how  often,  0  my 

knights, 
Your    places    being   vacant    at    my 

side, 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 

and  go 
Unchallenged,  while  ye  follow  wan- 
dering fires 
Lost  in  the  quagmire !    Many  of  you, 

yea  most, 
Eeturn  no  more :  ye  think  I  show  my- 
self 
Too  dark  a  prophet:   come  now,  let 

us  meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one 

full  field 
Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more 

the  King, 
Before  ye  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 

may  count 
The  yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his 

knights, 
Rejoicing   in   that   Order  which  he 

made.' 

"  So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from' 

under  ground. 
All  the   great  table   of  our  Arthur 

closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so 

full. 
So  many  lances  broken  —  never  yet 
Had   Camelot   seen    the   like,  since 

Arthur  came; 


320 


TIf.E  HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a 

strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people 

cried. 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 

heat. 
Shouting,  '  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Per- 

civale ! ' 

"But    when  the  next   day  brake 

from  under  ground  — 
O  brother,  had  you  known  our  Game- 
lot, 
Built  bv  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so 

old 
The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it 

would  fall. 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim;  for 

where  the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other   in    the 

sky. 
Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of 

those 
Who  wateh'd  us  pass  ;  and  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh'd  the 

necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  tiie  crazy  walls. 
Thicker  than  drops    from    thunder, 

showers  of  flowers 
Fell  as  we  past;  and  men  and  boys 

astride 
On  wy vern,  lion,  dragon,  grifSn,  swan, 
At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by 

name, 
Calling  '  God  speed ! '  but  in  the  ways 

below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 

and  poor 
Wept,  and  the   King  himself  could 

hardly  speak 
For  grief,  and  all  in  middle  street  the 

Qiieen, 
Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and 

shriek'd  aloud, 
•  This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 

sins.' 
So  to  the  Gate  of  the  three  Queens  we 

came, 
Where  Arthur's  wars    are   render'd 

mystically, 


And  thence  departed  every  one  his 
way. 

"  And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart;  and 

thought 
Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the 

lists, 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 

the  knights. 
So  many  and  famous  names;    and 

never  yet 
Had  heaven  appear'd    so  blue,  nor 

earth  so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I 

knew 
That  I  should  light  upon  the  Holy 

Grail. 

"Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of 
our  King, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires. 

Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my 
mind. 

Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken 
once. 

And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought 
of  old. 

And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did. 

Awoke  and  cried,  •  This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.' 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  my- 
self 

Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and 
thorns, 

And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 

And  I,  too,  cried,  '  This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.' 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lavras,  and 
then  a  brook,  , 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping 
wave. 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye ;  and  o'er 
the  brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the 
brook 


THE  JiOLY  GRAIL. 


321 


Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.    '  I  will  rest 

here/ 
I  said, '  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest ; ' 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 

ate 
The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 

once 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone, 
And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and 

thorns. 

"And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a, 

door 
Spinning ;  and  fair  the  house  whereby 

she  sat, 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  inno- 
cent. 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious ;  and  she 

rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 

should  say, 
'Rest  here ; '  but  when  I  touch'd  her, 

lo !  she,  too, 
Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the 

house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed. 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was 
.  my  thirst. 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across 

the  world. 
And  where  it  smote  the  plowshare  in 

the  field, 
The  plowman  left  his  plowing,  and 

fell  down 
Before  it;   where  it  glitter'd  on  her 

pail, 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and 

fell  down 
Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why,  but 

thought 
'  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sun  had 

risen. 
Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me 

moved 
In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewels;   and  his 

horse 
In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere : 


And   on  the  splendor  came,  flashing 

me  blind ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 

world. 
Being  so  huge.    But  when  I  thought 

he  meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo !  he, 

too, 
Open'd  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 

came, 
And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and 

he,  too, 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and 

thorns. 

"  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 

hill. 
And   on  the  top,  a  city  wall'd:   the 

spires 
Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 

heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd ; 

and  these 
Cried  to  me  climbing, '  Welcome,  Per- 

civale ! 
Thou    mightiest    and    thou    purest 

among  men ! ' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found 

at  top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice.    And  thence 

I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ;  but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
'Where  is  th  at  goodly  company,'  said  I, 
'  That  so  cried  out  upon  me  "i '  and  he 

had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 

gasp'd, 
'  Whence   and  what  art  thou  ? '  and 

even  as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,' and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried 

in  grief, 
'Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch   it,  it  will  crumble  into 

dust.' 

"And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly 
vale. 


ill 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


l/ow  as  lae  hill  was  high,  and  where 

th«  vale 
Was   lowest,    found    a    chapel,  and 

thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage, 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he 

said: 

'  " '  O  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility. 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
JFor  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"  Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  "  for 

all  is  thine," 
And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with 

sudden  light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 

she 
JFollow'd  Him  down,  and  like  a  flying 

.    star 
Xed  on  the  gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the 

east; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known :   for 

what  is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and 

thy  sins  ? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save 

thyself 
As  Galahad.'    When  the  hermit  made 

an  end. 
In   silver   armor   suddenly   Galahad 

shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Xaid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt 

in  prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst. 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone ;  but  he, 
'  Saw  ye  no  more  ?     I,  Galahad,  saw 

the  Grail, 
The   Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the 

shrine : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
.  That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 

went; 
And  hither  am  I  come ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first 

to  see, 
This  Holy  Thing,  f ail'd  from  my  side, 

nor  come 


Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night 

and  day. 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blaick- 

en'd  marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 

top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere 

below 
Blood-red.     And  in  the  strength  of 

this  I  rode,  > 

Shattering   all   evil   customs  every- 
where. 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and 

made  them  mine, 
And  clash'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 

bore  them  down. 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 
Come  victor.    But  my  time  is  hard  at 

hand,   . 
And  hence  I, go;  and  one  will  crown 

me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city;  and  come 

thou,  too, 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I 

go.' 

"While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye, 
dwelling  on  mine. 

Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 
grew 

One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  be- 
lieved. 

Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane, 
we  went. 

"There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but 

man  could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 
Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd 

it,  storm 
Round  us  and  death ;  for  every  mo- 1 

ment  glanced 
His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd :  so  quick 

and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 

and  right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about 

us,  dead. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


323 


Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of 

death, 
Sprang  into  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we 

found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 

smell. 
Part  black,  part  whiten'd  with  the 

bones  of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 

king 
Had  built  a  way,  where,  link'd  with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great 

Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge 

by  bridge. 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he 

crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I 

yearn'd 
To  follow ;  and  thrice  above  him  all 

the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such 

as  seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God :  and 

first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great 

Sea, 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 

hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  lumimoua 

cloud. 
And^sith  exceeding  swiftness  ran  Ihb  ; 

boat. 
If  boat  it  were  —  I  saw  not  whence  it 

came. 
And  when  the  heavens   open'd  and 

blazed  again 
Eoaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star  — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  tho 

boat 
■  Become  a  living  creature  clad  with 

wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 
,  hung 

Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me, 
Por  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been 

Vfithdrawn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed 

again 


Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down   on    the    waste,  and    straight 

beyond  the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her 

spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one 

pearl  — 
No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the 

saints  — 
Strike  from  the  sea ;  and  from  the 

star  there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and 

there 
Dwelt,  and  I  know  it  was  the  Holy 

Grail, 
Which  never   eyes  on   earth   again 

shall  see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 
And  how  my  feet  recrost  the  death- 

f  ul  ridge 
No  memory  in  me  lives ;  but  that  I 

touch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know; 

and  thence 
Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy 

man. 
Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 

return'd 
To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 

wars." 

"O  brother,"  ask'd  Ambrosius, — 

"for  in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  —  and  they  would 

win  thee — teem. 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to 

these. 
Not  all  unlike ;  which  of  tentime  I  read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with 

ease, 
Till  my  head  swims ;  and  then  go  forth 

and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 

close, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's 

nest 
To  these  old  walls  —  and  mingle  with 

our  folk ; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face   of 

theirs 


324 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


As  well  as  eyer  shepherd  knew  his 

sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret   In    their 

hearts, 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old 

wives, 
And  ills   and  aches,  and  teethings, 

lyings-in, 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 

place, 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league 

away : 
Or  lulling  random   squabbles  when 

they  rise, 
Chafferings   and  chatteringa   at    the 

markel^cross, 
Kejoicfc,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 

of  mine. 
Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 

eggs  — 
O  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad, 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in 

your  quest, 
No  man,  no  woman  1 " 

Then  Sir  Percivale : 
"  All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a 

vow. 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.     O, 

my  brother, 
Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess 

to  thee 
How  far  I  falter'd  from  my  quest  and 

vowl 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights, 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and 

snake, 
In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed 

to  wan 
And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not 

come; 
And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly 
,  town 

^  With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 

of  it; 
Thither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  dis- 

arm'd 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  be- 
hold, 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the 

one. 


Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had 

ever 
Made  my  heart  leap;    for  when    I 

moved  of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 
And  she   a  slender  maiden,  all  my 

heart 
Went  after  her  with  longing :  yet  we 

twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a 

vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again. 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 

dead. 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

were  hers. 
And  while   I  tarried,  every  day  she 

set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me;  for  all  her  longing  and  her 

will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old;  till  one 

fair  morn, 
I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That  flash'd  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 
Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my 

walk. 
And  calling  me  the  greatest  of   all 

knights. 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the 

first  time, 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth 

to  me. 
Then  I  remember'd  Arthur's  warning 

word, 
That  most  of  us  would   follow  wan- 
dering fires. 
And  the   Quest  faded  in  my  heart. 

Anon, 
The  heads  ef  all  her  people  drew  to 

me. 
With  supplication  both  of  knees  and 

tongue : 
'We  have  heard  of  thee:    thou  art 

our  greatest  knight, 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  lis. 
And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our 

land.' 
O  me,  my  brother !  but  one  night  my 

vow 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


325 


Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and 

fled. 
But  wail'd  and  wept,  and  liated  mine 

own  self. 
And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 

her; 
Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Galahad 
Cared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon 

earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "Poor  men, 

when  yule  is  cold. 
Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so    little;   yea,  and   blest    be 

Heaven 
That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor 

house  of  ours 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard, 

to  warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  friend :  but  O 

the  pity 
To  find  thine   own    first  lore    once 

more  —  to  hold, 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 

arms, 
Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  —  cast  her 

aside. 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a 

weed. 
For  we    that  want  the   warmth    of 

double  life. 
We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all   sweetness    in  a  life    so 

rich, — 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly- 
wise. 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live   like   an  old  badger  in  his 

earth, 
With  earth   about  him  everywhere, 

despite 
All  fast  and  penance.     Saw  ye  none 

beside. 
None  of  your  knights  ?  " 

"  Yea  so,"  said  Percivale : 
"One   night    my  pathway  swerving 

east,  I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 

Bors 


All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd,  and  hail'd 

him,  and  he  me, 
And  each  made  joy  of  either;   then 

he  ask'd, 
'  Where  is  he  ■?  hast  thou  seen  him  — 

Lancelot  ■?  —  Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors, '  he  dash'd  across 

me  — mad. 
And  maddening  what  he  rode :   and 

when  I  cried, 
"  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So   holy,"   Lancelot  shouted,  "  Stay 

me  not ! 
I  have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I  ride 

apace, 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish'd.' 

"  Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 

Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lan- 
celot, 

Because  his  former  madness,  once  the 
talk 

And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  re- 
turn'd ; 

For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  wor- 
ship him 

That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them ;  to  Bors 

Beyond  the  rest:  he  well  had  been 
content 

Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might 
have  seen, 

The  Holy  Cup  of  healing ;  and,  indeed. 

Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and 
love. 

Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy 
Quest : 

If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well : 
if  not, 

The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands 
of  Heaven. 

"  And  then,  with  small  adventure 

met.  Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  loneliest  tract  of  all  the 

realm. 
And  found  a  people    there    among 

their  crags. 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that 

were  left 


326 


THE  HOLY  GRA/L. 


Payuim   amid   their  circles,  and  the 

stones 
They  pitch  up   straight  to  heaven ; 

and  their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which 

can  trace 
The    wandering    of    the    stars,   and 

scoff'd  at  him 
'  And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a  simple 

thing : 
Told  him  he  foUow'd — almost  Ar- 
thur's words  — 
A  mocking  fire :  '  what  other  fire  than 

he. 
Whereby   the  blood  beats,  and  the 

blossom  blows, 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

warm'd  1 ' 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them, 

the  rough  crowd, 
Hearing    he    had  a  difference   with 

their  priests, 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged 

him  into  a  cell 
Of    great  piled    stones ;    and    lying 

bounden  there 
In      darkness      thro'      innumerable 

hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens 

sweep 
Over    him    till    by  miracle  —  what 

else  ■?  — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt 

and  fell, 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move :  and 

thro'  the  gap 
Glimmer'd  the  streaming  scud:  then 

came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud ;  and  thro' 

the  gap 
Tlie   seven  clear    stars    of  Arthur's 

Table  Kound  — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because 

they  roll 
Thro'  such  a  round  in  heaven,  we 

named  the  stars, 
Kejoicing  in  ourselves   and    in    our 

King  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 

friends. 
In  on  him  shone :  '  And  then  to  me, 

to  me,' 


Said  good  Sir  Bors, '  beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine. 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for 

myself  — 
Across    the    seven    clear    stars  —  O 

grace  to  me  — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,   the    sweet 

Grail 
Glided  and  past,and  close  upon  itpeal'd 
A  sharp  quick  thunder.'    Afterwards, 

a  maid. 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her 

kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 

go." 

To  whom  the  monk:  "And  I  re- 
member now 

That  pelican  on  the  casque  :  Sir  Bors 
it  was 

Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our 
board ; 

And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace 
was  he : 

A  square-set  man  and  honest ;  and  his 
eyes, 

An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth 
within. 

Smiled  with  his  lips  —  a  smile  beneath 
a,  cloud. 

But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny 
one: 

Ay,  ay.  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ■?  But 
when  ye  reach'd 

The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights 
return'd. 

Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  proph- 
ecy, 

Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and 
what  the  ICing  '\  " 

Then    answer'd   Percivale--    "And; 

that  can  I, 
Brother,  and  truly;  since  the  livings 

words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 

King 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out 

again. 
But  sit  within  the  house.     O,  when  we 

reach'd 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


327 


The    city,   our  horses    stumbling  as 

they  trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splinter'd  cock^ 

atrices. 
And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left 

the  stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us 

to  the  hall. 


"  And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne. 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of 
thera, 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King, 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail. 

Saying,  '  A  welfare  in  thine  eye  re- 
proves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance 
for  thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of 
late 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our 
kings; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall 
of  ours. 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 
for  us 

Half-wrench'd  a  golden  wing;  but 
now  —  the  Quest, 

This  vision  —  hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glas- 
tonbury ?  " 


"So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself 
'  hast  heard, 

Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  re- 
solve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life. 
He    answer'd   not,  but,  sharply  turn- 
ing, ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  '  Gawain,  was  this  Quest 
for  thee  ■* ' 


" '  Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  '  not  for 

such  as  I. 
Therefore  I  communed  with  a  jaintly 

man. 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 

for  me ; 
For   I   was   much   awearied   of   the 

Quest : 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field, 
And  merry  maidens  in  it;  and  then 

this  gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting- 

pin. 
And    blew   my   merry   maidens    all 

about 
With  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  for 

this. 
My   twelvemonth   and   a   day   were 

pleasant  to  me.' 

"  He  ceased ;  and  Arthur  turn'd  to 

whom  at  first 
He-  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 

push'd 
Athwart    the    throng    to    Lancelot, 

caught  his  hand. 
Held  it,  and  there,  half -hidden  by  him, 

stood, 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to 

him, 
'Hail,  Bors!  if  ever  loyal  man  and 

true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail ; ' 

and  Bors, 
'  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of 

it: 
I  saw  it ; '  and  the  tears  were  in  his 

eyes. 

"Then  there  remain'd  but  Lance- 
lot, for  the  rest 

Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  iiv  the 
storm ; 

Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Hiily 
Writ, 

Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the 
last; 

'  Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,'  ask'd  the 
King,  '  my  friend. 

Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 
for  thee  ? ' 


328 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


■"Our  mightiest ! '  answer'd  Lance- 
lot, with  a  groan ; 
'  0  King ! '  —  and  when  he  paused, 

methought  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 
'  O  King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine 

I  be, 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 

sin. 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 

slime. 
Slime  of  the  ditch :  but  in  me  lived  a 

sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of 

pure, 
Noble,   and  knightly  in  me   twined 

and  clung 
Bound  that  one  sin,  until  the  whole- 
some flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 

each. 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder ;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the 

hope 
That  could  I  touch  or  see  the  Holy 

Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder.  Then 

I  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 

said. 
That    save   they   could    be    pluck'd 

asunder,  all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain ;  to  whom 

I  vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  ihe 

.    will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To   tear  the   twain   asunder  in  my 

heart. 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old. 
And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far 

away; 
There  was   I  beaten  down  by  little 

men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving 

of  my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been 

enow 
Co  scare  them  from  me  once;    and 

then  I  came 


All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore. 
Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 

grasses  grew ; 
3ut  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to 

blow. 
So  loud  a.  blast  along  the  shore  and 

sea. 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 

blast, 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 

the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded 

heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And    blackening    in    the     sea-foam 

sway'd  a  boat, 
Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a. 

chain ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"  I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself. 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my 

sin." 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the 

boat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary 

deep. 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 

the  stars ; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the 

surge. 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and 

looking  up. 
Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 

bonek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock. 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the 

sea. 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker !  there 

was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon 

was  full. 
Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up 

the  stairs. 
There  drew  my  sword.     With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 
Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright 

like  a  man, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


329 


Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood 

between ; 
And,    when    I   would   have   smitten 

them,  heard  a  voice, 
"Doubt    not,   go    forward;    If    thou 

doubt,  the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemeal."    Then  with 

violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my 
J  hand,  and  fell. 

'.And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past ; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I 

saw. 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the 

wall 
Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded 

moon 
Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard. 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost 

tower 
To  the  eastward :  up  I  climb'd  a  thou- 
sand steps 
With  pain :  as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 
For  ever :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  I 

heard, 
"Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to   our 

Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 
Then  in  my  madness  I  essay'd  the 

door; 
It  gave ;  and  thro'  a  stormy  glare,  a 

heat 
As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace, 

I, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 

was. 
With  such  a  fierceness  that  I  swoon'd 

away  — 
0,  yet  methought  I  saw  the  Holy 

GraU, 
All  pall'd   in    crimson    samite,   and 

around 
Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 

and  eyes. 
And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my 

sin, 
And  then  my  swooning,  I  had  sworn 

I  saw 


That  which  I  saw;  but  what  I  saw 

was  veil'd 
And  cover'd ;  and  this  Quest  was  not 

for  me.' 

"  So   speaking,   and  here   ceasing, 

Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain 

—  nay. 
Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish 

words,  — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was 

he, 
Now  bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his 

King,  — 
Well,  I    tell     thee:     'O  King,  my 

liege,'  he  said, 
'Hath  Gawain  fail'd  in  any  quest  of 

thine  ? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  fough- 

ten  field  ? 
But  as    for  thine,  my  good   friend 

Percivale, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 

men  mad. 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 

our  least. 
But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  1 

swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed 

cat. 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday 

owl, 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward." 

"  •  Deafer,'      said     the    blameless 

King, 
'  Gawain,     and    blinder    unto    holy 

things 
Hope  not  to   make  thyself  by  idle 

vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came  a  sign  from 

heaven,  * 

Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot  and  Per- 
civale, 
For    these    have   seen  according  to 

their  sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of   the 

bard. 


330 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


When  God  make  music  thro'  them, 

could  but  speak 
His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 

chord ; 
And  as  ye   saw  it  ye  hare  spoken 

truth. 

" '  Nay — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot  : 

never  yet 
Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 

and  man 
Twine  round    one  sin,  whatever    it 

might  be. 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 

grew. 
Save  that  he  were  the  swine   thou 

spakest  of, 
Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure 

nobleness ; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear 

its  flower. 

*' '  And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my 

knights  ■? 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 

Quest, 
That  most  of    them    would    follow 

wandering  fires. 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?  —  lost  to  me 

and  gone. 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board. 
And  a  lean  Order  —  scarce  return'd  a 

tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 

came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he 

saw; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off. 
And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right 

themselves. 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 

face, 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here 

in  vain. 
However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

"  '  And  some  among  you  held,  that 
if  the  King 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have 
sworn  the  vow : 


Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  Is  but  as  the 

hind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to 

plow. 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allot- 
ted fiera 
Before  his  work  be  done  ;  but,  being 

done. 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the 

day 
Come,  as  they  will;  and  many  a  time 

they  come. 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems 

not  earth. 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is 

not  light, 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is 

not  air 
But  vision  —  yea,  his  very  hand  and 

foot  — 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot 

die. 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self. 
Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that 

One 
Who  rose  again :  ye  have  seen  what 

ye  have  seen.' 

"  So  spake  the  Eng :  I  knew  not  al' 
he  meant." 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTAERE. 

King  Akthuk  made  new  knights  to 

fill  the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he 

sat 
In  the  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high 

doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and- thro'  these 

a  youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the 

fields 
Past,  and  the   sunshine  came  along 

with  him. 

"  Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I 
know.  Sir  lUng, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


331 


All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 

love." 
Such  was  his  cry :  for  having  heard 

the  King 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament  —  the 

prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
,  Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady 

won 
The   golden   circlet,  for  himself  the 
/  sword : 

And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 

near  the  King, 
And  promised  for  him  :  and  Arthur 

made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight.  Sir  Pelleas  of 

the  isles  — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was 

he  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a   day  or  twain  be- 
fore, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to 

find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the 

sun 
Beat  like   a  strong    knight    on    his 

helm,  and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ;  but 

saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of   even-sloping 

side, 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches 

grew. 
And  here  and  thef  e  great  hollies  under 

them  ; 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was   open 

space. 
And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pel- 
leas drew 
_  To  that   dim  day,  then  binding  his 

good  horse 
iTo  a  tree,  cast  himself  down ;  and  as 
\  he  lay 

At  random  looking  over  the  brown 

earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of 

the  grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern 

without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds. 


So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 
at  it. 

Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a 
cloud 

Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a 
bird 

Flying,  and  then  a  fawn;  and  his 
eyes  closed. 

And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but 
no  maid 

In  special,  half-awake  he  whisper'd, 
"  Where  ■? 

O  where  ?  I  love  thee,  the'  I  know 
thee  not. 

For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 

And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear 
and  sword 

As  famous  —  0  my  Queen,  my  Guine- 
vere, 

For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we 
meet." 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of 

talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles, 

he  saw. 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in    that  bright    fine  of 

bracken  stood : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and 

one  that. 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose. 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to 

the  light. 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
"  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 
Arm'd  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the 

knights 


332 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 

way: 
To  right  %  to  left  ?  straight  forward  ■? 

back  again  ? 
Which  %  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
"Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful?  " 
For  large  lier  violet  eyes  look'd,  and 

her  bloom 
A  rosy  dawn    kindled    in    stainless 

heavens, 
And    round    her    limbs,    mature    in 

womanhood ; 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 

her  shape ; 
Andbut  f  or  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 

of  scorn. 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle 

with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.    But 

while  he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the 

boy, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul  : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 

good, 
Puts  his    own  baseness    in  him  by 

default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 

to  hers. 
Believing  her;  and  when  she  spake 

to  him, 
Stamnier'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 

reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he 

come. 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 

known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Rough    wives,     that     laugh'd    and 

Boream'd  against  the  gulls. 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the 

sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the 

lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people ;  and  as 

when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping 

tarn. 


The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge. 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her 

company. 
Three  knights  were  thereamong ;  and 

tliey  too  smiled. 
Scorning    him;    for    the    lady    was 

Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "  O  wild  and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee 

a  fair  face. 
Lacking  a  tongue  ?  " 

"  0  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"I  woke  from  dreams;  and  coming 

out  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon :  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  %    I 
Go  likewise :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the 

King?" 

"Lead  then,"  she  said;  and  thro' 

the  woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 

his  eyes. 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 

awe, 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashful- 

ness. 
Were  all  a  burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 

heart 
She  mutter'd,  "I  have  lighted  on  a 

fool. 
Raw,  yet  so  stale ! "    But  since  her 

mind  was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 

name 
And  title,  "  Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the 

lists 
Cried  —  and  beholding  him  so  strong, 

she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for 

me. 
And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  flatter'd 

him. 
Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh 

deem'd 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


33J 


His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd ;  and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 

to  him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleoii,  ere   they  past  to  lodging, 

she. 
Taking  his  hand, "  O  the  strong  hand," 

she  said, 
"  See !  look  at  mine !  but  wilt  thou 

fight  for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee  1  " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried,  "  Ay !  wilt  thou 

if  I  win  ?  " 
"  Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and 

she  laugh'd, 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung 

•  it  from  her ; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three 

knights  of  hers. 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with 

her. 

"  O  happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas, 

"all,  meseems. 
Are  happy;  I  the  happiest  of  them 

all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in 

his  blood. 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves ; 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 

sware 
To  love  one  only.    And  as  he  came 

away, 
The   men  who  met  him  rounded  on 

their  heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his 

face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest 

of  old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  :  so  glad 

was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets, 
and  strange  knights 


From  the  four  winds  came  in:  and 
each  one  sat, 

Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea. 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with 
his  eyes 

His  neighbor's  make  and  might :  and 
Pelleas  look'd 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  him- 
self 

Loved  of  the  King  :  and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper 
moved  him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 
world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morn- 
ing of  the  jousts. 
And  this  was  call'd  "  The  Tournament 

of  Youth : " 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the 

lists, 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's 

love, 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.    And  Arthur 

had  the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of 

Usk 
Holden:    the    gilded    parapets   were 

crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fiU'd 

with  eyes 
Tip  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 

blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept 

the  field 
With  honor :  so  by  that  strong  hand 

of  his 
The   sword  and   golden  circlet  were 

achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved ; 

the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face ;  her 

eye 
Sparkled ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from 

his  lance, 


334 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  there  before  the  people  crown'd 

herself : 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 

to  him. 


Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space  —  her 

look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 

knight  — 
Linger'd  Ettarre :  and  seeing  Pelleas 

droop, 
Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee 

much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory!"    And 

she  said, 

"Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 
your  bower. 

My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."  Where- 
at the  Queen, 

As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant. 

Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and 
went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and 

herself. 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  foUow'd.     She  that  saw 

him  cried, 
"Damsels  —  and   yet    I    should    be 

shamed  to  say  it  — 

1  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.  Keep  him  back 
Among   yourselves.     Would    rather 

that  we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 

worldly  way. 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off, 
,  And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 

will. 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 

their  boys. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry 

one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good :  and  if  he  fly 

us. 
Small  matter!    let  him."    This  her 

damsels  heard, 


And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel 

hand. 
They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the 

journey  home, 
Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her 

side 
Restrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of 

device. 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech 

with  her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  up- 

sprang  the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove, 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

"These  be   the   ways   of   ladies," 

Pelleas  thought, 
"To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 

our  faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 
So  made  his   moan;  and,   darkness 

falling,  sought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 

rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist 

or  dry, 
FuU-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day 

long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 

him. 

And   this    persistence    turn'd   her 

scorn  to  wrath. 
Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she 

charged  them,  "  Out ! 
And  drive  him  from  the  walls."    And 

out  they  came. 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they 

dash'd 
Against  him  one  by  one;  and  these 

return'd, 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath 

the  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a  hate ; 

and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With  her  three  knights,  she  pointed 

downward,  "  Look, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


335 


He  haunts  me  —  1  cannot  breathe  — 

besieges  me ; 
Down  1  strike  him !  put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes, 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."    And 

down  they  went, 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by 

one; 
And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 

Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in.'' 

He  heard  her  voice ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 

the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 

glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 

his  bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "  Be- 
hold me.  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 
And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  don  j  on  here. 
Content  am  I  so  that  I,see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day :  for  I  have  sworn  my 

vows. 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 

I  know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my 

faith. 
And  that  thyself,  when  thou  hast  seen 

me  strain'd 
And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 

thy  knight." 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 

mute; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and 

the  great  King, 
Lighted  on  words :  "  For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 
Peace,  Lady,  peace:  is  he  not  thine 

and  mine  "i " 


"  Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "  I  never  heard 

his  voice 
But  long'd  to  break  away.    Unbind 

him  now. 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors;  for  save 

he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his 

bones. 
He  will  return  no  more."    And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd  them,  saying,  "  There  he 

watches  yet. 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's 

door! 
Kick'd,  he  returns :  do  ye  not  hate 

him,  ye  ? 
Ye  know  yourselves :  how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ' 
Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 

bed. 
No  men  to  strike  ?     Fall  on  him  all  at 

once. 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :  if  ye  fail. 
Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be 

bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 

in: 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his 

bonds." 

She  spake;  and  at  her  will  they 

couch'd  their  spears. 
Three  against  one :  and  Gawain  pass- 
ing by, 
Bound  upon  soUtary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the   shadow   of 

those  towers 
A  villany,  three  to  one :  and  thro'  his 

heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  "  I  strike  upon 

thy  side  — 
The  caitiffs!"     "Nay,"  said  Pelleas, 

"  but  forbear ; 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  ladj's 

will." 


336 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  viUany 

done, 
Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver'd,  as  the  dog, 

withheld 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he 

sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs 

and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
three ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 
brought  him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 
burn'd 

Pull  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound : 

"  Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit 
to  touch. 

Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and 
thrust  him  out. 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 
bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again  "  —  there  she 
brake  short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "  Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beauti- 
ful, 

I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr'd 

Thro'  evil  spite :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 

I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  for- 
sworn : 

I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my 
love. 

Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you — fare- 
well; 

And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 
love. 

Vex  not  yourself :  ye  will  not  see  me 
more." 

While  thus  he  spake,   she   gazed 

upon  the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds, 

and  thought, 
"  Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me  1 

this  man  loves, 


If  love  there  be :  yet  him  I  loved  not. 

Why? 
I  deem'd  him  fool  1  yea,  so  ■?  or  that 

in  him 
A  something  —  was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ?  — 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?     He  is  not  of 

my  kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me 

well. 
Nay,  let  him  go  —  and  quickly."    And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 

Forth   sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed 

him  from  his  bonds. 
And  flung  them  o'er  the  walls;  and 

afterward, 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's 

rag, 
"Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "and 

art  thou  not  — 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 

made 
Knight  of  his  table ;  yea  and  he  that 

won 
The  circlet  ?  wherefore  hast  thou  so 

defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the 

rest. 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 

will  ?  " 

And  Pelleas    answer'd,  "O,  their 

wills  are  hers 
For   whom  I  won  the  circlet;   and 

mine,  hers, 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her 

face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mock- 
ery now. 
Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the 

woods ; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 

spite. 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 

me  in. 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her 

face ; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappi- 

ness." 


PELLEAS  AND  E7  TARRE. 


S37 


And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho' 

in  scorn, 
"Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she 

will. 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands  of  mine  —  Christ 

kill  me  then 
But  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the 

wrist. 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for 

him. 
Howl  as  he  may.     But  hold  me  for 

your  friend : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing :  here  I  pledge 

my  troth, 
Tea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy 

work. 
And    tame    thy  jailing   princess  to 

thine  hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 

will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.     She  will  let 

me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and 

fall; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  coun- 
sels, then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant 

thy  praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 

more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till 

she  long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again. 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.   Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 
And  armor :  let  me  go :  be  comforted : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 

and  hope 
I  The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 

news  of  gold." 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all 

his  arms, 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize, 

and  took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  "Betray  me  not, 

but  help  — 


Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light' 
of -love  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Gawain,  "  for  women  be 
so  light." 

Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle 
walls. 

And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his 
neck. 

And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 

That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the 
wall 

Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the 

tower ; 
"  Avaunt,"  they  cried, "  our  lady  loves 

thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  vizor  said, 
"  Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's 

court. 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom 

ye  hate : 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.     Opea 

gates, 
And  I  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to   their  lady, 

"Lo! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  —  he  that 

hath 
His  horse  and  armor :  will  ye  let  him 

in? 
He  slew  him !    Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court. 
Sir  Gawain  —  there  he  waits  below  *he 

wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  sa> 

him  nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on 
thro'  open  door 

Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 

"  Dead,  is  it  so  1  "  she  ask'd.  "  Ay, 
ay,"  said  he, 

"And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your 
name." 

"Pity  on  him,''  she  answer'd,  "a  good 
knight, 


338 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRB. 


But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at 

peace." 
"  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "  and  you  be 

fair  enow : 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given 

my  troth. 
That  whom  ye  loathe,  him  will  I  make 

you  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about 

the  land. 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought 

a  moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 

and  ways. 

Hot  was  the  night  and  silent ;  but  a 

sound 
Of  Gawain   ever    coming,  and    this 

lay  — 
Which  Pelleas  had  heard  sung  before 

the  Queen, 
And  seen  her  sadden  listening  —  vext 

his  heart. 
And    marr'd    his    rest  —  "A    worm 

within  the  rose." 

"A  rose,  but  one,  none  other  rose 
>  hadl, 

A  rose,  one  rose,  and  this  was  won- 
drous fair, 

One  rose,  a  rose  that  gladden'd  earth 
and  sky. 

One  rose,  my  rose,  that  sweeten'd  all 
mine  air  — 

1  cared  not  for  the  thorns  ;  the  thorns 
were  there. 

"  One  rose,  a  rose  to  gather  by  and 

by, 

One  rose,  a  rose,  to  gather  and  to 

wear, 
No  rose  but  one  —  what  other  rose 

hadl? 
One  rose,  my  rose ;  a  rose  that  will 

not  die,  — 
Ee  dies  who  loves  it, — if  the  worm 

be  there." 

Tliis  tender  rhyme,  and  evermore 
tlie  doubt, 


"  Why  lingers  Gawain  with  his  golden 

news  ?  " 
So  shook  him  that  he  could  not  rest, 

but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound 

his  herse 
Hard  by  the  gates.     Wide  open  were 

the  gates,  ^' 

And  no    watch    kept;  and  in  thro'/ 

these  he  past. 
And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his^ 

own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his 

own  self, 
And  his  own  shadow.    Then  he  crost 

the  court, 
And  spied  not  any  light  in  hall  or 

bower, 
But  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  brambles 

mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and 

found. 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 

moon, 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so 

spilt  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  of  three  pavil- 
ions rear'd 

Above  the  bushesjgilden-peakt :  in  one, 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires 
across  their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her 
damsels  lay : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the 
jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and' 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro' 

the  leaf 
To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he 

drew: 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what 

he  fears 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


339 


To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 

hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 

again, 
Fingering  at  liis  sword-handle  until  he 

stood 
There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 

and  thought, 
"  I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them 

yet  in  sleep 
Said,  "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 

sleep. 
Your  sleep  is   death,"  and  drew  the 

sword,  and  thought, 
"  What !  slay  a  sleeping  knighf?    the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood ;  " 

again, 
"Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be 

so  false," 
Then    turn'd,   and    so  return'd,  and 

groaning  laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 

throats, 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ;  and 

she  lay, 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her 

brows, 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 

throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting 

on  his  horse 
Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into 

the  moon. 
Then   crush'd    the    saddle  with    his 

thighs,  and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself 
\  and  moan'd : 

"  Would  they  have  risen  against 

me  in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day?     I  might  have  an- 

swer'd  them 
Even  before  high  God.     0  towers  so 

strong, 


Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I 

gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 

your  base 
Split  you,  and   Hell  burst  up  your 

harlot  roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and 

thro'  within. 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  —  hollow! 

as  a  skull !  I. 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your 

eyelet-holes. 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round 

and  round 
In  dung  and  nettles !  hiss,  snake  —  I 

saw  him  there  — 
Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell. 

Who  yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 

buti  — 
I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd 

her  fool  1 
Fool,   beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself 

most  fool; 
Beast    too,  as  lacking  human  wit  — 

disgraced, 
Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 
Love  ?  —  we  be  all  alike :  only  the 

King 
Hath  made  us  fools  and    liars.     0 

noble  vows ! 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of 

brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have 

no  law ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to 

my  shame  ? 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved,  her  to  my 

shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lustedf  or  her  — 
Away — " 

He   dash'd  the  rowel  into  his 
horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro'  > 
the  night. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch 
on  her  throat, 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd 

h'-rseif 


340 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


To  Gawain :  "  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 

~  slain 
This  Pelleas !  here  he  stood,  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."    And  he  that  tells 

the  tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 

earth. 
And  only  lover;  and  thro'  her  love 

her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half 

the  night. 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 

sod 
Prom  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 

the  hard, 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening 

sun. 
Beside  that  tower  where  Peroivale  was 

cowl'd. 
Glanced  from   the  rosy  forehead  of 

the  dawn. 
Por  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He  knew  not  whence   or  wherefore; 

"  O  sweet  star. 
Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the 

dawn ! " 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but 

felt  his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than    a    fountain 

bed 
In  summer :  thither  came  the  village 

girls 
And  linger'fi  talking,  and  they  come 

no  more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill'd  it 

from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons :  hard  his  eyes ;  harder  his . 

heart 
Seem'd ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 

that  he, 
Gasping,  "  Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but 

here, 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  him- 
self down, 
And  gnlf'd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep ; 

so  lay, 


Till  shaken  by  «  dream,  that  Gawaiih 

fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning 

star 
Eeel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 
one  nigh. 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 
crying,  ' 

"False !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 

replied 
"Am   I  but   false    as  Guinevere  is 

pure  ? 
Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ?  or 

being  one 
Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not 

heard 
That  Lancelot "  —  there  he  check'd 

himself  and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as 

with  one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the 

sword 
That    made    it    plunges    thro'    the 

wound  again. 
And  pricks  it  deeper :  and  he  shrank 

and  wail'd, 
"  Is  the  Queen  false  ?  "  and  Percivale 

was  mute. 
"  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 

their  vows  ?  " 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a 

word. 
"  Is  the  King  true  ?  "     "  The  King ! " 

said  Percivale. 
"Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once 

with  wolves. 
What !  art  thou  mad  ? 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on 

his  horse 
And  fled :  small  pity  upon  his  horse 

had  he. 
Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he 

met 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


341 


A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand  for 

alms- — 
Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 

dwarf -elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 

the  boy 
Paused  not,  but  overrode  him,  shout- 
ing, "False, 
And  false  with  Gawain !  "  and  so  left 

him  bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled   on,  and  hill 

and  wood 
Went  ever  streaming' by  him  till  the 

gloom, 
That  follows   on  the  turning  of  the 

world, 
Darken'd    the    common    path:    he 

twitch'd  the  reins. 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew 

it,  swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on ;  but  when  he 

saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Mer- 
lin built. 
Blackening    against   the    dead-green 

stripes  of  even, 
"Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan'd,  "ye 

build  too  high." 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city 

gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from 

the  Queen, 
Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a 

star 
And    marvelling    what    it   was :    on 

whom  the  boy. 
Across   the    silent    seeded    meadow- 
grass 
Borne,  clash'd :  and  Lancelot,  saying, 
'  "  What  name  hast  thou 

That  ridest  here   so  blindly  and  so 

hard  'i  " 
"I  have  no   name,"  he  shouted,  "a 

scourge  am  I, 
To  lash  the  treasons   of  the  Table 

Round." 
"Yea,  but    thy    name?"     "I    have 

many  names,"  he  cried  : 
"I  am  wrath   and   shame   and  hate 

and  evil  fame. 


And  like  a  poisonous  wind  I  pass  to 

blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 

the  Queen." 
"  Pirst  over  me,"  said  Lancelot, "  shalt 

thou  pass." 
"Pight  therefore,"  yell'd  the  other, 

and  either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they 

closed,  at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  flounder- 
ing flung 
His  rider,  who  call'd  out  from  the 

dark  field, 
"  Thou  art  false  as  Hell :  slay  me ;  I 

have  no  sword." 
Then  Lancelot,  "Yea,  between  thy 

lips  —  and  sharp ;     • 
But  here  will  I  disedge  it  by  thy 

death." 
"  Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "  my  will  is 

to  be  slain," 
And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 

fall'n, 
EoUing  his  eyes,  a  moment   stood, 

then  spake ; 
"Rise,  weakling;  I  am  Lancelot;  say 

thy  say." 


And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 
horse  back 

To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 
while 

Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the 
dark  field. 

And  foUow'd  to  the  city.  It  chanced 
that  both 

Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and 
pale. 

There  with  her  knights  and  dames 
was  Guinevere. 

Pull  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lance- 
lot 

So  soon  return'd;  and  then  on  Pelleas, 
him 

Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast 
himself 

Down  on  a  bench,  hard-breathing. 
"  Have  ye  fought  ?  " 

She  ask'd  of  Lancelot.  "Ay,  my 
Queen."  he  said. 


342 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


'•  And  thou  hast  overthrown  him  f  " 

"  Ay,  my  Queen." 
Then    slie,   turning    to  Pelleas,    "O 

young  kniglit. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood 

in  thee  fail'd 
So  far  thou  canst   not   hide,  unfro- 

wardly, 
'A  fall  from   him'?"    Then,  for  he 
'  answer'd  not, 

"  Or  hast  thou  other  griefs  ?     If  I, 

the  Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

let  me  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd ;  and  he,  hissing  "  I  have 

no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 

The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on 

her; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day 

to  be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all 

song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  hird  of 

prey; 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the 

hall. 
And  Modred  thought,  "The  time  is 

hard  at  hand." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in 

his  mood 
Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's 

Table  Round, 
At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellow- 
ing woods. 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

hall. 
And  toward  him  from  the  hall,  with 

harp  in  hand. 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  car- 

canet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday, 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "Why  skip 

ye  so.  Sir  Fool  ?  " 


For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 

once 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of 

rock 
Heard  a  child  wail.    A  stump  of  oak 

half  dead, 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of 

carven  snakes, 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro' 

mid  air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest:  and  thro' 

the  tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro' 

the  wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry :  and  crag 

and  tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  peril- 
ous nest. 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her 

neck. 
And  all  unscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon, 

brought 
A  maiden  babe;  which  Arthur  pity- 
ing took, 
Then  gave  it  to  his   Queen  to  rear : 

the  Queen 
But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white 

arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 
And  named  it  Nestling;    so  forgot 

herself 
A  moment,  and  her  cares ;  till  that 

young  life 
Being  smitten  in  mid  heaven  with 

mortal  cold 
Past  from  her;  and  in  time  the  carcanet 
Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of 

the  child : 
So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said 
"Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead 

innocence. 
And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  tour- 
ney-prize." 

To  whom  the  King,  "  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead  nestling,  and  this  honor  after 

death. 
Following  thy  will !  but,  O  my  Queen, 

I  muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 

zone 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


343 


Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from 

the  tarn, 
And  Lancelot   won,   methought,  for 

thee  to  wear." 


"Would  rather  you  had  let  them 
fall,"  she  cried, 

"  Plunge  and  be  lost  —  ill-fated  as 
they  were, 

A  bitterness  to  me !  — ye  look  amazed. 

Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon 
as  given  — 

Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  lean- 
ing out 

Above  the  river — that  unhappy  child 

Past  in  her  barge :  but  rosier  luck 
will  go 

With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

S.ot  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother- 
slayer, 

But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 

Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  r—  the  pur- 
est of  thy  knights 

May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 
maids." 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great 

jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 
From   Camelot  in  among  the  faded 

fields 
To  furthest  towers;  and  everywhere 

the  knights 
Arm'd  for  a.  day  of  glory  before  the 

King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 

Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage 
ribb'd 

I'rom  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals, 
his  nose 

Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off, 

And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dan- 
gling lame, 

A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the 
King, 


"  My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 

what  evil  beast 
Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy 

face  ?  or  fiend  ■? 
Man  was    it    who    marr'd    heaven's 

image  in  thee  thus  "i  " 

Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  of 

splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air,  said 

the  maim'd  churl, 

"  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 

to  his  tower  — 
Some  hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of 

thine  — 
A  hundred  goodly  ones — the   Red 

Knight,  he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the 

Red  Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 

his  tower ; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as 

one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by 

churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would 

outright  have  slain. 
Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a  message, 

saying, 
'  Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in 

the  North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter 

to  it  — ■  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his 

court. 
But  mine   are  worthier,  seeing  they 

profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — > 

and  say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 

own. 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  pro- 
fess 
To  be  none  other;  and  say  his  hour  is 

come. 


344 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 

lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw. '  " 

Then  Arthur  turned  to  Kay  the 

seneschal, 
"  Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 

curiously 
5  Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 

whole. 
(The  heathen  —  hut  that  evernjlimbing 

wave, 
Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty 

foam. 
Hath  lain  for   years  at  rest  —  and 

renegades, 
Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confu- 
sion, whom 
The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of 

otherwhere, 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty,  —  now 
Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  In 

the  North. 
My  younger    knights,  new-made,  in 

whom  your  flower 
Waits  to  be  solid   fruit  of   golden 

deeds. 
Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 

which  achieved, 
The  loneliest  ways    are    safe    from 

shore  to  shore. 
But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 

place 
Enchair'd    to-morrow,   arbitrate    the 

field; 
For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 

mingle  with  it, 
Only  to    yield  my  Queen  her  own 

again  ? 
Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent :  is  it 

well?" 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  It 

is  well : 
Yet  better  if   the  King  abide,  and 

leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights 

to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is 

well." 


Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol- 
low'd  him, 

And  while  they  stood  without  the 
doors,  the  King 

Tum'd  to  him  saying,  "  Is  it  then  so 
welH 

Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as  he 

Of  whom  was  written, '  A  sound  is  in 
his  ears '  ? 

The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go, —  the 
glance 

That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand, — 

A  manner  somewhat  fall'n  from  rev- 
erence — 

Or  have  I  dream'd  the  bearing  of  our 
knights 

Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and 
lower  ? 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my 
realm,  uprear'd, 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows, 

From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio- 
lences. 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no 
more  ?  " 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 

knights, 
Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 

turn'd 
North  by  the  gate.    In  her  high  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up    her 

head, 
Watch'd  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then    ran    across    her  memory  the 

strange  rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,  "  Where  is  he  who 

knows  % 
From  the   great  deep  to  the   great 

deep  he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tourna- 
ment. 

By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mockery 
call'd 

The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Inno- 
cence, 

Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lan- 
celot, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


345 


tlound  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 

birds  of  prey. 
The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek'd, 

arose. 
And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds 

of  pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  run- 
ning wine, 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 

of  gold, 
Moved  to  the  lists,and  there, with  slow 

sad  steps 
Ascending,  fill'd  his  double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries. 

Same,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of 
their  Queen 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 
child. 

And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like 
a  bank 

Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 
of  fire. 

He  look'd  but  once,  and  vail'd  his 
eyes  again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in 

a  dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 

roll 
Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts 

began : 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellow- 
ing leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower 

and  shorn  plume 
Went  down  it.    Sighing  weariedly,  as 

one 
Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire, 
1  When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 

away. 
Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er 

the  lists. 
He    saw    the    laws    that    ruled    the 

tournament 
Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight 

cast  down 
Before     his    throne     of     arbitration 

cursed 


The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 

King; 
And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd, 
And  show'd  him,  like  a  vermin  in  its 

hole, 
Modred,  a  narrow  face :  anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  billow'd  round   the 

barriers  roar 
An  ocean-sounding  welcome  to   one 

knight. 
But  newly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest, 
And    armor'd    all    in    forest    green, 

whereon 
There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 
And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for 

crest, 
With  ever-scattering  berries,  and  on 

shield 
A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle  —  Tristram 

—  late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd, 
And  marriage  with  a  princess  of  that 

realm, 
Isolt  the  White  —  Sir  Tristram  of  the 

Woods  — 
Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 
His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 

to  shake 
The  burden  off  his  heart  in  one  full 

shock 
With   Tristram   ev'n   to  death ;    hia 

strong  hands  gript 
And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and 

left, 
Until  he  groan'd  for  wrath  —  so  many 

of  those. 
That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the 

pasque, 
Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 

bounds. 
And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,  while   he  mutter'd,   "Craven 

crests  !     O  shame ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

sware  to  love  % 
The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

So    Tristram   won,   and    Lancelot 
gave,  the  gems, 


346 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


Not  speaking  other  word  than  "  Hast 

thou  won  ■? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ?     See, 

the  hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  this,  is  red  ! " 

to  whom 
Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot's 

languorous  mood, 
Made  answer,  "  Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 

me  this 
[Like  a  dry  bone  east  to  some  hungry 

hound  ■? 
Let    be    thy  fair    Queen's    fantasy. 

Strength  of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use 

and  skill. 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our 

King. 
My  hand  —  belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow ;  but  O  chief 

knight. 
Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield. 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  1  haTe  made 

the  world ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in 

mine." 

And   Tristram  round   the  gallery 

made  his  horse 
Caracole ;    then  bow'd  his  homage, 

bluntly  saying, 
"Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 
Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love, 

behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 

here." 
And  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 

anger'd,  one. 
Murmuring,  "All  courtesy  is  dead," 

and  one, 
'  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 

and  mantle  clung, 
And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 

day 
Went    glooming    down  in  wet    and 

weariness ; 


But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy 

one 
Laugh'd  shrilly,  crying,  "  Praise  the 

patient  saints, 
Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 

past, 
Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 

So  be  it. 
The  snowdrop  only,  flowering  thro'  the 

year. 
Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 

Winter-tide. 
Come  —  let  us  gladden  their  sad  eyes, 

our  Queen's 
And  Lancelot's  at  this  night's  solemnity 
With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the 

field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 

feast 
Variously  gay :  for  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying,  as  when  an  hotir 

of  cold 
Palls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 

snows. 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 

returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again ; 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 

white. 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live 


Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  pop- 
py, glanced 

About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so 
loud 

Beyond    all  use,  that,  half-amazed, 
the  Queen, 

And  wroth. at  Tristram  and  the  law- 
less jousts. 

Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to , 
her  bower 

Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 
morn, 
High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumiv 
tide. 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


347 


Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

hall. 
Then  Tristram  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool  ?  " 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 

replied, 
"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company ; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much 

wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 

skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 

all." 
"Ay,   fool,"  said  Tristram,  but  'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance  to."    Then  he  twangled  on 

his  harp. 
And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet 

stood 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 

brook ; 
But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 

again ; 
And  being  ask'd,  "  Why  skip  ye  not. 

Sir  Fool?" 
Made  answer,  "I  had  liefer  twenty 

years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  thou  canst 

make." 
Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip 

to  come, 
•'  Good    now,    what    music    have    I 

broken,  fool  ?  " 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "Arthur, 

the  King's ; 
For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy 

bride. 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany — 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's  music 

too." 
"  Save  for  that  broken  music  m  thy 

brains. 
Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,  "I  would 

break  thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars 

were  o'er, 


The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by 

the  shell — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool — 
Come,   thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour: 

but  lean  me  down. 
Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses' 

ears, 
And  harken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

i 
"  '  Free  love  —  free  field  —  we  love 

but  while  we  may  : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is 

no  more : 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past 

away : 
New  leaf,  new  life  —  the  days  of  frost 

are  o'er : 
New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer 

day: 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before : 
Free  love  —  free  field — we  love  but 

while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure to  my  tune, 

Not  stood  stockstill.  I  made  it  in  the 
woods. 

And  heard  it  ring  as  true  as  tested 
gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised 

in  his  hand, 
"  Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain 

yesterday 
Made  to  run  wine  ?  — but  this  had  run 

itself 
All  out  like  a   long  life  to  a   sour 

end  — 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  gold- 
en cups 
To  hand  the  wine  to  whosoever  came — 
The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as 

Innocence, 
In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe. 
Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 

the  Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  th« 

King 
Gave  for  a  prize  —  and  one  of  those 

white  slips 


348 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 
one, 

'Drink,  drink.  Sir  Tool,'  and  there- 
upon I  drank, 

Spat  —  pish  —  the  cup  was  gold,  the 
draught  was  mud." 

And  Tristram, "  Was  it  muddier  than 

thy  gihes  ■? 
Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 

thee  1  — 
Not   marking  how   the    knighthood 

mock  thee,  fool  — 
•Fear  God :    honor   the    King  —  his 

one  true  knight  — 
Sole  follower  of  the  tows'  —  for  here 

be  they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I 

cartie. 
Smuttier    than    blasted   grain:    but 

when  the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so 

shot  up 
It   frighted  all  free   fool   from   out 

thy  heart ; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught  —  yet  swine  I  hold 

thee  still. 
For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls  and  find 

thee  swine." 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 

"Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies 
round  my  neck 

In  lieu  of  hers,  I'll  hold  thou  hast 
some  touch 

Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy 
pearls. 

Swine  ?  I  have  wallow'd,  I  have 
wash'd  —  the  world 

Is  flesh  and  shadow  —  I  have  had  my 
day. 

The  dirty  nurse,  Experience,  in  her 
kind 

Hath  f oul'd  me  —  an  I  wallow'd,  then 
I  wash'd  — 

I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philoso- 
phies — 

And  thank  the  Lord  I  am  King  Ar- 
thur's fool. 


Swine,  say  ye  ?    swine,  goats,  asses, 

rams  and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim  harper  once, 

who  thrumm'd 
On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  such  fine  song  —  but  never  a 

king's  fool." 

And  Tristram,  "  Then  were  swine, 

goats,  asses,  geese 
The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim 

bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out 

of  hell." 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball 

of  his  foot, 
"And  whither    harp'st  thou  thine? 

down!  and  thyself 
Down !  and  two  more :  a  helpful  harp 

er  thou, 
That  harpest  downward !    Dost  thou 

know  the  star 
We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in 

heaven  ?  " 

And  Tristram,  "Ay,  Sir  Pool,  for 

when  our  King 
Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 

knights, 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his 

name 
High  on  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 

heaven." 

And  Dagonet  answer'd,  "  Ay,  and 
when  the  land 

Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye 
set  yourself 

To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  youi 
wit  — 

And  whether  he  were  King  by  cour- 
tesy. 

Or  King  by  right  —  and  so  went  harp- 
ing down 

The  black  king's  highway,  got  so  far, ' 
and  grew 

So  witty  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and 
drakes 

With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake 
of  fire. 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


349 


Tuwhoo !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see  the 
star? 

"Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "not  in 

open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  "  Nay,  nor  will :  I  see 

it  and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and    the  angels 

hear. 
And  then  we  skip."     "  Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,  "ye  talk 
Fool's  treason :  is  the  King  thy  brother 

fool  ■? " 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands 

and  shrill'd, 
"  Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of 

fools ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 

make 
Rgs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 

milk 
F»om  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hor- 
net-combs, 
And  men  from  beasts  —  Long  live  the 

king  of  fools  ! " 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 
away; 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  ave- 
nues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Eode  Tristram  toward  Lyonnesse  and 

the  west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
Tor    all    that  walk'd,  or    crept,    or 

perch'd,  or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath 

blown, 
UnruflSing  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 

turn'd ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  f  ewmets  of  a  deer. 
Or  ev'n  a  f all'n  feather, vanish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 
lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he 
rode.     At  length 


A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen- 
boughs 

Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken-roof  t,  the 
which  himself 

Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen 
Isolt 

Against  a  shower,  dark  in  the  golden 
grove 

Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to 
where 

She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge 
with  him : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Corn- 
ish King, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 
away. 

And  snatch'd  her  thence  ;  yet  dread- 
ing worse  than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any 
word. 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tris- 
tram lookt 
So  sweet,  that  halting,  in  he  past,  and 

sank 
Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random 

blown ; 
But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 

smoothe 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the 

Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from 

all 
The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had 

not  heard. 
But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 
After  she   left  him  lonely  here  ■?  a 

name  ? 
Was  It  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 
Isolt,    the    daughter   of    the  King? 

"  Isolt 
Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  : 

the  sweet  name 
Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 

herself. 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 

hands  of  hers, 
And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 

thought 


350 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 
But  left  her  all  as  easily  and  return'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 

eyes 
Had  drawn  him  home  —  what  marvel  ? 

then  lie  laid 
His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 

dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to  pace  the    strand  of 

Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began   to    struggle    for   it,   till   his 

Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand 

was  red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  "Look,  her 

hand  is  red ! 
These   be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen 

blood. 
And    melts    within    her  hand  —  her 

hand  is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee, 

look. 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower." 
FoUow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings,  and 

then 
A  whimpering  of  the   spirit  of  the 

child. 
Because  the  twain  had  spoiled  her 

carcanet. 

He    dream'd;    but  Arthur  with  a 

hundred  spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed. 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sal- 

lowy  isle. 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty 

'  marsh 
'.Glared  on  a  huge  maohicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  where- 

out  was  roU'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 

ease 
Among  their  harlot-brides,  an   evil 

song. 
"  Lo    there,"    said  one   of    Arthur's 

youth,  for  there,  I 


High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the 

tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  the  Table  Round 
Swung    by  the    neck:    and  on    the 

boughs  a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field 

noir. 
And  there  beside  a  horn,  inflamed  the 

knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur. 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back.  Alone 

he  rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the 

great  horn. 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh 

aloft 
An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and 

cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 

heard,  and  all. 
Even    to    tipmost    lance     and   top- 
most iielm. 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd 

to  the  King, 

"The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and 

gnash  thee  flat!  — 
Lo !  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain   had  dipt  free  manhood 

from  the  world  — 
The  woman-worshipper  ?     Yea,  God's 

curse,  and  I ! 
Slain   was  the  brother  of  my  para- 
mour 
By  a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware    by    the   scorpion-worm   that 

twists  in  hell. 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 
To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  1 1 

fought 
And  tumbled.     Art  thou    King  ?  — 

Look  to  thy  life  !  " 

He  ended :  Arthur  knew  the  voice ; 
the  face 
Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the 
name 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


351 


Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling 

in  his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word 

or  sword. 
But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  streteh'd 

from  horse 
To    strike    him,    overbalancing    his 

bulk, 
Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to 

the  swamp 
Fall^  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 

wave. 
Heard  in   dead  night  along  that  table- 
shore. 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters 

break 
Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves, 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon 

and  cloud, 
Prom  less  and  less  to  nothing ;  thus 

he  fell 
Head-heavy;   then  the  knights,  who 

watch'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 

f  all'n ; 
There   trampled    out  his  face  from 

being  known. 
And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 

themselves : 
Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own 

cries,  but  sprang 
Thro'  open  doors,  and  swording  right 

and  left 
Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces, 

hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and 

slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 

yeiis. 

And  all  the  pavement  stream  d  with 

massacre : 
Then,   yell   with  yell   echoing,  they 

fired  the  tower. 
Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like 

the  live  North, 
Red-pulsing    up    thro'    Alioth    and 

Alcor, 
Made   all   above  it,  and  a  hundred 

meres 
About      it,      as    the     water     Moab 

saw 


Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  be- 
yond them  flush'd 
The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging 

sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were   safe  from 
shore  to  shore. 
But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was 
lord. 

Then,  out  of  Tristram  waking,  the 

red  dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge 

return'd. 
Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 

boughs. 
He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to 

graze 
Among  the    forest    greens,    vaulted 

upon  him. 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering 

leaf, 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a 

cross, 
Stay'd     him.      "  Why    weep    ye  ? " 

"  Lord,"  she  said,  "  my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead ; "  whereon  he 

thought  — 
"What,   if    she    hate  me  now?      I 

would  not  this. 
"  What,  if    she  loves  me  still  %      I 

would  not  that. 
I  know  not'what  I  would  " — but  said 

to  her, 
"  Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 

return, 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love 

thee  not "  — 
Then    pressing    day    by    day    thro' 

Lyonnesse 
Last  in  a  rocky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of   Mark,  and  felt  the 

goodly  hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but  turning,  past 

and  gain'd 
Tintagil,  half   in  sea,   and  high   on 

land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat,. 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 
hair 


352 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the 

Queen. 
And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 
tram grind 
The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about 

her  tower, 
^lush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 

and  there 
Belted  his  body  with  her  white  em- 
brace. 
Crying    aloud,     "Not    Mark  —  not 

Mark,  my  soul ! 
The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not 

he: 
Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my 

Mark, 
But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  thro' 

his  halls 
Who  hates  thee,  as  I  him  —  ev'n  to 

the  death. 
My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my 

Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that 

thou  wert  nigh." 
To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  "  I  am 

here. 
Let  be  thy  ■  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not 

thine." 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward 

she  replied, 
"  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n 

his  own. 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 

me, 
Scratch'd,  bitten,  blinded,  marr'd  me 

somehow  —  Mark  ? 
What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not 

strike  for  them  ? 
Not  lift  a  hand — not,  tho'  he  found 

me  thus ! 
But   hearken !    have   ye   met    him  ■? 

hence  he  went 
To-day  for  three  days'  hunting  —  as 

he  said  — 
And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark's  way,  my  soul !  —  but  eat  not 

thou  with  Mark, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 

fears ; 
Nor  drink :   and  when  thou  passest 

any  ivood 


Close  vizor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the 

bush 
Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark 

and  hell. 
My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 

Mark 
Is   as   the  measure  of  my  love  for 

thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and 

one  by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat, 

and  spake 
To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her, 

saying, 
"  0  himter,  and  O  blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover 

too, 
Por,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling 

king, 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the 

bride 
Of  one  —  his  name  is  out  of  me  —  the 

prize. 
If  prize  she  were  —  (what  marvel  — 

she  could  see)  — 
Thine,  friend;    and   ever   since   my 

craven  seeks 
To  wreck    thee  villauously:   but,  O 

Sir  Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneel'd 

to  last  ■? " 

And  Tristram,  "  Last  to  my  Queen 

Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 

love 
And    loveliness  —  ay,    lovelier    than 

when  first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Ly- 

onnesse. 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt-, 
"  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  %  "  and  he 

said, 
"  Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 

thine, 
And  thine  is  more  to  me  — soft,  gra 

cious,  kind  — 


THE  LAST   TOUJiNAMENT. 


353 


Sare  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on 

thy  lips 
Most  gracious ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n 

to  him, 
Lancelot;  for  I  ha  ve  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love." 

To  whom  Isolt, 

"  Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  har- 
per, thou 

Who  brakest  thro'  the  scruple  of  my 
bond, 

Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  say- 
ing to  me 

That  Guinevere  had  sinn'd  against 
the  highest, 

And  I  —  misyoked  with  such  a  want 
of  man  — 

That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the 
lowest." 

He  answer'd,  "  O  my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 

If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading- 
strings. 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 

Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the 
crowning  sin 

That  made  us  happy:  but  how  ye 
greet  me  —  fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  —  no  word  of 
that  fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was 
away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 
"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  —  yearnings  1  —  ay !  for, 

hour  by  hour. 
Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 
0  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee. 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem'd    those   far-rolling,   westward- 
smiling  seas, 
Watch'd  from   this  tower.     Isolt   of 

Britain  dash'd 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand. 


Would  that  have   chill'd  her  bride- 
kiss  ?     Wedded  her? 
Fought    in    her     father's     battles  t 

wounded  there? 
The  King  was  all  f  ulfill'd  with  grate  ■ 

fulness. 
And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 

that  heal'd 
Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 

caress  — 
Well  —  can  I  wish   her   any  huger 

wrong 
Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too 

hast  thou  left 
To  pine  and   waste  in   those   sweet 

memories. 
O  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 

men 
Are  noble,  I  should  hate  thee  more 

than  love." 

And   Tristram,  fondling  her  light 

hands,  replied, 
"  Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved :  she 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love  her  ?  the  name  at  least  I 

loved. 
Isolt '  —  I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt  t 
The  night  was  dark ;  the  true  star  set. 

Isolt ! 
The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark 

Isolt  ? 
Care  not  for  her !  patient,  and  prayer* 

ful,  meek, 
Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to 

God." 

And  Isolt  answer'd,  "  Yea,  and  why 

not  I? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 

meek. 
Pale-blooded,  prayerful.    Let  me  teU 

thee  now. 
Here   one  black,    mute    midsummer 

night  I  sat. 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wonder- 
ing where, 
Murmuring  a  light  song  I  had  heard 

thee  sing. 
And  once  or  twice  I  spake  thy  nama 

aloud. 


3S4 


THE  LAST    TOURNAMENT. 


Then  flash'd  a  levin-brand ;  and  near 

me  stood, 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 

flend — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark  — 
For  there  was  Mark :  '  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said, 
Not  said,  but  hiss'd  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a,  roar  of  all  the 

sky. 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd 

away, 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and 

cried, 
^I  will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God'  — 
And   thou  wert    lying   in    thy  new 

leman's  arms." 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with 

her  hand, 
*'  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  wlien 

old  and  gray. 
And    past    desire!"   a    saying    that 

anger'd  her. 
■"  '  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old. 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '    I  need 

Him  now. 
Tor  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught 

so  gross 
Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 

mast  1 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
Far  other  was  the  Tristram,  Arthur's 

knight ! 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying    thy 

wild  beasts  — 
Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a 
A  lance 

'Becomes  thee  well  —  art  grown  wild 

beast  thyself. 
How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 

even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me 

far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away. 
Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ■?     Unsay  it, 

unswear ! 
*"latter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak. 


Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, 
Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 

should  suck 
Lies  like  sweet  wines :   lie  to  me :  I 

believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there 

ye  kneel. 
And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to 

him. 
The   man   of    men,   our    King — Mj- 

God,  the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 

the  King ! 
They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and 

thro'  their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm : 

—  I  say. 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ov'n 

when  old, 
Gray-hair'd,  and  past  desire,  and  in 

despair." 


Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up- 

and  down, 
"  Vows !  did  you  keep  the  vow  you 

made  to  Mark 
More  than  I  mine  1     Lied,  say  ye  ? 

Nay,  but  learnt. 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 

Itself  — 
My  knighthood  taught  me  this  —  ay, 

being  snapt  — 
We   run  more  counter  to  the  soul 

thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.     I  swear 

no  more. 
I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am 

forsworn. 
For  once  —  ev'n  to   the  height  —  I 

honor'd  him. 
'  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  1 '  methought, 

when  first 
I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonnesse,  and 

beheld 
That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 

hall  — 
His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a 

brow 
Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,   the 

steel-blue  eyes. 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


355 


The   golden  beard  that  clothed  his 

lips  with  light  — 
Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his 

birth, 
With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about 

his  end 
Amazed  me  ;  then,  his  foot  was  on  a 

stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon  ;  he  seem'd  to  me 

no  man, 
But  Michael  trampling  Satan ;  so  I 

sware. 
Being  amazed:  but  this  went  by  — 

The  vows ! 
0  ay  —  the   wholesome  madness   of 

an  hour  — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time ;  for 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  him- 
self, 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  him- 
self, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he 

had  done. 
And  so   the  realm   was  made ;   but 

then  their  vows  — 
First  mainly  thro'   that  sullying  of 

our  Queen  — 
Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 

whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to 

himself  ? 
Dropt  down  from   heaven?    wash'd 

up  from  out  the  deep  ? 
They  fail'd  to   trace   him  thro'  the 

flesh  and  blood 
Of  our  old  kings:  whence  then?   a 

doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows. 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate : 
For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  —  the  tide 

within 
Bed  with  free  chase   and    heather- 
scented  air, 
Pulsing  full  man;  can  Arthur  make 

me  pure 
As  any  maiden  child?    lock  up  my 

tongue 
From  tittering  freely  what  I  freely 

hear? 


Bind  me  to   one?'  The  wide  world 

laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 
The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his 

hour 
Woos  his  own  end;  we  are  not  angels 

here 
Nor  shall  be :  vows  —  I  am  woodman 

of  the  woods. 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaflSngale 
Mock  them :    my  soul,  we  love  but 

while  we  may ; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for 

thee. 
Seeing  it  is   not  bounded    save    by 

love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 

and  she  said, 
"  Good :  an  I  turn'd  away  my  love  for 

thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as 

thyself  — 
For  courtesy  wins  women  all  as  well 
As  valor  may,  but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  —  taller  in- 
deed, 
Kosier  and  comelier,  thou — but  say  I 

loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and 

cast  thee  back 
Thine  own  small  saw,  '  We  love  but 

while  we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer  ?  ' 

He  that  while  she  spake. 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 

her  with. 
The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly 

touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat, 

replied, 
"Press   this   a    little    closer,    sweet, 

until  — 
Come,  I  am  hunger'd  and  half-an- 

ger'd — meat. 
Wine,  wine  —  and  I  will  love  thee  to 

the  death. 
And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to 

come." 


356 


GUINEVERE. 


So  then,  when  both  were  brought 

to  full  accord. 
She  rose,  and  set  oefore  him  all  he 

will'd; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the 

blood 
"With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated 

their  hearts  — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 
dise. 
The  deer,  the   dews,  the    fern,  the 

founts,  the  lawns ; 
Jfow  mocking  at  the  much  ungainli- 

ness. 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane 

legs  of  Mark  — 
Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the 

harp,  and  sang : 

"Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that 

bend  the  brier ! 
A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the 

mere ! 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  a  star  was  my  desire. 
And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 

near  : 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bow 

the  grass ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 

flre. 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 


Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  move 
the  mere." 

Then  in  the  light's  last  glimmer 

Tristram  show'd 
And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.     She 

cried, 
"The  collar  of  some  Order,  which 

our  King 
Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 

soul. 
For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 

thy  peers." 

"  Not  80,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "  but 
the  red  fruit 

Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven. 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a,  tourney- 
prize. 


And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for 

his  last 
Love-offering  and  peace-ofEering  unto 

thee." 

He  spoke,  he  turn'd,  then,  flinging 

round  her  neck, 
Claspt  it,  and  cried  "  Thine  Order,  O 

my  Queen ! " 
But,  while  he  bow'd  to  kiss  the  jew- 

ell'd  throat. 
Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 

touch'd, 
Behind  him    rose  a  shadow  and    a 

shriek  — 
"  Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clove 

him  thro'  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 

while  he  climb'd. 
All   in  a  death-dumb    autumn-drip- 
ping gloom. 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd 

and  saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark,  — 

about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  ques- 

tion'd  it, 
"  What  art  thou  ?  "    and  the   voice 

about  his  feet 
Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  "I  am 

thy  fool. 
And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smile 

again." 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Gdiiievere  had  fled  the  courtj 

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. 


GUINEVERE. 


357 


For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause 

of  flight 
Sir  Modred;  he   that  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  disparage- 
ment ; 
And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 

White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; 

and  sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Eound 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end;   and  all 

his  aims 
Were   sharpeu'd  by  strong  hate  for 

Lancelot. 

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 

Spied  where  he  crouch'd,  and  as  the 
gardener's  hand 

Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  cater- 
pillar. 

So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flower- 
ing 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 
Bankledinhim  and  ruffled  all  his  heart. 
As  the  sliarp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  to'.d 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dustyfall. 
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  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front 

in  hall. 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy 

face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persis- 
tent eye : 
Henceforward   too,  the  Powers  that 

tend  the  soul. 
To  help  it  from  the  deajji  that  cannot 

die, 


358 


GUINEVERE. 


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  creak- 
ing 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 
Tar  cities  burnt,  aiid  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, 
"  0  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine 

own  land. 
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  re- 

main'd. 
And  still  they  met  and  met.    Again 

she  said, 


"  0  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

hence." 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  z. 

night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 

there)  to  meet 
And  part  for  ever.    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  head- 
long, and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and 

bare  him  oflE, 
And  all  was  still :  then  she,  "  The  end 

is  come. 
And  I  am  shamed  for  ever ;  "  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  ? 
Kay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our 

farewells. 
Would  God  that  thou  couldst  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 

OWK, 


GUINEVERE. 


359 


And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping :  for 

he  past, 
Iiove-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 

Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ;  but  she  to  Almes- 

bury 
ried   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, 

too  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  ; 
Por  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern 

Sea, 
Xured  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, 
Eeceive,  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 
Por  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 

heedlessness 
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, 
"  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  ye  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 ! 
0  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late ;  ye  cannot  entel 

now. 


36o 


GUINEVERE. 


"  Hare  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  t 

0  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !   ye   cannot  enter 

now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  pas- 
sionately, 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  rememher- 
ing 

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, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 

obey. 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  giv- 
en — 
Comfort  your  sorrows;  for  they  do 

not  flow 
From  evil  done ;  right  sure  I  am  of 

that. 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  state- 

liness. 
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  Lance- 
lot 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 

1  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done. 
None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have 

brought  me  good : 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  Uttle  ones 


As  great  as  thore  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  wicked- 
ness, 
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  inno- 
cent talk?" 

But  openly  she  answer'd, "  Must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 
lord, 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  aU 
the  realm  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "  this  is  all 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  Uf  e 
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  her- 
self again, 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  fool- 
ish 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  ?" 


GUINEVERE. 


361 


To  whom  the  little  novice  garru- 
lously, 

"  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  coastof  Lyonnesse, 

!Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 

And  with  a  wild  sea-lightabout  hisfeet, 

He  saw  them  —  headland  after  head- 
land 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. 

So  said  my  father  —  yea,  and  further- 
more, 

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  this- 
tle 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  Canielot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hancj 
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  some 

what  bitterly, 
"  Were  they  so  glad  1   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, 

Bv'nin  the  presence  of  an  enemy's 
fleet, 

Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  com- 
ing wave ; 

And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and 
death 

Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops,  • 

When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of 
the  hills 

With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  hack 
like  flame : 

So  said  my  father  —  and  that  night 
the  bard 

Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and 
sang  the  King 


362 


GUINEVERE. 


As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  thoBe 
Who  caird  him  the  false  son  of  Gor- 

lols: 
Tor  there  was  no  man  knew  from 

whence  he  came ; 
But  after  tempest,    when   the   long 

ware  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  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea ; 
And  that  was  Arthur ;  and  they  fos- 

ter'd  him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
Jrom  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  f alter'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  garru- 
lously. 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her 
gadding  tongue 

Tull  often, "  and,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 

To  vex  dn  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  mem- 
ory, one 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself 
would  say 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he 
died, 

Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  sum- 
mers 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 

answer'd  her, 
"  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  thou- 
sand-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  uuQ' 
nery-walls. 


GUINEVERE. 


363 


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. 
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 
Tired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen, 

who  cried, 
"Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden 

more 
Por  ever !  thou  their  tool,  set  oh  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," 
JFled  frighted.    Then  that  other  left 

alone 


Sigh'd,    and   began  to   gather   heart 

again, 
Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  feaj^ 

f  ul  child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fear- 
ful guilt. 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,   heaven,  for  surely  I 

repent. 
For  what  is  true  repentance  hut  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." 

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, 
Eapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on 

love 
And  sport  and  tilts    and    pleasure, 

(for  the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  para- 
dise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking 

thro'  the  earth. 
And  on  from  hill  te  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 


364 


GUINEVERE. 


The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 

ship, 
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  uncon- 
sciously, 
Came  to  that  point  where  first   she 

saw  the  King 
Ri  le  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  nun- 
nery ran. 
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 

'\f  nnp 


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 

Chris" 
In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  over- 
thrown. 
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. 
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  shalt  be  guarded  ^ 

my  death. 


GUINEVERE. 


365 


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 

**' 
To  honor  his  own  word  as  if  his  God's, 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to 

her. 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble 

deeds, 
tTntil   they  won  her;    for  indeed  I 

knew 


Of    no    more   subtle     master   under 

heaven 
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  before  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  ob- 
tain. 

And  all  thro'  thee !  so  that  this  life  of 
mine 

I  guard  as  God'a  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. 


366 


GUINEVERE. 


And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with 

thee 
In    hanging    robe    or    vacant    orna- 
ment, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on   the 

stair, 
i'or  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not 

love  thy  lord. 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 

thee. 
.1  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 
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  ne*  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 ! 
iBetter  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 

Jfearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 
feet. 

Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war- 
horse  neigh'd 

Aa  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake 
again : 


"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  tr  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  the  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 
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  Guine- 
vere, 
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. 


GUINEVERE. 


367 


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  trum- 
pet blow : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 

mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 

west. 
Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man 

they  call 
My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who 


With    Lords   of    the   White    Horse, 

heathen,  and  knights. 
Traitors  —  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 ! " 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet. 
She  felt  the  IQng's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck. 
And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen 

head, 
r^rceived  the  waving  of  his  hands 

that  blest. 

Then,   listening  till    those    armed 
steps  were  gonei 


Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  an- 
guish found 
The  casement :    "  peradventure,"    s» 

she  thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 

seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  atthe  door  t 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 

a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  , 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
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  Pendragon- 

ship 
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  seera'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  audi 

cried  aloud 
"  Oh  Arthur ! "  there  her  voice  brake 

suddenly. 
Then  —  as  a  stream  that  spouting  from 

a  cliff 
Pails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the 

base 
Ee-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 

vale  — 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance : 

"  Gone  —  my  lord  \ 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 
slain  I 


36S 


GUINEVERE. 


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  my- 
self? 
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  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  gen- 
tle 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  be- 
low. 
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  — 
I  wanted  warmth  and  color  wMch  I 

found 
In  Lancelot  —  now  I  see  thee  what 

thou  art. 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

too. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Is  there 

none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 

late? 
Now  —  ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Bat- 
tle 1  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  vail  her  eyes  :  she 
look'd  and  saw 

The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and 
said  to  her, 

"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  I  not  for- 
given ?  " 

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. 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


369 


"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, 
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  halet  5oo  thaa 

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  them'  ' 

selves ;  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing  "is  it  yet  tor 

late  %  " 
Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  theiV 

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 
Por  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an 

Abbess,  past 
To  where  beyond  these  voice*  there 

is  peace. 


End  of  "  The  Sound  Table." 


THE  PASSING  OP  ARTHUR. 


That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere. 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the 

knights. 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 

a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to 

those 
With  whom    he    dwelt,  new    faces, 

other  minds. 

Por  on  their  march  to  westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumber- 
ing host, 

Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the 
King: 


"I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the 

stars, 
I  mark'd  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His 

fields. 
But  in  His  ways  with  men  I  find  Him 

not. 
I  waged  His  wars,  and  now  I  pass  and 

die. 
O   me !    for    why  is   all   around    us 

here 
As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the 

world. 
But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he 

would, 
Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  be- 
yond. 
And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  * 


370 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly 

fair. 
But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense 

and  dim, 
And  hare  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is : 
Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the 

close ;  — 
For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work 

His  will. 
And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword 

in  vain ; 
And  all  whereon  I  lean'd  in  wife  and 

friend 
Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  an4  all  my 

realm 
Eeels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no 

more. 
My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in 

my  death : 
Nay — God  my  Christ  —  I  pass  but 

shall  not  die." 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in 

the  west. 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Ga- 

wain  kill'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his 

ear 
Went  shrilling,  "Hollow,  hollow  all 

delight ! 
Hail,  King !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell !  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 

thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering 

wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all   de- 
light." 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds 

that  change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail 

their  way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 

wind  the  dream 
Shrill'd;   but  in  going  mingled  with 

dim  cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the 

hills. 
As  of    some  lonely  city  sack'd  by 

night, 


When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 

with  wail 
Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke 

and  call'd, 
"  Who  spake  1     A  dream.     O  light 

upon  the  wind. 
Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  —  are 

these  dim  cries  ! 

Thine  ?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  thei 

waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 

me?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere 

and  spake : 
"O  me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever 

will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of 

the  field ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not 

pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the 

man; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 

him,  but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred   in  the 

west. 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people, 

and  knights 
Once  thine,  whom   thou  hast  loved, 

but  grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 

and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee 

for  the  King. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then   spake  King    Arthur  to  Sir 

Bedivere : 
"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we    move,   than  when  we 

strove  in  youth, 
And  brake  the  petty  kings,  and  fought 

with  Rome, 
Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 

wall, 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


371 


And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.    Ill 

doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people   and  my 

knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 

himself. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 

to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a 

way 
Thro'    this  blind    haze,  which  ever 

since  I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath    folded    in  the  passes  of  the 

world." 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his 

host  by  night. 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league 

by  league. 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyon- 

nesse — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 

dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a 

coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no 

more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the 

King; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great 

light  of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling 

year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea 
■  they  closed. 

Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a 

fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 
A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and 

sea  : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Pown  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 

was  cold 


With    formless    fear ;    and   ev'n   on 

Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 

fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in 

the  mist. 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing 

whom  he  slew; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 

youth. 
And  some  beheld  the  faces   of  old 

ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle  ;  and  in  the 

mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base. 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strengtli  in 

single  fights. 
And  ever    and    anon  with    host  to 

host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn. 
Shield-breakings,  and    the    clash  of 

brands,  the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 

down 
Look'd  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw 

the  mist ; 
And  shouts  of  heatheii  and  the  traitor 

knights, 
Oatlis,   insult,   filth,    and    monstrous 

blasphemies. 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 

light. 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 

dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after 
wail 

Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro' 
death 

Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 
shore. 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 
seas, 

A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolo- 
rous day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 
came 


372 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  Nortli, 

and  blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,   and    the  pale    King    glanced 

across  the  field 
Of  battle ;  but  no  man  was  moving 

there ; 
,Nor    any    cry    of    Christian    heard 
'  thereon, 

I  Nor  yet  of  heathen;  only  the  wan 

ware 
,  Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and 

fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up 

and  down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the 

fallen. 
And  shirer'd  brands  that  once  had 

fought  with  Rome, 
And  rolling    far  along  the  gloomy 

shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to 

be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur   to  Sir 

Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 

long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the 

King: 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 

shakes  the  world. 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 

we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died 

for  me  "i  — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath 

fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am. 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be 

King. 
Behold,  I  seem  but  King  among  the 

dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere ; 

"My  King, 
King  everywhere!   and  so  the  dead 

have  kings, 
There  also  will  1  worship  thee  as  King. 


Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I 

live 
Who  love  thee ;  but  who  hates  thee, 

he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house." 

Then  spake  the  King :  "  My  house 

hath  been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my 

house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 

with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware 

my  vows. 
Yea,  even  while    they  brake  them, 

own'd  me  King. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark 

hour. 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne 

hath  fail'd. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me 

for  King. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt 

thou  see 
Yet,  ere  I  pass."    And  uttering  thi» 

the  King 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote 

his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a 

heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin ;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow. 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excali- 

bur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself, 

he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 

roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 

sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by 

man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyounesse  about  their 

lord. 
King    Arthur.      Then,    because    his 

wound  was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 


THE  PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


373 


And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the 

field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 

land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 

full. 

Then   spake    King  Arthur  to   Sir 

Bedivere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 

knights 
Whereof    this    world    holds    record. 

Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.      I 

think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knight- 
ly deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the 

halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more  ;  but,  let  what  will 

be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till 

morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  JExcal- 

libur. 
Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  re- 

memberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 

lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
'Holding  the  sword —  and  how  Irow'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king; 
And,    wheresoever    I    am    sung    or 

told 
In  af  tertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 

mere : 


Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere ; 

"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus, 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro' 
the  helm  — 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded 
man ; 

Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 

Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine 
he  stept, 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs, 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men. 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the 
lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  dia- 
mond sparks. 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.  He  gazed  so 
long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood. 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind. 

In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it 
seem'd 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 

There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags- 


374 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  lie  back  slow  to  the  wound- 
ed King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bed- 

ivere  : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd    my  mission 

which  I  gave  ■? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what 

hast  heard  %  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 

iyere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 

reeds. 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 

crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale : 
■"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and 

thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,    as  be- 

seem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either 

hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go 

again, 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 

time 
Across   the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 

the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 

hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 

he  smote 
His    palms    together,    and  he    cried 

aloud : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand 
away. 


Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy 

note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  fiom  the 

earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes 

of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?     Deep  harm  to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king 

demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty 

breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?     But  were 

this  kept. 
Stored    in  some    treasure-house    of 

mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms, 
Saying, '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 

bur. 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 

the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 
conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wound- 
ed King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what 
hast  heard  %  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi 
vere : 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


375 


"  1  lieard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And   the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds." 

To    whom    replied    King    Arthur, 

much  in  wrath : 
"Ah,  miserable   and  uiikind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !     Woe  is 
I  me ! 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art, 
JFor  thou,  the   latest-left   of  all  my 

knights. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the   giddy  pleasure  of  the 

eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 

thee  hence : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 

hands." 

Then  quickly  rose    Sir  Bedivere, 
and  ran. 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch'd 
the  sword. 

And   strongly  wheel'd   and  threw  it. 
The  great  brand 

Made  li^    .iings  in  the  splendor   of 
th ,     oon. 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 
whirl'd  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern 
morn. 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  win- 
,  ter  shock 

'  By  night,  with  noises  of  the  Northern 
Sea. 

So  flash'd  and  fell  the   brand    Ex- 
calibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 


And   caught  him   by  the    hilt,  and 

brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere. 
And   lightly  went  the  other  to  the 

King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 

thicker  breath: 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 

done. 
Speak  out;  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 

or  seen  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 
ivere : 

"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 
saw. 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till 
I  die. 

Not  the"  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men. 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him, 
wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 
arm. 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish'd  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere." 

And    answer   made   King  Arthur, 

breathing  hard : 
"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that 

I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 

my  weight. 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 

fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 

shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose, 
Slowly,   with  pain,  reclining  on  his 
arm. 


576 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words ; 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 
one  knee. 

O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place 
of  tombs. 

But,   as   he   walk'd,   King  Arthur 

panted  hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on 

his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is   mute.      So 

sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But   the   other   swiftly   strode    from 

ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 

as  he  walk'd. 
Larger   than  human  on  the  frozen 

hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his   harness  in  the  icy 

caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left 

and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round 

him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of   the  winter 

moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove   a 

dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 

stern. 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they 

were  ware 


That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 

stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,    black-hooded,    like    a 

dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold: 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling 

stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of    lamentation,    like   a  wind    that 

shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no 

one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 

the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me 

in  the  barge." 
So  to  the  barge   they  came.    There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 

all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 

lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a 

brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd 

moon 
Smote   by  the  fresh    beam    of    the 

springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greavefe  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 

sun 
High    from    the    dais-throne  —  wer» 

parch'd  with  dust , 
Or,  clotted  into  points   and   hanging 

loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So   like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the 

King ; 


THE  PASSING    OF  ARTHUR. 


377 


Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest. 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then    loudly  cried    the    bold   Sir 

Bedivere : 
"  Ah !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 

I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  1 
Tor  nowl  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 

light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the    gift    of 

myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is 

dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 

world. 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 
less, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 

the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 

And  slowly  answer'd  Arthur  from 

the  barge : 
"The  old   order   changeth,  yielding 

place  to  new. 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

the  world. 
Comfortthyself  :whatcomfortisinme'? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which 

I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! 

but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 

again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 


Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 

or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 

brain. 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 

of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 

call  them  friend  ■? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 

of  God. 
But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long 

way 
With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 

doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

snow. 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it 

lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  or- 
chard lawns 
And    bowery  hollows   crown'd    with 

summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 

wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  awa/. 

But  when  that  moan  had  past  for 
evermore. 

The  stillness  of  the  dead  world's  win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed  him,  and  he  groan'd,  "The 
King  is  gone." 


378 


TO   THE   QUEEN. 


And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird 

rhyme, 
"From  the  great  deep  to  the  great 

deep  he  goes." 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn'd  and  slowly 

clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron 

crag  ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  King  among  the 

dead, 
And  after  healing   of    his   grievous 

wound 
He  comes  again ;  but  —  if  he  come  no 

more  — 
O   me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon 

black  boat. 
Who   shriek'd  and  wail'd,  the  three 

whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  si- 
lence, friends 


Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 
need  ? " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 

came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world. 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 

voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 

and  clomb 
Ev'n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb, 

and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 

hand, 
Or  thought  he   saw,  the   speck  that 

bare  the  King, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 

deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on, 

and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 

year. 


TO  THE   QUEEN. 


O  LOYAL  to  the  royal  in  thyself. 
And  loyal  to    thy  land,  as   this   to 

thee 

Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day. 
When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 

Prince 
Who  scarce  had  pluck'd  his  flickering 

life  again 
From  halfway  down  the  shadow  of 

the  grave. 
Past  with  thee  thro'  thy  people  and 

their  love. 
And  London  roll'd  one  tide  of  joy 

thro'  all 
Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 

of  man 
And  welcome  !  witness,  too,  the  silent 

cry, 
The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed, 

and  clime  — 
Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under 

sea 


From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy 

realm, 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 

heard 
A  strain  to  shame  us  "keep  you  to 

yourselves ; 
So  loyal  is  too  costly !  friends  —  your 

love 
Is  but  a  burthen  :  loose  the  bond,  and 

go." 
Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ?  here  the 

faith 
That  made  us  rulsrs?  this,  indeed, 

her  voice 
And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou- 

goumont 
Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under 

heaven  ■? 
What  shock  has  fool'd  her  since,  that 

she  should  speak 
So  feebly?    wealthier  —  wealthier  — 

hour  by  hour ! 


TO    THE   QUEEN. 


yi9 


The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a  sinking  land, 
Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among 

her  seas  "^ 
There  rang   her  voice,  when  the  full 

city  peal'd  ■ 
Thee  and  thy  Prince!     The  loyal  to 

their  crown 
Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who 

love 
Our  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless 

homes 
For  ever-broadening  England,  and  her 

throne 
In  our  vast  Orient,  and  one  isle,  one 

isle. 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness  :  if 

she  knows 
And  dreads  it  we  are  f  all'n. But 

thou,  my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his 

grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale. 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 

with  Soul 
Rather  than   that  gray  king,  whose 

name,  a  ghost. 
Streams   like    a   cloud,  man-shaped, 

from  mountain  peak, 
And  cleaves   to  cairn   and  cromlech 

still ;  or  him 
Of  Geoffrey's  book,  or  him  of  Malle- 

or's,  one 
Touch'd  by  the  adulterous  finger  of  a 

time 
That  hover'd  between  war  and  wan- 
tonness. 
And  crownings    and   dethronements : 

take  withal 


Thy  poet's  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 
Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance- 
back 

From  tliine  and  ours:  for  some  are 
scared,  who  mark. 

Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm. 

Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every 
wind. 

And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient 
hour. 

And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 
faith. 

And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple- 
life, 

Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for  gold. 

Or  Labor,  with  a  groan  and  not  a  voice. 

Or  Art  with  poisonous  honey  stol'n 
from  France, 

And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 
itself, 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm :  the  goal  of  this- 
great  world 

Lies  beyond  sight :  yet  —  if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown'd  Eepublic's  crowning- 
common-sense. 

That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail — 
their  fears 

Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 
shapes 

That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier 
which  forego 

The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the 
West, 

Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies 
away. 


THE  PEII^OESS; 

A  MEDLEY. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's 

day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of 

sun 
Up  to  the  people :  thither  flock'd  at 

noon 
His    tenants,    wife    and    child,    and 

thither  half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their 

Institute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.     I  was 

there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  —  the 

son 
A  Walter  too, — with  others  of  our 

set, 
Five  others  :  we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And    me     that    morning    Walter 

show'd  the  house, 
Greek'  set  with  busts :  from  vases  in 

the  hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier 

than  their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side ;  and  on  the  pave- 
ment lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park, 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones 

of  Time ; 
And   on  the  tables  every  clime  and 

age 
Jumbled  together ;  celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore  and  snowshoe,  toys  in  lava, 

fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 


Laborious     orient    ivory    sphere    ia 

sphere. 
The    cursed     Malayan    crease,    and 

battle-clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm :  and  higher  on 

the  walls. 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk 

and  deer, 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armor 

hung. 

And  "this"  he  said  "was  Hugh's  at 

Agincourt; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  As- 

calon : 
A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With    all    about    him"  —  which    he 

brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt 

with  knights. 
Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and 

kings 
Who  laid   about  them  at  their  wills 

and  died ; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arra'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro' 

the  gate. 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

"O  miracle  of  women,"  said  the 
book, 

"0  noble  heart  who,  being  strait- 
besieged 

By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his 
wish, 

Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a 
soldier's  death. 


382 


THE  PRINCESS;     A   MEDLEY. 


But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd 

as  lost  — 
Her  stature  more  thah  mortal  in  the 

burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes   on 

fire  — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from 

the  gate, 
4*i<J,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunder- 
bolt, 
'She    trampled    some     beneath    her 

horses'  heels, 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles 

of  the  wall. 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances 

from  the  rock, 
And  part  were   drown'd  within   the 

wnirling  brook : 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood !  " 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chroni- 
cle; 

And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "  Come  out," 
he  said, 

"  To  the  Abbey  :  there  is  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth 

And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest."  We 
went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger 
in  it) 

Down  thro'  the  park  :  strange  was  the 
sight  to  me ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd, 
sown 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thou- 
sand heads : 

The  patient  leaders  of  thfeir  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.  One  rear'd 
a  font  of  stope 

And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the 
slope. 

The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing, 
now 

A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of 
pearls, 

Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded 
ball 

Danced  like  a  wisp :  and  somewliat 
lower  down 

A  man  with'knobs  and  wires  and  rials 
fired 


A  cannon :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields ;  and  here  were 

telescopes 
For  azure  views ;  and  there  a  group 

of  girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the   electric 

shock 
Dislink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter: 

round  the  lake 
A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling 

plied 
And  shook  the  lilies :  perch'd  about 

the  knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam : 
A  petty  railway  ran :  a  fire-balloon 
Kose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky 

groves 
And   dropt  a  fairy    parachute    and 

past : 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  tele- 
graph 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and 

,fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations ;  so  that 

sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with   Science; 

otherwhere 
Pure   sport:    a   herd    of    boys    with 

clamor  bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket;  babies  roU'd 

about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ;  and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew 

thro'  light 
And    shadow,  while    the    twangling 

violin 
Struck    up  with  Soldier-laddie,   and 

overhead 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty 

lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  ft-om 

end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking 

of  the  time ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at 

length 
Came  to  the  ruins.     High-aroh'd  and 

ivy-claspt, 
Of    finest     Gothic     lighter    than    a 

fire. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


383 


Thro'  one  wide  chasm   of   time   and 

frost  they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house  ;  but 

all  within 
The  sward  was  trim  as   any   garden 

lawn: 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the   rest,  and  lady 

friends 
From  neighbor  seats  :  and  there  was 

Ralph  liimself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall. 
As  gay  as  any.    Lilia,  wild  with  sport. 
Half   child  half  woman  as  she  was, 

had  wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony 

helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk. 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his 

ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam  :  near  his  tomb 

a  feast 
Shone,   silver-set ;   about  it  lay  the 

guests. 
And  there  we  join'd  them:  then  the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  .day  for  text,  and  from 

it  preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd. 
And  all   things   great;    but  we,  un- 

worthier,  told 
Of  college :  he  had  climb'd  across  the 

spikes, 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 

the  bars. 
And  he   had  breath'd  the  Proctor's 

dogs ;  and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common 

men, 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in 

grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,  above  their 

heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad ;  which 

brought 
My  book  to  mind :  and  opening  this  I 

read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that 

rang 


With  tilt  and  tourney ;  then  the  tale 

of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter 

from  her  walls. 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness, 

and  "  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head 

(she  lay 
Beside    him)    "lives   there    such    a/ 

woman  now  ?  "  c 

Quick  answer'd  Lilia  "  There  are 

thousands  now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats 

them  down : 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than 

that : 
You  men  have  done  it:  how  I  hate 

you  all ! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great !  I  wish  I 

were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame 

you  then. 
That  love  to  keep  us  children !     0  I 

wish 
That  I  were  some  great  princess,  I 

would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a 

man's. 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men 

are  taught ; 
We  are  twice  as  quick ! "    And  here 

she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with 

her  curls. 


And  one  said  smiling  "Pretty  were 

the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their 

sex,  and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers 

for  deans. 
And    sweet    girl-graduates  in    their 

golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 

gowns. 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths, 

or  Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner;  yet  I 

fear. 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 


384 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest, 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot : 
"  That's  your  light  way ;  but  I  would 

make  it  death 
Tor  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself 

she  laugh'd ; 
A  rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns. 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 

her,  she : 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names 

upon  her, 
And  "petty  Ogress,"  and  "ungrateful 

Puss," 
And    swore   he   long'd    at    college, 

only  long'd. 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed ;  they 

talk'd 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 
They  lost  their  weeks ;  they  vext  the 

souls  of  deans ; 
They  rode  ;i  they  betted ;  made  a  hun- 
dred friends. 
And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 

terms, 
But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.     Thus 

he  spoke. 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

"  True,''  she  said, 
"We  doubt  not  that.     O  yes,  you 

miss'd  us  much. 
I'll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 

did." 

■    She  held  it  out;  and  as  a  parrot 

turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye. 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care. 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So    he    with   Lilia's.      Daintily  she 

shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.      "  Doubt  my  word 

again ! "  he  said. 


"  Come,  listen !  here  is  proof  that  yon 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to 

read; 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to 

read: 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube 

and  square 
Were  out  of  season:    never  man,  I 

think, 
So     moulder'd    in    a    sinecure     as 

he: 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty 

feet. 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

■    as  brooms, 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 

all 
In  wassail ;  often,  like  as  many  girls  — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of 

home — ■ 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  —  play'd 
Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas 

here, 
And  what's  my  thought  and  when  and 

where  and  how. 
And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to  • 

mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that : 
A  pleasant  game,  she  thought:   she 

liked  it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the 

rest. 
But  these  —  what  kind  of  tales  did 

men  tell  men, 
She  wonder'd  by  themselves  ? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her 

lips : 
And    Walter   nodded  at  me ;    "  He 

began. 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ; 

and  so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind  ? 

what  kind  ? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  sole- 
cisms, 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to 

kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 

"Kill  him  now 


THE  PKINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


385 


The  tyrant !  kill  him  in  the  summer 

too," 
Said  Lilia ;   "  Why  not  now  ?  "   the 

maiden  Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's 

tale? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time. 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 
I  place. 

Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
\  Grave,  solemn  !  " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
/  To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I 

laugh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins ;    till  the   maiden 

Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd 

her  face 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "As 

you  will ; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will. 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 

"Take    Lilia,   then,  for    heroine" 

clamor'd  he, 
•'  And  make  her  some  great  Princess, 

six  feet  high. 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her ! " 

"Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 

I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn ! 

Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 
dream.  — 

Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  re- 
quired — 

But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 
and  place, 

A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 

A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
''  A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 

And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  ex- 
periments 

For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had 
burnt  them  all  — 

This  were  a  medley !  we  should  have 
him  back 

Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale  '  to  do  it 
for  us. 


No    matter .    we    will    say    whatever 

comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will. 
From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a 

song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  I  began. 
And  the  rest  foUow'd  .  and  the  women. 

sang 
Between   the    rougher  voices  of   the 

men, 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind ; 
And  here  I  give  the   story  and  the 


A  prince  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

face, 
Of  temper  amorous,   as  the   first  of 

May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a 

girf. 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern 

star 


There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in 
our  house. 

Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grand- 
sire  burnt 

Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  fore- 
told. 

Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood 
should  know 

The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and 
that  one 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows 
and  to  fall. 

For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more 
or  less, 

An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the 
house. 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures.  Heaven 
knows  what : 

On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and 
day. 

And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  here- 
tofore, 

I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world'  of 
ghosts. 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  » 
dream. 


386 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt- 
head  cane, 

And  paw'd  his  beard,  and  mutter'd 
"  catalepsy." 

My  mother  pitying  made  a  thousand 
prayers ; 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint. 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on 
her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tender- 
ness: 

But  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a 
king; 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the 
house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's 
wand 

To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms 
and  hands 

Keach'd  out,    and    pick'd    offenders 
from  the  mass 

JFor  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 

"While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade, 
betroth'd 

To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess :  she 
to  me 

Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 

At  eight  years   old ;  and  still  from 
time  to  time 

Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from 
the  South, 

And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puis- 
sance ; 

And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my 
heart, 

And  one  dark  tress ;  and  all  around 
them  both 

Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees 
about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that 

I  should  wed. 
My   father    sent    ambassadors    with 

furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her  :  these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom ; 
And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as 

wind: 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king;  he  took 

the  gifts ; 


He  said  there  was  a  compact;  that 

was  true : 
But  then  she  had  a  will;  was  he  to 

blame  ? 
And  maiden  fancies ;  loved  to  live 

alone 
Among  her  women;  certain,  would 

not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room 

I  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Morian,  my  two 

friends : 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart. 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we 

moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and 

eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I  saw  my 

father's  face 
Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising 

moon. 
Inflamed  with  wrath;  he  started  on 

his  feet, 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 

and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp 

and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt ;  and  at  the  last 

he  sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thou- 
sand men. 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind :  then 

he  chew'd 
The  thrice-turn'd  cud  of  wrath,  and 

cook'd  his  spleen. 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the 

war. 

At  last  I  spoke.  "  My  father,  let  me 
go- 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hos- 
pitable ; 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once 

seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to   find  her  less 
than  fame. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


387 


May  rue  the  bargain  made."     And 

Florian  said : 
"  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess ;  she, 

you  know. 
Who  wedded  with  a  nobleman  from 

thence : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 

clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd :  "  Take  me  with 

you  too." 
Then  laughing  "  what,  if  these  weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one 

near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth ! 
Take  me :  I'll  serve  you  better  in  a 

strait ; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges  here : "   but 

"Nol" 
Eoar'd  the  rough  king,  "you  shall  not; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies 

dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  :  break  the  council 

up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose 

and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about 

the  town; 
Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her 

likeness  out; 
Laid  it  on  flowers,   and  watch'd  it 

lying  bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd 

trees  : 
What  were  those  fancies  1  wherefore 

break  her  troth  % 
Proud  look'd  the  lips:  but  while  I 

meditated 
A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the 

South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers, 

and  the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together;  and  a 

Voice 
Went  with  it,  "  Follow,  follow,  thou 

shalt  win." 


Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that 

month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 

court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unper- 

ceived. 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our 

backs 
With    Ho!    from   some   bay-window 

shake  the  night ; 
But  all  was  quiet :  from  the  bastion'd 

walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 

dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier :  then 

we  crost 
To  a  livelier  land;   and  so  by  tilth 

and  grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wil- 
derness. 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with 

towers. 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the 

king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack'd  and 
small  his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrin- 
kling wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in 
lines.; 

A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star. 

Not  like  a  king :  three  days  he  feasted 
us. 

And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we 
came. 

And  my  betroth'd.  "You  do  us. 
Prince,"  he  said, 

Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet 
gem, 

"  All  honor.  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 

In  our  sweet  youth :  there  did  a  com- 
pact pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony— 

I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives 
fail'd. 

I  would  you  had  her,  prince,  with  all 
my  heart, 


388 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were 

widows  here, 
Two    widows,    Lady    Psyche,    Lady 

Blanche ; 
They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of 

place 
Maintaining    that    with    equal    hus- 
bandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 
They  harp'd  on  this;  with  this  our 

banquets  rang ; 
Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots 

of  talk ; 
Nothing  but  this;  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them :    knowledge,  so  my 

daughter  held. 
Was  all  in  all :  they  had  but  been,  she 

thought. 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child, 

assume 
The  woman :  then.  Sir,  awful  odes  she 

wrote. 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated 

of. 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful; 

odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child;  and- 

rhymes 
And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason  :  these  the  women 

sang; 
And  they  that  know  such  things  —  I 

sought  but  peace ; 
No  critic  I — would  call  them  master- 
pieces : 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  begg'd 

a  boon, 
A    certain    summer-palace    which   I 

have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier :  I  said 

no. 
Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it :  and 

there, 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
JTor  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled; 

and  more 
We  know  not,  —  only  this:  they  see 

no  men, 
Notev'n  her  brother  Arac,nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon ;  and  I 


(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loth 

to  breed 
Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine :  but 

since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think 

me  bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to 

her; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate 

your  chance 
Almost  as  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king ; 

And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to 
slur 

With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courte- 
sies 

Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 
frets 

But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my 
bride) 

Went  forth  again  with  both  my 
friends.     We  rode 

Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North. 
At  last 

From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land 
of  hope. 

We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic 
town 

Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent- 
curve. 

Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties ; 

There,  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd 
mine  host 

To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 
wines, 

And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of 
the  king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble ;  then  ex- 

claim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  :  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "If  the  king,"  he 

said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound 

to  speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out ; "  and 

at  the  last  — 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his 

veins  — 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


389 


"  No  doubt   that  we  might  make  it 

worth  his  while. 
She  once  had  passed  that  way;   he 

heard  her  speak ; 
She  scared  him ;  life !  he  never  saw 

the  like ; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and 

as  grave  : 
And  he,  he  reverenced  his  liege-lady 

there ; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with 

mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 

the  boys : 
The   land,  he  understood,  for  miles 

about 
Was  tiU'd  by  women ;  all  the  swine 

'    were  sows, 
And  all  the  dogs"  — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 
A  thought  flash'd  thro'  me  which  I 

clothed  in  act, 
Eemembering  how  we  three  presented 

Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide 

of  feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's 

court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 

gear ; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to 

shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter, 

holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden 

plumes 
We  rustled:   him  we  gave  a  costly 

bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 

steeds. 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we 
rode. 

And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  col- 
lege lights 

Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 

And  linden  alley :  then  we  past  an 
arch. 

Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with 
wings 


From  four  wing'd  horses  dark  against 
the  stars ; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the 
front. 

But  deep  in  shadow:  further  on 
we  gain'd 

A  little  street  half  garden  and  half 
house ; 

But  scarce  could  hear  each  other 
speak  for  noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and 
stir 

Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  shower- 
ing down 

In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the 
rose : 

And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightin- 
gale, 

Eapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the 
snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a 

sign. 
By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon'd  like 

Heaven  and  Earth 
With    constellation    and    with    con. 

tinent. 
Above  an  entry :  riding  in,  we  call'd ; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable 

wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd 

us  down. 
Then   stept  a  buxon  hostess  forth, 

and  sail'd. 
Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and 

this. 
And     who    were    tutors.       "  Lady 

Blanche,"  she  said, 
•'  And  Lady  Psyche."     "  Which  was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured  1  "      "  Lady     Psyche." 

"  Hers  are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried ;  and  I  sat  down 

and  wrote, 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring 

East; 


S90 


THE  PRINCESS;    A    MEDLEY. 


"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire 

pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 

your  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd ; 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll, 
A  nd  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung. 
And  rais'd  the  blinding  bandage  from 

his  eyes : 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn ; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 

seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night, 

and  watch 
A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moon- 
light, swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it 

was  rich. 


Ab  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went. 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears. 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress 

came: 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each, 
And  zoned  with  gold ;  and  now  when 

these  were  on. 
And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk 

cocoons. 
She,  courtesying  her  obeisance,  let  us 

know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited :  out  we  paced, 
'  I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch 

that  sang 
All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings 

gay 
Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great 

urns  of  flowers. 


The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in 

threes, 
Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  in  the 

midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges 

lay 
Or  book  or  lute ;  but  hastily  we  past. 
And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper 
sat, 

With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  be- 
side her  throne 

All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form. 

The  Princess ;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 

Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the 
Sun, 

Than  our  man's  earth ;  such  eyes  were 
in  her  head. 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breath- 
ing down 

Prom  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with 
every  turn  ' 

Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 
hands. 

And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height, 
and  said : 

"  We  give  you  welcome  :  not  with- 
out redound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye 
come. 

The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger :  after- 
time. 

And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 
the  grave. 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 
me. 

What !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so 
tall  ?  " 

"  We  of  the  court "  said  Cyril.  "  From 
the  court"  ^ 

She  answer'd,  "then  ye  know  the 
Prince  ■?  "  and  he : 

"  The  climax  of  his  age  !  as  tho'  there 
were 

One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  High- 
ness that. 

He  worships  your  ideal :  "  she  replied : 

"  We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 
to  hear 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


391 


This  barren  verbiage,  current  among 

men. 
Light  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compli- 
ment. 
Your  flight  from   out  your  bookless 

wilds  would  seem 
As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 

power ; 
,1'our  language  proves  you  still  the 
,  child.     Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set 

our  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 

ourself 
Never  to  wed.    You  likewise  will  do 

well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and 

fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys,  of 

men,  that  so. 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our 

lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale 

with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we  conscious 
of  ourselves. 

Perused  the  matting ;  then  an  officer 

Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such 
as  these : 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 
home; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liber- 
ties; 

Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any 
men; 

And  many  more,  which  hastily  sub- 
scribed. 

We  enter'd  on  the  boards :  and  "  Now," 
she  cried, 

"  Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 
Look,  our  hall ! 

Our  statues  !  —  not  of  those  that  men 
desire. 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East ; 
but  she 

That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule, 
and  she 

The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall. 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war. 


The  Ehodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 

Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 

That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 
brows 

Of  Agrippina.    Dwell  with  these,  and 
lose 

Convention,  since   to  look  on  noble 
forms 

Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organ- 
ism 

That  which  is  higher.     O  lift  your 
natures  up : 

Embrace  our  aims :  work  out  your 
freedom.     Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 
seal'd : 

Drink  deep,  until  the  habits   of  the 
slave. 

The  sins  of  emptiness,   gossip    and 
spite 

And  slander,  die.    Better  not  be  at  all 

Than  not  be  noble.    Leave  us:  you 
may  go : 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 

The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 

For  they  press  in  from  all  the  prov- 
inces. 

And  fill  the  hive." 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 

Dismissal :  back   again  we  crost  the 
cdurt 

To  Lady  Psyche's :  as  we  enter'd  in, 

There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morn- 
ing doves 

That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the 
thatch, 

A  patient  range  of  pupils  ;  she  herself 

Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 

A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  fal- 
con-eyed. 

And  on   the   hither  side,  or  so   she 
look'd. 

Of  twenty  summers.     At  her  left,  a 
child, 

In  shining  draperies,  headed  like   a 
star. 

Her    maiden    babe,   a  double   Anril 
old, 

Agla'ia  slept.      We    sat:    the    Lady 
glanced : 

Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  tb" 
dame 


392 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


That  whisper'd  "  Asses'  ears,"  among 

the  sedge, 
"My  sister."     "Comely,  too,  by  all 

that's  fair," 
Said  Cyril.    "  O  hush,  hush ! "  and  she 

began. 

"  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze 

of  light. 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry 

tides, 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling 

cast 
The  planets :  then  the  monster,  then 

the  man ; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad    in 

skins. 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing 

down  his  mate ; 
As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 

here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious 

past; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke 

of  those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucu- 

mo; 
Ean  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Ro- 
man lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in 

each. 
How  far  from  just ;  till  warming  with 

her  theme 
She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws 

Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on 

Mahomet 
With   much  contempt,  and  came  to 

chivalry : 
When  some  respect,  however  slight, 

was  paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry : 
However  then  commenced  the  dawn : 

a  beam 
Had    slanted    forward,  falling  in    a 

land 
Of  promise;  fruit  would  follow.  Deep, 

indeed. 


Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first 

had  dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

assert 
None  lordlier  than    themselves  but 

that  which  made 
Woman  and  man.    She  had  founded; 

they  must  build. 
Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 

were  taught ; 
Let  them   not  fear:  some  said  theii 

heads  were  less : 
Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  the 

least  of  men ; 
For  often  fineness  compensated  size : 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand, 

and  grew 
With  using ;  thence  the  man's,  if  more 

was  more ; 
He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to 

be 
First  in  the  field :  some  ages  had  been 

lost; 
But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her 

life 
Was  longer ;  and  albeit  their  glorious 

names 
Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since 

in  truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kafiir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers   of 

the  glebe, 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ;  even  so 
With  woman ;  and  in  arts  of  govern- 
ment 
Elizabeth  and  others  ;  arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others  ;  arts  of 

grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man  ; 
And,  last  not  least,   she  who  had  left 

her  place, 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the   arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from 

the  blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn. 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ;  "  everywhere 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


393 


Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 

hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the 

world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  oflSces  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,   and  the   secrets   of   the 

mind: 
Musician,    painter,     sculptor,    critic, 

more : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  boun- 
teous Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those 

rare  souls. 
Poets,   whose    thoughts    enrich   the 

blood  of  the  world." 


She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us : 
the  rest 

Parted ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  wel- 
come, she 

Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving 
on 

In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps, 
all  her  voice 

Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 
she  cried 

"My  brother!"  "Well,  my  sister.'' 
"  O,"  she  said, 

"  What  do  you  here  1  and  in  this 
dress  ?  and  these  ? 

Why  who  are  these  ?  a  wolf  within 
the  fold ! 

A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gra- 
cious to  me ! 

A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  to  ruin   all ! " 

"No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answer'd. 
"  Wretched  boy. 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on 
the  gate. 

Lei  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of 

DEATH  1  " 

"  And  if  I  had,"  he  answer'd,  "  who 

could  think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 
O  sister.    Sirens   tho'  they  be,  were 

such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men  ?  " 


"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise  "  she 

said. 
"  You  jest ;  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  ! 

my  vow 
Binds  me  to  speak,  and  0  that  iron 

will. 
That  axelike   edge    unturnable,  our 

Head, 
The  Princess."     '■  Well  then.  Psyche, 

take  my  life. 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning :    bury  me   beside   the 


And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones ; 
Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain. 
All  for  the  common  good  of  womankind." 
"  Let  me  die  too,"  said  Cyril,  "  having 

seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche.'' 

I  struck  in  r 
"Albeit  so  mask'd.  Madam,  I  love  the 

truth ; 
Receive  it;  and   in  me  behold    the 

Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida :  here,  for  here  she 

was. 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 

came." 
"  O  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country; 

none; 
If  any,  this  ;  but  none.     Whate'er  I 

was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here> 
Aflianced,   Sir  ?    love-whispers    may 

not  breathe 
Within    this  vestal  limit,  and    how 

should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,   say,  live :    the 

thunder-bolt 
Hangs  silent ;  but  prepare  :  I  speak  ; 

it  falls." 
"  Yet  pause,"  I  said  :  "  for  that  in- 
scription there, 
I  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein,, .. 
Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth. 
To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit :  if  more 

there  be. 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ? 

war; 
Your  own  work  marr'd  :  for  this  your 

Academe, 


394 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  hal- 
loo 

Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and 
pass 

With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to 
gild 

A  stormless  summer."  "  Let  the 
Princess  judge 

Of  that "  she  said  :  "  farewell,  Sir  — 
and  to  you. 

I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  re- 

join'd, 
"  The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Flo- 

rian. 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's 

hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle 

brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights ) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 

fell. 
And  all  else  fled  :  we  point  to  it,  and 

we  say, 
The  loyal  warmth   of  Florian  is  not 

cold. 
But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred 

veins." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  add- 
ed :  "  she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning 

hills. 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the 

purple  fly. 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ? 

are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throb- 
bing brow. 
To  smoothe  my  pillow,  mix  the  foam- 
ing draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and 

read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  % 

are  you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in 

one  ? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are 

you  now  ?  " 
"  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said, 

"  for  whom 
I  would  be  that  for  ever  which  I  seem- 


Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
"  That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she ' 

past 
From  an  her  old  companions,  when 

the  king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that 

ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  south- 
ern hills ; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people 

there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them?  look!  for  such  are 

these  and  I." 
"  Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd, 

"  to  whom. 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded 

fawn 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the 

well? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your 

lap. 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it, 

and  the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 

wept. 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's, 

yet  you  wept. 
O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little 

niece. 
You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are 

you  now  ?  " 
"You  are  that  Psyche,''  Cyril  said 

again, 
"  The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little 

maid. 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"  Out  upon  it ! " 
She  answer'd, "  peace !  and  why  should 

I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  b» 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great :  he  for  the  com- 
mon weal. 
The  fading  polities  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good 

need  were. 
Slew  both  his  sons :  and  I,  shall  I,  on 

whom 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


395 


The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from 
right  to  save 

A  prince,  a  brother  ?  a  little  will  I 
yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well 
for  you. 

O  hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  !  I 
fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less  ;  yet  — 

Hear  my  conditions :  promise  (other- 
wise 

You  perish)  as  you  came,  to  slip  away 

To-day,  to-morrow,  soon:  it  shall  be 
said, 

These  women  were  too  barbarous, 
would  not  learn ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed 
us :  promise,  all." 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised 

each ;  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  creature  newly-caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By   Florian ;    holding   out    her   lily 

arms 
Took    both  his   hands,  and  smiling 

faintly  said : 
"  I  .knew  you  at  the  first :  tho'  you 

have  grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /give  thee  to 

death. 
My  brother  !  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon 

it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well  ?  " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after, 

clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blos- 

som'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of 

the  hearth. 
And  far  allusion,   till    the  gracious 

dews 
Began   to   glisten  and   to   fall :   and 

while 


They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came 

a  voice, 
"  I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round 

we  saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where 

she  stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
A  rosy  jblonde,  and  in  a  college  gown. 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's   color)   with  her  lipa 

apart, 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within 

her  eyes. 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and 

float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning 

seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at 

the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  "  Ah  —  Melissa  — 

you! 
You    heard  us  1  "  and  Melissa,  "  O 

pardon  me 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not 

wish: 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me 

not, 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast, 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to 

death." 
"I  trust  you,"  said  the  other,  "for 

we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm 

and  vine : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  tem- 
perament — 
Let    not    your     prudence,     dearest, 

drowse,  or  prove 
The  Dana'id  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 
My  honor,  these  their  lives."    "Ah, 

fear  me  not" 
Replied  Melissa ;  "  no  —  I  would  not 

tell. 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness. 
No,  not  to  answer,  Madam,  all  thoss 

hard  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 


396 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


"  Be  it  so  "  the  other,  "  that  we  still 

may  lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in 

peace, 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet." 
Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest 

man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in 

halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  Madam  you  should  answer,  we 

would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you 

came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you. 
Myself  for  something  more."    He  said 

not  what, 
But  "Thanks,"   she  answer'd  "Go: 

we  have  been  too  long 
Together :  keep  your  hoods  about  the 

face; 
They  do   so  that  affect  abstraction 

here. 
Speak  little ;  mix  not  with  the  rest ; 

and  hold 
Your  promise :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet 

be  well." 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 

child. 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 

his  waist, 
And    blew  the    swoll'n  cheek   of  a 

trumpeter. 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  smiling, 

and  the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face 

and  laugh'd ; 
And  thus  our  conference  plosed. 

And  then  we  stroU'd 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.     In  each  we 

sat,  we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.     On  the  lecture 

slate 
The    circle    rounded    under    female 

hands 
With  flawless  demonstration ;  f ollow'd 

then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted 

out 


By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 

And   quoted  odes,  and    jewels  five- 
words-long 

That  on  the  stretoh'd  forefinger  of  all 
Time 

Sparkle  for  ever :  then  we  dipt  in  all 

That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 

The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 

The  morals,  something  of  the  frame 
the  rock. 

The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell, 
the  fiower. 

Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest. 

And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and 
known ; 

Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 
fence. 

And  glutted   all  night  long  breast- 
deep  in  corn. 

We  issued  gorged  with   knowledge, 
and  I  spoke : 

"Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well 
as  we." 

"They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril, 
"  very  well ; 

But  when   did  woman  ever  yet  in- 
vent ?  " 

"  Ungracious  !  "    answer'd    Florian ; 
"  have  you  learnt 

No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you 
that  talk'd 

The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and 
almost  sad  ?  " 

"  O  trash,"  he  said,  "  but  with  a  ker- 
nel in  it. 

Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made 
me  wise  ? 

And  learnt  t  I  learnt  more  from  her 
in  a  flash. 

Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty 
hull. 

And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 

A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  thesi 
halls. 

And  round  these  halls   a  thousand' 
baby  loves 

Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the 
hearts, 

Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang; 
hut  0 

With   me.  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger 
toy, 


1 


THE  PHINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


397 


The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted 

firm. 
The  long-limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche 

too ; 
He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher ;  and 

now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ?  do  I 

chase 
The  suhstance  or  the  shadow  1  will  it 

hold'? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 
,No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  High- 
ness.    I 
Flatter  myself    that  always    every- 
where 
I  know  the  substance  when  I  see  it. 

Well, 
Are  castles  shadows  ■?  Three  of  them  ? 

Is  she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?    If 

not, 
Shall  those  three   castles   patch  my 

tatter'd  coat  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants. 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart. 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

worth, 
And  much  I  might  hare  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  me :  then  the  Doctors  !  O 

to  hear 
The  Doctors !     O  to  watch  the  thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to 

roar. 
To  break   my  chjiin,   to    shake   my 

mane :  but  thou, 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mim- 
icry! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon, 

my  throat ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to 

meet 
Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent 

brows ; 
Abate   the   stride,   which   speaks    of 

man,  and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this 

cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out 

of  time 


Will  wonder  why    they    came:  but 

hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! " 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and 

still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end 

to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown 

and  fair 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 
The  long  hall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of 

flowers. 
How  might  a  man  not  wander  from 

his  wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  ■  eyes,  but  that  I 

kept  mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious 

dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astrsean  age. 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors :  they, 

the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and 

fro: 
A  clamor  thioken'd,  mixt  with  inmost 

terms 
Of  art  and   science:  Lady  Blanche 

alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  linea- 
ments, 
With  all  her  autumn  tresses  falsely 

brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens : 

there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and 

one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read. 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down 

with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by. 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat :  some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets :  others  tost  a 

ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,   and    back 

again 
With  laughter :  others  lay  about  the 

lawns. 


398 


THE  PRINCESS;    A    MEDLEY. 


Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that 

their  May 
Was  passing :  what  was  learning  unto 

them? 
They  wish'd  to  marry;   they  could 

rule  a  house ; 
Men  hated  learned  women :  but  we 

three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity. 
That  harm'd  not :  then  day  droopt  ; 

the  chapel  bells 
Call'd  us :  we  left  the  walks ;  we  mixt 

with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest 

white, 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall 

to  wall. 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst 

his  pipes. 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro' 

the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 
The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 

III. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low. 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  ray  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Bleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

^  Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  : 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morn- 
ing star 

Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into 
gold. 


We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 

care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three 

parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native 

East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 

and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bub-, 

ble,  approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 

sleep. 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy 

eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears ; 
"  And  fly,"  she  cried,  "  O  fly,  while 

yet  you  may ! 
My  mother   knows :  '    and   when   I 

ask'd  her  "  how,'' 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault !  and 

yet  not  mine ; 
Yet  mine  in  part.     0  hear  me,  pardon 

me. 
My  mother,  'tis  her  wont  from  night 

to  night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess   should  have 

been  the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the   two 

arms; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they 

came; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand 

now,  4 

And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom 

used; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass 

you: 
Her  countrywomen !  she  did  not  envy 

her. 
'  Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ?  — more  like  men ! '  and  at  these 

words  the  snake. 
My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my 

breast ; 
And  oh,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my 

cheek 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


399 


Began  to  burri  and  burn,  and  her  lynx 

eye 
To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she 

laugh'd : 
•O  maryellously  modest  maiden,  you ! 
Men!   girls,  like  men!   why,  if  they 

had  been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in 

rubric  thus 
For  wholesale  comment.'     Pardon,  I 

am  shamed 
That   I  must  needs  repeat  for   my 

excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful :  '  men ' 

(for  still 
My   mother  went  revolving  on   the 

word) 
■  And  so   they  are,  —  very  like  men 

indeed  — 
And  with  that  woman  closeted  for 

hours ! ' 
Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out 

one  by  one, 
'  Why  —  these  —  are  —  men : '  I  shud- 

der'd :  '  and  you  know  it.' 
'O  ask   me   nothing,'  I  said:     'And 

she  knows  too. 
And  she  conceals  it.'     So  my  mother 

clutch'd 
The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word 

from  me ; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to 

inform 
The  Princess:  Lady  Psyche  will  be 

crush'd ; 
But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  there- 
fore fly : 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you 

go." 

"  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 

blush  ■?  " 
Said  Cyril :  "  Pale  one,  blush  again : 

than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives 

away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more 

in  Heaven  " 
He  added,  "lest  some  classic  Angel 

speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  •  They  mounted,  Gany- 

medes, 


To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second 

morn.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough : "  and  he 

went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls, 

and  thought 
He  scarce  would  prosper.     "Tell  us," 

Florian  ask'd, 
"How  grew  this  feud   betwixt   the 

right  and  left." 
"  O  long  ago,"  she  said,  "  betwixt  these 

two 
Division  smoulders  hidden;  'tis  my 

mother. 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice :  much  I  bear  with 

her : 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a 

fool; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state 

of  things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth, 
And  from  the   Queen's  decease  she 

brought  her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won 

the  heart 
Of  Ida :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inoscu- 
lated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one 

note; 
One  mind  in  all  things :  yet  my  mother 

still 
AflSrms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  the- 
ories. 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's 

love : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  I  know  not 

what: 
But  I  must  go :  I  dare  not  tarry,''  and 

light. 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur'd  Florian  gazing  after 

her, 
"An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and 

pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she; 

how  pretty 


400 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush'd 

again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random 

wish: 
Not  like  your  Princess  cramm'd  with 

erring  pride. 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 

in  tow." 

"  The  crane,"  1  said,  "  may  chatter 

of  the  crane. 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove, 

but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 
My  princess,  O  my  princess  !  true  she 

errs. 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  :  being  her- 
self 
Three  times  more  noble  than  three 

score  of  men, 
She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a 

crown 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me :  for  her, 

and  her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar ;  but  —  ah  she  —  whene'er 

she  moves 
The  Samian  Herfe  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning 

Sun." 

So  saying  from  the  court  we  paced, 
and  gain'd 

The  terrace  ranged  along  the  North- 
ern front. 

And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters, 
high 

Above  the  empurpled  champaign, 
drank  the  gale 

That  blown  about  the  foliage  under- 
neath, 

And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 

Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.  Hither 
came 

Cyril,  and  yawning  "O  hard  task," 
he  cried; 

"  No  fighting  shadows  here !  I  forced 
a  way 

Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  and 
gnarl'd. 


Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave 

and  thump 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstica 

down. 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd ;  found 

her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her 

eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming 

storm. 
Sir,   I  was  courteous,  every  phrase 

well-oil'd. 
As  man's  could  be ;  yet  maiden-meek 

I  pray'd 
Concealment ;  she  demanded  who  we 

were. 
And  why  we  came  ?   I  fabled  nothing 

fair. 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand 

and  eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affi- 
ance. 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'a' 

astray. 
I  urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the 

gate. 
And  our  three  lives.     True  —  we  had 

limed  ourselves 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take 

the  chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well 

might  harm 
The  woman's  cause.     '  Not  more  than 

now,'  she  said, 
'  So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.     Shame 

might  befall 
Melissa,    knowing,    saying    not    she 

knew: 
Her  answer  was  '  Leave   me  to  deal 

with  that.' 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many 

deaths. 
And  she  replied,   her  duty  was    to 


And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged.  Sir ;  but  since  I 

knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


401 


May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand 
years, 

I  recommenced ;  '  Decide  not  ere  you 
pause. 

I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place. 

Some  say  the  third  —  the  authentic 
foundress  you. 

I  offer  boldly :  we  will  seat  you  high- 
est: 

Wink  at  our  advent :  help  my  prince 
to  gain 

His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise 
you 

Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you 
shall  reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world. 

And  your  great  name  flow  on  with 
broadening  time 

For  ever.'  Well,  she  balanced  this  a 
little. 

And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to- 
day, 

Meantime  be  mute :  thus  much,  nor 
more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from 

the  Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to 

take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her  %  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing ;  and  the  river  made  a 

fall 
Out  yonder : "  then  she  pointed  on  to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the   thick-leaved  platans   of 

the  vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro' 

all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed 

hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the 

head, 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on 

ono 


Of  those  tame  leopards.    Kittenlike 

he  roU'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.    I  drew 

near; 
I   gazed.     On  a,  sudden  my  strange 

seizure  came 
Upon   me,   the  weird  vision  of   our 

house ; 
The   Princess   Ida   seem'd  a  hollow 

show. 
Her  gay-f urr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy. 
Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty 

masks. 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

I  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and 

with  awe ; 
Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary 

sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light 

of  eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 

shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following 

up 
The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me   she 
said: 
"  0  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd 

us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester- 

morn; 
Unwillingly  we   spake."     "No  —  not 

to  her," 
I  answer'd,  "  but  to  one  of  whom  we 


Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the 
thing  you  say." 

"  Again  t  "  she  cried,  "  are  you  am- 
bassadresses 

From  him  to  me  ?  we  give  you,  being 
strange, 

A  license  r  speak,  and  let  the  topic 
die." 

I   stammer'd   that   I  knew  him  — 
could  have  wish'd  — 
"Our    king   expects  —  was   there   no 
precontract  1 


402 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


There  is  no  truer-hearted — ah,  you 

seem 
All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 
The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but 

long'd 
To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness 

keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shook  him  ev'n 

to  death. 
Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair." 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "  can  he  not 

read  —  no  books  \ 
Quoit,  tennis,  ball  —  no  games  ?  nor 

deals  in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exer- 
cise ? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a 

girl; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 

been: 
We  had  our  dreams ;  perhaps  he  mixt 

with  them  : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun 

to  do  it, 
Being  other  —  since  we   learnt    our 

meaning  here. 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She    paused,    and    added    with    a 

haughtier  smile 
"  And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 

friend. 
At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself 

and  thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti !  ,  Summon'd 

out 
She    kept    her    state,  and    left    the 

drunken  king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 

palms." 

"  Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full 
East,"  I  said, 
"  On  that  which  leans  to  you.    I  know 
the  Prince, 

1  prize  his  truth :  and  then  how  vast 

a  work 
To   assail  this   gray  preeminence  of 
man! 


You  grant  me  license ;  might  I  use  it  ? 

think ; 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life 

may  fail ; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

plan, 
And  takes  and  ruins  all    and  thus 

your  pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon 

sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  preju. 

dice 
■Resmooth  to  nothing :  might  I  dread 

that  you. 
With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your 

great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and 

miss. 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 

her  due. 
Love,  children,  happiness  ?  " 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"Peace,  you  young  savage   of    the 

Northern  wild! 
What!  tho'  your  Prince's  love  were 

like  a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacri- 
fice ? 
You  are  bold    indeed:    we   are  not 

talk'd  to  thus : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would 

they  grew 
Like  field-flowers  everywhere !  we  like 

them  well : 
But  children  die ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 

girl, 
Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  can- 
not die ; 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew 

their  light 
For  ever,  blessing  those  that  look  on 

them. 
Children  —  that  men  may  pluck  them 

from  our  hearts. 
Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves — 
O  —  children — there  is  nothing  upon 

earth 
More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a. 

son 
And  sees  him  err :  nor  would  we  work 

for  fame ; 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


403 


Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  ap- 
plause of  Great, 
Who  learns  the  one  pon  sto  whence 

after-hands 
May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself 

effect 
But  little  :  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 

shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.     Would,  indeed, 

we  had  been, 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of   giants   living,   each,   a  thousand 

years. 
That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 

and  watch 
The    sandy    footprint     harden   into 

stone." 

I    answer'd    nothing,   doubtful    in 

myself 
If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 

grand 
Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 
And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 

thoughts : 

"  No   doubt  we    seem    a   kind   of 

monster  to  you ; 
We  are  used  to  that :  for  women,  up 

till  this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  South-sea 

isle  taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gjmseceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 

guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion 

to  us. 
If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 

proof  — 
Oh  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single 

act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death. 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against 

the  pikes. 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 
To    compass    our    dear    sisters'    lib- 
erties.'' 

She  bow'd   as  if   to  vail  a  noble 
tear; 


And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river 

sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on 

black  blocks 
A  breadth  of  thunder.     O'er  it  shook 

the  woods. 
And   danced  the   color,   and,  below, 

stuck  out 
The  bones   of   some  vast  bulk  that/ 

lived  and  roar'd 
Before  man  was.     She  gazed  awhile 

and  said, 
■'  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to 

her 
That  will  be."     "Dare  we  dream  of 

that,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 

and  his  work,  , 

That  practice  betters  ?  "   "  How,    she 

cried, "  you  love 
The    metaphysics!    read    and    earn 

our  prize, 
A  golden  brooch  :  beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock ;  our  device ;  wrought  to 

the  life ; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "And 

yet "  I  said 
"Methinks  I  have  not  found  among 

them  all 
One  anatomic."    "Nay,  we  thought 

of  that," 
She  answer'd,  "  but  it  pleased  us  not : 

in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids 

should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males   that    carve 

the  living  hound. 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of 

the  grave, 
Or  in    the    dark    dissolving    human 

heart. 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling    a    shameless    hand    with  ' 

shameful  jest, 
Encarnalize    their    spirits :    yet    we 

know 
Knowledge    is    knowledge,  and  this 

matter  hangs : 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 


404 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


Nor  willing  men  should  come  among 

us,  learnt, 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we 

came, 
This  craft  of    healing.     Were    you 

sick,  ourself 
Would  tend    upon    you.     To    your 

question  now. 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and 

his  work. 
Let  there  be  light    and    there   was 

light ;  'tis  so ; 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but 

is; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 
The  birth  of  light:  but  we  that  are 

not  all. 
As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this, 

now  that. 
And  live,  perforce,  from  thought  to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom   of   succession : 

thus 
Our  weakness   somehow  shapes   the 

shadow.  Time ; 
But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and 

mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 

She  spake 

With  kindled  eyes  :  we  rode  a  league 
beyond. 

And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinewood  cross- 
ing, came 

On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag. 

Full  of  all  beauty.     "  0  how  sweet " 
I  said 

(For  I  was  half -oblivious  of  my  mask) 

"  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved 
us."     "Tea," 

She  answer'd,  "or  with  fair  philoso- 
phies 

That  lift  the  fancy ;  for  indeed  these 

^  fields 

'  Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysian 
lawns. 

Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old, 
and  saw 

The    soft    white    vapor    streak    the 
crowned  towers 

Built  to  the  Sun:"  then,  turning  to 
her  maid». 


"Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the 

sward ; 
Lay  out  the  viands."    At  the  word, 

they  raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph;   here 

she  stood. 
Engirt  with  many  a.  florid  maiden- 
cheek. 
The  woman  conqueror;   woman-con- 

quer'd  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousand 

hymns. 
And  all  the  men  mourn'd  at  his  side  i 

but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb;  then,  climbing, 

Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.     Many  a  little 

hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on 

the  rocks, 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel 

set 
In  the  dark  crag :  and  then  we  turn'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in. 
Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering 

stony  names 
Of    shale  and  hornblende,  rag   and 

trap  and  tuii, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and 

fell,  and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the 

lawns. 


The  Bplendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  "wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  1 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  \ 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glene  replying : 
Blow,  bngle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dyings 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  eouI, 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


405 


And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

"  There  sinks  the  nebulous   star  we 

call  the  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound." 
Said  Ida ;  "  let  us   down  and  rest ; '' 

and  we 
Down  from  the   lean  and  wrinkled 

precipices. 
By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 

cleft, 
Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom   to 

where  below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone 

the  tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.     Once  she 

lean'd  on  me, 
Descending;   once  or  twice  she  lent 

her  hand, 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood. 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and 

fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet, 

and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in. 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down 

we  sank 
Our  elbows  :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us 

glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,   amber  wine, 

and  gold. 

Then  she,  "Let  some  one  sing  to 

us :  lightlier  move 
The  minutes    fledged  with  music  :  " 

and  a  maid. 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp, 

and  sang. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  inow  not  what  they 
mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Eise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-flelds, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world. 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 


That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

**  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Dear  as  reraember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  f eign'd 
On  hps  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that 

the  tear. 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 

pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom:  but  with  some 

disdain 
Answer'd  the   Princess,  "If  indeed 

there  haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to 

men. 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 

with  wool 
And  so  pace  by :  but  thine  are  fancies 

hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness ;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 

be. 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,    goes,   like   glittering 

bergs  of  ice. 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on 

the  waste 
Becomes  a  cloud :  for  all  things  serve 

their  time 
Toward   that    great  year    of    equal 

mights  and  rights. 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in 

the  end 
Pound  golden:  let  the  past  be  past; 

let  be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels :  tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  beard- 
blown  goat 
Hang  on  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  flg* 

tree  split 


406 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while 

we  iiear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle, 

burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow  : ''  then  to 

me; 
"  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land," 

she  said, 
"  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retro- 
spect, 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 

the  hues 
Of  promise ;  not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 

made. 
What  time   I  watch'd   the    swallow 

winging  south 
From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 

since,  and  part 
Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as 

far 
As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  Boutb, 
Fly  to  her,  and 'fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

**0  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  buowest 
each. 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow, 
and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  1  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

"  0  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  1  died. 

"Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 

with  love. 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 

green  ? 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is 
flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

"  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  Ipng, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 


"  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make 

her  mine. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  tuat  1  follow  thee.'* 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at 
each, 

Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old 
time. 

Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd 
with  alien  lips, 

And  knew  not  what  they  meant;  foi: 
still  my  voice 

Rang  false :  but  smiling  "  Not  for 
thee,"  she  said, 

"  0  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 

Shall  burst  her  veil;  marsh-divers, 
rather,  maid, 

Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 

Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass : 
and  this 

A  mere  love-poem !  O  for  such,  my 
friend. 

We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 
the  time 

When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt. 
Knaves  are  men. 

That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tender- 
ness, 

And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 

And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Par- 
adise, 

And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 

Poor  soul!  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once; 

She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such 
a  one, 

A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 

I  loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  She 
is  dead. 

So  they  blaspheme  the  muse !  But 
great  is  song 

Used  to  great  ends :  ourself  have  often 
tried 

Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm 
have  dash'd 

The  passion  of  the  prophetess ;  for  song 

Is  duer  unto  freedom ,  force  and  growth 

Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love. 

Love  is  it  1  Would  this  same  mock- 
love,  and  this 

Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 
bats, 


THE  PRINCESS:    A   MEDLEY. 


407 


Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our 

worth, 
Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills, 

and  sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 

Enough ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit, 

you, 

Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 
your  soil, 

That  gives  the  manners  of  your  coun- 
try-women ? 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptu- 
ous head  with  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for 
such  a  song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd 
glass  had  wrought, 

Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  be- 
gan 

To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern- 
catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experi- 
ences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded 
at  him, 

I  frowning ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd 
and  shook ; 

The  lily  like  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows ; 

"  Porbear,"  the  Princess  cried ;  "  For- 
bear, Sir,"  I; 

And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 
and  love, 

I  smote  him  on  the  breast ;  he  started 
up; 

There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd ; 

Melissa  claraor'd  "Flee  the  death;" 
"  To  horse," 

Said  Ida ;  "  home  !  to  horse  ! "  and 
fled,  as  flies 

A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the 
dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dove- 
cote-doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.    Alone  I  stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at 
heart. 

In  the  pavilion  :  there  like  parting 
hopes 


I  heard  them  passing  from  me ;  hoof 

by  hoof, 
And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 
Clang'd  on  the  bridge ;  and  then  an- 
other shriek, 
"  The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O 

the  Head ! " 
For  blind  with  rage   she  miss'd  the 

plank,  and  roU'd 
In  the  river.     Out  I  sprang  from  glow 

to  gloom  : 
There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a 

blossom'd  branch 
Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall :  a  glance  I 

gave. 
No  more ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 
Plunged;  and  the  flood  drew;  yet  I 

caught  her;  then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my 

left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half 

the  world, 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.    A  tree 
Was  half -disrooted  from  his  place  and 

stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gur- 
gling wave 
Mid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove 

and  caught. 
And  grasping    down    the  boughs   I 

gain'd  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmer- 

ingly  group'd 
In  the  hollow  bank.     One  reaching 

forward  drew 
My  burthen  from  mine  arms ;   they 

cried  "  she  lives  : " 
They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent :  but 

I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me 

wrought. 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening 

eyes. 
Nor  found  my  friends;   but  push'd 

alone  on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left 

her  mine) 
Across    the    woods,    and   less    from 

Indian  craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 

at  length 


408 


THE   PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


The  garden  portals.  Two  great 
statues.  Art 

And  Science,  Caryatids  lifted  up 

A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 
valves 

Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter 
rued 

His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his 
\  brows 

Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 

Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked 
the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the 

horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top 

with  pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 

walks, 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed 

from  hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now 

the  star, 
I  paced  the  terrace,  till  the  Bear  had 

wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A  step 

Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 

Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncer- 
tain gloom, 

Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "  if  this 
were  she," 

But  it  was  Florian.  "  Hist  O  Hist," 
he  said, 

'•'  They  seek  us :  out  so  late  is  out  of 
rules. 

Moreover  '  seize  the  strangers '  is  the 
cry. 

How  came  you  here  1 "  I  told  him  : 
"I"  said  he, 

"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 

To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at 
heart,  return'd. 

Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 

With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the 
hall. 

And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  under- 
neath 

The  head  of  Holof  ernes  peep'd  and  saw. 

Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial :  each 


Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us :  last 

of  all, 
Melissa :  trust  me.  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men, 

at  first 
Was   silent;   closer   prest,  denied  it 

not: 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother 

knew. 
Or  Psyche,  she  afflrm'd  not,  or  de- 
nied : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  famil- 
iar with  her, 
Easily    gather'd    either    guilt.     She 

sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there ; 

she  call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from 

the  doors  ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her 

face  to  face ; 
And  I  slipt  out :  but  whither  will  you 

now? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ?  both 

are  fled : 
What,  if  together  ?  that  were  not  so 

well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  !  I 

dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the 

dark." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  you  wrong  him 

more  than  I 
That  struck  him :  this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'  smock'd,  or  furr'd  and  purpled, 

still  the  clown. 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him, 

and  to  shame 
That  which  he   says  he  loves:  for 

Cyril,  howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  —  the 

song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in 

grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon  —  as  it  is,  I  hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not 

he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  as  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


409 


Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is 
he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from  a 

tamarisk  near 
Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying, 

"  Names : " 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutoh'd;  hut 

I  began 
To    thrid  the  musky-circled    mazes, 

wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and 

race 
By  all  the  fountains  :  fleet  I  was  of 

foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes ; 

behind 
I  heard  the  pulE'd  pursuer ;  at  mine 

ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded 

not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my 

soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine. 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught 

and  known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess 
where  she  sat 

High  in  the  hall :  above  her  droop'd 
a  lamp. 

And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her 
brow 

Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast- 
head, 

Prophet  of  storm  :  a  handmaid  on 
each  side 

Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her 

1  long  black  hair 

Damp  from  the  river;  and  close  be- 
hind her  stood 

Eight  daughters  of  the  plough, 
stronger  than  men. 

Huge  women  blowzed  with  health, 
and  wind,  and  rain, 

And  labor.  Each  was  like  a  Druid 
rock; 

Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands 
apart 

Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about 
with  mews. 


Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  divid- 
ing clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne :  and  there- 

beside. 
Half-naked  as  if  caught  at  once  from 

bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth, 

lay 
The  lily-shining  child;   and  on  the 

left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up 

from  wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 

her  sobs, 
Melissa    knelt;    but    Lady    Blanche 

erect 
Stood    up    and    spake,  an    afBuent 

orator. 


■  It  was  not  thus,  0  Princess,  in  old 


You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon 

my  lips  : 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies ; 
I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every 

Muse; 
I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you 

me 
Your    second    mother:    those    were 

gracious  times. 
Then    came    your  new  friend:  you 

began  to  change  — 
I  saw  it  and  grieved  —  to  slacken  and 

to  cool; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all 

to  her. 
To  me  you  froze :  this  was  my  meed 

for  all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient 

love. 
And  partly  that  I  hoped  to  win  you 

back. 
And    partly    conscious    of  my  own 

deserts. 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil 

head. 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  some- 
thing great. 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker 

be. 


410 


THE  PRmCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


When  time  should  serve ;  and  thus  a 

noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 

had  sown; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's 

gourd. 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden 

sun: 
We  took  this  palace ;  but  even  from 

the  first 
You  stood  in    your  own  light  and 

darken'd  mine. 
What  student  came  but    that   you 

planed  her  path 
To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A    foreigner,  and    I   your   country- 
woman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new 

in  all  ? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and 

mine  were  lean ; 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be 

known : 
Then  came  these  wolves :  they  knew 

her :  they  endured, 
Long-closeted  with    her  the   yester- 

morn, 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she 

to  hear : 
And  me  none  told    not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent, 

and  my  foot 
Was  to  you :  but  I  thought  again :  I 

fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we 

shall  hear  of  it 
From  Lady  Psyche : '  you  had  gone 

to  her. 
She  told,  perforce ;  and  winning  easy 

grace. 
No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain'd 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown, 

the  stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as   malignant 

haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and 

power. 


But  public  use  required  she  should  be 

known ; 
And  since  my  oath  was    ta'en  for 

public  use, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the 

sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  waf  ih'd 

them  well. 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 

done ;  , 

And   yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should 

hate  me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you;  found  that  you 

had  gone, 
Kidd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise :  now, 

I  thought. 
That  surely  she  will  speak;  if  not, 

then  I : 
Did  she?     These  monsters  blazon'd 

what  they  were. 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their 

kind, 
Por  thus  I  hear;  and  known  at  last 

(my  work) 
And  full  of    cowardice  and    guilty 

shame, 
I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame, 

she  flies ; 
And  I  remain  on  whom    to  wreak 

your  rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up 

yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

and  time. 
And  talent,  I  —  you  know  it  —  I  will 

not  boast : 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan. 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  ■ 

chaff 
For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men 

will  say 
We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but 

chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot 

can  tread." 

She  ceased:  the  Princess  answer'd 

coldly,  "  Good : 
Your  oath  is  broken :  we  dismiss  you : 

go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  tc  the 

child) 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


411 


Our  mind  is  changed :  we  take  it  to 
ourself." 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vul- 
ture throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 

smile. 
"The  plan  was   mine.     I    built  the 

nest "  she  said 
'  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.     Rise ! "  and 

stoop'd  to  updrag 
Melissa :  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt. 
Half-drooping  from  her,  turn'd  her 

face,  and  cast 
A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer. 
Which  melted  Plorian's  fancy  as  she 

hung, 
A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out. 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of   Heaven ; 

and  while 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 
About  the   doors,  and  on  a  sudden 

rush'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pur- 
sued, 
A    woman-post    in    flying    raiment. 

Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her 

face,  and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she 

fell 
Delivering    seal'd    dispatches  which 

the  Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion's 

mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till   over 

brow 
And   cheek   and    bosom    brake   the 

wrathful  bloom 
As   of    some   fire   against   a  stormy 

cloud. 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  him- 
self, the  rick 
Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 

heavens ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now 

her  breast, 
Beaten  with   some   great  passion   at 

her  heart, 
Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we 

heard 


In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 

held 
Rustle :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her 

feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam ; 
Tlie  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire; 

she  crush'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden 

turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing 

her, 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who 

should  say 
"Read,"  and  I  read — two  letters^ 

one  her  sire's. 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the 

Prince  your  way 
We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws, 

which  learnt. 
We,  conscious  of  what  temper  yott 

are  built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong, 

but  fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this 

night. 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested 

you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 

son." 

The  second  was  my  father's  running 

thus: 
"  You  have  our  son :  touch  not  a  hair 

of  his  head : 
Render  him  up  unscathed :  give  him 

your  hand : 
Cleave  to  your  contract ;  tho'  indeed 

we  hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man ; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make  all  women  kick  against 

their  Lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  mignt 

well  deserve 
That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 

palace  down ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us 

back 
Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole^" 


•HZ 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


So  far  I  read  ; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetu- 
ously. 

"  0  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your 

reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
Ihe  child  of   regal  compact,  did  I 

break 
Your  precinct ;  not  a  scorner  of  your 

sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be :  hear  me,  for  I 

bear, 
Tho'    man,    yet    human,    vrhatsoe'er 

your  wrongs, 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock 

a  life 
Less    mine  than  yours :    my  nurse 

would  tell  me  of  you ; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the 

moon, 
"Vague  brightness;  when  a  boy,  you 

stoop'd  to  me 
Trom  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair 

lights, 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  in- 
most south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north ;  at  eve 

and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 
The  leader  wildswan  in   among  the 

stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths 

of  glowworm  light 
The  mellow  breaker  murmur'd  Ida. 

Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you, 

had  you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the 

enthroned 
Persephonfe  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you :  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full 

tongue, 
O  nobie  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that 

wait 
On  you,  their  centre :  let  me  say  but 

this, 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 


And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after 

seen 
The  dwarfs   of  presage :  tho'  when 

known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in 

you  I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  daz- 
zled down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour 

to  hour. 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me 

here. 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 
I  cannot  cease  to  f  oUowyou,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ;  who  desire  you 

more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manh'ood; 

dying  lips. 
With  many  thousand  matters  left  to 

do, 
The  breath  of  life ;  O  more  than  poor 

men  wealth. 
Than  sick  men  health  —  yours,  yours, 

not  mine  —  but  half 
Without  you;  with  you,  whole;  and 

of  those  halves 
You  worthiest ;  and  howe'er  you  block 

and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 

I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse 

despair. 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antago- 
nisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her 

lips. 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world 

with  foam : 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but 

there  rose 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


413 


A  hubbub  in   the  court  of  half  the 

maids 
GatherVl  together :  from  the  illumined 

hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a 

press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded 

ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and   gems  and 

gemlike  eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads ;  they  to 

and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some 

red,  some  pale. 
All  open-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the 

light. 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 

land. 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very 

walls. 
And  some    they   cared    not;  till    a 

clamor  grew 
As  of    a  new-world  Babel,  woman- 
built. 
And  worse-confounded:  high  above 

them  stood         ' 
The    placid  marble   Muses,   looking 

peace. 

Not  peace   she   look'd,  the  Head: 

but  rising  up 
Eobed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep 

hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 

there 
Fixt  like   a,  beacon-tower  above  the 

waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling 

eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash  themselves  dead.     She  stretch'd 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

"  What  fear  ye,  brawlers  ?  am  not 

I  your  Head  ■? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 

1  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts :  what  is 

it  ye  fear  1 


Peace !  there  are  those  to  avenge  us 

and  they  come: 
If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  O 

girls. 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our 

rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of 

war. 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die :  yet  I  blame  you  not  so  much  for 

fear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made 

you  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  you :  but 

for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub  —  you  and  you 

—  I  know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd — to- 
morrow morn 
We  hold  a   great  convention:  then 

shall  they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in 

shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  house- 
hold stuff. 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's 

fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 

clown. 
The    drunkard's    football,    laughing- 
stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and 

in  their  heels. 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and 

to  scour. 
For  ever  slaves  at  home  and  fools 

abroad." 

She,    ending,    waved    her    hands : 

thereat  the  crowd 
Muttering,    dissolved:    then  with    g 

smile,  that  look'd 
A  stroke  of   cruel  sunshine    on  the 

cliff. 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd   in 

azure  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us 

and  said : 


414 


THE   PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


"You  have  done  well  and  like  a 

gentleman, 
And    like  a  prince :  you  have  our 

thanks  for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 

dress  : 
Well  hare  you  done  and  like  a  gentle- 
man. 
.You  saved  our  life  :  we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones 

in  the  flood  — 
Then  men  had  said — but  now  —  What 

hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 

both  7  — 
Yet  since  our  father  —  Wasps  in  our 

good  hive, 
You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light 

to  be, 
Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native 

hears  — 

0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one 

hour ! 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our 

bound,  and  gull'd 
Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and 

thwarted  us  — 
/wed  with  thee!  Tboundby  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave  !  not  tho' 

all  the  gold 
That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to 

make  your  crown, 
And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 

you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hate- 
ful to  us : 

1  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you : 
Begone :  we  will  not  look  upon  you 

more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 

the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 

address'd 
Their  motion :  twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause, 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands. 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from  her 

face 


They  push'd  us,  down  the  steps,  and 

thro'  the  court. 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out 

at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a 

petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights 

and  heard 
The    voices    murmuring.      While    I 

listen'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt : 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of 

ghosts ; 
The    Princess    with    her    monstrous 

woman-guard. 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by 

side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the 

kings 
Were  shadows ;  and  the  long  fantas- 
tic night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not 

been. 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my 

spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy ; 
Not  long ;  I  shook  it  off ;  for  spite  of 

doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was 

one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance 

but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Nor- 
way sun 
Set  into  sunrise ;  then  we  moved  away. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 

'f'hat  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands ; 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe. 

And  strikes  hini  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So  Lilia  sang :  we  thought  her  half- 

possess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro' 

the  words; 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY 


415 


And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 

call'd 
The  raillery,   or  grotesque,  or  false 

sublime  — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to 

change 
The   music  —  clapt    her    hands    and 

cried  for  war. 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make 

an  end : 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 
"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors ;  if  I 

prove 
Tour  knight,  and  fight  your  battle, 

what  for  me  '\  " 
It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the 

tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  It  and  she  flung  it.     "  Pight," 

she  said, 
"And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 

and  good." 
He  knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of 

casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall. 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the 

Prince. 


Now,   scarce   three   paces   measured 

from  the  mound, 
We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 
And   "  Stand,    who    goes  t  "     "  Two 

from  the  palace  "  I. 
"  The  second  two :  they  wait,"  he  said, 

"  pass  on ; 
His  Highness  wakes  :  "  and  one,  that 

clash'd  in  arms. 
By   glimmering  lanes   and  walls   of 

canvass  led 
Threading    the   soldier-city,  till    we 

heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign 

shake 
Prom  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial 

tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me   half-blind:    I  stood   and 

seem'd  to  hear. 


As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light 

wind  wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 

dies, 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear ; 

and  then 
A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 

brake 
On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to 

death. 
Unmeasured  mirth ;  while  now  th<»  two 

old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and 

down. 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd  their 

glittering  teeth. 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

and  blew. 
And  slain  with  laughter  roU'd  the 

gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

wet  with  tears. 
Panted  from  weary  sides  "  King,  you 

are  free ! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  out 

son, 
H  this  be  he,  —  or  a  draggled  mawkin, 

thou. 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in 

the  sludge ; " 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  asid 

torn  with  briers. 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head 

to  heel. 
Then    some    one    sent   beneath    his 

vaulted  palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near 

him,  "  Look, 
He  has  been  among  his  shivdows." 

"  Satan  take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows  t 

(thus  the  King 
Koar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight 

with  men.  i 

Go  ;  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 
Prom  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding 

eye. 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 


416 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman- 
slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 

scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that 

now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 

Earth, 
And  hit  the  Northern  hills.     Here 

Cyril  met  us. 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd 

and  given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace, 

whereon 
FoUow'd  his  tale.     Amazed  he  fled 

away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the 

night 
Had  came  on  Psyche  weeping :  "  then 

we  fell 
Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she 

lies. 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 
A  stone-shot  off:  we  enter'd  in,  and 

there 
Among    piled  arms   and    rough  ac- 
coutrements. 
Pitiful    sight,  wrapp'd  in  a  soldier's 

cloak, 
Like  some    sweet    sculpture  draped 

from  head  to  foot. 
And  push'd  by  rude  hands  from  its 

pedestal. 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground 

she  lay : 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the 

camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  wo- 
manhood, 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the 

dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "  Come  " 

he  whisper'd  to  her, 
"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister :  lie 

not  thus. 
"What  have  you  done  but  right  ?  you 

could  not  slay 
MBj  nor  your   prince :    look   up :   be 

comforted  : 


Sweet  is  it  to  liave  done  the  thing  one 

ought, 
When  fallen  in  darker  ways."    And 

likewise  I: 
"  Be  comforted :  have  I  not  lost  her 

too. 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  ?  "    She 

heard,  she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice ;  and  up 

she  sat. 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as 

pale  and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded 

over  death 
In   deathless    marble.      "  Her,''    she 

said,  "my  friend — 
Parted  from  her  —  betray'd  her  cause 

and  mine  — 
Where  shall  I  breathe  ?  why  kept  ye 

not  your  faith  1 
O  base  and  bad  !  what  comfort  ?  none 

for  me  ! " 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  "Yet  Ipray 
Take  comfort:  live,  dear  lady,  for  your 

child ! " 
At  which  ghe  lifted  up  her  voice  and 

cried. 

"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah, 

my  child. 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shaU  see 

no  more ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back ; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of 

care. 
Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers  —  for  every  little 

fault, 
The  child  is  hers  ;  and  they  will  beat 

my  girl 
Remembering    her   mother:    O    my 

flower ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 

her  hard. 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  som.e  cold  reverence  worse  than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  thatlwas  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,   scared   by   the    cry 

they  made, 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


417 


The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them 

all: 
But  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and 

day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet. 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one 

child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve 

of  me 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child  %  "    "Be 

comforted," 
Said  Cyril,  "  you  shall  have  it : "'  but 

again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she 

sank,  and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 

feign  death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced 

the  scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at 

hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  with- 
out 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle :  and 

"  Look  you  "  cried 
My  father  "  that  our  compact  be  ful- 

fill'd  : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child ;  she  laughs 

at  you  and  man : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me, 

and  him : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel 

and  fire ; 
She  yields,  or  war."  • 

Then  Gama  turn'd  to  me : 
."  We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy 
(  time 

With  our  strange  girl :  and  yet  they 

say  that  still 
You  love  her.     Give  us,  then,  your 

mind  at  large : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not  ■?  " 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 
Q  king,"  I  said,  "  lest  from  the  abuse 

of  war. 


The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled 

year; 
The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the 

household  flower 
Torn  from  the  lintel  —  all  the  com- 
mon wrong  — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to 

her  f 

Three    times    a    monster:    now   she 

lightens  scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 

would  hate 
(And   every   voice   she    talk'd   with 

ratify  it. 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it  \ 
The  general  foe.    More  soluble  is  this 

knot. 
By  gentleness  than  war.     I  want  her 

love. 
What  were   I  nigher  this  altho'  we 

dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults. 
She  would  not  love ;  —  or  brought  her 

chain'd,  a  slave, 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord. 
Not  ever  would  she  love ;  but  brood- 
ing turn 
The  book  of  scorn,  till  all  my  flitting 

chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 

wrongs. 
And  crush'd  to  death:   and  rather. 

Sire,  than  this 
I  would  the  old  God  of  war  himself 

were  dead. 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills, 
Eotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs 

of  wreck. 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd 

in  ice. 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,  "  Tut,  you  know  them  not, 

the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost 

think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.    Look  you. 

Sir! 
Man  is  the  hunter;    woman  is  his 

game  : 
The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase. 


418 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


"We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their 

skms ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them 

down. 
"Wheedling    and  siding  with    them ! 

Out !  for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear 

to  them 
As  h«  that  does  the  thing  they  dare 

not  do, 
Breathing    and  sounding    beauteous 

battle,  comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round 

him,  and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by 

the  score 
Platter'd    and    fluster'd,    wins,    tho' 

dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses :  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good 

wife, 
"Worth  winning ;  but  this  firebrand — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her !  if  Cyril  spake  her  true. 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net. 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer, 
"Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"Yea  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 
"  Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.    The 

soldier  1     No : 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier  ?     I  beheld  her,  when  she 

rose 
The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  ex- 
tremes. 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd 

the  death. 
No,  not  the  soldier's  :  yet  I  hold  her, 

king. 
True  woman :  but  you  clash  them  all 

in  one, 
That  hare  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm :  one  loves  the  sol- 
dier, one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this, 

one  that. 
And  some  unworthily;   their  sinless 

faith. 


A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty. 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr ;  whence 

they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture  -•  is  not  Ida 

right  ■! 
They  worth  it  1  truer  to  the  law  with- 
in? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences  ; 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ?    and  she  of 

whom  you  speak, 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some 

serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists ;  not  a  thought, 

a  touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak 

the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves; 

I  say. 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in 

sensual  mire, 
But  whole  and  one :   and  take  them 

all-in-all. 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good, 

as  kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as 

right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.    To  our  point: 

not  war : 
Lest  I  lose  all." 

"  Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense," 
Said  Gama.      "  We  remember  love 

ourself 
In  our  sweet  youth ;  we  did  not  rate 

him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with 

blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida :  she  can  talk ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you 

say: 
But  you  talk  kindlier :  we  esteem  you  ' 

for  it.  — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant 

Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter :  for  the 

rest, 
Our  own  detention,  why,  the  causes 
weigh'd. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


419 


Fatherly  fears — you   used  us   cour- 
teously — 
We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your 

Prince  — 
We  pardon  it;  and  for  your  ingress 

here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair 

land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the 

night, 
IJ^or  in  the  furrow  broke  the  plough- 
man's head. 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the 

milking-maid. 
Nor  rohb'd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of 

cream : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word 

upon  it. 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to 

our  lines. 
And  speak  with  Arac :   Arac's   word 

is  thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida  :  something  may  be 

done  — 
I  know  not  what  —  and  ours  shall  see 

us  friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so 

you  will, 
Follow  us  :  who  knows  ?  we  four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire, 

who  growl'd 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 

beard. 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to 

go- 
Then  rode  we  with  the   old  king 

across  the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings 

of  Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines, 

and  woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of 

love 
In  the  old  king's  ears,  who  promised 

help,  and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  honey'd   answer  as  we 

rode 


And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy 

dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with 

each  light  air 
On     our    maii'd    heads :     but    other 

tlioughts  than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  em- 
battled squares. 
And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  tramp- 
ling the  flowers 
With  clamor ;  for  among  them  rose  a 

cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king ;  they  made  a 

halt; 
The  horses  yell'd ;  they  clash'd  their 

arms ;  the  drum 
Beat;    merrily -blowing    shrill'd    the- 

martial  fife  ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 

horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle.undulated; 
The  banner  :  anon  to  meet  us  lightly 

pranced 
Three  captains  out;  nor  ever  had  I 

seen 
Such  thews  of  men  :  the  midmost  and 

the  highest 
Was    Arac :    all    about    his    motion 

clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them, 

made  them  glance 
Like  those  three   stars  of  the  airy 

Giant's  zone. 
That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty 

dark; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue. 
And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,. 

shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning, 

as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first 

I  heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 

of  force', 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a, 

man. 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike ;  then  took  the 

king 
His  three  broad  sons;    with  now  a 

wandering  hand 


fZO 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY, 


And  now  a  pointed  finger,told  them  all : 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 
JJroke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the 

windy  jest 
Had  labor'd  down  within  his  ample 

lungs. 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roU'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 
words. 

"  Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath !  and  he 

himself 
Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not 

war: 
And,  'sdeath !   myself,  what  care  I, 

war  or  no  ? 
fiut  then  this  question  of  your  troth 

remains : 
And  there's  a  downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 
She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  ! 

and  yet 
She  ask'd  but  space  and  f airplay  for 

her  scheme ; 
She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  —  I  my- 
self, 
"What  know  I  of  these  things  ?   but, 

life  and  soul ! 
I  thought  her  half -right  talking  of  her 

wrongs ; 
I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath  !  what 

of  that  ? 
I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  woman- 
kind. 
And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong. 
And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 

she  loves. 
And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this 

is  all, 
I  stand  upon  her  side  :  she  made  me 

swear  it  — 
'Sdeath  —  and  with  solemn  rites  by 
'  candlelight  — 

Swear  by   St.  something  —  I  forget 

her  name  — 
Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest 

men ; 
She.   was  a  princess   too  ;  and  so   I 

swore. 
Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not :  waive 

your  claim: 


If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else, 

at  once 
Decides    it,    'sdeath !      against     my 

father's  will." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loth  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loth  by  brainless 

war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 

yet; 

Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  halt 

aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his 

lip. 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  "Like  to 

like! 
The     woman's      garment     hid     the 

woman's  heart." 
A  taunt  that   clench'd  his  purpose 

like  a  blow ! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counter- 
scoff. 
And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon 

the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their 

shame, 
"  Decide  it  here :  why  not  ?  we  are 

three  to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third  "  But  three  to 
three  ?  no  more  ? 

No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's 
cause  ■? 

More,  more,  for  honor :  every  captain 
waits 

Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 

More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that 
each 

May  breathe  himself,  and  quick!  by 
overthrow 

Of  these  or  those,  the  question  set- 
tled die." 

"Yea,"  answer'd  I,  "for  this  wild 

wreath  of  air. 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the 

highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds  —  this  honor,  if 

ye  will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?  if  we  fail,  w 

fail. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


421 


And  if  we  win,  we  fail :  she  would  not 

keep 
Her    compact."     "  'Sdeath !    but  we 

will  send  to  her," 
Said  Arac,  "  worthy  reasons  why  she 

should 
Bide  by  this  issue :  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by 

the  word." 

"  Boys ! "  shriek'd  the  old  king,  but 

vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool; 

for  none 
Regarded ;  neither  seem'd  there  more 

to  say : 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp, 

and  found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the 


To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our 

claim. 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's   life :    three 

times  he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 

appear'd : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors  ;  none  came : 

the  next, 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd 

him  thence : 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters 

of  the  plough 
Came   sallying  thro'  the   gates,  and 

caught  his  hair, 
And  so   belabor'd  him   on  rib    and 

cheek 
They  made   him  wild:  not  less  one 

glance  lie  caught 
Thro'   open  doors   of    Ida    station'd 

there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose, 

firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two   armies   and 

the  noise 
Of  arms ;  and  standing  like  a  stately 

Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and 

right  and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the 

long  hills  roll 


The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale :  and 

yet  lier  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I 

was  pledged 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the 

lads : 
But   overborne  by  all    his    bearded 

lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and 

state,  perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur : 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in 

heat. 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim 

till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the 

field 
Flat  to  the  garden-waU :  and  likewise 

here. 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom. 

belts, 
A  coluran'd  entry  shone  and  marble 

stairs. 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd 

with  Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight. 
But  now  fast  barr'd :  so  here  upon 

the  flat 
All  that  long   morn  the  lists  were 

hammer'd  up, 
And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and 

fro. 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and 

came; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  royal  hand, 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rol- 
ling words 
Oration-like.    I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  0  brother,  you  have  known  the 

pangs  we  felt, 
What  heats  of  indignation  when  we 

heard 
Of    those     that    iron-cramp'd    their 

women's  feet ; 


422 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the 

poor  bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift 

a  scourge ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the 

fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots; 

and  of  those,  — 
Mothers,  —  that,  all  prophetic  pity, 

fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  runoing 

flood,  and  swoops 
The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the 

heart 
Ittade  for  all  noble  motion  :  and  I  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker 

times 
With  smoother  men :  the  old  leaven 

leaven'd  all: 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for 

civil  rights. 
No  woman  named :   therefore   I  set 

my  face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for 

mine  own. 
Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for 

them: 
I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 
I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  insti- 
tutes, 
And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts 

of  prey 
And  prosper'd;  till  a  rout  of  saucy 

boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  raarr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  I 

know  not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext 

held 
I  Of   baby    troth,    invalid,    since    my 

will 
Seal'd  not  the  bond  —  the  striplings ! 

—  for  their  sport !  — 
I   tamed   my   leopards :    shall   I  not 

tame  these  T 
Or  you  ?  or  I  ■?  for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honor  —  what,  I  would  not  aught 

of  false  — 
Is  not  our  cause  pure  ?  and  whereas  I 

know 


Your     prowess,     Arac,     and     what 

mother's  blood 
You  draw  from,  fight ;  you  failing,  I 

abide 
What  end  soever :  fail  you  will  not. 

Still 
Take  not  his  life :  he  risk'd  It  for  mjr 

own ; 
His  mother  lives  :  yet  whatsoe'er  you 

do,  L 

Fight  and  fight  well;  strike  and  strike' 

home.     O  dear 
Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards 

you,  you 
The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our 

cause. 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the 

aftertime. 
Your  very  armor  hallow'd,  and  your 

statues 
Rear'd,  sung  to,  when,  this   gad-fly 

brush'd  aside. 
We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 
And  mould  a  generation   strong  to 

move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  ta 

right,  till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's, 

know  herself ; 
And    Knowledge  in    our    own    land 

make  her  free, 
And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 

twins, 
Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the 

fiery  grain 
Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that 

orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 

morn." 

Then    came    a    postscript    dash'd 
across  the  rest. 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  youn; 


camp: 


We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors  —  none  to 
trust 

Since  our  arms  faii'd — this  Egypt- 
plague  of  men ! 

Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 
homes, 

Than  thus  man-girled  here :  indeed  I 
think 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


423 


Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother ;  which  she 

left: 
She  shall  not  have  it  back :  the  child 

shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her 

mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning:  there  the  tender  orphan 

hands 
I'elt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm 

from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world , 

farewell." 

I  ceased;  he  said,  "Stubborn,  but 

she  may  sit 
Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms. 
And  breed  up  warriors !   See  now,  tho' 

yourself 
Be   dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to 

sloughs 
That    swallow    common    sense,  the 

spindling  king, 
This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 
When    the    man  wants  weight,  the 

woman  takes  it  up, 
And  topples  down  the  scales;  but  this 

is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of 

all; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 

hearth : 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 

she : 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with 

heart : 
Man    to    command    and  woman    to 

obey; 
All  else  confusion.     Look  you!   the 

gray  mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny 

shrills 
M-om  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small 

goodman 
Shrinks  in  his   arm-chair  while  the 

fires  of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth :  but  you  —  she's 

yet  a  colt  — 
Take,  break  her :  strongly  groom'd  and 

straitly  curb'd 


She  might  not  rank  with  those  detest- 
able 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home, 

and  brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs 

in  the  street. 
They  say  she's  comely;  there's  the 

fairer  chance ; 
/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at 

her! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we. 
But  suiiers  change  of  frame.   A  lusty 

brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly. 

Boy, 
The  bearing  and  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king ; 

I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly 
noon: 

I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 

And  on  the  little  clause  "  take  not  his 
life : " 

I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 
woods. 

And  on  the  "  Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 
win : " 

I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 
said, 

And  how  the  strange  betrothment 
was  to  end : 

Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sor- 
cerer's curse 

That  one  should  fight  with  shadows 
and  should  fall; 

And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection 
came : 

King,  camp  and  college  tum'd  to  hol- 
low shows ; 

I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts. 

And    doing    battle    with    forgotten 


To   dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  . 

dream : 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of 

noon. 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied 

and  plumed 
We  enter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed    to    fifty,   till  the    trumpei 

blared 


424 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a, 

land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once 

more 
The  trumpet,  and  again :  at  which  the 

storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge 

of  spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they 

closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 

points. 
And  thunder.    Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream, 

I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.    On  his  haunches  rose 

the  steed, 
And    into    fiery  splinters    leapt  the 

lance, 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang 

the  fire. 
Part  sat  like  rocks:  part  reel'd  but 

kept  their  seats : 
Part    roll'd  on    the  earth  and  rose 

again  and  drew : 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering 

horses.    Down 
Prom  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side, 

and  down 
Prom  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's 

flail, 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and 

everywhere 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ring- 
ing lists. 
And  all  the  plain,  —  brand,  mace,  and 

shaft,  and  shield  — 
Shock'd,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil 

bang'd 
With  hammers ;  till  I  thought,  can 

this  be  he 
From  Gama's  dwarfish  loins  %  if  this 

be  so. 
The  mother  makes  us  most  —  and  in 

my  dream 
[  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace- 
front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes. 
And    highest,    among    the    statues, 

statue-like, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a 

Jael, 


With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watch- 
ing us, 

A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 

Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven ;  but 
she 

No  saint  —  inexorable  ^  no  tender- 
ness — 

Too  hard,  too  cruel :  yet  she  sees  me 
fight, 

Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall !  with  that  I 
drave 

Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 
Prince, 

And  Cyril,  one.  Yea,  let  me  make 
my  dream  • 

All  that  I  would.  But  that  large- 
moulded  man. 

His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake, 

Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stag- 
gering back 

With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and 
horseman,  came 

As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud. 

Playing  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 
drains. 

And  shadowing  down  the  champaign 
till  it  strikes 

On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 
cracks,  and  splits, 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar 
that  Earth 

Eeels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry;  for 
everything 

Gave  way  before  him :  only  Florian,  h& 

That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own. 
right  eye. 

Thrust  in  between;  but  Arao  rode 
him  down: 

And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against 
the  Prince, 

With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet, 
tough, 

Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at 
arms  ; 

But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 
smote 

And  threw  him :  last  I  spurr'd ;  I  felt 
my  veins 

Stretch  with  fierce  heat;  a  moment 
hand  to  hand. 

And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  t<» 
harpr  we  hung. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


425 


Till   I  struck  out   and  shouted;  the 

blade  glanced, 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream 

and  truth 
Flow'd  from  me ;  darkness  closed  me ; 

and  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead : 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry ; 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  thejr  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
CalPd  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Tet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  Ibee." 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived 

again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay ; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard : 
Tho',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me 

all 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to 

me. 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and 

more  strange; 
That  when  our  side  was  vanquish'd 

and  my  cause 
For  ever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great 

cry. 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  father  heard 

and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my 

casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after 

him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm :  there  on 

the  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she 

sang. 


"  Our  enemies  have  falPn,  have  fall'n :  the 
seed. 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

*'  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they 

came; 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears : 

they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand  :  i 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall,  * 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall'n 

themselves. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they 
came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lo  the  tree ! 
But  we  will  make  it  faggots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  an(7 

floor. 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n ;  they 

struck; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves, 

nor  knew 
There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
■Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoulder 

blade. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this  shall 

grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power :  and 

roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the 

fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"And  now,  O  maids,  behold  our 

sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken :  fear  we 

not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with 

a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 

feast. 
When    dames   and    heroines  of  the 

golden  year 
Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three: 

but  come. 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rlghta 

are  won. 


426 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


Xet  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with 

coarse  mankind, 
111  nurses ;  but  descend,  and  profEer 

these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause, 

that  there 
Xie  bruised  and  maim'd,  the  tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality.'' 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet 

in  her  arms. 
Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze 

valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the 

Park. 
iSome  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed, 

on  they  came. 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest : 

by  them  went 
The  enamor'd    air   sighing,  and  on 

their  curls 
Trom  the  high  tree  the  blossom  waver- 
ing fell. 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of 

light 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade :  but 

Blanche 
At  distance  follow'd :  so  they  came : 

anon 
Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they 

wound 
Timorously ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the 

herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the 

Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy 

does. 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on 

air. 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature   floated 

on 
To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay ; 

there  stay'd; 
Knelt  on  one  knee,  —  the  child  on  one, 

—  and  prest 
Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear 

deliverers. 
And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal 

names, 
And  said  "You  shall  not  lie  in  the 

tents  but  here. 


And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you 

fought,  and  served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or 

was  it  chance. 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from 

my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelp 

less  eye. 
Silent;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying 

stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 

pale. 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd ;  and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  rev- 
erend beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the 

blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd,  a  twitch  of 

pain 
Tortured    her  mouth,  and  o'er  her 

forehead  past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and 

she  said : 
"  He  saved  my  life  :  my  brother  slew 

him  for  it." 
No  more  :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and 

the  tress. 
And  held  them  up :   she   saw  them, 

and  a  day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory. 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother, 

shore  the  tress 
With  kisses,  ere  the   days  of  Lady 

Blanche : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face : 
Till   understanding    all    the    foolish 

work 
Of  fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all. 
Her   iron   will   was    broken   in    her 

mind; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her 

breast : 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the 

earth ;  she  laid 
A  feeling  fing.-r  on  my  brows,  and 

prfscntly 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


427 


'  O  Sire,"  she  said,  "  he  lives :  he  is 

not  dead : 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren 

here 
In  our  own  palace :  we  will  tend  on 

him 
Like   one  of  these :    if  so,  by    any 

means. 
To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks, 

that  make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's 

goal." 

She  said :  but  at  the  happy  word 

"  he  lives  " 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-f ather'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and 

evening  mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche 

ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by 

us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede, 
Xiay  like  a  new-fall'n  meteor  on  the 


Uncared  for,   spied  its  mother  and 

began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and 

to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  inno- 
cent arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.     She  the 

appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out  "  Mine 

—  mine  —  not  yours, 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine :  give  me  the 

child  " 
Ceased  all  on  tremble :   piteous  was 

the  cry : 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open- 

mouth'd. 
And  turn'd  each  face  her  way :  wan 

was  her  cheek 
With  hollow    watch,   her    blooming 

mantle  torn. 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her 

eye. 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 

and  half 


The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting, 

burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe ;  but  she 

nor  cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida 

heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her 

glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child;   but  he 

that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee :  then 

he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down 

she  look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying 

as  it  seem'd. 
Or  self-involved ;  but  when  she  learnt 

his  face. 
Remembering    his    ill-omen'd    song, 

arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and 

o'er  him  grew 
Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and 

he  said : 

"  O  fair  and  strong  and  terrible ! 

Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the 

Lion's  mane ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two 

more  terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on 

our  necks. 
We   vanquish'd,  you  the  Victor  of 

your  will. 
W)  lat  would  you  more  t  give  her  the 

child !  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation  :  he  is  dead. 
Or  all  as  dead  :  henceforth  we  let  you 

be: 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women;  and 

beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the   common 

love  of  these. 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving 

wheel 
Should    drag    you  down,  and  some 

great  Nemesis 


428 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd 

with  fire. 
And  tread  you  out  for  ever  :  but  how- 

soe'er 
Kx'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own 

arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to 

her, 
Give  her  the  child !    0  if ,  I  say,  you 

keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if 

you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dan- 
dled you. 
Or  own  one  port  of  sense  not  flint  to 

prayer. 
Give  her  the  child!   or  if  you  scorn 

to  lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt 

with  yours, 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her 

one  fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could 

not  kill. 
Give  me  it:  I  will  give  it  her." 

He  said : 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation 

roll'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening;  after  sank 

and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellow- 
ing, dwelt 
Full    on    the    child;    she    took    it: 

"Pretty  bud! 
liily  of  the  vale !  half  opeu'd  bell  of 

the  woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when 

a  world 
|0f  traitorous  friend  and  broken  sys- 
tem made 
(No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 
Pledge  of    a  love  not  to  be  mine, 

farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 
"We  two  must  part :  and  yet  how  fain 

was  I 
To  dream    thy  cause    embraced   in 

mine,  to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 

felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 

breast 


In  the   dead  prime :    but    may  thy 

mother  prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to 

me! 
And,  if    thou  needs   must  bear  the 

yoke,  I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom"  —  here  she  kiss'd 

it :  then  — 
"All  good  go  with  thee!  take  it.  Sir,"' 

and  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 

hands, 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as 

she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 

thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from 

head  to  foot. 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 

enough. 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it, 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppli- 

antly ; 

"  We  two  were  friends :  I  go   to 

mine  own  land 
For  ever :  find  some  other :  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  : 

yet  speak  to  me. 
Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  parJ 

forgiven." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the 

child. 
Then    Arac.      "Ida — 'sdeath!     you 

blame  the  man ; 
You  wrong  yourselves  —  the  woman 

is  so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to 

me! 
I  am  your  warrior :  I  and  mine  have 

fought 
Your  battle:  kiss  her;  take  her  hand, 

she  weeps : 
'Sdeath!  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice 

o'er  than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the 
ground. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


42f 


And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his 

chin. 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama 

said : 

"  I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood, 
And  I  believe  it.    Not  one  word  ?  not 

one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ■? 

not  from  me, 
Not  from  your  mother,  now  a  saint 

with  saints. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart  —  I  heard 

her  say  it  — 
'  Our  Ida  has  a  heart '  —  just  ere  she 

died  — 
'  But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still'   and  I  —  I  sought 

for  one  — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 
The    Lady  Blanche :     much    profit ! 

Not  one  word ; 
No !  tho'  your  father  sues :  see  how 

you  stand 
Stifi  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good 

knights  maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to 

death. 
For  your  wild  whim :  and  was  it  then 

for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 
Where   we   withdrew  from    summer 

heats  and  state. 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath 

the  planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her 

that's  gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us  ?  Is  it 

kind? 
Speak  to  her  I  say :  is  this  not  she  of 

whom, 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you 

said  to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your 

own  age. 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ; 

now  should  men  see 
Two  women    faster    welded   in  on§ 

love 
Than    pairs   of    wedlock;    she    you 

walk'd  with,  she 


You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 

in  the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth. 
And  right  ascension.  Heaven  knows 

what ;  and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one    little  kindly 

word. 
Not  one  to  spare  her :  out  upon  you, ' 

flint !  ( 

You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any; 

nay, 
You  shame  your  mother's  judgment 

too.    Not  one  ? 
You  will  not?  well  —  no  heart  have 

you,  or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitter- 
ness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond 

his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of 

her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so 

long. 
Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  lan- 
guor wept : 
Her  head  a  little  bent;  and  on  her^ 

mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water :  then  brake  out  my 

sire. 
Lifting    his     grim    head    from    my 

wounds.     "  O  you. 
Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman 

even  now. 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend: 

our  son. 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it — 

but  we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un 

forgiven, 
And  think  that  you  might  mix  his. 

draught  with  death, 
When  your  skies  change  again :  the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer :  on  to  the  tents :  take  up  the 

Prince." 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was 
prick'd  to  attend 


430 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


A    tempest,    thro'    the    cloud    that 

(iimm'd  her  broke 
A   genial  warmth    and     light    once 

more,  and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops    on    her    sad 

friend. 

"  Come  hither, 

0  Psyche,''  she  cried  out,  "  embrace 

me,  come 

Quick  while  I  melt ;  make  reconcile- 
ment sure 

With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind 
an  hour : 

Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander 
so ! 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children 
being  chid ! 

/  seem  no  more :  I  want  f orgireness 
too: 

1  should  hare  had  to  do  with  none 

but  maids. 
That  have  no  links  with  men.    Ah 

false  but  dear. 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  1  — 

why  ?  —  Yet  see, 
3efore  these  kings  we  embrace  you 

yet  once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion. 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O  sire, 
'Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait 

upon  him, 
Xike  mine  own  brother.    For  my  debt 

to  him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 

know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no    more :    yourself    and 

yours  shall  have 
Free  adit ;   we   will   scatter  all    our 

maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 

hearth  : 
What  use  to  keep  them  here  —  now  ? 

grant  my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help  ;  speak  to 

the  king : 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch 

of  that 
Which    kills    me   with  myself,  and 

drags  me  down 
#rom  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up 

with  all 


The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  woman- 
kind. 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd :  the  king  replied  not :  Cyril 

said : 
"  Your    brother.    Lady  —  Florian,  — 

ask  for  him 
Of    your    great    head  —  for    he    ifi 

wounded  too  — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  snule, 
"  Our  laws  are  broken :  let  him  enter 

too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mourn- 
ful song, 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "  Ay  so,"  she 

said, 
"I  stagger  in  the  stream ;  I  cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 

hour: 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let 

it  be." 
"Ay  so?"  said  Blanche:  "Amazed 

am  I  to  hear 
Your  Highness:  but  your  Highness 

breaks  with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make : 

'twas  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  man- 
kind. 
And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men 

came  to  woo 
Your  Highness  —  verily  I  think   to 

win." 

So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a  wintry 

eye: 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  th»t  like  a  bell 
ToU'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 

tower. 
Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and 

scorn. 

"  Fling  our  doors  wide !  all,  all,  not 

one,  but  all. 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend 

or  foe. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


431 


Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls 

flit, 
Till  the  storm  die  !  but  had  you  stood 

by  us, 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from 

his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would 

sting  us  too. 
But  shall  not.    Pass,  and  mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are 

gone." 

She  turn'd ;  the  very  nape  of  her 

white  neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation  :  but  the 

Prince 
Her  brother  came ;  the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words :  nor 

did  mine  own 
Befuse   her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his 

hand. 

Then     us    they    lifted    up,    dead 

weights,  and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors:  to  them  the 

doors  gave  way 
Groaning,   and  in  the  Vestal   entry 

shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels ; 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the 

hall,  and  there 
Rested .  but  great  the  crush  was,  and 

each  base. 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers :  at  the  further 

end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great 

cats 
Close   by  her,  like   supporters   on  a 

shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear :  but  in  the  cen- 
tre stood 
The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes ; 

amazed 
They  glared  upon   the  women,  and 

aghast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent, 

save 


When    armor     clash'd    or    jingled, 

while  the  day. 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall, 

and  shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and 

steel. 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  head 

to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas   on   the 

helm. 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on 

flame. 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started 

up. 
And  shuddering  fled  from  room   to- 

room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To    one    deep    chamber    shut    from 

sound,  and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness ;  left 

me  in  it ; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid ;  and 

all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  many  a  maiden  passing 

home 
Till  happier  times ;  but  some  were  left 

of  those 
Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out 

and  in, 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside 

the  walls, 
Walked  at  their  will,  and  everything 

was  chang'd. 

vn. 
Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop   from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  theer 

Ask  me  no  more. 
Ask  me  no  more ;  what  answer  should  I 
give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die  t 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  1  should  bid  thee  live; 
Ask  me  no  mord. 


432 


ITHE  PRINCESS.'    A  MEDLEY, 


^fik  me  no  more :    thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal'd : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  gj-eat  river  take  me  to  the  main : 
Ko  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 
So   their  fair   college  tum'd  to  hos- 
pital ; 
At  first  with   all  confusion:  by  and 

by 
Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other 


A    kindlier    influence    reign'd ;    and 

everywhere 
Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 
Hung  round  the  sick :   the  maidens 

came,  they  talk'd. 
They  sang,  they  read :  till,  she  not  fair 

hegan 
To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  be- 
came 
Her  former  beauty  treble ;  and  to  and 

fro 
With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel 

offices. 
Like  creatures  native  unto   gracious 

act. 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they 

moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell. 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent 

with  shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd ;  seldom  she  spoke : 

but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone 

for  hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of 

men 
Darkening  her  female  field :  void  was 

her  use, 
VAnd  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to 


O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great 

black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall 

of  night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge 

to  shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from 

the  sand. 


And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn 
by  tarn 

Expunge  the  world :  so  fared  she  gaz- 
ing there ; 

So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret, 
blank 

And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain ;  till 
down  she  came. 

And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 
the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd ;  and  morn  by 
morn  the  lark 

Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 
but  I 

Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 

And  twilight  gloom'd ;  and  broader- 
grown  the  bowers 

Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 
and  Heaven, 

Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  but  I, 

Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 
reach  me,  lay 

Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Uni- 
verse, 

Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor 
the  hand 

That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in 
their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Morian:  with 

her  oft, 
Melissa  came  ;  for  Blanche  had  gone, 

but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
Court-favor  •  here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the 

couch. 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded 

man 
With  blush  and  smile,  a  medicine  in 

themselves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous 

hours,  and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain ;  nor  seera'd  it 

strange  that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those    fair 

charities 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


433 


Joln'd  at  her  side ;  nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close 

in  love. 
Than  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble 

deeper  down. 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit 

obtain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.  Not  tho'  Blanche 

had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the 

fields 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 

good  name ; 
Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  re- 
stored ; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she, 

but  f  ear'd 
To  Incense  the  Head  once  more ;  till 

on  a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche :  on  her  foot  she 

hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which 

her  face 
A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on ;  but 

each 
Assumed  from  thence  a  half -consent 

involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were 

at  peace. 

Nor  only  these :  Love  in  the  sacred 

halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on 

maid  and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my 

claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled ;  nor 

yet 

Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  agam 

and  whole  ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she 
sat: 


Then  came  a  change ;  for  sometimes 

I  would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"Youarenotlda;"  clasp  it  once  again. 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  know  her  not. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which 

seem'd  a  truth : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  los**  ' 

my  mind. 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should 

die : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care. 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons. 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark, 

when  clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the    palace 

floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  lime  from  all  their  silver 

tongues  — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier 

days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's 

grief. 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in 

heart  — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken 

love, 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often    feeling  of    the  helpless 

hands. 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 

cheek  — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up. 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last, 

to  these. 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung 

with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier ;  frail 

at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  well-nigh  close 

to  death 
For  weakness :  it  was  evening :  silent 

light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein 

were  wrought 


434 


THE  PRINCESS;   A  MEDLEY. 


Two  grand  designs ;  for  on  one  side 

arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and 

storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.    Titanic  shapes, 

they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among 

the  rest 
A  dwarf-like  Cato  cower'd.    On  the 

other  side 
Eortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  be- 
hind, 
A  train  of  dames :  by  axe  and  eagle 

sat. 
With  all  their  foreheads   drawn  in 

Roman  scowls. 
And  half  the  wolf's-milk  curdled  in 

their  veins. 
The  fierce  triumvirs ;  and  before  them 

paused 
Hortensia  pleading:    angry  was  her 

face. 

I  saw  the  forms  :  I  knew  not  where 

I  was : 
They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows  ; 

nor  more 
Sweet  Ida :  palm  to  palm  she  sat :  the 

dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her 

shape 
And  rounder  seem'd :    I  moved :    I 

sigh'd :  a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon 

my  hand : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what 

life  I  had, 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  un- 
fold, 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the 

sun. 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on 

her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whis- 

peringly : 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some 
sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself : 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew. 


I  ask  you  nothing :  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I  shall  die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I 

die." 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance. 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his 

friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor    move,  nor 

make  one  sign, 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.     She 

turn'd  ;  she  paused  ; 
She  stoop'd  ;  and  out  of  languor  leapt 

aery; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 

death ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms 

she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a 

robe. 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her 

mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when 

she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer   all 

with  love ; 
And    down    the     streaming    crystal 

dropt ;  and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To    meet    her    Graces,    where    they 

deck'd  her  out 
For  worship  without  end ;  nor  end  of 

mine. 
Stateliest,  for  thee !    but  mute   she 

glided  forth. 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank 

and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a 

happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  r  she,  near 

me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she 

read. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


435 


''N'ow  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the 
white ; 
Kor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  tin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  lire-fly  wakens ;  waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a 
gho'st. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  earth  all  Danae'  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  rae. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
80  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 

I  heard  her  turn  the  page;   she 
found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low, 
she  read ; 

**  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  moun- 
tain height : 
What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd 

sang) 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hiils? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and 

cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come. 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  dewn 
And  find  him ;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize. 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
"With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns. 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine. 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice. 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  Out  of  dusky  doors  : 
But  follow ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 

spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water- 
smoke. 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air : 
Bo  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 
i  Await  thee ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
I  Arise  to  thee ;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound. 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hun-ying  thro'  the  lawn, 
'  The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned ;  while  with  shut 
eyes  I  lay 


Listening;  then  look'd.    Pale  was  the 

perfect  face; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  lahor'd; 

and  meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the 

luminous  eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had 

fail'd 
In  sweet  humility ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry ;  but  she  still  were 

loth, 
She  still  were  loth  to  yield  herself  to 

one 
That  wholly  scorn'd    to    help  their 

equal  rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbar- 
ous laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to    judge   their 

cause  from  her 
That  wrong'd  it,  sought  far  less  for 

truth  than  power 
In  knowledge :  something  wild  within 

her  breast, 
A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat 

her  down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from 

week  to  week : 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time. 

In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts :  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl  — 
"  Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen 

of  farce! 
When  comes  another  such  ?  never,  I 

think, 
Till  the  Sun  drop,  dead,  from  the 

signs." 

Her  voice 
Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon 

her  hands. 
And  her  great  heart  thro'  all    the 

faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared 

not  break; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark 

world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  » 

bird, 


*36 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for 

light: 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 

fell. 

"Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I 
said,  "  nor  blame 

Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  bar- 
barous laws ; 

These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world  till  now. 

Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me, 
that  know 

The  woman's  cause  is  man's:  they 
rise  or  sink 

Together,  dwarf'd  or  godlike,  bond  or 
free: 

For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with 
man 

The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares 
with  man 

His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him 
to  one  goal. 

Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 
hands  — 

If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miser- 
able. 

How  shall  men  grow?  but  work  no 
more  alone ! 

Our  place  is  much :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 

We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aid- 
ing her  — 

Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 

That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag 
her  down  — 

Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out 
of  all 

Within  her — let  her  make  herself 
her  own 

To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and 
be 

All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 

But  diverse :  could  we  make  her  as 
the  man. 

Sweet  Love  were  slain:  his  dearest 
bond  is  this, 

Kot  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 
grow; 


The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  ot 

man; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 

height, 
Nor  lose    the  wrestling  thews    that 

throw  the  world ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child- 
ward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger 

mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 

Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  fuU-summ'd  in  alj 

their  powers, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each   and    reverencing 

each. 
Distinct  in  individualities. 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who 

love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back 

to  men ; 
Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals, 

chaste  and  calm : 
Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of 

human-kind. 
May  these  things  be ! " 

Sighing  she  spoke  "I  fear 
They  will  not." 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own   lives,  and    this    proud 

watchword  rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought 

in  thought. 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they 

grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one 

full  stroke, 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke :    "  A 

dream 
That  once  was  mine !   what  woman 

taught  you  this  ?  " 

"  Alone,"  I  said,  "from  earlier  than 
I  know. 


THE  PRINCESS;    A  MEDLEY. 


437 


Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of 

the  world, 
I  loved  the  woman  :  he,  that  doth  not, 

lives 
A  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet 

self. 
Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 

death. 
Or  keeps   his  wing'd  affections  dipt 

with  crime  : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved 

her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  house- 
hold ways. 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender 

wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,   all 

dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Parar 

dise. 
Interpreter  between   the    Gods    and 

men. 
Who  look'd  all  native  to  her  place, 

and  yet 
On  tiptoe   seem'd  to   touch  upon  a 

sphere 
Too    gross   to    tread,  and  all    male 

minds  perforce 
Sway'd   to   her  from  their  orbits  as 

they  moved. 
And  girdled  her  with  music.     Happy 

he 
With  such  a  mother  !  faith  in  woman- 
kind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 

things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip 

and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 
"  But  I," 
Said  Ida,   tremulously,   "so  all  un- 
like— 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself 

with  words : 
This  mother  is  your  model.     I  have 

heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts:   they  well 

might  be :  I  seem 
A  mockery  to  my  own  self.     Never, 

Prince ; 
You  cannot  lore  me." 

"  Nay  bui  thee,"  I  said 


"From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pic» 

tured  eyes. 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 

and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron 

moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  rever- 
ence up,  and  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boy- 
hood: now, 
Giv'u  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro' 

thee. 
Indeed  I  love :  the  new  day  comes,  the 

light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for 

faults 
Lived  over :  lift  thine  eyes ;  my  doubts 

are  dead. 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows  ; 

the  change. 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has.kUl'd 

it.     Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on 

mine. 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind 

half -world ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon 

my  brows; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour, 

and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 
come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  wood- 
land reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 

Forgive  me, 
I  waste  iny  heart  in  signs :  let  be.  My 

bride. 
My  wife,  my  life.  O  we  will  walk  this 

world. 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across 

the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love 

thee:  come. 
Yield  thyself  up :  my  hopes  and  thine 

are  one : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and 

thyself ; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and 

trust  to  me." 


438 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give 

you  all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it 

rose: 
The  words  are  mostly  mine ;  for  when 

we  ceased 
There   came   a  minute's  pause,  and 

Walter  said, 
"  I  wish  she  had  not  yielded !  "  then  to 

me, 
"  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically !  " 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women :  I  gave 

assent ; 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter'd  scheme 

of  seven 
Together  in  one  sheaf  ?      What  style 

could  suit  ■? 
The  men  required  that  I  should  give 

throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque. 
With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia 

first: 
The  women  —  and  perhaps  they  felt 

their  power, 
JFor  something  in  the  ballads  which 

they  sang. 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat. 
Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  bur- 
lesque, 
And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn 

close  — 
They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  some- 
thing real, 
A  gallant  fight,  a.  noble  princess  — 

why 
Not    make    her    true-heroic  —  true- 
sublime  1 
Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the 

close  ? 
Which  yet  with  such  a  framework 

scarce  could  be. 
Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the 

two. 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists : 
And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please 

them  both. 
And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 
1  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 
And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself 

nor  them. 


But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took 

no  part 
In  OUT  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch'd  her;   and  she  sat,  she 

pluck'd  the  grass. 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking :  last, 

she  fixt 
A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and 

said, 
"  You  —  tell  us   what  we  are  "  who 

might  have  told. 
For  she  was  cra'mm'd  with  theories 

out  of  books. 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout :  the  gates 

were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarm- 
ing now. 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden 

rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these : 
we  climb'd 

The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turn- 
ing saw 

The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and 
half 

Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land 
of  peace ; 

Gray  halls  alone  among  their  massive 
groves ; 

Trim  hamlets ;  here  and  there  a  rustic 
tower 

Half -lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths 
of  wheat ; 

The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream; 
the  seas ; 

A  red  sail,  or  a  white;  and  far  be- 
yond. 

Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts 
of  France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden ! "  said  my 

college  friend. 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son,  "  and 

there ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 

her  ofi, 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 

herself, 
A  nation    yet,  the    rulers    and    the 

ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a 

faith, 


THE  PRINCESS;    A   MEDLEY. 


439 


Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 

have  made, 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them 

when  we  will. 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 

crowd  — 
But  yonder,  whiff !  there  comes  a  sud- 
den heat, 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his 

head. 
The  king  is   scared,  the  soldier  will 

not  fight. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and 

stab, 
j  A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  Tolls 

the  world 
In  mock  heroics   stranger  than  our 

own; 
Eevolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  schoolboys'  barring 

out; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they 

are, 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in 

them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise 

a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs  —  God  bless   the 

narrow  seas ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic 

broad." 

"Have  patience,"  I  replied,  "our- 
selves are  full 
Of  social  wrong;  and  maybe  wildest 

dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the 

truth : 
For  me,  the   genial  day,  the  happy 

crowd. 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a 

faith, 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a 

chUd 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.    Patience !    Give 

it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs:  there  is  a  hand 

that  guides." 

In  such  discourse  we   gain'd   the 
garden  rails. 


And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where 

he  stood, 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks. 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head, 

and  look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Eng- 
lishman, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine,  ' 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A    pamphleteer    on   guano    and    on 

grain, 
A  quarter-sessions    chairman,    abler 

none; 
Fair-hair'd  and  redder  than  =■  windy 

morn; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now 

him,  of  those 
That  stood    the    nearest  —  now    ad- 

dress'd  to  speech  — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 

as  closed 
Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for 

the  year 
To  follow :   a  shout  rose  again,  and 

made 
The  long  line  of    the    approaching 

rookery  swerve 
Prom  the  broad  elms,  and  shook  the 

branches  of  the  deer 
Prom  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns, 

and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset;  O,  a 

shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that 

hails 
Premier  or  king!     Why  should  not 

these  great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times 

a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  ■?     So  thrice 

they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd 

away. 

But    we  went   back  to  the    Abbey, 

and  sat  on, 
So    much    the    gathering    darkness 

charm'd :  we  sat 
But    spoke    not,    rapt    in    nameless 


440  MA  UD. 


Perchance  upon  the  future  man :  the 

walls 
Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and 

owls  whoop'd, 
And    gradually    the  powers   of    the 

night, 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the 

wind, 
Deepening    the    courts    of    twilight 

broke  them  up 


Thro'    all    the  silent  spaces  of  the 

worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven 

of  Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly. 
Disrobed  the   glimmering    statue  of 

Sir  Balph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


MAUD;    A  MONODEAMA. 

PART  I. 
I. 
I. 

I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath. 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood. 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her,  answers  "  Death." 

II. 
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  tlie  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 

III. 
Did  he  fling  himself  down  ?  who  knows  ?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  fall'd, 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair. 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd. 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 

IV. 

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  whisper'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  shuddering  night. 

V. 

Villany  somewhere !  whose  1     One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
JSTot  he  ;  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintained : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  lett  us  flaccid  and  draiu'd. 

VI. 

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  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Thau  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


MAUD.  441 


But  these  are  the  days  of  adTance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  hare  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word  ? 
I3  it  peace  or  war  ?     CiTil  war,  as  1  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
:The  vUer,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 


Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passiTely  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  —  why  not  ?     I  hare  neither  hope  nor  trnst; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint. 

Cheat  and  be  eheated,  and  die  :  who  knows  1  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olire,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by. 
When  the  poor  are  hoTell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie ; 
Peace  in  her  yineyard  —  yes !  —  but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffians  head. 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife. 
And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread. 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 


And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  rillanous  centre-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. 


When  a  Mammonite  mother  tills  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  eama  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 
And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam. 
That  the  smooth-faced  snubnosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  tilL  ■ 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. 


What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  7  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Eather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  ahatter'd  Umbs  and  a  wTetched  swindler's  lie  ? 


442  MAUD. 


Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ?  there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  tlie  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. 

XVI. 

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  ? 


Workmen  up  at  the  Hall! — they  are  coming  hack  from  abroad; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  millionaire  : 
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. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapee, 
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  darling  of  all,  — 

XIX. 

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. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  myself,  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  carriage  past. 

Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her :  where  is  the  fault  1 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null. 

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

Tor  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. 

in. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
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 


MAUD.  443 

Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  gemhbe,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  haif  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  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 
The  shimng  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 

I. 

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  I 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite ; 
And  Jack  on  his  ale-house  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar ; 
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 ! 


When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  T 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd  t 
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. 
O  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 


I  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 

I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  lite  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way  : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrikei. 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey» 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 
Do  we  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  j 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 


444 


MAUD. 


A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
Sot  him  did  his  liigh  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran. 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
Ae  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth. 
So  mt.ny  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  1 


The  nan  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 ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 


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  1 

Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  1  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail  1 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 

/  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 


Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways. 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

I'ar-ofE  from  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. 

X, 

And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love. 

The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 

Ah  Maud,  you  milk-white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
1  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  life. 


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, 
A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life. 


InthehappymorningoflifeandofMayi 
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. 

II. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face. 
And    wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the 
simuy  sky. 


MAUD. 


445 


And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and 
her  grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die, 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so 
I  sordid  and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 


Silence,  beautiful  voice ! 

Be   still,  for  you  only  trouble    the 

mind 
With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 
A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 
Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 
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    "  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  cuflE'd  by  the  gale : 
I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


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  ? 
And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile 

so  sweet, 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
i'or  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 

III. 
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. 


What  if  with  her  sunny  hair. 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold. 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 

Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 

pieopatra-like  as  of  old 

To  entangle  me  when  we  met. 

To  have  her  lionj:oll  in  a  silken  net 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 


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. 


What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me. 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he. 
That  jewell'd  mass  of  millinery, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence. 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  alotff, 
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 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes,      i 
That  so,  when  the   rotten  hustings' 

shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 


For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and    ward,  keep   watch 
and  ward, 


446 


MAUD. 


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. 


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, 
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. 


O  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  Up  ? 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child ; 
Slie  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 
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. 

VII. 

I. 

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  1 


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  sigh'd 
"No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 


MAUD. 


447 


IX. 

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, 
Eapidly  riding  far  away, 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride. 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  yainly  in  the  night, 
Then  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


Sick,  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, 
Thtre  amid  perky  larches  and  pine. 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

II. 
What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out ' 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her 

tide 


Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  wks  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  1-  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. 

III. 
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-brimm'd  hawker  of  holy 

things. 
Whose  ear  is  cramm'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  conse- 
quence ? 
Put  down  the  passions    that   make 

earth  Hell ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride. 
Jealousy,  down !  cut  ofE  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. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  8 

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. 


448 


MAUD. 


Ah  God,  for  »  man  with  heart,  head, 

hand. 
Like  some  of  the  limple  great  ones 

gone 
Por  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. 

VI. 

And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me. 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XI. 
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. 

II. 
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. 

II. 

jWhere  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood; 
'    And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
j  Gathering  woodland  lilies, 
Myriads  blow  together. 


Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 

Ma»d  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

V. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor ! 
O  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 

If  lowliness  could  save  her. 


I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy. 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

VII. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud  ? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 


Look,  a  horse  at  the  door. 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIIL 


Seom'd,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I 

scorn. 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  t 
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,  i 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd  itself  on  his  breast  and  his 

hands. 

II. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship ; 


MAUD. 


449 


But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an 

air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


"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  ? 
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. 

IT. 

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 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate ; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top. 
He  is  olaspt  by  a  passion-flower. 

II. 
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. 


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  rivulet  on  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 
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  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a 

fool  of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells,        i 
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  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else. 
Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more 
dear. 


450 


MAUD. 


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. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  Ms  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 : 
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, 
Prom  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  herbeauty  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. 


■^l 


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  7 
Shall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for 

me? 
I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


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. 

XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day. 

Prom  the  shining  fields. 
Go  not,  happy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Eosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

Over  glowing  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. 

xvin. 


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  baifks,  close  on  the  proirv 

ised  good. 


MAUD. 


4SI 


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 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden, 

there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb'd  Eve  from 

whom  she  came. 


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. 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be 

born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd 

hand. 


Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  in 

understand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron. 

skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes,, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and. 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man.  ' 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  X, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hot 

low  sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one 

simple  girl. 


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 


It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald   twinkles  in  the 

grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 


Not  die ;   but  live  a  life   of  truest 

breath. 
And    teach    true   life  to  fight  with 

mortal  wrongs.  * 

0,  why  should    Love,  like    men  in 

drinking-songs. 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust 

of  death  1 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long 

loving  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 

this? 
"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 

here  ',- 

With   dear  Love's  tie,  .%akes  Love 

himself  more  dearl*' 


4S2 


MAUD. 


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, 
JVIy  own  heart's  heart,  my  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  ? 
I  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 
I'hat  seems  to  draw  —  but  it  shall  not 

be  so: 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX. 

'^         I- 
Her  brother  Is  coming  back  to-night. 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  1   do  I  dream  of  bliss  ? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 
O  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  thjs 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watchmg  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. 


I  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  sigh- 
ing 
A  world  of  trouble  within ! 


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. 


MAUD. 


453 


Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till 

death. 
Mine,  mine  —  our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a 
heat 

To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a 
bond, 

That,  if  left  uncaucell'd,  had  been  so 
sweet : 

And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  some- 
thing 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  re- 
conciled; 

And  I  was  cursing  them  and  mi 
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 ! 


^^ 


But  then  what  a  flint  is  he ! 
Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 
I  find  wheneTer  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  be- 
fore ; 
And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her 

cheek 
When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 


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. 
Then  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and 

play. 
Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and 

day. 
And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 

VIII. 

Kind  ■?  but  the  deathbed  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  ? 


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  me  more  wretched 

Than  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 


So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 

All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

I  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. 
I. 
Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange,  that  /  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  Mm,— 


454 


MAUD. 


She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
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  1 
Or  for  chilling  liis  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. 


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  pi  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 


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, 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

IV. 

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 

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  groimd. 
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  Kivulet,  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." 

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  rose  is  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. 


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. 

IV. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will   the    dancers    leave    hei 
alone  % 


MAUD. 


455 


She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
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. 

V. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night 
goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what   sighs  are 
those, 
!For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to 

the  rose, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

VI. 

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 ; 

VII. 

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. 

VIII. 

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 ; 
Eut  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. 

IX. 

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  i? 
late ; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear; " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

PART  II. 

I. 

I. 

"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  ■? 
0  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 ; 
iTor  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken 

a  word, 


456 


MA  UD. 


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  evil  stroke ; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeem- 
able 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. 
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; 
A<nd  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  pas- 
sionate cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears, 
till  I  die,  till  I  die. 


Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat  — 
What  was  it  ?   a  lying  trick  of  the 

brain  ? 
Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  shadow  there  at  my  feet. 
High  over  the  shadowy  land. 
It  is  gone ;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 

gentle  rain, 
When  they  should  burst  and  drown 

with  deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger 

and  lust. 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how 

to  forgive : 


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  j 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

II. 

I. 

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. 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 


What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


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  vras  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  ? 


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 ! 


Breton,  not  Briton ;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear — 


MAUD. 


457 


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  moTes  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  ? 


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. 


For  years,  a  measureless  ill. 
For  years,  for  ever,  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. 


Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a  passion  so  intense 
One  would  think  that  it  well 
Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 
That  it   should,  by  being  so    over- 
wrought. 
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. 


Who  knows  if  be  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. 

in. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply  : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at 

hand 
When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

IV. 

I. 
O  that  'twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  lovft 
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. 


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. 


4S8 


MAUD. 


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. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs. 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
JFor  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
I'or  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 


'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 
'Tis  a  morniijg  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 
Hippies  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


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  pas- 
sionate cry. 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roU'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. 


Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  Again, 


Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain. 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about  1 
'Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without 


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. 


Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 
It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 
Thro'  all  that  crowd   confused  and 

loud. 
The  shadow  still  the  same ; 
And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 


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. 


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 "  ? 


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. 
Hearts  with  no  love  for  me ; 
Always  I  long  to  creep 


MAUD. 


459 


Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 
There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Iiong  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,  but 

it  is  not  so  ; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad  7 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go ; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 
I«  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. 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill 

their  church. 
As  the   churches  have    kill'd    their 

Christ. 


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,  be- 
traying 

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  hira 
not, 

For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead, 


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? 


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. 


Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip. 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the 

rat; 
I  know  not  whether  le  came  in  the 

Hanover  ship. 


460 


MAUD. 


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. 


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  be- 
side, 

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 ; 

E'er  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of 
pride. 

He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spec- 
tral bride ; 

S'or  he,  if  he  had  not  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 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy 

day; 
Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think 

of  it; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse 

in  the  pit  f 


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. 


PART  III. 
VI. 


Mt  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  for  a  little  thing: 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time  of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs. 


MAUD.  461 

And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 

And  starry  Gemini  liang  like  glorious  crowns 

Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 

That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  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  righ^ 

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  millionaire : 

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. 


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 

With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle  cry. 

Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 

Par  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 


Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher  alms 
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  unroU'd! 
Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
Por  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 : 


462  MAUD. 

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  deathf ul-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart  of  Are. 


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  good  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. 


6    , 


■^Hf, 


EITOOH    ARDEl!?" 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


oNWo 


ENOCH  AEDEN. 

JJONG  lines  of  cliff  breaking  haTe  left 
a  chasm ; 

And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yel- 
low sands; 

Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow 
wharf 

In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church ; 
and  higher 

A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 
mill; 

And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray 
down 

With  Danish  barrows;  and  a  hazel- 
wood, 

By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 

Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the 
down. 


Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years 
ago. 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie 

Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Kay  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the 

shore. 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fish- 
ing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty-fluke,  and  boats  up- 
drawn; 


And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving 
sand 

To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  follow- 
ing up 

And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily 
left 

The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the 

cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping 

house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the 

next, 
While  Annie  stlU  was  mistress;  but 

at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a 

week: 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little 

wife." 
"Mine  too"  said  Philip  "turn  and 

turn  about " : 
When,    if     they    quarrell'd,    Enoch 

stronger-made 
Was  master:  then  would  Philip,  his 

blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of 

tears, 
Shriek  out  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and 

at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  com- 
pany, 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her 

sake. 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to 

both. 


464 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  child- 
hood past, 

And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascend- 
ing sun 

Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his 
heart 

On  that  one  girl;  and  Enoch  spoke 
his  love. 

But  Philip  loved  in  silence ;  and  the 
girl 

Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to 
him; 

But  she  loved  Enoch ;  tho'  she  knew 
it  not, 

And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.  Enoch 
set 

A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes. 

To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 

To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make 
a  home 

For  Annie :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at 
last 

A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 

A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than  Enoch.  Likewise  had  he  served 
a  year 

On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made 
himself 

Full  sailor ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd 
a  life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down- 
streaming  seas : 

And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favora- 
bly: 

And  ere  he  toueh'd  his  one-and- 
twentieth  May, 

He  purcliased  his  own  boat,  and  made 
a  home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  halfway 

up 
The    narrow    street    that    clamber  d 
toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  even- 
tide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great 

and  small. 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.     Philip 
atay'd 


(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing 

him) 
An  hour  behind;  but  as  he  climb'd 

the  hill. 
Just   where  the  prone  edge   of   the 

wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the 

pair, 
Enoch    and  Annie,    sitting    hand-in 

hand. 
His   large    gray  eyes    and  weather- 
beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire. 
That  burn'd  as  on  an  altar.    Philip 

look'd. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his 

doom; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together, 

groan'd, 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded 

life 
Crept,  down  into  the  hollows  of  the 

wood ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in 

merrymaking. 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose 

and  past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  himger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,   and    merrily 

rang  the  bells, 
And    merrily  ran  the    years,   seven 

happy  years. 
Seven  happy  years    of    health  and 

competence. 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 
With  children;  first  a,  daughter.    In 

him  woke. 
With  his   first  babe's  first  cry,  the 

noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ;  a  wish 

renewed. 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful 

seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward ;  for  in 

truth 
Enoch's    white    horse,    and   Enoch's 

ocean-spoil 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


465 


In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 

Eough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  win- 
ter gales. 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were 
known. 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the 
down. 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp. 

And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonelv 
Hall, 

Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  min- 
istering. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things 

human  change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow 

port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times    to   go  by  land  or 

sea; 
(i.nd  once  when  there,  and  clambering 

on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and 

fell: 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted 

him; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there, 

his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his 

trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :  and  on 

him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing 

man. 
Yet  lying   thus  inactive,  doubt  and 

gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the 

night. 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar  :  then  he 

pray'd 
"Save     them    from  ^ this,    whatever 

comes  to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of 

that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 
Came,  for    he    knew  the   man    and 

valued  him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 


And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.    Would 

he  go'? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd  from  this  port.     Would  Enoch 

have  the  place  ■? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
fiejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance 

appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little 

cloud 
Cuts  off  the  flery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing :  yet  the 

wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the  children  — 

what  to  do  ? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved 

her  well — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weath- 

er'd  in  her ! 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his 

horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what 

she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth 

in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 

wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 

was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yon- 
der? go 
This  voyage  more  than  once?  yea  twice 

or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed — last,  returning  rich. 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft. 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life. 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  edu- 
cated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 

own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all: 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 

pale. 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  herlatest-born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 


466 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 

limbs, 
Appraised    his  weight    and    fondled 

fatherlike. 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 

spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 

had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his 

will: 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she. 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear. 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  re- 

new'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of 

it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her. 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 

vain ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 

Eor  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend. 

Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and 
set  his  hand 

To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting- 
room 

With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods 
and  stores. 

So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at 
home. 

Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer 
and  axe. 

Auger  and  saw,  while  Aimie  seem'd  to 
hear 

Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill'd 
and  rang, 

Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful 
hand,  — 

The  space  was  narrow,  —  having  or- 
der'd  all 

Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature 
packs 

Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ; 
and  he,  ' 


Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to 

the  last. 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of 

farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.    All  his  Annie's 

fears. 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter 

to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  marf 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mys- 
tery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man- 

in-God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and 

babes 
Whatever  came  to  him :  and  then  he 

said 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of 

God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  f  gj 

me, 
Eor  I'll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you 

know  it." 
Then  lightly  rooking  baby's  ■  cradle 

"  and  he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 

it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my 

knees 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign 

parts. 
And  make  him  merry,  when  I  come 

home  again. 
Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I 

go." 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she 
heard. 
And  almost  hoped  herself ;  but  when) 

he  turn'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  thingSt 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven, 

she  heard. 
Heard  and  not  heard  him ;  as  the  vil- 
lage girl, 
Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath' the 
spring, 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


467 


Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 
her, 

Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  over- 
flow. 

At  length  she  spoke  "  0  Enoch,  you 

are  wise ; 
And  yet   for   all   your  wisdom  well 

know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no 

more." 

"  Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "  I  shall 
look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day)  get  you  a  seaman's 

glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 
fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  mo- 
ments came, 
"  Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  com- 
forted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come 

again 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must 

go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me ;  or  if  you 

fear 
Cost  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  an- 
chor holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  T  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  1  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His :  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  droop- 
ing wife. 
And  kiss'd  his  wonder-stricken  little 

ones; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness. 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  him 

Enoch  said 
"Wake  him  not ;  let  him  sleep  ;  how 

should  the  child 
Kemember  this  ?  "  and  kiss'd  him  in 

his  cot. 
But  A^nie  from  her  baby's  forehead 

cUpt 


A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Thro'  all  his  future ;  but  now  hastily 

caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch 
mention'd,  came, 

Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain : 
perhaps  '■ 

Slie  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her 
eye; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  trem- 
ulous ; 

She  saw  him  not :  and  while  he  stood 
on  deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessu* 
past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing 
sail 

She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping 
for  him ; 

Then,  tho'  she  moum'd  his  absence  as 
his  grave. 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with 
his. 

But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 
bred 

To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 

By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies. 

Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 

And  still  foreboding  "what  would 
Enoch  say  ?  " 

For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  diffi- 
culty 

And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares 
for  less 

Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what 
she  sold  : 

She  fail'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it; 
and  thus, 

Expectant  of  that  news  which  never 
came, 

Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  suste- 
nance. 

And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-born 
and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for 

it 


468 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


With  all  a  mother's  care :  neverthe- 
less, 

Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her 
from  it, 

Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed 
most. 

Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best 
could  tell 

What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it 
was. 

After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was 
aware,  — 

Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly. 

The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In   that   same   week  when   Annie 

buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for 

her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd 

upon  her). 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so 

long. 
"  Surely,"  said  Philip,  "  I  may  see  her 

now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort";  there- 
fore went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front. 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door. 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one 

opening, 
Enter'd;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her 

grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one. 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face. 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall 

and  wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falter- 

ingly 
"  Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.'' 

He  spoke ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd 
,  reply 

"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As   I  am!"   half  abash'd  him;   yet 

unask'd. 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to 

her: 

"I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 
wlsh'd, 


Enoch,  your  husband:    I  have  ever 

said 
You   chose   the   best   among   us  —  a 

strong  man : 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his 

hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary 

way, 
And  leave  you  lonely  ?  not  to  see  the 

world  — 
For    pleasure  1  —  nay,    but    for    the 

wherewithal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours :  that  was 

his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours 

were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his 

grave, 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  run- 
ning wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.    So,  Annie, 

now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 

lives  ? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love   you 

bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me 

nay  — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes 

again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  —  if  you 

will, 
Annie  —  for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  againsl 

the  wall 
Answer'd  "  I  cannot  look  you  in  the 

face; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke 

me  down; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks 

me  down; 
But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borne  in  on 

me; 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


469 


He  will  repay  you:   money  can  be 

repaid ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ?  " 

There  she  turn'd, 

She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes 
upon  him, 

And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly 
face. 

Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his 
head 

Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately, 

And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 

So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school. 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 

everyway, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own. 
Made   himself   theirs;    and   tho'  for 

Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest 

wish. 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet 

he  sent 
Gifts   by  the   children,   garden-herbs 

and  fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the 

meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's 
mind: 

Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 
upon  her. 

Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  grati- 
tude 

Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 
with. 

But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in- 
all; 


From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they 

ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 

they ; 
Worried  his  passive   ear  with  petty 

wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd 

with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip 

gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to 

them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream, 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where :  and  so  ten 

years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land. 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch 

came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  chil- 
dren long'd 

To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them ;  then 
they  begg'd 

For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him) 
too: 

Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust, 

Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found; 
and  saying  to  him 

"Came  with  us  Father  Philip"  he 
denied ; 

But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him 
to  go. 

He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to 
their  wish. 

For  was  not  Annie  with  them?  and 
they  went. 

But  after   scaling   half   the  weary 

down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her 

force 
Fail'd  her ;  and  sighing,  "  Let  me  rest " 

she 'said: 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content; 


470 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubi- 
lant cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumul- 

tuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made 

a  plunge 
To   the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and 

bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs   to    tear 

away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each 

other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her    presence,   and  remember'd  one 

dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow :  at  last  he 

said, 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  "  Listen, 

Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in 

the  wood. 
Tired,  Annie  ?  "  for  she  did  not  speak 

a  word. 
"  Tired  ?  "  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon 

her  hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in 

him, 
"The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "the 

ship  was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite?"  And 

Annie  said 
"I  thought  not  of  it:  but  —  I  know 

not  why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke. 
"  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my 

mind. 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first 

came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.    O 

Annie, 


It    is    beyond  all  hope,  against  all 

chance, 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years 

ago 
Should  still  be  living;   well   then  — 

let  me  speak : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting 

help: 
I  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say  that  women  are  so 

quick — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.    I  fain  would 

prove 
A    father    to    your   children:    I  do 

think 
They  love  me  as  a  father :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 

own ; 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my 

wife. 
That  after  all  these   sad   uncertain 

years, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God 

grants 
To  any  of  his  creatures.    Think  upon 

it: 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours  : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie ;  tenderly  she 

spoke : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel 

in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you 

for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than 

myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever 

loved 
As  Enoch  was  1  what  is  it  that  you 

ask  ?  " 
"I  am  content"  he  answer'd  "to  be 

loved 
A    little    after  Enoch."     "O"  she 

cried. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


471 


Scared  as  it  were,  "dear  Philip,  wait 

a  while : 
If  Enoch  comes  —  but  Enoch  will  not 

come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long : 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year  : 

0  wait  a  little ! "     Philip  sadly  said 
"  Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

1  well  may  wait  a  little."     "  Nay  "  she 

cried 
"  I  am  bound :  you  have  my  promise 

—  in  a  year ; 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine  ?  " 
And  Philip  answer'd  "  I  will  bide  my 

year." 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip 

glancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen 

day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  over- 
head; 
Then   fearing    night    and    chill    for 

Annie,  rose 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro' 

the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and 

there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave 

his  hand. 
Saying  gently  "  Annie,  when  I  spoke 

to  you. 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.     I 

was  wrong, 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you 

are  free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd  "  I  am 

bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as 
it  were, 

While  yet  she  went  about  her  house- 
hold ways, 

Ev'n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest 
words, 

That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 
knew, 

That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd 
again, 


And  there  he  stood  once  more  before 

her  face. 
Claiming  her  promise.   "  Is  it  a  year  ? " 

she  ask'd. 
"  Yes,  if  the  nuts  "  he  said  "  be  ripe 

again : 
Come  out  and  see."    But  she  —  she 

put  him  off — . 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change 

— a  month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that 

she  was  bound  — 
A  month  —  no   more.     Then  Philip 

with  his  eyes 
Pull  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his 

voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take 

your  own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity 

of  him ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-suffer- 
ance. 
Till  half -another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost. 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some   thought  that  Philip   did   but 

trifle  with  her ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw 

him  on ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip 

too. 
As   simple  folk  that  knew  not  their 

own  minds, 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Wotild  hint  at  worse  in  either.     Her 

own  son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his 

wish; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty ; 
And  Philip's   rosy  face   contracting 

grew 
Careworn  and  wan ;    and  all   thesa 

things  fell  on  her 


472 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  ear- 
nestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign  "my  Enoch  is  he 

gone  ? " 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind 
,  wall  of  night 

Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of 

her  heart, 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself 

a  light. 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"Under  the   palm-tree."     That  was 

nothing  to  her : 
No  meaning  there :    she  closed  the 

Book  and  slept : 
When  lo !   her  Enoch  sitting  on  a. 

height, 
Under    a    palm-tree,    over   him    the 

Sun: 
"He  is   gone,"  she  thought,  "he  is 

happy,  he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest :  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these 

be  palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing 

cried 
'  Hosanna   in  the   highest ! ' "      Here 

she  woke. 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 

to  him 
"There  is  no  reason  why  we  should 

not  wed." 
"Then  for  God's  sake,"  he  answer'd, 

"  both  our  sakes. 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 

the  bells. 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were 

wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her 

path. 
She  knew  not  whence ;  a  whisper  on 

her  ear. 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to 

be  left 


Alone    at    home,    nor  ventured  out 

alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere   she 

enter'd,  often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the 

latch. 
Fearing  to  enter:  Philip  thought  he 

knew: 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common 

to  her  state. 
Being  with  child :  but  when  her  child 

was  born. 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself 

renew'd. 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 

heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly 

died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?  prosper- 
ously sail'd 

The  ship  "Good  Fortune,"  tho'  at 
setting  forth 

The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 
shook 

And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet 
unvext 

She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the 
world. 

Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the 
Cape 

And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and 
fair. 

She  passing  thro'  the  summer  world 
again. 

The  breath  of  heaven  came  continu- 
ally 

And  sent  her  sweetly  by  tlie  golden 
isles. 

Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself, 
and  bought 
Quaint  monsters   for  the  market  of 

those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her   home-voyage :   at 
first  indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by 
day. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


473 


Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure- 
head 

Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows : 

Then  follow'd  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable, 

Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them ; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers  " 
came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

IBuoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and 
broken  spars, 

"These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at 
morn 

Kich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  suste- 
nance. 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 

The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was 
tame. 

There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain- 
gorge 

They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves 
of  palm,  a  hut, 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the 
three. 

Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness. 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill- 
content. 

Eor  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 

than  boy. 
Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 

wreck. 
Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death- 
in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.     After  he 

was  gone. 
The   two  remaining  found   a   fallen 

stem; 
And    Enoch's    comrade,   careless    of 

himself, 
Kre-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion, 

fell 


Sun-stricken,  and    that    other   lived 

alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's 

warning  "  wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 

the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 

to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of 

plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of 

bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems, 

and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the 

world. 
All  these  he  saw;  but  what  he  fain 

had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human 

face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl. 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on 

the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees 

that  branch'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the 

sweep 
Of   some  precipitous  rivulet  to    the 

wave, 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all 

day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd   sailor,  waiting  for  a 

sail: 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among    the    palms    and    ferns'  and 

precipices ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then    the    great    stars    that   globed 

themselves  in  Heaven, 
The    hollower-bellowing    ocean,   and 

again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise — but  no 

saiL 


474 


ENOCH  arden: 


There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd 

to  watch. 
So   still,   the   golden   lizard   on    him 

paused, 
A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms 

moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  him- 
self 
Moved  haunting  people,  things  and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the 

small  house, 
The  climbing    street,   the    mill,  the 

leafy  lanes, 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely 

Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold, 

the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 

leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd 

seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his 

ears, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily  —  far  and  far 

away — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish 

bells; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore, 

started  up 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous 

hateful  isle 
Keturn'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor 

heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 

all  alone. 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering 

head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  season;)  came 

and  went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see 

his  own, 
And  pace  the    sacred    old   familiar 

fields, 


Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely 

doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.    Another 

ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling 

winds. 
Like  the    Good   Fortune,  from  her 

destined  course, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 

she  lay : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early 

dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen 

isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the 

hills. 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst 

away 
In  search  of   stream  or  fount,  and 

fiU'd  the  shores 
With  clamor.     Downward  from  his 

mountain  gorge 
Stept    the    long-hair'd,  long-bearded 

solitary. 
Brown,      looking      hardly      human, 

strangely  clad, 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 

seem'd. 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making 

signs 
They  knew  not  what :  and  yet  he  led 

the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water 

ran; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  long- 

bounden  tongue 
Was    loosen'd,   till    he    made    them 

understand ; 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fiU'd 

they  took  aboard : 
And  there  the  tale  lie  utter'd  brokenly. 
Scarce-credited  at  first  but  more  and 

more. 
Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd 

to  it  : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free 

passage  home ; 
But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and 

shook 
His   isolation   from   him.     None    of 

these 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


47S 


Came  from  his  country,  or  could  an- 
swer him, 

If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared 
to  know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long 
delays, 

The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy ;  but 
evermore 

His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded 
moon 

He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his 
blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly 
wall: 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and 
men 

Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves. 

Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him 
it: 

Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 
him, 

Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd 
before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 

one. 
But  homeward  — ■  home  — what  home? 

had  he  a  home  % 
His  home,  he  walk'd.    Bright  was  that 

afternoon. 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  thro'  either 

chasm, 
Where   either  haven  open'd  on   the 

deeps, 
Roll'd  a   sea-haze   and  whelm'd  the 

world  in  gray ; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  be- 
fore. 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left 

and  right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On    the   nigh-naked   tree   the   robin 

piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping 

haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore 

it  down : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the 

gloom ; 


Lsst,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the- 

place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having 

slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd 

the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were- 

born; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 

there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle  ) 

crept 
Still   downward  thinking   "  dead    or 

dead  to  me ! " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 

he  went. 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  tiraber-crost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm  eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone ;  but  he 

was  gone 
Who  kept  it ;  and  his  widow  Miriam 

Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 

house ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but 

now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering 

men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was   good   and 

garrulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  thfe 

port. 
Not  knowing — Enoch  was  so  brown, 

so  bow'd. 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house, 
His  baby's  death,  her  growingpoverty. 
How  Philip   put   her  little   ones   to 

school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 

ker. 


476 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and 

the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child :  and  o'er  his  coun- 
tenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion :  any  one, 
Regarding,  well  had   deem'd  he  felt 

the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller:  only  when  she 

closed 
"Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 

lost" 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  "  cast  away  and 

lost"; 
Again    in    deeper    inward    whispers 

"lost!" 

But  Enoch  yearn'd  to  see  her  face 

again; 
"If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face 

again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."  So  the 

thought 
Haunted  and  liarass'd  him,  and  drove 

him  forth, 
At  evening  when  the  dull  Ifovemher 

day 
Was   growing  duUer  twilight,  to  the 

hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll 

upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.    By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
J'ar-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's 

house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  al- 
lures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly 

strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary 

life. 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the 
street. 

The  latest  house  to  landward ;  but  be- 
hind. 

With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on 
the  waste, 

Flourish'd  a  little  garden  square  and 
wall'd : 


And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk 

and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew;  and 

thence 
That  which  he  better   might    have 

shunn'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch 

saw.  I 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd 

board 
Sparkled  and  shone ;  so  genial  was  the 

hearth : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth 

he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  hia 

knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a 

girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,   and    from   her 

lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who   rear'd  his 

creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd ; 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her 

babe. 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak 

with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 

strong. 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him, 

for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's 

knee. 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the 

happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tajl  and  beauti^ 

ful, 


ENOCH  arden: 


477 


And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his 

place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love,  — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told 

him  all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd    and    shook,    holding    the 

branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible 

cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast 

of  doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a 
thief, 

Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate 
underfoot. 

And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 

Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 
be  found. 

Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and 
closed. 

As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber- 
door. 

Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the 
waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 

that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he 

dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and 

pray'd. 

"  Too  hard  to  bear !  why  did  they 

take  me  thence  ? 
O   God    Almighty,   blessed    Saviour, 

Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely 

isle. 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A   little    longer!    aid   me,    give    me 

strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her 

peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to 

these  % 


They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray 

myself. 
Never :  No  father's  kiss  for  me  —  the 

girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my 

son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  na- 
ture fail'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced ;  but  when  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street 

he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"Not  to  tell   her,  never  to  let  her 
know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.  His  resolve 

Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  ever- 
more 

Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the 
will. 

And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter 
world,' 

Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the 
sea. 

Kept  him  a  living  soul.  "This  mil- 
ler's wife  " 

He  said  to  Miriam  "that  you  spoke 
about. 

Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 
lives  1  " 

"Ay,  ay,  poor  soul"  said  Miriam, 
"fear  enow! 

If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 
dead. 

Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort ; " 
and  he  thought  < 

"After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she 
shall  know, 

I  wait  His  time,"  and  Enoch  set  him- 
self, 

Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby 
to  live. 

Almost  to  all  things  could  lie  turn  his 
hand. 

Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and 
wrought 

To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  oi 
help'd 


478 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce 

of  those  days ; 
Thus  eam'd  a  scanty  living  for  him- 
self: 
yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 

in  it 
'  Whereby  the  man  could  lire ;  and  as 

the  year 
RoU'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the 

day 
When  Enoch  had  return'd,  a  languor 

came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do 

no  more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 

his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheer- 
fully. 
Por  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting 

squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life 

approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he 

saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close 

of  all. 

Por  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a, 

kindlier  hope 
On    Enoch    thinking    "after    I    am 

gone. 
Then  may  she  learn  I  lov'd  her  to  the 

last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and 

said 
"  Woman,  I  have  a  secret — only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the 

book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
"Dead,"  clamor'd  the  good  woman, 

"  hear  him  talk ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring 

you  round." 
"  Swear"  added  Enoch    sternly  "  on 

the  book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 

swore. 


Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon 

her, 
"  Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 

town  ? " 
"  Know  him  %  "  she  said  "  I  knew  him 

far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the 

street ; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 

man,  he." 
Slowly   and   sadly   Enoch    answer'd 

her; 
"  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares 

for  him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to 

live ; 
I  am  the  man."    At  which  the  woman 

gave 
A    half-incredulous,     half-hysterical 

cry. 
"  You  Arden,  you !  nay,  —  sure  he  was 

a  foot 
Higher  than  you  be."     Enoch  said 

again 
"  My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what 

I  am; 
My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken 

me ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 
Who  married  —  but  that  name  has 

twice  been  changed  — 
I  married  her  who   married   Philip 

Ray. 
Sit,  listen."     Then  he  told  her  of  his 

voyage. 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming 

back. 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
And  how  he  kept  it.    As  the  woman 

heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy 

tears. 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  inces- 
santly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little 

haven. 
Proclaiming   Enoch   Arden   and  his 

woes; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she 

forbore, 
Saying  only  "  See  your  bairns  before 

you  go ! 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


479 


Eh,  let  me  fetch    em,  Arden,"  and 

arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch 

hung 
A  moment  on   her  words,  but  then 

replied; 

"  Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 
last. 

But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 

Sit  down  again ;  mark  me  and  under- 
stand, 

While   I   have   power   to   speak.     I 
charge  you  now, 

When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that 
Idled 

Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving 
her; 

Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving 
her 

As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my 
own. 

And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I 
saw 

So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest 
breath 

Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  pray- 
ing for  her. 

And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing 
him. 

And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him 
too; 

He  never  meant  us  any  thing  but  good. 

But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me 
dead. 

Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 
come, 

I  am  their  father ;  but  she  must  not 
ccme. 

For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 
.And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my 
blood 


Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to- 
be: 
This  hair  is  his:   she  cut  it  off  and 

gave  it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 

years. 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 

grave ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I 

shall  see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I 

am  gone. 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 

her: 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her. 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased ;  and  Miriam  Lane 

Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promis- 
ing all. 

That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  up- 
on her 

Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 

She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this. 
While   Enoch   slumber'd   motionless 

and  pale. 
And  Miriam  watch'd   and  dozed  at 

intervals. 
There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 

abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "A  sail!  a 

sail! 
I  am  saved ; "  and  so  fell  back  and 

spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little 

port 
Had  aeldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


480 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN  MEMOEIAM  A.    H.   H. 

OBHT  MDOCCJXXXni. 


Stkong  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,  0  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith :  we  cannot  know ; 

Por  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. 


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  f ar-of£  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp   Grief  lest  both  be 
drown'd, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


481 


Let    darkness    keep    her    raven 


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 
A  lost, 

'  But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


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. 


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 : 


"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  ■?         i 


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  should'st  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." 


I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
Tor  words,  like  Nature,  half  re- 
veal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

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

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er. 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the 
cold : 


482 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  that  large  grief  which  these 
enfold 
Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


TI. 

One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  re- 
main," 
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  pledgestnowthy  gallant  son; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be 
done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

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  ! 

Tor  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  color 

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. 

0  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

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


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. 


A  happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gate- 
way bell. 
And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from 
home; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


483 


Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and 

hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 
The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

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  f  oster'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. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  re- 
mains. 
Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him 
o'er. 

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

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

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  U  me. 


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  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'd  men  from  foreign 

lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  bands  ; 

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 :  0  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

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  iix 
mine. 
Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


Calm  is  the  mom  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  autuma 
bowers. 


♦84 


IN  memoriam: 


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  mj  heart,  if  calm  at  all. 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

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. 

Xo,  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 ; 

Xike  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 


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. 


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  for  ever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  re- 
posed ; 
And,  where  warm    hands  have 
prest  and  closed. 
Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which    weep    the    comrade    of   my 
choice. 
An    awful   thought,    a    life    re- 
moved. 
The  human-hearted  man  I  lored, 
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 
tilings  seem, 
Mine    eyes    have    leisure    for   their 
tears ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approach- 
ing sails. 
As  tho'  they  brought  but   mer- 
chants' bales, 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


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 ; 

And    standing,  muffled    roimd    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 ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


485 


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. 


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 : 

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. 


What  words    are  these  have  fall'n 
from  me  1 
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  hark 

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  "i 

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  all  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. 


486 


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. 


'Tis  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. 

'Tis  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  thro'  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. 


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  fiU'd  with  tears  that  can- 
not 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. 


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." 

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." 


I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below. 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  sas 
wave. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


487 


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  weak- 
ness weak, 
And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "  Let  him  he. 

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

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

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

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  'J 

"  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  1  " 

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. 


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. 
Prom  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May ; 

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

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  duU'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 : 

When  each  byturnswas  guide  to  each, 
And    Pancy  light    from   Pancy 

caught. 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed 
with  Thought 
Ere  Thought   could  wed  itself  with 
Speech ; 


488 


IN  MEMORIaM. 


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. 


And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  1 
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 

Since  our  first  Sun  arose  and  set. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so 

great  1 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state. 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  1 

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  ? 


I  know  that  this  was  life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with    equal     feet    we 

fared ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  pre- 
pared 
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. 


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  — 

Oh,  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  mom 
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, 
TJnfetter'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,  what'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time    draws   near  the   birth  ot 
Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid ;  the  night  is  still; 


fN  MEMORIAM. 


489 


The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to 
hill 
Answer  each  other  ir  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    de- 
crease. 
Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and 
peace, 
Peace  and  goodwill,  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, 

Tor  theycontroll'd  mewhenaboy; 
They  bring  me   sorrow  touch'd 
with  joy. 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace. 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease. 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve; 

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  fearth. 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambol'd,  making  vain  pre- 
tence 
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. 

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," 

And  silence  foUow'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 ; 

"  Eapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With   gather'd    power,  yet    the 

same. 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

Prom  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Else,  happy  mom,  rise,  holy  morn, 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from 

night : 
O  Pather,   touch   the  east,  and 
light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  wag 
born. 


490 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  chamel-cave. 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  re- 

turn'd, 
Was  this  demanded— if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  t 

"  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. 

Trom  every  house  the  neighbors  met. 
The  streets  were  fiU'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. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  ad- 
mits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he 
sits, 
And  he  that  brought  hirfi  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  com- 
plete, 
She     bows,      she     bathes     the 
Saviour's  feet 
With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers. 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  en- 
dure; 


What  souls  possess  themselves  so 
pure. 
Or  is  their  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 


XXXIII. 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst   seem  to  have   reach'd  » 

purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  every, 
where. 
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  con 
fuse 
A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine. 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good ; 
Oh,  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  not  in  a  world  of  sin. 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 


My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me 
this, 
Tliat  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

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  ? 

'Twere  hardly  worth  my  while  to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die ; 

'Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace. 
Like  birds  the  charming  ssrpent 
draws. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


491 


To  drop    head-foremost  in    the 
jaws 
Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 


Yet  if  some  voice   that  man  could 
trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow 

house, 
"  The  cheeks  drop  in ;  the  body- 
hows  ; 
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 ; 

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 

iin  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  cmsh'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; 

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. 


tlrania  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), 

"  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along". 

Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  rc- 

veal'd ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 


-592 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 

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

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

l&o  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  caj^  for  what  is  here 

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

Hot  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones, 
And  answering  now  my  random 

stroke 
With  fruitful  cloud  and  living 
smoke, 
X>ark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the    dreamless 
head. 
To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
When    flower    is    feeling    after 
flower ; 
But  Sorrow  —  fixt  upon  the  dead, 

And  darlfening  the   dark  graves   of 
men,  — 
What  whisper'd  from  her  lying 

lips^ 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 
And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


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 ; 

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  those  great  offices  that  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. 


Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  liigher; 

As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar- 
fire. 
As  files  the  lightei;  thro'  the  gross. 

But   thou   art   turn'd    to    something 
strange. 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that 
boimd 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


493 


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  bowlings  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. 

XLII. 

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, 
i  When  one  that  loves  but  knows 

not,  reaps 
A  truth  from   one   that    loves    and 
knows  ■? 

XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 


Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 
luyome  long  trance  shouldslumberonj 

TJnconscious  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  souts   ^ 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in 

Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Eewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


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, 
0  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the 

doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLV. 

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;" 


494 


IN  MEMORIAL. 


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. 


We  ranging  down  this  lower  track. 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and 

flower. 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

Xest  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. 

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. 

XLVII. 

That    each,  who  seems    a    separate 
whole. 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fus- 
ing all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should 
fall 
{(emerging  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." 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  bom. 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here 
proposed. 
Then  these  were  such  as  men  might 
scorn : 

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  leosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that 
dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


From    art,   from    nature,   from    the 
schools, 
Jjet  random  influences  glance. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


495 


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 
T<t  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-penoil'd  shadow  play. 

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

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


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 

tru.st ; 
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  1 


Is   there  no  baseness  we  would 
hide? 
No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove^ 
I  had   such    reverence    for   hi& 

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  1 
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. 


Por  love  reflects  the  thing  be- 
loved; 

My  words  are  only  words,  and 
moved 
Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"Yet  blame  not  thou  my  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: 

"  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." 


496 


m  MEMORIAM. 


How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  hie  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  ? 

Or,  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 


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 ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  Le  de- 

stroy'd. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete ; 

'That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'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  II 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


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  j 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That    Nature    lends    such    evil 

dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seemg. 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

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. 


"  So  careful  of  the  type  ?  "  but  no. 
From  scarped  clifE  and  quarried 

stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are 
gone: 
I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  rav 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  . 
The   spirit  does  but  mean    tli» 
breath : 

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

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so 
fair. 


IN  M2M0SXAM. 


49? 


Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry 


Who    built    him    fanes  of    fruitless 
prayer. 

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


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. 

5fet  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  "  for  evermore. 


In  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." 


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  he  ; 

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

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move. 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day ; 
But  I'll  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  1  know  thee,  soma 
Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were 
thine. 


W8 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


ffe  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 
I  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. 

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  %  " 


Jf,  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'd  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  TOade  a 

man; 
I  loved  tbee.  Spirit,  and  love,  nor 
can 
The  soul  of  Shakspeare  love  thee  mow. 


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 ; 

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. 


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. 

LXIV. 

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  happj 

chance, 
And  breasts  the  blow?  of  circiinb 
stance. 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


499 


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 


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  %  " 


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." 

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. 
f 

LXVI. 

^ou  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. 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is 

free. 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his 
knee. 
And  winds  their  curls  about  hie  liand : 

He  plays  vrith  threads,  he  beats  his 
chair 

For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky. 

His  inner  day  can  never  die. 
His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


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  eyea 
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. 


When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head. 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times 

my  breath ; 
Sleep,Death'stwin-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, 


sou 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
KeveilMe  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this  1     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. 


(  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, 

1    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 : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 

Thatseem'dto  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of 
grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


I  cannot  see  the  features  right. 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to 

paint 
The  face  I  irnow;  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 


In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawn- 
ing doors. 
And  shoals    of    pucker'd  faces 

drive ; 
Darkbulksthat  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. 


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. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  seal  ? 
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 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


501 


Beside  the  river's  wooded  reacii, 

The '  fortress,  and  the  mountain 

ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the 
bridge. 
The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


Eisest  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 ; 

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  hiUs,  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. 


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 ; 

Pop  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

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  1     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 


LXXIV. 

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,   ana 

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  haa 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


£02 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LXXV. 

I  leaye  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 ; 

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,  wliile  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. 

LXXVI. 

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

Before  tlie  mouldering  of  a  yew ; 

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  ihese  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  ? 


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

Poreshorten'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  some- 
thing else. 
Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  1  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. 

LXXVIII. 

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. 


TN  MEMORIAM. 


503 


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. 


"  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. 

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  profier'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, 
Andhesuppliedmywantthemore 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


If  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. 

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. 


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  com- 
plaint ? 
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." 


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. 

Eternal  process  moving  on. 

From   state   to   state  the    spirit 
walks ; 


ff04 


TN  MEMVRIAM. 


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

ISTor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

Por  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. 


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. 

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. 


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  should'st  link  thy  life 
with  one 

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. 

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  botmteous 

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  might  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. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


SOS 


What  reerl  was  that  on  which  I  leant  1 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore 

wake 
The    old    bitterness   again,   and 
break 
The  low  beginnings  of  content. 

LXXXV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and 
pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'Tis  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   ex 
p/rest. 
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 ; 

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, 
0  heart,   with  kindliest  motion 
warm; 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  0  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  cf  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 ; 

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. 

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  once  I  met  t 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  meK. 

1  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; 


506 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


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  nar- 
row brooks. 
And   Autumn,  with  a  noise   of 
rooks, 
That  gather  in  the  waning  woods. 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Kecalls,  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. 

"  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 ; 

"  'Tis   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. 

Por  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  % 
Pirst  love,  first  friendship,  equal 
powers. 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

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. 


Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air. 
That  roUest  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 


IN  MEMORJAM 


50v 


lYom  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

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

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "Peace." 


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,rollii.g,  shake 

The  prophet  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  linger'd  ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of    songs,  and   clapping  hands, 
and  boys 
That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the 
floor; 

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  wil- 
ling ear 
We  lent  him.     Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

Prom  point  to  point,  with  power  an* 
grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law,  « 
To  those   conclusions  when  wei 
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. 


Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet. 
Rings    Eden    thro'  the    budded 
quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  ;  fierce  extremes  em- 
ploy 
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  — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings  ; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXIX. 

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, 


508 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


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  pudieus  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 : 

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  lifelong  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  Socratio  dream  ; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town. 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
Por    "ground   tn  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. 

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  honied  hours. 


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  : 

'Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warni  with 
wine. 
To   pledge  them  with  a  kindly 

tear. 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them 
here. 
To  count  their  memories  half  divinp ; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away. 

Behold    their    brides    in    other 

hands ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their 
lands, 
And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day- 
Yea,   tho'  their  sons   were  none  of 
these, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


509 


Not  less  the  yet-lored  sire  would 

make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and 

shake 
The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  hut  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. 


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. 


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  pi^'sentiments. 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 


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. 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may 

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

0,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
0,  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. 

xoiv. 

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  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

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

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 


510 


JN  MEMORIAM. 


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. 


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  cricketchirr'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  which  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 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  cowar<^ 

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 

The  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine. 

And  mine  in  this   was  wound,  and 
whirl'd 
About     empyreal     heights     of 

thought. 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 
The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

..iEonian  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  eVn  for  intellect  to  reach 
Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 
The    knolls    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. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


su 


And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 
Kock'd    the    fuU-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  Bast  and  West,  without  a 

breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like    life 
and  death, 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


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  atfirst. 
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 

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. 


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. 

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   great- 
aess  it, 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loveB  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. 


512 


JN  MEMORIAM, 


Her  faith  is  flxt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and 

wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful 
eyes, 
« I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 


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 

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  sad- 
ness 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. 


Eis^'st  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
60  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. 

0  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. 


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; 

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; 


TN  MEM^RIAM. 


513 


Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  hi\w 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry   trench'd  along  the 
nill 

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, 
1      And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 
I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


Unwatoh'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, 
Kay  round  with  flames  her  disk 

of  seed. 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  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 


And  year  by  year  our  memory 
fades 
From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 

oil. 
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. 

One  whispers,   "Here   thy   boyhood 
sung 
Long  since  its  matin   song,  ancJ 

heard 
Tlie  low  love-language  of  the  bird 
In  native  hazels  tassel-hung." 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have    stray'd  in   after 

hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the 
bowers. 
And  this    hath    made    them    treblf 
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. 


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. 


514 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 

And  maidens    with   me :    distant 

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

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and 

good 
And    graceful.      In    the    ceiitre 
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 
For  ever :  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, 

Aiid  one  the  shaping  of  a  star ; 


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 
BewaU'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  enter'd  in. 

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

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


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. 

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. 


To-night  ungather'd  let  us  leave 

This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand: 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land. 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eva 


IN  MEMORIAM.  • 


515 


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. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor. 

Nor  Ijowl  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. 


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

Eing  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Eing  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- 


Eing  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no 

more; 
Eing  out  the  feud  of  rich  and 
poor, 
liing  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Eing  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Eing  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Eing  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. 

Eing  out  false  pride  in  place  and 
blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Eing  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Eing  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Eing  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Eing  out  the  narrowing  lust  of 
gold ; 

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

Eing  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The   larger    heart,  the    kindlier 

hand; 
Eing  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Eing  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


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

Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.    Fiercely 

flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  andl 
ice 
Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves. 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 


516 


'IN  MEMORIAM. 


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. 

CVIII. 

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 : 

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'll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies : 
'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us 
wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


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 ; 

A  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. 


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  thouwert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  schoo'. 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen 
fool 

Was  sof ten'd,  and  he  knew  not  why . 

While  I,  thy  nearest,  sat  apart. 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Sir 


And  loved  them  more,  that  they 
were  thine, 
The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Nor  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. 


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  1  but  he. 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories 

call, 
Not  being  less  but  moi-e  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 ; 

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. 

CXII. 

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, 

Tor  what  wert  thou  %     some  novel 
power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  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, 
Andworld-widefluctuationsway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  f  oUow'd  thought. 

CXIII. 

'Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 

Tet  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. 


Who  loves  not  Knowledge? 
shall  rail 


Who 


518 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Against  her  beauty  ?     May  she 

mix 
With  men  and  prosper !      Who 
shall  fix 
Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

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 ;   i 

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. 
0,  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. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow. 
Now    burgeons   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  re- 
gret 
Becomes  an  April  violet. 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

cxvi. 
Is  It,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That    keenlier    in    sweet    April 

wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives 
and  takes 
The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

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  ba 


O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  placey 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace. 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


519 


That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

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

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs. 
And  every   span   of  shade   that 

I  stealQ, 

And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


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 
For  ever  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 

"Witliin  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. 


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. 


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  1     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  horn  to  other  things. 


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  : 


^0 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


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 


Thy  place  is  changed;  thou  art  the 
same. 

CXXII. 

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. 

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. 


cxxiii. 
There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 

0  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou 
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. 

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. 

cxxiv. 
That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 
Our  dearest  faith ;  our  ghastliest 

doubt ; 
He,  They,  One,  All ;  within,  with- 
out; 
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, 

1  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 ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


5Zt 


Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 
But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

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. 


Whatever  I  hare  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  through  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. 


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. 

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  worids  ot 
space. 
In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

cxxvii. 
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  Mow.  sinks  in  blood. 

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. 


The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied    when    he    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  x 

Yet  0  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. 


522 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious 

lies. 
To  cleave  a  creed  ia  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 ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  mightwell  descend 
On  you  and  yours.  1  see  in  part 
Tliat  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 


Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  Woe  and  weal ; 

0  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,  for  ever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past, present,  and  to  be; 

Loved  deeplier,  darklier  under- 
stood ; 

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

oxxx. 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

1  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  : 

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'  1  die. 

cxxxi. 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  sufEer 

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  conquer'd  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. 


O  true  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;  nol 
proved 
Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years:  theywent 

and  came. 
Remade  the  blood  and  change! 
the  fame, 
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  ar« 
flown. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


523 


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. 

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  jne  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 
And  then  on  thee;  they  meet  thy 

look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that 
shook 
Betwixtthe  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 

For  ever,  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 


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  you  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  1 

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  in- 
creased. 
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. 

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 


S24 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


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   donble 
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  stream- 
ing cloud, 
And  on  the  downs  a  rising  flre : 

And  rise,  0  moon,  from  yonder  down. 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
r         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  com- 
mand 
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  sufEer'd,  is  but 
seed 
Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

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. 


THE  LOYEE'S  TALE. 


The  original  Preface  to  "  The  Lover's  Tale"  states  that  it  was  compoBed  in  my  nineteenth 
year.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed,  when,  feeling  the  iraperfectign 
of  the  poem,  I  withdrew  it  from  the  press.  One  of  my  friends  however  who,  boylike,  admired 
the  boy's  work,  distributed  among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of 
these  two  parts,  without  my  knowledge,  without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which 
Z  had  in  contemplation,  and  marred  by  the  many  misprints  of  the  compositor.  Seeing  that 
these  two  parts  have  of  late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that  what  I  had  deemed  scarce 
worthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to  die,  may  I  not  be  pardoned  if  I  suffer  the  whole  poem  at  last 
to  come  into  the  light  —  accompanied  with  a  reprint  of  the  seguel  —  a  work  of  my  mature  life 
~  "  The  Golden  Supper  *'2 
May^  1S79, 

ARGUMENT. 

JuLiAK,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival» 
Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He 
speaks  (in  Parts  II.  and  III.)  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling 
for  a  funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a  marriage ;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  Event,  and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 

Heke  far  away,  seen  from  the  top- 
most cliff, 

Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacan- 
cies 

Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping 
seas 

Hung  in  mid-heaven,   and  half-way 
down  rare  sails, 

White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from 
sky  to  sky. 

Oil !  pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet 
hay, 

Like   to  a  quiet  mind  in   the  loud 
world. 

Where  the   chafed  breakers   of  the 

outer  sea 
.Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 

And  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 
love; 

Thou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  pines 
that  fledged 

The  hills  that  watch'd  thee,  as  Love 
watcheth  Love, 

In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thy- 
self 


To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny 


Keep  thou  thy  name  of    "Lover's 

Bay."    See,  sirs. 
Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past, 

that  takes 
The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  but 

one  string 
That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 
Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder'd 

chords 
To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 
That  air  which  pleased  her  first.    I 

feel  thy  breath ; 
I  come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and 

eye: 
Thy  breath  is  of  the  pinewood  ;  and 

tho'  years 
Have  hoUow'd  out  a  deep  and  stormy 

strait 
Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and 

me, 
Breathe  but  »  little  on  me,  and  the 

sail 
Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the 

sun. 


S26 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning 

star, 
And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I  prythee, 

To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows, 
and  muse 

On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more 
will  meet 

The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  be- 
neath my  touch, 

A^  tho'  there  beat  a  heart  in  either 
eye; 

For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken'd 
thus. 

The  memory's  vision  hath  a  keener 
edge. 

It  grows  upon  me  now  —  the  semi- 
circle 

Of  dark-blue  waters  and  the  narrow 
fringe 

Of  curving  beach  —  its  wreaths  of 
dripping  green  — 

Its  pale  pink  shells  —  the  summer- 
house  aloft 

That  open'd  on  the  pines  with  doors 
of  glass, 

A  mountain  nest  —  the  pleasure-boat 
that  rock'd. 

Light-green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel 
to  keel, 

Upon  the  dappled  dimplings  of  the 
wave, 

That  blanoh'd  upon  its  side. 

O  Love,  O  Hope  ! 
They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all 

at  once  — • 
Moved  from  the  cloud  of  unforgotten 

things, 
That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 

mind 
Lies  folded,  often  sweeps  athwart  in 

storm  — 
Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro'  me 


Of    dewy  dawning   and    the    amber 

eves 
When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and 

I 
Were  borne  about  the  bay  or  safely 

moor'd 


Beneath  a  low-brow'd  cavern,  where 

the  tide 
Plash'd,  sapping  its  worn  ribs ;  and  all 

without 
The    slowly-ridging    rollers    on    the 

cliffs 
Clash'd,   calling  to  each  other,  and 

thro'  the  arch 
Down  those  lou^waters,  like  a  setting 

star,       ^p 
Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light 

house  shone. 
And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 
Would    often    loiter    in    her  balmy 

blue. 
To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 
Waver'd  at  anchor  with  me,  when  day 

hung 
From  his  mid-dome  in  Heaven's  airy 

halls ; 
Gleams  of  the  water-circles  as  they 

broke, 
Flicker'd  like  doubtful  smiles  about 

her  lips, 
Quiver'd  a  flying  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a  passing  thought  across 

her  eyes ; 
And  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pass, 

till  earth 
And  heaven  pass  too,  dwelt  on  my 

heaven,  a  face 
Most  starry-fair,  but    kindled   from 

within 
As  'twere  with  dawn.     She  was  dark- 

hair'd,  dark-eyed : 
Oh,  such  dark  eyes !  a  single  glance 

of  them 
Will  govern  a  whole  life  from  birth 

to  death. 
Careless  of    all   things   else,   led  on 

with  light 
In  trances  and  in  visions :    look  at 

them, 
You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance : 
You  cannot  find  their  depth ;  for  they 

go  back. 
And  farther  back,  and  still  withdraw 

themselves 
Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  ever- 
more 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


527 


Presh  springing  from  her  fountains  in 
the  brain, 

Still  pouring  thro',  floods  with  redun- 
dant life 

Her  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 

I  should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 

To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perf ectness 

J  Which  I  do  bear  a^in  me :  I  had 

died,  i^E 

But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 

ebb. 
Thine  image,  like  a  charm  of  light 

and  strength 
Upon  the  waters,   push'd    me  back 

again 
On  these  deserted   sands  of   barren 

life. 
Tho'  from  the  deep  vault  wliere  the 

heart  of  Hope 
Fell  into  dust,  and  crumbled  in  the 

dark  — 
Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
Her    countenance    with    quick     and 

healtliful  blood  — 
Thou  didst    not   sway  me  upward; 

could  I  perish 
While  thou,  a  meteor  of  the  sepul- 
chre, 
Didst  swathe  thyself  all  round  Hope's 

quiet  urn 
For  ever?     He,  that  saith  it,  hath 

o'er-stept 
The   slippery  footing  of  his  narrow 

wit. 
And    fall'n    away    from    judgment. 

Thou  art  light, 
To  which  my  spirit  leanetli  all  her 

flowers. 
And  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
Of  thought,  and  freshness  ever  self- 

renew'd. 
For  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long 

with  Life, 
And,  like  all  other  friends  i'  the  world, 

at  last 
They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 
So  Time  and  Grief  did  beckon  unto 

Death, 
And  Death  drew  nigh  and  beat  the 
doors  of  Life; 


But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 

house, 
A  wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parle 

with  Death,  — 
"  This  is  a  charmed  dwelling  which  I 

hold;" 
So  Death  gave  back,  and  would  no 

further  come. 
Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 
Nor  in  the  present  place.     To  me 

alone, 
Push'd  from  his  chair  of  regal  heri- 
tage. 
The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past: 
So  that,  in  that  I  have  lived,  do  I  live. 
And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having 

been  — 
A  portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday, 
Thrust  forward  on  to-day  and  out  of 

place ; 
A  body  journeying  onward,  sick  with 

toil, 
The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my 

limbs. 
The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 

heart. 
And  all  the  senses  weaken'd,  save  in 

that. 
Which  long  ago  they  had  glean'd  and 

garner'd  up 
Into  the  granaries  of  memory  — 
The    clear    brow,    bulwark    of    the 

precious  brain, 
Chink'd  as  you  see,  and  seam'd  —  and 

all  the  while 
The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles 

with  the  growths 
Of    vigorous    early    days,  attracted, 

won. 
Married,  made  one  with,  molten  intff 

all 
The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place. 
And    like    the    all-enduring    camel, 

driven 
Par  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 

palms. 
Who  toils  across  the  middle  moonlit 

nights. 
Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blina- 

ing  noons 
Beat  from  the  concave  sand ,  yet  ia 

him  keeps 


528 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


A  draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 

he  loves. 
To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and  his 

spirit 
From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 
When  I  began  to  love.     How  should 

I  tell  you  ■? 
Or  from  the  after-fulness  of  my  heart. 
Flow  back  again  unto  my    slender 

spring 
And  first  of  love,  tho'  every  turn  and 

depth 
Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 
Its  present  flow.    Ye  know  not  what 

ye  ask. 
How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 

tell 
What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 

together 
In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 

folds, 
It  seem'd  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  it- 
self. 
Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  that  it 

seem'd  % 
For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 

Life  was  born, 
But  takes  it  all  for  granted :  neither 

Love, 
Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can 

remember 
Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satis- 
fied, 
Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to 

the  light : 
Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall 


Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 

So  know  1  not  when  I  began  to  love. 

This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge  —  that 
my  love 

Grew  with  myself  —  say  rather,  was 
my  growth. 

My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I  have  on 
earth. 

My  outward  circling  air  wherewith  I 
breathe. 

Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  ever- 
more 

Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death : 


For  how  should  I  have  lived  and  not 

have  loved  ? 
Can  ye  take  ofi  the  sweetness  from 

the  flower, 
The  color  and  the  sweetness  from  the 

rose. 
And  place  them  by  themselves ;  or  set 

apart 
Their  motions   and  their  brightnessi 

from  the  stars. 
And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 

star? 
Orbuildawall  betwixt  mylife  and  love. 
And  tell  me  where  I  am  ?     'Tis  even 

thus : 
In  that  I  live  I  love  ;  because  I  love 
I  live  ;  wliate'er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other ;  and  whene'er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the 

one. 
There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years, 
(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  of 

life, 
And  well  I  could  have  linger'd  in  that 

porch. 
So  unproportion'd  to  the  dwelling- 
place,) 
In  the  Maydews  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 

together. 
Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  father 

died. 
And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not; 
But  I  and  the  first  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  Into  light 

at  once. 
As  Love  and  I  do  number  equal  years, 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 

each ! 
On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 

hour. 
Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars, 
(Oh  falsehood  of  all  starcraft!)   we 

were  born. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 

each  < 


THE  LOVERS   TALE. 


529 


The  sister  of  my  mother  —  she  that 

bore 
Camilla  close  beneath    her    beating 

heart, 
Which  to  the  imprison'd  spirit  of  the 

child. 
With  its  true-touclied  pulses  in  the 

flow 
And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood. 
Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold. 
And  mellow'd  echoes  of    the  outer 

world  — 
My   mother's   sister,  mother  of    my 

love. 
Who  had  a  twofold  claim  upon  my 

heart. 
One  twofold  mightier  than  the  other 

was. 
In    giving    so   much  beauty  to  the 

world. 
And  so  much  wealth  as    God    had 

charged  her  with  — 
Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  for 

ever. 
Left  her  own  life  with  it;  and  dying 

thus, 
Crown'd    with    her  highest  act    the 

placid  face 
And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 

past. 

So  were  we  born,  so  orphan'd.     She 

was  motherless 
And  I   without   a   father.     So    from 

each 
Of  those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 

uphold 
Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away, 

and  all 
The  careful   burthen   of   our   tender 

years 
Trembled  upon   the  other.     He  that 

gave 
Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill'd 
All  lovingkindnesses,  all  offices 
Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  ten- 
derness. 
He  waked  for  both :  he   pray'd  for 

both :  he  slept 
Dreaming  of  both  :  nor  was  his  love 

the  less 
Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 


Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake. 
And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of 
life. 

She  was  my  foster-sister:  on  one  arm 
The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 
Wander'd,  the  while  we  rested:  one 

soft  lap 
Pillow'd  us  both :  a  common  light  of 

eyes 
Was  on  us  as  we  lay:  our  baby  lips, 
Kissing  one  bosom,  ever  drew  from 

thence 
The   stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one 

life,  one  blood. 
One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 

grew  large, 
Still  larger  moulding  all  the  house  of 

thought. 
Made  all  our  tastes  and  fancies  like, 

perhaps  — 
All  —  all  but  one ;  and  strange  to  me, 

and  sweet, 
Sweet  thro'   strange  years  to  know 

that  whatsoe'er 
Our  general  mother  meant  for  me 

alone. 
Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of 

us: 
So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest 

life, 
I  shared  with  her  in  whom  myself 

remains. 
As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  in- 
fancy. 
They  tell  me,  was  a  very  miracle 
Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 
They  tell  me  that  we  would  not  be 

alone,  — 
We  cried  when  we  were  parted ;  when 

I  wept. 
Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my 

tears, 
Stay'd  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow;  that 

we  loved 
The  sound    of    one-another's  voices 

more 
Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  name, 

and  learn'd 
To  lisp  in  tune  together ;  that  we  slept 


530 


THE  LO ITER'S   TALE. 


In  the  same  cradle  always,face  to  face. 

Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  press- 
ing lip, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other. 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

They  should  have    added),    till  the 
morning  light 

Sloped  thro'  the  pines,  upon  the  dewy 
pane 

X'alling,  unseal'd  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.    If  this  be 
true. 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul 
languishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no 
breath  —  as  tho' 

A  man  in  some  still  garden  should  in- 
fuse 

Eicli  atar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 

Till,  drunk  with  its   own  wine,  and 
overfull 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 

It  fall  on  its  own  thorns  —  if  this  be 
true  — 

And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 

Still  to  believe  it  —  'tis  so  sweet  a 
thought. 

Why  in  the  utter    stillness  of    the 
soul 

Doth  question'd  memory  answer  not, 
nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn. 

Most  loveliest,  earthly-heavenliest  har- 
mony 1 
O  blossom'd  portal  of  the  lonely 
house. 

Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad 
new  year 

Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 

Andlavish  carol  of  clear-throated  larks 

Fill'd  all  the  March  of  life!  — I  will 
not  speak  of  thee. 

These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can 
never  know  thee. 

They  cannot  understand  me.    Pass 
we  then 

A  term  of  eighteen  years.    Ye  would 
but  laugh, 


If  I  should  tell  you  how  I  hoard  in 

thought 
The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  an- 
cient crones. 
Gray  relics  of   the  nurseries  of  the 

world. 
Which  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory. 
Because  she  learnt  them  with  me ;  or 

what  use 
To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The  dafEodil  was  blown  'i  or  how  we 

found 
The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore  ? 

All  this 
Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your 

minds 
But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 

of  mine 
Is'  traced  with  flame.     Move  with  me 

to  the  event. 

There  came  a  glorious  morning, 
such  a  one 

As  dawns  but  once  a  season.    Mercury 

On  sucli  a  morning  would  have  flung 
himself 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 
balanced  wings 

To  some  tall  mountain :  when  I  said 
to  her, 

"A  day  for  Gods  to  stoop,"  she  an- 
swered. "Ay, 

And  men  to  soar : "  for  as  that  other 


Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud. 
The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 

steeds, 
Suck'd  into  oneness  like  a  little  star 
Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  we 

stood. 
When  first  we  came  from  out  the 

pines  at  noon, 
With  hands  for  eaves,  uplooking  and 

almost 
Waiting  to  see  some  blessed  shape  in 

heaven. 
So    bathed    we    were    in    brilliance. 

Never  yet 
Before   or  after  have   I  known  the 

spring 
Pour  with    such   sudden  deluges   of 

light 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


531 


Into  the  middle  summer ;  for  that  day 
Love,  rising,   shook  his  wings,   and 

cliarged  the  winds 
With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound 

to  bound,  and  blew 
Fresh  fire   into    the   sun,   and  from 

within 
i  Burst  thro'  the  heated  buds,  and  sent 

his  soul 
jinto  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch'd 

far-ofE 
His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hOls, 

with  flame 
Milder  and  purer. 

Thro'  the  rocks  we  wound  : 

The  great  pine  shook  with  lonely 
sounds  of  joy 

That  came  on  the  sea-wind.  As 
mountain  streams 

Our  blood  ran  free :  the  sunshine 
seem'd  to  brood 

More  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on 
the  brow. 

We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back, 
we  saw 

The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  moun- 
tains fiU'd 

With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glisten- 
ing brooks. 

And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a  land 
of  love ! 

A  land  of  promise,  a  land  of  memory, 

A  land  of  promise  flowing  with  the 
milk 

And  honey  of  delicious  memories ! 

And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 
ken, 

Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a  Holy 
Land, 

Still  growing  holier  as  you  near'd  the 
bay. 

For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach'd 
•  The  grassy  platform  on  some  hill,  I 

I  stoop'd, 

I I  gather'd  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 
'  brows 

And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  self- 
same flower. 

Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 
work  thus 


Crown'd  her  clear  forehead.     Once  or 

twice  she  told  me 
(For  I  remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 
■The  flowers  that  run  poison  in  their 

veins. 
She  said,  "The  evil  flourish  in  the 

world." 
Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the 

lie  — 
"Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful ; 
So,  brother,   pluck  and  spare  not." 

So  I  wove 
Ev'n   the    dull-blooded   poppy-stem, 

"  whose  flower, 
Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a  fierce  sun- 
rise, 
Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince. 
Is  without  sweetness,  but  who  crowns 

himself 
Above  the  naked  poisons  of  his  heart 
In  his  old  age."     A  graceful  thought 

of  hers 
Grav'n  en  my  fancy!     And  oh,  how 

like  a  nymph, 
A  stately  mountain  nymph  she  look'd ! 

how  native 
Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on !  While  I 

gazed 
My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 
And  fell  between  us  both ;  tho'  while 

I  gazed 
My  spirit  leap'd  as  with  those  thrills 

of  bliss 
That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer, 

and  show  us 
That  we  are  surely  heard.   Methought 

a  light 
Burst  from  the  garland  I  had  wov'n, 

and  stood 
A  solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair ; 
A  light  methought  broke  from  her 

dark,  dark  eyes. 
And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds ; 
A  mystic  light  flash'd  ev'n  from  her 

white  robe 
As  from  a  glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell 

about 
My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 
To  what  our  people  call  "  The  Hill  of 
Woe." 


532 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


A  bridge  is  there,  tliat.look'd  at  from 

beneath 
Seems  but  a  cobweb  filament  to  link 
The  yawnhig  of  an  earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And  thence  one  night,  when  all  tlie 

winds  were  loud, 
A  woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and 

dash'd  himself 
Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.     Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent, 

a  stream 
Flies  with  a  shatter'd  foam  along  the 

chasm. 

The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strown 

with  crags : 
We    mounted  slowly ;    yet  to    both 

there  came 
The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome. 
And  victories  of  ascent,  and  looking 

down 
On  all  that  had  look'd  down  on  us ; 

and  joy 
In  breathing  nearer  heaven;  and  joy 

to  me. 
High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth, 
To  breath  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  it- 
self; 
And  more  than  joy  that  I  to  her  be- 
came 
Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising  her 
Still  liigher,  past  all  peril,  until  she  saw 
Beneath  her  feet  tlie  region  far  away, 
Beyond  the  nearest  mountain's  bosky 

brows, 
Ariseinopen  prospect — heath  and  hill. 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the 

lips, 
And  deep-down  walls  of  battlemented 

rock 
i  Gilded  with  broom,  or  shatter'd  into 
'  spires, 

i'  And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
'  Whence  rose  as  it  were  breath  and 

steam  of  gold, 
And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 
And  climbing,  streak'd  or  starr'd  at 

intervals 
With  falling  brook  or  blossom'd  bush 

—  and  last. 


Framing  tlie  mighty  landscape  to  tlie 

west, 
A  purple  range   of  mountain-cones, 

between 
Whose  interspaces  gush'd  in  blinding 

bursts 
The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 
Descending  from  the  point  and  stand- 
ing both. 
There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that 

from  beneath 
Had  seem'd  a  gossamer  filament  up  in 

air, 
We  paused  amid  the  splendor.     All 

the  west 
And  ev'n  unto  the  middle  south  was 

ribb'd 
And  barr'd   with   bloom  on   bloom. 

The  sun  below, 
Held  for  a  space  'twixt   cloud  and 

wave,  shower'd  down 
Rays  of  a  mighty  circle,  weaving  over 
That  various  wilderness  u  tissue  of 

light 
Unparallel'd.     On  the  other  side,  the 

moon. 
Half-melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 

still. 
And  pale  and  fibrous  as   a   wither'd 

leaf, 
Not  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His  eyes 
To  indue  his  lustre ;  mostunloverlike. 
Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and 

j<\v, 
And  giving  light  to  others.     But  this 

most. 
Next  to  her  presence  whom  I  loved 

so  well, 
Spoke   loudly  even  into  xaj  inmost 

heart 
As  to  my  outward  hearing ;  the  loud 

stream, 
Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the 

crag 
(A  visible  link  unto  the  home  of  my 

heart). 
Ran  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 

the  sea 
Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  wa» 

received, 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


533 


Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sym- 
pathy 

Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 
main 

Glow'd  intermingling  close  beneath 
the  sun. 

Spirit  of  Love !  that  little  hour  was 
bound 

Shut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to 
thee : 

Thy  fires  from  heaven  had  touch'd  it, 
and  the  earth 

They  fell  on  became  hallow'd  ever- 
more, 

"We   turn'd :    our  eyes  met :    hers 

were  bright,  and  mine 
Were  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 

the  sunset 
In  lightnings  round  mc ;  and  my  njime 

was  borne 
Upon   her  breath.      Henceforth    my 

name  has  been 
A  hallow'd  memory  like  the  names  of 

old, 
A  center'd,  glory-circled  memory, 
And   a   peculiar    treasure,   brooldng 

not 
Exchange  or  currency :    and  in  that 

hour 
A  hope  flow'd  round  me,  like  a  golden 

mist 
Charm'd  amid  eddiesof  melodious  airs, 
A  moment,  ere  the  onward  whirlwind 

shatter  it, 
Waver'd  and  floated  —  which  was  less 

than  Hope, 
Because  it  lack'd  the  power  of  perfect 

Hope ; 
But  which  was  more  and  higher  than 

all  Hope, 
Because  all  other  Hope  had  lower  aim ; 
lEven   that   this   name  to  which  her 

gracious  lips 
'Did  lend  such  gentle  utterance,  this 
!  one  name. 

In  some  obscure  hereafter,  might  in- 

wreathe 
(How  lovelier,  nobler  then!)  her  life, 

her  love; 
With  my  life,  love,  soul,  spirit,  and 

heart  and  strength. 


"Brother,"  she  said,  "let  this  be 

call'd  henceforth 
The  Hill  of  Hope ; "  and  I  replied, 

"  0  sister. 
My  will  is  one  with  thine;  the  Hill  of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change  the 

name. 

I  did  not  speak :  I  could  not  speak 

my  love. 
Love  lieth  deep  :  Love  dwells  not  in 

lip-depths. 
Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side 

the  heart. 
Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and 

warm, 
Absorbing  all  the  incense  of  sweet 

tlioughts 
So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 

sound. 
Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted  hour 
Drunk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utter- 
ance 
Of  Love  ;    but  how  should  Earthly 

measure  mete 
The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimit- 
ed Love, 
Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 

sense 
Unto  the  thundersong  that  wheels  the 

spheres, 
Scarce  living  in  the  iEolian  harmony, 
And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 
Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  this 

Earth, 
Be  cabin'd  up  in  words  and  syllables, 
Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 

them  ?     Sooner  Earth 
Might  go  round  Heaven,  and  the  strait 

girth  of  Time 
Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 
Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  ot 

Love. 

O  day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 
hour. 

Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 
day! 

0  Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  up- 
hold 

Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a  God, 


534 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 
Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning 

round 
To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  eyes  are 

dim 
With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 

of  thine. 
Thy  name  is  ever  worshipp'd  among 

hours ! 
Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  seem'd  to 

die, 
For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 

of  Heaven,  — 
Had  I  died  then,  I  had  Hot  known  the 

death ; 
Tea  had  the  Power  from  whose  right 

hand  the  light 
Of  Life  issueth,  and  from  whose  left 

hand  floweth 
The  Shadow  of  Death,  perennial  efflu- 
ences. 
Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  whole- 
some air, 
Somewhile  the  one  must  overflow  the 

other ; 
Then  had  he  stemm'd  my  day  with 

night,  and  driven 
My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 

sprang,  — 
Even  his  own  abiding  excellence  — 
On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 

had  fall'n 
tJnfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I  had  merged 
The    other,    like    the    sun    I   gazed 

upon. 
Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due 

to  death, 
And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 

verge. 
Yet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own 

day, 
In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 
Steppeth   from   Heaven  to   Heaven, 

from  light  to  light, 
And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead 

far 
Into  a  clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  down- 
ward hill ; 
We  past  from  light  to  dark.     On  the 
other  side 


Is  scoop'd  a  cavern  and  a  mountain 

hall. 
Which  none  have  fathom'd.     If  you 

go  far  in 
(The  country  people  rumor)  you  may 

hear 
The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the 

child. 
Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the 

rock. 
I  too  have  heard  a  sound  —  perchance 

of  streams 
Running   far   on    within   its    inmost 

halls. 
The  home  of  darkness ;  but  the  cav. 

ern-mouth. 
Half  overtrailed  with  a  wanton  weed. 
Gives  birth  to  a  brawling  brook,  that 

passing  lightly 
Adown  a  natural  stair  of  tangled  roots, 
Is  presently  received  in  a  sweet  grave 
Of  eglantines,  a  place  of  burial 
Far  lovelier  than  its  cradle ;  for  un. 

seen. 
But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the 

place. 
It  makes  a  constant  bubbling  melody 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.  Low- 
er down 
Spreads  out  a  little  lake,  that,  flood. 

ing,  leaves 
Low  banks  of  yellow  sand  ;  and  from 

the  woods 
That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses, — 
Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal 

woe. 
That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  came, 
And  sitting  'down  upon  the  golden 

moss, 
Held  converse   sweet  and  low  —  low 

converse  sweet. 
In  which  our  voices  bore  least  part 

The  wind 
Told  a  lovetale  beside  us,  how  he  woo'd 
The  waters,  and  the  waters  answering 

lisp'd 
To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  with 

love. 
Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE 


535 


To  utterance  of  passion.      Ye  cannot 

shape 
Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 
Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 
Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thou- 
sand years, 
And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this 

earth, 
To  centre  in  this  place  and  time.     I 

listeu'd. 
And  her  words   stole  with  most  pre- 
vailing sweetness 
Into  my  heart,  as   thronging  fancies 

come 
To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days 

are  new, 
And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all 

at  ease : 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 
It  was  so   happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a 

place. 
And  I  was  as  the  brotlier  of  her  blood. 
And  by  that  name  I  moved  upon  her 

breath ; 
Dear  name,  which  had  too  much  of 

nearness  in  it 
And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time! 
At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and 

low. 
As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance  ; 
Bwt  in   the    onward  current  of  her 

speech, 
(As    echoes     of    the    hollow-banked 

brooks 
Are   fashion'd  by  the  channel  which 

they  keep). 
Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  bor- 
row sound. 
Her  cheek  did  catch  the  color  of  her 

words. 
I  heard  and  trembled,  yet  I  could  but 

hear; 
My  heart  paused  —  my  raised  eyelids 

would  not  fall. 
But  still  I  kept  my  eyas  upon  the  sky. 
I  seem'd  the  only  part  of  Time  stood 

still. 
And  saw  the  motion  of  all  other  things; 
While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable. 
Like  water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my  ear 
fell ;  and  I  wish'd,  yet  wisli'd  her  not 
to  speak ; 


But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 

wish, 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her  maiden  dignities  of  Hope  and 

Love  — 
"Perchance,"  she   said,    "return'd." 

Even  then  the  stars 
Didtremblein  their  stations  as  Igazed; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 

wish. 
No  wish  —  no  hope.     Hope  was  not 

wholly  dead. 
But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach 

of  Death,  — 
Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearestsenseof  mine— 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart, 
And  all  the  maiden  empire  of  her 

mind. 
Lay  like  a  map  before  me,  and  I  saw 
There,  where  I  hoped  myself  to  reign 

as  king, 
There,  where  that  day  I  crown'd  my- 
self as  king. 
There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my 

throne. 
Another  t  then  it  seem'd  as  tho'  a  link 
Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 

frame 
Was  riven  in  twain :  that  life  I  heeded 

not 
Flow'd  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of 

the  grave. 
The  darkness  of  the  grave  and  utter 

night. 
Did  swallow  up  my  vision ;  at  her  feet. 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I  loved,  I  fell, 
Smit   with    exceeding    sorrow    unto 
Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me 
yawing  cloven 

With  such  a  sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 

From  cope  to  base  —  had  Heaven  from 
all  her  doors, 

With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clash- 
ing, roU'd 

Her  heaviest  thunder —  I  had  lain  as 
dead. 

Mute,  blind  and  motionless  as  then  I 
lay; 


536 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


Dead,  for  henceforth  there  was  no  life 

for  me ! 
Mute,  for  henceforth  what  use  were 

words  to  me ! 
Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night  to 

me ! 
The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the 

day; 
The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
.Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly 

born 
Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the 

light ; 
And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  ten- 
der love 
Of  him  she  brooded  over.     Would  I 

had  lain 
Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Bound  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild 

brier  had  driven 
Its  knotted  thorns  thro'  my  unpain- 

ing  brows. 
Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and 

the  rain 
Had  fall'n  upon  me,  and  the  gilded 

snake 
Had  nestled  in  this  bosom-throne  of 

Love, 
But  I  had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long  time  entrancement  held  me. 

All  too  soon 
Life  (like  a  wanton  too-ofiScious  friend, 
Who  will  not  hear  denial,  vain   and 

rude 
With  proffer  of  unwish'd-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro'  into  his  citadel,  the  brain. 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensive- 

ness. 
And  first  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled 

brook 
Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I  seem'd 

to  hear 
Its  murmur,  as  the  drowning  seaman 

hears, 
Who  with  his  head  below  the  surface 

dropt 
Listens  the  muffled  booming  indistinct 
Of  the  confused  floods,  and  dimly  knows 


His  head  shall  ris^  no  more :  and  then 

came  in 
The  white  light  of  the  weary  moon 

above. 
Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 
Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 

to  me 
Him  who  should  own  that  namel  Were 

it  not  well 
If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 
Ringing  within  the  fancy  had  updrawn 
A  fashion  and  a  phantasm   of    the 

form 
It  should    attach  to  ?     Phantom !  — 

had  the  ghastliest 
That  ever  lusted  for  a  body,  sucking 
The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 

by  it. 
There  in  the   shuddering  moonlight 

brought  its  face 
And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to 

mine 
As  he  did — better  that  than  his,  than 

he 
The  friend,  the  neighbor,  Lionel,  the 

beloved. 
The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel, 
The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 
All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a  joy. 
0  how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 

his  eyes ! 
O  how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 

smiles 
About  his  lips!   and  —  not  one  mo- 
ment's grace  — 
Then  when  the  effect  weigh'd  seas 

upon  my  head 
To  come  ray  way !  to  twit  me  with  the 

cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro'  all 

her  ways 
To  him  as  me  ?     Was  not  his  wont  to 

walk 
Between  the  going  light  and  growing 

night? 
Had  I  not  learnt  my  loss  before  he 

camel 
Could  that  be  more  because  he  came 

my  way  1 
Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if 

he  would  1 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


537 


And  yet  to-night,  to-night  —  when  all 

my  wealth 
Flash'd  from  me  in  a  moment  and  I 

fell 
Bsggar'd   for   f-ver  —  why  »}imdd  he 

come  my  way 
Kobed  in  those  robes  of  light  I  must 

not  wear. 
With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 

his  brows  — 
Come  like  an  angel  to  a  damned  fcoul. 
To  tell  him  of  the  bliss  ht  had  with 

(i<A  — 
Come  like  a  careless  and  a  greedy 

heir 
That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of 

the  will 
Before  he   takes    possession  1     AVas 

mine  a  mood 
To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A  sacred,  fcccret  unapproac)ied  woe. 
Unspeakable  'i     I  was  shut  up  with 

^jT\ei ; 
She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Karded  and  swathed   and  balm'd  it 

for  herself, 
And  laid  it  in  a  sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  rise  again.     I  was  led  mute 
Into  her  temple  like  a  sacrifice ; 
I  was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest 

place, 
Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

Oh  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy 

as  ttic'fec-  well-nigh 
O'erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  :  but  he 
Bent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm 

upstay'd. 
I  thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and 

once 
I  strove  to    disengage    myself,  but 

fail'd. 
Being  so  feeble ;  slie  bent  above  me, 

too; 
Wan  was  her  cheek;  for  whatsoe'er 

of  blight 
I/ives  in  the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had 

made 
The  red  rose  there  a  pale  one  —  and 

her  eyes  — 
I  saw  the  moonlight  glitter  on  their 

tears  — 


And  some  few  drops  of  that  distress- 
ful rain 
Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 

moved. 
Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze, 

and  brush'd 
My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and 

fro. 
For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 
Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they  ) 

liad  flow'd  abroad. 
And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her 

neck. 
Mantling  her  form    halfway.     She, 

when  I  woke. 
Something  she  ask'd,  I  know  not  what, 

and  ask'd, 
Unanswer'd,  since  I  spake  not;   for 

the  sound 
Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low. 
And  now  first  heard  with  any  sense 

of  pain, 
A  6  it  had  taken  life  away  before. 
Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove 

to  rise 
From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too. 
From  his  great  hoard  of  happiness 

distill'd 
Some  drops  of   solace;  like  a  vain 

rich  man. 
That,  having  always  prosper'd  in  the 

world. 
Folding  his  hands,  deals  comfortable 

words 
To  hearts  wounded  for  ever ;  yet,  in 

truth. 
Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate  of 

phrase. 
Falling  in  whispers  on  the  sense,  ad- 

dress'd 
More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 

ear. 
As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight 

soft. 
Scarce-heard,  recalling  fragrance  and 

the  green 
Of    the  dead  spring :  but  mine  was 

wholly  dead. 
No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit 

for  me. 


S3S 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suiler'd 

wrong  ? 
And  why  was  I  to  darken  their  pure 

love, 
If,  as  I  found,  they  two  did  love  each 

other. 
Because  my  own  was  darken'd  ?  Why 

was  I 
To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 

them? 
To  stand  a  shadow  by  their  shining 

doors. 
And  vex  them  with  my  darkness  ? 

Did  I  love  her  ■? 
Ye  know  that  I  did  love  her ;  to  this 

present 
My  full-orb'd  love  has  waned  not. 

Did  I  love  her. 
And  could  I  look  upon  her  tearful 

eyes? 
What  had  s}te  done  to  weep  ?     Why 

should  she  weep  ? 

0  innocent  of  spirit  —  let  my  heart 
Break    rather  —  whom    the    gentlest 

airs  of  Heaven 

Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 

Her  love  did  murder  mine  ?  What 
then?     She  deem'd 

1  wore  a  brother's  mind:   she   call'd 

me  brother : 
She  told  me  all  her  love :  she  shall 
not  weep. 

The  brightness  of  a  burning  thought, 

awhile 
In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  my  dark 

will. 
Moonlike  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 
There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom'd 

woe 
Beflex  of  action.    Starting  up  at  once. 
As  from  a  dismal  dream  of  my  own 

death, 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  lost  my  love  in 

Love ; 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 

lov'd. 
And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my 

cry 
Thro'  the  blank  night  to  Him  who 

loving  made 


The  happy  and  the  imhappy  love, 

that  He 
Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  over 

them, 
Lionel,  the  happy,  and  her,  and  her, 

his  bride ! 
Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boys 

may  say, 
"  Lo  !  how  they  love  each  other !  "  till 

their  love 
Shall  ripen  to  a  proverb,  unto  all 
Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  in 

the  land  — 
One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  which 

may  death 
Awake  them  with  heaven's  music  in  a 

life 
More  living  to  some  happier  happi- 
ness, 
Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 
And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me,  — . 
The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesome 

dew, 
They  will  but  sicken  the  sick  plant 

the  more. 
Deem  that  I  love  thee  but  as  brothers 

do, 
So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisters 

do; 
Or    if    thou    dream    aught    farther, 

dream  but  how 
I  could  have  loved  thee,  had  there 

been  none  else 
To   love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by 

thee. 

Or  this,  or  somewhat  like  to  this,  I 
spake, 

When  I  beheld  her  weep  so  rue- 
fully; 

For  sure  my  love  should  ne'er  indue 
the  front 

And  mask  of  Hate,  who  lives  on 
others'  moans. 

Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bit- 
ter draughts. 

And  batten  on  her  poisons  ?  Love 
forbid ! 

Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  cold 
Hate, 

And  Hate  is  strange  beneath  the  roof 
of  Love. 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


539 


O  Love,  if  thou  be'st  Love,  dry  up 

these  tears 
Shed  for  the  love  of  Love  ;  for  tho' 

mine  image. 
The  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold  in 

her. 
Yet,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth  in  the 

source 
Of   these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their 

downward  flow. 
So  Love,  arraign'd  to  judgment  and 

to  death, 
Received    unto    himself    a    part    of 

blame, 
Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  pri- 
soner, 
Who,  when  the  woful  sentence  hath 

been  past. 
And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 

gone 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of 

man. 
First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 

awaked. 
And  looking  round  upon  his  tearful 

friends. 
Forthwith    and    in    his    agony    con- 
ceives 
A   shameful  sense  as  of   a  cleaving 

crime  — 
For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 

such  grief  be  ? 

So  died  that  hour,  and  fell  into  the 
abysm 

Of  forms  outworn,  but  not  to  me  out- 
worn. 

Who  never  hail'd  another  —  was  there 
one  1 

There  might  be  one  —  one  other,  worth 
the  life 

That  made  it  sensible.  So  that  hour 
died 

Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged 
wind 

Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 

that  they. 
They  —  when  their  love  is  wreck'd  — 

if  Love  can  wreck  — 
On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom 

ride  highly 


Above  the  periloxis  seas  of  Change 

and  Chance ; 
Nay,  more,   hold  out  the  lights  of 

cheerfulness ; 
As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a  dreary 

year 
Knit  to  some  dismal  sandbank  far  at 

sea. 
All  thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  utter 

dark. 
Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolor- 
ous wave. 
For  me  —  what  light,  what  gleam  on 

those  black  ways 
Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish'd 

Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill-done  to  part  you.  Sister* 

fair; 
Love's  arms  were  wreath'd  about  the 

neck  of  Hope, 
And    Hope  kiss'd  Love,  and    Love 

drew  in  her  breath 
In  that  close  kiss,    and    drank  her 

whisper'd  tales. 
They  said  that  Love  would  die  when 

Hope  was  gone, 
And  Love  mourn'd  long,  and  sorrow'd 

after  Hope ; 
At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and 

they  trod 
The  same  old  paths  where  Love  had 

walk'd  with  Hope, 
And  Memory  fed  the  soul   of  Love 

with  tears. 

II. 

From  that  time  forth  I  would  not  see 

her  more ; 
But    many    weary   moons    I    lived 

alone  — 
Alone,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  great 

forest. 
Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the 

sea 
All  day  I  watch'd  the  floating  isles  of 

shade. 
And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 

sands 
Insensibly  I  drew  her  name,  until 
The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 


540 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


My  brain ;  anon  the  wanton  billow 

wash'd 
Them  over,  till  they  faded  like  my 

love. 
The  hollow  caverns  heard  me  —  the 

black  brooks 
Of  the  midf orest  heard  me  —  the  soft 

winds. 
Laden  with  thistledown  and  seeds  of 

flowers. 
Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for 

my  voice 
Was   all  of  thee:  the  merry  linnet 

knew  me, 
The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragon- 

fly 

Shot  by  me  like  a  flash  of  purple  fire. 
The    rough  brier  tore  my  bleeding 

palms ;  the  hemlock, 
Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as 

I  past ; 
Yet  trod  I  not  the  wildflower  in  my 

path. 
Nor  bruised  the  wildbird's  egg. 

Was  this  the  end  ? 
Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one 

plot? 
Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain  ■?  drew 

one  sun  ? 
Why  were  our  mothers'  branches  of 

one  stem  1 
Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save 

in  that 
Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 

cope  and  crown 
Of  all  I  hoped  and  fear'd  ?  —  if  that 

same  nearness 
Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that 

one 
Vauntcourier  to  the  double  ?  if  Affec- 
tion 
Living    slew    Love,    and   Sympathy 

hew'd  out 
The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy  ? 

Chiefly  I  sought  the  cavern  and  the 

hill 
Where  last  we  roam'd  together,  for  the 

sound 
Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and 

the  wind 


Came  wooingly  with  woodbine  smells. 
Sometimes 

All  day  I  sat  within  the  cavern-mouth, 

Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress- 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood ;  and  with 
mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I  cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  be 
neath, 

And  watch'd  them  till  they  vanish'd 
from  my  sight 

Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living 
rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trem- 
bling of  the  world 

Had  loosen'd  from  the  mountain,  till 
they  fell 

Half-digging  their  own  graves)  these 
in  my  agony 

Did  I  make  bare  of  all  the  golden 
moss. 

Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 
spring 

Had  liveried  them  all  over.  In  my 
brain 

The  spirit  seem'd  to  flag  from  thought 
to  thought, 

As  moonlight  wandering  thro'  a  mist : 
my  blood 

Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro'  all  my 
languid  limbs ; 

The  motions  of  my  heart  seem'd  far 
within  me, 

Unfrequent,  low,  as  the'  it  told  its 
pulses ; 

And  yet  it  shook  me,  that  my  frame 
would  shudder. 

As  if  'twere  drawn  asunder  by  the  rack. 

But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 
Fear, 

And  all  the  broken  palaceu  of  the 
Past, 

Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore. 

Like  to  a  low-hung  and  a  fiery  sky 

Above  some  fair  metropolis,  earth- 
shock'd,  — 

Hung  round  with  ragged  rims  and 
burning  folds,  — 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


£« 


Embathing   all  with  wild  and  woful 

hues, 
Great  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed 

masses 
Of  thundershaken  columns  indistinct, 
And  fused  together  in  the  tyrannous 

light  — 
Euins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me  ! 

Sometimes  I  thought  Camilla  was 
no  more, 

Some  one  had  told  me  she  was  dead, 
and  ask'd 

If  I  would  see  her  burial :  then  Iseem'd 

To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 
borne 

With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I 
ran  down 

The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I  came  upon 

The  rear  of  a  procession,  curving  round 

The  silver-sheeted  bay ;  in  front  of 
which 

Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbear 

A  broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 
lawn. 

Wreathed  round  the  bier  with  gar- 
lands :  in  the  distance, 

I'rom  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the 
hill 

Look'd  forth  the  summit  and  tlie  pin- 
nacles 

Of  a  gray  steeple  —  thence  at  intervals 

A  low  bell  tolling.   All  the  pageantry. 

Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld 
the  bier, 

Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ing black ; 

One  walk'd  abreast  with  me,  and  veil'd 
his  brow, 

And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in 
praise 

Of  her  we  foUow'd:  a  strong  sympathy 

Shook  all  my  soul:  I  flung  myself 
"upon  him 

In  tears  and  cries  :  I  told  him  all  my 
love. 

How  I  had  loved  her  from  the  first ; 
whereat 

He  shrank  and  howl'd,  and  from  his 
brow  drew  back 

His  hand  to  push  me  from  him ;  and 
the  face. 


The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 

Mash'd  thro'  my  eyes  into  my  inner- 
most brain, 

And  at  his  feet  I  seem'd  to  faint  and 
fall. 

To  fall  and  die  away.    I  could  not  rise 

Albeit  I  strove  to  follow.  They  past 
on. 

The  lordly  Phantasms !  in  their  float- 
ing folds 

They  past  and  were  no  more :  but  I 
had  fallen 

Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the 
grass. 

Alway    the     inaudible      invisible 

thought. 
Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave. 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible; 
All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf 

and  wind, 
Platter'd  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain; 
The    cloud-pavilion'd    element,    the 

wood, 
The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 

cave. 
Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of 

the  moon 
Below  black  firs,  when  silent-creeping 

winds 
Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks 

and  bars. 
Were  wrought  into  the  tissue  of  my 

dream  : 
The  meanings  in  the  forest,  the  loud 

brook, 
Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a  rusty  key 
Turn'd  in  a  lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whirr 
Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a  part  of 

sleep. 
And  voicesin  thedistance  calling  to  me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on, 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 

of  dreams. 
Which  wander  round  the  bases  of  the 

hills. 
And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves 

of  sleep. 
Half-entering  the  portals.    Oftentimes 
The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the  end 


S42 


THE   LOVER'S    TALE. 


Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vesti- 
bules 

To  caves  and  shows  of  Death :  wheth- 
er the  mind, 

With  some  revenge  —  even  to  itself 
unknown,  — 

Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 

With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering 
view'd  had  been 

Extremest  pain ;  or  that  the  clear-eyed 
Spirit, 

Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 
length 

Prophetical  and  prescien'  of  whate'er 

The  Future  had  in  store :  or  that 
which  most 

Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my 
spirit 

Was  of  so  wide  a  compass  it  took  in 

All  I  had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony. 

Ideally  to  her  transferr'd,  became 

Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned ; 
Alone    I   sat    with    her :    about    my 

brow 
Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 
Of    silver-chorded    tones :    her    lips 

were  sunder'd 
With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which 

broke  in  light 
Like  morning  from  her  eyes  —  her 

eloquent  eyes, 
(As  I  have  seen  them  many  a  hundred 

times) 
Fill'd  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro' 

mine  down  rain'd 
Their  spirit-searching  splendors.    As 

a  vision 
Unto  a  haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay'd 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
,  ground. 

Confined  on   points  of    faith,  when 

strength  is  shock'd 
With    torment,   and    expectancy    of 

worse 
Upon  the  morrow,  thro'  the  ragged 


All  unawares  before  his  half -shut  eyes. 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of 
night, 


And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and 

of  awe. 
Makes   the  heart  tremble,  and    the 

sight  run  over 
Upon  his  steely  gyves ;  so  those  fair 

eyes 
Shone  on  my  darkness,  forms  which 

ever  stood 
Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory, 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  reassume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.    Now 

the  light 
Which  was  their  life,  burst  through. 

the  cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a  room 
Within  the  summer-house  of  which  I 

spake. 
Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 

and  one 
A   vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved 

prow 
Clambering,  the  mast  bent  and  the 

ravin  wind 
In  her  sail  roaring.    From  the  outer 

day, 
Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a 

broad 
And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light, 
Crowded  with   driving  atomies,  and 

fell 
Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 

youth 
Well-known  well-loved.     She  drew  it 

long  ago 
Forthgazing  on  the  waste  and  open 

sea, 
One  morning  when  the  upblown  bil- 
low ran 
Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  I 

had  pour'd 
Into    the  shadowing  pencil's  naked 

forms 
Color  and  life  :  it  was  a  bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with  tearful 

smiles ; 
A  monument  of    childhood   and  of 

love ; 
The  poesy  of  childhood;  my  lost  love 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


543 


Symbol'd  in  storm.     We  gazed  on  it 

together 
In  mute  and  glad  remembrance,  and 

each  heart 
Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 
Was  riveted  and  charm-boimd,  gazing 

like 
The  Indian  on  a  still-eyed  snake,  low- 

couch'd  — 
A  beauty  which  is  death;  when  all  at 

once 
That  painted    vessel,  as  with  inner 

life. 
Began  to  heave   upon  that  painted 

sea ; 
An  earthquake,  my  loud  heart-beats, 

made  the  ground 
Eeel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul, 

life 
And  breath  and    motion,   past    and 

flow'd  away 
To  those  unreal  billows :  round  and 

round 
A  whirlwind   caught    and  bore   us ; 

mighty  gyres 
Eapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 
"Ssx  thro'  the  dizzy  dark.    Aloud  she 

shriek'd ; 
My  heart  was   cloven  with  pain;   I 

wound  my  arms 
About  her:   we  whirl'd  giddily;   the 

wind 
Sung ;  but  I  clasp'd  her  without  fear : 

her  weight 
Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 

eyes, 
And    parted  lips   which    drank    her 

breath,  down-hung 
The  jaws  of  Death :  I,  groaning,  from 

me  flung 
Her  empty  phantom :  all  the  sway  and 

whirl 
Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 

and  I 
Down  welter'd  thro'  the  dark  ever  and 

ever. 

ni. 

I  CAME  one  day  and  sat  among  the 
stones 


Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning 

cave; 
A  morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran 

over 
The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and 

blew 
Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells 

of  bud 
And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  drip- 
ping woods 
Upon  my  fever'd  brows  that  shook 

and  throbb'd 
From  temple  unto  temple.    To  what 

height 
The  day  had  grown  I  know  not.    Then 

came  on  me 
The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 
The  vision  of  the  bier.    As  heretofore 
I  walk'd  behind  with  one  who  veil'd 

his  brow. 
Methought  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 

bell 
Toll'd  quicker,  and  the  breakers  on  the 

shore 
Sloped  into  louder  s-jrf :  those  that 

went  with  me, 
And  those  that  held  the  bier  before 

my  face, 
Moved  with  one   spirit  round  about 

the  bay. 
Trod  swifter  steps ;  and  while  I  walk'd 

with  these 
In  marvel  at  that  gradual  change,  I 

thought 
Pour  bells  instead  of    one  began  to 

ring. 
Four  merry  bells,f  our  merry  marriage- 
bells. 
In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 

peal  — 
A  long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage- 
bells. 
Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 

in  rear, 
Rush'd  into  dance,  and  like  wild  Bac- 

chanals 
Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the 

woods : 
I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the 

blast 
Beat  on  my  heated  eyelids :  all  at 

once 


544 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


The  front  rank  made  a  sudden  halt ; 

the  bells 
Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness ;  the 

surge  fell 
From  thunder  Into  whispers ;  those  six 

maids 
With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 

the  sand 
Threw  down  the  bier ;  the  woods  upon 

the  hill 
i  Wared  with  a  sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 
Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew 

it  far 
Until  it  hung,  a  little  silver  cloud 
Over  the  sounding  seas :  I  turn'd :  my 

heart 
Shrank  in  me,  like  a  snowflake  in  the 

hand. 
Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 
Of  her  I  loved,  adorn'd  with  fading 

flowers. 
But    she    from    out    her    death-like 

chrysalis, 
She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher 

life. 
My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my 

love, 
Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white  — 

her  hair 
Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose 

— a  light 
Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  Ups  — 

her  eyes 
And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she 

climb'd  the  hill. 
One  hand  she  reach'd  to  those  that 

came  behind. 
And  while  I  mused  nor  yet  endured 

to  take 
So  rich  a  prize,  the  man  who  stood 

with  me 
Stept  gaily  forward,  throwing  down 

his  robes. 
And  claspt  her  hand  in  his :  again  the 

bells 
Jangled  and  clang'd ;  again  the  stormy 

surf 
Crash'd  in  the  shingle:  and  the  whirl- 
ing rout 
Led  by  those  two  rush'd  into  dance, 

and  fled 


Wind-footed    to   the    steeple  in   the 

woods. 
Till  they  were  swallow'd  in  the  leafy 

bowers, 
And  I  stood  sole  beside  the  vacant 

bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision  —  then 
the  event  I 

IV. 

THE   GOLDEN  SUPPEE.* 
(Another  speaks.) 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 

to  me: 
Poor  Julian — how  he  rush'd  away; 

the  bells. 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear 

and  heart — 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you 

saw. 
As  who  should  say  "  Continue."    Well 

he  had 
One  golden  hour — of  triumph  shall  I 

say? 
Solace   at  least — before  he  left  his 

home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that 
hour  of  his ! 

He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majesti- 
cally — 

Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close — 
but  now  — 

Whether  they  tvere  his  lady's  mar- 
riage bells, 

Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 

I  never  ask'd :  but  Lionel  and  the  gir) 

Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came 
again 

Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 
pines. 

But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 
and  the  Bay, 

The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 
iEtna  does 

The  Giant  of   Mythology:  he  would 

go> 

'  This  poem  is  fonndea  opon  a  story  ur 
Boccaccio.    See  Introduction,  p- 947. 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


545 


Would  leave  the  land  for  erer,  and 

had  gone 
Surely,  but  for  a,  whisper,  "Go  not 

yet," 
Some  warning  —  sent  divinely  —  as  it 

seem'd 
By  that  which  ioUow'd  —  but  of  this 

I  deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  —  the 

event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after 

life. 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew 

it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay'd  and  would  not 

Took  at  her  — 
Xo   not   for  months :  but,  when   the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  vet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 

and  said, 
'V^'onld  you  could  toU  me  out  of  life, 

but  found  — 
All  softly  as  Ms  mother  broke  it  to 

him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear. 
For  that   low  kneU   tolling  his  lady 

dead  — 
Dead  —  and  had  lain  three  days  with- 
out a  pulse : 
AU  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's 

land 
They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in 

elm). 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 

heaven. 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 

Mn. 

What  did  he  then  ?  not  die :  he  is 

here  and  hale  — 
Xot  plunge  headforemost  from  the 

mountain  there, 
.  And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 

not  he  : 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 

now, 
Thought  that  he  knew  it.     "  This,  I 

stay'd  for  this ; 


0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so 

long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the 
grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 
And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.    She  is  his 

no  more  : 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the 

dim  vault. 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  be- 
held 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all 

will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went 

again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  hep 

face; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which 

the  moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  waU,  and  all  the  rest  of 

her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of 

the  vaidt. 

"  It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  pass, 

to  sleep. 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her — ■  till  the  great 

day 
Peal'd  on  us  with  that  music  which 

rights  all. 
And  raised  us  hand  in  hand."    And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 

was  man. 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts. 
Hearts  that  had  heat  with  such  a  love 

as  mine  — 
Xot  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd  her  more  than  once,  till 

helpless  death 
And  silence  made  him  bold  — nay,  but 

I  wrong  him. 


546 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 
death ; 

But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her 
heart, 

"0,  you  warm  heart,"  he  moan'd, 
"  not  even  death 

Can  chill  you  all  at  once :"  then  start- 
ing, thouglit 

His  dreams  had  come  again.  "  Do  I 
wake  or  sleep  ^ 

Or  am  1  made  immortal,  or  my  love 

Mortal  once  more  ?  "  It  beat  —  the 
heart  —  it  beat: 

Paint  —  but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 
began 

To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that 
it  drown'd 

The  feebler  motion  underneath  his 
hand. 

But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  sat- 
isfied, 

He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepul- 
chre. 

And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 
cloak 

He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 
now 

Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 

Holding  his  golden  burthen  in  his 
arms. 

So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 

Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 
was  bom. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  min- 
istering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life  :  she  rais'd  an  eye 

that  ask'd 
"  Where  ?  "  till  the  things  familiar  to 

her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer :  then  she 

spoke 
"  Here !  and  how  came  I  here  %  "  and 

learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 

think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
■"  Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back ; 
Send !    bid   him  come ; "  but  Lionel 

was  away  — 


Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish'd,  none 
knew  where. 

"  He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "  and 
goes  "  —  a  wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  was  noth- 
ing, born 

Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd 
nerve. 

Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  re- 
proof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had 
return'd, 

"Oh  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "  and 
none  but  you  ? 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 
again. 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell 
him  of  it. 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns." 

"  Stay  then  a  little,''  answer'd  Julian, 
"  here. 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself ; 

And  I  will  do  your  will.  I  may  not 
stay. 

No,  not  an  hour ;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  re- 
turn, 

And  I  will  make  a  solemn  oftering  of 
you 

To  him  you  love."  And  faintly  she 
replied, 

"  And  I  will  do  your  will,  and  none 
shall  know." 

Not  know  ?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 

known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 

them  both. 
And  all  the  house  had  known  tlie  loves 

of  botli ; 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  tliera  any 

A     ,     ^^^' 

And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 
tary; 
And  then  he  rode  away ;  but  after  this. 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  bom, 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


54?- 


And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :  myself 

was  then 
Travelling  that   land,  and  meant  to 

rest  an  hour ; 
And  sitting  dovfn  to  such  a  base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I  heard  a    groaning    overhead,   and 

climb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything 

was  vile) 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on 

him, 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beat- 
ing hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush ! 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of 

liim 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help 

us  yet. 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 

coast. 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 

piece 
I  learnt  the  deader  story  of  his  life ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 

made 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy  :  did  he  know  her 

worth. 
Her  beauty  even  '  should  he  not  be 

taught, 
E  v'n  by  the  price  that  others  setupon  it. 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to 

guard  ■* 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we 
past, 
L  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 

the  soul : 
That  makes    the   sequel   pure;    tho' 

some  of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I:  and  yet  I  say  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 

sweet. 


But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers 

him  '— 
What  matter  ?  there  are  others  in  the 

wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him 

crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes 

of  hers  — 
Oh!  such  dark  eyes !  and  not  her  eyes 

alone, 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch'd 

on  earth. 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  look'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her 

arms! 
"  ICiss  him,"  she  said.    "  You  gave  me- 

life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  other  father  you !  Kiss  him,  and 

then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too." 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart  1 

his  own 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his    face,   I 

knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 

there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 

go. 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying 

him 
By  that  great  love  they  both   had 

borne  the  dead. 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 

him 
Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 
And  then  to  friends  —  they  were  not 

many  —  who  lived 
Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land 

of  his. 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solemn  feast:  \ 

never 
Sat  at  a  costlier ;  for  all  round  hie  halt 


'548 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


Prom  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a 

wood, 
H  ot  such  as  here  —  an  equatorial  one. 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom'd ; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,  and   ancient  miracles  of 

Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that.  Heaven 

knows  when. 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 

sun. 
And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  years  of 

gloom, 
Tet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round 

in  gold  — 
Others  of  glass  as  costly  —  some  with 

gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  — 

Ah  heavens ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all  ?  —  suffice  to 

say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest :  and 

they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at  some   strange  light  in 

Julian's  eyes 
■(I  told  you  that  he  had  his   golden 

hour), 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and  his 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a 

land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev'n 

than  rich. 
But  rich  as  for  tne  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 

hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping 
'  down. 

Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 

frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was   a 

lamp: 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 

night 


Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 
a  smile. 

Well  then —  our  solemn  feast  —  we 

ate  and  drank. 
And  might  —  the  wines  being  of  such 

nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes. 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about 

it  all : 
What  was  it '  for  our  lover  seldom 

spoke, 
Scarce  touch'd  the  meats ;  but  ever 

and  anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his 

use ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 

he  said: 

"  There  is  a  custom  in  the  Orient, 
friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 

he  brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  custom " 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  hira  with 

meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet —  "  Beau- 
tiful! 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a 
feast  ?  " 

The  lover  answer'd,  "  There  is  more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.    Laud  me 

not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the 

close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further  when 

the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost 
For  after  he  hath  shown  him  gems  or 

gold, 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich 

guise 


THE  LOVER'S    TALE. 


S49 


That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as 

these, 
The  beauty  that  is   dearest   to    his 

heart  — 
^O  my  heart's   lord,  would   I  could 

show  you,'  he  says, 
<Ev'n  my  heart  too.'    And  I  propose 

to-night 
To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my 

heart, 
And  my  heart  too. 

"  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who 

loved 
His  master  more  than  all  on  earth 

beside. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 

death, 
His  master  would  not  wait  until  he 

died. 
But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 

the  door. 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to 

die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took 

him  home. 
And  fed,  and  cherish 'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 

claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ? 

him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 

his  life  ?  " 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 

the  guests, 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 

length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the 

law  would  hold. 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
lo  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 

phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly  —  his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet  —  but  warming 

as  he  went. 


Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass 
it  by, 

Atfirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived. 

By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  grateful- 
ness. 

The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was 
due 

All    to    the  saver  —  adding,  with  a 
smile. 

The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi- 
smile 

As   at  a  strong  conclusion  —  "bodyl 
and  soul 

And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  hi 
.  will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to 

me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them 

all. 
And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 

came. 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  her- 
self 
Is  lovelier  tlian  all  others  —  on  her 

head 
A  diamond  circlet,   and  from  under 

this 
A  veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than 

gilded  air, 
riying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern 

gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that 

grace  of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the 

wind. 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the 

sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 

babe. 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 

crown'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself  — ■ 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the 

jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled    and    flash'd,    for    he    had 

decked  them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in ;  —  I  am  long  in  telling 

it, 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strangei 


?50 


THE  LOVES' S    TALE. 


Sad,  sweet,  and   strange  together  — 

floated  in  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose  — 
And  slowly  pacing    to    the    middle 

hall. 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and 

stood,  her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 

feet. 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights 

nor  feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ; 

who  cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And     hungering     for    the    gilt    and 

jewell'd   world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like   to 

prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 

saw. 

"My  guests,"  said  Julian:  "you 
are  honor'd  now 

Ev'n  to  the  uttermost ;  in  her  behold 

Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beau- 
tiful. 

Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 
me." 

Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  our- 
selves, 

Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 

And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 

Eire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 

Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble 
too. 

And  heard  him  muttering,  "  So  like, 
so  like ; 

She  never  had  a  sister.    I  knew  none. 

Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  —  O  God, 
so  like ! " 

And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if 
she  were. 

She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down, 
and  was  dumb. 

And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she 
came 

Prom  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did 
not  speak. 

Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers :  but 
she 


To  all   their  queries   answer'd  not  a 

word. 
Which  made   the   amazement  more, 

till  one  of  them 
Said,    shuddering,    "  Her    spectre ! " 

But  his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "Not  at 

least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken 

to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  find  her, 

dumb  1 " 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd 

all: 
"  She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you 

see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke 

about. 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now ; 
Which  will  not  last.     I  have  here  to- 
night a  guest 
So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 

loss  — 
What !  shall  I  bind  him  more  ?  in  his 

behalf. 
Shall   I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving 

him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 

to  me. 
Not  only  showing '   and  he  himself 

pronounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to 

give. 

"  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 

of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what   I   say  by 

word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my 

heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — ■ 
The  passionate  moment  would    not 

suffer  that  — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial ; 

thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  liour  in  his 

own  hall ; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all 

his  guests 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


551 


Once  more  as  by  enchantment;   all 

but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell 

again. 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  he 

said : 

"  Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tlio'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 

lost, 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly. 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring 

her  back : 
I  leave  this  land  for  ever."     Here  he 

ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one 

hand. 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble 

babe. 
He    slowly   brought    them    both    to 

Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and 

dead  wife 
.Itush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that 

rather  seem'd 


For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life 
renew'd ; 

Whereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 

At  once  they  turn'd,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  kill- 
ing him 

With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of 
life, 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  — 
the  sight  of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turn- 
ing to  me 

And  saying,  "  It  is  over :  let  us 
go"- 

There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors  — 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 

He  past  for  ever  from  his  native  land ; 

And  I  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to 
mine. 


BALLADS  AND  OTHEE  POEMS. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

MY    GRANDSON. 


Golden-hair'd  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine. 

Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new  wine, 

Now  that  the  flower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine, 

O  little  blossom,  O  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a  line. 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thine. 

May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that  is  mine ! 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 
(in  the  isle  of  wight.) 


"  Wait  a  little,"  you  say,  "  you  are 

sure  it'll  all  come  right," 
But  the  boy  was  born  i'  trouble,  an' 

looks  so  wan  an'  so  white  : 
Wait !  an'  once  I  ha'  waited — I  hadn't 

to  wait  for  long. 
Now  I  wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry.  — 

No,    no,    you    are    doing    me 

wrong ! 
Harry  and  I  were  married:  the  boy 

can  hold  up  his  head, 
The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but 

after  my  man  was  dead ; 
I  ha'  work'd  for  him  fifteen  years,  an' 

I  work  an'  I  wait  to  the  end. 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you 

are  my  only  friend. 


Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I'll  tell  you 

the  tale  o'  my  life. 
When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he 

call'd  me  his  own  little  wife ; 


I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an* 

sorry  when  he  was  away. 
An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved 

him  better  than  play ; 
He  workt  me   the  daisy  chain — he 

made  me  the  cowslip  ball, 
He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude, 

an'  I  loved  him  better  than  all. 
Passionate  girl  tho'  I  was,  an'  often  at 

home  in  disgrace, 
I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  —  I 

had  but  to  look  in  his  face, 
m. 
There  was  a  farmer    in    Dorset  of 

Harry's  kin,  that  had  need 
Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm ;  he 

sent,  an'  the  father  agreed ; 
So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 

farm  for  years  an'  for  years ; 
I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  quay, 

poor  lad,  an'  we  parted  in  tears. 
The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we 

heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 
"I'll  never  love   any  but  you,  God 

bless  you,  my  own  little  Nell." 

IV. 

I  was  a  child,  an'  he  was  a  child,  anJ 
he  came  to  harm ; 


THE  FIRST   QUARREL. 


553 


There  was  a  girl,  a  hussy,  that  workt 
with  him  up  at  the  farm. 

One  had  deceived  her  an'  left  her 
alone  with  her  sin  an' her  shame, 

And  so  shewas  wicked  with  Harry;  the 
girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 


And  years  went  over  till  I  that  was 

little  had  grown  so  tall. 
The  men  would  say  of  the  maids,  "  Our 

Nelly's  the  flower  of  'em  all." 
I  didn't  take  heed  o'  them,  but  I  taught 

myself  all  I  could 
To  make  a  good  wife  for  Harry,  when 

Harry  came  home  for  good. 


Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and  often  as 
happy  too, 

!For  I  heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  "  I'll 
never  love  any  but  you  " ; 

"I'll  never  love  any  but  you"  the 
morning  song  of  the  lark, 

"I'll  never  love  any  but  you"  the  night- 
ingale's hymn  in  the  dark. 


And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 

look'd  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 
Vext  me  a  bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so 

many  years  had  gone  by, 
I  had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall  — 

that  I  might   ha'  forgot   him 

somehow — ■ 
For  he  thought  —  there   were   other 

lads  —  he  was   f ear'd   to  look 

at  me  now. 

VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 

married  o'  Christmas  day. 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an'  all 

as  merry  as  May  — 
Those  were  the   pleasant   times,  my 

house   an'  my  man  were   my 

pride, 
We  seem'd  like  ships  i'  the  Channel 

a-sailing  with  wind  an'  tide. 


But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho' 

he  tried  the  villages  round, 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see 

if  work  could  be  found ; 
An'  he  wrote,  "  I  ha'  six  weeks'  work, 

little  wife,  so  far  as  I  know ; 
I'll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an' 

kiss  you  before  I  go." 


So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for 

.wasn't  he  coming  that  day  ? 
An'  I  hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was 

push'd  in  a  corner  away. 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a 

letter  along  wi'  the  rest, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand 

in  a  hornets'  nest. 

XI. 

"  Sweetheart "  —  this  was  the  letter  — 

this  was  the  letter  I  read  — 
"  You  promised  to  find  me  work  near 

you,  an'  I  wish  I  was  dead  — 
Didn't  you  kiss  me  an'  promise  ?  you 

haven't  done  it,  my  lad. 
An'  I  almost  died  o'  your  going  away, 

an'  I  wish  that  I  had." 


I  too  wish  that  I  had  —  in  the  pleasant 

times  that  had  past. 
Before  I  quarrell'd  with  Harry —  my 

quarrel  —  the  first  an'  the  last. 


Por  Harry  came  in,  an'  I  flung  him 

the  letter  that  drove  me  wild. 
An'  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 

as  any  child, 
"  What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  T 

did  wi'  my  single  life  ? 
I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  - 

man  to  his  wife  ; 
An'  she   wasn't    one   o'   the  worst." 

"  Then,"  I  said, "  I'm  none  o'  the 

best." 
An'  he  smiled  at  me,  "  Ain't  you,  my 

love  ?    Come,  come,  little  wife, 

'et  it  rest! 


554 


RIZPAH. 


The  man  isn't  like   the  woman,  no 

need  to  make  such  a  stir." 
But  he  anger'd  me  all  the  more,  an'  I 

said  "  Youwerekeepingwithher, 
When  I  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an' 

the  same  as  before." 
An'  he  didn't  speak  for  a  while,  an' 

he  anger'd  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle 

way,  "  Let  bygones  be ! " 
■"Bygones!  you  kept  yours  hush'd,"  I 

said,  "  when  you  married  me  ! 
By-gones  ma'  be  corae-agains;  an'  sAe 

—  in  her  shame  an'  her  sin  — 
You'll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if 

I  die  o'  my  lying  in  ! 
Tou'U  make  her  its  second  mother !  I 

hate  her  —  an'  I  hate  you !  " 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better 

ha'  beaten  me  black  an'  blue 
Than  ha'  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did, 

when  I  were  so  crazy  wi'  spite, 
*'  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  'ill 

all  come  right." 


An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain, 

an'  I  watch'd  him,  an'  when  he 

came  in 
I  felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was 

all  wet  thro'  to  the  skin, 
An'  I  never  said  "  off  wi'  the  wet,"  I 

never  said  "  on  wi'  the  dry," 
So  1  knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when 

he  came  to  bid  me  goodbye. 
"  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen, 

but  that  isn't  true,  you  know; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit  —  you'll 

kiss  me  before  I  go  ?  " 


"Going!  you're   going  to  her — kiss 

her  —  if  you  will,"  I  said,  — 
I  was  near  my  time  wi'  the  boy,  I  must 

ha'  been  light  i'  my  head  — 
"  I  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss'd ! " 

—  I   didn't  know  well  what  I 

meant, 
But  I  turn'd  my  face  from  Mm,  an'  he 

turn'd  his  face  an'  he  went. 


And  then  he  sent  me  a  letter,  "  I've 

gotten  my  work  to  do ; 
You  wouldn't  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an'  I 

never  loved  any  but  you ; 
I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an'  sorry 

for  what  she  wrote, 
I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey  an'  go 

to-night  by  the  boat." 


An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  I 

thought  of  him  out  at  sea. 
An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame;  he 

was  always  kind  to  me. 
■"  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it 

'ill  all  come  right "  — 
An'  the  boat  went  down  that  night  — 

the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 

17—. 

I. 

Wailino,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind 

over  land  and  sea  — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "  0 

mother,  come  out  to  me." 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 

he  knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
Forthe  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 
the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 


We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they 

would  spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down. 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but 

am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I 

find  myself  drenched  with  the 

rain. 

in. 
Anything. fallen  again'   nay  —  what 

was  there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  num- 

ber'd  the  bones,  I  have  hidden 

them  all. 


RIZPAR. 


S5S 


What  am  I  saying  ■?  and  what  are  you  9 
do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 

Falls  ">  what  falls  '  who  knows  ?  As 
the  tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 


Who  let  her  in'  ho  w  long  has  she  been? 

you  —  what  have  you  heard  ' 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  7  you  never 

have  spoken  a  word. 

0  —  to  pray  with  me  — yes  —  a  lady 

—  none  of  their  spies  — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 
and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

v. 
Ah  —  you,  that  have   lived  so   soft, 

what  should  you  know  of  the 

night. 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and 

the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 

1  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 

I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together  — 

and  now  you  may  go  your  way. 


Nay  —  for  it's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to 

sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I 

have  only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before 

he  went  out  to  die. 
"They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said, 

and  he  never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  -him  for  robbing  an  orchard 

once  when  he  was  but  a  child  — 
"  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he 

said ;  he  was  always  so  wild  — 
And  idle — and  couldn't  be  idle  —  my 

Willy  —  he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a 

soldier,   he  would  have   been 

one  of  his  best. 


But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates, 

and  they  never  would  let  him 

be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the 

mail,   and  he   swore    that   he 

wotUd: 


And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  on& 
purse,  and  when  all  was  done 

He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  —  I'li 
none  of  it,  said  my  sou. 


I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale. 
God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him, 

they  kill'd  him  for  robbing  the 

mail. 
They  haug'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show 

—  we  had  always  borne  a  good 

name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief  —  and  then 

put  away  —  isn't  that  enough 

shame  ? 
Dust  to  dust  —  low  down  —  let  us  hidel 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could 

stare  at  him,  passing  by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven 

and  horrible  fowls  of  the  air. 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer 

who  kill'd  him  and  hang'd  him 

there. 


And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had 

bid  him  my  last  goodbye ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell. 

"  O  mother !  "  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say. 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that 

cry  of  my  boy  that  was  dead. 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they 

fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
"  Mother,  O  mother  I  " —  he  call'd  in  the 

dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  be^t  me 

—  you  know  that  I  couldn't  but 

hear; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had 

grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the 

creatures  had  worked  their  wUL 


555 


RJZPAH. 


TlesJj  zt  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone 

of  my  bone  was  left  — 
1  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers  — 

and  you,  will  you   call   it   a 

theft '  — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd 

me,  the  bones  that  had  laughed 

and  had  cried  — 
Tliefrs  ?  O  no !  they  are  mine  —  not 

theirs  —  they  had  moved  in  my 

side. 


Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the 

bones  ■?   I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried 

'em  all  — 
1  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old  —  in  the 

night  by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My  Willy  'ill  rise  up  whole  when  the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I 

laid  him  in  holy  ground. 


They  would  scratch  him  up  —  they 

would  hang  him  again  on  the 

cursed  tree. 
Sin  ?    O  y es  —  we  are  sinners,  I  know 

—  let  all  that  be. 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the 

Lord's  good  will  toward  men  • — 
"  Full  of  coi./passion  and  mercy,  the 

Lord  "  —  let  me  hear  it  again ; 
"  Full   of   compassion   and  mercy  — 

long-suffering."    Yes,  O  yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder 

— the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He.'\S.  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst. 
And  the  first  may  be  last  —  I  have 

heard  it  in  church  —  and  the 

last  may  be  first. 
Suffering  —  O  long-suffering  —  yes,  as 

the  Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the 

wind  and  the  shower  and  the 


Heard,  have  you  ■?  what  ?  they  have 

told  you  he  never  repented  his 

sin. 
How  do  they  know  it '  are  they  his 

mother  ?  are  you  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard!  have  you  ever  heard,  when 

the  storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and 

the  sea  that  'ill  moan  like  a 

man? 

ST. 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation- 
it's  all  very  well. 

But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I 
shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 

For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that 
the  Lord  has  look'd  into  my 
care. 

And  He  means  me  I'm  sureto  be  happy 
with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 


And  if  lie  be  lost  —  but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul 

if  my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  —  go, 

go,  you  may  leave  me  alone  — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child  —  you 

are  just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 


Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon !    I  think 

that  you  mean  to  be  kind. 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 

Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright  —  he 

used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
Ancf  he  calls  to  me   now  from  the 

church  and  not  from  the  gibbet 

—  for  hark ! 
Nay  —  you  can  hear  it  yourself  —  it  is 

coming  —  shaking  the  walls  — 
Willy  —  the  moon's  in  a  cloud 

Good  night.    I  am  going.    He 

calls. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


557 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur 

thou  mun  a'  sights '  to  tell. 
Eh,  but  I  be  maain  glad  to  seea  tha  sa 

'arty  an'  well. 
"  Cast  awaay  an  a  disolut  land  wi'  a 

vartical  soon  ^ !  " 
Strange  fur  to  goa  fur  to  think  what 

saailors  a'  seean  an'  a'  doon  ; 
"  Summat  to  drink  • —  sa'  'ot  ?  "     I  'a 

nowt  but  Adam's  wine  ; 
What's  the  'eat  o'  this  little  'ill-side  to 

the  'eat  o'  the  line  "i 


•What's     i'    tha    bottle    a-stanning 

theer  t  "     I'll  tell  tha.     Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun 

goa  fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay  —  fur  I  be  maan-glad,  but  thaw 

tha  was  iver  sa  dry. 
Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro'  the  bottle  theer, 

an'  I'll  tell  tha  why. 


Mea  an'  thy  sister  was  married,  when 

wur  it  ■?  back-end  o'  June, 
Ten  year  sin',  and  wa  'greed  as  well 

as  a  fiddle  i'  tune  : 
I  could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots 

and  shoes  wi'  the  best  on  'em  all. 
As  fur  as  fro'  Thursby  thurn  hup  to 

Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
We  was  busy  as  beeas  i'  the  bloom  an' 

as  'appy  as  'art  could  think. 
An'  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and 

then  I  taakes  to  the  drink. 
■  The  vowels  cii,  pronounced  separately 
though  in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render 
the  sound  of  the  long  i  and  y  in  this  dialect. 
Bat  since  such  words  as  craim',  ddiin\  whm, 
(ii  (I),  etc.,  look  awkward  except  in  a  page 
of  express  phonetics,  I  have  thought  it  hetter 
to  leave  the  simple  i  and  y.  and  trust  that  my 
readers  will  give  them  the  broader  pronunci- 
Ation. 
«  The  00  short,  as  in  "  wood. 


An'  I  weant  gaainsaay  it,  ray  lad,  thaw 

I  be  hafe  shaamed  on  it  now. 
We  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the 

Plow,  we  could  sing  a  good  song 

at  the  Plow ; 
Thaw  once  of  a  frosty  night  I  slither'd 

an'  hurted  my  buck,' 
An'  I  coom'd  neck-an-crop  soomtimes 

slaape  down  i'  the  squad  an' 

the  muck ; 
An'  once  I  f owt  Wi'  the  Taailor  —  not 

hafe  ov  a  man,  my  lad  — 
Eur  he  scrawm'd  an'  scratted  my  faSce 

like  a  cat,  an'  it  maSde  'er  sa 

mad 
That  Sally  she  turn'd  a  tongue-bang- 
er, '■*  an'  raated  ma, '  Sottin'  thy 

braains 
Guzzlin'  an'  soakin'  an'  smoakin'  an' 

liawmin'  ^  about  i'  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not 

touch  thy  'at  to  the  Squire ; ' 
An'  I  loook'd  cock-eyed  at  my  noSse 

an'  I  seead  'im  a-gitten'  o'  fire  ; 
But  sin'  I  wur  hallus  i'  liquor  an'  hal- 

lus  as  droonk  as  a  king, 
Foalks'  coostom  flitted  awaay  like  a 

kite  wi'  a  brokken  string. 


An'  Sally  she  wesh'd  foSlks'  cloaths 

to  keep  the  wolf  fro'  the  door. 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she 

druv  me  to  drink  the  moor. 
Fur  I  fun',  when  'er  back  wur  turn'd, 

wheer  Sally's  owd  stockin'  wur 

'id. 
An'  I  grabb'd  the  munny  she  maade, 

and  I  wear'd  it  o'  liquor,  I  did. 


An'  one  night  I  cooms  'oam  like  R 
bull  gotten  loose  at  a  faair, 

An'  she  wur  a-waaitin'  fo'mma,  an' 
cryin'  and  tearin'  'er  'aair. 

An'  I  tummled  athurt  the  craadle  an' 
sweSr'd  as  I'd  break  ivry  stick 


'Hip. 


2  Scold. 


3  Lounging. 


558 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


O'  furnitur  'ere  i'  the  'ouse,  an'  I  gied 

our  Sally  a  kick, 
An'  I  mash'd  the  taSbles  an'  chairs, 

an'  she  an'  the  babby  beal'd,  ^ 
Pur  I  knaw'd  naw  moor  what  I  did 

nor  a  mortal  be9.st  o'  the  feS.ld. 


An'  when  I  waSked  i'  the  murnin'  I 

seead    that    our     Sally    went 

laamed 
Cos'  o'  the  kick  as  I  gied  'er,  an'  I  wur 

dreadful  ashaamed ; 
An'  Sally  wur  sloomy  ^  an'  draggle 

taail'd  in  an  owd  turn  gown. 
An'  the  babby's  f  aace  wurn't  wesh'd 

and  the  'ole  'ouse  hupslde  down. 


An'  then  I  minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 

an'  neat  an'  sweeat, 
Straat  as  a  pole  an'  clean  as  a,  flower 

fro'  'ead  to  feeat : 
An'  then  I  minded  the  fust  kiSs  I  gied 

'er  by  Thursby  thurn  ; 
Theer  wur  a  lark  a-singin'  'is  best  of 

a  Sunday  at  murn, 
Couldn't    see    'im,    we  'eard  'im  a- 

mountin'  oop  'igher  an'  "igher. 
An'  then  'e  turn'd  to  the  sun,  an'  'e 

shined  like  a  sparkle  o'  fire. 
"  Doesn't  tha  see  'im,"  she  axes,  "  fur 

1  can  see  'im  1  "  an'  I 
.SeeSid  nobbut  the  smile  o'  the  sun  as 

danced  in  'er  pratty  blue  eye  ; 
-An'  I  says  "  I  mun  gie  tha  a  kiss,"  an' 

Sally  says  "  Noa,  thou  moant," 
ButI  gied'er  a  kiss,  an'  then  anoother, 

an*  Sally  says  "  doant ! " 


An'  when  we  coom'd  into  MeeStin',  at 

fust  she  wur  all  in  a  tew, 
&m,  arter,  we  sing'd  the  'yran  togither 

like  birds  on  a  beugh  ; 
An'  Muggins  'e  preach'd  o'  Hell-flre 

an'  the  loove  o'  God  fur  men, 
An    then  upo'  coomin'  awaay  Sally 

gied  me  a  kiss  or  'ersen. 

1  Bellowed,  cried  out. 

2  Sluggish,  out  of  spirits. 


Heer  wur  a  fall  fro'  a  kiss  to  a  kiei 

like  Saatan  as  fell 
Down  out  o'  heaven  i'  Hell-fire  —  thaw 

theer's  naw  drinkin'  i'  Hell ; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep  the 

wolf  fro'  the  door, 
All  along  o'  the  drink,  fur  I  loov'd  'er 

as  well  as  af  cor. 


Sa  like  a  graSt  num-cumpus  I  blub- 

ber'd  awaay  o'  the  bed  — 
"  Weant  niver  do  it  naw  moor;  " 

an'  Sally  loookt  up  an'  she  said, 
"  I'll  upowd  it '  tha  weant ;   thou'rt 

like  the  rest  o'  the  men, 
Thou'll  goa  sniffin'  about  the  tap  till 

tha  does  it  agean. 
Theer's    thy  hennemy,    man,    an'  I 

knaws,  as  knaws  tha  sa  well. 
That,  if  tha  seeas  'im  an'  smells  'im 

tha'U  foUer  'im  slick  into  Hell." 


"NaSy,''  says   I,   "fur  I  weant  goS 

sniffln'  about  the  tap." 
"  Weant  tha  ?  "  she  says,  an'  mysen  I 

thowt  i'  mysen  "  mayhap." 
"Noa;"  an' I   started  awaay  like  a 

shot,  an'  down  to  the  Hinn, 
An'  I  browt  what  tha  seeSs  stannin' 

theer,  yon  big  black  bottle  o' 

gin. 


"  That  caps  owt,"  ^  says  Sally,  an'  saw 

she  begins  to  cry, 
But  I  puts  it  inter  'er  'ands  'an  I  says 

to  'er,  "  Sally,"  says  I, 
"  Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  naame  o'  the 

Lord    an'    the    power    or   'is 

GraSce, 
Stan'  'im  theer,  fur   I'll    loook  my 

hennemy  strait  i'  the  faiice, 
Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  winder,  an'  let 

ma  loook  at  'im  then, 
'E  seeams  naw  moor  nor  watter,  an' 

'e's  the  Divil's  oan  sen." 

1  I'll  uphold  it. 

2  That's  beyond  everything. 


THE  REVENGE. 


559 


XIV. 

An'  I  wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  couldn't 

do  naw  work  an'  all, 
Nasty    an'    snaggy    an'   shaiiky,  an' 

poonch'd  my  'and  wi'  the  hawl. 
But  she  wur  a  power  o'  coomfut,  an' 

sattled  'ersen  o'  my  knee. 
An'  coSxd  an'  coodled  me   oop  till 

ageau  I  feel'd  mysen  free. 


An'  Sally  she  tell'd  it  about,  an'  f  oalk 

stood  a-gawmin'  i  in. 
As   thaw  it  wur   summat  bewitch'd 

istead  of  a  quart  o'  gin  ; 
An'  some  on  'em  said  it  wur  watter — 

an'  I  wur  chousin'  the  wife, 
fur  I  couldn't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  wur 

it  nobbut  to  saave  my  life  ; 
An'  blacksmith  'e  strips  me  the  thick 

ov  'is  airm,  an'  'e  sliaws  it  to  me, 
"  Feeal  thou  this !  tliou  can't  graw 

this  upo'  watter  ! "  says  he. 
An'  Doctor  'e  calls  o'  Sunday  an'  just 

as  candles  was  lit, 
"  Thou  moant  do  it,"  he  says,  "  tha 

mun  break  'im  off  bit  by  bit." 
"Thou'rt  but  a  Methody-man,"  says 

Parson,  and  laays  down  'is  'at, 
.An'  'e  points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  "but 

I  respecks  tha  fur  that ;  " 
An'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks 

down  fro'  the  'All  to  see. 
An'  'e  spanks  'is  'and  into  mine,  "  fur 

I  respecks  tha,"  says  'e ; 
An'  coostom  agean  draw'd  in  like  a 

wind  fro'  far  an'  wide. 
And  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cob- 
bled fro'  hafe  the  coontryside. 


An'  theer  'e  stans  an'  theer  'e  shall 

Stan  to  my  dying  daay ; 
I    'a    gotten    to   loov   'im  ageSn  in 

anoother  kind  of  a  waay, 
Proud   on   'im,   like,  my  lad,   an'  I 

keeaps  'im  cleSn  an'  bright, 
Loovs  'im,  an'  roobs  'im,  an'  doosts 

'im,  an' puts 'im  back  i' the  light. 

1  Staring  vacantly. 


Wouldn't  a  pint  a'  sarved  as  well  as  a 

quart  ?     Naw  doubt : 
But  I  liked  a  bigger  feller  to  fight  wi* 

,  an'  fowt  it  out. 
Fine  an'  meller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I 

cared  to  taaste. 
But  I  moant,  my  lad,  and  I  weant,  fur 

I'd     feal    mysen    clean     dis-^ 

graaced.  , 

XVIII. 

An'  once  I  said  to  the  Missis,  "My 

lass,  when  I  cooms  to  die. 
Smash    the    bottle   to   smithers,  the 

Divil's  in  'im,"  said  I. 
But  arter  I  chaanged  my  mind,  atf  if 

Sally  be  left  aloan, 
I'll  hev  'im  a-buried  wi'mma  an'  taake 

'im  afoor  the  Throan. 


Coom  thou  'eer  — yon  laady  a-steppin' 

along  the  streeat. 
Doesn't  tha  knaw  'er  —  sa  pratty,  an' 

feat,  an'  neat,  an'  sweeSf? 
Look    at    the    cloaths  on  'er  back, 

thebbe  ammost  spick-span-new. 
An'  Tommy's  faSce  be  as  fresh  as  a 

codlin  wesh'd  i'  the  dew. 


'Ere  be  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an'  we 

be  a-goin  to  dine, 
Baacon  an'  taates,  an'  a  beslings-pud- 

din'i  an'  Adam's  wine  ; 
But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun 

goa  fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 
Pur  I  weant  shed  a  drop  on  'is  blood, 

noa,  not  fur  Sally's  oan  kin. 


THE  REVENGE. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET. 
I. 

At  Elokes  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard 

Grenville  lay. 
And  a  pinnance,  like  a  flutter'd  bird, 

came  flying  from  far  away: 

1 A  pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of 
the  cow  after  calying. 


560 


THE  REVENGE. 


"  Spanish   ships   of   war   at  sea !   we 

have  sighted  fifty-tliree  !  " 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas   Howard. 

"  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward ; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my 

ships  are  out  of  gear, 
And  tlie   half  my  men  are   sick.     1 

must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 
,.  We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ;  can  we 

fight  with  fifty-three  "? " 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenyille ;  "  I 

know  you  are  no  coward ; 
You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight 

with  them  again. 
But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that 

are  lying  sick  ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I 

left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition    dogs  and  the 

devildoms  of  Spain." 


So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five 

ships  of  war  that  day. 
Till  he  melted  like   a  cloud  in  the 

silent  summer  heaven ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his 

sick  men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down 

below ; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard. 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that 

they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for 

the  glory  of  the  Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to 
work  the  ship  and  to  fight. 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till 
the  Spaniard  came  in  sight. 

With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving 
upon  the  weather  bow. 

"Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 


There'll  be  little  of   us  left  by  the 

time  this  sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again  •  "  We  be 

all  good  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 

children  of  the  devil. 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon 

Don  or  devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and 

we  roar'd  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into 

the  heart  of  the  foe. 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck, 

and  her  ninety  sick  below, 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right 

and  half  to  the  left  were  seen. 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro' 

the  long  sea-lane  between. 


Thousands  of    their  soldiers   look'd 

down    from    their   decks  and 

laugh'd. 
Thousands    of    their    seamen    made 

mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 
By  their  mountain-like    San    Philip 

that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons. 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with 

her  yawning  tiers  of  guns. 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and 

we  stay'd. 

VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip 
hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud. 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fieet  that  day. 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two 
upon  the  starboard  lay. 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from 
them  all. 


But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that 
had  left  her  ill  content ; 


THE  REVENGE. 


561 


And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 

they  fought  us  hand  to  hand. 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with 

their  pikes  and  musqueteers. 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off 

as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the 

land. 


And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 

came  out  far  over  the  summer 

sea. 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight 

of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  tlie  whole  night  long, 

their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

with    her    battle-thunder    and 

flame; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

drewbackwith  her  dead  and  her 

shame. 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were 

shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us 

no  more  — 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like 

this  in  the  world  before  ? 


For  he  said  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! " 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck ; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 

short  summer  night  was  gone. 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he 

had  left  the  deck. 
But   a  bullet  struck  him    that  was 

dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in 

the  side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said  "  Fight  on !  fight  on !  " 


And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 

smiled  out  far  over  the  summer 

sea. 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken 

sides  iay  round  us  all  in  a  ring  ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again, 

for  they  fear'd   that  we   still 

could  sting, 


So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain. 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain. 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for 

life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and 

the  desperate  strife ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold ' 

were  most  of  them  stark  and 

cold. 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it 

spent ; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were 

lying  over  the  side  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English. 

pride, 
"  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  & 

day  and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have,  won  great  glory,  my  men ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore. 
We  die  —  does  it  matter  when  ? 
Sink  me  the  ship.  Master  Gunner — ■ 

sink  her,  split  her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into 

the  hands  of  Spain ! " 


And  the  gunner  said  "Ay,  ay,"  but 

the  seamen  made  reply  : 
"  We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise, 

if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go ; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to 

strike  another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 


And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their 

flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old 

Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace ; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he, 

cried : 


562 


THE   SISTERS. 


"  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith 

like  a  valiant  man  and  true ; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 

bound  to  do  : 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard 

Grenville  die ! " 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he 

died. 


And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had 

heen  so  valiant  and  true, 
,  And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory 
'  of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship 

and  his  English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man  1     He  was  devil 

for  aught  they  knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor 

down  into  the  deep. 
And  they  mann'd«the  Revenge  with  a 

swarthier  alien  crew. 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 

long'd  for  her  own  ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan. 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a 

great  gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that-  is 

raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their 

sails  and  their  masts  and  their 


And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 
theshot-shatter'dnavy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went 
down  by  the  island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE  SISTERS. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;  and 

by  their  clash, 
And  prelude  on  the  keys,  I  know  the 


Their  favorite  —  which  I  call  "The 

Tables  Turned." 
Evelyn  begins  it  "  0  diviner  Air.'' 


0  diviner  Air, 

Thro'  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 

the  glare. 
Far  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 

showers. 
Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare. 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers. 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 
Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours,      ' 
Breathe,  diviner  Air ! 

A  sweet  voice  that  —  you  scarce  could 

better  that. 
Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn^ 


0  diviner  light, 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 
with  night. 

Thro'  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 
showers. 

Far  from  out  a  sky  for  ever  bright, 

Over  all  the  woodland'sfloodedbowers. 

Over  all  the  meadow's  drowning  flow- 
ers. 

Over  all  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours, 

Break,  diviner  light! 

Marvellously  like,  their  voices  —  and 

themselves ! 
Tho'  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  the 

other, 
As  one  is  somewhat  graver  than  the 

other  — 
Edith  thanEvelyn.     Yourgood  Uncle, 

whom 
You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune, 

longs 
For  tl^is  alliance :  let  me  ask  you  then. 
Which  voice  most  takes  you  ?  for  f 

do  not  doubt 
Being    a  watchful  parent,  you    are 

taken 
With  one  or  other  :  tho'  sometimes  I 

fear 
You  may  be  flickering,  fluttering  in  a 

doubt 
Between  the  two  —  which  must  not  be 

—  which  might 


THE  SIST^ERS. 


S63 


Be  death  to  one :  they  both  are  beau- 
tiful : 

Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 

The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust 
it :  she  ? 

No!  but  the  paler  and  the  graver, 
Edith. 

"Woo  her  and  gain  her  then:  no 
wavering,  boy ! 

The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 

"Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so 
well. 

For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by 
likes. 

No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other 
more. 

Not  so:  their  mother  and  her  sister 
loved 

More  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 

And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes 
it, 

And  that  I  know  you  worthy  every- 
way 

To  be  my  son,  I  might,  perchance,  be 
loath 

To  part  them,  or  part  from  them :  and 
yet  one 

Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands 
in  your  view 

From  this  bay  window  —  which  our 
house  has  held 

Three  hundred  years  —  will  pass  col- 
laterally. 

My  father  with  a  child  on  either 

knee, 
A  hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child, 
Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as 

his  own 
Were    silver,    "get    them    wedded" 

would  he  say. 
And  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask'd 
\  him  "  why  "i  " 

Ay,  why  1  said  he,  "  for  why  should  I 

go  lame  ^  "' 
Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of 

his  wound. 
For  see  —  this  wine  —  the  grape  from 

whence  it  flow'd 
Was  blackening    on    the    slopes   of 

Portugal, 


When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the 

terrible  ridge 
Plunged  in  the  last  fierce  charge  at 

Waterloo, 
And  caught  the  laming  bullet.     He 

left  me  this, 
Which  yet  retains  a  memory  of  its 

youth. 
As  I  of  mine,  and  my  first  passion. 

Come! 
Here's  to  your  happy  union  with  my 

child ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name  : 

no  fault  of  mine ! 
You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 
As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal- 
time 
By  change  of  feather:  for  all  that, 

my  boy, 
Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when 

they  moult. 
An  old  and  worthy  name !  but  mine 

that  stirr'd 
Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 
Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 
/  care  not  for  a  name  —  no  fault  of 

mine. 
Once  more  —  a  happier  marriage  than 

my  own  1 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 

plain. 
The  highway  running  by  it  leaves  a 

breadth 
Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 

ago. 
One  bright  May  morning  in  a  world 

of  song, 
I  lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 
The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an   amber 

spire. 

I  dozed ;  I  woke.  An  open  landau- 
let  ■' 

Whirl'd  by,  which,  after  it  had  past 
me,  show'd 

Turning  my  way,  the  loveliest  face 
on  earth. 

The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite. 

On  whom  I  brought  a  strange  unhap- 
piness. 

That  time  I  did  not  see. 


564 


THE  SISTERS. 


Love  at  first  sight 

May  seeing—  with  goodly  rhyme  and 
reason  for  it  — 

Possible  —  at  first  glimpse,  and  for  a 
face 

Gone  in  a  moment  —  strange.  Yet 
once,  when  first 

I  came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 

;fA  moonless  night  with   storm  —  one 

\\  lightning-fork 

Kash'd  out  the  lake ;  and  tho'  I 
loiter'd  there 

The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 

That  less  than  momentary  thunder- 
sketch 

Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all 
the  day. 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn'd  the  face 

for  me. 
Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as 

well. 
For  look  you  here  —  the  shadows  are 

too  deep, 
And  like  the  critic's  blurring  comment 

make 
The  veriest    beauties   of    the  work 

appear 
The  darkest  faults :  the  sweet  eyes 

frown :  the  lips 
Seem  but  a  gash.     %li.y  sole  memorial 
Of    Edith  —  no,     the    other,  — both 

indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash'd  thro' 

sense  and  soul 
And  by  the  poplar  vanish'd — to  be 

found 
liOng  after,  as  it  seem'd,  beneath  the 

tall 
Tree-bowers,  and  those  long-sweeping 

beechen  boughs 
Of    our  New   Forest.    I  was    there 

alone : 
The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landau- 
'  let 

For  ever  past  me  by :  when  one  quick 

peal 
Of  laughter  drew  me  thro'  the  glim- 
mering glades 
Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a 

cloth 


On  fern  and  foxglove.    Lo,  the  face 

again. 
My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden  —  Edith 

—  all 
One  bloom  of  youth,  health,  beauty, 

happiness. 
And  moved  to  merriment  at  a  passing 

jest. 

There  one  of  those  about  her  know- 
ing me 

Call'd  me  to  join  them;  so  with  these 
I  spent 

What  seem'd  my  crowning  hour,  my 
day  of  days. 

I  woo'd  her  then,  nor  unsuccess- 

fully. 
The  worse  for  her,  for  me !  was  I  con- 
tent? 
Ay  —  no,  not  quite ;  for  now  and  then 

I  thought 
Laziness,    vague    love-longings,    the 

bright  May, 
Had  made  a  heated  haze  to  magnify 
The  charm  of  Edith — that  a  man's 

ideal 
Is  high  in  Heaven,  and  lodged  with 

Plato's  God, 
Not  findable  here — content,  and  not 

content. 
In  some  such  fashion  as  a  man  may 

be 
That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his 

friend 
Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and 

says, 
"  Good !  very  like !  not  altogether  he." 

As  yet  I  had  not  bound  myself  by 

words. 
Only,  believing  I  loved  Edith,  made 
Edith  love  me.    Then  came  the  day 

when  I, 
Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts 

were  fools 
Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts 

of  all  — 
Not  I  that  day  of  Edith's  love  or 

mine  — 
Had  braced  my  purpose  to  declar* 

myself : 


THE   SISTERS. 


565 


I  stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 
The  golden  gates  would   open   at   a 

word. 
I  spoke  it  —  told  her  of  my  passion, 

seen 
And  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 

far, 
Had  caught   her  hand,   her  eyelids 

fell  —  I  heard 
Wheels,  and  a  noise  of  welcome  at 

the  doors  — 
On  a  sudden  after  two  Italian  years 
Had  set  the  blossom  of  her  health 

again. 
The  younger  sister,  Evelyn,  enter'd 

—  there. 
There  was  the  face,  and  altogether 

she. 
The  mother  fell  about  the  daughter's 

neck, 
The  sisters   closed  in  one  another's 

arms, 
Their  people    throng'd  about   them 

from  the  hall. 
And  in   the  thick  of   question   and 

reply 
I  fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel 

face. 
And  all  the  Furies. 

I  was  bound  to  her; 
I  could  not  free  myself  in  honor  — 

bound 
Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word, 
But  counterpressures  of  the  yielded 

hand 
That  timorously  and  faintly  echoed 

mine. 
Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of 

lier  eyes 
Upon  me  when  she  thought  I  did  not 

see  — 
Were  these  not  bonds  ■?  nay,  nay,  but 

could  I  wed  her 
Loving  the  other  '  do  her  that  great 

wrong  "i 
Had  I  not  dream'd  I  loved  her  yester- 

morn  ? 
Had  I  not  known  where  Love,  at  first 

a  fear. 
Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height 

and  form  ? 


Yet  after  marriage,  that  mock-sister 

there  — 
Brother-in-law  —  the  fiery  nearness  of 

it  — 
Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood — 
What  end  but  darkness  could  ensue 

from  this 
For  all  the  three  ?  So  Love  and  Honor 

jarr'd 
Tho'  Love  and  Honor  join'd  to  raisei 

the  full  \ 

High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway'd  me  up 

and  down 
Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote: 
"  My  mother  bids  me  ask  "  (I  did  not 

tell  you  — 
A  widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 

child. 
God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that 

are  Christ's 
As   well  as   the  plump  cheek  —  she 

wrought  us  harm. 
Poor  soul,   not   knowing)   "  are  yv/u 

ill  1  "  (so  ran 
The  letter)  "  you  have  not  been  here 

of  late. 
You  will  not  find  me  here.    At  last  I 

go 
On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the 

North. 
I    told    your  wayside   story  to    my 

mother 
And  Evelyn.     She  remembers  you. 

Farewell. 
Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.     Al- 
most blind 
With  ever-growing  cataract,  yet  she 

thinks 
She  sees  you  when  she  hears.    Again 

farewell." 

Cold  words  from  one  I  had  hoped  to 

warm  so  far 
That  I  could  stamp  my  image  on  her 

heart ! 
"  Pray  come  and  see  my  mother,  and 

farewell." 
Cold,  but  as  welcome  as  free  airs  of 

heaven 
After  a  dungeon's  closeness.    Selfish, 

strange .' 


566 


THE   SISTERS. 


What  dwarfs  are  men  !  my  strangled 

Tanity 
Utter'd  a  stifled  cry  —  to  have  vext 

myself 
And  all  in  vain  for  her  —  cold  heart 

or  none  — 
No  bride  for  me.    Yet  so  my  path 

was  clear 
To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I  woo'd  and  won. 
For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former 

suit, 
Because  thesimplemotherwork'd  upon 
By  Edith  pray'd  me  not  to  whisper  of  it. 
And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on 

the  day. 
But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at 

ease, 
I  from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon 

her. 
Before  the  first  "  I  will  "  was  utter'd, 

saw 
The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  pas- 
sionless — 
"  No  harm,  no  harm  "  I  turn'd  again, 

and  placed 
My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke 

no  word. 
She  wept  no    tear,  but    roivnd   my 

Evelyn  clung 
In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I  thought 
"'  What,  will  she  never  set  her  sister 

free  ■? " 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each, 
and  then. 

As  tho'  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 

"Were  not  enough,  must  fain  have  tor- 
rents, lakes. 

Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and 
the  fair. 

To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  common- 
place, 

And  help  us  to  our  joy.  Better  have 
sent 

Our  Edith  thro'  the  glories  of  the 
earth. 

To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true 
Love 

Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 


Far  off  we  went.    My  God,  I  would 
not  live 
Save   that  I  think  this   gross  hard- 
seeming  world 
Is  our  missliaping  vision  of  the  Powers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  mar- 
riage-day 

The  great  Tragedian,  that  had 
quench'd  herself 

In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid 
—  she 

That  loved  me  —  our  true  Edith  — 
her  brain  broke 

With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and 
fled 

Beneath  a  pitiless  rush  of  Autumn 
rain 

To  the  deaf  church  —  to  be  let  in  — ■ 
to  pray 

Before  that  altar  —  so  I  think ;  and 
there 

They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Pro- 
testant doors. 

She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we 
knew. 

I  learnt  it  first.    I  had  to  speak. 

At  once 
The  bright  quick   smile  of  Evelyn, 

that  had  sunn'd 
The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past 

away : 
And  on  our  home-return  the   daily 

want 
Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden, 

still 
Haunted  us  like  her  ghost;  and  by 

and  by. 
Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 
Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plain 

innocence 
Of    nature,  or  desire   that  her  lost 

child 
Should  earn  from  both  the  praise  of 

heroism. 
The  mother  broke  her  promise  to  the 

dead, 
And  told  the   living  daughter  with 

what  love 


THE    VILLAGE   WIFE;    OR,   THE  ENTAIL. 


567 


Edith  had  welcomed  my  brief  wooing 

of  her, 
And  all  her  sweet  self-sacrifice  and 

death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  be- 
twixt the  twins  — 
Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ? 

—  prevail'd 

'So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my 

wife 
Back  to  that  passionate  answer  of  full 

heart 
I  had  from  her  at  first.    Not  that  her 

lOre, 
Tho'  scarce  as  great  as  Edith's  power 

of  love, 
Had  lessen'd,  but  the  mother's  gar- 
rulous wail 
For  ever  woke    the    unhappy  Past 

again, 
Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to 

be  my  bride. 
Put  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and 

I  fear'd 
The  very  fountains  of  her  life  were 

chill'd; 
So  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her 

here,  and  here 
She  bore  a  child,  whom  reverently  we 

call'd 
Edith ;    and  in  the  second  year  was 

born 
A   second  —  this   I  named  from  her 

own  self, 
Evelyn  ;  then  two  weeks  —  no  more 

—  she  joined. 

In  and  beyond   the  grave,  that  one 

she  loved. 
Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life. 
Thro'  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of 

the  day. 
The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in 

hand. 
Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I  tell 
One  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 
One  from  the  other,  only  know  they 

come, 
Theysmile  upon  me,  till,  remembermg 

all 
The  love  they  both  have  borne  me, 

and  the  love 


I  bore  them  both  —  divided  as  I  am 
Prom  either  by  the  stillness  of  the 

grave  — 
I  know  not  which  of  these  I  love  the 

best. 

But  you  love  Edith;  and  her  own 

true  eyes 
Are  traitors  to  her ;   our  quick  Ev-^ 

elyn  — 
The  merrier,  prettier,  wittier,  as  theyj. 

talk. 
And  not  without  good  reason,   my 

good  son  — 
Is  yet  untouch'd :  and  I  that  hold 

them  both 
Dearest  of  all  things  —  well,  I  am  not 

sure  — 
But  if  there  lie  a  preference  either  way. 
And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 
"  Most  dearest "   be  a  true   superla- 
tive— 
I  think  /  likewise  love  your  Edith 

most. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE ;  OR, 
THE  ENTAIL,  i 


'OuSE-KEEPER  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur 
New  Squire  coom'd  last  night. 

Butter  an'  heggs  —  yis  —  yis.  I'll 
goa  wi'  tha  back  :  all  right ; 

Butter  I  warrants  be  prime,  an'  I  war- 
rants the  heggs  be  as  well, 

Hafe  a  pint  o'  milk  runs  out  when  ya, 
breaks  the  shell. 


Sit  thysen  down  fur  a  bit :  hev  a  glass 

o'  cowslip  wine ! 
I  liked  the  owd  Squire  an'  'is  gells  aa 

thaw  they  was  gells  o'  mine, 
Pur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire 

an'  'is  darters  an'  me, 
Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  hcldest,  I 

niver  not  took  to  she  ; 
But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  eletch*  1 

liked  'er  the  fust  on  'em  all, 

"  See  note  to  "  Northern  Cobbler." 
'  A  brood  of  chickens. 


/J68 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE;     OR,     THE  ENTAIL. 


Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o'  my  darter  es 

died  o'  the  fever  at  fall : 
An'  I  thowt  'twur  the  will  o'  the  Lord, 

but  Miss  Annie  she  said  it  wur 

draains, 
Fur  she  hedn't  naw  coomfut  in  'er,  an' 

arn'd  naw  thanks  fur  'er  paains. 
Eh !  thebbe  all  wi'  the  Lord  my  childer, 

I  han't  gotten  none  ! 
8a  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in 

'is  'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone. 


Fur  'staate  be  i'  taail,  my  lass  :  tha 

dosn'  knaw  what  that  be  "i 
But  I  knaws  the  law,  I  does,  for  the 

lawyer  ha  towd  it  me. 
"  When  theer's  naw  'ead  to  a  'Ouse  by 

the  fault  o'  that  ere  maale  — 
The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and 

the  next  un  he  taakes  the  taail." 


What  be  the  next  un  like  ?  can  tha 

tell  ony  harm  on  'im  lass  '^  — 
Naay    sit     down  —  naw    'urry  —  sa 

cowd  !  —  hev  another  glass  ! 
StraSnge  an'  cowd  fur  the  time  !  we 

may  happen  a  fall  o'  snaw  — 
Not  es  I  cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm, 

but  I  likes  to  knaw. 
An'  I  'oaps  es  'e  beant  boooklarn'd ; 

but  'e  dosn'  not  coom  fro'  the 

shere ; 
We'  anew  o'  that  wi'  the  Squire,  an' 

we  haates  boooklarnin'  ere. 


Fur  Squire  wur  a  Varsity  scholard,  an' 

niver  lookt  arter  the  land  — 
Wheats  or  turmuts  or  taates  —  e'  'ed 

hallus  a  boook  i'  'is  'and, 
Hallus  aloan  wi'  'is  boooks,  thaw  nigh 

upo'  seventy  year. 
An'  boooks,    what's    boooks  ?    thou 

knaws  thebbe  neyther  'ere  nor 

theer. 


An'  the  gells,  they  hadn't  naw  taails, 
an'  the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 


That  'is  taSil  were  soS  tied  up  es  he 

couldn't  cut  down  a  tree  ! 
"  Drat  the  trees,"  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I 

haates  'em,  my  lass, 
Fur  we  puts  the  muck  o'  the  land  an' 

they  sucks  the  muck  fro'  the 

grass. 


An'  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin',  an' 

gied  to  the  tramps  goin'  by  — 
An'  all  o'  the  wust  i'  the  parish  —  wi' 

hoffens  a  drop  in  'is  eye. 
An'  ivry  darter  o'  Squire's  hed  her 

awn  ridin-erse  to  'ersen. 
An'  they  rampaged  about  wi'  their 

grooms,  an'  was   'untin'  arter 

the  men, 
An'  hallus  a-dallackt  ^  an'  dizen'd  out, 

an'  a-buyin'  new  cloilthes, 
While    'e   sit  like  a  graat  gli miner- 
gowk"  wi'  'is  glasses  athurt  'Is 

noase. 
An'  'is  noSse  sa  grufted  wi'  snuff  as  it 

couldn't  be  scroob'd  awaay, 
Fur  atween  'is  readin'  an'  writin'  'e 

snifft  up  a  box  in  a  daa.y. 
An'  'e  niver  runn'd  arter  the  fox,  nor 

arter  the  birds  wi'  'is  gun, 
An'  'e  niver  not  shot  one  'are,  but  'e 

leSved  it  to  Charlie  'is  son. 
An'  'e  niver  not  fish'd  'is  awn  ponds, 

but  Charlie  'e  cotch'd  the  pike, 
For  'e  warn't  not  burn  to  the  land,  an' 

'e  didn't  take  kind  to  it  like  ; 
But  I  eSrs  es  'e'd  gie  fur  a  howry  ^  owd 

book  thutty  pound  an'  moor. 
An'  'e'd  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awn 

sen,  sa  I  knaw'd  es  'e'd  coom 

to  be  poor; 
An'  'e  gied — I  be  fear'd  to  tell  tha  'ow 

much  —  fur    an  owd  scratted 

Etoan, 
An'  'e  digg'd  up  a  loomp  i'  the  land 

an'  'e   got  a  brown  pot  an'  a 

boSn, 
An'  'e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn't 

goa,    wi'    good    gowd   o'    the 

Queen, 


'  Overdressed  in  gay  colors. 
3  FUthy. 


2  Owl. 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE;    OR,    THE  ENTAIL. 


565 


An'  'e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naakt 

an'  which  was  a  shaame  to  he 

seen ; 
But  'e  niver  loookt  ower  a  hill,  nor  'e 

niver  not  seed  to  owt, 
An'  'e  niver  knawd  nowt  hut  boooks, 

an'  hooiiks,    as    thou    knaws, 

heant  nowt. 


\  But  owd  Squire's  laady  es  long  es  she 
'  lived  she  kep  'em  all  clear, 

Thaw  es  long  es  she  lived  I  never  hed 

none  of  'er  darters  'ere ; 
But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one, 

the  childer  an'  me, 
An'   sarvints  runn'd  in  an'  out,  an' 

offens  we  hed  'em  to  tea. 
Lawk !  'ow  I  laugh'd  when  the  lasses 

'ud  talk  o'  tlieir  Missis's  waays, 
An'  the  Missisis  talk'd  o'  the  lasses.  — 

I'll  tell  tha  some  o'  these  daiiys. 
Hoanly  Miss  Annie  were   saw  stuck 

oop,  like  'er  mother  afoor  — 
'Er  an'  'er  blessed  darter  — ■  they  niver 

derken'd  my  door. 


An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled  till 

'e'd  gotten  a  fright  at  last. 
An'  'e  calls  fur  'is  son,  fur  the  'turney's 

letters  they  f oller'd  sa  fast ; 
But    Squire  wur    afear'd    o'  'is  son, 

an'  'e  says  to  'im,  meek  as  a 

mouse, 
"  Lad,  thou  mun  cut  off  thy  taSil,  or 

the  gells  'uU  goa  to  the  'Ouse, 
{Fur  I  finds  es  I  be  that  i'  debt,  es  I 
,  'oaps  es  thou'U  'elp  me  a  hit. 

An'  if  thou'll  'gree  to  cut  off  thy  taail 

I  may  eeiave  mysen  yit." 


But  Charlie  'e  sets  back  'is  ears,  'an  'e 

swears,  an'  'e  says  to  im  "  Noil. 
I've  gotten  the  'staate  by  the  taail  an' 

be  dang'd  if  I  iver  let  goa ! 
Coom  !  coom  !  feyther,"  'e  says,  "why 

shouldn't  thy  boooks  be  sowd  ? 
I  hears  es  soom  o'  thy  boooks  mebbe 

worth  t.ieir  weight  i'  gowd.'' 


HeSps  an'  heSps  o'  boooks,  I  ha'  see'd 

'em,  belong'd  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  'ed  teard  out  leaves  i' 

the  middle  to  kindle  the  fire  ; 
Sa  moast  on  'is  owd  big  boooks  f  etch'd 

nigh  to  nowt  at  the  saale. 
And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  ageS-n  to 

git  'im  to  cut  off  'is  taiiil. 


Ya  wouldn't  find  Charlie's  likes  —  'e 

were  that  outdacious  at  oam, 
Not  thaw  yawent  fur  to  raake  out  Hell 

wi'  a  small-tooth  co&mb  — 
Droonk   wi'  the  Quoloty's  wine,  an' 

droonk  wi'  the  farmer's  aJile, 
Mad  wi'   the  lasses  an'  all  —  an'  'e 

wouldn't  cut  off  the  taail. 


Thou's  coom'd  oop  by  the  heck  ;  and 

a  thurn  be  a-grawin'  theer, 
I  niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi'  the 

Maiiy  es  I  see'd  it  to-year  — 
Theerabouts  Charlie  joompt  —  and  it 

gied  me  a  scare  tother  night. 
Pur  I  thowt  it  wur  Charlie's  ghoast  i' 

the  derk,  fur  it  loookt  sa  white. 
"Billy,"  says  'e,  "  hev  a  joomp!"  — 

thaw  the  banks  o'  the  beck  be 

sa  high. 
Fur  he  ca'd  'is  'erse  Billy-rough-uii, 

thaw  niver  a  hair  wur  awry ; 
But  Billy  fell  bakkuds  o'  Charlie,  an' 

Charlie  'e  brok  'is  neck, 
Sa  theer  wur  a  hend  o'  the  taail,  fur 

'e  lost  'is  taail  i'  the  heck. 


Sa  'is  taail  wur  lost  an'  'is  boooks  wur 

gone  an'  'is  boy  wur  dead, 
An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled,  but 

'e  niver  not  lift  oop  'is  'ead : 
Hallus  a  soft  un  Squire !  an'  'e  smiled, 

fur  'e  hedn't  naw  friend, 
Sa  feyther  an'  son  was  buried  togither, 

an'  this  wur  the  hend. 


An'  Parson  as  hesn't  the  call,  nor  the 
mooney,  but  lies  the  pride, 


570 


IN  THE    CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


'E  reads  of  a  sewer  an'  sartan  'oap  o' 

the  tother  side; 
But  I  beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord, 

howsiver     they    praay'd     an' 

praay'd, 
Lets  them  inter  'eaven  easy  es  leaves 

their  debts  to  be  paaid. 
Siver  the  mou'ds  rattled  down  upo' 

poor  owd  Squire  i'  the  wood, 
A.n'  I  cried  along  wi'  the  gells,  fur 

they  weant  niver  coom  to  naw 

good. 

XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  long  un  she    walkt 

awaJiy  wi'  a  hofEcer  lad, 
An'  nawbody  'eard  on  'er  sin,  sa  o' 

coorse  she  be  gone  to  the  bad ! 
An'  Lucy  wur  laame  o'  one  leg,  sweet- 

'arts  she  niver  'ed  none  — 
Straange  an'  unheppen '  Miss  Lucy ! 

we  naamed  her  "  Dot  an'  gaw 

one!" 
An'  Hetty  wur  weak  i'  the  hattics, 

wi'out  ony  harm  i'  the  legs. 
An'  the  fever  'ed  baaked  Jinny's  'ead 

as  bald  as  one  o'  them  heggs, 
An'  Nelly  wur  up  fro'  the  craadle  as 

big  i'  the  mouth  as  a  cow. 
An'  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,^  lass, 

or  she  weant  git  a  maate  ony- 

how! 
An'  es  for  Miss  Annie  es  call'd  me 

afoor  my  awn  foalks  to  my 

faSce 
"  A  hignorant  village  wife  as  'ud  hev 

to  be  larn'd  her  awn  plaaee," 
Hes  for  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  hes 

now  be  a  grawin  sa  howd, 
I  knaws  that  mooch  o'  shea,  es  it  beant 

not  lit  to  be  towd ! 


Sa  I  didn't  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 

Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I  should  be  talkin  age&n  'em,  es 

soon  es  they  went  awaay, 
Fur,  lawks !  'ow  I  cried   when  they 

went,  an'  our  Nelly  she  gied  me 

'er  'and, 

^  TTngainly,  awkward.       *  Emigrate. 


Fur  I'd  ha  done  owt  for  the  Squire  an' 
'is  gells  es  belong'd  to  the  land ; 

Boooks,  es  I  said  afoor,  thebbe  ney- 
ther  'ere  nor  theer! 

But  I  sarved  'em  wi'  butter  an'  heggs 
fur  huppuds  o'  twenty  year. 


An'  they  hallus  paaid  what  I  hax|d, 

sa  I  hallus  deal'd  wi'  the  Hall, 
An'  they  knaw'd  what  butter  wur,  an'  ; 

tliey  knaw'd  what  a  hegg  wur 

an'  all; 
Hugger-mugger  they  lived,  but  they 

wasn't  that  easy  to  please, 
Till  I  gied  'em  Hinjian  cum,  an'  they 

laaid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeas ; 
An'  I  niver  puts  saame  ^  i'  my  butter, 

they  does  it  at  Willis's  farm, 
Taaste  another  drop  o'  the  wine  — 

tweant  do  tha  na  harm. 


Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in 

'is  'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone; 
I  heard  'im  a  roomlin'  by,  but  arter 

my  nightcap  wur  on  ; 
Sa  I  han't  clapt  eyes  on  'im  yit,  fur  he 

coom'd  last  night  sa  laS.te  — 
Pluksh ! ! !  2  the  hens  i'  the  peas !  why 

didn't  tha  hesp  tha  gaate  ? 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S 
HOSPITAL. 


Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I 

never  had  seen  him  before. 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when- 

I  saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 
Fresh    from   the    surgery-schools  of, 

France  and  of  other  lands  — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest,* 

big  merciless  hands ! 
"Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes, 

but  they  said  too  of  him 

»  Lard. 

2  A  cry  accompanied  by  a  clapping  of  hand* 
to  scare  treepassing  fowl. 


IN  THE    CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


571 


He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than 

in  trying  to  save  the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he 

look'd  so  coarse  and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who 

would  break  their  jests  on  the 

dead. 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had 

loved  him  and  fawn'd  at  his 

knee  — 
Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali — that 

ever  such  things  should  be  ! 


Here  was  a  boy  —  I  am  sure  that  some 

of  our  children  would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the 

smile,  and  the  comforting  eye  — 
Here  was  a  boy  in   the  ward,  every 

bone  seem'd  out  of  its  place  — 
Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd  —  it  was 

all  but  a  hopeless  case : 
And  he  handled  him  gently  enough; 

but  his  voice  and  his  face  were 

not  kind, 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he 

had  seen  it  and  made  up  his 

mind. 
And  he  said  tome  roughly  "The  lad 

will  need  little  more  of  your 

care." 
-  All  the  more  need,"  I  told  him,  "  to 

seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  prayer ; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I 

pray  for  them  all  as  my  own  : " 
But  he  turn'd  to  me, "  Ay,  good  woman, 

can  prayer  set  a  broken  bone?  " 
Then  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but 

I  know  that  I  heard  him  say 
"All  very  well  —  but  the  good  Lord 

Jesus  has  had  his  day." 


Had?  has  it  come?  It  has  only 
dawn'd.     It  will  come  by  and 

O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the 
hope  of  the  world  were  a  lie  ? 

How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and 
the  loathsome  smells  of  disease 

But  that  He  said  "Ye  do  it  to  me, 
when  ye  do  it  to  these  "  ? 


So  he  went.  And  we  past  to  this, 
ward  where  the  younger  chil- 
dren are  laid  : 

Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid ; 

Empty  you  see  just  now!  We  have 
lost  her  who  loved  her  so 
much  — 

Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sen- 
sitive plant  to  the  touch ; 

Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 
moved  me  to  tears. 

Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I  have 
found  in  a  child  of  her  years  — 

Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie ;  you 
used  to  send  her  the  flowers ; 

How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play 
with  'em,  talk  to  'em  hours 
■after  hours ! 

They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 
works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 

Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from 
a  cowslip  out  of  the  fields ; 

Flowers  to  these  "spirits  in  prison" 
are  all  they  can  know  of  the 
spring. 

They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards 
like  the  waft  of  an  Angel's 
wing; 

And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand 
and  her  thin  hands  crost  on  her 
breast — 

Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  lieart  can  de- 
sire, and  we  thought  her  at  rest. 

Quietly  sleeping  —  so  quiet,  our  doc- 
tor said  "  Poor  little  dear. 

Nurse,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow ;  she'll 
never  live  thro'  it,  I  fear." 


I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as 
far  as  the  head  of  the  stair. 

Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward ;  the  child 
didn't  see  I  was  there. 


Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been 
so  grieved  and  so  vext ! 

Emmie  had  heard  him.  Softly  she 
call'd  from  her  cot  to  the  next. 


S72 


DEDICATORY  POEM   TO    THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


"  He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  0 

Annie,  what  shall  I  do '  " 
Annie  consider'd.     "  If  I,"  said  the 

wise  little  Annie,  "  was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to 

help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see. 
It's  all  in  the  picture  there ;  '  Little 

children  should  come  to  me.' " 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us, 

I  find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the   dear  Lord  Jesus 

with  children  about  his  knees. ) 
"  Yes,  and  I  will,"  said  Emmie,  "  but 

then  if  I  call  to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's   me  ' 

such  a  lot  of  beds  in  the  ward ! " 
That  was  a  puz'zle  for  Annie.     Again 

she  consider'd  and  said : 
"Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and 

you  leave  'em  outside  on  the 

bed  — 
The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to!  but, 

Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain. 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying 

out  on  the  counterpane." 


I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child  — 

I  could  notwatch  her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel  —  I  felt  I 

could  do  it  no  more. 
That   was   my   sleeping-night,   but   I 

thought   that  it  never  would 

pass. 
There  was  a  thunderclap  once,  and  a 

clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass. 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I 

heard  as  I  tost  about. 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the 

storm  and  the  darkness  with- 
out; 
My    sleep   was    broken  beside  with 

dreams  of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who 

scarce  would  escape  with  her 

life; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it 

seem'd  she  stood  by  me  and 

smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and 

we  went  to  see  to  the  child. 


He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools :  we 

believed  her  asleep  again  — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying 

out  on  the  counterpane ; 
Say  that  His  day  is  done !  Ah  why 

should  we  care  what  they  say  ? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard 

her,  and  Emmie  had  past  away. 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE 
PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that, 

which  lived 
True  life,  live  on  —  and  if  the  fatal 

kiss. 
Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce 

thee  not 
From  earthly  love  and  life  —  if  what 

we  call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from 

out 
This  shadow  into  Substance  —  then 

perhaps 
The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's 

praise 
From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our 

breadth  of  realm, 
Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy 

deeds  in  light, 
Ascends  to    thee;    and  this  March 

morn  that  sees 
Thy  Soldier-brother's  bridal  orange- 
bloom 
Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of 

thy  grave. 
And    thine    Imperial    mother    smile 

again. 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee !  and  who 

can  tell  — 
Thou  —  England's     England  -  loving 

daughter  —  thou 
Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have 

her  flag 
Borne  on  thy  coflSn  —  where  is  he  can 

swear 
But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  oui 

poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembering 

thee,  I  lay 


THE  DEFENCE    OF  LUCK  NOW. 


573 


At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the 

deeds 
Of  England,  and  her  banner  in  the 

Bast? 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season, 

O  banner  of  IBritain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt 

to  the  battle-cry  ! 
Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when 

we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at   top   of    the   roofs   in  the 

ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow  — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard, 

but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  of  Engfand  blew. 


Frail  were  the  works  that  defended 

the  hold  that  we  held  with  our 

lives  — 
Women  and  children  among  us,  God 

help    them,  our   children   and 

wives ! 
Hold  it  we   might  —  and  for  fifteen 

days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 
"Never  surrender,  I  charge  you,  but 

every  man  die  at  his  post !  " 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved, 

our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the 

brave : 
Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss'd 

him  —  we  laid  him  that  night 

in  his  grave. 
"  Every  man   die   at  his  post !  "  and 

there  hail'd  on  our  houses  and 

halls 
Death    from    their  rifle-bullets,  and 

death  from  their  cannon-balls. 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and 

death  at  our  slight  barricade. 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  mus- 
ket, and  death  while  we  stoopt 

to  the  spade, 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to 

the  wounded,  for  often  there 

fell. 


Striking  the  hospital   wall,  crashing 

thro'  it,  their  shot   and  their 

shell, 
Death  —  for  their  spies  were  among 

us,  their  marksmen  were  told 

of  our  best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro' 

the  brain  that  could  think  for 

the  rest; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads, 

and  bullets  would  rain  at  our 

feet  — 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the 

rebels  that  girdled  us  round  — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from 

over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque 

and  the  palace,  and  death  in 

ground ! 
Mine  1    yes,   a  mine !    Countermine  ! 

down,   down !   and  creep  thro' 

the  hole  ! 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand !  you  can 

hear  him — themurderous  mole! 
Quiet,  ah !  quiet  —  wait  till  the  point 

of  the  pickaxe  be  thro' ! 
Click  with  the  pick,   coming  nearer 

and  nearer  again  than  before  — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  Are,  and  the 

dark  pioneer  is  no  more  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew  J 

111 

Xy,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many 
times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 

Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 
thunderclap  echo'd  away. 

Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur 
like  so  many  fiends  in  their 
hell  — 

Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on 
volley,  and  yell  upon  yell  — 

Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myr- 
iad enemy  fell. 

What  have  they  done  ?  where  is  it  ? 
Out  yonder.    Guard  the  Redan ! 

Storm  at  the  Water-gate !  storm  at  the 
Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 

Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as 
ocean  on  every  side 


574 


THE  DEFENCE    OF  LUC  KNOW. 


Plunges  and  heayes  at  a  bank  that  is 

daily  drown'd  by  the  tide  — 
So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold 

enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall 

know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready !  take  aim  at  their  leaders  — 

their  masses  are  gapp'd  with 
/  our  grape  — 

Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 

the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  last  by  the 

handful  they  could  not  subdue ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew. 


Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were 

English  in  heart  and  in  limb. 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race 

to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the 

garrison  hung  but  on  him ; 
Still  —  could  we  watch  at  all  points  ? 

we  were  every  day  fewer  and 

fewer. 
There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but 

only  a  whisper  that  past : 
"  Children  and  wives  —  if  the  tigers 

leap  into  the  fold  unawares  — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post  —  and  the 

foe  may  outlive  us  at  last  — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they 

love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs  !  " 
Roar  upon  roar  In  a  moment  two 

mines  by  the  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls 

and  our  poor  palisades.- 
Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be 

sure  that  your  hand  be  as  true ! 
Sharp  is  the  fireof  assault, better  aimed 

are  your  flank  fusillades  — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from 

the  ladders  to  which  they  had 

clung, 
Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shel- 
ter we  drive  them  with  hand- 
grenades  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  of  England  blew. 


Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 

wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 

twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden 

there  from   the   light   of   the 

sun  — 
One  has  leapt  up  on  the  beach,  crying 

out :  "Eollow  me, follow  me! " — 
Mark  him  —  he  falls !  then  another, 

and  him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who 

can  tell  but  the  traitors  had 

won  ? 
Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors  —  an 

embrasure !  make  way  for  the 

gun! 
Now  double-charge  it  with  grape !    It 

is  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they 

run. 
Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let 

the  dark  face  have  his  due ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who 

foughtwith  us,f aithf ul  and  few, 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us, 

and    drove   them,   and   smote 

them,  and  slew. 
That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  in  India  blew. 


Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and 

not  what  we  do.     We  can  fight ! 
But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  senti- 
nel all  thro'  the  night  — 
Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies, 

their  lying  alarms. 
Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and 

shoutings    and    soundings    to 

arms. 
Ever  the  labor  of  fifty  that  had  to  bo 

done  by  five, 
Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one 

should  be  left  alive, 
Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death 

from  the  loopholes  around, 
Ever    the    night  with   its   cofiinless 

corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground. 
Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a 

deluge  of  cataract  skies, 


Sm  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,   LORD   COBHAAf. 


575 


Stench  of  old  oflal  decaying,  and  in- 
finite torment  of  flies, 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blow- 
ing over  an  English  field, 

Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound 
that  would  not  be  heal'd. 

Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pit- 
iful-pitiless knife,  — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,  —  for  it 
never  could  save  us  a  life. 

Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended 
the  hospital  bed. 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among 
the  dying  and  dead. 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and 
never  a  moment  for  grief. 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering 
hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butch- 
er'd  for  all  that  we  knew — 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
coming  down  on  the  still-shat- 
ter'd  walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thou- 
sands of  cannon-balls  — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


Hark  cannonade,  fusillade !  is  it  true 

what  was  told  by  the  scout, 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their 

way  through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  nng- 

ing  again  in  our  ears ! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a 

jubilant  shout, 
Eavelock's  glorious  Highlanders  an- 
swer with  conquering  cheers. 
Sick  from  the  hospital   echo   them, 

women  and  children  come  out. 
Blessing  the  wholesome  white  faces 

of  Havelock's  good  fusileers. 
Kissing  the  war-harden'd  hand  of  the 

Highlanderwet  with  their  tears ! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch !  —  saved !  we  are 

saved  !  —  is  it  you "?  is  it  you  '' 
Saved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved 

by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 
"  Hold  it  for  fifteen  days  ! "  we  have 

held  it  for  eighty-seven ! 


And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the 
old  banner  of  England  blew. 


^ 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD 

COBHAM. 

(in  wales.) 

Mt  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere 

hereabout 
To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I  have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded 
one,  I  trow  — 

I  read  no  more  the  prisoner's  mute  wail 

Scribbled  or  carved  upon  the  pitiless 
stone ; 

I  find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 
or  none. 

For  I  am  emptier  than  a  friar's  brains ; 

But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness, 

These  wet  black  passes  and  foam, 
churning  chasms  — 

And  God's  free  air,  and  hope  of  bet- 
ter things. 

I  would  I  knew  their  speech;  not 
now  to  glean. 

Not  now  —  I  hope  to  do  it  —  some 
scatter'd  ears. 

Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field 
of  Wales  — 

But,  bread,  merely  for  bread.  This 
tongue  that  wagg'd 

They  said  with  such  heretical  arro- 
gance 

Against  the  proud  archbishop  Arun- 
del— 

So  much  God's  cause  was  fluent  in  it 
—  is  here 

But  as  a  Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd ; 

"  Bara ! "  —  what  use  ■?  The  Shepherd, 
when  I  speak. 

Vailing  a  sudden  eyelid  with  his  hard 

"Dim  Saesneg"  passes,  wroth  at 
things  of  old  — 

No  fault  of  mine.  Had  he  God's  word 
in  Welsh 

He  might  be  kindlier :  happily  come 
the  day! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Bethle- 
hem 


576 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLB,   LORD    COB  HAM. 


In  Judah,forin  thee  tlie  Lord  was  born; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,  for  in  thee  the  word  was  horn 
again. 

Heaven-sweet  Eyangel,  erer-living 

word, 
Who  whilome  spakest  to  the  South  in 

Greek 
About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd. 
As  good  need  was  —  thou  hast  come 

to  talk  our  isle. 
Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all 

the  world. 
Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that 

thou  bringest 
Not  peace,  a  sword,  a  fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom  I 

crost 
In  flying  hither  ?   that  one   night  a 

crowd 
Throng'd  the  waste  field  about  the 

city  gates : 
The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with 

a  host. 
Why  there  '  they  came  to  hear  their 

preacher.     Then 
Some  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good 

Lord  Cobham; 
Ay,  for  they  love  me !  but  the  king  — 

nor  voice 
Nor  finger  raised  against  him  —  took 

and  hang'd. 
Took,  hang'd  and  burnt — how  many 

— •  thirty-nine  — • 
Call'd    it    rebellion  —  hang'd,    poor 

friends,  as  rebels 
And  burn'd  alive  as   heretics !    for 

your  Priest 
Labels  —  to  take  the  king  along  with 

him  — 
All  heresy,  treason :  but  to  call  men 

traitors 
May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  house- 
hold war, 
Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy 

men. 


Redder  to  be,red  rose  of  Lancaster — 

If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown- 
lusting  line  — 

By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister 
grow,i 

That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegi- 
ance due. 

Self-starved,   they    say  —  nay,  mur- 
der'd,  doubtless  dead. 

So  to  this  king  I  cleaved :  my  friend 
was  he, 

Once  my  fast  friend:   I  would  have 
given  my  life 

To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a  thou- 
sand lives 

To  save  his   soul.     He  might  have 
come  to  learn 

Our  Wiclif 's  learning:  but  the  worldly 
Priests 

Who  fear  the  king's  hard  common- 
sense  should  find 

What  rotten  piles  uphold  their  mason- 
work, 

Ui'ge  him  to  foreign  war.     O  had  he 
will'd 

I  might  have  stricken  a  lusty  stroke 
for  him. 

But  he  would  not ;  far  liever  led  my 
friend 

Back    to    the    pure    and     universal 
church, 

But  he  would  not :  whether  that  heir- 
less flaw 

In  his  throne's  title  make  him  feel  so 
frail. 

He  leans  on  Antichrist;  or  that  his 
mind. 

So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership. 

In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while! 

More  worth  than  all  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world. 

Runs  in  the    rut,   a  coward  to  the  i 
Priest. 

Burnt  —  good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  my 
dear  friend ! 
Burnt    too,    my    faithful    preachei; 
Beverley ! 

1  Richard  11. 


Sm  JOHN  OLDCASTrB,   LORD   COB  HAM. 


577 


liOrd  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit 

nesses ! 
Lest  the  false  faith  make  merry  over 

them ! 
Two  —  nay  but  thirty-nine  have  risen 

and  stand, 
Dark  vritli  the  smoke  of  human  sacri- 
fice, 
Before  thy  light,  and  cry  continually — 
I  Cry  —  against  whom  ■? 
,  Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 

'Of  Justice  —  what!  the  kingly, kindly 

boy; 
Who  took  tlie  world  so  easily  hereto- 
fore, 
My  boon  companion,  tavern-fellow  — 

him 
Who  gibed  and  japed  —  in  many  u 

merry  tale 
That  shook  our  sides  —  at  Pardoners, 

Summoners, 
Friars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 
And  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour 

and  the  wine 
Had  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 
Or  Amurath  of  the  East ' 

Better  to  sink 
Thy  fleurs-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and 

fling 
Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
Of  wine   and   harlotry  —  thy  shame, 

and  mine. 
Thy  comrade  — than  to  persecute  the 

Lord, 
And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be 

Paul. 

Burnt,  burnt!  and  while  this  mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms   our  unlicensed    preacher  to 

the  flame. 
The  mitre-sanction'd  harlot  draws  his 

clerks 
Into  the  suburb  —  their  hard  celibacy. 
Sworn  to  be  veriest  ice  of  pureness, 

molten 
Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As  holy  Paul  —  a  shame  to  speak  of 

them  — 
Among  the  heathen  — 

Sanctuary  granted 


To  bandit,  thief,  assassin — yea  to  him 
Who    hacks    liis   mother's    throat  — 

denied  to  him, 
Who  finds  the  Saviour  in  his  mother 

tongue. 
The  Gospel,  the  Priest's  pearl,  flung 

down  to  swine  — 
The  swine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  whc? 

will  come, 
God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  friar. 
Ah    rather.    Lord,    than    that    thy 

Gospel,  meant 
To   course    and   range    thro'   all   the 

world,  should  be 
Tether'd  to  these  dead  pillars  of  the 

Church  — 
Rather  than  so,  if  thou   wilt    have 

it  so, 
Burst   vein,   snap    sinew,   and   crack 

heart,  and  life 
Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon !  but  how 

long, 
O  Lord,  how  long  ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 
Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and — 

a  Cross  ! 
To  thee,  dead  wood,  I  bow  not  head 

nor  knees. 
Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work 

of  God, 
Black  holly,  and  white-flo'wer'd  way- 
faring-tree ! 
Rather  to  thee,   thou  living  water, 

drawn 
By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down 

from  heaven. 
And   speaking  clearly  in  thy  native 

tongue  — 
No  Latin  —  He   that  thirsteth,  come 

and  drink ! 

Eh  !  how  I  anger'd  Arundel  asking 

me 
To   worship   Holy  Cross !     I  spread 

mine  arms, 
God's  work,  I  said,  a  cross  of  flesii 

and  blood 
And  holier.    That  was  heresy.     (My 

good  friend 
By   this   time    should  be  with  me.) 


'  Bury  them  as  God's  truer  images 


578 


STR  yOHN  OLDCASTLE,   LORD   COBHAM. 


Are  daily  buried."  "  Heresy.  — 
Penance  ?  "     "  Fast, 

Hairshirt  and  scourge  —  nay,  let  a 
man  repent, 

Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears 
him  "     "  Heresy  — 

Not  shriven,  not  saved  ■?  "  "  What 
,  profits  an  ill  Priest 

Between  me  and  my  God  '^  I  would 
not  spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but 
shrive  myself 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle."    "  Heresy." 

(My  friend  is  long  in  coming.)  "  Pil- 
grimages '^  " 

Drink,  bagpipes,  revelling,  devil's- 
dances,  vice. 

The  poor  man's  money  gone  to  fat  the 
friar. 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Scrip- 
ture '  "  —  "  Heresy  "  — 

(Hath  he  been  here  —  not  found  me 
—  gone  again  1 

Have  1  mislearnt  our  place  of  meet- 
ing'') "Bread  — 

Bread  left  after  the  blessing  ?  "  how 
they  stared. 

That  was  their  main  test-question  — 
glared  at  me ! 

"  He  veil'd  himself  in  flesh,  and  now 
He  veils 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and  bread 
together." 

Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock'd 
wolves, 

"  No  bread,  no  bread.  God's  body ! " 
Archbishop,  Bishop, 

Friors,  Canons,  Friars,  bellringers, 
Parish-clerks  — 

"  No  bread,  no  bread ! "  —  "  Authority 
of  the  Church, 

lower  of  the  keys!"  — Then  I,  God 
help  me,  I 

So  mock'd,  so  spurn'd,  so  baited  two 
whole  days  — 

I  lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

And  rail'd  at  all  the  Popes,  that  ever 
since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world- 
wealth 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov'n 
themselves 


Poisoners,  murderers.     Well  —  God 

pardon  all  — 
Me,  them,  and  all  the  world  —  yea, 

that  proud  Priest, 
That  mock-meek  mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 
That  traitor  to  King  Richard  and  the 

truth; 
Who  rose  and  doom'd  me  to  the  ilre. 

Amen ! ' 
Nay,  I  can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of , 

life 
Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three !  the  fourth 
Was  like  the  Son  of  God  !    Not  burnt 

were  they. 
On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 

past. 
That  was  a  miracle  to  convert  the  king. 
ThesePharisees,thisCaiaphas  Arundel 
What  miracle  could  turn '     He,  here 

again. 
He  thwarting  their  traditions  of  Him- 
self, 
He  would  be  found  a  heretic  to  Him- 
self, 
And  doom'd  to  burn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I  bum. 
Burn  %   heathen  men  have  borne  as 

much  as  this. 
For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 

loved. 
Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far 

less  than  mine ; 
For  every  other  cause  is  less  than 

mine. 
The  moth  will  singe  her  wings,  and 

singed  return. 
Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  fear 

of  pain  — 
How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  the 

fire' 
Faint  -  hearted  '    tut !  —  faint  -  stom 

ach'd !  faint  as  I  am, 
God  willing,  I  will  burn  for  Him. 

Who  comes ' 
A  thousand  marks  are  set  upon  my 

head. 
Friend  ?  —  foe  perhaps  —  a  tussle  for 

it  then! 
Nay,  but  my  friend.    Thou  art  so  well 

disguised. 


COLUMBUS. 


S7^ 


I  knew  thee  not.  Hast  thou  brought 
bread  with  thee  1 

I  have  not  broken  bread  for  fif  tyhours. 

None?  I  am  damn'd  already  by  the 
Priest 

For  holding  there  was  bread  where 
bread  was  none — 

No  bread.  My  friends  await  me  yon- 
der '     Yes. 

Lead  on  then.  Up  the  mountain? 
Is  it  far  1 

Not  far.  Climb  first  and  reach  me 
down  thy  hand. 

I  am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread, 

For  I  must  live  to  testify  by  fire.i 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good  lord:  in  your  raised 
brows  I  read 

Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  orna- 
ments. 

We  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles 
of  gold. 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to 

visit  him 
Whom    once   he  rose  from  off    his 

throne  to  greet 
Before   his  people,  like  his   brother 

king? 
I  saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the 

crowd. 

At  Barcelona  —  tho'  you  were  not 

then 
So  bearded.     Yes.    The  city  deck'd 

herself 
To   meet  me,  roar'd  my  name;  the 

king,  the  queen 
Bade  me  be  seated,  speak,  and  tell 

them  all 
The  story  of  my  voyage,  and  while  I 

spoke 
The  crowd's  roar  fell  as  at  the  "  Peace, 

be  still!" 
And  when  I  ceased  to  speak,  the  king, 

the  queen. 
Sank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted 

into  tears, 
>  He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  1417, 


And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart 

and  voice 
In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  tliro'  the 

waste. 
And  then  the  great  "  Laudamus  "  rose" 

to  heaven. 

Chains    for   the   Admiral    of    the 

Ocean !  chains 
For  liim  who  gave  a  new  heaven,  a. 

new  earth, 
As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me. 
Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  th* 

kings 
Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles  !  chains 

for  him 
Who  push'd  his  prows  into  the  setting; 

sun. 
And  made  West  East,  and  sail'd  the 

Dragon's  mouth. 
And  came  upon  the  Mountain  of  the 

World, 
And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  £ 

Chains!   we  are  Admirals  of  the 

Ocean,  we, 
We  and  our  sons  for  ever.     Ferdinand 
Hath  sign'd  it  and  our  Holy  Catholic 

queen  — 
Of  the  Ocean  —  of  the  Indies  —  Ad- 
mirals we  — 
Our  title,  which  we  never  mean   ta 

yield, 
Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we 

did. 
But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 

done  — 
The  vast  occasion  of   our  stronger 

life  — 
Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 

your  Spain, 
Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a  truth 

the  babe 
Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter 

—  earth 
A  sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca  ^     No. 

We  fronted  there  the  learning  of  al£ 
Spain, 

All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astrono- 
mies: 


580 


COLUMBUS. 


Guess-work  they  guess'd  it,  but  the 

golden  guess 
Is  morning-star  to  the  full  round  of 

truth. 
!No  guess-work !  I  was  certain  of  my 

goal; 
Some    thought  it    heresy,  but   that 

would  not  hold. 
King  David  call'd  the  heavens  a  hide, 

a  tent 
Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth 

was  flat : 
Some  cited  old  Lactantius :  could  it  be 
That  trees  grew  downward,  rain  fell 

upward,  men 
"Walk'd  like  the  fly  on  ceilings  ?  and 

besides. 
The  great  Augustine  wrote  that  none 

could  breathe 
Within  the  zone  of  heat;   so  might 

there  be 
Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that 

was  clean 
Against    God's    word :    thus    was    I 

beaten  back, 
And    chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the 

Church, 
And  thought  to  turn  my  face   from 

Spain,  appeal 
Once  more  to  France  or  England; 

but  our  Queen 
Eecall'd  me,  for  at  last  their  High- 
nesses 
Were   half-assured   this  earth  might 

be  a  sphere. 

All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 
All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 
And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I  never 

swerved 
Hot    even  by  one  hair's-breadth  of 

heresy, 
I  have  accomplish'd  what  I  came  to  do. 

Not   yet  —  not  all — last    night  a 

dream  —  I  sail'd 
On  my  first  voyage,  harass'd  by  the 

frights 
Of   my  first  crew,  their  curses  and 

their  groans. 
The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 

riSe, 


The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false 

at  last 
In  our  most  need,  appall'd  them,  and 

the  wind 
Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas  — 

at  length 
The   landbird,  and  the  branch  with 

berries  on  it. 
The  carven  staff — and  last  the  light, 

the  light 
On    Guanahanil  but  I  changed   the 

name; 
San  Salvador  I  call'd  it;    and    the 

light 
Grew  as  I  gazed,  and  brought  out  o. 

broad  sky 
Of    dawning  over — not  those   alien 

palms. 
The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature  — 

not 
That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 

East 
Moriah  with  Jerusalem ;  and  I  saw 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and 

beat 
Thro'  all  the  homely  town  from  jas- 
per, sapphire. 
Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sar- 

dius. 
Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysoprase, 
Jacynth,  and  amethyst  —  and  those 

twelve  gates. 
Pearl  —  and  I  woke,  and  thought  — 

death  —  I  shall  die  — 
I  am  written  in  the  Lamb's  own  Book 

of  Life 
To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light  — 

but  no ! 
The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 

dream  to  me 
To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I  made 
When  Spain  was  waging  war  against 

the  Moor  — 
I  strove   myself  with   Spain  against 

the  Moor. 
There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sep- 
ulchre, 
Two  friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 

oust 
The  Moslem  from  her  limit,  ha,  the 

fierce 


COLUMBUS. 


581 


Soldan  of  Egypt,  would  break  down 

and  raze 
The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ;  whereon 

I  vow'd 
That,  if  our  Princes  harken'd  to  my 

prayer, 
Whatever  wealth  I  brought  from  that 

new  world 
Should,  in  this  old,  be  consecrate  to 

lead 
A  new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 

thrall. 

Gold  ■?  I  had  brought  your  Princes 
gold  enough 

If  left  alone!     Being  but  a  Genovese, 

I  am  handled  worse  than  had  I  been  a 
Moor, 

And  breach'd  the  belting  wall  of 
Cambalu, 

And  given  the  Great  Khan's  palaces 
to  the  Moor, 

Or  clutch'd  the  sacred  crown  of  Pres- 
ter  John, 

And  cast  it  to  the  Moor:  but  had  I 
brought 

Prom  Solomon's  now-recover'd  Ophir 
all 

The  gold  that  Solomon's  navies  car- 
ried home, 

Would  that  have  gilded  me?  Blue 
blood  of  Spain, 

Tho'  quartering  your  own  royal  arms 
of  Spain, 

Ihave  not;  blue  blood  and  black  blood 
of  Spain, 

The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Cas- 
tile, 

Howl'd  me  from  Hispaniola  ;  for  you 
know 

The  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm 
about 

And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and 
murmur  down 

Truth  in  the  distance  —  these  out- 
buzz'd  me  so 

That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous queen  — 

I  pray'd  them  being  so  calumniated 

They  would  commission  one  of  weight 
and  worth 


To  judge  between  my  slander'd  self 

and  me  — 
Fonseca  mymain  enemyat  their  court. 
They  send  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla, 

one 
As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a  beast  — 
Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed 

—  who  sack'd 
My  dwelling,  seized  upon  my  papers, 

loosed 
My  captives,  feed  the  rebels  of  the 

crown. 
Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  noth- 
ing, gave 
All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  the 

mines, 
Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home 

in  chains. 
And  gathering  ruthless  gold  —  a  sin- 
gle piece 
Weigh'd  nigh  four  thousand  Caotil- 

lanos  —  so 
They  tell  me  —  weigh'd   him   down 

into  the  abysm  — 
The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him 

fell, 
The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 
Him  and  his  gold ;  the  frailer  caravel, 
With  wliat  was  mine,  came  happily  to 

the  shore. 
There  was  a  glimmering  of  God's  hand. 

And  God 
Hath  more  than  glimmer'd  on  me.     O 

my  lord, 
I  swear  to  you  I  heard  his  voice  be- 
tween 
The  thunders  in  the  black  Veragua 

nights, 
"  O  soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe ! 
Have  I  not  been  about  thee  from  thy 

birth  ? 
Given  thee   the  keys   of    the    great 

Ocean-sea  ■? 
Set  thee  in  light  till  time  shall  be  no 

more'? 
Is  it  I  who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 

world  '^ 
Endure !  thou  hast  done  so  well  fot 

men,  that  men 
Cry  out  against  thee  .  was  it  otherwisa 
With  mine  own  Sen  1 " 


582 


COLUMBUS. 


And  more  than  once  in  days 
Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when 

drowmng  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I  heard  his 

voice, 
"  Be  not  cast  down.     I  lead  thee  by 

the  hand, 
Fear    not."    And    I    shall  hear  his 

voice  again  — 
I  know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 
I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will  — 
His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 
I  lying  here  bedridden  and  alone. 
Cast  oft,  put  by,  scouted  by  court  and 

king  — 
The  first  discoverer  starves  —  his  fol- 
lowers, all 
Plower  into  fortune  —  our  world's  way 

—  and  I, 
Without  a  roof  that  I  can  call  mine 

own. 
With  scarce   a  coin  to  buy  a  meal 

withal. 
And  seeing  what  a  door  for  scoundrel 

scum 
I  open'd  to  the  West,  thro'  which  the 

lust, 
Villany,  violence,   avarice,   of    your 

Spain 
Pour'd  in  on  all  those  happy  naked 

isles  — ■ 
Their  kindly  native  princes  slain  or 

slaved, 
Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  con- 
cubines. 
Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench'd 

in  blood. 
Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneath 

the  scourge, 
Sdme  over-labor'd,  some  by  their  own 

hands,  — 
Yea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 

kill 
Their  babies  at  the  breast  for  hate  of 

Spain  — 
Ah  God,  the  harmless  people  whom 

we  found 
In  Hispaniola's  island-Paradise ! 
Who  took  us  for  the  very  Gods  from 

Heaven, 


And  we  have   sent  them  very  fiends 

from  Hell ; 
And  I  myself,  myself  not  blameless.  I 
Could  sometimes  wish  I  had  never  led 

the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  "  Be  thou  com- 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brought 
to  Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  of 
Rome." 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who 
bore  the  Cross 
Thither,  were  excommunicated  there. 
For  curbing  crimes  that  scandalized 

the  Cross, 
By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 
Rome's  Vicar  in  our  Indies  '^  who  be- 
lieve 
These  hard  memorials  of  our  truth  to 

Spain 
Clung  closer  to  us  for  a  longer  term 
Thau  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  ? 

and  yet 
Pardon  —  too  harsh,  unjust.      I  am 
rack'd  with  pains. 

You  see  that  I  have  hung  them  by 
my  bed. 
And  I  will  have  them  buried  in  my 
grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 

God's 
Own  voice  to  justify  the  dead  —  per- 
chance 
Spain  once  the  most  chivalrie  race  on 

earth, 
Spain  then  the  mightiest,  wealthiest 

realm  on  earth. 
So  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury 

me, 
To  lay  me  in  some  shrine  of  this  old 

Spain, 
Or  in  that  vaster  Spain  I  leave  to 

Spain. 
Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave 

will  say, 


THE    VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


583 


"Behold   the  bones   of    Christopher 

Colon  "  — 
"Ay,  but  the   chains,  what  do  they 

mean  —  the  chains  '^  "  — 
1  sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain 
Who  then  will  have  to  answer,  "  These 

same  chains 
Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro' 
j-  the  Atlantic  sea, 

*>Vhich  he  unchain'd  for  all  the  world 

to  come." 

0  Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the 

souls  in  Hell 
And  purgatory,  1  suffer  all  as  much 
As  they  do  — for  the  moment.     Stay, 

my  son 
Is  here  anon :  my  son  will  speak-  for 

me 
Ablier  than  lean  in  these  spasms  that 

grind 
Bone   against  bone.     You  will  not. 

One  last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  1  pray 
you  tell 
King  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me, 

that  one. 
Whose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 

and  his 
Hidalgos  —  shipwrecks,  famines,  fe- 
vers, fights. 
Mutinies,  treacheries  —  wink'd  at,  and 

condoned  — 
That  I  am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death. 
And  ready  —  the'  our  Holy  Catholic 

Queen, 
Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on 

my  first  voyage, 
Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the 

Catholic  faitli, 
Who  wept  with  me  when  I  return'd 

in  chains, 
Who   sits  beside   the  blessed  Virgin 

now. 
To  whom  I  send  my  prayer  by  night 

and  day  — 
She   is   gone  —  but  you  will  tell  the 

King,  that  I, 
Rack'd     as     I   am    with    gout,    and 

wrench'd  with  pains 
Gain'd  in  the  service  of  His  Highness, 
yet 


Am   ready  to   sail  forth  on  one  last 

voyage, 
And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear, 

to  lead 
One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  save  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 

thrall. 

Going  ^  I  am  old  and  slighted  :  you 

have  dared 
Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming  1   my 

poor  thanks ! 
I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  Genovese. 


THE   VOYAGE   OF  MAELDUNE. 

(founded  on  an  IRISH  LEGEND. 
A.D.  700.) 

I. 

I  WAS  the  chief  of  the  race  —  he  had 

stricken  my  father  dead  — 
But  I  gather'd  my  fellows  together,  I 

swore  I  would  strike  off  his 

head. 
Each  one  of  them  look'd  like  a  king, 

and  was  noble  in  birth   as  in 

worth. 
And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang 

from  the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 
Each  was  as  brave  in  the  fight  as  the 

bravest  hero  of  song, 
And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 

have  done  one  another  a  wrong. 
He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean  —  we 

sail'd  on  a  Friday  morn  — 
He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day 

before  I  was  born. 


And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean, 
and  there  on  the  shore  was  lie. 

But  a  sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and 
away  thro'  a  boundless  sea. 


And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  that 
we  never  had  touch'd  at  before. 

Where  a  silent  ocean  always  broke  oa 
a  silent  shore, 


584 


THE    VOiTAGE    OF  MaELDUNE. 


And  the  brooks  glitter'd  on  In  the  light 

without  sound,   and  the   long 

waterfalls  ^ 

Pour'd  in  a  tliunderless  plunge  to  the 

base  of  the  mountain  walls, 
And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken 

by  storm  flourish'd  up  beyond 

sight. 
And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag 

to  an  unbelievable  height. 
And  high  in  the  heaven  above  it  there 

flicker'd  a  songless  lark, 
Aud  the  cock  couldn't  crow,  and  the 

bull  couldn't  low,  and  the  dog 

couldn't  bark. 
And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro'  it,  but 

never  a  murmur,  a  breath  — 
It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all 

of  it  quiet  as  death. 
And  we  hated  the  beautiful  Isle,  for 

whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter 

than  any  flittermouse-shriek ; 
And  the    men   that  were   mighty  of 

tongue   and  could  raise  such 

a  battle-cry 
That  a  hundred  who  heard  it  would 

rush  on  a  thousand  lances  and 

die  — 
O  they  to  be  dumb'd  by  the  charm ! 

—  so  fluster'd  with  anger  were 

they 
They  almost  fell  on  each  other ;  but 

after  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting, 
we  landed,  a  score  of  wild  birds 

Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with 
human  voices  and  words  ; 

Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  when- 
ever their  voices  peal'd 

The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and 

the  harvest  died  from  the  field, 

,  And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 

and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame. 

And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  dwelling  broke  into 
flame ; 

And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds 
ran  into  the  hearts  of  my  crew, 


Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shout- 
ing and  seized  one  another  and 
slew ; 

But  I  drew  them  the  one  from  the 
other ;  I  saw  that  we  could  not 
stay, 

And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and 
we  sail'd  with  our  wounded 
away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers  : 
their  breath  met  us  out  on  the 
seas, 

For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Sum- 
mer sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the 
breeze ; 

And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the 
cliffs,  and  the  dark-blue  cle- 
matis, clung. 

And  starr'd  with  a  myriad  blossom 
the  long  convolvulus  hung ; 

And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  moun- 
tain was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow. 

And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded 
down,  running  out  below 

Thro'  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy, 
the  blaze  of  gorse,  and  the 
blush 

Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  with- 
out leaf  or  a  thorn  from  the 
bush ; 

And  the  whole  isle-side  flashing  down 
from  the  peak  without  ever  a 
tree 

Swept  like  a  torrent  of  gems  from  the 
sky  to  the  blue  of  the  sea  ; 

And  we  roU'd  upon  capes  of  crocus 
and  vaunted  our  kith  and  our 
kin. 

And  we  wallow'd  in  beds  of  lilies, 
and  chanted  the  triumph  of 
Finn, 

Till  each  like  a  golden  image  was 
pollen'd  from  head  to  feet 

And  each  was  as  dry  as  a  cricket, 
with  thirst  in  the  middle-day 
heat. 

Blossom  and  blossom,  and  promise  of 
blossom,  but  never  a  fruit ! 

And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as 
we  hated  the  isle  that  was  mute, 


THE    VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


585 


And  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  tlie 
million  and  flung  them  in  bight 
and  bay, 

And  we  left  but  a  naked  rock,  and  in 
anger  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits : 

all  round  from  the   cliifs  and 
_  the  capes, 
furple  or  amber,  dangled  a  hundred 

fathom  of  grapes. 
And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a  little 

sun  on  the  tawny  sand. 
And  the  fig  ran  up  from  the  beach 

and  rioted  over  the  land. 
And  the  mountain  arose  like  a  jew- 

ell'd  throne  thro'  the  fragrant 

air. 
Glowing  with   all-color'd  plums  and 

with  golden  masses  of  pear, 
And  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries 

that  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine. 
But  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the 

poisonous  pleasure  of  wine ; 
And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was 

apples,   the   hugest  that   ever 

were  seen. 
And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 

otner,  with  hardly  a  leaflet  be- 
tween, 
And  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest 

health  or  than  utterest  shame. 
And  setting,  when  Even  descended, 

the  very  sunset  aflame  ; 
And  we  stay/d   three   days,  and  we 

gorged  and  we  madden'd,  till 

every  one  drew 
His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him, 

and  ever  they  struck  and  they 

slew; 
And  myself,  I  had  eaten  but  sparely, 

and  fought  till  I  sunder'd  the 

fray, 
Then  I  bade    them    remember    my 

father's   death,   and  we   sail'd 

away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire  :  we 
were  lured  by  the  light  from 
afar, 


For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of 

fire  to  the  Northern  Star ; 
Lured  by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but 

scarcely  could  stand  upright. 
For  the    whole  isle    shudder'd    and 

shook  like  "  man  in  a  mortal 

affright : 
We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits 

we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed 

that  at  last 
There  were  some  leap'd  into  the  fire ; 

and  away  we   sail'd,  and  we 

past 
Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the 

water  is  clearer  than  air : 
Down  we  look'd :  what  a  garden !  O 

bliss,  what  a  Paradise  there  ! 
Towers  of  a  happier  time,  low  down 

in  a  rainbow  deep 
Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal 

sleep ! 
And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of 

my    people,  whate'er  I  could 

say. 
Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  ani 

the  Paradise  trembled  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle,. 

where  the  htavens  lean  low  on 

the  land. 
And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud. 

glitter'd   o'er  us    a    sunbright 

hand, 
Then  it  open'd  and  dropt  at  the  side 

of  each  man,  as  he  rose  from 

his  rest. 
Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the 

laborless   day  dipt   under  the 

West; 
And  we  wander'd  about  it  and  thro' 

it.      0    never    was    time     so 

good ! 
And  we   sang    of    the    triumphs   of 

Finn,   and    the    boast   of    our 

ancient  blood. 
And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave 

as   we    sat  by  the  gurgle  of 

springs. 
And  we   chanted  the   songs   of    the 

Bards  and  the  glories  of  fairy- 
kings  : 


586 


THE    VOYAGE    OF  MAELDUNE. 


But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary, 

to   sigh,   and   to    stretch    and 

yawn, 
Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and 

the    sunbright    hand    of    the 

dawn, 
Per  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but 

the  whole  green  Isle  was  our 

own, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and 

we  took  to  throwing  the  stone. 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  battle,  but 

that  was  a  perilous  play, 
I'or  the  passion  of  the  battle  was  in 

us,    we     slew    and    we    sail'd 

away. 

IX. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witches 

and  heard  their  musical  cry  — 
"  Come  to  us,  O  come,  come  "  in  the 

stormy  red  of  a  sky 
Dashing  the  fires  and  the  shadows  of 

dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes, 
For  a  wild  witch  naked  as   heaven 

stood  on  each  of  the  loftiest 

capes. 
And  a  hundred  ranged  on  the  rock 

like  white  sea-birds  in  a  row. 
And  a  hundred  gamboU'd  and  pranced 

on  the, wrecks  in  the  sand  be- 
low. 
And  a  hundred    splash'd    from  the 

ledges,  and  bosom'd  the  burst 

of  the  spray. 
But  I  knew  we  should  fall  on  each 

other,  and  hastily  sail'd  away. 

X. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the 

Isle  of  the  Double  Towers, 
One  was  of    smooth-cut  stone,   one 

carved  all  over  with  flowers. 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in 

the  hollows  under  the  dells. 
And  they  shock'd  on  each  other  and 

butted  each  other  with  clashing 

of  bells, 
And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers 

and  jangled  and  wrangled  in 

vain. 
And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells 

rang  into  theheart  and  the  brain, 


Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us, 

and  all  took    sides    with  the 

Towers, 
There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut 

stone,  there  were  more  for  the 

carven  flowers. 
And  the  wrathful  thunder  of    God 

peal'd  over  us  all  the  day. 
For  the  one  half  slew  the  other  and 

after  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a  Saint 

who  had  sail'd  with  St.  Brendan 

of  yore. 
He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle 

and  his  winters  were  fifteen  score, 
And  his  voice  was  low  as  from  other 

worlds,    and    his    eyes    were 

sweet. 
And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  heels 

and  his  white  beard  fell  to  his 

feet. 
And  he  spake  to  me,  "  O  Maeldune, 

let  be  this  purpose  of  thine ! 
Remember   the  words    of  the  Lord 

when  he  told  us  '  Vengeance  is 

mine ! ' 
His   fathers  have    slain  thy  fathers 

in  war  or  in  single  strife. 
Thy  fathers   have   slain  his  fathers, 

each  taken  a  life  for  a  life, 
Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how 

long  shall  the  murder  last ' 
Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffer 

the  Past  to  be  Past." 
And  we  kiss'd  the  fring^  of  his  beard 

and  we  pray'd  as  we  heard  him 

pray. 
And  the  Holy  man  he  assoil'd  us,  and 

sadly  we  sail'd  away. 

XII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown 

from,  and  there  on  the  shore 

was  he. 
The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.    I 

saw  him  and  let  him  be. 
O  weary  was   I  of  the  travel,   the 

trouble,  the  strife  and  the  sin. 
When  I  landed  again,  with  a  tithe  of 

my  men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PROFUNDTS. 


587 


DE  PROFUNDIS: 

THE    TWO   GREETINGS. 
I. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
Where  all  that  was  to  he,  in  all  that 

was, 
Whirl'd  for  a  million  aeons  thro'  the 

vast 
Waste  dawn   of  multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
Thro'    all    this    changing    world    of 

changeless  law. 
And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening 

life. 
And  nine  long  months   of  antenatal 

gloom. 
With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent  — 

her  dark  orb 
Touch'd    with    earth's     light  —  thou 

comest,  darling  boy  ; 
Our  own;  a  babe  in  lineament  and 

limb 
Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect 

man; 
Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and 

mine  in  one, 
Indissolubly  married  like  our  love ; 
liive,  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and 

serve 
This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that 

men 
May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  0 

young  life 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark; 

and  may 
The  fated  channel  wljere  thy  motion 

lives 
Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 

course 
Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 

youth 
Unshatter'd ;   then  full-current  thro' 

full  man ; 
And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gen- 
tlest fall. 
By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly-dying  power, 


To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou 
are  still. 

II. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  thei 

deep. 
From  that  great    deep,   before    oui 

world  begins. 
Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as 

he  will  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep. 
From  that  true  world  within  the  world 

we  see, 
Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bound- 

ing  shore  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep. 
With  this  ninth  moon,  that  sends  the 

hidden  sun 
Down  yon   dark  sea,    thou   comest, 

darling  boy. 

II. 
For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours. 

They  said 
"Let  us  make  man  "  and  that  which 

should  be  man. 
From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look 

upon. 
Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 

moons 
And  all  the  shadows.    O  dear  Spirit 

half-lost 
In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly 

sign 
That  thou    art   thou  —  who   wailest 

being  born 
And  banish'd  into  mystery,  and  the 

pain 
Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 
Among  the  numerable-innumerable 
Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro'  finite-infinite 

space 
In  finite-infinite  Time  —  our   mortal 

veil 
And  shatter'd  phantom  of  that  infinite 

One, 
Who  made  thee  unconceivahly  Thy- 
self 
Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all 

in  all  — 


588 


PREFATORY  SONNET,  ETC.— MONTENEGRO. 


Live  thou  \  and  of  the  grain  and  husk, 

the  grape 
And  ivyberry,  choose ;  and  still  depart 
i'rom  death  to  death  thro'  life  and 

life,  and  find 
^^ea^e^  and  ever   nearer   Him,  who 

wrought 
Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite. 
But  this  main-miracle,  that  thou  art 

thou, 
With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on 

the  world. 

THE    HUMAN    CRT. 


Ballowed  be    Thy   name  —  Halle- 
luiah !  — 

Infinite  Ideality ! 

Immeasurable  Reality ! 

Infinite  Personality ! 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah  ! 


We  feel  we  are  nothing  —  for  all  is 

Thou  and  in  Thee ; 
We  feel  we  are  something  —  that  also 

has  come  from  Thee ; 
We  know  we  are  nothing  —  but  Thou 

wilt  help  us  to  be. 
Hallowed  b«  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah ! 


PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO    THE    "  NINETEENTH    CENTURY.'' 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 

fast 
To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to 

the  skill 
Of  others  theiroldcraft  seaworthy  still, 
Have  charter'd  this;  where,  mindful 

of  the  past, 
Our  true  co-mates  regather  round  the 

mast; 
Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a  com- 
mon will 
Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 
And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave 

the  blast ; 
T'or  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 

peak 


Of  hoar    high-templed  Faith,    have 

leagued  again 
Their  lot  with  ours  to  rove  the  world 

about ; 
And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn 

to  seek 
If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 
In  seas  of  Death  and  sunless  gulfs  of 

Doubt. 


TO    THE   REV.    W.    H.    BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Bkooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that 

knew  you  best, 
Old   Brooks,  who   loved   so   well   to 

mouth  my  rhymes, 
How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary's 

chimes ! 
How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and 

guest. 
Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your 

jest! 
How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk 

of  lines. 
Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn- 
golden  times, 
AVho  loved  you  well !     Now  both  are 

gone  to  rest. 
You   man    of    humorous-melancholy 

mark. 
Dead  of  some  inward  agony  —  is  it  so  1 
Our  kindlier,    trustier   Jaques,   past 

away ! 
I  cannot  laud  this  life,  it  looks  so  dark  r 
'S.Kia.s  ovap  —  dream  of  a  shadow,  go  — 
God  bless  you.  I  shall  join  you  in  aday. 


MONTENEGRO. 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 
sails. 

They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom, 
on  the  height. 

Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day 
and  night 

Against  the  Turk ;  whose  inroad  no- 
where scales 

Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  foot 
step  fails, 


BATTLE    OF  BRUNANBURB. 


S89 


And  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels 

from  fight 
Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in 

prone  flight 
By  thousands   down   the   crags   and 

thro'  the  vales. 
O    smallest   among   peoples !    rough 

rock-throne 
Of  Freedom !  warriors  beating  back 

the  swarm 
Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred 

years, 
Great  Tseruogora !  never  since  thine 

own 
Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 

the  storm 
Has   breathed    a    race    of    mightier 

mountaineers. 


TO  VICTOS  HUGO. 
Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
Cloud-weaver  of    phantasmal  hopes 

and  fears, 


French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of 

human  tears ; 
Child-lover;    Bard    whose    fame-lit 

laurels  glance 
Darkening  the   wreaths   of  all  that 

would  advance, 
Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be 

thy  peers ; 
Weird  Titan  by  thy  winter  weight  of 

years 
As  yet  unbroken.   Stormy  voice  of 

France ! 
Who  dost  not  love  our  England  —  so 

they  say ; 
I  know  not  —  England,  France,  all 

man  to  be 
Will  make  one  people  ere  man's  race 

be  run : 
And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day. 
Yield  thee  full  thanks   for  thy  full 

courtesy 
To  younger  England  iu  the  boy  my 


TRANSLATIONS,    ETC. 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBUHH. 

Constantinua,  King  of  the  Scots,  after 
having  sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan,  allied 
himself  with  the  Danes  of  Ireland  under 
Anlaf,  and  Invading  England,  was  defeated 
by  Athelstan  and  his  brother  Edmund  with 
great  slaughter  at  Brunanburh  in  the  year 
93T. 


^Athelstan  King, 

Lord  among  Earls, 

Bracelet-bestower  and 

Baron  of  Barons, 

He  with  his  brother, 

Edmund  Atheling, 

Gaining  a  lifelong 

Glory  in  battle, 
-  I  have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  cay 
eon's  prose  tranBiation  of  this  poem  in  the 
Contemporary  liKvhiw  (November  1876). 


Slew  with  the  sword-edge 
There  by  Brunanburh, 
Brake  the  shield-wall, 
Hew'd  the  linden-wood,* 
Hack'd  the  battleshield, 
Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer'd  brands. 


Theirs  was  a  greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires  — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for    their    hoards  and  theil 
hearths  and  their  homes. 

III. 
Bow'd  the  spoiler, 
Bent  the  Scotsman, 

1  Shields  of  lindenwood. 


590 


BATTLE   CTF  EJiUNANBURH. 


Fell  the  shipcrews 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 
All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd,  from  whenfirst  the  great 

Sun-star  of  morningtide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 

Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth    till    the  glorious 
creature 

Sank  to  his  setting. 


There  lay  many  a  man 
Marr'd  by  the  javelin, 
Men  of  the  Nortliland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 

V. 

We  the  West-Saxons, 
Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated. 
Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp 

from  the  grindstone. 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before 
us. 

VI. 

Mighty  the  Mercian, 
Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark's-bosom. 
Drew  to  this  island  ; 
Doom'd  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the 

sword-stroke. 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of 

Anlaf 
Fell    on    the    war-field,    numberless 

numbers, 
Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then  the  Norse  leader. 
Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 
Few  were  his  following. 


Fled  to  his  warship : 
Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king 

in  it, 
Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 


Also  the  crafty  one, 

Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again. 

Hoar-headed  hero  I 

X. 

Slender  warrant  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives  — 

He  that  was  reft  of  his 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 

Fallen  in  conflict. 

Leaving  his  son  too 

Lost  in  the  carnage, 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war ! 


Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive  — 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties  — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  bragging 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle 

On  places  of  slaughter  — 

The  struggle  of  standards. 

The  rush  of  the  javelins. 

The  crash  of  the  charges,' 

The  wielding  of  weapons  — 

The  play  that  they  play'd  with 

The  children  of  Edward. 


Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 

Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 

Blood-redden'd  relic  of 

Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep- 
sea  billow, 

Shaping  their  way  toward  Dy- 
flen  2  again. 

Shamed  in  their  souls. 
^  Lit.  "  the  gathering  of  men."    2  Dublin. 


ACHILLES   OVER    THE    TRENCH. 


591 


Also  the  brethren. 
King  and  Atheling, 
Each  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West- 
Saxonland, 

Glad  of  the  war. 


Many  a  carcase  they  left  to  be  carrion, 

Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow- 
skin — 

Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to  tear 
it,  and 

Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to 
rend  it,  and 

Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to 
gorge  it,  and 

That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 


Never  had  huger 
Slaughter  of  heroes 
Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 
Such  as  old  writers 
Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 
Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 
TJp  from  the  East  hither 
Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 
Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 
Harried  the  Welshman,  when 
Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 
Hunger  of  glory  gat 
Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES  OVER  THE 

TRENCH. 

ILIAD,  xviii.  202, 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away. 
Then  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus  ;  and 

round 
The  warrior's  puissant  shouldersPallas 

flung 
Her  fringed   asgis,   and    around    his 

head 
The    glorious    goddess     wreath'd    a, 

golden  cloudj 


And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining 

flame. 
As  when  a  smoke  from  a  city  goes  to 

heaven 
Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by 

foes, 
All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous 

war 
From  their  own  city,  but  with  set  of 

sun 
Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the 

glare 
Flies     streaming,   if    perchance    the 

neighbors  round 
May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the 

war; 
So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went 

to  heaven. 
From  wall  to  dyke  he  stept,  he  stood, 

nor  join'd 
The    Achaeans  —  honoring    his    wise 

mother's  word  — 
There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas 

far  away 
Call'd  ;  and  a  boundless  panic  shook 

the  foe. 
For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trum- 
pet shrills, 
Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a 

town, 
S«  rang  the  clear  voice  of  ^akides ; 
And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  ^akid^s 
Was  heard  among  the   Trojans,  all 

their  hearts 
Were  troubled,   and  the  fuU-maned 

,  horses  whirl'd 
The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs 

at  hand ; 
And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chari- 
oteers 
To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 
That  always  o'er  the  great  Peleion's 

head 
Burn'd,  for  the  bright-eyed  goddess 

made  it  burn. 
Thrice  from  the  dyke   he  sent   his 

mighty  shout. 
Thrice  backward  reel'd   the  Trojans 

and  allies ; 
And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their 

noblest  died 
Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


592 


TO    THE  PRINCESS  FREDERIC  A  —  TO  DANTE. 


TO  PRINCESS  FREDERICA 
ON  HER   MARRIAGE. 

0  Tou  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 
King  till  he  past  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life  — 
He  saw  not  his  daughter  —  he  blest 
her:  the  blind  King  sees  you 
to-day, 
He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

ON   THE    CENOTAPH    IN  WESTMINSTER 
AEEEY. 

Not  here !  the  white  North  has  thy 
bones ;  and  thou. 
Heroic  sailor-soul. 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage 
now 
Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(written   at   request    of    the    FLORENTINES.) 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and  grown 

In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine  own 

Fair  Florence  honoring  thy  nativity, 

Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 

Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  verse  from  me, 

I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day. 

Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades  away. 


TIEESIAS  AI^D  OTHEE  POEMS. 

TO    MY    GOOD   FKIEND 

ROBERT    BROWNING, 

WHOSE    GENIUS    AND    GENIALITY 

WILL   BEST   APPKEOIATE    WHAT   MAY   BE    BEST, 

AND   MAKE    MOST   ALLOWANCE    FOR    WHAT    MAY   BE    WORST, 

THIS  VOLUME 

IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED. 


TO  E.   FITZGERALD. 

Old  Fitz,   who  from    your   suburb 
grange, 
Where  once  I  tarried  for  a  while, 
Glance  at  the  wheeling  Orb  of  change, 

And  greet  it  with  a  kindly  smile ; 
Whom  yet  I  see  as  there  you  sit 
Beneath  your   sheltering    garden- 
tree, 
And  watch  your  doves  about  you  flit, 
And  plant  on  shoulder,  hand  and 
knee, 
Or  on  your  head  their  rosy  feet. 

As  if  they  knew  your  diet  spares 
Whatever  moved  in  that  full  sheet 
Let  down  to  Peter  at  his  prayers; 
Who   live   on   milk    and    meal    and 
grass ; 
And  once  for  ten  long  weeks  I  tried 
Your  table  of  Pythagoras, 
And  seein'd  at  first  '  a  thing  en- 
skied  ' 
(As  Shakespeare  has  it)  airy-light 
To  float  above  the  ways  of  men, 
Then   fell   from    that    half-spiritual 
height 
Chill'd,  till  I  tasted  flesh  again 


One  night  when  earth   was  winter- 
black. 
And  all  the  heavens  flash'd  in  frost ; 
And  on  me,  half -asleep,  came  back 
That  wholesome  heat  the  blood  had 
lost. 
And  set  me  climbing  icy  capes 

And    glaciers,    over    which   there 
roll'd 
To  meet  me  long-arm'd   vines  with 
grapes 
Of  Eshcol  hugeness ;  for  the  cold 
Without,    and    warmth    within    me, 
wrought 
To  mould  the  dream  ;  but  none  can 
say 
That    Lenten    fare    makes    Lenten 
thought. 
Who   reads  your   golden   Eastern 
lay. 
Than  which  I  know  no  version  done 

In  English  more  divinely  well; 
A  planet  equal  to  the  sun 

Which  cast  it,  that  large  infidel 
Your  Omar ;  and  your  Omar  drew        ' 

Full-handed  plaudits  from  our  best 
In  modern  letters,  and  from  two, 
Old  friends  outvaluing  all  the. rest. 


594 


TIRESIAS. 


Two  voices  heard  on  earth  no  more ; 

But  we  old  friends  are  still  alive. 
And  I  am  neariiig  seventy-four, 

While  you  have  touch'd  at  seventy- 
five, 
And  so  I  send  a  birthday  line 

Of  greeting ;   and  my  son,  who  dipt 
In  some  forgotten  book  of  mine 

With  sallow  scraps  of  manuscript, 
And  dating  many  a  year  ago. 

Has  hit  on  this,  which  you  will  take. 
My  Fitz,  and  welcome,  as  I  know 

Less  for  its  own  than  for  the  sake 
Of  one  recalling  gracious  times, 

When,  in  our  younger  London  days. 
You  found  some  merit  in  my  rhymes. 

And  I  more  pleasure  in  your  praise. 


TIRESIAS. 

I  TTiSH  1  were  as  in  the  years  of  old, 
While  yet  the  blessed  daylight  made 

itself 
Buddy  thro'  both  the  roofs  of  sight, 

and  woke 
These  eyes,  now  dull,  but  then  so 

keen  to  seek 
The  meanings  ambush'd  under    all 

they  saw. 
The  flight  of  birds,  the  flame  of  sac- 
rifice, 
What  omens  may  foreshadow  fate  to 

man 
And  woman,  and  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
My  son,  the  Gods,  despite  of  human 

prayer. 
Are  slower  to  forgive  than  human 

kings. 
The  great  God,  Args,  burns  in  anger 

still 
Against  the   guiltless   heirs   of  him 

from  Tyre, 
Our  Cadmus,  out  of  whom  thou  art, 

who  found 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dirc§,  smote, 

and  still'd 
Thro'  all  its  folds  the  multitudinous 

beast, 
The    dragon,    which   our   trembling 

fathers  call'd 
The  God's  own  son. 


A  tale,  that  told  to  me, 

When  but  thine  age,  by  age  as  win- 
ter-white 

As  mine  is  now,  amazed,  but  made 
me  yearn 

For  larger  glimpses  of    that    more 
than  man 

Which  rolls  the  heavens,  and  lifts, 
and  lays  the  deep, 

Yet  loves  and  hates  with  mortal  hates 
and  loves. 

And  moves  unseen  among  the  ways 
of  men. 
Then,  in   my  wanderings  all   the 
lands  that  lie 

Subjected  to  the  Heliconian  ridge 

Have  heard  this  footstep  fall,  altho' 
my  wont 

Was  more  to  scale  the  highest  of  the 
heights 

With  some  strange  hope  to  see  the 
nearer  God. 
One  naked  peak  —  the  sister  of  the 
sun 

Would  climb  from  out  the  dark,  and 
linger  there 

To  silver  all  the   valleys   with  her 
shafts  — 

There  once,  but  long  ago,  five-fold 
thy  term 

Of  years,  I  lay ;  the  winds  were  dead 
for  heat ; 

The  noonday  crag  made   the  hand 
burn;  and  sick 

For  shadow  —  not  one  bush  was  near 
—  I  rose 

Following  a  torrent  till  its  myriad  falls 

Found  silence  in  the  hollows  under- 
neath. 
There  in  a  secret  olive-glade  I  saw 

Pallas    Athene    climbing    from    the 
bath  I 

In  anger ;  yet  one  glittering  foot  dis- 
turb'd 

The  lucid  well ;  one  snowy  knee  was 
prest 

Against  the  margin  flowers  ;  a  dread- 
ful light 

Came  from  her  golden  hair,  her  gold- 
en helm 

And  all  her  golden  armor  on    the 
grass. 


TIRESIAS. 


595 


And  from  her  virgin  breast,  and  vir- 
gin eyes 
Remaining   fixt   on   mine,   till    mine 

grew  darlc 
For  ever,  and  I  heard  a  voice  that 

said 
'  Henceforth  be  blind,  for  thou  hast 

ceen  too  much, 
And  speak  the  truth  that  no  man  may 

believe.' 
Son,  in  the  hidden  world  of  sight, 

that  lives 
Behind   this  darkness,  I  behold  her 

still. 
Beyond  all  work  of  those  who  carve 

the  stone. 
Beyond  all  dreams  of  Godlike  woman- 
hood. 
Ineffable  beauty,  out  of  whom,  at  a 

glance. 
And  as  it  were,  perforce,  upon  me 

flash'd 
The    power  of   prophesying  —  but  to 

me 
No  power  —  so    chain'd  and  coupled 

with  the  curse 
Of  blindness  and  their  unbelief,  who 

heard 
And  heard  not,  when  I  spake  of  fam- 
ine, plague, 
Shrine-shattering    earthquake,    fire, 

flood,  thunderbolt, 
And  angers   of    the    Gods    for    evil 

done 
And  expiation  lack'd  —  no  power  on 

Fate, 
Theirs,  or  mine  own!   for  when  the 

crowd  would  roar 
For  blood,  for  war,  whose  issue  was 

their  doom, 
To  cast  wise  words  among  the  multi- 
tude 
Was  flinging  fruit  to  lions;   nor,  in 

hours 
Of  civil  outbreak,  when  I  knew  the 

twain 
Would  each  waste  each,  and  bring  on 

both  the  yoke 
Of  stronger  states,  was  mine  the  voice 

to  curb 
I'he  madness  of  our  cities  and  their 

kings. 


Who  ever  turn'd  upon  his  heel  to 

hear 
My  warning  that  the  tyranny  of  one 
Was  prelude  to  the  tyranny  of  all  "i 
My  counsel  that  the  tyranny  of  all 
Led  backward  to  the  tyranny  of  one  ? 
This  power  hath  work'd  no  good  to 

aught  that  lives. 
And  these  blind  hands  were  useless  in 

their  wars. 
0  therefore  that  the  unfulfiU'd  desire. 
The  grief  for  ever  born  from  griefs 

to  be. 
The  boundless  yearning  of  the  Proph- 
et's heart  — 
Could  that   stand   forth,  and  like  a 

statue,  rear'd 
To  some  great  citizen,  win  all  praise 

from  all 
Who  past  it,  saying,  '  That  was  he  ! ' 
In  vain ! 
Virtue  must  shape  itself  in  deed,  and 

those 
Whom  weakness   or  necessity  have 

cramp'd 
Within  themselves,  immerglng,  each, 

his  urn 
In  his  own  well,  draw  solace  as  he 

may. 
Menaceus,  thou  hast  eyes,  and  I 

can  hear 
Too  plainly  what  full  tides  of  onset 

sap 
Our  seven   high   gates,  and  what  a 

weight  of  war 
Rides  on  those  ringing  axles !  jingle 

of  bits. 
Shouts,  arrows,   tramp  of  the  horn- 
footed  horse 
That   grind   the    glebe    to    powder! 

Stony  showers 
Of    that  ear-stunning  hail  of   Ares 

crash 
Along  the   sounding  walls.     Above, 

below. 
Shock    after    shock,    the    song^built 

towers  and  gates 
Reel,  bruised   and  butted  with  the 

shuddering 
War-thunder  of  iron  rams ;  and  from 

within 
The  city  comes  a  murmur  void  of  joy. 


595 


TIRESIAS. 


Lest  she  be  taken  captire  —  maidens, 

wives, 
And  motliers  with  their  babblers  of 

the  dawn, 
And  oldest  age  in  shadow  from  the 

night. 
Falling    about    their    shrines    before 

their  Gods, 
And  wailing  '  Save  us.' 

And  tliey  wail  to  thee ! 
These  eyeless  eyes,  that  cannot  see 

thine  own, 
See  this,  that  only  in  thy  virtue  lies 
The  saving  of  our  Thebes;  for,  yes- 
ternight, 
To  rae,  the  great   God  Ares,  whose 

one  bliss 
Is  war,  and  human  sacrifice — himself 
Blood-red    from    battle,    spear    and 

helmet  tipt 
With  stormy  light  as  on  a.  mast  at 

sea, 
Stood  out  before  a  darkness,  crying 

'  Thebes, 
Thy  Thebes  shall  fall  and  perish,  for 

I  loathe 
The  seed  of  Cadmus  —  yet  if  one  of 

these 

Byhisownliand  —  if  one  of  these ' 

My  son. 
No   sound   is  breathed   so   potent  to 

coerce, 
And  to  conciliate,  as  their  names  who 

dare 
For  that  sweet  motherland  which  gave 

them  birth 
Nobly  to   do,   nobly  to   die.      Their 

names. 
Graven  on  memorial  columns,  are  a 

song 
Heard  in  the  future ;  few,  but  more 

than  wall 
And  rampart,  their  examples  reach  a 

hand 
Far  thro'  all  years,  and  everywhere 

they  meet 
And  kindle  generous  purpose,  and  the 

strength 
To  mould  it  into  action  pure  as  theirs. 
Fairer  thy  fate  than  mine,  if  life's 

best  end 
Be  to  end  well !  and  thou  refusing  this. 


Unvenerable  will  thy  memory  be 
While  men  shall  move  the  lips :  but 

if  thou  dare  — 
Thou,  one  of  these,  the  race  of  Cad- 
mus—  then 
No  stone  is  fitted  in  yon  marble  girth 
Whose    echo   shall  not   tongue    thy 

glorious  doom, 
Nor  in  this  pavement  but  shall  ring 

thy  name 
To  every  hoof  that  clangs  it,  and  the 

springs 
Of  Dircg  laving  yonder  battle-plaip, 
Heard  from  the  roofs  by  night,  will 

murmur  thee 
To  thine  own  Thebes,  while  Thebes 

thro'  thee  shall  stand 
Firm-based  with  all  her  Gods. 

The  Dragon's  cave 
Half  hid,  they  tell  me,  now  in  flowing 

vines  — 
Where  once  he  dwelt  and  whence  he 

roU'd  himself 
At  dead  of  night  —  thou  knowest,  and 

.that  smooth  rock 
Before  it,  altar-fashion'd,  where  of  late 
The    woman-breasted  •  Sphinx,    witli 

wings  drawn  back, 
Folded  her  lion  paws,  and  look'd  to 

Thebes. 
There  blanch   the  bones  of  him  she 

slew,  and  these 
Mixt  with  her  own,  because  the  fierce 

beast  found 
A  wiser  than  herself,  and  dash'd  her- 

self 
Dead  in  her  rage :  but  thou  art  wise 

enough, 
Tho'  young,  to  love  thy  wiser,  blunt 

the  curse 
Of  Pallas,  hear,  and  tho'  I  speak  the 

truth 
Believe  I  speak  it,  let  thine  own  hand 

strike 
Thy   youthful   pulses   into    rest   and 

quench 
The  red  God's  anger,  fearing  not  to 

plunge 
Thy  torch  of  life  in  darkness,  rather 

—  thou 
Rejoicing  that  the  sun,  the  moon,  the 

stars 


THE    WRECK. 


597 


Send  no  such  light  upon  the  ways  of 
men 

As  one  great  deed. 

Thither,  my  son,  and  there 

Thou,  that  hast  never  known  the  em- 
brace of  lore. 

Offer  thy  maiden  life. 
'  This  useless  hand ! 

I  felt  oj\e   warm  tear  fall  upon  it. 
Gone ! 

He  will  achieve  his  greatness. 

But  for  me, 

I  would  that  I  were  gather'd  to  my  rest. 

And  mingled  with  the  famous  kings 
of  old, 

On  whom   about  their  ocean-islands 
flash 

The  faces   of    the   Gods  —  the    wise 
man's  word. 

Here  trampled  by  the  populace  under- 
foot. 

There   crown'd    with    worship. —  and 
these  eyes  will  find 

The  men    I    knew,    and   watch    the 
chariot  whirl 

About  the  goal  again,  and  hunters  race 

The  shadowy  lion,  and  the  warrior- 
kings. 

In  height  and  prowess  more  than  hu- 
man, strive 

Again  for  glory,  while  the  golden  lyre 

Is  ever  sounding  in  heroic  ears 

Heroic  hymns,  and  every  way  the  vales 

Wind,     clouded    with    the     grateful 
incense-fume 

Of  those  who  mix  all  odor  to  the  Gods 

On  one  far  height  in  one  far-shining 
fire. 


' One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire' 

And  while  I  fancied,that  my  friend 
For  this  brief  idyll  would  require 

A  less  diffuse  and  opulent  end, 
And  would  defend  his  judgment  well. 

If  I  should  deem  it  over  nice  — 
The  tolling  of  his  funeral  bell 

Broke  on  my  Pagan  Paradise, 
And  mixt  the  dream  of  classic  times, 

And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  dream. 
With  present  grief,   and  made   the 
rhymes, 

That  miss'd  his    living    welcome, 
seem 
Like   would-be   guests   an  hour   too 
late. 

Who  down  the  highway  moving  on 
With  easy  laughter  find  the  gate 

Is  bolted,  and  the  master  gone. 
Gone  into  darkness,  that  full  light 

Of  friendship  !  past,  in  sleep,  away 
By  night,  into  the  deeper  night ! 

The  deeper  night  ?  A  clearer  day 
Than    our    poor    twilight  dawn    on 
earth  — 

If  night,  what  barren  toil  to  be ! 
What  life,  so  maim'd  by  night,  were 
worth 

Our  living  out  ?     Not  mine  to  me 
Remembering  all  the  golden  hours 

Now  silent,  and  so  many  dead. 
And  him  the  last ;  and  laying  flowers, 

This    wreath,    above    his    honor'd 
head, 
And  praying  that,  when  I  from  hence 

Shall  fade  with  him  into  the  un- 
known. 
My  close  of  earth's  experience 

May  prove  as  peaceful  as  his  own. 


THE   WEECK. 


Hide  me.  Mother!  my  Fathers  belong'd  to  the  church  of  old, 
1  cm  driven  by  storm  and  sin  and  death  to  the  ancient  fold, 
T  cling  to  the  Catholic  Cross  once  more,  to  the  Faith  that  saves, 
My  brain  is  full  of  the  crash  of  wrecks,  and  the  roar  of  waves, 
My  life  itself  is  a  wreck,  I  have  sullied  a  noble  name, 
I  am  flung  from  the  rushing  tide  of  the  world  as  a  waif  of  shame. 


398  THE    WRECK. 


I  am  roused  by  the  wail  of  a  child,  and  awake  to  a  livid  light, 

And  a  ghastlier  face  than  ever  has  haunted  a  grave  by  night, 

I  would  hide  from  the  storm  without,  I  would  flee  from  the  storm  witbjs?- 

I  would  make  my  life  one  prayer  for  a  soul  that  died  in  his  sin, 

I  was  the  tempter,  Mother,  and  mine  was  the  deeper  fall ; 

I  will  sit  at  your  feet,  I  will  hide  my  face,  I  will  tell  you  all. 


He  that  they  gave  me  to,  Mother,  a  heedless  and  innocent  bride  — 
I  never  have  wrong'd  his  heart,  I  have  only  wounded  his  pride  — • 

Spain  in  his  blood  and  the  Jew dark-visaged,  stately  and  tall- — 

A  princelier-looking  man  never  stept  thro'  a  Prince's  hall. 

And  who,  when  his  anger  was  kindled,  would  venture  to  give  him  the  nay  . 

And  a  man  men  fear  is  a  man  to  be  loved  by  the  women  they  say. 

And  I  could  have  loved  him  too,  if  the  blossom  can  doat  on  the  blight. 

Or  the  young  green  leaf  rejoice  in  the  frost  that  sears  it  at  night ; 

He  would  open  the  books  that  I  prized,  and  toss  them  away  with  a  yawn, 

Repell'd  by  the  magnet  of  Art  to  the  which  my  nature  was  drawn, 

The  word  of  the  Poet  by  whom  the  deeps  of  the  world  are  stirr'd, 

The  music  that  robes  it  in  language  beneath  and  beyond  the  word ! 

My  Shelley  would  fall  from  my  hands  when  he  cast  a  contemptuous  glance 

From  where  he  was  poring  over  his  Tables  of  Trade  and  Finance ; 

My  hands,  when  I  heard  him  coming  would  drop  from  the  chords  or  the  keys, 

But  ever  I  fail'd  to  please  him,  however  I  strove  to  please  — 

All  day  long  far-ofi  in  the  cloud  of  the  city,  and  there 

Tjost,  head  and  heart,  in  the  chances  of  dividend,  consol,  and  share  — 

And  at  home  if  I  sought  for  a  kindly  caress,  being  woman  and  weak. 

His  formal  kiss  fell  chill  as  a  flake  of  snow  on  the  cheek  : 

And  so,  when  I  bore  him  a  girl,  when  I  held  it  aloft  in  my  joy. 

He  look'd  at  it  coldly,  and  said  to  me  "  Pity  it  isn't  a  boy." 

The  one  thing  given  mt,  to  love  and  to  live  for,  glanced  at  in  scorn ! 

The  child  that  I  felt  I  could  die  for  —  as  if  she  were  basely  born ! 

I  had  lived  a  wild-flower  life,  I  was  planted  now  in  a  tomb ; 

The  daisy  will  shut  to  the  shadow,  I  closed  my  heart  to  the  gloom  ; 

I  threw  myself  all  abroad  —  I  would  play  my  part  with  the  young 

By  the  low  foot-lights  of  the  world  — and  I  caught  the  wreath  that  was  flung. 


Mother,  I  have  not  —  however  their  tongues  may  have  babbled  of  me  - 
Slnn'd  thro'  an  animal  vileness,  for  all  but  a  dwarf  was  he. 
And  all  but  a  hunchback  too  ;  and  I  look'd  at  him,  first,  askance 
With  pity  —  not  he  the  knight  for  an  amorous  girl's  romance ! 
Tho'  wealthy  enough  to  have  bask'd  in  the  light  of  a  dowerless  smile, 
Having  lands  at  home  and  abroad  in  a  rich  West-Indian  isle ; 

But  I  came  on  him  once  at  a  ball,  the  heart  of  a  listening  crowd 

Why,  what  a  brow  was  there !  he  was  seated  —  speaking  aloud 
To  women,  the  flower  of  the  time,  and  men  at  the  helm  of  state  — 
Flowing  with  easy  greatness  and  touching  on  all  things  great. 
Science,  philosophy,  song  —  till  I  felt  myself  ready  to  weep 
For  I  knew  not  what,  when  I  heard  that  voice,  —  as  mellow  and  deep 


THE    WRECK.  599 


As  a  psalm  by  a  mighty  master  and  peal'd  from  an  organ, — roll 
Rising  and  falling — for,  Mother,  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  soul; 
And  the  sun  of  the  soul  made  day  in  the  dark  of  his  wonderful  eyes. 
Here  was  the  hand  that  would  help  me,  would  heal  me  —  the  heart  that  was 

wise ! 
And  he,  poor  man,  when  he  learnt  that  I  hated  the  ring  I  wore, 
He  helpt  me  with  death,  and  he  heal'd  me  with  sorrow  forevermore. 


For  I  broke  the  bond.     That  day  my  nurse  had  brought  me  the  child. 
The  small  sweet  face  was  flush'd,  but  it  coo'd  to  the  Mother  and  smiled. 
"  Anything  ailing,"  I  ask'd  her,  "  with  baby  ?  "     She  shook  her  head. 
And  the  Motherless  Mother  kiss'd  it,  and  turn'd  in  her  haste  and  fled. 


Low  warm  winds  had  gently  breathed  us  away  from  the  land  — 
Ten  long  sweet  summer  days  upon  deck,  sitting  hand  in  hand  — 
When  he  clothed  a  naked  mind  with  the  wisdom  and  wealth  of  his  own, 
And  I  bow'd  myself  down  as  a  slave  to  his  intellectual  throne. 
When  he  roin'd  into  English  gold  some  treasure  of  classical  song. 
When  he  Louted  a  statesman's  error,  or  flamed  at  a  public  wrong. 
When  he  rose  as  it  were  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle  beyond  me,  and  past 
Over  the  range  and  the  change  of  the  world  from  the  first  to  the  last, 
When  he  spoke  of  his  tropical  home  in  the  canes  by  the  purple  tide. 
And  the  high  star-crowns  of  his  palms  on  the  aeep-wooded  mountain-side. 
And  cliffs  all  robed  in  lianas  that  dropt  to  the  brink  of  his  bay. 
And  trees  like  the  towers  of  a  minster,  the  sons  of  a  winterless  day. 
"  Paradise  there !  "  so  he  said,  but  I  seem'd  in  Paradise  then 
With  the  first  great  love  I  had  felt  for  the  first  and  greatest  of  men, 
Ten  long  days  of  summer  and  sin  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
But  days  of  a  larger  light  than  I  ever  again  sliall  know  — 
Days  that  will  glimmer,  I  fear,  thro'  life  to  my  latest  breath; 
"  No  frost  there,"  so  he  said,  "  as  in  truest  Love  no  Death." 


Mother,  one  morning  a  bird  with  a  warble  plaintively  sweet 

Perch'd  on  the  shrouds,  and  then  fell  fluttering  down  at  my  feet; 

I  took  it,  he  made  it  a  cage,  we  fondled  it,  Stephen  and  I, 

But  it  died,  and  I  thought  of  the  child  for  a  moment,  I  scarce  know  why. 


But  if  sin  be  sin,  not  inherited  fate,  as  many  will  say, 

My  sin  to  my  desolate  little  one  found  me  at  sea  on  a  day, 

When  her  orphan  wail  came  borne  in  the  shriek  of  a  growing  wind. 

And  a  voice  rang  out  in  the  thunders  of  Ocean  and  Heaven  "  Thou  hastsinn'd." 

And  down  in  the  cabin  were  we,  for  the  towering  crest  of  the  tides 

Plunged  on  the  vessel  and  swept  in  a  cataract  off  from  her  sides. 

And  ever  the  great  storm  grew  with  a  howl  and  a  hoot  of  the  blast 

In  the  rigging,  voices  of  hell  —  then  came  the  crash  of  the  mast. 


600  THE    WRECK. 


"  The  wages  of  sin  is  death,"  and  then  I  began  to  weep, 

"  I  am  the  Jonah,  the  crew  should  cast  me  into  the  deep, 

For  ah  God,  what  a  heart  was  mine  to  forsake  her  even  for  you." 

"  Never  the  heart  among  women,"  lie  said,  "  more  tender  and  true." 

"The  heart!  not  a  mother's  heart,  when  I  left  my  darling  alone." 

"  Comfort  yourself,  for  the  heart  of  the  father  will  care  for  his  own.'' 

"  The  heart  of  the  father  will  spurn  her,"  I  cried,  "  for  the  sin  of  the  wife. 

The  cloud  of  the  mother's  shame  \i411  enfold  her  and  darken  her  life." 

Then  his  pale  face  twitch'd ;  "  0  Stephen,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  yet"  — 

As  I  lean'd  away  from  his  arms  —  "  would  God,  we  had  never  met !  "  ' 

And  he  spoke  not  —  only  the  storm;  till  after  a  little,  I  yearn'd 

For  his  voice  again,  and  he  call'd  to  me  "  Kiss  me ! "  and  there  —  as  I  turn'd— 

"  The  heart,  the  heart ! "  I  kiss'd  him,  I  clung  to  the  sinking  form. 

And  the  storm  went  roaring  above  us,  and  he  —  was  out  of  the  storm. 


And  then,  then.  Mother,  the  ship  stagger'd  under. a  thunderous  shock. 

That  shook  us  asunder,  as  if  she  had  struck  and  crash'd  on  a  rock ; 

For  a  huge  sea  smote  every  soul  from  the  decks  of  The  Falcon  but  one; 

All  of  them,  all  but  the  man  that  was  lash'd  to  the  helm  had  gone ; 

And  I  fell  — and  the  storm  and  the  days  went  by,  but  I  knew  no  more  — 

Lost  myself  —  lay  like  the  dead  by  the  dead  on  the  cabin  floor. 

Dead  to  the  death  beside  me,  and  lost  to  the  loss  that  was  mine. 

With  a  dim  dream,  now  and  then,  of  a  hand  giving  bread  and  wine. 

Till  I  woke  from  the  trance,  and  the  ship  stood  still,  and  the  skies  were  blue. 

But  the  face  I  had  known,  0  Mother,  was  not  the  face  that  I  knew. 


The  strange  misfeaturing  mask  that  I  saw  so  amazed  me,  that  I 

Stumbled  on  deck,  half  mad.     I  would  fling  myself  over  and  die ! 

But  one — he  was  waving  a  flag  —  the  one  man  left  on  the  wreck  — 

"  Woman  "  —  he  graspt  at  my  arm  —  "  stay  there  "  —  I  crouch'd  on  the  deck  - 

"  We  are  sinking,  and  yet  there's  hope  :  look  yonder,"  he  cried,  "  a  sail" 

In  a  tone  so  rough  that  I  broke  into  passionate  tears,  and  the  wail 

Of  a  beaten  babe,  till  I  saw  that  a  boat  was  nearing  us  —  then 

All  on  a  sudden  I  thought,  I  shall  look  on  the  child  again. 


They  lower'd  me  down  the  side,  and  there  in  the  boat  I  lay 

With  sad  eyes  flxt  on  the  lost  sea-home,  as  w«  glided  away, 

And  I  sigh'd,  as  the  low  dark  hull  dipt  under  the  smiling  main, 

"  Had  I  stayed  with  liim,  I  had  now  —  with  him  — been  out  of  my  paiij*^ 


They  took  us  aboard :  the  crew  were  gentle,  the  captain  kind  ; 

But  /  was  the  lonely  slave  of  an  often -wandering  mind ; 

For  whenever  a  rougher  gust  might  tumble  a  stormier  wave, 

"  0  Stephen,"  I  moan'd,  " I  am  cominp  to  thee  in  thine  Ocean-gr^ve* 

And  again,  when  a  balmier  breeze  curl'd  over  a  peacefuUer  sea, 

I  found  mvself  moaning  again  "  0  child,  I  am  coming  to  thee. ' 


DESPAIR.  601 


The  broad  white  brow  of  the  Isle  —  that  bay  with  the  color'd  sand  — 

Rich  was  the  rose  of  sunset  there,  as  we  drew  to  the  land ; 

All  so  quiet  the  ripple  would  hardly  blanch  into  spray 

At  the  feet  of  the  cliff;  and  I  pray'd  — "  my  child"  — for  I  still!  could  pray  — 

"  May  her  life  be  as  blissfully  calm,  be  never  gloom'd  by  the  curse 

Of  a  sin,  not  hers ! " 

Was  it  well  with  the  child  ? 

I  wrote  to  the  nurse 
Who  had  borne  my  flower  on  her  hireling  heart ;  and  an  answer  came 
Not  from  the  nurse  —  nor  yet  to  the  wife  —  to  her  maiden  name! 
I  shook  as  I  open'd  the  letter —  I  knew  that  hand  too  well,  — 
And  from  it  a  scrap,  dipt  out  of  the  "  deaths  "  in  a  paper,  fell. 
"  Ten  long  sweet  summer  days  "  of  fever,  and  want  of  care ! 
And  gone — that  day  of  the  storm  —  O  Mother,  she  came  to  me  there. 


DESPAIR. 


A  mab  and  bis  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a  God,  and  hope  of  a  life  to  come,  and  being 
utterly  miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned, 
but  tbe  man  rescued  by  a  minister  of  the  sect  he  had  abandoned. 


Is  it  you,  that  preach'd  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over  the  sand  ? 
!Follow'd  us  too  that  night,  and  dogg'd  us,  and  drew  me  to  land  ? 


What  did  I  feel  that  night  1     You  are  curious.     How  should  I  tell  ? 

Does  it  matter  so  much  what  I  felt  ?     You  rescued  me  —  yet  —  was  it  well 

That  you  came  unwish'd  for,  uncall'd,  between  me  and  the  deep  and  my  doom, 

Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days  of  the  Godless  gloom 

Of  a  life  without  sun,  without  health,  without  hope,  without  any  delight 

In  anything  here  upon  earth  1   but  ah  God,  that  night,  that  night 

When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-house  there  on  the  fatal  neck 

Of  land  running  out  into  rock  —  they  had  saved  many  hundreds  from  wreck  — 

Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I  remember  I  thought,  as  we  past. 

Does  it  matter  liow  many  they  saved  ?  we  are  all  of  us  wreck'd  at  last  — 

"  Do  you  fear,"  and  there  came  thro'  the  roar  of  the  breaker  a  whisper,  a  breath, 

"Eear  ?  am  I  not  with  you  ?     I  am  frighted  at  life  not  death." 


And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe  sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky. 
Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we  knew  that  their  light  was  a  lie  — 
Bright  as  with  deathless  hope— but,  however  they  sparkled  and  shone. 
The  dark  little  worlds  running  round  them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our  own  — 
No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on  the  earth  below, 
A  fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamentation  and  woe. 


602  DESPAIR. 


See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  drear  night-fold  of  your  fatalist  creed, 

And  we  turn'd  to  the  growing  dawn,  we  had  hoped  for  a  dawn  indeed, 

When  the  light  of  a  Sun  that  was  coming  would  scatter  the  ghosts  of  the  Past, 

And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had  madden'd  the  peoples  would  vanish  at  last. 

And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our  human  brother  and  friend, 

For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem'd  that  He  spoke,  of  a  Hell  without  help,  without  end. 


Hoped  for  a  dawn  and  it  came,  but  the  promise  had  faded  away ; 

We  had  past  from  a  cheerless  night  to  the  glare  of  a  drearier  day ; 

He  is  only  a  cloud  and  a  smoke  who  was  once  a  pillar  of  fire, 

The  guess  of  a  worm  in  the  dust  and  the  shadow  of  its  desire  — 

Of  a  worm  as  it  writhes  in  a  world  of  the  weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong, 

Of  a  dying  worm  in  a  world,  all  massacre,  murder,  and  wrong. 


O  we  poor  orphans  of  nothing — alone  on  that  lonely  shpre  — 
Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew  not  that  which  she  bore ! 
Trusting  no  longer  that  earthly  flower  would  be  heavenly  fruit  — 
Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls  — no  souls  —  and  to  die  with  the  brute - 


Nay,  but  I  am  not  claiming  your  pity :  I  know  you  of  old  — 
Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from  the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold. 
Where  you  bawl'd  the  dark  side  of  your  faith  and  a  God  of  eternal  rage. 
Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 


But  pity  —  the  Pagan  held  it  a  vice  —  was  in  her  and  in  me. 

Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying  God  that  should  be ! 

Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an  idiot  power. 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth  that  bore  not  a  flower; 

Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air  or  the  deep, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long'd  for  eternal  sleep. 


"Lightly  step  over  the  sands!  the  waters  —  you  hear  them  call! 
Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and  errors  —  away  with  it  all ! " 

And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own  —  she  was  always  loyal  and  sweet 

Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk  came  playing  about  our  feet. 

There  was  a  strong  sea-current  would  sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 

'•  Ah  God  "  tho'  I  felt  as  I  spoke  I  was  taking  the  name  in  vain  — 

"  Ah  God  "  and  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  we  kiss'd,  we  embraced  she  and  I. 

Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  believe  everlasting  would  die  : 


DESPAIR.  603 


We  had  read  their  know-nothing  books  and  we  lean'd  to  the  darker  side  — 
Ah  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps,  perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died ; 
We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this  earth  is  a  fatherless  Hell— 
"  Dear  Love,  forever  and  ever,  forever  and  ever  farewell," 
Never  cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the  world  began. 
Never  a  kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the  coming  of  man ! 


But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and  you  saved  me,  a  valueless  life. 
Not  a  grain  of  gratitude  mine  !     You  have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife. 
I  am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all  alone  in  the  sea ; 
If  a  curse  meant  ought,  I  would  curse  you  for  not  having  let  me  be. 


Visions  of  youth  —  for  my  brain  was  drunk  with  the  water,  it  seems ; 

I  had  past  into  perfect  quiet  at  length  out  of  pleasant  dreams. 

And  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning  —  what  was  it  when  match'd  with  the 

pains 
Of  the  hellish  heat  of  a  wretched  life  rushing  back  thro'  the  veins  ? 


Why  should  I  live  "^  one  son  had  forged  on  his  father  and  fled. 
And  if  I  believed  in  a  God,  I  would  thank  him,  the  other  is  dead, 
And  there  was  a  baby-girl,  that  had  never  look'd  on  the  light : 
Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from  the  night  to  the  night. 


But  the  crime,  if  a  crime,  of  her  eldest-born,  her  glory,  her  boast, 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother,  and  broke  it  almost ; 

Tho'  glory  and  shame  dying  out  forever  in  endless  time. 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown'd  for  a  virtue,  or  hang'd  for  a  crime  ? 


And  ruin'd  by  him,  by  Mm,  I  stood  there,  naked,  amazed 

In  a  world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear'd  myself  turning  crazed, 

And  I  would  not  be  mock'd  in  a  madhouse !  and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 

With  a  grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if  cured,  by  the  surgeon's  knife, — 


Why  should  we  bear  with  an  hour  of  torture,  a  moment  of  pain. 

If  every  man  die  forever,  if  all  his  griefs  are  in  vain. 

And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be  wheel'd  thro'  the  silence  of  space. 

Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing  rrce. 

When  the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its  last,  j>nd  its  last  brother-worm  will  have 

From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in  the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead  t 


604  DESPAIR. 


Have  I  crazed  myself  over  their  horrible  infidel  writings  "^     0  yes, 
Por  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see,  of  the  popular  press, 
When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and  the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 
And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill  and  crows  to  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science  are  both  of  them  turn'd  into  blood, 
.  And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart,  running  after  a  shadow  of  good ; 
For  their  knowing  and  know-nothing  books  are  scatter'd  from  hand  to  hand  — 
We  have  knelt  in  your  know-all  chapel  too  looking  over  the  sand. 


What !  I  should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love  that  has  served  us  so  well  ? 
Infinite  cruelty  rather  that  made  everlasting  Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom'd  us,  and  does  what  he  will  with  his  own ; 
Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never  has  heard  us  groan  ! 


Hell  1  if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal,  as  men  have  been  told, 

The  lecher  would  cleavp  to  his  lusts,  and  the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold, 

And  so  there  were  Hell  forever  !  but  were  there  a  God  as  you  say, 

His  Love  would  have  power  over  Hell  till  it  utterly  vauish'd  away. 


Ah  yet  —  I  have  had  some  glimmer,  at  times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe. 

Of  a  God  behind  all  —  after  all  —  the  great  God  for  aught  that  I  know; 

But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  together  —  tliey  cannot  be  thought. 

If  there  be  such  a  God,  may  the  Great  God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to  nought! 


Blasphemy !  whose  is  the  fault  ?  is  it  mine  1  for  why  would  you  save 
A  madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched  words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave  ? 
Blasphemy  !  ay,  why  not,  being  damn'd  beyond  hope  of  grace  ■? 
O  would  I  were  yonder  with  her,  and  away  from  your  faith  and  your  face! 
Blasphemy !  true !  I  have  scared  you  pale  with  my  scandalous  talk. 
But  the  blasphemy  to  my  mind  lies  all  in  the  way  that  you  walk. 


Hence  !  she  is  gone !  can  I  stay  7  can  I  breathe  divorced  from  the  Past  % 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I  do  not  escape  you  at  last. 
Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find  it  a  felode-se. 
And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool,  if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


60S 


THE   ANCIENT   SAGE. 

A  THOUSAND  summers  ere  the  time  of 

Christ 
From   out   his  ancient   city  came   a 

Seer 
"Whom  one  that  loved,  and  lionor'd 

him,  and  yet 
Was  no   disciple,  richly  garb'd,   but 

worn 
From   wasteful   living,  foUow'd  —  in 

his  hand 
A  scroll  of  verse  —  till  that  old  man 

before 
A  cavern  whence  an  affluent  fountain 

pour'd 
From  darkness  into  daylight,  turn'd 

and  spoke. 

This  wealth  of  waters  might  but  seem 

to  draw 
From  yon  dark  cave,  but,  son,   the 

source  is  liigher. 
Yon  summit   half-a-league  in   air  — 

and  higher. 
The  cloud  that  hides  it  —  higher  still, 

the  heavens 
Whereby  the  cloud  was  moulded,  and 

whereout 
The  cloud  descended.     Force  is  from 

the  heights. 
I  am  wearied  of  our  city,  son,  and  go 
To  spend  my  one  last  year  among  the 

hills. 
What  hast  thou  there  ?     Some  death- 
song  for  the  Ghouls 
To  make  their  banquet  relish  ?    let 

me  read. 

How  far  thro'  all  the  bloom  and  brake 

That  nightingale  is  heard  ! 
What  power  but  the  bird's  could  make 

This  music  in  the  bird? 
How  summer-bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue ! 
And  yet  what  sign  of  aught  that  lies 

Behind  the  green  and  blue? 
But  man  to-day  is  fancy's  fool 

As  man  hath  ever  been. 
The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 

Were  never  heard  or  seen. 

If  thou  would'st  hear  the  Nameless, 

and  wilt  dive 
Into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self, 


There,  brooding  \sy  the  central  altar, 
thou 

May'st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath 
a  voice. 

By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou  be 
wise. 

As  if  thou  knewest,  tho'  thou  canst 
not  know; 

For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on  the 
lake 

That  sees  and  stirs  the  surface-shadow 
there 

But  never  yet  hath   dipt   into    the 
abysm, 

The  Abysm  of  all  Abysms,  beneath, 
within 

The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green 
of  earth. 

And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a  grain 

Which  cleft  and  cleft  again  fore 
more, 

And  ever  vanishing,  never  vanishes, 

To   me,  my  son,   more  mystic  than 
myself. 

Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 
And  when    thou   sendest   thy  free 
soul  thro'  heaven, 

Nor  understandest  bound  nor  bound- 
lessness. 

Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hun- 
dred names. 
And  if  the  Nameless  should  with- 
draw from  all 

Thy  frailty  counts  most  real,  all  thy 
world 

Might  vanish  like  thy  shadow  in  the 
dark. 


And  since  —  from  when  this  earth  began  - 

The  Nameless  never  came 
Among  us,  never  spake  with  man. 

And  never  named  the  Name  — 


Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless, 

0  my  son, 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  the  world  thou 

movest  in, 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art 

body  alone. 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art 

spirit  alone 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art 

both  in  one ; 


606 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  art  im- 

niortal,  no 
Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal — nay 

my  son, 
Thou   canst   not   prove  that  I,   who 

speak  with  thee, 
Am  notthyself  in  conversewith  thyself, 
Tor  nothing   worthy  proving  can  be 

proven, 
Nor  yet  disproven :    wherefore   thou 

be  wise. 
Cleave  ever  to   the  sunnier   side   of 

doubt. 
And  cling  to  Faith  beyond  the  forms 

of  Faith  ! 
She  reels  not  in  the  storm  of  warring 

words. 
She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  "  Yes  " 

and  "  No," 
She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro' 

the  Worst, 
She  feels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a 

night, 
She  spies  the  summer  thro'  the  winter 

bud, 
She  tastes  the  fruit  before  the  blos- 
som falls. 
She  hears  the  lark  within  the  songless 

egg. 
She .  finds  the  fountain   where   they 
wail'd  "  Mirage  ! " 

What  Power?   aught  akin  to  Mind, 

The  mind  in  me  and  you? 
Or  po^yer  as  of  the  Gods  gone  blind 

Who  see  not  what  they  do? 

But  some  in  yonder  city  hold,  my  son, 
That  none  but  Gods  could  build  this 

house  of  ours, 
So  beautiful,  vast,  various,  so  beyond 
All  work  of  man,  yet,  like  all  work  of 

man, 
A  beauty  with  defect  —  —  till  That 

which  knows. 
And  is  not  known,  but  felt  thro'  what 

we  feel 
Within   ourselves    is    highest,    shall 

descend 
On  this  half-deed,  and  shape  it  at  the 

last 
According    to    the    Highest    in    the 

Highest. 


What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 

And  break  the  vase  of  clay. 
And  Btir  the  sleeping  earth,  and  wake 

The  bloom  that  fades  away  ? 
What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 

That  cancel  weal  with  woe, 
And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers. 

And  cap  our  age  with  snow? 

The  days  and  hours  are  ever  glanc- 
ing by, 
And  seem  to  flicker  past  thro'  sun 

and  shade, 
Or  short,  or  long,  as  Pleasure  leads^ 

or  Pain ; 
But  with  the  Nameless  is  nor  Day  nor 

Hour; 
Tho'  we,  thin  minds,  who  creep  from 

thought  to  thought 
Break  into  "  Thens  "  and  "  Whens  " 

the  Eternal  Now : 
This   double  seeming  of    the  single 

world !  — 
My  words  are  like  the  babblings  in  a 

dream 
Of  nightmare,  when   the    babblings 

break  the  dream. 
But  thou  be  wise  in  this  dream-world 

of  ours, 
Nor  take  thy  dial  for  thy  deity. 
But  make  the  passing  shadow  serve 

thy  will. 

The  years  that  made  the  stripling  wise 

Undo  their  work  again, 
And  leave  him,  blind  of  heart  and  eyes, 

The  last  and  least  of  men  ; 
Who  clings  to  earth,  and  once  would  dare 

Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold. 
And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 

Would  loose  him  from  his  hold  ; 
His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root. 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind  ; 
The  kernel  of  the  shrivell'd  fruit 

Is  jutting  thro'  the  rind; 
The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest. 

The  palsy  wags  his  head  ; 
The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 

Would  fain  that  he  were  dead ; 
The  griefs  by  which  he  once  was  wrung 

Were  never  worth  the  while  — 

Who  knows?  or  whether  this  earth- 
narrow  life 
Be  yet  but  yolk,  and  forming  in  the 

shell  % 

The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  bad  stung 
But  wakes  a  dotard  smile. 


THE   ANCIENT  SAGE. 


607 


The   placid   gleam    of    sunset    after 
storm ! 

The  statesman's  brain  that  sway'd  the  past 

Is  feebler  than  his  knees ; 
The  passive  sailor  wrecks  at  last 

"In  ever-silent  seas; 
The  warrior  hath  forgot  his  arms, 

The  Learned  all  his  lore ; 
The  changing  market  frets  or  charms 

The  merchant's  hope  no  more ; 
The  prophet's  beacou  burn'd  in  vain, 

And  now  is  lost  in  cloud ; 
The  plowman  passes,  bent  with  pain. 

To  mix  with  what  he  plow'd; 
The  poet  whom  his  Age  would  quote 

As  heir  of  endless  fame  — 
He  knows  not  ev'n  the  book  he  wrote, 

Not  even  his  own  name. 
For  man  has  overlived  bis  day. 

And,  darkening  in  the  light. 
Scarce  feels  the  senses  break  away 

To  mix  with  ancient  Night. 

The  shell  must  break  before  the  bird 
can  fly. 

The  years  that  when  my  Youth  began 

Had  set  the  lily  and  rose 
Byall  my  ways  where'er  they  ran, 

Have  ended  mortal  foes ; 
My  rose  of  love  forever  gone. 

My  lily  of  truth  and  trust  — 
They  made  her  lily  and  rose  in  one. 

And  changed  her  into  dust. 
O  rosetree  planted  in  my  grief. 

And  growing,  on  her  tomb. 
Her  dust  is  greening  in  your  leaf. 

Her  blood  is  in  your  bloom. 
O  slender  lily  waving  there, 

And  laughing  back  the  light. 
In  vain  you  tell  me  "  Earth  is  fair  " 

When  all  is  dark  as  night. 

My  son,  the  world  is  dark  with  griefs 

and  graves, 
So  dark  that  men  cry  out  against  the 

Heavens.  i 

Who  knows  but  that  the  darkness  is 

irf  man  ? 
I  The  doors  of  Night  may  be  the  gates 

of  Light ; 
For  wert  thou  born  or  blind  or  deaf, 

and  then 
Suddenly  heal'd,  how  would'st  thou 

glory  in  all 
The  splendors  and  the  voices  of  the 

world ! 
And  we,  the  poor  earth's  dying  race, 

and  yet 


No  phantoms,  watching  from  a  phan- 
tom shore 

Await  the  last  and  largest  sense  to 
make 

The  phantom  walls  of  this  illusion 
fade, 

And  show  us  that  the  world  is  wholly 
fair. 

But  vain  the  tears  for  darken'd  years 

As  laughter  over  wine, 
And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O  brother,  mine  or  thine. 
For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep, 

And  all  that  breathe  are  one 
Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 

That  moves,  and  all  is  gone. 

But  that  one  ripple  on  the  boundless 

deep 
Feels  that  the  deep  is  boundless,  and 

itself 
Forever  changing  form,  but  evermore 
One  with  the  boundless  motion  of  the 

deep. 

Yet  wine  and  laughter  friends !  and  set 

The  lamps  alight,  and  call 
For  golden  music,  and  forget 

The  darkness  of  the  pall. 

If  utter  darkness  closed  the  day, 

my  son 

But     earth's    dark    forehead    flings 

athwart  the  heavens 
Her  shadow  crown'd  with  stars  —  and 

yonder  —  out 
To  northward  —  some  that  never  set, 

but  pass 
From  sight  and  night  to  lose  them- 
selves in  day. 
I  hate  the  black  negation  of  the  bier, 
And  wish  the  dead,  as  happier  than 

ourselves 
And  higher,  having  climb'd  one  step 

beyond 
Our  village  miseries,  might  be  borne 

in  white 
To  burial  or  to  burning,  hymn'd  from 

hence 
With  songs  in  praise  of  death,  and 

crown'd  with  flowers ! 

O  worms  and  maggots  of  to-day 
Without  their  hope  of  wings ! 


60» 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 


But  louder  than  thy  rhyme  the  silent 

Word 
Of  that  world-prophet  in  the  heart  of 

man. 

Tho'  some  have  gleams  or  60  they  say 
Of  more  than  mortal  things. 

To-day  1  but  what  of  yesterday  ■?  for 
oft 

On  me,  when  boy,  there  came  what 
then  I  call'd, 

Who  knew  no  books  and  no  philoso- 
phies, 

In   my  boy-phrase  "  The  Passion  of 
the  Past." 

The  first  gray  streak  of  earliest  sum- 
mer-dawn, 

The  last  long  stripe  of  waning  crim- 
son gloom. 

As  if  the  late  and  early  were  but  one  — 

A  height,  a  broken  grange,  a  grore,  a 
flower 

Had  murmurs  "  Lost  and  gone  and 
lost  and  gone  ! " 

A  breath,   a  whisper  —  some   divine 
farewell  — 

Desolate    sweetness  —  far    and    far 
away  — 

What  had  he  loved,  what  had  he  lost, 
the  boy  ? 

I  know  not  and  I  speak  of  what  has 
been. 
And  more,  my  son !   for  more  than 
once  when  I 

Sat  all  alone,  revolving  in  myself 

The  word  that  is  the  symbol  of  myself, 

The  mortal   limit   of    tlie   Self  was 
loosed. 

And  past  into  the  Nameless,  as  a  cloud 

Melts  into   Heaven.      I   toucli'd   my 
limbs,  the  limbs 

Were  strange  not  mine  —  and  yet  no 
shade  of  doubt. 

But  utter  clearness,  and  thro'  loss  of 
Self 

The  gain  of  such  large  life  as  match'd 
with  ours 

Were  Sun   to  spark  —  unshadowable 
in  words. 

Themselves  but  shadows  of  a  shadow- 
world. 


And  idle  gleams  -will  come  and  go, 
But  still  the  clouds  remain; 

The  clouds  themselves  are  children  of 
the  Sun. 

And  Night  and  Shadow  rule  helow 
When  only  Day  should  reign. 

And  Day  and  Night  are  children  of 

the  Sun, 
And  idle  gleams  to  thee  are  light  to  me. 
Some  say,  the  Light  was  father  of  the 

Night, 
And  some,  the  Night  was  father  of 

the  Light. 
No  night  no  day  !  —  I  touch  thy  world 

again  — 
No  ill  no  good !  such  counter-terms, 

my  son. 
Are  border-races,  holding,  each  its 

own 
By  endless  war :  but  night  enough  is 

there 
In  yon  dark  city :  get  thee  back :  and 

since 
The  key  to  that  weird  casket,  which 

for  thee 
But  holds  a  skull,  is  neither  thine  nor 

mine. 
But  in  the  hand  of  what  is  more  than 

man, 
Or  in  man's  hand  when  man  is  more 

than  man. 
Let  be  thy  wail  and  help  thy  fellow 

men. 
And  make  thy  gold  thy  vassal  not  thy 

king. 
And  fling  free  alms  into  the  beggar's 

bowl, 
And  send  the  day  into  the  darken'd 

heart ; 
Nor  list  for  guerdon  in  the  voice  of 

men, 
A  dying  echo  from  a  falling  wall ; 
Nor  care  —  for  Hunger  hath  tlie  Evil 

eye  — 
To  vex  the  noon  with  fiery  gems,  or 

fold 
Tliy  presence  in  the  silk  of  sumptu- 
ous looms ; 
Nor  roll   thy   viands   on   a  luscious 
tongue, 


THE  FLIGHT. 


609 


Nor  drown  thyself  with  flies  in  honied 

wine ; 
Nor  thou  be  rageful,  like  a  handled 

bee, 
And  lose   thy  life  by  usage   of  thy 

sting  ; 
Nor  harm  an  adder  thro'  the  lust  for 

harm, 
Nor  make  a  snail's  horn  shrink  for 

wantonness  ; 
And    more  —  think    well!       Do-well 

will  follow  thought, 
And   in   the   fatal   sequence   of  this 

world 
An  evil  thought  may  soil  thy  chil- 
dren's blood ; 
But  curb  the  beast  would  oast  thee  in 

the  mire, 


And  leave  the  hot  ?wamp  of  voluptu- 
ousness 
A  cloud  between  the  Nameless  and 

thyself, 
And  lay  thine  uphill  shoulder  to  the 

wheel. 
And  climb  the  Mount   of  Blessing, 

whence,  if  thou 
Look  higher,  then  —  perchance  —  thou 

mayest  —  beyond  j 

A     hundred     ever-rising     mountain 

lines. 
And  past  the   range   of    Night  and 

Shadow  ■ — see 
The  high-heaven  dawn  of  more  than 

mortal  day 
Strike  on  the  Mount  of  Vision  ! 

So,  farewell. 


THE  FLIGHT. 


Are  you  sleeping  ?  have  you  forgotten  ■?  do  not  sleep,  my  sister  dear! 
How  can  you  sleep  ?  the  morning  brings  the  day  I  hate  and  fear; 
The  cock  has  crow'd  already  once,  he  crows  before  his  time ; 
Awake  !  the  creeping  glimmer  steals,  the  hills  are  white  with  rime. 


Ah,  clasp  me  in  your  arms,  sister,  ah,  fold  me  to  your  breast! 
Ah,  let  me  weep  my  fill  once  more,  and  cry  myself  to  rest! 
To  rest  ?  to  rest  and  wake  no  more  were  better  rest  for  me, 
Than  to  waken  every  morning  to  that  face  I  loathe  to  see : 


I  envied  your  sweet  slumber,  all  night  so  calm  you  lay. 
The  night  was  calm,  the  morn  is  calm,  and  like  another  day; 
But  I  could  wish  yon  moaning  sea  would  rise  and  burst  the  shore, 
And  such  a  whirlwind  blow  these  woods,  as  never  blew  before. 


Tor  one  by  one,  the  stars  went  down  across  the  gleaming  pane, 
And  project  after  project  rose,  and  all  of  them  were  vain; 
The  blackthorn-blossom  fades  and  falls  and  leaves  the  bitter  sloe. 
The  hope  I  catch  at  vanishes  and  youth  is  turn'd  to  woe. 


610  THE  FLIGHT. 


Come,  speak  a  little  comfort !  all  night  I  pray'd  with  tears, 
And  yet  no  comfort  came  to  me,  and  now  the  morn  appears. 
When  he  will  tear  me  from  your  side,  wlio  bought  me  for  his  slave : 
This  father  pays  his  debt  with  me,  and  weds  me  to  my  grave. 


What  father,  this  or  mine,  was  he,  who,  on  that  summer  day 
When  I  had  f all'n  from  off  the  crag  we  clamber'd  up  in  play, 
Found,  fear'd  me  dead,  and  groan'd,  and  toolc  and  kiss'd  me,  and  again 
He  kiss'd  me ;  and  I  loved  him  then ;  he  was  my  father  then. 


No  father  now,  the  tyrant  vassal  of  a  tyrant  vice ! 
The  Godless  Jephtha  vows  his  child  ...  to  one  cast  of  the  dice. 
These  ancient  woods,  this  Hall  at  last  will  go  —  perhaps  have  gone. 
Except  his  own  meek  daughter  yield  her  life,  heart,  soul  to  one  — 


To  one  who  knows  I  scorn  him.     O  the  formal  mocking  bow, 
The  cruel  smile,  the  courtly  phrase  that  masks  his  malice  now  — 
But  often  in  the  sidelong  eyes  a  gleam  of  all  things  ill  — 
It  is  not  Love  but  Hate  that  weds  a  bride  against  her  will ; 


Hate,  that  would  pluck  from  this  true  breast  the  locket  that  I  wear, 
The  precious  crystal  into  which  I  braided  Edwin's  hair ! 
The  love  that  keeps  this  heart  alive  beats  on  it  night  and  day  — 
One  golden  curl,  his  golden  gift,  before  he  past  away. 


He  left  us  weeping  in  the  woods ;  his  boat  was  on  the  sand  ; 
How  slowly  down  the  rocks  he  went,. how  loth  to  quit  the  land! 
And  all  my  life  was  darken'd,  as  I  saw  the  white  sail  run, 
And  darken,  up  that  lane  of  light  into  the  setting  sun. 


How  often  have  we  watch'd  the  sun  fade  from  us  thro'  the  West, 
And  follow  Edwin  to  those  isles,  those  islands  of  the  Blest ! 
Is  A«  not  there  ?  would  I  were  there,  the  friend,  the  bride,  the  wife. 
With  him,  where  summer  never  dies,  with  Love,  the  Sun  of  life  I 


O  would  I  were  in  Edwin's  arms  —  once  more  —  to  feel  his  breath 
Upon  my  cheek  —  on  Edwin's  ship,  with  Edwin,  ev'n  in  death, 
Tho'  all  about  the  shuddering  wreck  the  death-white  sea  should  rave. 
Or  if  lip  were  laid  to  lip  on  the  pillows  of  the  wave. 


THE  FLIGHT.  611 


XIII. 

Shall  I  take  Am  ?  I  kneel  with  Am  ?  I  swear  and  swear  forsworn 
To  love  him  most,  whom  most  I  loathe,  to  honor  whom  I  scorn  ? 
The  Fiend  would  yell,  the  grave  would  yawn,  my  mother's  ghost  would 

rise  — 
To  lie,  to  lie  —  in  God's  own  house  —  the  blackest  of  all  lies ! 


Why  —  rather  than  that  hand  in  mine,  tho'  every  pulse  would  freeze, 
I'd  sooner  fold  an  icy  corpse  dead  of  some  foul  disease : 
Wed  him  ■?  I  will  not  wed  him,  let  them  spurn  me  from  the  doors, 
And  I  will  wander  till  I  die  about  the  barren  moors. 


The  dear,  mad  bride  who  stabb'd  her  bridegroom  on  her  bridal  night  - 
If  mad,  then  I  am  mad,  but  sane,  if  she  were  in  the  right. 
My  father's  madness  makes  me  mad  —  but  words  are  only  words  ! 
I  am  not  mad,  not  yet,  not  quite  —  There  !  listen  how  the  birds 


Begin  to  warble  yonder  in  the  budding  orchard  trees ! 
The  lark  has  past  from  earth  to  Heaven  upon  the  morning  breeze. 
How  gladly,  were  I  one  of  those,  how  early  would  I  wake ! 
And  yet  the  sorrow  that  I  bear  is  sorrow  for  his  sake. 


They  love  their  mates,  to  whom  they  sing ;  or  else  their  songs,  that  meet 
The  morning  with  such  music,  would  never  be  so  sweet ! 
And  tho'  these  fathers  will  not  hear,  the  blessed  Heavens  are  just, 
And  Love  is  fire,  and  burns  the  feet  would  trample  it  to  dust. 


A  door  was  open'd  in  the  house  —  who  ?  who  ?  my  father  sleeps ! 
A  stealthy  foot  upon  the  stair !  he  —  some  one  —  this  way  creeps ! 
If  he  ?  yes,  he  .  .  .  lurks,  listens,  fears  his  victim  may  have  fled  — 
He  I  where  is  some  sharp-pointed  thing  ?  he  comes,  and  finds  me  dead. 


Not  he,  not  yet !  and  time  to  act  —  but  how  my  temples  burn ! 
And  idle  fancies  flutter  me,  I  know  not  where  to  turn ; 
Speak  to  me,  sister  ;  counsel  me ;  this  marriage  must  not  be. 
You  only  know  the  love  that  makes  the  world  a  world  to  me ! 


612  THE  FLIGHT. 


Our  gentle  mother,  had  sAc  lived  —  but  we  were  left  alone : 
That  other  left  us  to  ourselves  ;  he  cared  not  for  his  own  ; 
So  all  the  summer  long  we  roam'd  in  these  wild  woods  of  ours, 
My  Edwin  loved  to  call  us  then  "  His  two  wild  woodland  flowers.' 


Wild  flowers  blowing  side  by  side  in  God's  free  light  and  air. 
Wild  flowers  of  the  secret  woods,  when  Edwin  found  us  there. 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  roved  with  him,  and  heard  his  passionate  vow. 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  rove  no  more,  if  we  be  parted  now ! 


You  will  not  leave  me  thus  in  grief  to  wander  forth  forlorn ; 
We  never  changed  a  bitter  word,  not  one  since  we  were  born; 
Our  dying  mother  join'd  our  hands  ;  she  knew  this  father  well; 
She  bad  us  love,  like  souls  in  Heaven,  and  now  I  fly  from  Hell, 


And  you  with  me ;  and  we  shall  light  upon  some  lonely  shore. 
Some  lodge  within  the  waste  sea-dunes,  and  hear  the  waters  roar, 
And  see  the  ships  from  out  the  West  go  dipping  thro'  the  foam. 
And  sunshine  on  that  sail  at  last  which  brings  our  Edwin  home. 


But  look,  the  morning  grows  apace,  and  lights  the  old  church-tower. 
And  lights  the  clock  !  the  hand  points  five  —  O  me  —  it  strikes  the  hour- 
I  bide  no  more,  I  meet  my  fate,  whatever  ills  betide  ! 
Arise,  my  own  true  sister,  come  forth !  the  world  is  wide. 


And  yet  my  heart  Is  ill  at  ease,  my  eyes  are  dim  with  dew, 
I  seem  to  see  a  new-dug  grave  up  yonder  by  the  yew ! 
If  we  should  never  more  return,  but  wander  hand  in  hand 
With  breaking  hearts,  without  a  friend,  and  in  a  distant  land. 


O  sweet,  they  tell  me  that  the  world  is  hard,  and  harsh  of  min(} 
But  can  it  be  so  hard,  so  harsh,  as  those  that  should  be  kind  ? 
That  matters  not ;  let  come  what  will ;  at  last  the  end  is  sure 
And  every  heart  that  loves  with  truth  is  equal  to  endure. 


TOMORROW.  613 


TOMORROW. 


Hek,  that  yer  Honor  was  spakin'  to  ?     Whin,  yer  Honor  1  last  year  — 
Standin'  here  be  the  bridge,  when  last  yer  Honor  was  here  ? 
An'  yer  Honor  ye  gev  her  the  top  of  the  mornin',  '■  Tomorra  "  says  she. 
What  did  they  call  her,  yer  Honor  ■?     They  call'd  her  Molly  Magee. 
An'  yer  Honor's  the  thrue  ould  blood  that  always  man^s  to  be  kind, 
But  there's  rason  in  all  things,  yer  Honor,  for  Molly  was  out  of  her  mind. 


Shure,  an'  meself  remimbers  wan  night  comin'  down  be  the  sthrame, 

An'  it  seems  to  me  now  like  a  bit  of  yisther-day  in  a  dhrame  — 

Here  where  yer  Honor  seen  her  —  there  was  but  a  slip  of  a  moon. 

But  I  hard  thim  —  Molly  Magee  wid  her  batchelor,  Danny  O'Roon  — 

"  You're  been  takin'  a  dhrop  o'  the  crathur  "  an'  Danny  says  "  Troth,  an'  I  been 

Dhrinkin'  yer  health  wid  Shamus  O'Shea  at  Katty's  shebeen  ; ' 

But  I  must  be  lavin'  ye  soon."     "  Ochone  are  ye  goin'  away  ?  " 

"  Goin'  to  cut  the  Sassenach  whate  "  he  says  "  over  the  say  "  — 

"An'  whin  will  ye  meet  me  agin  1  "  an'  I  hard  him  "  Molly  asthore, 

I'll  meet  you  agin  tomorra,"  says  he,  "be  the  chapel-door." 

"  An'  whin  are  ye  goin'  to  lave  mef"     "  O'  Monday  mornin'  "  says  he ; 

"An'  shure  thin  ye'll  meet  me  tomorra?  "     "Tomorra,  tomorra,  Machree!" 

Thin  Molly's  ould  mother,  yer  Honor,  that  had  no  likin'  for  Dan, 

Call'd  from  her  cabin  an'  tould  her  to  come  away  from  the  man. 

An'  Molly  Magee  kem  flyin'  acrass  me,  as  light  as  a  lark, 

An'  Dan  stood  there  for  a  minute,  an'  thin  wint  into  the  dark. 

But  wirrah  !  the  storm  that  night  —  the  tundlier,  an'  rain  that  fell, 

An'  the  sthrames  runnin'  down  at  the  back  o'  the  glin  'ud  'a  dhrownded  Hell. 


But  airth  was  at  pace  ni.xt  mornin',  an'  Hiven  in  its  glory  smiled, 
As  the  Holy  Mother  o'  Glory  that  smiles  at  her  sleepin'  child  — 
Bthen  — ■  she  stept  an  the  chapel-green,  an'  she  turn'd  herself  roun' 
Wid  a  diamond  dhrop  in  her  eye,  for  Danny  was  not  to  be  foun'. 
An'  many's  the  time  that  I  watch'd  her  at  mass  lettin'  down  the  tear, 
■For  the  Divil  a  Danny  was  there,  yer  Honor,  for  forty  year. 


Och,  Molly  Magee,  wid  the  red  o'  the  rose  an'  the  white  o'  the  May, 
An'  yer  hair  as  black  as  the  night,  an'  yer  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day! 
Achora,  yer  laste  little  whishper  was  sweet  as  the  lilt  of  a  bird  ! 
Acushla,  ye  set  me  heart  batin'  to  music  wid  ivery  word ! 
An'  sorra  the  Queen  wid  her  sceptre  in  sieh  an  illigant  han',  ^ 

An'  the  fall  of  yer  foot  in  the  dance  was  as  light  as  snow  an  the  Ian, 

•  Grog-shop. 


614  TOMORROW. 


An'  the  sun  kem  out  of  a  cloud  whinirer  ye  walkt  in  the  shtreet. 
An'  Shamus  O'Shea  was  yer  shadda,  an'  laid  himself  undher  yer  feet. 
An'  I  loved  ye  meself  wid  a  heart  and  a  half,  me  darlin',  and  he 
'Ud  'a  shot  his  own  sowl  dead  for  a  kiss  of  ye,  Molly  Magee. 


But  shure  we  wor  betther  frinds  whin  I  crack'd  his  skull  for  her  sake. 
An'  he  ped  me  back  wid  the  best  he  could  give  at  ould  Donovan's  wake  — 
Por  the  boys  wor  about  her  agin  whin  Dan  didn't  come  to  the  fore, 
An'  Shamus  along  wid  the  rest,  but  she  put  thira  all  to  the  door. 
An',  af  ther,  I  thried  her  meself  av  the  bird  'ud  come  to  me  call, 
But  Molly,  begorrah,  'ud  listhen  to  naither  at  all,  at  all. 


An'  her  nabors  an'  frinds  'ud  consowl  an'  condowl  wid  her,  airly  and  late, 

"  Your  Danny,"  they  says,  "  niver  crasst  over  say  to  the  Sassenach  whate; 

He's  gone  to  the  States,  aroon,  an'  he's  married  another  wife. 

An'  ye'U  niver  set  eyes  an  the  face  of  the  thraithur  agin  in  life ! 

An'  to  dhrame  of  a  married  man,  death  alive,  is  a  mortial  sin." 

But  Molly  says  "  I'd  his  hand-promise,  an'  shure  he'll  meet  me  agin." 


An'  afther  her  paarints  had  inter'd  glory,  an'  both  in  wan  day. 
She  began  to  spake  to  herself,  the  crathur,  an'  whishper,  an'  say 
"Tomorra,  Tomorra!  "  an'  Father  Molowny  he  tuk  her  in  han', 
"  Molly,  youTe  manin',"  he  says,  "me  dear,  av  1  undherstan'. 
That  ye'll  meet  your  paarints  agin  an'  yer  IDanny  O'Roon  afore  God 
Wid  his  blessed  Marthyrs  an'  Saints;  "  an'  she  gev  him  a  frindly  nod, 
"  Tomorra,  Tomorra,"  she  says,  an'  she  didn't  intind  to  desave, 
But  her  wits  woi  dead,  an'  her  hair  was  white  as  the  snow  an  a  grave. 


Arrah  now,  here  last  month  they  wor  diggin'  the  bog,  an'  they  foun' 
Dhrownded  in  black  bog-wather  a  corp  lyin'  undher  groun'. 


Yer  Honor's  own  agint,  he  says  to  me  wanst,  at  Katty's  shebeen, 

"The  Divil  take  all  the  black  Ian',  for  a  blessin'  'ud  come  wid  the  green!" 

An'  where  'ud  the  poor  man,  thin,  cut  his  bit  o'  turf  for  the  fire  ? 

But  och :  bad  scran  to  the  bogs  whin  they  swallies  the  man  intire ! 

An'  sorra  the  bog  that's  in  Hiven  wid  all  the  light  an'  the  glow, 

An'  there's  hate  enough,  shure,  widout  thim  in  the  Divii's  kitchen  below, 


Thim  ould  blind  nagers  in  Agypt,  I  hard  his  Riverence  say. 
Could  keep  their  haithen  kings  in  the  flesh  for  the  Jidgemint  day, 
An',  faix,  be  the  piper  o'  Moses,  they  kep  the  cat  an'  the  dog. 
But  it  'ud  'a  been  aisier  work  av  they  lived  be  an  Irish  bog. 


THE  SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS.  615 


XI. 

How-an-iver  they  laid  this  body  they  foun'  an  the  grass 
Be  the  chapel-door,  an'  the  people  'ud  see  it  that  wint  into  mass  — 
But  a  frish  gineration  had  riz,  an'  most  of  the  ould  was  few, 
An'  I  didn't  know  him  meself,  an'  none  of  the  parish  knew. 

XII. 

But  Molly  kem  limpin'  up  wid  her  stick,  she  was  lamed  iv  a  knee, 
Thin  a  slip  of  a  gossoon  call'd,  "  Div  ye  know  him,  Molly  Magee  ?  " 
An'  she  stood  up  strait  as  the  Queen  of  the  world  —  she  lifted  her  head  — 
"  He  said  he  would  meet  me  tomorra ! "  an'  dhropt  down  dead  an  the  dead. 

xm. 
Och,  Molly,  we  thought,  machree,  ye  would  start  back  agin  into  life, 
Whin  we  laid  yez,  aich  be  aich,  at  yer  wake  like  husban'  an'  wife. 
Sorra  the  dhry  eye  thin  but  was  wet  for  the  frinds  that  was  gone ! 
Sorra  the  silent  throat  but  we  hard  it  cryin'  "  Ochone  ! " 
An'  Shanius  O'Shea  that  has  now  ten  childer,  hansome  an'  tall, 
Him  an'  his  childer  wor  keenin'  as  if  he  had  lost  thim  all. 


Thin  his  Riverence  buried  thim  both  in  wan  grave  be  the  dead  boor-tree,i 
The  young  man  Danny  O'Roon  wid  his  ould  woman,  Molly  Magee. 


May  all  the  flowers  o'  Jeroosilim  blossom  an'  spring  from  the  grass, 

Imbrashin'  an'  kissin'  aich  other  —  as  ye  did  —  over  yer  Crass  ! 

An'  the  lark  fly  out  o'  the  flowers  wid  his  song  to  the  Sun  an'  the  Moon, 

An'  tell  thim  in  Hiven  about  Molly  Magee  an'  her  Danny  O'Roon, 

Till  Holy  St.  Pether  gets  up  wid  his  kays  an'  opens  the  gate ! 

An'  shure,  be  the  Crass,  that's  betther  nor  cuttin'  the  Sassenach  whate 

To  be  there  wid  the  Blessed  Mother,  an'  Saints  an'  Marthyrs  galore, 

An'  singin'  yer  "  Aves  "  an'  "  Fathers  "  f oriver  an'  ivermore. 

XVI. 

An'  now  that  I  tould  yer  Honor  whativer  I  hard  an'  seen, 

Yer  Honor  'ill  give  me  a  thrifle  to  dhrink  yer  health  in  potheen. 


THE   SPINSTER'S   SWEET-ARTS. 

1. 
Milk  for  my  sweetarts,  Bess  !  fur  it  mun  be  the  time  about  now 
When  Molly  cooms  in  fro'  the  far-end  close  wi'  her  paails  fro'  the  cow. 
Eh-!  tha  be  new  to  the  plaace  —  thou'rt  gaapin' —■  doesn't  tha  see 
I  calls  'em  arter  the  fellers  es  once  was  sweet  upo'  me  ? 

1  Elder-tree. 


616  THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


Naay  to  be  sewer  it  be  past  'er  time.     What  maakes  'er  sa  laate  ? 
Goa  to  the  laane  at  the  back,  an'  loocik  thruf  Maddison's  gaate  1 

II,. 

Sweet-arts !  Molly  belike  may  'a  lighted  to-night  upo'  one. 
Sweet-arts !  thanks  to  the  Lord  that  I  niver  not  listen'd  to  noan ! 
So  I  sits  i'  my  oan  armchair  wi'  my  oan  kettle  theere  o'  the  hob, 
An'  Tommy  the  fust,  an'  Tommy  the  second,  an'  Steevie  an'  Bob. 


Rob,  coom  oop  'ere  o'  my  knee.    Thou  sees  that  i'  spite  o'  the  men 
I  'a  kep'  thruf  thick  an'  thin  my  two  'oonderd  a-year  to  mysen ; 
Yis !  thaw  tha  call'd  me  es  pretty  es  ony  lass  i'  the  Shere, 
An'  thou  be  es  pretty  a  Tabby,  but  Robby  1  seed  thruf  ya  theere. 


Feyther  'ud  saay  I  wur  ugly  as  sin,  an'  I  beant  not  vaain, 

But  I  niver  wur  downright  hugly,  thaw  soom  'ud  'a  thowt  ma  plaain. 

An'  I  wasn't  sa  plaain  i'  pink  ribbons,  ye  said  I  wur  pretty  i'  pinks. 

An'  I  liked  to  'ear  it  I  did,  but  I  beant  sieh  a  fool  as  ye  thinks ; 

Ye  was  stroakin  ma  down  wi'  the  'air,  as  I  be  a-stroakin  o'  you. 

But  whiniver  I  loook'd  i'  the  glass  I  wur  sewer  that  it  couldn't  be  true; 

Niver  wur  pretty,  not  I,  but  ye  knaw'd  it  wur  pleasant  to  'ear. 

Thaw  it  warn't  not  me  es  wur  pretty,  but  my  two  'oonderd  a-year. 


D'ya  mind  the  murnin'  when  we  was  a-walkin'  togither,  an'  stood 

By  the  claay'd-oop  pond,  that  the  foalk  be  sa  scared  at,  i'  Gigglesby  wood, 

Wheer  the  poor  wench  drowndid  hersen,  black  Sal,  es  'ed  been  disgraaced* 

An'  I  feel'd  thy  arm  es  I  stood  wur  a-creeapin  about  my  waaist; 

An'  me  es  wur  alius  afear'd  of  a  man's  glttiu'  ower  fond, 

I  sidled  awaay  an'  awaay  till  I  plumpt  foot  fust  i'  the  pond; 

And,  Robby,  I  niver  'a  liked  tha  sa  well,  as  I  did  that  daay, 

Fur  tha  joompt  in  thysen,  an'  tha  hoickt  my  feet  wi'  a  flop  fro'  the  claay. 

Ay,  stick  oop  thy  back,  an'  set  oop  tliy  taail,  tha  may  gie  ma  a  kiss, 

Fur  I  walk'd  wi'  tha  all  the  way  hoam  an'  wur  niver  sa  nigh  saayin'  Yis. 

But  wa  boath  was  i'  sich  a  clat  we  was  shaaraed  to  cross  Gigglesby  Greeai^ 

Fur  a  cat  may  loook  at  a  king  thou  knaws  but  the  cat  mun  be  clean. 

Sa  we  boath  on  us  kep  out  o'  sight  o'  the  winders  o'  Gigglesby  Hinn  — 

Naay,  but  the  claws  o'  tha !  quiet !  they  priclcs  clean  thruf  to  the  skin  — 

An'  wa  boath  slinkt  'oiim  by  the  brokken  shed  i'  the  laane  at  the  back, 

Wheer  the  poodle  runn'd  at  tha'  once,  an'  thou  runn'd  oop  o'  the  thack; 

An'  tha  squeedg'd  my  'and  i'  the  shed,  fur  theere  we  was  forced  to  'ide. 

Fur  I  seed  that  Steevie  wur  coomin',  and  one  o'  the  Tommies  beside. 

vii. 

Theere  now,  what  art'a  mewin  at,  Steevie  ?  for  owt  I  can  tell  — 
Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  or  I  mowt  'a  liked  tha  as  well. 


THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS.  617 


VIII. 

But,  Robby,  I  thowt  o'  tha  all  the  while  I  wur  chaangln'  my  gown. 

An'  I  thowt  shall  I  chaange  my  staate  t  but,  0  Lord,  upo'  coomin'  down- 

My  bran-new  carpet  es  fresh  es  a  midder  o'  flowers  i'  Maay  — 

Why  'edn't  tha  wiped  thy  shoes  '  it  wur  clatted  all  ower  wi'  claay. 

An'  I  could  'a  cried  ammost,  fur  I  seed  that  it  couldn't  be, 

An'  Robby  I  gied  tha  a  raatin  that  sattled  thy  coortin  o'  me. 

An'  Molly  an'  me  was  agreed,  as  we  was  a-cleanin'  the  floor. 

That  a  man  be  a  durty  thing  an'  a  trouble  an'  plague  wi'  indoor. 

But  I  rued  it  arter  a  bit,  fur  I  stuck  to  tha  more  na  the  rest. 

But  1  couldn't  'a  lived  wi'  a  man  an'  I  knaws  it  be  all  fur  the  best. 


Naay  —  let  ma  stroak  tha  down  till  I  maakes  tha  as  smooth  as  silk, 
But  if  I  'ed  married  tha,  Robby,  thou'd  not  'a  been  worth  thy  milk, 
Thou'd  niver  'a  cotch'd  ony  mice  but  'a  left  me  the  work  to  do. 
And  'a  taaen  to  the  bottle  beside,  so  es  all  that  I  'ears  be  true  ; 
But  I  loovs  tha  to  maake  thysen  'appy,  an'  soa  purr  awaay,  my  dear. 
Thou  'ed  wellnigh  purr'd  ma  awaay  fro'  my  oan  two  'oonderd  a-year. 

X. 

Swearin  agean,  you  Toms,  as  ye  used  to  do  twelve  years  sin' ! 
Ye  niver  'eard  Steevie  swear  'cep'  it  wur  at  a  dog  coomin'  in. 
An'  boath  o'  ye  mun  be  fools  to  be  hallus  a-shawin'  your  claws. 
Fur  I  niver  cared  nothink  for  neither  —  an'  one  o'  ye  dead  ye  knaws ! 
Coom  giv  hoaver  then,  weant  ye  ?     I  warrant  ye  soom  fine  daay  — 
Theere,  lig  down  —  I  shall  hev  to  gie  one  or  tother  awaay. 
Can't  ye  taake  pattern  by  Steevie  ?  ye  shant  hev  a  drop  fro'  the  paail. 
Steevie  be  right  good  manners  bang  thruf  to  the  tip  o'  the  taail. 

XI. 

Robby,  git  down  wi'tha,  wilt  tha  ^  let  Steevie  coom  oop  o'  my  knee. 
Steevie,  my  lad,  thou  'ed  very  nigh  been  the  Steevie  fur  me ! 
Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  'e  wur  burn  an'  bred  i'  the  'ouse, 
But  thou  be  es  'ansom  a  tabby  as  iver  patted  a  mouse. 

XII. 

An'  I  beant  not  vaain,  but  I  knaws  I  'ed  led  tha  a  quieter  life         _^ 
Nor  her  wi'  the  hepitaph  yonder !     "  A  faaithful  an'  loovin'  wife ! 
An'  'cos  o'  thy  farm  by  the  beck,  an'  thy  windmill  oop  o'  the  croft, 
Tha  thowt  tha  would  marry  ma,  did  tha  ?  but  that  wur  a  bit  ower  soft, 
Thaw  thou  was  es  soaber  as  daay,  wi'  a  niced  red  faace,  an  es  clean 
Es  a  shillin'  fresh  fro'  the  mint  wi'  a  bran-new  'ead  o  the  Queean, 
An'  thy  farmin'  es  clean  es  thysen,  fur,  Steevie,  tha  kep  it  sa  neat 
That  I  niver  not  spied  sa  much  as  a  poppy  along  wi  the  wheat, 
An'  the  wool  of  a  thistle  a-flyin'  an'  seeadin'  tha  haated  to  see ; 
'Twur  as  bad  as  a  battle-twig  i  'ere  i'  my  oan  blue  chaumber  to  me. 
Ay  roob  thy  whiskers  agean  ma,  fur  I  could  a  taaen  to  tha  well. 
But  fur  thy  bairns,  poor  Steevie,  a  bouncin'  boy  an  a  gell. 

>  Earwig, 


618  THE   SPINSTER'S  SWEET-ARTS. 


XIII. 

An'  thou  was  es  fond  o'  thy  bairns  es  I  be  mysen  o'  my  cats, 

But  I  niver  not  wish'd  fur  childer,  I  hevn't  naw  likin'  fur  brats ; 

Pretty  anew  when  ya  dresses  'em  cop,  an'  they  goas  fur  a  walk, 

Or  sits  wi'  their  'ands  afoor  'em,  an'  doesn't  not  'inder  the  talk ! 

But  their  bottles  o'  pap,  an'  their  mucky  bibs,  an'  the  clats  an'  the  clouts. 

An'  their  mashin'  their  toys  to  pieaces  an'  maakin'  ma  deaf  wi'  their  shouts, 

An'  hallus  a-joompin'  about  ma  as  if  they  was  set  upo'  springs. 

An'  a  haxin'  ma  hawkard  questions,  an'  saayin'  ondecent  things. 

An'  a-callin'  ma  "  hugly  "  mayhap  to  my  faace,  or  a  tearin'  my  gown  — 

Dear!  dear!  dear!  1  mun  part  them  Tommies  —  Steevie  git  down. 

XIV. 

Ye  be  wuss  nor  the  men-tommies,  you.     I  tell'd  ya,  na  moor  o'  that  1 
Tom,  lig  theere  o'  the  cushion,  an'  tother  Tom  'ere  o'  the  mat. 


Theere!  I  ha'  master'd  tktml     Hed  I  married  the  Tommies  —  0  Lord, 
To  loove  an'  obaay  the  Tommies  !     I  couldn't  'a  stuck  by  my  word. 
To  be  horder'd  about,  an'  waaked,  when  Molly  'd  put  out  the  light. 
By  a  man  coomin'  in  wi'  a  hiccup  at  ony  hour  o'  the  night ! 
An'  the  taable  staain'd  wi'  'is  aale,  an'  the  mud  o'  'is  boots  o'  the  stairs, 
An'  the  stink  o'  'is  pipe  i'  the  'ouse,  an'  the  mark  o'  'is.'ead  o'  the  chairs! 
An'  noan  o'  my  four  sweet-arts  'ud  'a  let  me  'a  hed  my  oan  waay, 
Sa  I  likes  'em  best  wi'  taails  when  they  'evn't  a  word  to  saay. 


An'  I  sits  i'  my  oan  little  parlor,  an'  sarved  by  my  oan  little  lass, 

Wi'  my  oan  little  garden  outside,  an'  my  oan  bed  o'  sparrow-grass. 

An'  my  oan  door-poorch  wi'  the  woodbine  an'  jessmine  a-dressin'  it  greean. 

An'  my  oan  fine  Jackman  i'  purple  a  roabiu'  the  'ouse  like  a  Queean. 


An'  the  little  gells  bobs  to  ma  hoffens  es  I  be  abroad  i'  the  laanes, 

"When  I  goas  to  coomfut  the  poor  es  be  down  wi'  their  haaches  an'  their  paalns  s 

An'  a  haaf-pot  o'  jam,  or  a  mossel  o'  meat  when  it  beant.too  dear. 

They  maakes  ma  a  graater  Laady  nor  'er  i'  the  mansion  theer, 

Hes  'es  hallus  to  hax  of  a  man  how  much  to  spare  or  to  spend ; 

An'  a  spinster  I  be  an'  I  will  be,  if  soa  please  God,  to  the  hend. 

XVIII. 

Mew !  mew  !  —  Bess  wi'  the  milk !  what  ha'  maade  our  Molly  sa  laate  ? 
It  should  'a  been  'ere  by  seven,  an'  theere —  it  be  strikin'  height  — 
"  Cushie  wur  craazed  fur  'er  cauf  "  well —  I  'card  'er  a  maakin'  'er  moan, 
An'  I  thowt  to  mysen  "  thank  God  that  I  hevn't  naw  cauf  o'  my  oan  " 
Theere ! 

Set  it  down ! 

Now  Robby ! 

You  Tommies  shall  waait  to-night 
Till  Robby  an'  Steevie  'es  'ed  their  lap  —  an'  it  sarves  ye  right. 


BALTJV  AND  BALAN. 


en 


BALIN   AND   BALAN.i 

Pellam  the  King,  who  held  and  lost 
with  Lot 

In  that  first  war,  and  had  his  realm 
restored 

But  render'd  tributary,  fail'd  of  late 
'  To  send  his  tribute ;   wherefore  Ar- 
thur call'd 

His  treasurer,  one  of  many  years,  and 


"Go   thou   with   him   and   him    and 
bring  it  to  us, 

Lest  we  should  set  one  truer  on  his 
throne. 

Man's  word  is  God  in  man." 

His  Baron  said 

"  We  go  but  barken  :    there  be   two 
strange  knights 

Who  sit  near  Camelol  at  a  fountain- 
side, 

A  mile  beneath  the  forest,  challeng- 
ing 

And  overthrowing  every  knight  who 
comes. 

Wilt  thou  I  undertake  them  as  we 
pass, 

And  send  them  to  thee  ?  " 

Arthur  laugh'd  upon  him. 

■"  Old  friend,  too  old  to  be  so  young, 
depart. 

Delay  not  thou  for   ought,   but   let 
them  sit. 

Until  they  find  a  lustier  than  them- 
selves." 
So  these  departed.    Early,  one  fair 
dawn, 

The  light-wing'd  spirit  of  his  youth 
return'd 

On  Arthur's  heart;  he  arm'd  himself 
and  went, 
5  So  coming  to  the  fountain-side  beheld 

Balin  and  Balan  sitting  statuelike, 
/Brethren,  to  right  and  left  the  spring, 
that  down, 

From  underneath  a  plume  of  lady-fern, 

Sang,  and  the  sand  danced  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it. 

And  on  the  right  of   Balin  Balin's 
horse 

1  An  introduction  to  •'  Merlin  and  Vivien." 


Was  fast  beside  an  alder,  on  the  left 
Of  Balan  Balan's  near  a  poplartree. 
"  Fair  Sirs,"  said  Arthur,  "  wherefore 

sit  ye  here  1  " 
Balin  and  Balan  answer'd  "For  the 

sake 
Of  glory;  we  be  mightier  men  than 

all 
In  Arthur's  court ;  that  also  have  we 

proved ; 
For  whatsoever  knight    against    us 

came 
Or  I  or  he  have  easily  overthrown." 
"  I  too,"  said  Arthur,  "  am  of  Arthur's 

hall, 
But    rather    proven  in  his  Paynim 

wars 
Than  famous   jousts;    but    see,    or 

proven  or  not, 
Whether  me  likewise  ye  can  over- 
throw." 
And  Arthur  lightly  smote  the  breth- 
ren down, 
And  lightly  so  return'd,  and  no  man 

knew. 
Then  Balin  rose,  and  Balan,  and 

beside 
The  carolling  water  set  themselves 

again. 
And  spake  no  word  until  the  shadow 

turn'd ; 
When  from   the   fringe   of    coppice 

round  them  burst 
A  spangled  pursuivant,  and  crying 

"Sirs, 
Rise,  follow !  ye  be  sent  for  by  the 

King," 
They  foUow'd;    whom  when  Arthur 

seeing  ask'd 
"Tell   me  your  names;  why  sat  ye 

by  the  well  1  " 
Balin  the  stillness  of  a  minute  broke 
Saying   "An   unmelodious   name   to 

thee, 
Balin,  '  the  Savage '  —  that  addition 

thine  — 
My  brother  and  my  better,  this  man 

here, 
Balan.      I  smote    upon    the    naked 

skull 
A  thrall  of  ^hine  in  open  hall,  my 

band 


S20 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


"Was  gauntleted,  half  slew  him;  for 

I  heard 
He  had  spoken  evil  of  me ;  thy  just 

wrath 
Sent  me  a   three-years'   exile   from 

thine  eyes. 
I  have  not   lived    my   life   delight- 

somely : 
Por  I  that  did  that  violence  to  thy 

thrall, 
Had  often  wrought  some  fury  on  my- 
self, 
Saving  for  Balan :  those  three  king- 
less  years 
Have    past  —  were    wormwood-bitter 

to  me.     King, 
Methought  that  if  we  sat  beside  the 

well, 
And  hurl'd  to  ground  what  knight 

soever  spurr'd 
Against  us,  thou  would'st   take  me 

gladlier  back. 
And  make,  as  ten-times  worthier  to 

be  thine 
Than  twenty  Balins,   Balan  knight. 

I  have  said. 
!Not  so  —  not  all.     A  man  of  thine 

to-day 
Abash'd  us  both,  and  brake  my  boast. 

Thy  will  ?  " 
Said  Arthur  "  Thou  hast  ever  spoken 

truth ; 
Thy  too  fierce  manhood  would  not 

let  thee  lie. 
Rise,  my  true  knight.     As  children 

learn,  be  thou 
"Wiser  for  falling!    walk   with    me, 

and  move 
To  music  with  thine  Order  and  the 

King. 
Thy  chair,  a  grief  to  all  the  brethren, 

stands 
Vacant,   but    thou    retake    it,  mine 

again ! " 
Thereafter,  when  Sir  Balin  enter'd 

hall, 
The  Lost  one  Found  was  greeted  as 

in  Heaven 
With  joy  that  blazed  itself  in  wood- 
land wealth 
Of  leaf,   and  gayest  garlandage   of 

flowers, 


Along  the  walls  and  down  the  board  j 

they  sat, . 
And  cup   clash'd   cup ;    they  drank 

and  some  one  sang. 
Sweet-voiced,    a    song    of    welcome, 

whereupon 
Their     common     shout    in    chorus, 

mounting,  made 
Those  banners  of  twelve  battles  over- 
head 
Stir,  as  they  stirr'd  of  old,  when  Ar- 
thur's host 
Proclaim'd  him  Victor,  and  the  day 

was  won. 
Then  Balan  added  to  their  Order 

lived 
A  wealthier  life  than  heretofore  with 

these 
And  Balin,  till  their  embassage  re- 

turn'd. 
"Sir  King"   they  brought  report 

"  we  hardly  found. 
So  bush'd  about  it  is  with  glocu,  the 

hall 
Of  him  to  whom  ye  sent  ui   Pellam, 

once 
A  Christless   foe  of    thint    iis  ever 

dash'd 
Horse  against  horse ;  but  sudlng  that 

thy  realm 
Hath  prosper'd  in  the  name  of  Christ, 

the  King 
Took,  as  in  rival  heat,  to  holy  things ; 
And  finds  himself  descended  from  the 

Saint 
Arimathsean  Joseph ;  him  who  first 
Brought  the   great  iaith  to  Britain 

over  seas ; 
He  boasts  his  life  as  p'lrer  than  thine 

own ; 
Bats  scarce  enow  to  keep  his  pulse 

abeat ; 
Hath  push'd  aside  his  faithful  wife, 

nor  lets 
Or    dame    or    damsel    enter  at    his 

gates 
Lest  he   should   be  polluted.     This 

gray  King 
Show'd  us  a  shrine  wherein  were  won- 
ders —  yea  — 
Rich  arks  with    priceless  bones    of 

martyrdom, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


62) 


Thorns   of  the  crown  and  shivers  of 

the  cross. 
And  therewithal  (for  thus  he  told  us) 

brought 
By  holy  Joseph  hither,  that  same  spear 
Wherewith   the   Roman   pierced   the 

side  of  Christ. 
He  much  amazed  us ;  after,  when  we 

sought 
The  tribute,  answer'd  'I  have  quite 

foregone 
All  matters   of  this   world:  Garlon, 

mine  heir 
Of  him  demand  it,'  which  this  Gar- 
lon gave 
With  much  ado,  railing  at  thine  and 

thee. 
But   when  we  left,  in  those  deep 

woods  we  found 
A  knight  of  thine  spear-stricken  from 

behind. 
Dead,  whom  we  buried ;   more  than 

one  of  us 
Cried  out  on  Garlon,  but  a  woodman 

there 
Reported  of  some  demon  in  the  woods 
Was  once  a  man,  who  driven  by  evil 

tongues 
From  all  his  fellows,  lived  alone,  and 

came 
To  learn  black  magic,  and  to  hate  his 

kind 
With  such  a  hate,  that  when  he  died, 

his  soul 
Became  a  Fiend,  which,  as  the  man 

in  life 
Was  wounded  by  blind  tongues  he  saw 

not  whence, 
Strikes  from  behind.     This  woodman 

show'd  the  cave 
From  which  he  sallies,  and  wherein 

he  dwelt. 
We  saw  the  hoof-print  of  a  horse,  no 

more." 
Then  Arthur,  "  Let  who  goes  before 

me,  see 
He   do  not   fall  behind  me;  foully 

slain 
And  villainously!  who  will  hunt  for 

me 
This  demon  of  the  woods?"      Said 

Balan,  "I'M 


So  claim'd  the  quest  and  rode  away, 

but  first. 
Embracing  Balin,  "  Good,  my  brother, 

hear ! 
Let  not  thy  moods  prevail,  when  I  am 

gone 
Who  used  to  lay  them !    hold  them 

outer  fiends, 
Who  leap  at  thee  to  tear  thee ;  shake 

them  aside, 
Dreams  ruling  when  wit  sleeps !  yea, 

but  to  dream 
That  any  of  these  would  wrong  thee, 

wrongs  thyself. 
Witness  their  flowery  welcome.  Bound 

are  they 
To  speak  no  evil.     Truly   save  for 

fears, 
My  fears  for  thee,  so  rich  a  fellow- 
ship 
Would  make  me  wholly  blest :  thou 

one  of  them. 
Be  one  indeed :  consider  them,  and  all 
Their  bearing  in  their  common  bond 

of  love. 
No  more  of   hatred  than  in  Heaven 

itself. 
No  more  of  jealousy  than  in  Para- 
dise." 
So  Balan  warn'd,  and  went;  Balin 

remain'd : 
Who  —  for  but  three  brief  moons  had 

glanced  away 
From  being  knighted  till  he  smote  the 

thrall, 
And  faded   from   the  presence  into 

years 
Of  exile  —  now  would  strictlier  set 

himself 
To  learn  what  Arthur  meant  by  cour- 
tesy, 
Manhood,  and  knighthood ;  wherefore 

hover'd  round 
Lancelot,   but  when   he  mark'd    his, 

high  sweet  smile 
In  passing,  and  a  transitory  word 
Made  knight  or  churl  or  child  or  dam- 
sel seem 
From   being    smiled    at    happier    in 

themselves  — 
Sigh'd,  as  a  boy  lame-born  beneath  a 

height, 


622 


BALIN  AND  BALAff. 


That  glooms  his  valley,  sighs  to  see 

the  peak 
Sun-flush'd,   or   touch    at    night   the 

northern  star; 
Por  one  from  out  his  village  lately 

climb'd 
And  brought  report  of  azure  lands 

and  fair, 
Par  seen  to  left  and  right;   and  he 

himself 
Hath  hardly  scaled  with  help  a  hun- 
dred feet 
Up  from  the  base :  so  Balin  marvel- 
ling oft 
How  far  beyond  him  Lancelot  seem'd 

to  move, 
Groan'd,  and  at  times  would  mutter, 

"  These  be  gifts, 
Born  with  the  blood,  not  learnable, 

divine, 
'Beyond    my    reach.      Well    had    I 

foughten  —  well  — 
In  those  -fierce  wars,   struck  hard  — 

and  had  I  crown'd 
"With  my  slain  self  the  heaps  of  whom 

1  slew  — 
So  —  better  !  —  But   this  worship  of 

the  Queen, 
That  honor  too  wherein  she  holds  him 

—  this, 

This  was  the  sunshine  that  hath  given 

the  man 
A  growth,  a  name  that  branches  o'er 

the  rest. 
And  strength  against  all  odds,  and 

what  the  King 
So  prizes  —  overprizes  — gentleness. 
Her  likewise  would  I  worship  an  I 

might. 
I  never  can  be  close  with  her,  as  he 
That   brought   her  hither.      Shall  I 

pray  the  King 
To  let  me  bear  some  token   of  his 

Queen 
Whereon  to  gaze,  remembering  her 

—  forget 

My  heats  and  violences  ?  Jive  afresh  % 
What,  if  the  Queen  disdain'd  to  grant 

it!  nay 
Being  so  stately-gentle, would  she  make 
My  darkness  blackness  ?    and  with 

how  sweet  grace 


She  greeted  my  return  I     Bold  will  J 
be  — 

Some  goodly  cognizance  of  Guinevere, 

In  lieu  of  this  rough  beast  upon  my 
shield, 

Langued  gules,  and  tooth'd  with  grin- 
ning savagery." 
And  Arthur,  when  Sir  Balin  sought 
him,  said 

"  What  wilt  thou  bear  ?  "    Balin  was 
bold,  and  ask'd 

To  bear  her  own  crown-royal   upon 
shield. 

Whereat  she  smiled  and  turn'd  her  to 
the  King, 

Who  answer'd  "  Thou  shalt  put  the 
crown  to  use. 

The  crown  is  but  the  shadow  of  the 
King, 

And  this  a  shadow's  shadow,  let  him 
have  it, 

So  this  will   help   him  of    his   vio> 
lences !  " 

"  No  shadow  "  said  Sir  Balin  "  0  my 
Queen, 

But  light  to  me !  no  shadow,  0  my  King 

But  golden  earnest  of  a  gentler  life ! " 
So  Balin  bare  the   crown,  and  all 
the  knights 

Approved  him,  and  the  Queen,  and 
all  the  world 

Made  music,  and  he   felt   his   being 
move 

In  music   with  his   Order,  and   the 
King. 
The  nightingale,  full-toned  in  mid- 
dle May, 

Hath  ever  and  anon  a  note  so  thin 

It    seems    another    voice    in     other 
groves ; 

Thus,  after  some  quick  burst  of  sud- 
den wrath, 

The  music  in  him  seem'd  to  change, 
and  grow 

Paint  and  far-off. 

And  once  he  saw  the  thrall 

His  passion  half  had  gauntleted  to 
death. 

That  causer  of  his  banishment  and 
shame, 

Smile  at  him,  as  he  deem'd,  presump- 
tuously : 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


623 


His  arm  half  rose  to  strike  again,  but 

fell: 
The  memory  of  that  cognizance  on 

shield 
"Weighted  it  down,  but  in  himself  he 

inoau'd : 
"  Too  high  this  mount  of  Camelot 

for  me : 
These  high-set  courtesies  are  not  for 

me. 
Shall  I  not  rather  prove  the  worse 

for  these  % 
Fierier  and  stormier  from  restraining, 

break 
Into  some  madness    ev'n  before  the 

Queen?  " 
Thus,  as  a  hearth  lit  in  a  mountain 

home. 
And  glancing  on  the  window,  when 

the  gloom 
Of  twilight  deepens  round  it,  seems  a 

flame 
That  rages  in  the  woodland  far  below. 
So  when  his   moods   were   darken'd, 

court  and  King 
And  all   the   kindly   warmth   of  Ar- 
thur's hall 
Shadow'd  an  angry  distance :  yet  he 

strove 
To  learn  the  graces  of  their  Table, 

fought 
Hard   with   himself,   and   seem'd   at 

length  in  peace. 
Then  chanced,  one   morning,  that 

Sir  Balin  sat 
Close-bower'd  in  that  garden  nigh  the 

hall. 
A  walk  of   roses   ran  from   door   to 

door; 
A  walk  of  lilies  crost  it  to  the  bower : 
And  down   that   range    of   roses   the 

great  Queen 
Came  with  slow  steps,  the  morning 

on  her  face ; 
And  all  in  shadow  from  the  counter 

door 
Sir  Lancelot  as  to  meet  her,  then  at 

once. 
As  if  he  saw  not,  glanced  aside,  and 

paced 
The  long  white  walk  of  lilies  toward 

the  bower. 


Follow'd  the  Queen  ,•  Sir  Balin  heard 

her  "  Prince, 
Art  thou  so  little  loyal  to  thy  Queen, 
As  pass  without  good  morrow  to  thy 

Queen  ?  " 
To  whom  Sir  Lancelot  with  his  eyes 

on  earth, 
"  Fain  would  I  still  be   loyal  to  the 

Queen." 
"  Yea  so  "  she  said  "  but  so  to  passj( 

me  by  — 
So  loyal  scarce  is  loyal  to  thyself, 
Whom  all  men  rate  the  king  of  cour- 
tesy. ^ 
Let  be  :  ye  stand,  fair  lord,  as  in  a 

dream." 
Then  Lancelot  with  his  hand  among 

the  flowers 
"  Yea  —  for  a  dream.     Last  night  me- 

thought  I  saw 
That  maiden  Saint  who  stands  with 

lily  in  hand 
In   yonder    shrine.     All    round    her 

prest  the  dark, 
And   all   the   light  upon   her   silver 

face 
Mow'd  from  the   spiritual  lily  that 

she  held. 
Lo !   these  her  emblems  drew  mine 

eyes  —  away : 
For  see,  how  perfect-pure!    As  light 

a  flush 
As  hardly  tints  the  blossom   of   the 

quince 
Would  mar  their  charm  of  stainless 

maidenhood." 
"  Sweeter  to  me "  she  said  "  this 

garden  rose 
Deep-hued  and  many-folded !  sweeter 

still 
The    wild-wood    hyacinth    and    the 

bloom  of  May. 
Prince,  we  have  ridd'n  before  among 

the  flowers 
In  those  fair  days  —  not  all  as  cool  as 

these, 
Tho'  season-earlier.     Art  thou  sad  ? 

or  sick  % 
Our  noble  King  will  send   thee  his 

own  leech  — 
Sick?  or  for  any  matter  anger'd  at 

me?" 


e24 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


Then  Lancelot  lifted  his  large  eyes; 

they  dwelt 
Deep-tranced  on  hers,  and  could  not 

fall :  her  hue 
Changed  at  his  gaze :  so  turning  side 

by  side 
They  past,  and   Balin   started  from 

his  bower. 
"  Queen  ■?   subject  1  but  I  see  not 

what  I  see. 
'  Damsel  and  lover  %  hear  not  what  I 

hear. 
My  father  hath  begotten  me  in  his 

wrath. 
I  suffer   from  the  things  before  me, 

know. 
Learn  nothing  ;  am  not  worthy  to  be 

knight ; 
A  churl,  a  clown !  "  and  in  him  gloom 

on  gloom 
Deepen'd :     he    sharply    caught    his 

lance  and  shield, 
Nor  stay'd  to  crave  permission  of  the 

king, 
But,    mad     for    strange     adventure, 

dash'd  away. 
He  took  the  selfsame  track  as  Ba- 

lan,  saw 
The  fountain  where  they  sat  together, 

sigh'd 
"  Was  I  not  better  there  with  him  ■?  " 

and  rode 
The  skyless  woods,  but  under  open 

blue 
Came  on  the  hoarhead  woodman  at  a 

bough 
Wearily  hewing,  "  Churl,  thine  axe  !'' 

he  cried, 
Descended,   and    disjointed   it    at  a 

blow : 
To  whom  the  woodman  utter'd  won- 

deringly 
"  Lord,  thou  couldst  lay  the  Devil  of 

these  woods 
If  arm  of  flesh  could  lay  him.''     Ba- 
lin cried 
"  Him,  or  the  viler  devil  who  plays 

his  part. 
To  lay  that  devil  would  lay  the  Devil 

in  me." 
"  Nay  "  said  the  churl,  "  our  devil  is  a 

truth. 


I  saw  the  flash  of  him  but  yestereven. 
And  some  do  say  that  our  Sir  Garlon 

too 
Hath  learn'd  black  magic,  and  to  ride 

unseen. 
Look    to     the    cave."      But    Balin 

answer'dhim 
"Old  fabler,  these  be  fancies  of  the 

churl, 
Look  to  thy  woodcraft,"  and  so  leav- 
ing him. 
Now  with  slack  rein  and  careless  of 

himself, 
Now  with  dug  spur  and  raving  at 

himself. 
Now  with  droopt  brow  down  the  long 

glades  he  rode ; 
So  mark'd  not  on  his  right  a  cavern- 
chasm 
Yawn  over  darkness,  where,  not  far 

within 
The    whole    day    died,    but,    dying, 

gleam'd  on  rocks 
Roof-pendent,  sharp;  and  others  from 

the  floor. 
Tusklike,  arising,  made  that  mouth 

of  night 
Whereout  the  Demon  issued  up  from 

Hell. 
He  mark'd  not  this,   but   blind   and 

deaf  to  all 
Save  that  chain'd  rage,  which  ever 

yelpt  within. 
Past  eastward  from  the  falling  sun. 

At  once 
He    felt    the    hollow-beaten    mosses 

thud 
And  tremble,  and  then  the  shadow  of 

a  spear, 
Shot  from  behind  him,  ran  along  the 

ground. 
Sideways  he  started  from  the  path, 

and  saw. 
With  pointed  lance  as  if  to  pierce,  a 

shape, 
A  light  of  armor  by  him  flash,  and  pass 
And  vanish   in   the  woods ;  and  fol- 

low'd  this. 
But  all   so   blind  in  rage  that  una- 
wares 
He  burst  his  lance  against  a  forest 

bough, 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


62S 


Dishorsed   himself,   and   rose   again, 

and  fled 
Far,  tin  tlie  castle  of  a  King,  the  hall 
Of    Pellam,    lichen-bearded,    grayly 

draped 
With  streaming  grass,  appear'd,  low- 
built  but  strong ; 
The   ruinous   donjon   as   a   knoll  of 

moss, 
The  battlement  overtopt  with  iyytods, 
A  home  of  bats,  in  every  tower  an 

owi. 
Then  spake  the  men  of  Pellam  cry- 
ing "  Lord, 
Why  wear  ye  this  crown-royal  upon 

shield  ?  " 
Said  Balin  "  For  the  fairest  and  the 

best 
Of    ladies    living   gave  me    this    to 

bear." 
So  stall'd  his  horse,  and  strode  across 

the  court, 
But    found    the    greetings    both    of 

knight  and  King 
Faint  in  the  low  dark  hall  of  banquet : 

leaves 
Laid  their  green  faces  flat  against  the 

panes. 
Sprays    grated,    and     the    canker'd 

boughs  without 
Whined   in  the   wood;    for  all  was 

hush'd  within. 
Till  when  at  feast  Sir  Garlon  likewise 

ask'd 
"Why  wear  ye  that  crown-royal V 

Balin  said 
"  The  Queen  we  worship,  Lancelot, 

T,  and  all. 
As  fairest,  best  and  purest,  granted 

me 
To  bear  it!"     Such    a   sound    (for 

Arthur's  knights 
Were  hated  strangers  in  the  hall)  as 

makes 
The  white  swan-mother,  sitting,  when 

she  hears 
A  strange  knee  rustle  thro'  her  secret 

reeds. 
Made  Garlon,  hissing;  then  he  sourly 

smiled. 
"Fairest  I  grant  her:  I  have  seen; 

but  best, 


Best,  purest  1  thou  from  Arthur's  hall, 

and  yet 
So  simple  !  hast  thou  eyes,  or  if,  are 

these 
So  far  besotted  that  they  fail  to  see 
This  fair  wife-worship  cloaks  a  secret 

shame  ? 
Truly,  ye    men  of    Arthur   be   but 

babes." 
A  goblet  on  the  board  by  Balin, 

boss'd 
With  holy  Joseph's   legend,  on  his 

right 
Stood,   all  of  massiest  bronze :    one 

side  had  sea 
And  ship  and  sail  and  angels  blowing 

on  it: 
And   one  was  rough  with  pole  and 

scaffoldage 
Of  that  low  church  he  built  at  Glas- 
tonbury. 
This  Balin  graspt,  but  while  in  act  to 

hurl. 
Thro'  memory  of  that  token  on  the 

shield 
Relax'd  his  hold :  "  I  will  be  gentle  " 

he  thought 
"  And    passing   gentle "   caught   his 

hand  away. 
Then   fiercely   to   Sir  Garlon  "  eyes 

have  I 
That  saw  to-day  the  shadow  of  a  spear. 
Shot  from  behind  me,  run  along  the 

ground; 
Eyes  too  that  long  have  watch'd  how 

Lancelot  draws 
From  homage  to  the  best  and  purest, 

might. 
Name,   manhood,    and  a  grace,  but 

scantly  thine, 
Who,  sitting  in  thine  own  hall,  canst 

endure 
To   mouth  so  huge   a  foulness  —  to 

thy  guest, 
Me,   me   of  Arthur's   Table.    Felon 

talk! 
Let  be !  no  more  ! " 

But  not  the  less  by  night 
The  scorn  of   Garlon,  poisoning  all 

his  rest, 
Stung  him  in  dreams.    At  length,  and 

dim  thro'  leaves 


^26 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


Blinkt  the  white  morn,  sprays  grated, 
and  old  boughs 

Whined  in  the  wood.  He  rose,  de- 
scended, met 

The  scorner  in  the  castle  court,  and 
fain, 

For  hate  and  loathing,  would  have 
past  him  by; 

But  when  Sir  Garlon  utter'd  mocking- 
wise ; 

"  What,  wear  ye  still  that  same  crown- 
scandalous  1  " 

His  countenance  blacken'd,  and  his 
forehead  reins 

Bloated,  and  branch'd;  and  tearing 
out  of  sheath 

The  brand,  Sir  Balin  with  a  fiery 
"Ha! 

So  thou  be  shadow,  here  I  make  thee 
ghost," 

Hard  upon  helm  smote  him,  and  the 
blade  flew 

Splintering  in  six,  and  clinkt  upon 
the  stones. 

Then  Garlon,  reeling  slowly  back- 
ward, fell. 

And  Balin  by  the  banneret  of  his  helm 

Dragg'd  him,  and  struck,  but  from 
the  castle  a  cry 

Sounded  across  the  court,  and  —  men- 
at-arms, 

A  score  with  pointed  lances,  making 
at  him  — 

He  dash'd  the  pummel  at  the  fore- 
most face. 

Beneath  a  low  door  dipt,  and  made 
his  feet 

Wings  thro'  a  glimmering  gallery, 
till  he  mark'd 

The  portal  of  King  Pellam's  chapel 
wide 

And  inward  to  the  wall;  he  stept 
behind ; 

Thence  in  a  moment  heard  them  pass 
like  wolves 

Howling;  but  while  he  stared  about 
the  shrine, 

In  which  he  scarce  could  spy  the 
Christ  for  Saints, 

Beheld  before  a  golden  altar  lie 

The  longest  lance  his  eyes  had  ever 
seen. 


Foint-painted  red ;  and  seizing  there^ 

upon 
Push'd  thro'  an  open  casement  down,. 

lean'd  on  it, 
Leapt  in  a  semicircle,  and  lit  on  earth ;: 
Then  hand  at  ear,  and  barkening  from. 

what  side 
The  blindfold  rummage  buried  in  the; 

walls 
Might  echo,  ran  the  counter  path,  an(i 

found 
His   charger,   mounted  on  him  and 

away. 
An  arrow  whizz'd  to  the  right,  one  to 

the  left. 
One  overhead;    and  Pellam's  feeble 

cry 
"  Stay,  stay  him  !  he  defileth  heavenly 

things 
With    earthly    uses "  —  made    him 

quickly  dive 
Beneath  the  boughs,  and  race  thro* 

many  a  mile 
Of  dense  and  open,  till  his  goodly 

horse, 
Arising  wearily  at  a  fallen  oak. 
Stumbled  headlong,  and  cast  him  face 

to  ground. 
Half-wroth  he  had  not  ended,  but 

all  glad, 
Knightlike,  to  find  his  charger  yet. 

unlamed. 
Sir  Balin  drew  the  shield  from  ofi  his 

neck, 
Stared  at  the  priceless  cognizance,  and 

thought 
"I  have   shamed  thee  so  that  now 

thou  shamest  me. 
Thee  will  I  bear  no  more,"  high  on  a 

branch 
Hung  it,  and  turn'd  aside  into  the 

woods, 
And  there  in  gloom  cast  himself  all 

along. 
Moaning    "My    violences,    my    vio- 
lences ! " 
But  now  the  wholesome  music  of 

the  wood 
Was  durab'd  by  one  from  out  the  halt 

of  Mark, 
A   damsel-errant,   warbling,    as    she 

rode 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


627 


The   woodland   alleys,   Vivien,   with 

her  Squire. 
"  The  fire  of  Heaven  has  kill'd  the 

barren  cold. 
And  kindled  all  the  plain  and  all  the 

wold. 
_  The  new  leaf  ever  pushes  off  the  old. 
"  The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 

of  Hell. 
Old  priest,  who  mumble  worship  in 

your  quire  — 
Old   monk    and   nun,   ye    scorn    the 

world's  desire. 
Yet  in  your  frosty  cells  ye  feel  the 

fire! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 

of  Hell. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  on  the  dusty 

ways. 
The  wayside  blossoms   open  to   the 

blaze. 
The   whole   wood-world  is  one    full 

peal  of  praise. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame 

of  Hell. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  lord  of  all 

things  good, 
And  starve  not  thou  this  fire  within 

thy  blood, 
But    follow   Vivien    thro'  the    fiery 

flood! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell!" 
Then  turning  to  her  Squire  "  This 

fire  of  Heaven, 
This  old  sun-worship,  boy,  will  rise 

again. 
And  beat  the  cross  to  earth,  and  break 

the  King 
And  all  his  Table." 

Then  they  reach'd  a  glade, 
'  Where  under  one  long  lane  of  cloud- 
less air 
Before  another  wood,  the  royal  crown 
Sparkled,  and  swaying  upon  a  restless 

elm 
Drew  the  vague  glance  of  Vivien,  and 

her  Squire ; 
Amazed  were  these ;  "  Lo  there  "  she 

cried  —  "a  crown  — 
Borne  by  some  high  lord-prince   of 

Arthur's  hall. 


And  there  a  horse  !  the  rider  ?  where 

is  he  ■! 
See,  yonder  lies  one  dead  within  the 

wood. 
Not  dead ;    he  stirs  !  —  but  sleeping! 

I  will  speak. 
Hail,  royal  knight,  we  break  on  thy 

sweet  rest, 
Not,  doubtless,  all  unearn'd  by  noble 

deeds. 
But    bounden    art    thou,    if    from 

Arthur's  hall. 
To  help  the  weak.    Behold,  I  fly  from 

shame, 
A  lustful  King,  who  sought  to  win  xny 

love 
Thro'   evil  ways :    the    knight,   with 

whom  I  rode. 
Hath  suffer'd  misadventure,  and  my 

squire 
Hath  in  him  small  defence ;  but  thou. 

Sir  Prince, 
Wilt  surely  guide  me  to  the  warrior 

King, 
Arthur   the   blameless,  pure  as  any 

maid, 
To  get  me  shelter  for  my  maiden- 
hood. 
I  charge  thee  by  that  crown  upon  thy 

shield, 
And  by  the  great  Queen's  name,  arise 

and  hence." 
And  Balin  rose,  "  Thither  no  more ! 

nor  Prince 
Nor  knight  am  I,  but  one  that  hath 

defamed 
The  cognizance  she  gave  me  :  here  I 

dwell 
Savage    among    the    savage  woods, 

here  die  — 
Die  :  let  the  wolves'  black  maws  en- 
sepulchre 
Their  brother  beast,  whose  anger  was 

his  lord.  ' 

0  me,  that  such  a  name  as  Guine- 
vere's, 
Which  our  high  Lancelot  hath  80 

lifted  up. 
And  been  thereby  uplifted,   should 

thro'  me. 
My  violence,  and  my  villainy,  come. 

to  shame." 


628 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


Thereat  she  suddenly  laugh'd  and 

shrill,  anon 
Sigh'd  all  as  suddenly.      Said  Balin 

to  her 
"  Is  this  thy  courtesy  —  to  mock  me, 

ha? 
Hence,   for  I  will   not   with   thee." 

Again  she  sigh'd 
"  Pardon,   sweet    lord !    we   maidens 

often  laugh 
When  sick  at  heart,  when  rather  we 

should  weep. 
I  knew  thee  wrong'd.    I  brake  upon 

thy  rest. 
And  now  full  loth  am  I  to  break  thy 

dream. 
But  thou  art  man,  and  canst  abide  a 

truth, 
Tho'  bitter.    Hither,  boy  —  and  mark 

me  well. 
Dost    thou    remember    at    Caerleon 

once  — 
A  year  ago  ^  nay,  then  I  love  thee 

not  — 
Ay,    thou     remeraberest    well  —  one 

summer  dawn  — • 
By  the  great  tower  —  Caerleon  upon 

Usk  — 
Nay,  truly  we  were  hidden :  this  fair 

lord. 
The  flower  of  all  their  vestal  knight- 
hood, knelt 
In  amorous  homage  —  knelt  —  what 

else  1  —  0  ay 
Knelt,  and  drew  down  from  out  his 

night-black  hair 
And  mumbled  that  white  hand  whose 

ring'd  caress 
Had  wander'd  from  her  own  King's 

golden  head, 
And  lost  itself  in  darkness,  till  she 

cried  — 
I  thought  the  great  tower  would  crash 

down  on  both  — 
'Rise,  my  sweet  king,  and  kiss  me  on 

the  lips, 
Thou  art  my  King.'    This  lad,  whose 

lightest  word 
Is  mere  white  truth  in  simple  naked- 
ness. 
Saw  them  embrace ;  he  reddens,  can- 
not speak. 


So  bashful,  he !  but  all  the  maiden 

Saints, 
The  deatliless  mother-maidenhood  of 

Heaven 
Cry  out  upon  her.    Up  then,  ride  with 

me  ! 
Talk  not  of  shame !  thou  canst  not, 

an  thou  would'st, 
Do  these  more  shame  than  these  have 

done  themselves." 
She  lied  with    ease;    but  horror- 
stricken  he, 
Remembering   that   dark    bower    at 

Camelot, 
Breathed  in  a  dismal  whisper  "  It  is 

truth." 
Sunnily  she  smiled  "  And  even  in 

this  lone  wood 
Sweet  lord,  ye  do  right  well  to  whis- 
per this. 
Fools    prate,    and    perish    traitors. 

Woods  have  tongues. 
As  walls  have  ears :    but  thou  shalt 

go  with  me. 
And  we  will  speak  at  first  exceeding 

low. 
Meet  is  it  the  good  King  be  not  de- 
ceived. 
See  now,  I  set  thee  high  on  vantage 

ground, - 
From  whence  to  watch  the  time,  and 

eagle-like 
Stoop  at  thy  will  on  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen." 
She  ceased ;   his  evil  spirit  upon 

him  leapt. 
He  ground  his  teeth  together,  sprang 

with  a  yell. 
Tore  from   the  branch,  and  cast  on 

earth,  the  shield, 
Drove  his   mail'd  heel  athwart  the 

royal  crown, 
Stampt   all  into  defacement,  hurl'd 

it  from  him 
Among  the  forest  weeds,  and  cursed 

the  tale. 
The  told-of,  and  the  teller. 

That  weird  yell, 
Unearthlier  than  all  shriek  of  bird  or 

beast, 
Thrill'd  thro'  the  woods;  and  Balai> 

lurking  there 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


629 


(His  quest  was  unaocomplish'd)  heard 

and  thought 
"The  scream  of  that  Wood-devil  I 

came  to  quell ! " 
Then  nearing  "  Lo  !  he  hath  slain  some 

brother-knight, 
And  tramples  on  the  goodly  shield  to 

show 
jHis  loathing  of  our  Order  and  the 

Queen. 
My  quest,  meseems,  is  here.    Or  devil 

or  man 
Guard  thou  thine  head."     Sir  Balin 

spake  not  word. 
But  snatch'd  a  sudden  buckler  from 

the  Squire, 
And  vaulted  on  his  horse,  and  so  they 

.  crash'd 
In   onset,   and   King  Pellam's    holy 

spear. 
Reputed     to    he    red    with    sinless 

blood, 
Redden'd  at  once  with  sinful,  for  the 

point 
Across  the  maiden  shield  of  Balan 

prick'd 
The  hauberk  to  the  flesh  ;  and  Balin's 

horse 
Was  wearied  to  the  death,  and,  when 

they  clash'd. 
Rolling  back  upon  Balin,  crush'd  the 

man 
Inward,  and  either  fell,  and  swoon'd 
away. 
Then   to  her  Squire  mutter'd  the 
damsel  "Fools! 
This  fellow  hath  wrought  some  foul- 
ness with  his  Queen : 
Else  never  had  he  borne  her  crown, 

nor  raved 
And   thus    foam'd    over   at   a  rival 

name: 
But  thou.  Sir  Chick,  that  scarce  hast 

broken  shell. 
Art  yet  half -yolk,  not  even  come  to 

down  — 
Who    never   sawest  Caerleon    upon 

Usk  — 
And  yet  hast  often  pleaded  for  my 

love  — 
See  what  I  see,  be  thou  where  I  have 
been, 


Or  else  Sir  Chick  —  dismount  and 

loose  their  casques 
I  fain  would  know  what  manner  of 

men  they  be." 
And  when  the  Squire  had  loosed  them, 

"  Goodly  !  — look! 
They  might  have  cropt  the  myriad 

flower  of  May, 
And  butt  each  other  here,  like  brain- 
less bulls, 
Dead  for  one  heifer ! " 

Then  the  gentle  Squire 
"  I  hold  them  happy,  so  they  died  for 

love  : 
And,  Vivien,  tho'  ye  beat  me  like 

your  dog, 
I  too  could  die,  as  now  I  live,  for 
thee." 
"  Live  on,  Sir  Boy,"  she  cried.     "  I 
better  prize 
The  living  dog  than  the  dead  lion: 

away ! 
I  cannot  brook    to   gaze  upon   the 

dead." 
Then  leapt  her  palfrey  o'er  the  fallen 

oak. 
And  bounding  forward  "  Leave  them 
to  the  wolves." 
But  when  their  foreheads  felt  the 
cooling  air, 
Balin  first  woke,  and  seeing  that  true 

face. 
Familiar   up    from    cradle-time,    so 

wan, 
Crawl'd   slowly  with  low  moans  to 

where  he  lay. 
And  on  his  dying  brother  cast  him- 
self 
Dying ;  and  he  lifted  faint  eyes ;  he 

felt 
One  near  him  ;  all  at  once  they  found 

the  world. 
Staring  wild-wide  ;  then  with  a  child- 
like wail. 
And  drawing  down  the  dim  disastrous 

brow 
That  o'er  him   hung,  he    kiss'd  it, 
moan'd  and  spake ; 
"  0  Balin,  Balin,  I  that  faia  had 
died 
To  save  thy  life,  have  brought  thee 
to  thy  death. 


.,0 


PROLOGUE    TO    GENERAL  HAMLEY. 


Why  had  ye  not  the  shield  I  knew  ? 

and  why 
Trampled  ye  thus  on  that  which  bare 

the  Crown  ?  " 
Then  Balin  told  him  brokenly,  and 

in  gasps, 
All    that   had   chanced,   and    Balan 

moan'd  again. 
"  Brother,  I  dwelt  a  day  in  Pellam'a 

hall: 
This  Garlon  mock'd  me,  but  I  heeded 

not. 
And  one  said  '  Eat  in  peace !  a  liar 

is  he. 
And  hates  thee  for  the  tribute  ! '  this 

good  knight 
Told  me,  that  twice  a  wanton  damsel 

came. 
And  sought  for  Garlon  at  the  castle- 
gates, 
"Whom  Pellam  drove  away  with  holy 

heat. 
I  well  believe  this  damsel,  and  the 

one 
"Who  stood  beside  thee  even  now,  the 

same. 
'  She   dwells    among   the  woods '  he 

said  '  and  meets 
And  dallies  with  him  in  the  Mouth-of 

Hell.' 
Toul  are   their  lives ;  foul  are  their 

lips ;  they  lied. 
Pure  as  our  own  true  Mother  is  our 

Queen." 
"  0  brother  "  answer'd  Balin  "  Woe 

is  me! 
My  madness  all  thy  life  has  been  thy 

doom. 
Thy  curse,  and  darken'd  all  thy  day ; 

and  now 
The  night   has   come.     I  scarce  can 

see  thee  now. 
Goodnight !    for  we  shall  never    bid 

again 
•Goodmorrow  —  Dark  my  doom  was 

here,  and  dark 
It  will  be  there.     I  see  thee  now  no 

more. 
I  would  not  mine  again  should  darken 

thine, 
feoodnight,  true  brother." 


Balan  answer'd  low 

"  Goodnight,  true  brother  here  !  good- 
morrow  there ! 

We  two  were  born  together,  and  we 
die 

Together  by  one  doom :  "  and  while 
he  spoke 

Closed  his  death-drowsing  eyes,  and 
slept  the  sleep 

With  Balin,  either  lock'd  in  either'a 
arm. 


PROLOGUE  TO   GENERAL 
HAMLEY. 

OnB  birches  yellowing  and  from  each 

The  light  leaf  falling  fast. 
While  squirrels  from  our  fiery  beeCQ 

Were  bearing  off  the  mast. 
You  came,  and  look'd  and  loved  the 
view 

Long-known  and  loved  by  me, 
Green  Sussex  fading  into  blue 

With  one  gray  glimpse  of  sea ; 
And,  gazing  from  this  height  alone, 

We  spoke  of  what  had  been 
Most  marvellous  in  the   wars  your 
own 

Crimean  eyes  had  seen ; 
And  now  —  like  old-world  inns  that 
take 

Some  warrior  for  a  sign 
That  therewithin  a  guest  may  make 

True  cheer  with  honest  wine  — 
Because  you  heard  the  lines  I  read 

Nor  utter'd  word  of  blame, 
I  dare  without  your  leave  to  head 

These  rhymings  with  your  name, 
Who  know  you  but  as  one  of  those 

I  fain  would  meet  again. 
Yet  know  you,  as  your  England  knows 

That  you  and  all  your  men 
Were  soldiers  to  her  heart's  desire, 

When,  in  the  vanish'd  year. 
You  saw  the  league-long  rampart-fire 

Flare  from  Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro'  darkness,  and  the  foe  was  driven, 

And  Wolseley  overthrew 
Arabi,  and  the  stars  in  heaven 

Paled,  and  the  glory  grew. 


THE    CHARGE   OF  THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE. 


631 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVY 
BRIGADE   AT  BALACLAVA. 

October  25,  1854. 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade ! 

Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands 
of  Russians, 

Thousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the 
valley  —  and  stay 'd ; 

For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett's  three  hun- 
dred were  riding  by 

When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 
arose  in  the  sky  ; 

And  he  call'd  "  Left  wheel  into  line !  " 
and  they  wlieel'd  and  obey'd. 

Then  he  look'd  at  the  host  that  had 
halted  lie  knew  not  why, 

And  he  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bad 
his  trumpeter  sound 

To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead, 
as  he  waved  his  blade 

To  the  gallant  three  hundred  vfhose 
glory  will  never  die  — 

"EoUow,"  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
up  the  hill, 

Follow'd  the  Heavy  Brigade. 


The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge, 

and  the  might  of  the  fight ! 
Thousands  of  horsemen  had  gather'd 

there  on  the  height. 
With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left, 

and  a  wing  to  the  right, 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close  ? 

but  he  dash'd  up  alone 
Thro'  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 
'Sway'd  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
'Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then  ; 
All  in  a  moment  follow'd  with  force 
Three  that  were  next  in  their  fiery 

course. 
Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse 

and  horse, 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow 

gap  they  had  made  — 


Four  amid  thousands  !  and  up  the  hillr 

up  the  hill, 
Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade. 


Fell  like  a  cannonshot, 
Burst  like  a  thunderbolt, 
Crash'd  like  a  hurricane, 
Broke  thro'  the  mass  from  below, 
Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe, 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow. 
Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles   of 

light ! 
And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 
Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the 

fight, 
And  were  only  standing  at  gaze. 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the 

right. 
And  roU'd  them  around  like  a  cloud, — 
0  mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle 

were  we. 
When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank 

from  sight, 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-gray  sea. 
And  we  turn'd  to  each  other,  whisper- 
ing, all  dismay'd, 
"Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred 

of  Scarlett's  Brigade ! " 


"  Lost  one  and  all "  were  the  words 
Mutter'd  in  our  dismay ; 
But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes. 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw     ' 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  — 
Banged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a. 

rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day ; 
Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without. 
Drove  it  in.wild  disarray, 


632 


EPILOGUE. 


For  our  men  gallopt  up  ■yith  a  cheer 

and  a  shout, 
And  the  foeman  surged,  and  waver'd, 

and  reel'd 
Op  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 

out  of  the  field, 
And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge 

that  they  made ! 
Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  and  all 

the  Brigade ! 


Note. — The  "  three  linndred  "  of  the  "Heavy  Brigade  "who  made  this  famous  charge  were 
the  Scots  G-reys  and  the  2nd  squadron  of  Inniskillinga ;  the  remainder  of  the  "  Heavy  Brigade  " 
^ubiaequeutly  dashing  up  to  their  support. 

The  '*  three  "  were  Scarlett's  aide-de-camp,  EUiot,  and  the  trumpeter  and  Shegog  the 
orderly,  who  had  been  close  behind  him. 


EPILOGUE. 
Irene. 

H^OT  this  way  will  you  set  your  name 
A  star  among  the  stars. 


"What  way  ? 


Poet. 

Irene. 

when    you    should 


You    praise 

blame 

The  barbarism  of  wars. 

A  juster  epoch  has  begun. 

Poet. 

Yet  tho'  this  cheek  be  gray. 
And  that  bright  hair  the  modern  sun. 

Those  eyes  tlie  blue  to-day. 
You  wrong  me,  passionate  little  friend. 

I  would  that  wars  should  cease, 
I  would  the  globe  from  end  to  end 

Might  sow  and  reap  in  peace, 
And  some  new  Spirit  o'erbear  the  old. 

Or  Trade  re-frain  the  Powers 
Erom  war  with  kindly  links  of  gold, 

Or  Love  with  wreaths  of  flowers. 
Slav,  Teuton,  Kelt,  I  count  them  all 

My  friends  and  brother  souls, 
"With  all  the  peoples,  great  and  small, 

That  wheel  between  the  poles. 
But  since,  our  mortal  shadow,  111 

To  waste  this  earth  began  — 
Perchance  from  some  abuse  of  Will 

In  worlds  before  the  man 


Involving  ours  —  he  needs  must  fight 
To  make  true  peace  his  own, 

He  needs  must  combat  might  with 
might. 
Or  Might  would  rule  alone ; 

And  who  loves  War  for  War's  own 


Is  fool,  or  crazed,  or  worse ; 
But  let  the  patriot-soldier  take 

His  meed  of  fame  in  verse ; 
Nay  —  tho'  that  realm  were  in  the 
wrong 

For  which  her  warriors  bleed, 
It  still  were  right  to  crown  with  song 

The  warrior's  noble  deed  — 
A  crown  the  Singer  hopes  may  last, 

For  so  the  deed  endures ; 
But  Song  vrill  vanish  in  the  Vast; 

And  that  large  phrase  of  yours 
"A  Star  among  the  stars,"  my  dear, 

Is  girlish  talk  at  best; 
For  dare  we  dally  with  the  sphere 

As  he  did  half  in  jest, 
Old  Horace  1     "  I  will  strike  "  said  he 

"  The  stars  with  head  sublime," 
But  scarce  could  see,  as  now  we  see. 

The  man  in  Space  and  Time, 
So  drew  perchance  a  happier  lot 

Than  ours,  who  rhyme  to-day. 
The  fires  that  arch  this  dusky  dot  — 

Yon  myriad-worlded  way  — 
The  vast  sun-clusters'  gather'd  blaze. 

World-isles  in  lonely  skies. 
Whole    heavens    within  themselves, 
amaze 

Our  brief  humanities ; 


TO    VIRGIL. 


633 


And    so   does    Earth;    for   Homer's 
fame, 

Tho'  carved  in  harder  stone  — 
The  falling  drop  will  make  his  name 

As  mortal  as  my  own. 


No! 


Ieene. 


Poet. 


Let  it  live  then  —  ay,  till  when  1 

Earth  passes,  all  is  lost 
In  what  they  prophesy,  our  wise  men, 

Sun-flame  or  sunless  frost, 
And  deed  and  song  alike  are  swept 

Away,  and  all  in  vain 
As  far  as  man  can  see,  except 

The  man  himself  remain; 
And  tho',  in  this  lean  age  forlorn. 

Too  many  a  voice  may  cry 
That  man  can  have  no  after-morn, 
•  Not  yet  of  these  am  I. 
The  man  remains,  and  whatsoe'er 

He  wrought  of  good  or  brave 
Will  mould  him  thro'  the  cycle-year 

That  dawns  behind  the  grave. 


And  here  the  Singer  for  his  Art 
Not  all  in  vain  may  plead 

"  The   song   that   nerves    a  nation's 
heart, 
Is  in  itself  a  deed." 


TO   VIEGIL. 

WRITTEN     AT     THE     REQUEST    OP    THE 
.,      MANTITANS     FOR     THE      NINETEENTH 
'     CENTENARY    OP    VIRGIL's    DEATH. 


Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
[lion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith,  and  Dido's 
pyre; 

II. 

tandscape-lover,  lord  of  language 
more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works 
and  Days, 


All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a  golden 
phrase ; 


Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  wood- 
land, 
tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse 
and  herd ; 
All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word; 


Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 

piping  underneath    his  beechen 
bowers ; 
Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom    the    laughing    shepherd 
bound  with  flowers; 


Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be. 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 
unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea ; 


Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature     moved     by     Universal 
Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human 
kind; 


Light  among -the  vanish'd  ages  ; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom 
shore ; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 
kings   and  realms  that  pass  to 
rise  no  more; 


Now  thy  Eorum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen     every     purple      Cseear's 
dome  — 
Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound      forever      of      Imperial 
Rome  — 


634 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 


Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 
and  the  Home  of  freemen  holds 
her  place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 

sunder'd  onee  from  all  the  hu- 


man race, 


I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day- 
began, 
Witilder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 

182-. 

I. 
Dead! 

And  the  Muses  cried  with  a  stormy 
cry 
"  Send  them  no  more,  forevermore. 
Let  the  people  die." 

II. 
Dead! 

"  Is  it  Ac  then  brought  so  low  ?  " 
And  a,  careless  people  flock'd  from 
the  fields 
With  a  purse  to  pay  for  the  show. 


Dead,  who  had  served  his  time. 

Was  one  of  the  people's  kings, 
Had  labor'd  In  lifting  them  out  of 
slime. 
And    showing    them,    souls    have 
wings  ! 


Dumb  on  the  winter  heath  he  lay. 

His  friends  had  stript  him  bare. 
And  roU'd  his  nakedness  everyway 

That  all  the  crowd  might  stare. 


A  storm-worn  signpost  not  to  be  read. 
And  a  tree  with  a  moulder'd  nest 


On  its  barkless  bones,  stood  stark  by 
the  dead ; 
And  behind  him,  low  in  the  West, 


With  shifting  ladders  of  shadow  and 
light. 

And  blurr'd  in  color  and  form. 
The  sun  hung  over  the  gates  of  Night, 

And  glared  at  a  coming  storm. 


Then  glided  a  vulturous  Beldam  forth. 

That  on  dumb  death  had  thriven  ; 
They  call'd  her  "Reverence"  here 
upon  earth, 
And  "  The  Curse  of  the  Prophet " 
in  Heaven. 


She  kiiclt  —  "  We   worship  him  "  — 
all  but  wept  — 
"  So  great  so  noble  was  he  ! " 
She  clear'd  her  sight,  she  arose,  she 
swept 
The  dust  of  earth  from  her  knee. 


"  Great  I  for  he  spoke  and  the  people 
heard. 
And  his  eloquence  caught  like  a 
flame 
From  zone  to  zone  of  the  world,  till 
his  Word 
Had  won  him  a  noble  name. 


"  Noble !  he  sung,  and  the  sweet  sound 
ran 
Thro'  palace  and  cottage  door, 
For    he   touch'd   on   the  whole  sad 
planet  of  man. 
The   kings  and  the  rich  and  the 
poor; 


"  And  he  sung  not  alone  of  an  old  sua 
set, 

But  a  sun  coming  up  in  his  youth! 
Great  and  noble  —  O  yes  —  but  yet— 

For  man  is  a  lover  of  Truth, 


Missing  Page 


Missing  Page 


HELEN'S    TOWER  — HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


637 


Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the 
Garda  Lake  below 

Sweet  CatuUus's  all-but-island,  olive- 
silvery  Sirmio  ! 


HELEN'S  TOWEE.l 

Helen's  Tower,  here  I  stand, 
Dominant  over  sea  and  land. 
Son's  love  built  me,  and  I  hold 
Mother's  love  engrav'n  in  gold. 
Love  is  in  and  out  of  time, 
I  am  mortal  stone  and  lime. 
Would  my  granite  girth  were  strong 
As  either  love,  to  last  as  long ! 
I  should  wear  my  crown  entire 
To  and  thro'  the  Doomsday  fire, 
And  be  found  of  angel  eyes 
In  earth's  recurring  Paradise. 


EPITAPH     ON     LORD     STRAT- 
FORD  DE   REDOLIPPE. 

IN    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

Thou    third    great    Canning,    stand 
among  our  best 
And  noblest,  now  thy  long   day's 
work  hath  ceased. 
Here   silent   in   our    Minster   of   the 
West 
Who  wert  the  voice  of  England  in 
the  East. 


EPITAPH    ON    GENERAL    GOR- 
DON. 

FOE   A    CENOTAPH. 

Warrior  of  God,  man's  friend,  not 
laid  below, 
Buf   somewhere    dead    far   in   the 
waste  Soudan, 
Thou   livest    in    all    hearts,    for    all 
men  know 
This  earth  has  borne  no  simpler, 
nobler  man. 

I  Written  at  the  request  of  my  friend. 
Lord  Dufferin. 


EPITAPH  ON  CAXTON. 

IN  ST.  Margaret's,  Westminster. 

Fiat  Lux  (his  motto). 

Tht  prayer  was  "  Light  —  more  Light 

—  while  Time  shall  last!  " 
Thou  sawest  a  glory  growing  on  the 

night, 
But  not  the  shadows  which  that  light 

would  cast. 
Till  shadows  vanish  in  the  Light  of 

Light. 


TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGTLL. 

0  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise 
to  know 

The  limits  of  resistance,  and  the 
bounds 

Determining  concession;  still  be  bold 

Not  only  to  slight  praise  but  suffer 
scorn; 

And  be  thy  heart  a  fortress  to  main- 
tain 

The  day  against  the  moment,  and  the 
year 

Against  the  day ;  thy  voice,  a  music 
heard 

Thro'  all  the  yells  and  counter-yells 
of  feud 

And  faction,  and  thy  will,  a.  power  to 
make 

This  ever-changing  world  of  circum- 
stance. 

In  changing,  chime  with  never-chang- 
ing Law. 


HANDS  ALL   ROUND. 

First  pledge  our  Queen  this  solemn 
night, 

Then  drink  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man's  the  true  Cosmopolite 

Wlio  loves  his  native  country  best. 
May  freedom's  oak  forever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day ; 
That  man's  the  best  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  moulder'd  branch 
away. 


638 


FREEDOM. 


Hands  all  round ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 
To  all  the  loyal  hearts  who  long 

To  keep  our  English  Empire  whole ! 
To  all  our  noble  sons,  the  strong 

New  England  of  the  Southern  Pole ! 
To  England  under  Indian  skies. 

To  those  dark  millions  of  her  realm ! 

To  Canada  whom  we  love  and  prize, 

Whatever  statesman  hold  the  helm. 

Hands  all  round ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  name  of  England  drink, 
my  friends. 
And  all  lier  glorious  empire,  round 
and  round. 

To  all  our  statesmen  so  they  be 

True  leaders  of  the  land's  desire  ! 
To  both  our  Houses,  may  they  see 

Beyond  the  borough  and  the  shire ! 
We  sail'd  wherever  ship  could  sail. 

We  founded  many  a  mighty  state ; 

Pray  God  our  greatness  may  not  fail 

Through  craven  fears  of  being  great. 

Hands  all  round  i 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 


FREEDOM. 


O  THOU  SO  fair  in  summers  gone, 
I     While  yet  thy  fresh  and  virgin  soul 
(Inform'd  the  pillar'd  Parthenon, 
The  glittering  Capitol; 


So  fair  in  southern  sunshine  bathed. 
But  scarce  of  such  majestic  mien 

As  here  with  forehead  vapor-swathed 
In  meadows  ever  green; 


For  thou — when  Athens  reign'd  and 
Bome, 
Thy  glorious    eyes    were    dimm'd 
with  pain 
To  mark  in  many  a  freeman's  home 
The  slave,  the  scourge,  the  chain ; 


0  follower  of  the  Vision,  still 
In  motion  to  the  distant  gleam, 

Howe'er  blind   force    and   brainless 
will 
May  jar  thy  golden  dream 


Of  Knowledge  fusing  class  with  class, 
Of  civic  Hate  no  more  to  be. 

Of  Love  to  leaven  all  the  mass, 
Till  every  Soul  be  free ; 

VI. 

Who  yet,  like  Nature,  wouldst  not 
mar 

By  changes  all  too  fierce  and  fast 
This  order  of  Her  Human  Star, 

This  heritage  of  the  past ; 


O  scorner  of  the  party  cry 

That  wanders  from  the  public  good. 
Thou  —  when  the  nations  rear  on  high 

Their  idol  smear'd  with  blood, 


And  when  they  roll  their  idol  dowp  - 
Of  saner  worship  sanely  proud ; 

Thou  leather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd ; 


How  long  thine  ever-growing  mind 
Hath  still'd  the  blast  and  strown 
the  wave, 

Tho'  some  of  late  would  raise  a  wind 
To  sing  thee  to  thy  grave. 


POETS  AND    THEIR  BIBLIOGRAPHIES. 


639 


Men    loud    against     all     forms     of 
power  — 
Unfuruish'd    brows,    tempestuous 
tongues  — 
Expecting  all  things  in  an  hour  — 
Brass  mouths  and  iron  lungs ! 

TO  H.R.H.  PRINCESS  BEATRICE. 

Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  hu- 
man life, 
Which  else  with  all  its  pains,  and 

griefs,  and  deaths. 
Were  utter  darkness  —  one,  the  Sun 

of  dawn 
That   brightens    thro'   the    Mother's 

tender  eyes. 
And  warms   the    child's    awakening 

world  —  and  one 
The  later- rising  Sun  of  spousal  Love, 
Which    from    her    household    orbit 

draws  the  child 
To    move    in    other    spheres.    The 

Mother  weeps 
At  that  white  funeral  of  the  single  life, 
Her    maiden    daughter's    marriage; 

and  her  tears 
Are  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  pain  — 

the  child 
Is  happy  —  ev'n  in  leaving  her  I  but 

Thou, 
True    daughter,    whose    all-faithful, 

filial  eyes 
Have  seen  the  loneliness  of  earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt  neither  quit  the  widow'd  Crown, 

nor  let 
This  later  light  of  Love  have  risen  in 

vain. 
But  moving  thro'  the  Mother's  home, 

between 


The  two  that  love  thee,  lead  a  sum- 
mer life, 

Sway'd  by  eacli  Love,  and  swaying  to 
each  Love, 

Like  some  conjectured  planet  in  mid 
heaven 

Between  two  Suns,  and  drawing  down 
from  both 

The    light    and    genial    warmth    ofl 
double  day. 


POETS   AND    THEIR   BIBLIOG- 
RAPHIES. 

Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier 
skies, 
Old   Virgil  who  would  write  ten 

lines,  they  say, 
At  dawn,  and  lavish  all  the  golden 
day 
To    make    them    wealthier    in    his 

readers'  eyes ; 
And  you,  old  popular  Horace,  you  the 
wise 
Adviser  of  the  nine-years-ponder'd 

lay, 
And  you,  that  wear  a  wreath  of 
sweeter  bay, 
Catullus,  whose  dead  songster  never 

dies ; 
If,  glancing  downward  on  the  kindly 
sphere 
That  once  had  roll'd  you  round  and 

round  the  Sun, 
You  see  your  Art  still  shrined  in 
human  shelves. 
You  should  be  jubilant  that  you  flour- 
ish'd  here 
Before  the  Love  of  Letters,  over- 
done. 
Had  swampt  the  sacred  poets  with 
themselves. 


mo  LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY   YEARS  AFTER. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL   SIXTY  TEARS   AETER. 

Late,  my  grandson  !  half  the  morning  have  I  paced  these  sandy  tracts, 
Watch'd  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring  into  cataracts, 

Wander'd  back  to  living  boyhood  while  I  heard  the  curlews  call, 
I  myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  itself  in  Locksley  Hall. 

So  —  your  happy  suit  was  blasted  — she  the  faultless,  the  divine; 
And  you  liken  —  boyish  babble  —  this  boy -love  of  yours  with  mine. 

I  myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of  a  foolish  past ; 
Babble,  babble;  our  old  England  may  go  down  in  babble  at  last. 

"  Curse  him  !  "  curse  your  fellow-victim  ?  call  him  dotard  in  your  rage  % 
Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well  might  fool  a  dotard's  age. 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier!  wealthier?  yet  perhaps  she  was  not  wise; 
I  remember  how  you  kiss'd  the  miniature  with  those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a  painting  —  Amy's  arms  about  my  neck^ 
Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on  the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture,  she  that  clasp'd  my  neck  had  flown; 
I  was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on  the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment,  will  you  sicken  for  her  sake  ? 
You,  not  you !  your  modern  amourist  is  of  easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me,  Amy  fail'd  me.  Amy  was  a  timid  child ; 

But  your  Judith  —  but  your  worldling  —  she,  had  never  driven  me  wild. 

She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace  dearer  than  the  golden  ring, 
She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  than  a  morn  of  Spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his  briefer  lease  of  life, 

While  she  vows  "  till  death  shall  part  us,"  she  the  would-be-widow  wife. 

She  the  worldling  born  of  worldlings  —  father,  mother  —  be  content, 
Ev'n  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there  is  something  in  descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now  into  the  ground, 
Lies  the  warrior,  my  forefather,  with  his  feet  upon  the  hound. 

Cross'd!  for  once  he  sail'd  the  sea  to  crush  the  Moslem  in  his  pride; 
Dead  the  warrior,  dead  his  glory,  dead  the  cause  in  which  he  died. 

Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  mouldering  aisle  have  stood. 
Gazing  for  one  pensive  moment  on  that  founder  of  our  blood. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL   SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER.  641 

There  again  I  stood  to-day,  and  where  of  old  we  knelt  in  prayer, 

v/'lose  beneath  the  casement  crimson  with  the  shield  of  Locksley  —  there, 

All  in  -white  Italian  marble,  looking  still  as  if  she  smiled, 

Lies  my  Amy  dead  in  child-birth,  dead  the  mother,  dead  the  child. 

Dead  — and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead  her  aged  husband  now, 

I  this  old  white-headed  dreamer  stoopt  and  kiss'd  her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies,  curses,  passionate  tears. 
Gone-  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes  of  the  planet's  dawning  years. 

Fires  that  shook  me  once,  but  now  to  silent  ashes  fall'n  away. 
Cold  upon  the  dead  volcano  sleeps  the  gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute  below  the  chancel  stones. 
All  his  virtues  —  I  forgive  them  —  black  in  white  above  his  bones. 

Gone  the  comrades  of  ray  bivouac,  some  in  fight  against  the  foe. 
Some  thro'  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as  all  on  earth  will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life  in  golden  sequence  ran, 
She  with  all  the  charm  of  woman,  she  with  all  the  breadth  of  man. 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith,  loyal,  lowly,  sweet, 
Feminine  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  feminine  to  her  tender  feet, 

Very  woman  of  very  woman,  nurse  of  ailing  body  and  mind, 
She  that  link'd  again  the  broken  chain  that  bound  me  to  my  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while  I  wander'd  down  the  coast. 
Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow,  smiling  at  the  slighter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard  early  lost  at  sea ; 
Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and  mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  wearying  to  be  left  alone, 
Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once  had  beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth,  for  Truth  is  Truth,  he  worshipt,  being  true  as  he  was  brave; 
Good,  for  Good  is  Good,  he  foUow'd,  yet  he  look'd  beyond  the  grave^ 

Wiser  there  than  you,  that  crowning  barren  Death  as  lord  of  all, 
Deem  this  over-tragic  drama's  closing  curtain  is  the  pall ! 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him  who  saw  the  death  but  kept  the  deck. 
Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sinking  with  the  sinking  wrecfc^ 

Gone  forever !     E ver  ?  no  —  for  since  our  dying  race  began, 
Ever,  ever,  and  forever  was  the  leading  light  of  man. 


642  LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY    YEARS  AFTER.    , 

Those  that  in  barbarian  burials  kill'd  the  slave,  and  slew  the  wife, 
Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion  of  the  second  life. 

Indian  warriors  dream  of  ampler  hunting  grounds  beyond  the  night , 
Ev'n  the  black  Australian  dying  hopes  he  shall  return,  a  white. 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good !    The  Good,  the  True,  the  Pure,  the 
Just ;  , 

Take  the  charm  "  Forever  "  from  them,  and  they  crumble  into  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  "  Forward,  Forward,"  lost  within  a  growing  gloom  ; 
Iiost,  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the  silence  of  a  tomb. 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning,  triumphs  over  time  and  spaqe, 
Staled  by  frequence,  shrunk  by  usage  into  commonest  commonplace ! 

"Forward"  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of  the  many  mine  was  one. 
Xet  us  hush  this  cry  of  "  Forward  "  till  ten  thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanish'd  races,  old  Assyrian  kings  would  flay 
Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle  —  iron-hearted  victors  they. 

Ages  after,  while  in  Asia,  he  that  led  the  wild  Moguls, 

Timur  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty  thousand  human  skulls. 

Then,  and  here  in  Edward's  time,  an  age  of  noblest  English  names, 
Christian  conquerors  took  and  flung  the  conquer'd  Christian  into  flames. 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said  the  Greatest  of  the  great ; 
Christian  love  among  the  Churches  look'd  the  twin  of  heathen  hate. 

From  the  golden  alms  of  Blessing  man  had  coin'd  himself  a  curse : 
Rome  of  Csesar,  Rome  of  Peter,  which  was  crueller  '\  which  was  worse  ? 

France  had  shown  a  light  to  all  men,  preach'd  a  Gospel,  all  men's  good; 
Celtic  Demos  rose  a  Demon,  shriek'd  and  slaked  the  light  with  blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching  till  the  day  begun, 
Crown'd  with  sunlight  —  over  darkness  —  from  the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  passions  of  the  primal  clan  ? 
"Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him,"  still,  "your  enemy"  was  a  man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  them  ?  peasants  maim  the  helpless  horse,  and  drive 
Innocent  cattle  under  thatch,  and  burn  the  kindlier  brutes  alive. 

Brutes,  the  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers  —  burnt  at  midnight,  found  at 

morn, 
Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony  with  their  offspring,  born-unborn. 

Clinging  to  the  silent  mother !    Are  we  devils  ?  are  we  men  ? 
Sweet  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  would  that  he  were  here  again. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY  YEARS  AFTER.  643 

He  that  in  his  Catholic  wholeness  used  to  call  the  very  flowers 

Sisters,  brothers  —  and  the  beasts  —  whose  pains  are  hardly  less  than  oursE 

Chaos,  Cosmos!  Cosmos,  Chaos !  who  can  tell  how  all  will  end  I 

Kead  the  wide  world's  annals,  you,  and  take  their  wisdom  for  your  friend. 

Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present  fatal  daughter  of  the  Past, 

Shape  your  heart  to  front  the  hour,  but  dream  not  that  the  hour  will  last. 

Ay,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  you  courage  to  be  wise : 

When  was  age  so  cramm'd  with  menace  ?  madness  ?  written,  spoken  liee-t 

Envy  wears  the  mask  of  Love,  and,  laughing  sober  fact  to  scorn, 
Cries  to  Weakest  as  to  Strongest,  "  Ye  are  equals,  equal-born."' 

Equal-born  ?     0  yes,  if  yonder  hill  be  level  with  the  fl.at. 
Charm  us.  Orator,  till  the  Lion  look  no  larger  than  the  Cat. 

Till  the  Cat  thro'  that  mirage  of  overheated  language  loom  : 

Larger  than  the  Lion,  —  Demos  end  in  working  its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier,  shall  we  fight  her  ?  shall  we  yield  T 
Pause,  before  you  sound  the  trumpet,  hear  the  voices  from  the  field. 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one  Imperial  sceptre  now. 

Shall  we  hold  them  %  shall  we  loose  them  %  take  the  suffrage  of  the  plow^ 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow  Truth  if  only  you  and  you. 
Rivals  of  realm-ruining  party,  when  you  speak  were  wholly  true. 

Plowmen,  Shepherds,  have  I  found,  and  more  than  once,  and  still  could  find, 
Sons  of  God,  and  kings  of  men  in  utter  nobleness  of  mind, 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the  practised  hustings-liar ; 
So  the  Higher  wields  the  Lower,  while  the  Lower  is  the  Higher. 

Here  and  there  a  cotter's  babe  is  royal-born  by  right  divine ; 
Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his  oxen  or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  Cosmos !  Cosmos,  Chaos  !  once  again  the  sickening  game  ; 
Freedom,  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying  while  they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gain'd  a  freedom  known  to  Europe,  known  to  all ; 
Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness,  —  thro'  the  tonguesters  we  may  falL 

You  that  woo  the  Voices  —  tell  them  "  old  experience  is  a  fool," 
Teach  your  flatter'd  kings  that  only  those  who  cannot  read  can  rule. 

Pluck  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  but  set  no  meek  ones  in  their  place  ; 
Pillory  Wisdoia  in  your  markets,  pelt  your  offal  at  her  face. 


644  LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY   YEARS  AFTER. 

Tumble  Nature  heel  o'er  head,  and,  yelling  with  the  yelling  street. 
Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the  feet. 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the  faith,  without  the  hope. 

Break  the  State,  the  Church,  the  Throne,  and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Authors  —  atheist,  essayist,  novelist,  realist,  rhymester,  play  your  part, 
Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  nature  with  the  living  hues  of  Art. 

Kip  your  brothers'  vices  open,  strip  your  own  foul  passions  bare; 
Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence  —  forward  —  naked  —  let  them 
stare. 

5'eed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the  drainage  of  your  sewer; 
Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the  stream  should  issue  pure. 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  troughs  of  Zolaism,  — 
Forward,  forward,  ay  and  backward,  downward  too  into  the  abysm. 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the  rising  race  of  men"; 
Have  we  risen  from  out  the  beast,  then  back  into  the  beast  again  ? 

Only  "  dust  to  dust "  for  me  that  sicken  at  your  lawless  din. 
Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before  the  newer  world  begin. 

Heated  am  I?  you  —  you  wonder  —  well,  it  scarce  becomes  mine  age—" 
Patience !  let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his  last  upon  the  stage. 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  dotard  fall  asleep  ? 
Noises  of  a  current  narrowing,  not  the  music  of  a  deep  ? 

Ay,  for  doubtless  I  am  old,  and  think  gray  thoughts,  for  I  am  gray; 
After  all  the  stormy  changes  shall  we  find  a  changeless  May  ? 

After  madness,  after  massacre.  Jacobinism  and  Jacquerie, 
Some  diviner  force  to  guide  us  thro'  the  days  I  shall  not  see  ? 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems,  Kingdoms  and  Republics  fall. 
Something  kindlier,  higher,  holier — all  for  each  and  each  for  all? 

All  the  full-brain,  half -brain  races,  led  by  Justice,  Love,  and  Truth; 
All  the  millions  one  at  length,  with  all  the  visions  of  my  youth  ? 

All  diseases  quench'd  by  Science,  no  man  halt,  or  deaf  or  blind; 
Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body,  larger  mind  ? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world,  a  single  race,  a  single  tongue,  * 

I  have  seen  her  far  away  —  for  is  not  Earth  as  yet  so  young  ?  — 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  serpent  passion  kill'd. 
Every  grim  ravine  a  garden,  every  blazing  desert  till'd. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL   SLXTY   YEARS  AFTER.  645 


Robed  in  universal  harvest  up  to  either  pole  she  smiles, 
Universal  ocean  softly  washing  all  her  warless  Isles. 

Warless  ?  when  her  tens  are  thousands,  and  her  thousands  millions,  then — 
All  her  harvest  all  too  narrow  —  who  can  fancy  warless  men  ? 

Warless  ■?  war  will  die  out  late  then.     Will  it  ever  ?  late  or  soon  1 
Can  it,  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as  yon  dead  world  the  moon  ? 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her.  ...     On  this  day  and  at  this  hour. 
In  this  gap  between  the  sandhills,  whence  you  see  the  Locksley  tower. 

Here  we  met,  our  latest  meeting  —  Amy  —  sixty  years  ago  — 
She  and  I  —  the  moon  was  falling  greenish  thro'  a  rosy  glow. 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even  where  you  see  her  now  — 

Here  we  stood  and  claspt  each  other,  swore  the  seeming-deathless  vow.  .  .  . 

Dead,  hut  how  her  living  glory  lights  the  hall,  the  dune,  the  grass ! 
Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,  and  the  sun  himself  will  pass. 

"Venus  near  her  !  smiling  downward  at  this  earthlier  earth  of  ours. 
Closer  on  the  Sun,  perhaps  a  world  of  never  fading  flowers. 

Hesper,  whom  the  poet  call'd  the  Bringer  home  of  all  good  things. 
All  good  things  may  move  in  Hesper,  perfect  peoples,  perfect  kingg. 

Hesper  —  Venus  —  were  we  native  to  that  splendor  or  in  Mars, 
We  should  see  the  Globe  we  groan  in,  fairest  of  their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage,  craft  and  madness,  lust  and  spite. 
Roaring  London,  raving  Paris,  in  that  point  of  peaceful  light? 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on  a  star  so  silver-fair, 
Yearn,  and  clasp  the  hands  and  murmur,  "  Would  to  God  that  we  were 
there  "  ■? 

Forward,  backward,  backward,  forward,  in  the  immeasurable  sea, 
Sway'd  by  vaster  ebbs  and  flows  than  can  be  known  to  you  or  me. 

All  the  suns  —  are  these  but  symbols  of  innumerable  man, 
Man  or  Mind  that  sees  a  shadow  of  the  planner  or  the  plan  ? 

Is  there  evil  but  on  earth  ?  or  pain  in  every  peopled  sphere  ? 
Well  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watchword,  "  Evolution  "  here. 

Evolution  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal  good, 
And  Reversion  ever  dragging  Evolution  in  the  mud. 

What  are  men  that  He  should  heed  us  ?  cried  the  king  of  sacred  song; 
Insects  of  an  hour,  that  hourly  work  their  brother  insect  wrong. 


tA6  LOCKSLBY  HALL   SIXTY   YEARS  AFTER. 

While  the  silent  Heavens  roll,  and  Suns  along  their  fiery  way, 
All  their  planets  whirling  round  them,  flash  a  million  mi.es  a  day. 

Many  an  Mori  moulded  earth  before  her  highest,  man,  was  born, 
Many  an  ^on  too  may  pass  when  earth  is  manless  and  forlorn. 

Earth  so  huge,  and  yet  so  bounded  —  pools  of  salt,  and  plots  of  land  — 
Shallow  skin  of  green  and  azure  —  chains  of  mountain,  grains  of  sandl 

Only  That  which  made  us,  meant  us  to  be  mightier  by  and  by, 
Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  Heavens  within  the  human  eye, 

Sent  the  shadow  of  Himself,  the  boundless,  thro'  the  human  soul ; 
Boundless  inward,  in  the  atom,  boundless  outward,  in  the  Whole. 


Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  my  grandson,  here  the  lion-guarded  gate. 
Not  to-night  in  Locksley  Hall  —  to-morrow  —  you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wreck'd  —  your  train  —  or  all  but  wreck'd  ?  a  shatter'd  wheel  ?  a  vicious 

boy! 
Good,  this  forward,  you  that  preach  it,  is  it  well  to  wish  you  joy  ? 

Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Science,  glorying  in  the  Time, 
City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and  sense  in  city  slime  ? 

There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Progress  halts  on  palsied  feet. 
Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by  the  thousand  on  the  street. 

There  the  Master  scrimps  his  haggard  sempstress  of  her  daily  bread. 
There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  living  and  the  dead. 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps  across  the  rotted  floor. 
And  the  crowded  couch  of  incest  in  the  warrens  of  the  poor. 

Nay,  your  pardon,  cry  your  "  forward,"  yours  are  hope  and  youth,  but  I— 
Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  Ipme  to  follow  with  the  cry, 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and  passing  now  into  the  night ; 
Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as  eager  for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  Even  ?  light  the  glimmer  of  the  dawn  "i 
Aged  eyes  may  take  the  growing  glimmer  for  the  gleam  withdrawn. 

Par  away  beyond  her  myriad  coming  changes  earth  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern  guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if  she  gain  her  earthly-best. 
Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this  ideal  man  at  rest  ? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember  how  the  course  of  Time  will  swerre. 
Crook  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a  backward  streaming  curve. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL   SLXTY  YEARS  AFTER.  647 

Not  the  Hall  to-night,  my  grandson !  Death  and  Silence  hold  their  own. 
Leave  the  Master  in  the  first  dark  hour  of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound  and  honest,  rustic  Squire, 
Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion  —  youthful  jealousy  is  a  liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  oust  the  madness  from  your  brain. 
Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that  you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful !  youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet  but  in  the  lower  school, 
Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved  himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea-village  —  Art  and  Grace  are  less  and  less : 
Science  grows  and  Beauty  dwindles  —  roofs  of  slated  hideousness! 

There  is  one  old  Hostel  left  us  where  they  swing  the  Locksley  shield. 
Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  "  Lion  passant "  from  his  field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor  old  Poetry,  passing  hence. 
In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  political  common-sense ! 

Poor  old  voice  of  eighty  crying  after  voices  that  have  fled  ! 
All  I  loved  are  vanish'd  voices,  all  my  steps  are  on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the  phantom  disappears, 
Porward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the  hope  of  eighty  years. 


In  this  Hostel  — I  remember  — I  repent  it  o'er  his  grave  — 

Like  a  clown  —  by  chance  he  met  me —  I  refused  the  hand  he  gave. 

Prom  that  casement  where  the  trailer  mantles  all  the  mouldering  bricks  — 
I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a  child  of  six  — 

While  I  shelter'd  in  this  archway  from  a  day  of  driving  showers  — 
Peept  the  winsome  face  of  Edith  like  a  flower  among  the  flowers. 

Here  to-night!  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when  they  toll  the  Chapel  beU! 
Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing,  "  I  have  loved  thee  well." 

Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal  —  one  has  come  to  claim  his  bride. 
Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her,  shriek'd,  and  started  from  my  side  — 

Silent  echoes !  you,  my  Leonard,  use  and  not  abuse  your  day. 
Move  among  your  people,  know  them,  follow  him  who  led  the  way. 

Strove  for  sixty  widow'd  years  to  help  his  homelier  brother  men, 

Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage,  raised  the  school,  and  drain'd  the  fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  Voice  that  wrong'd  him  ?  who  shall  swear  it  cannot  be? 
Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were  one  in  fifty  such  as  he. 


648 


THE  FLEET. 


Eie  she  gain  her  Heavenly-best,  a  God  must  mingle  with  the  game : 
Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom  we  neither  see  nor  name. 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers  of  Good,  the  Powers  of  111, 
Strowing  balm,  or  shedding  poison  in  the  fountains  of  the  Will. 

Follow  you  the  Star  that  lights  a  desert  pathway,  yours  or  mine. 
Forward,  till  you  see  the  highest  Human  Nature  is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right  —  for  man  can  half-control  his  doom  — 
Till  you  find  the  deathless  Angel  seated  in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fly  and  mingle  with  the  Past. 

I  that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him.     Love  will  conquer  at  the  last. 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  age,  and  I  and  you  will  bear  the  pall ; 
Then  I  leave  thee  Lord  and  Master,  latest  Lord  of  Looksley  Hall. 


THE  FLEET.i 

1. 

You,  you,  if  you  shall  fail  to  under- 
stand 
What  England  is,  and  what  her  all- 
in-all, 
On  you  will  come  the  curse  of  all  the 
land, 
Should  this  old  England  fall 
"Which  Nelson  left  so  great. 

1  The  speaker  said  that  "  he  should  like  to 
be  assured  that  other  outlying  portions  of 
the  Empire,  the  Crown  colonies,  and  impor- 
tant coaling  stations  were  being  as  promptly 
and  as  thoroughly  fortified  as  the  various 
capitals  of  the  self-governing  colonies-  He 
was  credibly  informed  this  was  not  so.  It 
was  impossible,  also,  not  to  feel  some  degree 
of  anxiety  about  the  efficacy  of  present  pro- 
vision to  defend  and  protect,  by  means  of 
swift,  well-armed  cruisers,  the  immense  mer- 
cantile fleet  of  the  Empire.  A  third  source 
of  anxiety,  so  far  as  the  colonies  were  con- 
cerned, was  the  apparently  insufficient  pro- 
vision for  the  rapid  manufacture  of  arma- 
ments and  their  prompt  despatch  when  or- 
dered to  their  colonial  destination.'  Hence 
the  necessity  for  manufacturing  appliances 
equal  to  the  requirements,  not  of  Great  Brit- 
ain alone,  but  of  the  whole  Empire,  But 
the  keystone  of  the  whole  was  the  necessity 
for  an  overwhelmingly  powerful  fleet  and 
efficient  defence  for  all  necessary  coaling  sta- 


ll. 

His  isle,  the  mightiest  Ocean-power 
on  earth, 
Our  own  fair  isle,  the  lord  of  every 
sea  — 
Her  fuller  franchise  —  what   would 
that  be  worth  — 
Her  ancient  fame  of  Eree  — 
Were  she  ...  a  fallen  state  ? 


tions.  This  was  as  essential  for  the  colonies 
as  for  Great  Britain.  It  was  the  one- condi- 
tion for  the  continuance  of  the  Empire.  AU 
that  Continental  Powers  did  with  respect  to 
armies  England  should  effect  with  her  navy. 
It  was  essentially  a  defensive  force,  and 
could  be  moved  rapidly  from  point  to  point, 
but  it  should  be  equal  to  all  that  was  expected 
from  it.  It  was  to  strengthen  the  fleet  that 
colonists  would  first  readily  lax  themselves, 
because  they  realized  how  essential  a  power- 
ful fleet  was  to  the  safety,  not  only  of  that 
extensive  commerce  sailing  in  every  sea,  but 
ultimately  to  the  security  of  the  distant  por- 
tions  of  the  Empire.  Who  could  estimate 
the  loss  involved  in  even  a  brief  period  of 
disaster  to  the  Imperial  Navy.  Any  amount 
of  money  timely  expended  in  preparation 
would  be  quite  insignificant  when  compared 
with  the  possible  calamity  he  Viad  referred 
X.oV  —  Extract  from  Sir  Grakam  Berry^9 
Speech  at  the  Colonial  Institute,  9th  Nov- 
ember, 1886. 


TO    THE  MARQUIS   OF  DUFFERIN  AND  AVA. 


649 


Her  dauntless  army  scatter'd,  and  so 
small, 
Her  island-myriads  fed  from  alien 
lands  — 
The  fleet  of  England  is  her  all-in-all ; 
Her  fleet  is  in  your  hands. 
And  in  her  fleet  her  Pate. 


You,  you,  that  have  the  ordering  of 
her  fleet, 
If  you  should   only   compass   her 
disgrace, 
When  all  men  starve,  the  wild  mob's 
million  feet 
Will  kick  you  from  your  place. 
But  then  too  late,  too  late. 


OPENING  OF  THE  INDIAN  AND 
COLONIAL  EXHIBITION  BY 
THE  QUEEN. 


Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice ! 
In  your  welfare  we  rejoice. 
Sons  and  brothers  that  have  sent, 
E'rom  isle  and  cape  and  continent, 
Produce  of  your  field  and  flood, 
Mount  and  mine,  and  primal  wood ; 
Works  of  subtle  brain  and  hand. 
And  splendors  of  the  morning  land, 
Gifts  from  every  British  zone ; 
Britons,  hold  your  own ! 

II. 

May  we  find,  as  ages  run, 
The  mother  featured  in  the  son ; 
And  may  vours  forever  be 
That  old  s'trength  and  constancy 
Which  has  made  your  fathers  great 
In  our  ancient  island  State, 
And  wherever  her  flag  fly, 
Glorying  between  sea  and  sky. 
Makes  the  might  of  Britain  known; 
Britons,  hold  your  own ! 


Britain  fought  her  sons  of  yore— 
Britain  failed ;  and  never  more, 
Careless  of  our  growing  kin, 
Shall  we  sin  our  fathers'  sin, 
Men  that  in  a  narrower  day  — 
Unprophetic  rulers  they  — 
Drove  from  out  the  mother's  nest 
That  young  eagle  of  the  West 
To  forage  for  herself  alone ; 
Britons,  hold  your  own! 


Sharers  of  our  glorious  past. 
Brothers,  must  we  part  at  last  ? 
Shall  we  not  thro'  good  and  ill 
Cleave  to  one  another  still  ? 
Britain's  myriad  voices  call, 
"  Sons,  be  wedded  each  and  all. 
Into  one  imperial  whole, 
One  with  Britain,  heart  and  soul ! 
One    life,   one    flag,   one    fleet,  one 
Throne  ! " 
Britons,  hold  your  own! 


TO  THE   MARQUIS   OF  DUF- 
FERIN AND  AVA. 


At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest. 
At  times  her  steps  are  swift  and: 

rash; 
She  moving,  at  her  girdle  clash 

The  golden  keys  of  East  and  West. 


Not  swift  or  rash,  when  late  she  lent 
The  sceptres  of  her  West,  her  East,, 
To  one,  that  ruling  has  increasec" 

Her  greatness  and  her  self -content. 


Your  rule  has  made  the  people  love 
Their  ruler.     Your  viceregal  days 
Have  added  fulness  to  the  phrase 

Of  "  Gauntlet  in  the  velvet  glove." 


«so 


07V  THE  JUBILEE   OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


But  since  your  name  will  grow  with 
Time, 
Not  all,  as  honoring  your  fair  fame 
Of   Statesman,  have   I  >  made   the 
name 
A  golden  portal  to  my  rhyme : 


But  more,  that  you  and  yours  may 
know 
From  me  and  mine,  how  dear  a  debt 
We  owed  you,  and  are  owing  yet 

To  you  and  yours,  and  still  would  owe. 


I"or  he  —  your  India  was  his  Pate, 
And  drew  him  over  sea  to  you  — 
He  fain  had  ranged  her  thro'  and 
thro', 

To  serve  her  myriads  and  the  State, — 


A  soul  that,  watch'd  from  earliest 
youth. 
And  on  thro'  many  a  brightening 

year. 
Had  never  swerved  for  craft  or  fear, 
By  one  side-path,  from  simple  truth ; 


Who  might  have  chased  and  claspt 
Eenown 
And  caught  her  chaplet  here  —  and 

there 
In  haunts  of  jungle-poison'd  air 
The  flame  of  life  went  wavering  down ; 


Biit  ere  he  left  your  fatal  shore, 
And  lay  on  that  funereal  boat, 
Dying,  "  Unspeakable  "  he  wrote 

"Their -kindness,"  and  he  wrote  no 
more; 


.And  sacred  is  the  latest  word ; 

And  now  The  was,  the  Might-have- 
been, 


And  those  lone  rites  I  have  not  seen; 
And  one  drear  sound  I  hare  not  heard, 


Are  dreams  that  scarce  will  let  me  be, 
Not  there  to  bid  my  boy  farewell. 
When  That  within  the  coffin  fell. 

Fell  and  flash'd  into  the  Ked  Sea, 


Beneath  a  hard  Arabian  moon 

And  alien  stars.    To  question,  why 
The  sons  before  the  fathers  die. 

Not  mine  I  and  I  may  meet  him  soon; 


But  while  my  life's  late  eve  endures, 
Nor  settles  into  hueless  gray, 
My  memories  of  his  briefer  day 

Will  mix  with  love  for  you  and  yours. 


ON  THE  JUBILEE    OF    QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 


Fifty  times   the  rose   has   flower'd 

and  faded. 
Fifty  times  the  golden  harvest  fallen. 
Since  our  Queen  assumed  the  globe, 

the  sceptre. 


She  beloved  for  a  kindliness 
Kare  in  Fable  or  History, 
Queen  and  Empress  of  India, 
Crown'd  so  long  with  a  diadem 
Never  worn  by  a  worthier. 
Now  with  prosperous  auguries 
Comes  at  last  to  the  bounteous 
Crowning  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Nothing  of  the  lawless,  of  the  De«pot, 
Nothing  of  the  vulgar,  or  vainjtJori- 

ous, 
All   is    gracious,   gentle,   great    ""id 

Queenly. 


TU  PROFESSOR  J  EBB. 


651 


You  then  joyfully,  all  of  you, 
Set  the  mountain  aflame  to-night, 
Shoot  your  stars  to  the  firmament, 
Deck  your  houses,  illuminate 
All  your  towns  for  a  festi\al, 
And  in  each  let  a  multiude 
Loyal,  each,  to  the  heart  of  it, 
One  full  voice  of  allegiance, 
Hail  the  fair  Ceremonial 
Of  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Queen,   as    true    to   womanhood   as 

Queenhood, 
Glorying  in  the  glories  of  her  people, 
Sorrowing  with  the   sorrows   of   the 

lowest ! 


You,  that  wanton  in  aflluence, 
Spare  not  now  to  be  bountiful. 
Call  your  poor  to  regale  with  you, 
All  the  lowly,  the  destitute, 
Make     their    neighborhood    health- 
fuller. 
Give  your  gold  to  the  Hospital, 
Let  the  weary  be  comforted, 
Let  the  needy  be  banqueted. 
Let  the  maim'd  in  his  heart  rejoice 
At  this  glad  Ceremonial, 
And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Henry's  fifty  years  are  all  in  shadow, 
Gray   with   distance   Edward's    fifty 

summers, 
Ev'n  her  Grandsire's  fifty  half  for- 
gotten. 


You,  the  Patriot  Architect, 
You  that  shape  for  Eternity, 
Raise  a  stately  memorial. 
Make  it  regally  gorgeous. 
Some  Imperial  Institute, 
Eich  in  symbol,  in  ornament. 
Which  may  speak  to  the  cenfuries, 
All  the  centuries  after  us. 


Of  this  great  Ceremonial, 
And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Fifty  years  of  ever-broadening  Com- 
merce ! 

Fifty  years  of  ever-brightening  Sci- 
ence ! 

Fifty  years  of  ever-widening  Empire  1 


You,  the  Mighty,  the  Fortunate, 
You,  the  Lord-territorial, 
You,  the  Lord-manufacturer, 
You,  the  hardy,  laborious, 
Patient  children  of  Albion, 
You,  Canadian,  Indian, 
Australasian,  African, 
All  your  hearts  be  in  harmony. 
All  your  voices  in  unison. 
Singing  "  Hail  to  the  glorious 
Golden  year  of  her  Jubilee ! " 


Are  there  thunders  moaning  in  th" 

distance  ? 
Are  there   spectres  moving   in   the 

darkness  ? 
Trust  the  Hand  of  Light  will  lead 

her  people, 
Till  the  thunders  pass,  the  spectres 

vanish, 
And  the  Light  is  the  Victor,  ant! 

the  darkness 
Dawns  into  the  Jubilee  of  the  Ages. 


TO  PROFESSOR  JEBB, 

WITH    THE    FOLLOWING    POEM. 

Faik  things  are  slow  to  fade  away, 
Bear  witness  you,  that  yesterday  i 
From  out  the  Ghost  of  Pindar  in 
you 
RoU'd  an  Olympian ;  and  they  say  ^ 

1  111  Bologna. 

2  They  Bay,  for  the  fact  ia  doubtful. 


652 


bEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


That  here  the  torpid  mummy  wheat 
Of  Egypt  bore  a  grain  as  sweet 

As  that  which  gilds  the  glebe  of 
England, 
Sunn'd  with  a  summer  of  milder  heat. 

So  may  this  legend  for  awhile 
If  greeted  by  your  classic  smile, 

Tho'  dead  in  its  Trinacrian  Enna, 
Blossom  again  on  a  colder  isle. 


DEMETBR   AND  PERSEPHONE. 

(in  enna.) 

Faint  as  a  climate-changing  bird  that 
flies 

All  night  across  the  darkness,  and  at 
dawn 

Falls  on  the  threshold  of  her  native 
land. 

And  can  no  more,  thou  camest,  0  my 
child. 

Led  upward  by  the  God  of  ghosts 
and  dreams. 

Who  laid  thee  at  Eleusis,  dazed  and 
dumb 

With  passing  thro'  at  once  from  state 
to  state, 

TJntil  I  brought  thee  hither,  that  the 
day. 

When  here  thy  hands  let  fall  the 
gather'd  flower, 

Might  break  thro'  clouded  memories 
once  again 

On  thy  lost  self.  A  sudden  nightin- 
gale 

Saw  thee,  and  flash'd  into  a  frolic  of 
song 

And  welcome ;  and  a  gleam  as  of  the 
moon, 

When  first  she  peers  along  the  tremu- 
lous deep, 

Eled  wavering  o'er  thy  face,  and 
chased  away 

That  shadow  of  a  likeness  to  the  king 

Of  shadows,  thy  dark  mate.  Per- 
sephone ! 

Queen  of  the  dead  no  more  —  my 
child  I     Thine  eyes 


Again  were  human-godlike,  and  the 
Sun 

Burst  from  a  swimming  fleece  of  win- 
ter gray. 

And  robed  thee  in  his  day  from  head 
to  feet  — 

"  Mother ! "  and  I  was  folded  in  thine 
arms. 

r 

Child,    those    imperial,    disimpas- 

sion'd,  eyes 
Awed  even  me  at  first,  thy  mother  — 

eyes 
That  oft  had  seen  tke  serpent-wanded 

power 
Draw  downward  into  Hades  with  his 

drift 
Of  flickering  spectres,  lighted  from 

below 
By  the  red  race  of  fiery  Phlegetlion ; 
But  when  before  have  Gods  or  men 

beheld 
The  Life  that  had  descended  re-arise. 
And  lighted  from  above  him  by  the 

Suni 
So  mighty  was  the  mother's  childless 

cry, 
A  cry  that  rang  thro'  Hades,  Earth, 

and  Heaven! 

So  in  this  pleasant  vale  we  stand 

again. 
The  field  of  Enna,  now  once  more 

ablaze 
With  flowers  that  brighten  as   thy 

footstep  falls, 
All  flowers  —  but  for  one  black  blur 

of  earth 
Left  by   that  closing    chasm,   thro'' 

which  the  car 
Of  dark  A'idoneus  rising  rapt  thee 

hence. 
And  here,  my  child,  tho'  folded  in' 

thine  arms,  ( 

I  feel  the  deathless  heart  of  mother- 
hood 
Within  me  shudder,  lest  the  naked 

glebe 
Should    yawn  once   more    into    the 

gulf,  and  thence 
The  shrilly  whiunyings  of  the  tean* 

of  Hell, 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


653 


Ascending,  pierce  the  glad  and  song- 
ful air. 

And  all  at  once  their  arch'd  necks, 
midnight-maned. 

Jet  upward  thro'  the  mid-day  blos- 
som.   No! 

For,  see,  thy  foot  has  touch'd  it;  all 
the  space 

Of  blank  earth-baldness  clothes  itself 
afresh, 

And  breaks  into  the  crocus-purple 
hour 

That  saw  thee  vanish. 

Child,  when  thou  wert  gone, 
I   envied  human  wives,  and  nested 

birds, 
Yea,  the    cubb'd    lioness;    went    in 

search  of  thee 
Thro'  many  a  palace,  many  a  cot, 

and  gave 
Thy  breast  to  ailing  infants  in  the 

night, 
And  set  the  mother  waking  in  amaze 
To  find  her  sick  one  whole ;  and  forth 

again 
Among  the  wail  of  midnight  winds, 

and  cried, 
"  Where  is  my  loved  one  ?     Where- 
fore do  ye  wail  ?  " 
And  out  from  all  the  night  an  answer 

shrill'd, 
"  We  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why 

we  wail." 
I  climb'd  on  all  the  cliffs  of  all  the 

seas. 
And  ask'd  the  waves  that  moan  about 

the  world 
"  Where  ?   do  ye  make  your  moaning 

for  my  child  ?  " 
And  round  from  all  the  world  the 

voices  came 
"  We  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why 

we  moan." 
"  Where  "  ?  and  I  stared  from  every 

eagle-peak, 
I  thridded  the  black  heart  of  all  the 

woods, 
I  peer'd  thro'  tomb  and  cave,  and  in 

the  storms 
Of  Autumn   swept  across   the  city, 

and  heard 


The  murmur  of  their  temples  chant- 
ing me. 
Me,     me,     the     desolate     Mother! 

"  Where  "1  —  and  turn'd. 
And  fled  by  many  a  waste,  forlorn  of 

man, 
And  grieved  for  man  thro'  all  my 

grief  for  thee,  — 
The  jungle   rooted  in   his    shatter'd 

hearth, 
The  serpent  coil'd  about  his  broken 

shaft. 
The   scorpion    crawling  over  naked 

skulls ;  — 
I  saw  the  tiger  in  the  ruin'd  fane 
Spring  from  his  fallen  God,  but  trace 

of  thee 
I  saw  not;  and  far  on,  and,  following 

out 
A  league  of   labyrinthine   darkness, 

came 
On  three  gray  heads  beneath  a  gleam- 
ing rift. 
"  Where "  ?  and  I  heard  one   voice 

from  all  the  three 
"  We  know  not,  for  we  spin  the  lives 

of  men. 
And  not  of  Gods,  and  know  not  why 

we  spin ! 
There  is  a  Fate  beyond  us."    Nothing 

knew. 

Last  as   the   likeness   of  a   dying 

man, 
Without   his    knowledge,  from  him 

flits  to  warn 
A  far-off  friendship  that  he  comes  no 

more. 
So  he,  the  God  of  dreams,  who  heard 

my  cry, 
Drew  from  thyself  the  likeness  of 

thyself 
Without    thy    knowledge,    and    thy 

shadow  past 
Before  me,  crying  "  The  Bright  one 

in  the  highest 
Is  brother  of  the  Dark  one  in  the 

lowest. 
And  Bright  and   Dark   have  sworn 

that  I,  the  child 
Of    thee,    the    great    Earth-Mother, 

thee,  the  Power 


654 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 


That  lifts  her  buried  life  from  gloom 

to  bloom, 
Should  be  forever  and  forevermore 
The  Bride  of  Darkness." 

So  the  Shadow  wail'd. 
Then  I,  Earth-Goddess,   cursed  the 

Gods  of  Heaven. 
I  would  not  mingle  with  their  feasts ; 

to  me 
Their  nectar  smack'd  of  hemlock  on 

the  lips, 
Their  rich  ambrosia  tasted  aconite. 
The  man,  that  only  lives  and  loves  an 

hour, 
Seem'd  nobler  than  their  hard  Eter- 
nities. 
My  quick  tears  kill'd  the  flower,  my 

ravings  hush'd 
The  bird,  and  lost  in  utter  grief  I 

fail'd 
To  send  my  life  thro'  olive-yard  and 

vine  . 

And  golden  grain,  my  gift  to  helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten  died  the  wheat,  the  bar- 
ley-spears 
Were   hollow-husk'd,   the    leaf    fell, 

and  the  sun. 
Pale  at  my  grief,  drew  down  before 

his  time 
Sickening,  and  ^tna  kept  her  winter 

snow. 
Then  He,  the  brother  of  this  Dark- 
ness, He 
Who  still  is  highest,  glancing  from 

his  height 
On  earth  a  fruitless  fallow,  when  he 

miss'd 
The  wonted  steam  of  sacrifice,  the 

praise 
,  And  prayer  of  men,  decreed  that  thou 

should'st  dwell 
For  nine  white  moons  of  each  whole 

year  with  me. 
The  three  dark  ones  in  the  shadow 

with  thy  King. 

Once  more  the  reaper  in  the  gleam 
of  dawn 
Will  see  me  by  the  landmark  far  away. 
Blessing  his  field,  or  seated  in  the  dusk 


Of  even,  by  the  lonely  threshing-floor. 
Rejoicing   in    tlie    harvest    and    the 

grange. 
Yet  I,  Earth-Goddess,  am  but  ill- 
content 
With   them,  who   still  are    highest. 

Those  gray  heads. 
What  meant   they  by  their   "Fate 

beyond  the  Fates  " 
But  younger  kindlier  Gods  to  bear 

us  down. 
As  we  bore  down  the  Gods  before  us  ? 

Gods, 
To  quench,  not  hurl  the  thunderbolt, 

to  stay. 
Not  spread  the  plague,  the  famine; 

Gods  indeed, 
To  send  the  noon  into  the  night  and 

break 
The    sunless    halls    of    Hades    into 

Heaven? 
Till  thy  dark  lord  accept  and  love 

the  Sun, 
And  all  the   Shadow  die    into    the 

Light, 
When  thou  shalt  dwell    the  whole 

bright  year  with  me, 
And  souls  of  men,  who  grew  beyond 

their  race. 
And  made  themselves  as  Gods  against 

the  fear 
Of  Death  and  Hell;   and  thou  that 

hast  from  men. 
As   Queen  of   Death,  that  worship 

wliich  is  Fear, 
Henceforth,  as  having  risen  from  out 

the  dead, 
Shalt  eversend  thy  life  along  withmine 
Fronj  buried   grain    thro'    springing 

blade,  and  bless 
Their  garner'd  Autumn    also,  reap 

with  me. 
Earth-mother,  in  the  harvest  hymns 

of  Earth 
The  worship  which  is  Love,  and  see 

no  more 
The  Stone,  the   Wheel,   the   dimly- 

glimmering  lawns 
Of  that  Elysium,  all  the  hateful  fires 
Of  torment,  and  the  shadowy  warrior 

glide 
Along  the  silent  field  of  Asphodel. 


OWZ>  ROA.  655 


OWD   KOA.i 

Naat,  noa  mander^  o'  use  to  be  callin'  'm  Koa,  Eoa,  Eoa, 

Fo  the  dog's  stoan-deaf,  an'  e's  blind,  'e  can  neither  stan'  nor  go*. 

But  I  means  fur  to  maake  'is  owd  aage  as  'appy  as  iver  I  can, 
Fur  I  owiis  owd  Eoaver  moor  nor  I  iver  owad  mottal  man. 

Thou's  rode  of  'is  back  when  a  babby,  afoor  thou  was  gotten  too  owd, 

For  'e'd  fetch  an'  carry  like  owt,  'e  was  alius  as  good  as  gowd.  • 

Eh,  but  'e'd  fight  wi'  a  will  when  'e  fowt;  'e  could  howd^  'is  oan, 
An'  Roa  was  the  dog  as  knaw'd  when  an'  wheere  to  bury  his  boane. 

An'  'e  kep  his  head  hoop  like  a  king,  an'  'e'd  niver  not  down  wi'  'is  taail, 
Fur  'e'd  niver  done  nowt  to  be  shaamed  on,  when  we  was  i'  Howlaby  Daale. 

An'  'e  sarved  me  sa  well  when  'e  lived,  that,  Dick,  when  'e  cooms  to  be  dead, 
I  thinks  as  I'd  like  fur  io  hev  soom  soort  of  a  sarvice  read. 

Fur  'e's  moor  good  sense  na  the  Parliament  man  'at  stans  fur  us  'ere, 
An'  I'd  voat  fur  'im,  my  oiin  sen,  if  'e  could  but  stan  fur  the  Shere. 

"Faaithful  an'  True  "  —  them  words  be  'Scriptur  —  an'  Faaithful  an'  True 
Ull  be  fun'*  upo'  four  short  legs  ten  times  fur  one  upo'  two. 

An'  maaybe  they'll  walk  upo'  two  but  I  knaws  they  runs  upo'  four,^  — 
Bedtime,  Dicky !  but  waait  till  tha  'ears  it  be  strikin'  the  hour. 

Fur  I  wants  to  tell  tha  o'  Roa  when  we  lived  i'  Howlaby  Daale, 

Ten  year  sin — Naay  —  naay !  tha  mun  nobbut  hev'  one  glass  of  aale. 

Straange  an'  owd-f arran'd  ^  the  'ouse,  an'  belf  long  afoor  my  daay 
Wi'  haafe  o'  the  chimleys  a-twizzen'd  ^  an'  twined  like  a  band  o'  haay. 

The  fellers  as  maakes  them  picturs,  'ud  coom  at  the  fall  o'  the  year. 
An'  sattle  their  ends  upo  stools  to  pictur  the  door-poorch  theere, 

An'  the  Heagle  'as  lied  two  heads  stannin'  theere  o'  the  brokken  stick;* 
An'  they  niver  'ed  seed  sich  ivin'i"  as  graw'd  hall  ower  the  brick; 

An'  theere  i'  the  'ouse  one  night  —  but  it's  down,  an'  all  on  it  now 
Goan  into  mangles  an'  tonups,ii  an'  raaved  slick  thruf  by  the  plow  — 

Theere,  when  the  'ouse  wur  a  house,  one  night  I  wur  sittin'  aloan, 
Wi'  Eoaver  athurt  my  feeat,  an'  sleeapin  still  as  a  stoan, 

»  Old  Kovei-.  2  Manner.  '  Hold.  *  Found.  "  "  On  "  as  in  "  house," 

6  "  Owd-farran'd,"  old-fashioned.      '  Built.  8  <«  Twizzen'd,"  twisted. 

» On  a  staff  raguli.  '"  Ivy.  "  Mangolds  and  turnips. 


656  OJVD.  ROA. 


Of  a  Christmas  Eave,  an'  as  cowd  as  this,  an'  the  midders^  as  white, 
An'  the  fences  all  on  'em  bolster'd  oop  wi'  the  windle^  that  night; 

An'  the  cat  wur  a-sleeapin  alongside  Koaver,  hut  I  wur  awaake. 

An'  smoakin'  an'  tblnkin'  o'  things  —  Doant  maake  thysen  sick  wi'  the  caake. 

Pur  the  men  ater  supper  'ed  sung  their  songs  an'  'ed  'ed  their  beer. 

An'  'ed  goan  their  waays;  ther  was  nobbut  three,  an'  noan  on  'em  theere. 

They  was  all  on  'em  fear'd  o'  the  Ghoast  an'  dussn't  not  sleeap  i'  the  'ouse. 
But  Dicky,  the  Ghoast  moastlins  ^  was  nobbut  a  rat  or  a  mouse. 

An'  I  loookt  out  wonst  *  at  the  night,  an'  the  daale  was  all  of  a  thaw, 
Fur  I  seed  the  beck  coomin'  down  like  a  long  black  snaake  i'  the  snaw. 

An'  I  heard  great  heaps  o'  the  snaw  slushin'  down  fro'  the  bank  to  the  beck, 
An'  then  as  I  stood  i'  the  doorwaay,  I  feeald  it  drip  o'  my  neck. 

Saw  I  turn'd  in  agean,  an'  I  thowt  o'  the  good  owd  times  'at  was  goan, 
An'  the  munney  they  maade  by  the  war,  an'  the  times  'at  was  coomin'  on; 

Fur  I  thowt  if  the  Staate  was  a  gawin'  to  let  in  furriners  wheat, 
HowiTer  was  British  farmers  to  stan'  agean  o'  their  feeat. 

Howiver  was  I  fur  to  find  my  rent  an'  to  paay  my  men  ■? 
An'  all  along  o'  the  feller  ^  as  turn'd  'is  back  of  hissen. 

Thou  slep  i'  the  chaumber  above  us,  we  couldn't  ha'  'eard  tha  call, 
Sa  Moother  'ed  tell'd  ma  to  bring  tha  down,  an'  thy  craadle  an'  all; 

Fur  the  gell  o'  the  farm  'at  slep  wi'  tha  then  'ed  gotten  wer  leave, 
Fur  to  goa  that  night  to  'er  f  oalk  by  cause  o'  the  Christmas  Eave ; 

But  I  clean  forgot  tha,  my  lad,  when  Moother  'ed  gotten  to  bed, 

An'  I  slep  i'  my  chair  hup-on-end,  an'  the  Freea  Traade  runn'd  i'  my  'ead, 

Till  I  dream'd  'at  Squire  walkt  in,  an'  I  says  to  him  "  Squire,  ya're  laate," 
Then  I  seed  at  'is  faace  wur  as  red  as  the  Yuleblock  theer  i'  the  graate. 

An'  'e  says  "  can  ya  paay  me  the  rent  to-night  ?  "  an'  I  says  to  'im  "  Noa," 
An'  'e  cotch'd  howd  hard  o'  my  hairm,"  "  Then  hout  to-night  tha  shall  goa." 

"Tha'll  niver,"  says  I,  "be  a-turnin  ma  hout  upo'  Christmas  Eave  ?  " 
Then  I  waaked  an'  I  fun  it  was  lioaver  a-tuggin'  an'  tearin'  my  slieave. 

An'  I  thowt  as  'e'd  goan  clean-wud,''  fur  I  noawaeys  knaw'd  'is  intent ; 
An'  I  says  "  Git  awaay,  ya  beast,"  an'  I  feteht  'im  a  kick  an'  'e  went. 

Then  'e  tummled  up  stairs,  fur  I  'eard  'im,  as  if  'e'd  'a  brokken  'is  neck. 
An'  I'd  clear  forgot,  little  Dicky,  thy  chaumber  door  wouldn't  sneck ;  * 

1  Meadows.  =  Drifted  snow.  s  <<  Moastlins,"  for  the  most  part,  generally. 

4  Once.  =  Peel.  e  Arm.  '  Mad.  8  Latch. 


OWD  ROA.  657 


An'  I  slep'  i'  my  chair  agean  wi'  my  hairm  hingin'  down  to  the  floor. 
An'  I  thowt  it  was  Eoaver  a-tuggin'  an'  tearin'  me  wuss  nor  afoor. 

An'  I  thowt  'at  I  kick'd  'im  ageiin,  but  I  kick'd  thy  Moother  istead. 
"  What  arta  snorin'  theere  fur  1  the  house  is  afire,"  she  said. 

Tliy  Moother  'ed  beiin  a-naggin'  about  the  gell  o'  the  farm. 

She  oHens  'ud  spy  summut  wrong  wlien  there  wai-n't  not  a  mossel  o'  harm; 

An'  she  didn't  not  solidly  mean  I  wur  gawin'  that  waay  to  the  bad, 
Pur  the  gell  ^  was  as  howry  a  trollope  as  iver  traaps'd  i'  the  squad. 

But  Moother  was  free  of  'er  tongue,  as  I  offens  'ev  tell'd  'er  mysen, 
Sa  I  kep  i'  my  chair,  fur  I  thowt  she  was  nobbut  a-rilin'  ma  then. 

An'  I  says  "I'd  be  good  to  tha,  Bess,  if  tha'd  onywaays  let  ma  be  good," 
But  she  skelpt  ma  haafe  ower  i'  the  chair,  an'  screead  like  a  Howl  gone  wud^— • 

"  Ya  mun  run  fur  the  lether.s     Git  oop,  if  ya're  onywaays  good  for  owt." 
And  I  says  "  If  I  beant  noawaays  —  not  nowadaays  —  good  fur  nowt  — 

"  Yit  I  beant  sioh  a  Nowt*  of  all  Nowts  as  'uU  hallus  do  as  'e's  bid." 
"  But  the  stairs  is  afire,"  she  said ;  then  I  seed  'er  a-cryiu',  I  did. 

An'  she  beald  "  Ya  mun  saave  little  Dick,  an'  be  sharp  about  it  an'  all," 
Sa  I  runs  to  the  yard  fur  a  lether,  an'  sets  'im  agean  the  wall, 

An'  I  claums  an'  I  mashes  the  winder  hin,  when  I  gits  to  the  top, 
But  the  heat  druv  bout  i'  my  heyes  till  I  feald  mysen  ready  to  drop. 

Thy  Moother  was  howdin'  the  lether,  an'  tellin'  me  not  to  be  skeard. 
An'  I  wasn't  afeard,  or  I  thinks  leastwaays  as  I  wasn't  afeard ; 

But  I  couldn't  see  for  the  smoake  wheere  thou  was  a-liggin,  my  lad. 
An'  Koaver  was  theere  i'  the  chaumber  a-yowlin'  an'  yaupin'  like  mad; 

An'  thou  was  a-bealin'  likewise,  an'  a-squeiilin',  as  if  tha  was  bit, 
An'  it  wasn't  a  bite  but  a  burn,  fur  the  merk's  ^  o'  thy  shou'der  yit ; 

Then  I  call'd  out  Koa,  Boa,  Roii,  thaw  I  didn't  haafe  think  as  'e'd  'ear. 
But  'e  coom'd  thruf  the  fire  wi'  my  bairn  i'  's  mouth  to  the  winder  theere  t 

He  coom'd  like  a  Hangel  o'  raarcy  as  soon  as  'e  'eard  'is  naame, 
Or  like  tother  Hangel  i'  Scriptur  'at  sumraun  seed  i'  the  flaame, 

Wlien  summun  'ed  hax'd  fur  a  son,  an'  'e  promised  a  son  to  she. 
An'  Eoa  was  as  good  as  the  Hangel  i'  saavin'  a  son  fur  me. 

1  Tbe  girl  was  aa  dirty  a  slut  as  ever  trudged  in  the  mud,  but  there  is  a  sense  of  Blattera]^ 
ness  in  "  traapes'd  "  which  is  not  expressed  in  "  trudged." 

2  She  half  overturned  me  and  shrieked  like  an  owl  gone  mad.  s  Ladder. 
4  A  thoroughly  insignificant  or  worthless  person.                                      '  Mark. 


658  YASTNESS. 


Sa  I  browt  tha  down,  an'  I  says  "  I  mun  gaw  up  agean  fur  Boa." 
"  Gaw  up  agean  fur  the  varmint  1  "     I  tell'd  'er  "  Yeas  I  maun  goa." 

An'  I  claumb'd  up  agean  to  the  winder,  an'  clemm'd  ^  owd  Eoa  by  the  'ead, 
An'  'is  'air  coom'd  ofi  i'  my  'ands  an'  I  taaked  'im  at  fust  fur  dead ; 

Fur  'e  smell'd  like  a  herse  a-singein',  an'  seeam'd  as  blind  as  a  poop, 
An'  haafe  on  'im  bare  as  a  bublin'.''    I  couldn't  wakken  'im  oop, 

feut  I  browt  'im  down,  an'  we  got  to  the  barn,  fur  the  barn  wouldn't  burn 
Wi'  the  wind  blawin'  hard  tother  waay,  an'  the  wind  wasn't  like  to  turn. 

An'  /  kep  a-callin'  o'  Eoa  till  'e  waggled  'is  taail  fur  a  bit. 

But  the  cocks  kep  a-crawin'  an'  crawin'  all  night,  an'  I  'ears  'em  yit; 

An'  the  dogs  was  a-yowlin'  all  round,  and  thou  was  a-squealin'  thysen. 
An'  Moother  was  naggin'  an'  groanin  an'  moanin'  an'  naggin'  agean ; 

An'  I  'eard  the  bricks  an'  the  baulks  ^  rummle  down  when  the  roof  gev  waay, 
Fur  the  fire  was  a-raagin'  an'  raavin'  an'  roarin'  like  judgment  daay. 

Warm  enew  theere  sewer-ly,  but  the  barn  was  as  cowd  as  owt, 

An'  we  cuddled  and  huddled  togither,  an'  happt*  wersens  oop  as  we  mowt. 

An'  I  browt  Eoa  round,  but  Moother  'ed  bean  sa  soak'd  wi'  the  thaw 
'At  she  cotch'd  'er  death  o'  cowd  that  night,  poor  soul,  i'  the  straw. 

Haafe  o'  the  parish  runn'd  oop  when  the  rigtree  ^  was  tummlin'  in  — 
Too  laate  —  but  it's  all  ower  now — hall  bower  —  an'  ten  year  sin; 

Too  laate,  tha  mun  git  tha  to  bed,  but  I'll  coom  an'  I'll  squench  the  light, 
Fur  we  moant  'ey  naw  moor  fires  —  and  soa  little  Dick,  good-night. 


VASTNESS. 


Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after  many  a  vanish'd  face, 
Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with  the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 


Eaving  politics,  never  at  rest —  as  this  poor  earth's  pale  history  runs, — 
What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the  gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns  1 


Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side,  truthless  violence  mourn'd  by  the 

Wise, 
Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a  popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies ; 

1  Clutched.        2  "  Bubbling,"  a  young  unfledged  bird.        ^  Beams.         *  Wrapt  ourselves, 
«  The  beam  that  rune  along  the  roof  of  the  house  just  beneath  the  ridge. 


VASTNESS.  659 


IV. 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious  annals  of  army  and  fleet, 
Deatli  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the  wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory, 
groans  of  defeat; 

V. 

Innocence  seethed  in   her   mother's   milk,  and   Charity  setting   the   martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of  Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name. 

VI. 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the  gloom  of  doubts  that  darken  the 

schools ; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand,  foUow'd  up  by  her  vassal  legion 

of  fools ; 

VII. 

Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her  spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and 

her  corn ; 
Desolate  ofling,  sailorless  harbors,  famishing  populace,  wharves  forlorn ; 

VIII. 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise ;  gloom  of  the  evening.  Life  at  a 

close ; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down-way  with  her  flying  robe  and  her 

poison'd  rose ; 

IX. 

Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of  Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes  all 

day,  and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper,  and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of 

the  light; 

X. 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded  harlots ;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the 

bone ; 
Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty ;  Flattery  gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne ; 


Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trumpet  a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and 

to  Fate ; 
Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on  all  the  laurel'd  graves  of  the  Great; 


Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  marriage,  no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 

been. 
Household  happiness,  gracious  children,  debtless  competence,  golden  mean ; 


National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and  pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire; 
Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle,  and  vows  that  are  snapt  in  a 
moment  of  fire : 


660 


THE  RING. 


He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  minute,  and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh 

without  mind ; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till  Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his 

kind; 

XV. 

Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and  Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolutions  of 

eartli ; 
All  new-old  revolutions  of  Empire  —  change  of  the  tide  —  what  is   all  of 

it  worth  1 

XVI. 

What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences,  poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer  ? 
All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all  that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair  ? 


What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in  being  our  own  corpse-cofiins  at  last, 
Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence,  drown'd  in  the  deeps  of  a  meaningless 
Past  1 

XVIII. 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom,  or  a  moment's  anger  of  bees  in 
their  hive  ?  — 


Peace,  let  it  be !  for  I  loved  him,  and  love  him  forever :   the  dead  are  not 
dead  but  alive. 


Dedicated  to  tJie  Hon.  J.  Russell  Lowell. 
THE    KING. 

MlBIAM    AND   HEK   EaTHEK. 

MIRIAM  (^singing'). 

Mellow  moon  of  heaven, 

Briglit  in  blue. 
Moon  of  married  hearts, 

Hear  me,  you ! 

Twelve  times  in  the  year 

Bring  me  bliss. 
Globing  Honey  Moons 

Bright  as  this. 

Moon,  you  fade  at  times 

From  the  night. 
Young  again  you  grow 

Out  of  sight. 


Silver  crescent-curve, 
Coming  soon, 

Globe  again,  and  make 
Honey  Moon. 

Shall  not  my  love  last, 
Moon,  with  you. 

For  ten  thousand  years 
Old  and  new  ? 


And  who  was  he  with  such  love- 
drunken  eyes 

They  made  a  thousand  honey  moons 
of  one  ? 

MIKIAM. 

The  prophet  of  his  own,  my  Hubert 

—  liis 


THE  RING. 


661 


The   words,   and  mine    the    setting. 

"  Air  and  Words," 
Said  Hubert,  when  I  sang  the  song, 

"  are  bride 
And  bridegroom."     Does   it  please 

you? 

EATHEK. 

Mainly,  child, 
Because  I  hear  your  Mother's  voice 

in  yours. 
She ,   why,   you   shiver   tho'  the 

wind  is  west 
"With  all  the  warmth  of  summer. 


Well,  I  felt 
On   a   sudden   I   know   not   what,  a, 

breath  that  past 
With  all  the  cold  of  winter. 

FATHER  {muttering  to  himself). 

Even  so. 
The  Ghost  in  Man,  the  Ghost  that 

once  was  Man, 
But  cannot  wholly  free  itself  from 

Man, 
Are  calling  to  each  other  thro'  a  dawn 
Stranger  than  earth  has   ever  seen ; 

the  veil 
Is  rending,  and  the  Voices  of  the  day 
Are  heard  across  the  Voices  of  the  dark. 
No  sudden  heaven,  nor  sudden  hell, 

for  man, 
But  thro'  the  Will  of  One  who  knows 

and  rules  — 
And   utter   knowledge   is   but    utter 

love  — 
JEonian  Evolution,  swift  or  slow. 
Thro'  all  the  Spheres  —  an  ever  open- 
ing height. 
An  ever  lessening  earth  —  and  she 

perhaps. 
My  Miriam,  breaks  her  latest  earthly 

link 
With  me  to-day. 

MIKIAM. 

You  speak  so  low,  what  is  it  ? 
Your  "  Miriam  breaks  "  —  is  making 

a  new  link 
Breaking  an  old  one  ? 


No,  for  we,  my  child, 
Hare  been  till  now  each  other's  all- 
in-all. 


And  ypu  the  lifelong  guardian  of  the 
child. 


I,  and  one  other  whom  you  have  not 
known. 

MIKIAM. 

And  who  1  what  otlier  ? 


Whither  are  you  bound  ? 
For  Naples   which   we   only  left   in 
May? 


No!  father,  Spain,  but  Hubert  brings 

rae  home 
With  April  and  the  swallow.     Wish 

me  joy ! 

FATHER. 

What   need    to   wish   when    Hubert 

weds  in  you 
The  heart  of  Love,  and  you  the  soul 

of  Truth 
In  Hubert  ? 


Tho'  you  used  to  call  me  once 
The   lorely  maiden-Princess   of  the 

wood. 
Who  meant  to  sleep   her    hundred 

summers  out 
Before  a  kiss  should  wake  her. 

FATHER. 

Ay,  but  now 
Your  fairy  Prince   has   found    you, 
take  this  ring. 


662 


THE  RING. 


"  lo  t'amo  "  —  and  these  diamonds  — 

beautiful ! 
"From  "Walter,"  and  for  me  from 
'  you  then  ? 


FATHER. 

One  way  for  Miriam. 


"Well, 


MIRIAM. 

Miriam  am  I  not  1 


This  ring  bequeath'd  you  by  your 

mother,  child, 
■Was  to  be   given    you — such    her 

dying  wish  — 
Given  on  the  morning  when  you  came 

of  age 
Or  on  the  day  you  married. ,  Both 

the  days 
Now  close  in  one.     The  ring  is  doubly 

yours. 
Why  do  you  look  so  gravely  at  the 

tower  ■? 


I  never  saw  it  yet  so  all  ablaze 
With  creepers  crimsoning  to  the  pin- 
nacles. 
As  if  perpetual  sunset  linger'd  there. 
And  all  ablaze  too  in  the  lake  below ! 
And  how  the  birds  that  circle  round 

the  tower 
Are  cheeping  to  each  otlier  of  their 

flight 
^  To  summer  lands  I 


And  that  has  made  you  gravel 
Fly  —  care  not.      Birds    and  brides 

must  leave  the  nest. 
Child,  I  am  happier  in  your  happi- 
ness 
Than  iu  mine  own. 

AURIAM. 

It  is  not  that  1 


FATHER. 

What  else? 

MIRIAM. 

That  chamber  in  the  tower. 

FATHER. 

What  chamber,  child  ? 
Your  nurse  is  here  ? 


My  Mother's  nurse  and  mine. 
She  comes  to  dress  me  in  my  bridal 
veil. 

FATHER. 

What  did  she  say  ? 


She  said,  that  you  and  I 
Had  been  abroad  for  my  poor  health 

so  long 
She  fear'd  I  had  forgotten  her,  and  I 

ask'd 
About    my  Mother,   and    she    said, 

"  Thy  hair 
Is  golden  like  thy  Mother's,  not  so 

fine." 

FATHER. 

What  then  ?  what  more  ? 


She  said  — perhaps  indeed 
She  wander'd,  having  wauder'd  now 

so  far 
Beyond  the  common  date  of  death  — 

that  you, 
When  I  was  smaller  than  the  statuette 
Of  my  dear  Mother  on  your  bracket 

here  — 
You  took  me  to  that  'chamber  in  the 

tower, 
The  topmost — a  chest  there,  by  which 

you  knelt  — 
And  there  were  books  and  dresses  — 

left  to  nie, 
A  ring  too  which  you  kiss'd,  and  Ij 

she  said. 


THE  RING. 


663 


1  babbled,  Mother,  Mother— as  I  used 
To  prattle  to  her  picture  —  stretch'd 

my  hands 
As  if  I  saw  her;  then  a  woman  came 
And  caught  me  from  my  nurse.    I 

hear  her  yet  — 
A  sound  of  anger  like  a  distant  storm. 

FATHER. 

Garrulous  old  crone. 

MIRIAM. 

Poor  nurse ! 


I  bad  her  keep. 
Like  a  seal'd  book,  all  mention  of 

the  ring. 
For  I  myself  would  tell  you  all  to-day. 


"  She  too  might  speak  to-day,"  she 

mumbled.     Still, 
I  scarce  have  learnt  the  title  of  your 

book, 
But  you  will  turn  the  pages. 

FATHER. 

Ay,  to-day ! 
I  brought  you  to  that  chamber  on 

your  third 
September  birthday  with  your  nurse, 

and  felt 
An  icy  breath  play  on  me,  while  I 

stoopt 
To  take  and  kiss  the  ring. 


lo  t'amo? 


This  very  ring 


Tes,  for  some  wild  hope  was  mine 
That,  in  the  misery  of  my  married  life, 
Miriam  your  Mother  might  appear  to 

me. 
She  came  to  you,  not  me.   The  storm, 

you  hear 
Far-off,     is      Muriel  —  your      step- 
mother's voice. 


MIRIAM. 

Vext,  that  you  thought  my  Mother 

came  to  me  ? 
Or  at  my  crying  "  Mother  1 "  or  to  find 
My  Mother's  diamonds  hidden  from 

her  there, 
Like  worldly  beauties  in  the  Cell, 

not  shown 
To  dazzle  all  that  see  them  ? 

FATHER. 

Wait  a  while. 
Tour     Mother     and    step-mother  — 

Miriam  Erne 
And   Muriel    Erne  —  the    two  were 

cousins  —  lived 
With  Muriel's  mother  on  the  down, 

that  sees 
A   thousand    squares    of    corn    and 

meadow,  far 
As  the  gray  deep,  a  landscape  which 

your  eyes 
Have  many  a  time  ranged  over  when 

a  babe. 

MIRIAM.  * 

I  climb'd  the  hill  with  Hubert  yester- 
day, 

And  from  the  thousand  squares,  one 
silent  voice 

Came  on  the  wind,  and  seem'd  to 
say  "  Again." 

We  saw  far  off  an  old  forsaken  house, 

Then  home,  and  past  the  ruin'd  mill. 

FATHER. 

And  there 
I  found  these  cousins  often  by  the 

brook, 
For    Miriam    sketch'd    and    Muriel 

threw  the  fly; 
The  girls  of  equal  age,  but  one  was 

fair, 
And   one  was   dark,  and  both  were 

beautiful. 
No  voice  for  either  spoke  within  my 

heart 
Then,  for  the  surface  eye,  that  only 

doats 
On   outward  beauty,  glancing  from 

the  one 


e04 


THE  RING. 


To  the  other,  knew  not  that  which 

pleased  it  most. 
The  raven  ringlet  or  the  gold;  but 

both 
Were  dowerless,  and  myself,  I  used 

to  walk 
This  Terrace  —  morbid,  melancholy; 

mine 
,A.nd  yet  not  mine  the  hall,  the  farm, 
'.  the  field; 

For  all  that   ample  woodland  whis- 

per'd  "  debt," 
The  brook  that,  feeds  this    lakelet 

murmur'd  "  debt," 
And  in  yon  arching  avenue  of  old 

elms, 
Tho'  mine,  not  mine,  I  heard  the 

sober  rook 
And  carrion  crow  cry  "  Mortgage." 

MIRIAM. 

Father's  fault 
Visited  on  the  children ! 

FATHER. 

Ay,  but  then 

A  kinsman,  dying,  summon'd  me  to 
Eome  — 

He  left  me  wealth  —  and  while  I 
journey'd  hence. 

And  saw  the  world  fly  by  me  like  a 
dream. 

And  while  I  communed  with  my 
truest  self, 

I  woke  to  all  of  truest  in  myself. 

Till,  in  the  gleam  of  those  mid-sum- 
mer dawns, 

The  form  of  Muriel  faded,  and  the  face 

Of  Miriam  grew  upon  me,  till  I  knew ; 

And  past  and  future  mix'd  in  Heaven 
and  made 

The  rosy  twilight  of  a  perfect  day. 

MIRIAM. 

So  glad  1  no  tear  for  him,  who  left 

you  wealth. 
Your  kinsman  ? 

FATHER. 

I  had  seen  the  man  but  once  ; 
He  loved  my  name  not  me ;  and  then 
I  pass'd 


Home,   and    thro'   Venice,   where    a 

jeweller. 
So  far  gone  down,  or  so  far  up  in  life, 
That  he  was  nearing  his  own  hundred, 

sold 
This  ring  to  me,  then  laugh'd  "the 

ring  is  weird." 
And  weird  and  worn  and  wizard-like 

was  he. 
"  Why  weird  ?  "  I  ask'd  him;  and  he 

said  "The  souls 
Of  two  repentant  Lovers  guard  the 

ring;" 
Then  with  a  ribald  twinkle  in  his 

bleak  eyes  — 
"And  if  you  give  the  ring  to  any  maid. 
They  still   remember  what    it    cost 

them  here. 
And  bind  the  maid  to  love  you  by 

the  ring; 
And  if  the  ring  were  stolen  from  the 

maid. 
The  theft  were  death  or  madness  to 

the  thief. 
So  sacred  those  Ghost  Lovers  hold 

the  gift." 
And  then  he  told  their  legend : 

"Long  ago 
Two  lovers  parted  by  a  scurrilous  tale 
Had  quarrell'd,  till  the  man  repenting 

sent 
This  ring  '  lo  t'amo '  to  his  best  be- 
loved. 
And  sent  it  on  her  birthday.     She  in 

wrath 
Eeturn'd  it  on  her  birthday,  and  that 

day 
His  death-day,  when,  half-frenzied  by 

the  ring. 
He  wildly  fought  a  rival  suitor,  him 
The  causer  of  that  scandal,  fought 

and  fell ; 
And  she  that  came  to  part  them  all 

too  late, 
And  found  a  corpse  and  silence,  drew 

the  ring 
From  his  dead  finger,  wore  it  till  her 

death, 
Shrined  him  within  the  temple  of  her 

heart. 
Made  every  moment  of  her  after  life 


THE  RING. 


665 


A  virgin  victim  to  his  memory, 
And  dying  rose,  and  rear'd  her  arms, 

and  cried 
'  I  see  him,  lo  t'amo,  lo  t'amo.' " 


Iiagend  or  true  ?  so  tender  should  he 

true! 
Did  he  believe  it  ?  did  you  ask  him  1 


Ay! 
But  that  half  skeleton,  like  a  barren 

ghost 
I'rom  out  the  fleshless  world  of  spirits, 

laugh'd : 
A  hollow  laughter ! 


Vile,  so  near  the  ghost 
Himself,  to  laugh  at  love  in  death  1 
But  you? 

FATHER. 

Well,  as  the  bygone  lover  thro'  this 
ring 

Had  sent  his  cry  for  her  forgiveness,  I 

Would  call  thro'  this  "  lo  t'amo  "  to 
the  heart 

Of  Miriam ;  then  I  bad  the  man  en- 
grave 

"  From  Walter  "  on  the  ring,  and  send 
it  —  wrote 

Name,  surname,  all  as  clear  as  noon, 
but  he  — 

Some  younger  hand  must  have  en- 
graven the  ring  — 

His  fingers  were  so  stiffen'd  by  the 
frost 

'Of  seven  and  ninety  winters,  that  he 
scrawl'd 

A   "Miriam"   that    might    seem    a 
"  Muriel"; 

And  Muriel  claim'd  and  open'd  what 
I  meant 

For    Miriam,    took    the    ring,    and 
flaunted  it 

Before  that  other  whom  I  loved  and 
love. 
A  mountain  stay'd  me  here,  a  min- 
ster there. 


A  galleried  palace,  or  a  battlefield. 
Where  stood  the  sheaf  of  Peace  :  but 

—  coming  home  — 
And  on  your  Mother's  birthday  —  all 

but  yours  — 
A  week  betwixt  —  and  when  the  tower 

as  now 
Was  all  ablaze  with  crimson  to  the 

roof. 
And  all  ablaze  too  plunging  in  the  lake 
Head-foremost  —  who  were  those  that 

stood  between 
The  tower  and  that  rich  phantom  of 

the  tower  ? 
Muriel  and  Miriam,  each  in  white, 

and  like 
May -blossoms  in  mid  autumn  —  was 

it  they  ? 
A  light  shot  upward  on  them  from 

the  lake. 
What  sparkled  there  ■?    whose   hand 

was  that  ?  they  stood 
So  close  together.     I  am  not  keen  of 

sight, 
But  coming  nearer  —  Muriel  had  the 

ring  — 
"  0   Miriam !  have  you  given  your 

ring  to  her? 
0  Miriam ! "   Miriam  redden'd,  Muriel 

clench'd 
The  hand  that  wore  it,  till  I  cried 

again : 
"  0  Miriam,  if  you  lovfe  me  take  the 

ring ! " 
She  glanced  at  me,  at  Muriel,  and 

was  mute. 
"  Nay,  if  you  cannot  love  me,  let  it  be." 
Then  —  Muriel  standing  ever  statue- 
like— 
She  turn'd,  and  in  her  soft  imperial 

way 
And  saying  gently :  "  Muriel,  by  your 

leave," 
Unclosed  the  hand,  and  from  it  drew 

the  ring. 
And  gave  it  me,  who  pass'd  it  down 

her  own, 
"  To  t'amo,  all  is  well  then."    Muriel 

fled. 


Poor  Muriel  1 


666 


THE  RING. 


Ay,  poor  Muriel  when  you  hear 
What   follows !      Miriam    loved   me 

from  the  first, 
Not  thro'  the  ring ;  but  on  her  mar- 
riage-morn 
This    birthday,   death-day,  and    be- 
trothal ring, 
Laid  on  her  table  overnight,  was  gone ; 
And  after  hours  of  search  and  doubt 

and  threats. 
And  hubbub,  Muriel  enter'd  with  it, 

"See!  — 
Found  in  a  chink  of  that  old  moulder'd 

floor!" 
My  Miriam  nodded  with   a  pitying 

smile, 
As  who  should  say  "  that  those  who 

lose  can  find." 
Then  I  and  she  were  married  for  a 

year, 
One  year  without  a  storm,  or  even  a 

cloud ; 
And  you  my  Miriam  born  within  the 

year; 
And  she  my  Miriam  dead  within  the 

year. 
I  sat  beside  her  dying,  and  she  gaspt : 
"The  books,  the  miniature,  the  lace 

are  hers, 
My  ring  too  when  she  comes  of  age, 

or  when 
She  marries;   you — you  loved  me, 

kept  your  word. 
Ton  love  me  still '  lo  t'amo.' — Muriel 

—  no  — 
She  cannot  love;  she  loves  her  own 

hard  self. 
Her    firm    will,    her    fix'd    purpose. 

Promise  me, 
Miriam  not  Muriel  —  she  shall  have 

the  ring." 
And  there  the  light  of   other  life, 

which  lives 
Beyond  our  burial  and  our  buried  eyes, 
Gleam'd  for  a  moment  in  her  own  on 

earth. 
I  swore  the  vow,  then  with  my  latest 

kiss 
Upon  them,  closed  her  eyes,  which 

would  not  close. 


But  kept  theli  watch  upon  the  ring 

and  you. 
Your  birthday  was  her  death-day. 

MIRIAM. 

O  poor  Mother ! 

And  you,  poor  desolate  Father,  and 
poor  me. 

The  little  senseless,  worthless,  word- 
less babe, 

Saved  when  your  life  was  wreck'd ! 

TATHEE. 

Desolate?  yes! 
Desolate   as  that   sailor  whom    the 

storm 
Had  parted  from  his  comrade  in  the 

boat, 
And  dash'd    half    dead    on    barren 

sands,  was  I. 
Nay,  you  were  my  one  solace;  only 

—  you 
Were  always  ailing.    Muriel's  mother 

sent, 
And  sure  am  I,  by  Muriel,  one  day 

came 
And  saw  you,  shook  her  head,  and 

patted  yours. 
And  smiled,  and  making  with  a  kindly 

pinch 
Bach  poor  pale  cheek  a,  momentary 

rose  — 
"That  should  be   fix'd,"   she    said; 

"your  pretty  bud. 
So  blighted  here,  would  flower  into 

full  health 
Among  our  heath  and  bracken.    Let 

her  come ! 
And  we  will  feed  her  with  our  moun- 
tain air. 
And  send  her  home  to  you  rejoicing." 

No  — 
We  could  not  part.     And  once,  when 

you  my  girl 
Rode   on   my  shoulder   home  —  the 

tiny  fist 
Had  graspt  a  daisy  from  y  oui  Mother's 

grave  — 
By  the  lych-gate  was  Muriel.     "  Ay,'' 

she  said, 
"Among  the  tombs  in  this  daJip  vale 

of  yours  i 


THE  RING. 


667 


You  scorn  my  Mother's  warning,  but 

the  child 
Is  paler  than  before.    We  often  walk 
lu  open  sun,   and  see   beneath  our 

feet 
The  mist  of  autumn  gather  from  your 

lake, 
jAnd  shroud  the  tower ;  and  once  we 
,'  only  saw 

'Your  gilded  vane,  a  light  abore  the 

mist" — ■ 
(Our   old   bright    bird   that   still    is 

veering  there 
Above   his  four  gold  letters)   "and 

the  light," 
She  said,  "  was  like  that  light "  —  and 

there  she  paused, 
And  long ;  till  I  believing  that  the 

girl's 
Lean  fancy,  groping  for  it,  could  not 

find 
One    likeness,  laugh'd  a  little    and 

found  her  two  — 
"  A  warrior's  crest  above  the  cloud  of 

war  "  — 
"  A    fiery   phoenix    rising    from   the 

smoke, 
The  pyre  he  burnt  in.''  — "Nay,"  she 

said,  "the  light 
That  glimmers  on  the  marsh  and  on 

the  grave." 
And  spoke  no  more,  but  turn'd  and 

pass'd  away. 
Miriam,   I  am  not  surely  one   of 

those 
Caught  by  the  flower  that  closes  on 

the  fly, 
But  after  ten  slow  weeks  her  fix'd 

intent. 
In  aiming  at  an  all  but  hopeless  mark 
To  strike  it,  struck;  I  took,  I  left 

you  there ; 
I  came,  I  went,  was  happier  day  by 

day; 
For  Muriel  nursed  you  with  a,  moth- 
er's care ; 
Till  on  that  clear  and  heather-scented 

height 
The   rounder  cheek  had  brighten  d 

into  bloom. 
She  always  came  to  meet  me  carrymg 

you. 


And  all  her  talk  was  of  the  babe  she 

loved ; 
So,  following  her  old  pastime  of  the 

brook. 
She  threw  the  fly  for  me;  but  oftener 

left 
That  angling  to  the  mother.  "  Muriel's 

health 
Had  weaken'd,  nursing  little  Miriam. 

Strange ! 
She  used  to  shun  the  wailing  babe, 

and  doats 
On  this  of  yours.''    But  when  the 

matron  saw 
That  hinted  love   was  only  wasted 

bait, 
Not  risen  to,  she  was  bolder.    "  Ever 

since 
You  sent  the  fatal  ring  "  —  I  told  her 

"  sent 
To    Miriam,"   "  Doubtless  —  ay,  but 

ever  since 
In  all  the  world  my  dear  one  sees 

but  you  — 
In  your  sweet  babe  she  finds  but  you 

—  she  makes 

Her  heart  a  mirror  that  reflects  but 

you." 
And   then   the  tear  fell,  the  voice 

broke,     jffer- heart! 
I  gazed  into  the  mirror,  as  a  man 
Who  sees  his  face  in  water,  and  a  stone, 
That  glances  from  the  bottom  of  the 

pool. 
Strike  upward  thro'  the  shadow;  yet 

at  last. 
Gratitude  —  loneliness  —  desire     to 

keep 
So  skilled  a  nurse  about  you  always 

—  nay! 

Some  half  remorseful  kind  of  pity 

too  — 
Well!    well,  you   know    I   married 

Muriel  Erne. 
"  I  take  thee  Muriel  for  my  wedded 

wife  "  — 
I  had  forgotten  it  was  your  birthday, 

child  — 
When  all  at  once  with  some  electric 

thrill 
A  cold  air  pass'd- between  us,  and  the 

hands 


668 


THE  RING. 


Fell  from  each  other,  and  were  joln'd 

again. 
No    second    cloudless    honeymoon 

was  mine. 
For  by  and  by  she  sicken'd  of  the 

farce, 
She    dropt    the    gracious    mask    of 

motherhood. 
She  came  no  more  to  meet  me,  carry- 
ing you, 
Nor  ever  oared  to  set  you  on  her  knee, 
Nor  ever  let  you  gambol  in  her  sight. 
Nor  ever  cheer'd  you  with  a  kindly 

smile, 
Nor  ever  ceased  to  clamor  for  the 

ring ; 
"Why  had  I  sent  the  ring  at  first  to 

her? 
Why  had  I  made  her  love  me  thro' 

the  ring. 
And  then  had  changed  ?  so  fickle  are 

men  —  the  best ! 
Not  she  —  but  now  my  love  was  hers 

again, 
The  ring  by  right,  she  said,  was  hers 

again. 
At  times  too  shrilling  In  her  angrier 

moods, 
"  That  weak  and  watery  nature  love 

you  1     No ! 
'  lo  t'amo,  lo  t'amo ' ! "  flung  herself 
Against  my  heart,  but  often  while 

her  lips 
Were  warm  upon  my  cheek,  an  icy 

breath. 
As  from  the  grating  of  a  sepulchre. 
Past  over  both.     I  told  her  of  my 

vow, 
No  pliable  idiot  I  to  break  my  vow  ; 
But  still  she  made  her  outcry  for  the 

ring; 
For  one  monotonous  fancy  madden'd 

her, 
Till  I  myself  was  madden'd  with  her 

cry. 
And    even    that  "lo  t'amo,"   those 

three  sweet 
Italian  words  became  a  weariness. 
My  people  too   were  scared  with 

eerie  sounds, 
A  footstep,  a  low  throbbing  in  the 

walls, 


A  noise  of  falling  weights  that  nevei 

fell. 
Weird  whispers,  bells  that  rang  with. 

out  a  hand. 
Door-handles  turn'd  when  none  wag 

at  the  door. 
And  bolted  doors  that  open'd  of  them. 

selves : 
And  one  betwixt  the  dark  and  light 

had  seen 
Her,  bending  by  the  cradle  of  her 

babe. 

MIKIAM. 

And  I  remember  once    that   being 

waked 
By  noises  in  the  house  —  and  no  one 

near — 
I  cried  for  nurse,  and  felt  a  gentle 

hand 
Fall  on  my  forehead,  and  a  sudden 

face 
Look'd  in  upon  me  like  a  gleam  and 

pass'd. 
And  I  was  quieted,  and  slepbagain. 
Or  is  it  some  half  memory  of  a  dream? 

FATHER. 

Your  fifth  September  birthday. 

MIKIAM. 

And  the  face. 
The  hand,  —  my  Mother. 


Miriam,  on  that  day 
Two  lovers  parted  by  no  scurrilous 

tale  — 
Mere   want  of   gold  —  and  still  for 

twenty  years 
Bound  by  the  golden  cord  of  their 

first  love  — 
Had  ask'd  us  to  their  marriage,  and 

to  share 
Their    marriage  -  banquet.      Muriel, 

paler  then 
Than  ever  you  were  in  your  cradle, 

moan'd, 
"  I  am  fitter  for  my  bed,  or  for  my 

grave, 
I  cannot  go,  go  you."     And  then  she 

rose, 


THE  RING. 


669 


She  clung  to  me  with  such  a  hard 

embrace, 
So  lingeringly  long,  that  half-amazed 
I  parted  from  her,  and  I  went  alone. 
And  when  the  bridegroom  murmur'd, 

"  With  this  ring," 
I  felt  for  what  I  could  not  find,  the 

key. 
The   guardian  of  her  relics,  of  her 

ring. 
I  kept  it  as  a  sacred  amulet 
About  me,  —  gone !  and  gone  in  that 

embrace ! 
Then,  hurrying   home,  I   found   her 

not  in  house 
Or  garden  —  up  the  tower  —  an  icy 

air 
Fled  by  me.  —  There,  the  chest  was 

open  —  all 
The    sacred    relics    tost    about   the 

floor  — 
Among  them   Muriel  lying  on   her 

face  — 
I    raised    her,   call'd    her    "  Muriel, 

Muriel  wake  ! " 
The    fatal    ring  lay  near  her;  the 

glazed  eye 
Glared  at  me  as  in  horror;    Dead! 

I  took 
And  chafed  the  freezing  hand.    A  red 

mark  ran 
All  round  one  finger  pointed  straight, 

the  rest 
Were  crumpled   inwards.     Dead! — ■ 

and  maybe  stung 
With  some  remorse,  had  stolen,  worn 

the  ring  — 
Then  torn  it  from  her  finger,  or  as 

if  — 
For    never    had    I   seen    her    show 

remorse  — 
Asif  — 

MIRIAM. 

—  those  two  Ghost  lovers  — 


FATHER. 


Lovers  yet  — 


res,  yes ! 


FATHER. 

—  but  dead  so  long,  gone  up  so  far, 
That  now  their  ever-rising  life  has 

dwarf'd 
Or  lost  the  moment  of  their  past  on 

earth, 
As  we  forget  our  wail  at  being  born. 
Asif— 

MIRIAM. 

a  dearer  ghost  had  — 

FATHER. 

—  wrench'd  it  away. 

MIRIAM. 

Had  floated  in  with  sad  reproachful 

eyes. 
Till  from  her  own  hand  she  had  torn 

the  ring 
In  fright,  and  fallen  dead.     And  I 

myself 
Am  half  afraid  to  wear  it. 

FATHER. 

Well,  no  more! 
No  bridal  music  this !  but  fear  not  you  I 
You  have  the  ring  she  guarded;  that 

poor  link 
With  earth  is  broken,  and  has  left  her 

free. 
Except  that,  still   drawn  downward 

for  an  hour. 
Her  spirit  hovering  by  the  church, 

where  she 
Was  married  too,  may  linger,  till  she 

sees 
Her  maiden  coming  like  a  Queen,  who 

leaves 
Some  colder  province  in  the  North  to 

gain 
Her  capital  city,  where  the  loyal  bells 
Clash  welcome  —  linger,  till  her  own,  ' 

the  babe 
She  lean'd  to  from  her  Spiritual  sphere. 
Her  lonely  maiden-Princess,  crown'd 

with  flowers, 
Has  enter'd  on  the  larger  woman-world 
Of  wives  and  mothers. 

But  the  bridal  veil  — 
Your  nurse  is  waiting.    Kiss  me  child 
and  go. 


670 


FORLORN. 


FORLORN. 
I. 

"  He  is  fled  —  I  wish  him  dead  — 
He  that  wrought  my  ruin  — 

0  the  flattery  and  the  craft 
Which  were  my  undoing  .  .  , 
In  the  night,  in  the  night, 
'     When  the  storms  are  blowing. 


"  Who  was  witness  of  the  crime  ? 

Who  shall  now  reveal  it  1 
He  is  fled,  or  he  is  dead, 

Marriage  will  conceal  it  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  in  the  night, 

While  the  gloom  is  growing." 


Catherine,  Catherine,  in  the  night 
What  is  this  you're  dreaming  ? 

There  is  laughter  down  in  Hell 
At  your  simple  scheming     ,  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night. 
When  the  ghosts  are  fleeting. 


You  to  place  a  hand  in  his 
Like  an  honest  woman's. 

You  that  lie  with  wasted  lung 
Waiting  for  your  summons  , 
In  the  night,  0  the  night ! 
O  the  deathwatch  beating ! 


There  will  come  a  witness  soon 

Hard  to  be  confuted, 
All  the  world  will  hear  a  voice 

Scream  you  are  polluted  .  .  . 

In  the  night !  O  the  night. 

When  the  owls  are  wailing ! 


Shame    and    marriage.   Shame    and 
marriage, 
Fright  and  foul  dissembling, 
Bantering      bridesman,      reddening 
priest. 
Tower  and  altar  trembling  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  0  the  night. 
When  the  mind  is  failing ! 


Mother,  dare  you  kill  your  child '' 
How  your  hand  is  shaking ! 

Daughter  of  the  seed  of  Cain, 
What  is  this  you're  taking  ?  ,  , 
In  the  night,  O  the  night. 
While  the  house  is  sleeping. 


Dreadful !  has  it  come  to  this, 

O  unhappy  creature  ? 
You  that  would  not  tread  on  a  worm 

For  your  gentle  nature  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  0  the  night, 

0  the  night  of  weeping ! 


Murder  would  not  veil  your  sin, 

Marriage  will  not  hide  it, 
Earth  and  Hell  will  brand  your  name, 

Wretch  you  must  abide  it  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night. 

Long  before  the  dawning. 


Up,  get  up,  and  tell  him  all, 

'Tell  him  you  were  lying  ! 
Do  not  die  with  a  lie  in  your  mouth, 

You  that  know  you're  dying  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  0  the  night. 

While  the  grave  is  yawning. 


No  —  you  will  not  die  before, 
Tho'  you'll  ne'er  be  stronger; 

You  will  live  till  ihat  is  born. 
Then  a  little  longer  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  0  the  night, 
While  the  Fiend  is  prowling. 


Death  and  marriage.  Death  and  iiaar» 
riage ! 

Funeral  hearses  rolling ! 
Black  with  bridal  favors  mixt ! 

Bridal  bells  with  tolling !  .  ,  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

When  the  wolves  are  howling. 


Up,  get  up,  the  time  is  short, 
Tell  him  now  or  never ! 

Tell  him  all  before  you  die, 
Lest  you  die  for  ever  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  O  the  night, 
Where  there's  no  forgetting. 


HAPPY.  671 


Up  she  got,  and  wrote  him  ali, 
All  her  tale  of  sadness, 

Blister'd  every  word  with  tears, . 
And  eased  her  heart  of  madness  . , 
In  the  night,  and  nigh  the  dawn, 
And  while  the  moon  was  setting 


HAPPY. 

THE    leper's    BKIDE. 


Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover?  and  what  is  it  that  you  fear? 

Is  he  sick  your  mate  like  mine  ■?  have  you  lost  him,  is  he  fled  ? 
And  there  —  the  heron  rises  from  his  watch  beside  the  mere, 

And  flies  above  the  leper's  hut,  where  lives  the  living-dead. 


Come  back,  nor  let  me  know  it !  would  he  live  and  die  alone  ? 

And  has  he  not  forgiven  me  yet,  his  over-jealous  bride. 
Who  am,  and  was,  and  will  be  his,  his  own  and  only  own. 

To  share  his  living  death  with  him,  die  with  him  side  by  side  ? 


Is  that  the  leper's  hut  on  the  solitary  moor. 

Where  noble  Ulric  dwells  forlorn,  and  wears  the  leper's  weed' 
The  door  is  open.     He !  is  he  standing  at  the  door. 

My  soldier  of  the  Cross  'i  it  is  he  and  he  indeed ! 


My  roses  —  will  he  take  them  now  —  mine,  his  —  from  off  the  tree 
We  planted  both  together,  happy  in  our  marriage  morn  ? 

O  God,  1  could  blaspheme,  for  he  fought  Thy  fight  for  Thee, 
And  Thou  hast  made  him  leper  to  compass  him  with  scorn — 


Hast  spared  the  flesh  of  thousands,  the  coward  and  the  base. 

And  set  a  crueller  mark  than  Cain's  on  him,  the  good  and  brave! 

He  sees  me,  waves  me  from  him.     I  will  front  him  face  to  face. 
You  need  not  wave  me  from  you.    I  would  leap  into  your  grave. 


VI. 

My  warrior  of  the  Holy  Cross  and  of  the  conquering  sword, 
The  roses  that  you  cast  aside  —  once  more  I  bring  you  these. 

Ho  nearer  ?  do  you  scorn  me  when  you  tell  me  0  my  lord, 

You  would  not  mar  the  beauty  of  your  bride  with  your  disease. 


672  HAPPY. 


You  say  your  body  is  so  foul  —  then  here  I  stand  apart, 
Who  yearn  to  lay  my  loving  head  upon  your  leprous  breast. 

Th6  leper  plague  may  scale  my  skin  but  never  taint  my  heart ; 
Your  body  is  not  foul  to  me,  and  body  is  foul  at  best. 


I  loved  you  first  vrhen  young  and  fair,  but  now  I  love  you  most; 

The  fairest  flesh  at  last  is  filth  on  which  the  worm  will  feast; 
This  poor  rib-grated  dungeon  of  tlie  holy  human  ghost, 

This  house  with  all  its  hateful  needs  no  cleaner  than  the  beast. 


This  coarse  diseaseful  creature  which  in  Eden  was  divine. 
This  Satan-haunted  ruin,  this  little  city  of  sewers, 

This  wall  of  solid  flesh  that  comes  between  your  soul  and  mine. 
Will  vanish  and  give  place  to  the  beauty  that  endures, 


The  beauty  that  endures  on  the  Spiritual  height. 

When  we  shall  stand  transfigured,  like  Christ  on  Hermon  hill. 
And  moving  each  to  music,  soul  in  soul  and  light  in  light, 

Shall  flash  thro'  one  another  in  a  moment  as  we  will. 


Foul !  foul !  the  word  was  yours  not  mine,  I  worship  that  right  hand 
Which  fell'd  the  foes  before  you  as  the  woodman  fells  the  wood, 

And  sway'd  the  sword  that  lighten'd  back  the  sun  of  Holy  land, 
And  clove  the  Moslem  crescent  moon,  and  changed  it  into  blood. 


And  once  ±  worshipt  all  too  well  this  creature  of  decay. 

For  Age  will  chink  the  face,  and  Death  will  freeze  the  supplest  limbs- 
Yet  you  in  your  mid  manhood  —  O  the  grief  when  yesterday 
They  bore  the  Cross  before  you  to  the  chant  of  funeral  hymns. 


"Libera  me,  Domine!"  you  sang  the  Psalm,  and  when 

The  Priest  pronounced  you  dead,  and  flung  the  mould  upon  your  feelv 

A  beauty  came  upon  your  face,  not  that  of  living  men, 

But  seen  upon  the  silent  brow  when  life  has  ceased  to  beat. 


"Libera  nos,  Domine"  —  you  knew  not  one  was  there 

Who  saw  you  kneel  beside  your  bier,  and  weeping  scarce  could  see; 

May  I  come  a  little  nearer,  I  that  heard,  and  changed  the  prayer 
And  sang  the  married  "  nos  "  for  the  solitary  "  me." 


HAPPY.  675 


My  beauty  marred  by  you  ?  by  you !  so  be  it.    All  is  well 
If  I  lose  it  and  myself  in  the  higher  beauty,  yours. 

My  beauty  lured  that  falcon  from  his  eyry  on  the  fell, 

Who  never  caught  one  gleam  of  the  beauty  which  endures  — 


The  Count  who  sought  to  snap  the  bond  that  link'd  us  life  to  life. 
Who  whisper'd  me  "your  Ulric  loves"  — a  little  nearer  still  — 

He  hiss'd,  "Let  us  revenge  ourselves,  your  Ulric  woos  my  wife"  — 
A  lie  by  which  he  thought  he  could  subdue  me  to  his  will. 


I  knew  that  you  were  near  me  when  I  let  him  kiss  my  brow; 

Well,  he  kiss'd  me  on  the  lips,  I  was  jealous,  anger'd,  vain, 
And  I  meant  to  make  you  jealous.     Are  you  jealous  of  me  now  ? 

Your  pardon,  O  my  love,  if  I  ever  gave  you  pain. 


You  never  once  accused  me,  but  I  wept  alone,  and  sigh'd 
In  the  winter  of  the  Present  for  the  summer  of  the  Past; 

That  icy  winter  silence  —  how  it  froze  you  from  your  bride, 
Tho'  I  made  one  barren  efEort  to  break  it  at  the  last. 


I  brought  you,  you  remember,  these  roses,  when  I  knew 

You  were  parting  for  the  war,  and  you  took  them  tho'  you  frown'd ; 

You  frown'd  and  yet  you  kiss'd  them.    All  at  once  the  trumpet  blew. 
And  you  spurr'd  your  fiery  horse,  and  you  hurl'd  them  to  the  ground. 


You  parted  for  the  Holy  War  without  a  word  to  me. 

And  clear  myself  unask'd  —  not  I.     My  nature  was  too  proud. 

And  him  I  saw  but  once  again,  and  far  away  was  he. 

When  I  was  praying  in  a  storm  —  the  crash  was  long  and  loud  — 


That  God  would  ever  slant  His  bolt  from  falling  on  your  head  — 
Then  I  lifted  up  my  eyes,  he  was  coming  down  the  fell — 

I  clapt  my  hands.     The  sudden  fire  from  Heaven  had  dash'd  him  dead. 
And  sent  him  charr'd  and  blasted  to  the  deathless  fire  of  Hell. 


See  I  sinn'd  but  for  a  moment.     I  repented  and  repent, 
And  trust  myself  forgiven  by  the  God  to  whom  I  kneel. 

A  little  nearer  ?     Yes.     I  shall  hardly  be  content 

Till  I  be  leper  like  yourself,  my  love,  from  head  to  heel. 


674  HAPPY. 


0  foolish  dreams,  that  you,  that  I,  would  slight  out  marriage  oath: 
I  held  you  at  that  moment  even  dearer  than  before ; 

Now  God  has  made  you  leper  in  His  loving  care  for  both. 
That  we  might  cling  together,  never  doubt  each  other  more. 

XXIV. 

The  Priest,  who  join'd  you  to  the  dead,  has  join'd  our  hands  of  old; 

If  man  and  wife  be  but  one  flesh,  let  mine  be  leprous  too, 
As  dead  from  all  the  human  race  as  if  beneath  the  mould; 

If  you  be  dead,  then  I  am  dead,  who  only  live  for  you. 

XXV. 

"Would  Earth  tho'  hid  in  cloud  not  be  f  oUow'd  fay  the  Moon  ? 

The  leech  forsake  the  dying  bed  for  terror  of  his  life  f 
The  shadow  leave  the  Substance  in  the  brooding  light  of  noon? 

Or  if  I  had  been  the  leper  would  you  have  left  the  wife  ! 

XXVI. 

Not  take  them  t     Still  you  wave  me  off  —  poor  roses  —  must  I  go  — 
I  have  worn  them  year  by  year — from  the  bush  we  both  had  set  — 

What  ?  fling  them  to  you  ?  —  well  —  that  were  hardly  gracious.     No! 
Your  plague  but  passes  by  the  touch.     A  little  nearer  yet ! 

XXVII. 

There,  there  !  he  buried  you,  the  Priest;  the  Priest  is  not  to  blame, 
He  joins  us  once  again,  to  his  either  office  true : 

1  thank  him.    I  am  happy,  happy.     Kiss  me.     In  the  name 
Of  the  everlasting  God,  I  will  live  and  die  with  you. 

[Bean  Milman  has  remarked  that  tbe  protection  and  care  afforded  by  the  Church  to  this 
blighted  race  of  lepers  was  among  tbe  most  beautiful  of  its  offices  during  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  leprosy  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  was  suppoeed  to  be  a  legacy  of  the 
crusades,  but  was  in  all  probability  the  ofEspriug  of  meagre  and  unwholesome  diet,  miserable 
lodging  and  clothing,  physical  and  moral  degradation.  The  services  of  the  Church  in  the 
seclusion  of  these  unhappy  sufferers  were  most  affoctiug.  The  stern  duty  of  looking  to 
the  public  welfare  is  tempered  with  exquisite  compassion  for  the  victims  of  this  loathsome 
disease.  The  ritual  for  the  sequestration  of  the  leprous  differed  little  from  the  burial 
service.  After  the  leper  had  been  sprinkled  with  holy  water,  the  priest  conducted  him 
into  the  church,  the  leper  singing  the  psalm  "  Libera  me  domiue,"  and  tbe  crucifix  and 
bearer  going  before.  In  the  church  a  black  cloth  was  stretched  over  two  trestles  in  front  of 
the  altar,  and  the  leper  leaning  at  its  side  devoutly  heard  mass.  The  priest,  taking  up  a  little 
earth  in  his  cloak,  threw  it  on  one  of  the  leper's  feet,  and  put  him  out  of  the  church,  if  it  did 
not  raiu  too  heavily;  took  him  to  his  hut  in  the  midst  of  the  fields,  and  then  uttered  the 
prohibitions:  "I  forbid  you  entering  the  church  ...  or  entering  the  company  of  others.  I 
forbid  you  quitting  your  home  without  your  leper's  dress."  He  concluded;  "Take  this 
dress,  and  wear  it  in  token  of  humility ;  take  these  gloves,  take  this  clapper,  as  a  sign  that 
you  are  forbidden  to  speak  to  any  one.  You  are  not  to  be  indignant  at  being  thus  separated 
from  others,  and  as  to  your  little  wants,  good  people  will  provide  for  you,  and  God  will  not 
desert  you."  Then  in  this  old  ritual  follow  these  sad  words:  "  When  it  shall  come  to  pass! 
that  the  leper  shall  pass  out  of  this  world,  he  shall  be  buried  in  his  hut,  and  not  in  the  church  j 
yard."  At  first  there  was  a  doubt  whether  wives  should  follow  their  husbands  who  had  been 
leprous,  or  remain  in  the  world  and  marry  again.  The  Church  decided  that  the  raarrjage- 
tie  was  indissoluble,  and  so  bestowed  on  tfcese  unhappy  beings  this  immense  source  of  con- 
eolation.  With  a  love  stronger  than  this  living  death,  lepers  were  followed  into  banishment 
from  the  haunts  of  men  by  tbeir  faithful  wives.  Readers  of  Sir  J.  Stephen's  Essays  on 
Ecclesiastical  Biography  will  recollect  the  description  of  the  founder  of  the  Franciscan 
order,  how,  controlling  his  involuntary  disgust,  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  washed  the  feet  and 
dressed  the  sores  of  the  lepers,  once  at  least  reverently  applying  his  lips  to  their  wounds. — 
Boucuer-.Tames,] 

This  ceremony  of  g«a.si-burial  varied  considerably  at  different  times  and  in  different  places. 
In  some  cases  a  grave  was  dug,  and  the  leper's  face  was  often  covered  during  the  service. 


TO    ULYSSES. 


67S 


TO   ULYSSES. 

"  tJlysses,"  the  title  of  a  number  of  eesaya 
by  W.  G.  Palgrave.  He  died  at  Monte  Video 
before  seeing  either  this  volume  or  my 
poem. 

I. 

Ulysses,  much-experienced  man, 
Wliose  eyes  have  known  this  globe 

of  ours. 
Her  tribes  of  men,  and  trees,  and 
flowers, 
From  Corrientes  to  Japan. 


To  you  that  bask  below  the  Line, 
I  soaking  here  in  winter  wet  — 
The   century's  three  strong  eights 
have  met 

To  drag  me  down  to  seventy-nine. 

III. 
In  summer  if  I  reach  my  day  — 
To  you,  yet  young,  who  breathe  the 

balm 
Of  summer- winters  by  the  palm 
And  orange  grove  of  Paraguay, 

IV. 

I  tolerant  of  the  colder  time, 

Who  love  the  winter  woods,  to  trace 
On   paler   heavens   the    branching 
grace 

Of  leafless  elm,  or  naked  lime, 

V. 

And  see  my  cedar  green,  and  there 
My  giant  ilex  keeping  leaf 
When  frost  is  keen  and   days   are 
brief  — 

Or  marvel  how  in  English  air 

VI. 

My  yucca,  which  no  winter  quells, 
Altho'  the  months  have  scarce  be- 
gun, 
Has  push'd  toward  our  faintest  sun 

A  spike  of  half-accomplish'd  bells  — 

VII. 

Or  watch  the  waving  pine  which  here 
The  warrior  of  Caprera  set,i 

I  Garibaldi  said  to  me,  alluding  to  his  bar- 
ren island,  "I  wish  I  had  your  trees." 


A  name  that  earth  will  not  forget 
Till  earth  has  roll'd  her  latest  year— 

VIII. 

I,  once  half-crazed  for  larger  light 
On  broader  zones  beyond  the  foam. 
But  chaining  fancy  now  at  home 

Among  the  quarried  downs  of  Wight, 


Not  less  would  yield  full  thanks  to 
you 
For  your  rich  gift,  your  tale  of 

lands 
I  know  not,^  your  Arabian  sands ; 
Your  cane,  your  palm,  tree-fern,  bam- 
boo, 

X. 

The    wealth    of    tropic    bower    anii 
brake ;  , 

Your  Oriental  Eden-isles,  ^ 
Where  man,  nor  only  Nature  smiles  ; 

Your  wonder  of  the  boiling  lake ; ' 


Phra-Chai,  the  Shadow  of  the  Best,* 
Phra-bat*  the   step;    your  Pontic 

coast; 
Crag-cloister ; 5  Anatolian  Ghost;'" 
Hong-Kong,^   Karnac,^  and  all  the 
rest. 


Thro'  which  I  follow'd  line  by  line 
Your  leading  hand,  and  came,  my 

friend. 
To  prize  your  various  book,  and 
send 
A  gift  of  slenderer  value,  mine. 

1  The  tale  of  Nejd. 

2  The  Philippines. 

3  In  Dominica.  \ 
*  The  shadow  of  the  Lord,  Certaiu  ob- 
scure markings  on  a  rock  in  Biam,  'which  ex- 
press the  image  of  Budda  to  the  Buddhiet 
more  or  less  distinctly  according  to  his  faith 
and  his  moral  worth. 

B  The  footstep  of   the  Lord  on  another 
rock. 

6  The  monastery  of  Bumelas. 

7  Anatolian  Spectre  stories. 

8  The  three  cities. 

'  Travels  in  Egypt. 


676 


TO  \MARY  BOYLE. 


TO   MAEY  BOYLE. 

WITH   THE    FOLLOWING   POEM. 
I. 

"  Speiiig-floweks  " !  While  you  still 
delay  to  take 
Your  leave  of  Town, 
Our  elmtree's  ruddy-hearted  hlossom- 
flake 
Is  fluttering  down. 

n. 

Be  truer  to  your  promise.    There  !  I 
heard 

One  cuckoo  call. 
Be  needle  to  the  magnet  of  your  word, 

Nor  wait,  till  all 


Our  vernal  bloom  from  every  vale  and 
plain 
And  garden  pass, 
And  all  the  gold  from  each  laburnum 
chain 
Drop  to  the  grass. 


Is  memory  with  your  Marian  gone  to 
rest. 
Dead  with  the  dead  ? 
For  ere  she  left  us,  when  we  met,  you 
■prest 
My  hand,  and  said 


"I  come  with  your  spring-flowers." 
You  came  not,  friend ; 
My  birds  would  sing, 
You  heard  not.   Take  then  this  spring- 
flower  I  send. 
This  song  of  spring, 


"ound    yesterday  —  forgotten    mine 
own  rhyme 

By  mine  old  self. 
As  I  shall  be  forgotten  by  old  Time, 

Laid  on  the  shelf  — 


A  rhyme  that  flower'd  betwixt  the 
whitening  sloe 
And  kingcup  blaze, 
And  more  than  half  a  hundred  years 
ago. 
In  rick-fire  days, 


When  Dives  loathed  the  times,  and 
paced  his  land 
In  fear  of  worse, 
And  sanguine  Lazarus  felt  a  vacant 
hand 
Fill  with  his  purse. 


For  lowly  minds  were  madden'd  to 
the  height 
By  tonguester  tricks. 
And  once  —  I  well  remember  that  red 
night 
When  thirty  ricks. 


All  flaming,  made  an  English  home- 
stead Hell  — 
These  hands  of  mine 
Have  helpt  to  pass  a  bucket  from  the 
well 
Along  the  line, 


When  this  bare  dome  had  not  begun 
to  gleam 
Thro'  youthful  curls, 
And  you  were  then  a  lover's  fairy 
dream, 
His  girl  of  girls ; 

XII. 

And  you,  that  now  are  lonely,  and 
with  Grief 
Sit  face  to  face. 
Might  flnd  a  flickering  glimmer  of 
relief 
In  change  of  place. 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


677 


What  use  to  brood  ■?  this  life  of  min- 
gled pains 
And  joys  to  me, 
Despite  of   every  Faith   and   Creed, 
remains 
The  Mystery. 


Let  golden  youth  bewail  the  friend, 
the  wife, 
For  ever  gone. 
He  dreams  of   that  long  walk  thro' 
desert  life 
Without  the  one. 


The  silver  year  should  cease  to  mourn 
and  sigh  — 
Not  long  to  wait  — 
So  close  are  we,  dear  Mary,  you  and 
I 
To  that  dim  gate. 


Take,  read!  and  be  the  faults  your 
Poet  makes 
Or  many  or  few, 
He  rests  content,  if  his  young  music 
wakes 
A  wish  in  you 


To  change  our  dark  Queen-city,  all 
her  realm 
Of  sound  and  smoke, 
For  his  clear  heaven,  and  these  few 
lanes  of  elm 
And  whispering  oak. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  SPRING. 

1. 
The  groundflame  of  the  crocus  breaks 
the  mould, 
Fair  Spring  slides  hither  o'er  the 
Southern  sea, 
Wavers  on  her  thin  stem  the  snow- 
drop cold 


That  trembles  not  to  kisses  of  the 
bee : 
Come  Spring,  for  now  from  all  the 
dripping  eaves 
The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself 
away. 
And  hour  by  hour  unfolding  wood- 
bine leaves 
O'er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops 
the  day. 
She  comes!     The   loosen'd   rivulets 
run; 
The    frost-bead    melts    upon    her 
golden  hair ; 
Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the 
Sun, 
Now  wraps  her  close,  now  arching 

leaves  her  bare 
To  breaths  of  balmier  air ; 

II. 

Up  leaps  the  lark,  gone  wild  to  wel- 
come her, 
About  her    glance    the    tits,   and 
shriek  the  jays. 
Before  her  skims  the  jubilant  wood- 
pecker. 
The  linnet's  bosom  blushes  at  her 
gaze. 
While  round  her  brows  a  woodland 
culver  flits. 
Watching  her  large  light  eyes  and 
gracious  looks. 
And  in  her  open  palm  a  halcyon  sits 
Patient  —  the   secret    splendor    of 
the  brooks. 
Come  Spring!     She  comes  on  waste 
and  wood. 
On  farm  and  field :  but  enter  also 
here, 
Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro'  all  my 
blood. 
And,  tho'  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere. 
Lodge  with  me  all  the  year ! 

III. 
Once  more  a  downy  drift  against  the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd  in  the  sky,  descend- 
ing slow ! 
But  gladly  see  I  thro'  the  wavering 
flakes 


678 


THE  PRPGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


Yon  blanching  apricot  like  snow  in 
snow. 
Tliese  will  thine  eyes  not  brook  in 
forest-paths, 
On  their  perpetual  pine,  nor  round 
the  beech; 
They  fuse  themselves  to  little  spicy 
baths, 
Solved  in  the  tender  blushes  of  the 
peach ; 
They  lose  themselves  and  die 
On  that  new   life  that  gems   the 
hawthorn  line ; 
Thy   gay  lent-lilies   wave    and    put 
them  by. 
And  out  once  more  in  varnish'd 

glory  shine 
Thy  stars  of  celandine. 


She  floats  across  the  hamlet.     Heaven 
lours, 
But  in  the  tearful  splendor  of  her 
smiles 
I  see  the  slowly-thickening  chestnut 
towers 
Fill  out  the  spaces  by  the  barren 
tiles. 
Now  past  her  feet  the  swallow  cir- 
cling flies, 
A  clamorous  cuckoo  stoops  to  meet 
her  hand ; 
Her  light    makes    rainbows   in    my 
closing  eyes, 
I  hear  a  charm  of  song  thro'  all 
the  land. 
Come,  Spring !    She  comes,  and  Earth 
is  glad 
To  roll  her  North  below  thy  deep- 
ening dome, 
But  ere  thy  maiden  birk  be  wholly 
J  clad, 

\     And  these  low  bushes   dip    their 

twigs  in  foam, 
'     Make  all  true  hearths  thy  home. 


Across  my  garden !   and  the  thicket 
stirs. 
The  fountain  pulses  high  in  sunnier 
jets, 


The  blackcap  warbles,  and  the  turtle 
purrs. 
The  starling  claps  his  tiny  casta- 
nets. 
Still  round  her  forehead  wheels  the 
woodland  dove. 
And   scatters   on    her    throat    the 
sparks  of  dew. 
The  kingcup  fills  her  footpiint,  and 
above 
Broaden  the  glowing  isles  of  ver- 
nal blue. 
Hail  ample  presence  of  a  Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell'd  gay. 
Whose  mantle,  every  shade  of  glanc- 
ing green. 
Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  to 

display 
A  tunic  white  as  May  1 


She  whispers,  "From  the    South  I 
bring  you  balm, 
For  on  a  tropic  mountain  was  I 
born. 
While  some  dark  dweller  by  the  coco- 
palm 
Watch'd  my  far    meadow    zoned 
with  airy  morn ; 
From  under  rose  a  mufiled  moan  of 
floods ; 
I  sat  beneath  a  solitude  of  snow ; 
There  no   one   came,  the  turf    was 
fresh,  the  woods 
Plunged  gulf  on  gulf  thro'  all  their 
vales  below. 
I  saw  beyond  their  silent  tops 
The  steaming  marshes  of  th«  scar- 
let cranes. 
The  slant  seas  leaning  on  the  man- 
grove copse, 
And  summer  basking  in  the  sultry/ 
plains  \ 

About  a  land  of  canes ; 


"Then  from  my  vapor-girdle  soar- 
ing forth 
I  scaled  the  buoyant  highway  of 
the  birds. 


MERLIN  AND    THE    GLEAM. 


679 


And  drank  the  dews  and  drizzle  of 
the  North, 
That  I  might  mix  with  men,  and 
hear  their  words 
On  pathway'd  plains ;  for  —  while  my 
hand  exults 
Within  the  bloodless  heart  of  lowly 
flowers 
^To  work  old  laws  of  Love  to  fresh 
results, 
Thro'   manifold    effect  of    simple 
powers  — 
I  too  would  teach  the  man 

Beyond  the  darker  hour  to  see  the 
bright, 
That  his  fresh  life  may  close  as  it 
began, 
The    still-fulfilling    promise   of    a 

light 
Narrowing  the  bounds  of  night." 


So  wed  thee  with  my  soul,  that  I  may 

mark 
The  coming  year's  great  good  and 

varied  ills. 
And    new     developments,    whatever 


Be  struck  from  out  the  clash  of 
warring  wills ; 
Or  whether,  since  our  nature  cannot 
rest, 
The  smoke  of  war's  volcano  burst 
again 
I"rom    hoary    deeps    that    belt    the 
changeful  West, 
Old    Empires,    dwellings    of    the 
kings  of  men ; 
Or  should  those  fail,  that  hold  the 
helm, 
While  the  Ion.    day  of  knowledge 
grows  an  J  warms. 
And  in  the  heart  of  this  most  ancient 
realm 
A   hateful  voice   be    utter'd,   and 

alarms 
Sounding  "  To  arms  !  to  arms ! " 

IX. 

A  simpler,   saner   lesson    might   he 
learn 


Who  reads   thy  gradual  process. 
Holy  Spring. 
Thy  leaves  possess  the  season  in  their 
turn. 
And  in  their  time  thy  warblers  rise 
on  wing. 
How  surely  glidest  thou  from  March 
to  May, 
And    changest,   breathing   it,  the 
sullen  wind. 
Thy  scope  of  operation,  day  by  day, 
.  Larger  and  fuller,  like  the  human 
mind ! 
Thy  warmths  from  bud  to  bud 

Accomplish  that  blind  model  in  the 
seed. 
And  men  have  hopes,  which  race  the 
restless  blood. 
That  after  many  changes  may  suc- 
ceed 
Life,  which  is  Life  indeed. 


MEKLIN  AND   THE   GLEAM, 


O  TOUNG  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 
/  am  Merlin, 
And  /  am  dying, 
7  am  Merlin 
Who  follow  The  Gleam. 


Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  suuriKt 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 
And  learn'd  me  Magic ', 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 
In  early  summers. 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces. 
And  all  around  me. 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 


680 


MERLIN  AND    THE   GLEAM. 


Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven 

wlio  crost  it, 
A  barbarous  people, 
Blind  to  the  magic, 
And  deaf  to  the  melody, 
Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 
A  demon  vext  nie, 
The  light  retreated, 
The  landskip  darken'd, 
The  melody  deaden'd, 
The  Master  whisper'd 
"Follow  The  Gleam." 


Then  to  the  melody, 
Over  a  wilderness 
Gliding,  and  glancing  at 
Elf  of  the  woodland. 
Gnome  of  the  cavern, 
Griffin  and  Giant, 
And  dancing  of  Fairies 
In  desolate  hollows. 
And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 
And  rolling  of  dragons 
By  warble  of  water. 
Or  cataract  music 
Of  falling  torrents. 
Flitted  The  Gleam. 

V. 

Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river. 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen. 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner. 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

Of  lowly  labor, 

SlidedThe  Gleam.— 


Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier. 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 


Of  Arthur  the  king ; 
Touch'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  Tournament, 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  helmet. 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 


Clouds  and  darkness 

Closed  upon  Camelot; 

Arthur  had  vanish'd 

I  knew  not  whither, 

The  king  who  loved  me. 

And  cannot  die ; 

For  out  of  the  darkness 

Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  S 

wintry  glimmer 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest. 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer, 
And  slowly  moving  again  to  fi 

melody 
Yearningly  tender. 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  a  shadow, 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 


And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody. 

Sang  thro'  the  world; 

And  slower  and  fainter. 

Old  and  weary, 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city. 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden. 

The  mortal  hillock. 

Would  break  into  blossom: 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came 

And  can  no  longer, 


ROMNErs  REMORSE. 


681 


But  die  rejoicing, 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam. 


J^'ot  of  the  sunlight, 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
"JJ"ot  of  the  starlight  1 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions. 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas. 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin. 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follow  The  Gleam. 


EOMNEY'S  REMORSE. 

'*I  read  Hayley's  Life  of  Romney  the 
other  day  —  Romney  wanted  but  education 
and  reading  to  make  him  -  very  fine  painter; 
but  his  ideal  was  not  high  nor  lixed.  How 
touching  is  the  clos..  of  his  lif  !  He  married 
at  nineteen,  and  because  Sir  Joshua  and 
others  had  said  that  '  marriage  spoilt  an 
artist'  almost  immediately  left  his  wife  in 
the  Korth  and  scarce  saw  her  till  the  end  of 
his  life:  when  old,  nearly  mad  and  quite 
desolate,  he  went  back  to  her  and  she  re- 
ceived him  and  nursed  him  till  he  died. 
This  quiet  act  of  hers  is  worth  all  Romney's 
pictures!  even  as  a  matter  of  Art,  I  am 
sure."  (Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of 
Edward  Fitzgerald,  vol.  i.) 

"  Beat,  little  heart  —  I  give  you  this 

and  this  "  — 
Who  are  you?     What!  the  Lady 

Hamilton  ? 
Good,  I  am  never  weary  painting  you. 
To  sit  once  more  ■?     Cassandra,  Hebe, 

Joan , 
Or  spinning  at  your  wheel  beside  the 

vine  — 
Bacchante,  what  you  will;  and  if  I 

fail 
To  conjure  and  concentrate  into  form 
And  color  all  you  are,  the  fault  is  less 


In  me  than  Art.     What  Artist  ever 

yet 
Could  make  pure  light  live  on  the 

canvas  ?     Art ! 
Why  should  I  so  disrelish  that  short 

word  ? 
Where  am  I  ?  snow  on  all  the  hills  5 

so  hot, 
So  fever'd!    never  colt  would  more 

delight 
To   roll   himself    in   meadow   grass 

than  I 
To  wallow  in  that  winter  of  the  hills. 
Nurse,  were  you  hired  ?  or  came  of 

your  own  will 
To  wait  on  one  so  broken,  so  forlorn  ? 
Have  I  not  met  you  somewhere  'long 

ago? 
I  am  all  but  sure  I  have  —  in  Kendal 

church  — 

0  yes !    I   hired  you  for  a   seasoV 

there. 
And  then  we  parted;  but  you  look  so 

kind 
That  you  will  not  deny  my  sultry 

throat 
One  draught  of  icy  water.    There  — 

you  spill 
The  drops  upon  my  forehead.     Tour 

hand  shakes. 

1  am  ashamed.     I  am   a  trouble  to 

you. 
Could   kneel    for  your  forgiveness. 

Are  they  tears  t 
For  me  —  they  do  me  too  much  grace 

— ^for  me? 
0  Mary,  Mary ! 

Vexing  you  with  words! 
Words   only,  born  of  fever,  or  the 

fumes 
Of  that  dark  opiate  dose  you  gave 

me, —  words, 
Wild  babble.    I  have  stumbled  bad 

again 
Into  the  common  day,  the  sounder 

self. 
God  stay  me  there,  if  only  for  your 

sake. 
The  truest,  kindliest,  noblest-hearted 

wife 
That  ever  wore  a  Christian  marriage- 
ring. 


682 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE. 


My  curse  upon  the  Master's  apo- 
thegm , 
That  wife  and  children  drag  an  Artist 

down! 
This    seem'd    my    lodestar    in    the 

Heaven  of  Art, 
And  lured  me  from   the  household 

fire  on  earth. 
To  you  my  days  have  been  a  life-long 

lie, 
Grafted  on  half  a  truth,  and  tho'  you 

say 
"Take  comfort,  you  have  won  the 

Painter's  fame ; " 
The  best  in  me  that  sees  the  worst  in 

me. 
And  groans  to  see  it,  finds  no  com- 
fort there. 
What  fame?     I  am  not  Eaphael, 

Titian  —  no 
H'or  even  a  Sir  Joshua,  some  will  cry. 
"Wrong  there !     The  painter's  fame  ? 

but  mine,  that  grew 
IBlown  into  glittering  by  the  popular 

breath. 
May  float  awhile  beneath  the   sun, 

may  roll 
The  rainbow  hues  of  heaven  about 

it  — 

There ! 
The  color'd  bubble  bursts  above  the 


Of  Darkness,  utter  Lethe. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Her  sad  eyes  plead  for  my  own  fame 

with  me 
To  make  it  dearer. 

Look,  the  sun  has  risen 
To  flame  along  another  dreary  day. 
,Tour  hand.     How  bright  you  keep 
your  marriage-ring ! 
Raise  me.    I  thank  you. 

Has  your  opiate  then 
Bred  this  black  mood  ?  or  am  I  con- 
scious, more 
Than   other  Masters,  of  the  chasm 

between 
Work  and  Ideal  1     Or  does  the  gloom 
of  Age 


And    suffering    cloud    the   height   I 

stand  upon 
Even  from  myself?  stand?  stood  .  . , 

no  more. 

And  yet 
The  world  would  lose,  if  such  a  wife 

as  you 
Should  vanish  unrecorded.    Might  I 

crave 
One  favor?     I  am  bankrupt  of  all 

claim 
On  your  obedience,  and  my  strongest 

wish 
Falls  flat  before  your  least  unwilling- 
ness. 
Still  would  you — if  it  please  you  — 

sit  to  me  ? 
I  dream'd  last  night  of  that  clear 

summer  noon. 
When  seated  on  a  rock,  and  foot  to 

foot 
With  your  own  shadow  in  the  placid 

lake, 
You  claspt  our  infant  daughter,  heart 

to  heart. 
I  had    been    among    the    hills,   and 

brought  you  down' 
A  length  of  staghorn-moss,  and  this 

you  twined 
About  her  cap.     I  see  the  picture  yet. 
Mother  and  child.     A  sound  "from  far 

away. 
No  louder  than  a  bee    among    the 

flowers, 
A  fall  of  water  lull'd  the  noon  asleep. 
You  still'd  it  for  the  moment  with  a 

song 
Which  often  echo'd  in  me,  while  I 

stood 
Before  the   great    Madonna-master- 
pieces 
Of  ancient  Art  in  Paris,  or  in  Rome. 

Mary,  my  crayons !  if  I  can,  I  will. 
You  should  have  been  —  I  might  have 

made  you  once, 
Had  I  but  known  you  as  I  know  you 

now  — • 
The  true  Alcestis  of  the  time.     Your 

song  — 
Sit,  listen !     I  remember  it,  a  proof 
That  I  —  even  I  —  at  times  remem- 

ber'd  ijou. 


SOMNBY'S  REMORSE. 


683 


"Beat  upon  mine,  little  heart !  beat 

beat !  ' 

Beat  upon  mine  !  you  are  mine,  my 

sweet! 
All  mine  from  your  pretty  blue  eyes 
to  your  feet, 
_  „  My  sweet." 

Less    profile!    turn    to    me  — three- 
quarter  face. 
"Sleep,  little  blossom,  my  honey 

ray  bliss ! 
For  1  give  you  this,  and  I  give  yon 

this ! 
And  I  blind  your  pretty  blue  eyes 
with  a  kiss ! 

Sleep ! " 
Too   early  blinded  by  the    kiss    of 
death  — 
"Father  and  Mother  will    watch 
you  grow  "  — 
You  watch'd,  not  I,  she  did  not  grow, 
she  died. 


"Father   and  Mother  will   watch 

you  grow. 
And   gather    the    roses    wheneyer 

they  blow, 
And  find  the  white  heather  wherever 

you  go, 
^  My  sweet." 

Ah,  my  white  heather  only  grows  in 

heaven 
V'ith    Milton's    amaranth.       There, 

there,  there !  a  child 
Had  shamed  me  at  it  —  Down,  you 

idle  tools, 
Stampt    into    dust — tremulous,    all 

awry, 
BInrr'd  like  a  landskip  in  a  ruffled 

pool,  — 
'  Not  one  stroke  firm.     This  Art,  that 
/  harlot-like 

Seduce-j  me   from    you,   leaves    me 

harlot-like, 
Who   love  her    still,   and  whimper, 

impotent 
To  win  her  back  before  I  die  —  and 

then  — 
Then,  in   the   loud  world's   bastard 

judgment-day, 


One   truth  will  damn  me  with  the 

mindless  mob. 
Who  feel  no  touch  of  my  temptation, 

more 
More  than  all  the  myriad  lies,  that 

blacken  round 
The  corpse  of  every  man  that  gains  a 

name; 
"  This  model  husband,  this  fine  Art^ 

ist " !    Fool, 
What  matters?      Six  foot  sleep  of 

burial  mould 
Will  dull  their  comments !     Ay,  but 

when  the  shout 
Of  His  descending  peals  from  Heaven, 

and  throbs 
Thro'  earth,  and  all  her  graves,  if  He 

should  ask 
"Why  left  you  wife  and  children? 

for  my  sake, 
According  to  my  word  ?  "  and  I  replied 
"  Nay,  Lord,  for  ^rt,"  why,  that  would 

sound  so  mean 
That  all  the  dead,  who  wait  the  doom 

of  Hell 
For  bolder  sins  than  mine,  adulteries, 
Wife-mur,ders,  —  nay,   the     ruthless 

Mussulman 
Who  flings  his  bowstrung  Harem  in 

the  sea, 
Would  turn,  and  glare  at  me,  and 

point  and  jeer, 
And  gibber  at  the  worm,  who,  living, 

made 
The  wife  of  wives  a  widow-bride,  and 

lost 
Salvation  for  a  sketch. 

I  am  wild  again ! 
The  coals  of  fire  you  heap  upon  my 

head 
Have  crazed  me.     Someone  knocking 

there  without  ? 
No  !     Will  my  Indian  brother  come  ? 

to  find 
Me  or  my  coffin  ?     Should  I  know  the 

man? 
This  worn-out  Reason  dying  in  her 

house 
May  leave  the  windows  blinded,  and 

if  so. 
Bid  him  farewell  for  me,  and  tell 

him  — 


684 


PARNASSUS. 


Hope  ! 
I  hear  a  death-bed  Angel  whisper 

"Hope." 
"  The  miserable  have  no  medicine 
But  only  Hope !  "      He  said  it  .  .  . 

in  the  play. 
His  crime  was  of  the  senses ;  of  the 

mind 
Mine ;  worse,  cold,  calculated. 

Tell  my  son  — 
O  let  me  lean  my  head  upon  your 

breast. 


"  Beat  little  heart "  on  this  fool  brain 

of  mine. 
I  once   had   friends  —  and  many — • 

none  like  you. 
I  love  you  more  than  when  we  mar- 
ried.    Hope ! 
0  yes,  I  hope,  or  fancy  that,  perhaps, 
Human  forgiveness  touches  heaven, 

and  thence  — 
Por  you  forgive  me,  you  are  sure  of 

that- 
Reflected,  sends  a  light  on  the  forgiven. 


PARNASSUS. 

Bxegi  monumentum  ... 
Quod  Hon  .  .  . 
FoBBit  diruere  .  .  . 

.  .  .  innumerablliB. 
Annorum  Beries  et  fuga  temporum, — HoRAGK. 


What  be  those  crown'd  forms  high  over  the  sacred  fountain  ? 

Bards,  that  the  mighty  Muses  have  raised  to  the  heights  of  the  mountain. 

And  over  the  flight  of  the  Ages !     O  Goddesses,  help  me  up  thither  ! 

Lightning  may  shrivel  the  laurel  of  Caesar,  but  mine  would  not  wither. 

Steep  is  the  mountain,  but  you,  you  will  help  me  to  overcome  it. 

And  stand  with  my  head  in  the  zenith,  and  roll  my  voice  from  the  summit^ 

Sounding  forever  and  ever  thro'  Earth  and  her  listening  nations. 

And  mixt  with  the  great  Sphere-music  of  stars  and  of  constellations. 


What  be  those  two  shapes  high  over  the  sacred  fountain. 
Taller  than  all  the  Muses,  and  huger  than  all  the  mountain  "i 
On  those  two  known  peaks  they  stand  ever  spreading  and  heightening; 
Poet,  that  evergreen  laurel  is  blasted  by  more  than  lightning ! 
Look,  in  their  deep  double  shadow  the  crown'd  ones  all  disappearing ! 
Sing  like  a  bird  and  be  happy,  nor  hope  for  a  deathless  hearing ! 
"  Sounding  forever  and  ever  \  "  pass  on !  the  sight  confuses  — 
These  are  Astronomy  and  Geology,  terrible  Muses  ! 


III. 


If  the  lips  were  touch'd  with  fire  from  off  a  pure  Pierian  altar, 
Tho'  their  music  here  be  mortal  need  the  singer  greatly  care  ? 
Other  songs  for  other  worlds !  the  flre  within  him  would  not  falterj 
Let  the  golden  Iliad  vanish,  Homer  here  is  Homer  there. 


FAR  —  FAR  —  AWAY. 


685 


BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul  of  a  man, 

And  the  man  said  "  Am  I  your  debtor  ?  " 
And  the  Lord  —  "  Not  yet :  but  make  it  as  clean  as  you  can, 

And  then  I  will  let  you  a  better." 

I. 
If  ray  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul  uncertain,  or  a  fable. 

Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while  the  sun  of  morning  shines, 
I,  the  finer  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds,  and  in  my  stable, 

Youth  and  Health,  and  birth  and  wealth,  and  choice  of  women  and  of  wines'! 

II. 
What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old  Age,  save  breaking  my  bones  on  the 
rack  ■? 
Would  I  had  past  in  the  morning  that  looks  so  bright  from  afar ! 

OLD   AGE. 

Done  for  thee  ?  starved  the  wild  beast  that  was  linkt  with  thee  eighty  years 
back. 
Less  weight  now  for  the  ladder-of-heaven  that  hangs  on  a  star. 

I. 
If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  tho'  somewhat  finer  than  their  own, 

I  am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.     Shall  the  royal  voice  be  mute  t 
No,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  drag  me  from  the  throne, 

Hold  the  sceptre.  Human  Soul,  and  rule  thy  Province  of  the  brute. 

II. 
I  have  climb'd  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and  I  gaze  at  a  field  in  the  Past, 

Where  I  sank  with  the  body  at  times  in  the  sloughs  of  a  low  desire. 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the  Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life  with  a  glimpse  of  a  height  that  is 
higher.  


FAB  —  FAR  —  AWAY. 
(fok  music.) 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the 

fields  he  knew 
As  where   earth's   green    stole    into 

heaven's  own  hue, 

Far  —  far  —  away  1 

What  sound  was  dearest  in  his  native 

dells  % 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evemng 

bells 

Far — far  —  away. 


What  vague   world-whisper,  mystis 

pain  or  joy, 
Thro'  those  three  words  would  haunt 

him  when  a  boy 

Far — far  —  away  ? 

A  whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life  1  a 

breath 
From  some  fair  dawn   beyond  the 

doors  of  death 

Far  —  far  —  away  t 

Far,  far,   how  far?    from  o'er    the 

gates  of  Birth, 
The  faint  horizons,  all  the  bounds  of 

earth. 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 


6S6 


POLITICS—  THE  SNOWDROP. 


What  charm  in   words,  a  charm   no 

words  could  give  1 
O  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you 

live 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 


POLITICS. 

We  move,  the  wheel  must  always 
move. 
Nor  always  on  the  plain, 
And  if  we  more  to  such  a  goal 

As  Wisdom  hopes  to  gain, 
Then  you  that  drive,  and  know  your 
Craft, 
Will  firmly  hold  the  rein, 
Nor  lend  an  ear  to  random  cries, 

Or  you  may  drive  in  vain, 
For  some  cry  "  Quick  "  and  some  cry 
"  Slow," 
But,  while  the  hills  remain. 
Up  hill  "Too-slow"  will   need  the 
whip, 
Down  hill  "  Too-quick  "  the  chain. 


BEAUTIFUL  CITY. 

Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater 
of  European  confusion, 

0  you  with  your  passionate  shriek 
for  the  rights  of  an  equal  hu- 
manity, 

How  often  your  Re-volution  has 
proven  but  E-volution 

RoU'd  again  back  on  itself  in  the 
tides  of  a  civic  insanity  1 


THE  ROSES  ON  THE  TERRACE. 

Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago. 
When  I  was  in  my  June,  you  in 
your  May, 
Two  words,  "  My  Rose  "  set  all  your 
face  aglow, 
And  now  that  I  am  white,  and  you 
are  gray. 
That  blush  of   fifty  years   ago,  my 
dear. 
Blooms  in  the  Past,  but  close  to 
me  to-day 


As  this  red  rose,  which  on  our  terrace 
here 
Glows  in  the  blue  of  fifty  mile3 
away. 

THE  PLAY. 

Act   first,   this    Earth,   a    stage    so 
gloom'd  with  woe 
You  all  but  sicken  at  the  shifting 
scenes. 
And  yet  be  patient.     Our  Playwright 
may  show 
In  some  fifth  Act  what  this  wild 
Drama  means. 


ON  ONE    WHO   AFFECTED  AN 
EFFEMINATE   MANNER. 

While  man  and  woman  still  are  in- 
complete, 

I  prize  that  soul  where  man  and 
woman  meet, 

Which  types  all  Nature's  male  and 
female  plan. 

But,  friend,  man-woman  is  not 
woman-man. 


TO 


ONE    WHO     RAN 
THE   ENGLISH. 


DOWN 


You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and 
thence  maintain 

Our  darker  future.  May  your  fears 
be  vain ! 

At  times  the  small  black  fly  upon 
the  pane 

May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the  dis- 
tant plain. 


THE   SNOWDROP. 

Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid. 
Ever  as  of  old  time. 
Solitary  firstling, 
Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time, 
Prophet  of  tlie  May  time. 
Prophet  of  the  roses. 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid  1 


THE    THROSTLE—  CROSSING    THE  BAR. 


687 


THE   THROSTLE. 
"  Summer    is    coming,    summer    is 
coming. 
I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again, 
love  again," 
Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new ! "     Is  it  then 
so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  1 

"  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again, 
young  again," 
Never  a  prophet  so  crazy ! 
And    hardly   a   daisy  as    yet,  little 
friend. 
See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy 
year ! " 
O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden ! 
Summer  is   coming,  is   coming,  my 
dear. 
And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


THE   OAK. 
Live  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old. 
Like  yon  oak. 
Bright  in  spring. 

Living  gold ; 

Summer-rich 

Then ;  and  then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 

Eall'n  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 

Naked  strength. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

W.   G.  WAED. 

Eahewell,   whose   like   on  earth  1 
shall  not  find. 
Whose  Faith  and  Work  were  bells 
of  full  accord, 
.My  friend,   the  most  unworldly  of 
mankind. 
Most    generous   of  all  Ultramon- 
tanes,  Ward, 
How  subtle  at  tierce  and  quart  of 
mind  with  mind. 
How  loyal  in  the  following  of  thy 
Lordl 


CROSSING  THE  BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star. 
And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 

And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the 
bar. 
When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as   moving  seems 


Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  fare- 
well. 

When  I  embark; 

Eor  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


NOTES. 


To  the  Queen,  p.  1. 

First  printed  in  the  seventh  edition  of 
Tennyson's  Poems,  1851.  A  defective 
stanza,  relating  to  the  Crystal  Palace 
Exhibition,  was  omitted  in  later  edi- 
tions :  — 

"  She  brought  a  vast  design  to  pass 
"When  Europe  and  the  scattered  ends 
Of  our  fierceworlddid  meetasf  riends 
And  brethren,  in  her  halls  of  glass." 

Other  changes  were  made  in  the  text. 
Another  version  of  To  the  Queen,  in 
thirteen  stanzas,  was  published  in 
Jones's  Growth  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King,  1895,  pp.  152-54.  Tennyson 
was  appointed  poet  laureate  in  1850, 
to  succeed  Wordsworth. 

Claribel,  p.  3. 

First  printed  in  Poems,  chiefly  Lyri- 
cal, 1830.  This  poem  is  peculiarly  Ten- 
nysonianin  rhythm,  diction,  and  feeling. 
It  is  appropriately  placed  first  in  the 
collection  of  Juvenilia^ 

Nothing  will  die,  p.  3. 

First  printed  in  1830,  and  for  a  long 
time  suppressed.  The  poem  is  a  versi- 
lied  statement  of  the  old  Heraclitean 
philosophy  of  the  eternity  of  matter. 
Cf.  Lucretius,  p.  160. 

1  Moat  of  the  poems  included  in  the  Jiive^ 
nilia  were  printed  in  the  books  of  1880  and 
1832,  but  not  all.  Some  of  the  pieces  in  these 
earlier  volumes  were  for  many  years  withdrawn 
from  publication,  and  restored  at  rai-ious  times 
in  the  collected  editions  (from  1869  to  1886). 


All  Things  will  die,  p.  4. 

First  printed  in  1830,  and  afterward 
suppressed.  A  companion  poem  to  Noth- 
ing will  die,  giving  the  opposite  view  of 
the  beginning  and  ending  of  the  world. 

Leonine  Elegiacs,  p.  4. 

First  printed,  with  the  title  Elegiacs, 
in  liioO,  and  suppressed  in  later  editions. 
Of  Leonine  Mr.  Luce  remarks:  "  From 
Leo  or  Leoniuus,  canon  of  the  Church  of 
St.  Victor,  Paris,  twelfth  century,  who 
wrote  many  such.  The  end  of  the  line 
rhymes  with  the  middle."  (Handbook 
to  Tennyson's  Works,  1895,  p.  80.)  Cf . 
lines  13  and  14  with  the  paraphrase  of 
Sappho's  verses  in  Frederick  Tennyson's 
Isles  of  Greece :  — 

"  Hesper,  thou  bringest  back  again 
All  that  the  gaudy  daybeams  part. 
The  sheep,  the  goat  back  to  their  pen, 
The  child  home  to  his  mother's  heart." 

Also  see  couplet  on  Hesper  in  Locks- 
ley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After,  p.  645. 

Supposed  Confessions,  p.  4. 

First  printed  in  1830,  with  the  title 
Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second-Sate 
Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself; 
suppressed  in  later  editions,  and  after- 
ward restored.  The  poem  probably 
contains  some  autobiographical  touches, 
revealing  the  poet's  introspective  habits 
and  questioning  moods  in  youth,  not- 
withstanding the  pious  atmosphere  of 
his  Somersby  home.  Cf.  In  Memoriam, 
XCVI. 


689 


690 


NOTES. 


The  Kraken,  p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830;  suppressed  in 
later  editions,  and  afterward  restored. 

Song,  p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830,  but  suppressed 
in  later  editions.  The  intluence  of  Shel- 
ley is  apparent  in  this  song,  as  in  other 
poems  of  Tennyson's. 

Lilian,  p.  7. 

First  published  in  1830.  Of  Tenny- 
son's portraits  of  women,  Lilian,  Ade- 
line, etc.,  Taine  says :  "  I  have  translated 
many  ideas  and  many  styles,  but  I  shall 
not  attempt  to  translate  one  of  these 
portraits.  Each  word  of  them  is  like  a 
tint,  curiously  deepened  or  shaded  by 
the  neighboring  tiut,  with  all  the  bold- 
ness and  results  of  the  happiest  refine- 
ment. The  least  alteration  would 
obscure  all.  And  there  an  art  so  just, 
so  consummate,  is  necessary  to  paint 
the  charming  prettinesses,  the  sudden 
hauteurs,  the  half-blushes,  the  imper- 
ceptible and  fleeting  caprices  of  femi- 
nine beauty."     (Hist.  Eng.  Lit.,  V.,  vi.) 

Isabel,  p.  7. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  poet's 
much-loved  mother  is  the  woman  whose 
praises  are  sung  in  this  poem  and  else- 
where in  his  works.  See  Memoir  by  his 
son,  1897,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  17, 18. 

Mariana,  p.  8. 

First  printed  in  1830,  substantially  as 
It  is  now.  Even  then  Tennyson  was  fond 
of  using  uncommon  words,  such  as  mar- 
ish  for  marsh,  a  habit  that  clung  to  him 
through  life.  The  poem  is  an  admir- 
able piece  of  word-painting,  bnilt  on 
the  merest  suggestion  in  Shakespeare's 
drama.  Of.  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene, 
III.,  ii.,  stanzas  28,  29.  According  to 
Tennyson,  "the  Moated  Grange  is  an 
imaginary  house  in  the  fen."      Napier 


says:  "Moated  granges  of  this  descrip 
tion  still  exist  in  the  fenny  districts  o: 
Lincolnshire,  but  they  are  many  milei 
distant  from  Somersby,  hence  the  seen 
ery  which  colors  this  poem  is  not  takei 
from  the  country  round  the  poet's  birth 
place,  as  it  has  no  features  in  commoi 
with  the  landscape  depicted  in  'Mari 
ana.'  "  (Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tenny 
son,  1892,  p.  84.) 

Mariana  in  the  South,  p.  9. 

First  printed  in  the  1832  Poems;  re 
written,  with  two  new  stanzas,  for  thf 
1842  edition.  The  scenery  is  said  to  bt 
that  of  southern  France,  which  the  poel 
visited  in  1830. 

To ,  p.  10. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  "clear- 
headed friend"  was  J.  W.  Blakeslej 
(1808-85) ,  who  belonged  to  the  intimate 
circle  of  Tennyson's  associates  at  Cam- 
bridge; he  was  later  Dean  of  Lincoln. 

Madeline,  p.  11. 

First  printed  in  1830.  Possibly  this 
poem  and  other  word-portraits  of  womer 
contain  references  to  the  love  affairs  ol 
the  poet  in  his  early  manhood. 

The  Owl,  p.  11. 

First  printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is  ai 
echo  of  the  song  in  Shakespeare's  Love'i 
Labor  Lost,  V.,  ii. 

Second  Song,  p.  12. 

First  printed  in  1830.  Tennyson  whei 
a  boy  had  a  pet  owl.    (Memoir,  I. ,  p.  19.) 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
p.  12. 

First  printed  in  1830.  A  piece  of  gop 
geous  description  after  the  manner  ol 
Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan.  Says  Luce. 
"  Probably  there  is  no  more  strikinf 


NOTES. 


691 


achievement  ol  musical  word-painting 
in  the  language." 

Ode  to  Memory,  p.  14. 
First  printed  in  1830.  Stanza  IV.  is 
reminiscent  ol  Tennyson's  boyhood 
home  ill  Somersby.  "  In  later  life  he 
'would  olten  recall  with  affection  his 
early  haunts,  the  gray  hill  near  the 
Kectory,  the  winding  lanes  shadowed 
by  tall  elm  trees,  and  the  two  brooks 
that  meet  at  the  bottom  of  the  glebe- 
fleld."  Stanza  V.  refers  to  the  seaside 
town  of  Mablethorpe  on  the  Lincoln- 
shire coast,  where  the  Tennysons  used 
to  spend  the  summer  months. 

Song,  p.  15. 

Printed  in  1830.  Luce  regards  it  as 
poor  poetry.  There  seems  to  be  an 
echo  of  the  refrain, 

"  Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly," 
etc.,  in  Foe's  Dreamland. 

A  Character,  p.  16. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is  said  to 
be  a  portraiture  of  Thomas  Sunderland, 
a  man  of  eccentric  tastes  and  material- 
istic views,  whom  the  poet  knew  at 
Cambridge. 

The  Poet,  p.  16. 
Printed  in  1830.  Like  Milton,  Tenny- 
son, when  a  young  man,  realized  the 
bard's  exalted  mission.  The  true  poet 
is  here  represented  to  be  a  seer  rather 
than  a  literary  artist. 

The  Poet's  Mind,  p.  17. 
Printed  in  1830.     Tennyson's  point  of 
view  in  this  poem  is  the  same  as  Words- 
worth's in  A  Poet's  Epitaph. 

The  Sea^Fairies,  p.  18. 
Printed  in  1830.     The  main   thought 
j)£  the  poem  recalls  a  passage  In  the 


XII.,  describing  the  "clear- 
toned  song  "  of  the  Sirens. 

The  Deserted  House,  p.  18. 

Printed  in  1830,  but  omitted  in  the 
1842  Poems;  restored  in  the  next  edi- 
tion. The  poem  is  an  allegory;  "the 
deserted  house"  is  the  body  after  the 
spirit  has  fled. 

The  Dying  Swan,  p.  19. 

Printed  in  1830.  Though  not  much  is 
said  of  "  the  wild  swan's  death-hymn," 
the  poem  i&  remarkable  for  the  realistic 
description  of  the  desolate  landscape. 

A  Dirge,  p.  19. 
Printed  in  1830.    A  poem  in  Tenny- 
son's peculiar  manner,  musical  and  fe- 
licitous. 

Love  and  Death,  p.  20. 

Printed  in  1830.  A'  striking  poem, 
giving  beautiful  expression  to  Tenny- 
son's spiritual  philosophy,  suggestive  of 
the  triumphant  close  of  In  Memoriam. 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana,  p.  20. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  poem  is  an  imi- 
tation of  the  ballads  on  the  death  of 
Helen  of  Kirkconnel. 

Circumstance,  p.  21. 

Printed  in  1830.  A  good  example  of 
Tennyson's  wondrous  faculty  of  con- 
densing much  into  little. 

The  Merman,  p.  22. 
Printed  in  1830.    Parodied  in  Aytnun 
and  Martin's  Bon  Gaultier  Ballads,  1843. 

The  Mermaid,  p.  22. 

Printed  in  1830.     The  poem   recalls 

the  voice  of  the  ocean  spirit  in  Byron  'a 

Manfred,  I.,  i.    Luce  remarks  of   The 

Merman    and    The    Mermaid:    "They 


692 


NOTES. 


may  be  called  trifles  in  the  volumes  of 
TenDyson,  but  they  would  look  more 
than  pretty  in  the  pages  of  a  lesser  poet. 
They  exhibit  his  accustomed  wealth  of 
diction,  in  which  they  often  resemble 
Slielley  and  Keats,  and  they  have  much 
witchery  of  sound." 

Adeline,  p.  23. 

Printed  in  1830.  A  blemish  in  some 
of  Tennyson's  early  poems  is  the  careless 
use  of  rhymes  occasionally  found,  such 
as  skies  and  spice  in  stanza  V. 

Margaret,  p.  24. 
First  printed  in  1832.    This  may  be  a 
portrait  fromlife  ;  the  "  pale  Margaret  " 
is  said  to  have  been  the  poet's  cousin. 

Rosalind,  p.  25. 

First  printed  in  1832 ;  omitted  in  later 
editions,  and  afterward  restored.  Rosa- 
lind is  evidently  a  girl  of  the  middle  or 
upper  classes,  as  are  the  majority  of 
Tennyson's  women. 

Elednore,  p.  25. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Perhaps  an 
idealized  portrait  of  an  English  maiden 
born  in  a  foreign  land,  possibly  France. 
Lines  127-41  may  be  an  echo  of 
Sappho's  famous  ode.  Says  Luce: 
"  '  Eleanore '  recalls  Shelley  niore  than 
a  dozen  times,  and  many  other  poets, 
ancient  and  modern,  enter  into  its  elab- 
orate composition." 

My  life  is  full  of  loeary  days,  p.  27. 

First  printed  with  the  title.  To , 

in  1832 ;  omitted  in  later  editions.  Two 
stanzas  of  the  second  piece  were  re- 
printed in  1865.  Several  changes  were 
made  in  the  text. 

To ,  p.  28. 

This  sonnet  was  first  printed  in  1832, 
and  was  for  many  years  withdrawn 
from  publication.    The  peculiar  trance- 


experience  described  is  often  spoken  ol 
In  Tennyson's  later  works. 

To  J.  M.  K.,  p.  28. 

Printed  in  1830.  The  initials  are 
those  of  the  eminent  Anglo-Saxon 
scholar,  John  Mitchell  Kemble  (1807- 
57),  one  of  the  poet's  college  friends. 
The  poem  hints  at  the  degenerate  state 
of  the  Anglican  clergy  in  the  days  bo- 
fore  the  Oxford  movement. 

Mine  be  the  strength,  p.  28. 

First  printed  in  1832,  and  omitted  In 
later  editions.  This  sonnet,  though 
faulty  in  some  respects,  well  illustrates 
Tennyson's  use  of  natural  phenomena 
for  poetical  material.  * 

Alexander,  p.  28. 
First  published  in  the  Library  edition 
of  Tennyson's  Works,  6  vols.,  1871-73. 
Based  on  an  incident  related  by  Arrian, 
De  Exped.  Alexandri,  Lib.  III.,  3  and  4. 
In  this  sonnet  Tennyson  turns  to  good 
account  proper  names,  as  did  Milton  in 
many  passages  of  Paradise  Lost  and 
Paradise  Regained. 

Buonaparte,  p.  29. 

First  printed  in  1832,  but  omitted  in 
later  editions.  Exhibits  the  Briton's 
characteristic  pride  in  the  English  vi& 
tories  over  the  French. 

Poland,  p.  29. 

First  printed  in  1832  with  the  title, 
On  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Inva- 
sion of  Poland;  omitted  in  later  edi- 
tions. The  poet's  hostility  to  Russia 
breaks  out  again  in  the  poem.  To  the 
Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,  p.  182. 

Caress'd  or  chidden,  p.  29. 

First  printed  in  1865  with  the  two 
following  sonnets  under  the  title.  Three 
Sonnets  to  a  Coquette.  "Though  no*- 
fall-bodied  nor  trumpet-toned,  they  are 


NOTES. 


693 


as    original   as    they  are    beautiful." 
(Luce). 

If  I  were  loved,  p.  30. 
First  printed  in  1832;  suppressed  in 
later  editions,  and  restored  (in  1871-73  ?) . 

The  Bridesmaid,  p.  30. 
First  printed  in  Library  edition,  1871- 
73.  The  bridesmaid  was  Emily  Sellwood, 
afterward  Lady  Tennyson,  and  the  bride 
was  her  younger  sister,  Louisa,  married 
to  the  poet's  older  brother  Charles  (May 
24,  1836). 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  p.  31. 
First  printed    in    1832.     Said   to    be 
named  alter  an  Itahan  romance.  Donna 
di  Scalotta.    The  poem  is  an  earlier  ver- 
sion of  the  story  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine. 

The  Two  Voices,  p.  33. 

First  printed  in  1842,  though  written 
late  in  1833  when  Tennyson  was  broken 
in  spirit  by  the  death  of  Arthur  Hallam. 
Tyrrell  says  of  Lucretius:  "I  know  of 
no  other  poem  except  Tennyson's  Two 
Voices  in  which  the  same  wealth  of 
poesy  is  enlisted  to  explain  and  beautify 
abstruse  argument.  Nearly  every  verse 
of  the  Two  Voices  illustrates  this  exqui- 
site marriage  of  poetry  and  logic." 

Devey,  in  his  Estimate  of  Modern 
English  Poets,  pp.  290-91,  thus  com- 
ments on  the  poem:  "In  the  'Two 
Voices '  the  poet  deals  with  the  exis- 
tence of  evil  and  the  enigma  of  life  and 
death  purely  upon  philosophic  grounds, 
but  his  verses  are  little  more  than  an 
English  rendering  of  Goethe's,  except 
that  the  casual  conjectures  which  the 
German  poet  thought  worthy  of  being 
treated  only  in  a  spirit  of  sportive  ban- 
ter, the  English  poet  has  invested  with 
an  air  of  sepulchral  solemnity."  The 
reference  is  likely  to  Faust,  Prologue  in 
Heaven  and  Act  I. 

The  divisions  of  the  argument  are  as 
follows :    stanzas    1-15;    16-33;    34-76; 


77-105;    106-34;    135-54.      Cf.    stanzas 

127-28  with   To p.  28.    The  same 

thought  is  developed  by  Wordsworth  in 
Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

The  Millar's  Daughter,  p.  39. 
First  printed  in  1832.  This  exquisite 
lyric  was  rewritten  and  greatly  im- 
proved before  its  republication  in  1842. 
It  contains  many  borrowings  from 
Homer,  Konsard,  and  other  poets.  The 
incident  is  related  that  the  Queen 
chanced  to  pick  up  one  of  Tennyson's 
earlier  books,  and  was  charmed  with 
the  simple  story  of  The  Miller's  Daugh- 
ter ;  she  procured  a  copy  of  the  volume 
for  the  Prince.ss  Alice,  and  thus  brought 
Tennyson's  poetry  into  favor  with  the 
British  aristocracy  in  the  mid-century. 

Fatima,  p.  42. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Fatima  is  an 
example  of  the  passionate  Oriental 
woman.  Like  the  sentimental  Mariana, 
she  makes  love  all  in  all.  Says  Luce : 
"  The  merit  of  the  poem  is  considerable ; 
the  four  rhymes  followed  by  three  pro- 
duce a  fine  effect  of  intense  and  pro- 
longed emotion ;  indeed,  music,  imagery, 
passion,  all  are  remarkable,  and  more 
than  worthy  to  be  the  inspiration  of 
Mr.  Swinburne." 

CEnone,  p.  43. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Part  of  the 
poem  was  written  in  the  summer  of 
1830,  when  Tennyson  (with  Hallam) 
was  visiting  the  Pyrenees,  which  are 
described  in  some  of  the  loveliest  pas- 
sages. The  last  lines  are  prophetic  of 
the  burning  of  Troy.  Au  account  of 
the  nymph's  tragic  end  is  given  in  one 
of  his  latest  poems.  The  Death  of  (Enone 
(1892). 

The  Sisters,  p.  47. 

First  printed  in  1832.  Swinburne  has 
a  rather  remarkable  comment  on  this 
poem:     "In  those  six  short  stanzas, 


694 


NOTES. 


without  effort,  without  protfcnce,  with- 
out parade — iu  other  words,  without 
auy  of  the  component  qualities  of 
Byron's  serious  poetry  —  there  is  sim- 
ple and  sufficient  expression  for  the 
combined  and  contending  passions  of 
womanly  pride  and  rage,  physical  at- 
traction and  spiritual  abhorrence,  all 
the  outer  and  inner  bitterness  and 
sweetness  of  hatred  and  desire,  resolu- 
tion and  fruition  and  revenge."  {Mis- 
cellanies,  p.  94.) 

To ,  p.  48. 

First  printed  in  1832.  It  has  been 
asserted  that  the  soul  described  here 
stands  for  Goethe,  but  the  poem  follow- 
ing can  have  only  partial  application  to 
the  poet  whose  self-confessed  aim  in  life 
was  —  "im  Ganzen,  Guten,  Schonen, 
Eesolut  zu  leben." 

The  Palace  of  Art,  p.  48. 
First  printed  in  1832.  The  poem  was 
afterward  almost  entirely  revrritten. 
A  study  of  the  changes  in  the  text  as 
printed  in  1842  and  later  corrections  was 
made  by  Dr.  Henry  van  Dyke,  who  says : 
"  In  1833  the  poem,  including  the  notes, 
contained  eighty-three  stanzas ;  in  1884 
it  has  only  seventy-five.  Of  the  origi- 
nal number  thirty-one  have  been  en- 
tirely omitted  —  iu  other  words,  more 
than  a  third  of  the  structure  has  been 
pulled  down;  and,  in  place  of  these, 
twenty-two  new  stanzas  have  been 
added,  making  a  change  of  fifty-three 
stanzas.  The  fifty-two  that  remain 
have  almost  all  been  retouched  and 
altered,  so  that  very  few  stand  to-day 
in  the  same  shape  which  they  had  at 
,the  beginning.  I  suppose  there  is  no 
other  poem  in  the  language,  not  even 
among  the  writings  of  Tennyson,  which 
has  been  worked  over  so  carefully  as 
this."  {The  Poetry  of  Tennyson,  1892, 
p.  41.) 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  p.  53. 
"Written  in  1833,  and  first  published 


in  1842.  One  of  Tennyson's  representa- 
tive poems,  shqwiug  him  to  be  iu  touch 
with  the  growing  democratic  spirit  iu 
England. 

The  May  Queen,  p.  54. 

The  two  first  divisions  of  The  May 
Queen  were  first  published  in  1832 ;  1  he 
Conclusion  in  1842,  though  composed  iu 
1833. 

The  Lotos-Eaters,  p.  58. 
First  published  in  1832,  and  later  sub. 
jected  to  thorough  '  revision.  So  many 
lines  in  VIII.  were  changed,  that  it  was 
practically  a  new  stanza  in  the  text  ol 
1842.  The  suggestion  of  the  poem  was 
doubtless  derived  from  the  Odyssey, 
IX.,  82-102,  and  other  passages.  Col., 
lins  says  Tennyson  "has  laid  other 
poets  under  contribution  for  his  en- 
chanting poem,  notably  Bion,  Moschus, 
Spenser  (description  of  the  Idle  Lake, 
Faerie  Queene,  bk.  ii.  canto  vi.),  and 
Thomson  {Castle  of  Indolence) ." 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,  p.  61. 

First   printed    in    1832,   but   greatly 

changed  before  and  after  its  appearance 

in  1842.    Of  some  "balloon  stanzas" 

beginning  the  poem  of  1832  Fitzgerald 

said,    "They   make    a    perfect    poem 

by   themselves   without   affecting   the 

'  dream.' "      The  women    seen  by  the 

poet  in  vision  are  Helen  of  Troy,  Iphi- 

genia,  Cleopatra,  Jephtha's  daughter, 

Rosamund,  Margaret  Roper,  and  Queen 

Eleanor.    Cf.  Goethe's  treatment  of  the 

story  of  Iphigenia  {Iphigenia  in  Tauris, 

V.,-i.,  tr.  by  Swanwick) :  — 

"  I  trembling  kneeled  before  the  altars 

once. 

And  solemnly  the  shade  of  early  death 

Environed  me.    Aloft  the  knife  was 

raised 
To  pierce  my  bosom,  throbbing  with 

warm  life ; 
A  dizzy  horror  overwhelmed  my  soul ; 
My  eyes  grew  dim ;  —  I  found  myseB 
in  safety." 


NOTES. 


695 


See  song  of  Jephtha's  daughter  in 
Byron's  Hebrew  Melodies. 

The  Blackbird,  p.  66. 
Written  in  1833 ;  first  printed  in  1842. 
'riie  bird  is  of  the  thrush  species  com- 
mon  in   England,   not   the   American 
blackbird. 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year,  p.  67. 
First  printed  in  1832. 

To  J.  S.,  p.  67. 

First  printed  in  1832.  The  poem  was 
addressed  to  James  Spedding,  on  the 
death  of  his  brother  Edward.  Sped- 
ding (1808-81),  the  noted  Bacon  scholar, 
was  one  of  the  poet's  most  intimate 
friends  at  Cambridge.  Stanzas  5  and  6 
refer  to  the  death  of  Dr.  G.  C.  Tenny- 
son (March  16,  1831). 

On  a  Mourner,  p.  68. 

First  printed  in  A  Selection  from  the 
Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  1865. 

You  ask  me,  why,  p.  69. 

Written  in  1833;  first  published  in 
1842.  This  poem  and  the  two  com- 
panion pieces  following  were  occasioned 
by  the  discussion  of  the  Reform  Bill  of 
1832,  which  added  half  a  million  electors 
(from  the  middle  classes). 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
p.  69. 
Written  in  1833 ;  first  published  in  1842. 
The  poem  briefly  traces  the  development 
of  constitutional  liberty  in  England.   Of 
this  and  the  preceding    poem  Words- 
worth remarked  once  in  conversation: 
1  •'  I  must  acknowledge  that  these  two 
poems   are   very   solid   and   noble    in 
thought.    Their  diction  also  seems  sin- 
gularly stately." 

Love  thou  thy  land,  p.  70. 
Wiitien   in  1833;    first  published  in 


1842.  These  three  poems  (62,  63,  64) 
contain  an  epitome  of  Tennyson's  politi. 
cal  philosophy.  They  show  his  intense 
Englishness  and  his  aristocratic  lean- 
ings. He  was  a  moderate  Conservative, 
who  believed  in  gradual  reform. 

England  and  America  in  1182,  p.  71. 

First  printed  in  an  American  news- 
paper in  1872 ;  republished  in  the  Cabi- 
net edition  of  Tennyson's  Works,  Vl 
vols.,  1874-77.  The  poem  affords  abun- 
dant evidence  of  the  changed  attitude 
of  Englishmen  toward  Americans,  not- 
withstanding the  violent  disruption  of 
the  British  Empire  in  the  Revolutionary 
War. 

The  Goose,  ^.12. 

First  printed  in  1842.  The  poem  "  is 
a  lively  allegory  of  commerce  and  free 
trade." 

The  Epic,  p.  73. 

First  published  in  1842  as  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  blank-verse  fragment,  Morte 
d' Arthur.  The  poem  is  interesting  fo ; 
its  incidental  references  to  the  tenden- 
cies of  the  age,  social  and  religious. 

Morte  d' Arthur,  p.  74. 

The  first  draft  of  this  poem  seems  to 
have  been  written  as  early  as  1833, 
though  not  published  until  1842.  After- 
ward incorporated  in  the  concluding 
poem  of  Idylls  of  the  King  (1869). 
Tennyson's  epic,  "his  King  Arthur, 
some  twelve  books,"  was  finished  in 
1885  by  the  publication  of  Balin  and 
Balan,  p.  619. 

The  Gardener's  Daughter,  p.  79. 
Mentioned  in  letters  of  1833,  but  first 
printed  in  1842.  Of  the  English  idyls, 
"pictures  of  English  home  and  country 
life,"  published  in  1842,  it  has  been  re- 
marked that  the  fundamental  note  is  the 
sanctity  of  the  family  relation,  the  fidel- 
ity of  lover  and  sweetheart  and  of  hus- 
band and  wife.    On  the  purity  of  the 


696 


NOTES. 


home  depends  not  only  the  happiness 
but  the  permanence  of  the  nation.    It 
is  said  that  this  poem  contains  Tenny- 
son's favorite  line :  — 
'■  The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm." 

See  prologue  to  The  Gardener's  Daugh- 
ter in  Memoir  by  his  Eon,  I.,  pp.  199, 200. 

Dora,  p.  84. 

I  Written  as  early  as  1835 ;  first  printed 
in  1842.  The  pathetic  incident  of  this 
idyl  is  based  on  a  tale  in  Miss  Mitford's 
Village.  Said  Tennyson  of  its  style: 
"  '  Dora,'  being  the  tale  of  a  nobly  simple 
country  girl,  had  to  be  told  in  the  simplest 
possible  poetical  language,  and  therefore 
was  one  of  the  poems  which  gave  most 
trouble."  Wordsworth,  who  highly  ap- 
preciated its  merit,  once  remarked  to 
him:  "Mr.  Tennyson,  I  have  been  en- 
deavoring all  my  life  to  write  a  pas- 
toral like  your  '  Dora '  and  have  not 
succeeded."  Aubrey  de  Vere  called 
Dora  "  an  English  Ruth." 

Audley  Court,  p.  87. 
First  printed  in  1842.  This  poem, 
"  partially  suggested  by  Abbey  Park  at 
Torquay,"  is  valuable  for  its  vigorous 
pictures  of  middle-class  life  in  England. 
The  landscape  and  the  men,  as  Aubrey 
de  Vere  says,  "mutually  reflect  each 
other." 

Walking  to  the  Mail,  p.  89. 

First  published  in  1842.  The  poem  is 
rather  remarkable  for  its  allusions  to 
the  stirring  events  of  the  thirties  and 
forties.  Of  the  "two  parties"  Tenny- 
son belonged  to  "  those  that  have,"  yet 
he  was  in  sympathy  with  movements  for 
the  physical  and  intellectual  improve- 
ment of  the  people.  See  Memoir,  I., 
p.  185. 

Edwin  Morris,  p.  91. 

Written  in  Wales  in  1839 ;  first  printed 
in  Poems,  7th  ed  ,  1851.    A  mannerism, 


shrilled  (p.  93),  is  often  found  in  Tenny. 
son's  later  writings. 

St.  Simeon  Styliles,  p.  94. 

First  printed  in  1842.  A  good  illustra- 
tion of  the  dramatic  monologue,  which 
Browning  used  so  successfully.  The 
celebrated  Syrian  pillar-saint  (d.  459) 
figures  in  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall. 

xxxvn. 

The  Talking  Oak,  p.  97. 
First  printed  in  1842.    One  of  Tenny- 
son's happiest  ventures  in  the  ballad 
measure. 

Love  and  Duty,  p.  101. 
First  published  in  1842.  The  poem 
exhibits  Tennyson's  moralizing  habit. 
The  importance  of  self-control,  of  obedi- 
ence to  duty,  is  the  keynote  of  many  of 
his  utterances. 

The  Golden  Year,  p.  103. 

First  printed  in  Poems,  4th  ed.,  1846. 
In  this  poem  Tennyson  has  admirably 
caught  the  spirit  of  reform  and  philan- 
thropy that  pervaded  England  in  the 
early  years  of  the  Victorian  reign. 

Ulysses,  p.  104. 
First  published  in  1842.  Of  Ulyssts, 
which  was  composed  not  long  after  Ar- 
thur Henry  Hallam's  death,  in,  1833, 
Tennyson  said  it  "  was  written  under 
the  sense  of  loss,  and  that  all  had  gone 
by,  but  that  still  life  must  be  fought  out 
to  the  end."  This  striking  poem  not 
only  shows  Tennyson  in  his  most  heroic 
mood,  it  reflects  the  unrest  and  aspi- 
ration of  the  period.  The  poet  was 
especially  indebted  to  Horace  (I.,  7) 
and  to  Dante  (Inferno,  26)  for  the 
leading  motive. 

Tithonus,  p.  IOC 

First  printed  in  the  Cornhill  Maga- 
zine, February,  1800.     It  was  written 


NOTES. 


697 


many  years  before,  about  the  time  that 
Ulysses  was  composed,  and  is  as  beauti- 
ful as  that  masterpiece.  Waugh  says  : 
"'Tithonus,'  which  in  the  original 
opened  a  little  differently— 

'  Ay  me !  Ay  me !  the  woods  decay  and 
fall,'  — 

is  not  only  touched  with  Tennyson's 
richest  color,  it  has  also  a  distinct  place 
in  his  work  as  an  utterance  of  his  favor- 
ite creed.  MtiSiv  dyar  is  once  more  its 
motto.  The  immortality  which  Tithonus 
desired  turns  to  ashes  in  his  mouth :  he 
is  sick  of  life,  who  cannot  die."  {Alfred, 
Lord  Tennyson,  1893,  p.  185.) 

Locksley  Hall,  p.  107. 

First  printed  in  1842 ;  its  composition 
is  said  to  have  occupied  the  poet  six 
weeks.  The  main  thought  he  owed  to  a 
translation  of  the  Arabic  Moallakdt, 
prize  odes  "  which  were  written  in 
golden  letters  and  hung  up  on  the  por- 
tals of  the  sacred  shrine  at  Mecca." 
Tennyson  thus  comments  on  the  place 
and  the  poem :  "  '  Locksley  Hall '  is  an 
imaginary  place  (tho'  the  coast  is  Lin- 
colnshire) and  the  hero  is  imaginary. 
The  whole  poem  represents  young  life, 
its  good  side,  its  deficiencies,  and  its 
yearnings.  Mr.  Hallam  said  to  me  that 
the  English  people  liked  verse  in  tro- 
chaics,  so  I  wrote  the  poem  in  this 
metre." 

There    is    a    close    parallel    between 
couplets  9  and  10  and  these  lines  from 
Pervigilium  Veneris :  — 
"  Cras  amet  qui  nunquam  amavit,  quique 

amavit  cras  amet, 
Ver  novum,  vir  jam  canorum ;   vere 

natus  orbis  est, 
Vere  concordant  amores,  vere  nuhent 

alites." 

Couplet  16  recalls  Goethe's  epigram :  — 
"Eros,  wie  seh'  ich  dich  hier!  Im  jeg- 
lichem  Handchen  die  Sanduhr ! 
Wie?    Leichtsinniger  Gott,  missest 
du  doppelt  die  Zeit  ? 


"  Langsam  riunen  aus  einer  die  Stunden 
entf ernter  Geliebten : 
Gegenwartigen  fliesst  eilig  die  zweite 
herab." 

Couplet  38,  from  Dante's  Inferno,  V., 
121,  is  also  similar  to  Alfred  de  Musset's 
lines  in  Lucie :  — 

"  II  n'est  pire  douleur, 
Qu'un  souvenir  heureux  dans  les  jours 
du  malheur." 

The  poet  got  the  simile  of  the  lion 
(line  185)  from  Pringle's  Travels,  which 
lie  was  reading  in  1837. 

A  considerable  number  of  the  phrases 
and  lines  of  this  deservedly  popular 
poem  have  become  familiar  quotations, 
admired  for  their  consummate  brevity 
and  felicity.  Some  of  the  more  striking 
thoughts  and  images  of  Locksley  Hall 
occur  again  and  again  in  Tennyson's 
later  works,  in  slightly  different  form. 

Godiva,  p.  113. 

First  published  in  1842.  While  wait- 
ing for  the  train  at  Coventry  in  1840 
Tennyson  shaped  this  ancient  legend 
into  an  exquisite  idyl,  which  has  sug- 
gested two  or  three  statues  of  Lady 
Godiva.  A  brief  account  of  the  circum- 
stance, which  took  place  in  the  eleventh 
century,  is  given  in  Dugdale's  Antiqui- 
ties of  Warwickshire,  1656.  Gf.  poems 
on  Godiva  by  Moultrie  and  Leigh  Hunt. 

The  Day-Bream,  p.  114. 
First  published  in  1842,  except  the  part 
entitled  The  Sleeping  Beauty,  printed  in 
1830.  Edward  Fitzgerald  heard  the  poem 
read  in  1835,  all  but  the  prologue  and  the 
epilogue.  Incidentally  the  poem  reveals 
the  new  interest  in  physical  science  felt 
in  England  in  the  thirties.  Lady  Flora 
is  evidently  one  of  the  few  women  in 
Tennyson's  works  who  are  intellectual 
and  personally  attractive. 

Amphion,  p.  118. 
First  published  in  1842,  but  later  sub- 


698 


NOTES. 


jeoted  to  more  or  less  revision.  The 
fifth  stanza  originally  began  with  these 
lines :  — 

"  The  birch  tree  swung  her  fragrant  hair, 
The  bramble  east  her  berry, 
The  gin  within  the  juniper 
Began  to  make  him  merry." 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  p.  120. 

First  printed,  with  the  title  St.  Agnes, 
in  The  Keepsake,  1837.  The  poem  is 
mentioned  in  correspondence  of  1834. 
Says  Professor  Cook :  " '  St.  Agnes'  Eve ' 
is  a  study  of  medieval  mysticism,  —  of 
pure  devotional  passion  such  as  we  en- 
counter in  the  lives  of  St.  Catharine  of 
Siena  and  St.  Teresa  of  Jesus.  It  be- 
longs in  the  same  class  witli '  St.  Simeon 
Stylites  '  and  '  Sir  Galahad,'  and  may  be 
regarded,  together  with  them,  as  a  lyri- 
cal forerunner  of  portions  of  the  '  Idylls 
of  the  King,'  particularly  of  such  pas- 
sages as  the  description  of  Percival's 
sister  in  '  The  Holy  Grail '  and  the  clois- 
tered penitence  of  Guinevere  as  depicted 
in  the  idyll  of  that  name."  {Poet-Lore, 
January,  1891,  p.  10.) 

Sir  Oalahad,  p.  120. 

First  published  in  1842,  though  written 
as  early  as  1834.  Says  Luce:  '"Sir 
Galahad '  is  an  ideal  of  chivalry  as  well 
as  a  type  of  religion.  But  from  one 
point  of  view  he  is  St.  Agnes  In  the  form 
of  a  man.  Like  hers  is  his  stainless 
purity  and  his  ecstatic  devotion  to  an 
ideal  that  has  usurped  the  dearer  in- 
stincts of  humanity.  But  the  poem, 
though  full  of  lyrical  splendor,  is  not  so 
good  as  the  former ;  that  was  perfect  in 
its  sufficiency ;  this  is  imperfect  in  its 
opulence."     {Handbook,  p.  183.) 

Edward  Gray,  p.  121. 
First  published  in  1842.    The  "  sweet 
Emma  Moreland  "  of  this  pretty  ballad 
(written  in  1340)  forms  the  subject  of  a 
fine  painting  by  Sir  John  E.  Millais. 


Will   Waterproof's  Lyrical  Mono- 
logue, p.  122. 

First  published  in  1842.  One  change 
in  stanza  5  may  be  noted.    The  lines — 

"  Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 
The  current  of  my  days  "  — 

were  substituted  in  1853  for  — 

"  Like  Hezekiah's  backward  runs 
The  shadow  of  my  days." 

Edward  Fitzgerald  remarks :  "  '  The 
plump  head-waiter  of  The  Cock,'  by 
Temple  Bar,  famous  for  chop  and  porter, 
was  rather  offended  when  told  of  the 
poem  ('Will  Waterproof).  'Had  Mr. 
Tennyson  dined  oftener  there,  he  would 
not  have  minded  it  so  much,'  he  said." 
In  1887  the  proprietors  of  the  Cock 
Tavern  remembered  the  poet  with  the 
gift  of  an  old  tankard,  which  he  prized 
as  an  heirloom  of  "the  old  vanished 
Tavern." 

The  poem,  which  is  written  in  a  pleas- 
ant vein,  proves  that  Tennyson  was  not 
always  steeped  in  melancholy  and  gloom 
in  his  early  manhood. 

Lady  Clare,  p.  124. 

First  published  in  1842.  Some  changes 
were  made  in  the  text  in  1851.  The 
poem  is  based  on  the  plot  of  Miss  Fer- 
rier's  novel.  The  Inheritance.  Says 
Napier,  in  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tenny- 
son, ^.90:  "The  marriage  relationship 
is  a  favorite  theme  with  him,  and  many 
of  his  iinest  poems  circle  round  it.  In 
'The  Lord  of  Burleigh,'  'Lady  Clare,' 
etc.,  he  brushes  aside  all  traditions,  and 
with  exquisite  pathos,  revels  in  that 
true  sentiment  he  is  so  fond  of,  showing 
that  when  there  exists  between  two 
persons  what  Scott  calls  'the  secret 
sympathy,'  their  unicn  is  almost  sure  to 
be  a  happy  one." 

The  Captain,  p.  126. 
First  published  in  A  Selection  from, 
the  Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  l&m.  Of 


NOTES. 


699 


this  "legend  of  the  navy  "Luce  aays: 
"The  incidents  are  improbable;  no 
enemy  would  riddle  a  ship  that  did  not 
fire  a  shot  in  return." 

The.  Lord  of  Burleigh,  p.  127. 

First  published  in  1842,  though  written 
'as  early  as  1835.  According  to  Mr.  Na- 
pier, this  "  ballad  of  ballads  "  is  "  more 
than  the  creation  of  a  poet's  fancy,  being 
rather  a  narrative  iu  verse,  with  tlie 
usual  poetic  licenses,  of  the  wooing  and 
romantic  marriage  of  the  tenth  Earl  and 
first  Marquis  of  Exeter."  Under  the 
assumed  name  of  John  Jones  he  married 
a  farmer's  daughter,  Sarah  Hoggins,  of 
Bolas,  Shropshire  (April  13, 1790).  She 
died  in  1797,  "  aged  24,"  sincerely  la- 
mented .by  her  husband  and  all  his  de- 
pendents. Burleigh  House  dates  back 
to  1587  and  is  situated  "in  Northamp- 
tonshire, on  the  borders  of  the  counties 
of  Rutland  and  Lincoln." 

The  Voyage,  p.  128. 
First  printed,  apparently,  in  the  Enoch 
Arden  volume,  1864.  The  poem  is  an 
allegorical  description  of  the  pursuit  of 
the  ideal.  Cf.  Tennyson's  later  poem. 
Merlin  and  The  Gleam,  p.  679. 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere, 
p.  129. 
First  published  in  1842.  Even  in  his 
college  days  Tennyson  was  attracted  by 
the  Arthurian  legend  and  composed 
some  verses  on  Launcelot  and  Guinevere. 
A  single  stanza  of  these  unpublished 
verses  was  preserved  by  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald :  — 

''  Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood, 
Light  of  the  Light  within  mine  eyes, 
The  May  begins  to  breathe  and  bud. 
And  softly  blow  the  balmy  skies ; 
Bathe  with  me  in  the  fiery  flood. 

And  mingle  kisses,  tears,  and  sighs. 
Life  of  the  Life  within  my  blood. 
Light  of  the  J^ight  within  mine  eyes." 


A  Farewell,  p.  129. 

First  published  iu  1842.  This  lovely 
little  lyric  dates  back,  no  doubt,  to  1837, 
when  the  Tennysons  left  Somersby. 
Probably  the  "cold  rivulet"  is  th& 
brook  of  his  Ode  to  Memory,  IV.  (p.  15) 

The  Beggar  Maid,  p.  130. 

First  published  in  1842.    The  beggar 
maid,  to  whose  incomparable   charms  - 
King  Cophetua  fell  a  willing  prey,  fig- 
ures iu  old  ballads  and  iu  three  of  Shake' 
speare's  plays.- 

The  Eagle,  p.  130. 

First  published  iu  Poems,  7th  ed . ,  1851. 
There  is  an  unfortunate  change  in  the 
first  line  of  this  much-admired  fragment, 
due  to  the  poet's  habit  of  ceaselessly 
revising  his  published  writings.  The 
first  reading  was 

"He    clasps    the    crag    with    hooked 
hands." 

Some  of  the  emendations  of  later  years 
were  not  always  for  the  better. 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  p.  130. 

First  published  in  1842.  A  felicitous 
mingling  of  poetry  and  science. 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  p.  130. 
First  included  in  Poems,  7th  ed.,  1851. 
These  stanzas  were  printed  in  The  Keep- 
sake, 1851. 

The  Letters,  p.  130. 
First  published  in  Maud,  and  Other 
Poems,  1855. 

The  Vison  of  Sin,  p.  131. 
First  published  in  1842.  The  poem  as 
published  iu  A  Selection  from  the  Works 
of  Alfred  Tennyson,  1865,  contained  two 
lines  afterward  omitted.  They  are  near 
the  close  of  the  poem :  — 
"Another  ansT^er'd,  'But  a  crime  oi 
sense  ? 


700 


NOTES. 


Give   him    new   nerves    with   old   ex- 
perience.'" 

According  to  Shepherd  (^Bibliography 
of  Tennyson,  1896,  pp.  40-41)  these  lines 
occur  only  in  this  edition. 

The  poem  itself  is  an  allegory  convey- 
ing a  religious  lesson — the  just  and  in- 
evitable penalty  that  sooner  or  later 
overtakes  the  sensualist.  As  Palgrave 
puts  it:  "The  life  of  selfish  pleasure 
ends  in  cynicism  and  cynicism  in  moral 
death." 

To ,  p.  134. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  March 
24, 1849.  First  included  in  Poems,  6th 
ed.,  1850,  and  reprinted  (with  slight 
changes)  in  1853.  Like  The  Dead 
Prophet  (p.  634),  the  poem  expresses 
Tennyson's  abhorrence  of  publicity. 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece, 
p.  135. 
First  published  in  Poems,  8th  ed.,  1863. 
Addressed  to  Edward  Lear  (1812-88), 
author  of  Journal  of  a  Landscape 
Painter  in  Greece  and  Albania,  1851, 
and  other  illustrated  books  of  travel. 

Break,  break,  break,  p.  135. 
First  published  in  1842,  but  probably 
composed  in  the  spring  of  1834.  This 
melodious  wail,  occasioned  by  the  death 
of  Arthur  Hallam,  was  not  written  at 
Clevedon  by  the  Severn,  but  "in  a 
Lincolnshire  lane  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning." 

The  Poet's  Song,  p.  135. 

First  published  in  1842.  Cf.  The  Poet 
(p.  16)  and  The  Poet's  Mind  (p.  17) . 

The  Brook,  p.  136. 

First  published  in  Maud,  and  Other 
Poems,  1855.  It  is  said  that  the  poem, 
or  one  on  the  same  subject,  was  written 
some  twenty  years  before  and,  like 
■other  verses  of  this  productive  period, 
■was  thrown  aside.    The  manuscript  was 


rescued  by  chance  from  a  pile  of 
waste  paper.  The  babbling  stream  of 
this  exquisite  idyl  is  not  the  rivulet 
near  Soraersby ,  but  a  brook  existing  only 
in  the  poet's  imagination.  The  "fig- 
ure like  a  wizard  pentagram  "  (line  103) 
recalls  a  passage  in  Faust,  Ft.  I.,  Act  I.,  — 
'The  wizard's  foot  that  on  the  threshold 
made  is,"  etc. 
Lines  20-25  of  The  Brook  recall 
Goethe's  Bdchlein. 

Aylmer's  Field,  p.  140. 
First  published  in  1855.  '  Mr.  Wool- 
ner,  who  was  a  friend  of  Tennyson'Sj 
furnished  the  plot.  It  is  the  opinion  of 
Mr.  Luce  that  the  locality  is  in  Kent, 
while  Mr.  Napier  thinks  the  scenery  is 
like  that  near  Bayous  Manor,  the  seat 
of  the  Tennyson-d'Eyncourts.  It  is 
certainly  depicted  with  wonderful  loveli- 
ness and  effectiveness.  It  is  a  labored 
idyl,  which  the  poet  found  hard  to  man- 
age. Says  Napier :  "  In  '  Maud  '  and 
'  Locksley  Hall '  he  declaims  in  tones  of 
thunder  against  those  who  sin  against 
'  the  truth  of  love '  and  especially  in 
'  Aylmer's  Field,'  taking  for  his  text  the 
words,  '  Behold,  your  house  is  left  unto 
you  desolate ! '  he  teaches  the  lesson  of 
pride  trampling  on  love,  and  leaving  in 
its  train  desolation  and  ruin." 

Sea  Dreams,  p.  156. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan's  Magazine, 
January,  1860 ;  afterward  included  in  the 
Enoch  Arden  volume,  1864.  Sea 
Dreams,  says  Stopford  Brooke,  in 
his  work  on  Tennyson,  p.  419,  "  is 
not  a  narrative  of  years  and  of  many 
characters,  but  of  a  single  day  in  the 
life  of  a  man  and  his  wife,  and  of  a- 
crisis  in  their  souls."  The  poem  is  es- 
pecially entitled  to  the  name  "Idyl  of 
the  Hearth,"  being  an  affecting  recitav 
of  the  ups  and  downs  of  domestic  life  in 
the  middle  classes.  The  kind-hearted, 
pious  wife  has  in  her  the  right  material 
for  a  true  woman.  , 


NOTES. 


70i 


Lucretius,  p.  160. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine, May,  1868;  included  in  the  Holy 
Grail  volume,  1869.  In  Mrs.  Tennyson's 
Journal  for  1865  is  this  entry,  dated  Oct. 
6th:  "  A.  read  me  some  '  Lucretius,'  and 
the  '  1st  Epistle  of  St.  Peter.'  (At  worls: 
at  his  new  poem  of  'Lucretius')."  As 
first  printed  the  last  line  was :  — 

"  Care  not  thou 
What  matters  ?    All  is  over :  Fare  thee 
well!" 

The  later  reading  (of  1869)  is  still  re- 
tained. 

At  the  time  the  poem  was  written  the 
materialistic  teaching  of  the  Epicureans 
was  coming  into  favor  in  England.  Pro- 
fessor Tyndall  was  one  of  its  new  expo- 
nents. The  Lucretian  doctrine  hriefly 
stated  is  this:  "Atoms  wrought  on  by 
impulse  and  gravity,  and  excited  in 
every  mode  to  cohere,  and  having  been 
tried  in  all  possible  aggregations, 
motions,  and  relations,  fell  at  last  into 
those  that  could  endure."  Given  atoms 
and  motion,  the  universe  was  the  result. 

Professor  Jebb  thus  comments  on 
Tennyson's  remarkably  successful  poem 
dealing  with  the  philosophy  and  person- 
ality of  the  Roman  poet-philosopher 
(who  lived  in  the  first  century  B.C.) : 
"Apart  from  its  artistic  qualities,  the 
poem  has  another  which,  in  a  work  of 
art,  is  accidental,  —  its  historical  truth ; 
that  is,  the  Lucretius  whom  it  describes 
has  a  true  resemblance  to  the  real 
Lucretius,  as  revealed  in  his  own  work ; 
the  picture  is  not  merely  a  picture  but 
happens  to  be  a  portrait  also." 

Of.  the  description  of  the  Lucretian 
Gods  (lines  94^100)  with  the  concluding 
passage  of  The  Lotos  Eater.i  (p.  61). 

The  allusion  in  lines  120-22  is  to  the 
Odyssey,  XII.,  374-96.  According  to  the 
story  in  Ovid's  Fasti  it  was  King  Nuraa 
who  '-snared  Picus  and  Faunus"  and 
compelled  them  to  reveal  "  the  secret  of 


averting  Jove's  angry  lightnings."  It 
is  needless  to  cite  instances  of  Tenny- 
son's use  of  the  thoughts  and  imagery 
of  Lucretius'  great  poem  Dt  Rerum 
Natura. 


Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  Oj 
Wellington,  p.  165. 

First  published  in  pamphlet  form  on 
the  morning  of  Nov.  18,  1852,  and  again 
in  1853  ;  included  in  the  Maud  volume, 
1855.  The  poem  was  written  in  the  in- 
terval between  the  death  of  the  Duke 
(Sept.  14),  and  his  funeral  (Nov.  18). 
This  elaborate  ode  was  not  appreciated 
at  first,  but  Sir  Henry  Taylor  wrote  of 
it:  "It  has  a  greatness  worthy  of  its 
theme,  and  an  absolute  simplicity  and 
truth,  with  all  the  poetic  passion  of 
your  nature  moving  beneath."  Its  pa- 
triotic passages  especially  appeal  to  the 
national  heart  and  conscience. 


The  Third  of  February,  p.  169. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  Feb.  7. 
1852  ;  included  in  the  Library  edition  of 
Tennyson's  collected  Works,  1872.  This 
and  other  patriotic  poems  were  occa- 
sioned by  the  disturbed  political  condi- 
tion of  England  after  the  coup  d'itat  of 
Louis  Napoleon. 

The  Charge  of^the  Light  Brigade 
p.  170. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  Dec.  !■,,  , 
1854;  reprinted  (with  changes)  in  the 
Maud  volume,  1855.  A  four-page  copj 
was  privately  printed  for  distribution 
among  the  soldiers  before  Sebastopol. 
The  famous  charge  took  place  in  the 
Crimean  War  (Oct.  25,  1854).  Says 
Waugh:  "  The  poem  has  become  almost 
too  popular  for  discussion ;  it  is  the  one 
stirring,  galloping  piece  of  energy 
which  all  shades  of  mind  and  sympathy 
seem  to  admire  alike." 


702 


NOTES. 


Ode  sung  at  the   Opening  of  the 
International  Exhibition,  p.  171. 

Published  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  June, 
1862;  reprinted  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1862.  The  ode,  with  music  by 
Sterndale  Bennett,  was  sung  on  the 
opening  day  ot  the  International  Exhi- 
bition, May  1,  1862.  Of.  V.  with  The 
Golden  Year  (p.  103). 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra,  p.  172. 
Printed  in  a  four-page  pamphlet, 
18B3;  republished,  with  changes  and 
additions,  in  the  Enoch  Arden  volume, 
18Hi.  The  poem  is  a  heart-felt  welcome 
to  Princess  Alexandra,  of  Denmark,  on 
the  occasion  of  her  marriage  (March  7, 
1863)  to  Albert  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales. 

A  Welcome  to  her  Royal  Highness, 
Marie  Alexandrovna,  Duchess  of  Edin- 
burgh, p.  172. 

Published  in  a  four-page  sheet,  1874 ; 
also  printed  in  the  London  Times  on 
the  day  of  the  marriage  of  the  Russian 
princess  to  Alfred,  second  son  of  Queen 
Victoria.    The  lines  in  III.  beginning 

"For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing,"  ' 

contain  a  favorite  and  oft-repeated  sen- 
timent of  Tennyson's. 

The  Grandmother,  p.  173. 
First  published  in  Once  a  Week,  July 
16,  1859  (with  a  capital  illustration  by 
J.  E.  Millais) ;  reprinted  In  the  Enoch 
Arden  volume,  1864.  Professor  Jowett 
quoted  a  saying  of  an  old  lady,  "  The 
spirits  of  my  children  always  seem  to 
hover  about  me,"  which  so  impressed 
Tennyson  that  the  poem  (first  called  The 
Grandmother's  Apology)  was  the  result. 

Northern   Farmer    (Old   Style), 
p.  177. 

Published  in  the  Enoch  Arden  vol- 
ume, 1864.    The  poem,  written  in  1861, 


is  imaginative,  though  founded  on  char- 
acter-studies of  Lincolnshire  farmers. 

Northern  Fanner  {New    Style), 
p.  179. 

First  published  in  the  Holy  Grail  vol- 
ume, 1869.  According  to  the  poet  him- 
self, this  poem  was  suggested  by  the 
words  of  a  rich  farmer  living  in  his 
neighborhood,  "When  I  canters  my 
'erse  along  the  ramper  (highway)  I 
'ears  propntty,  proputty,  proputty." 
From  this  characteristic  saying  he  con- 
jectured and  portrayed  the  man.  The 
Lincolnshire  dialect,  which  Tennyson 
uses  so  successfully  in  this  poem  and  in 
the  Northern  Cobbler  and  the  Village 
Wife,  he  learned  when  a  boy,  by  hear- 
ing the  talk  of  farm  laborers  around 
Somersby  and  Caistor.  Cf.  Jean  Inge- 
low's  High  Tide. 

The  Daisy,  T^.  181. 
First  published  in  the  Maud  volume, 
1855.  This  poem,  written  at  Edinburgh 
in  1853,  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Tenny- 
son ;  it  was  suggested  by  the  finding  of 
a  daisy  in  a  book,  the  flower  having 
been  plucked  by  her  on  the  Splugen  and 
placed  between  the  leaves  of  a  volume 
as  a  memento  of  their  Italian  journey 
in  1851.  The  reference  in  the  twenty- 
fourth  stanza  is  to  their  baby  son,  Hal- 
lam  (born  in  1852).  The  measure  is  one 
of  several  that  Tennyson  invented.  "  He 
was  proud  of  the  metre  of  '  The  Daisy,' 
which  lie  called  a  far-off  echo  of  the 
Horatian  Alcaic." 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,  p.  182. 
Dated  January,  1854 ;  first  published 
in  1855  with  Maud.  Addressed  to  the 
eminent  preacher,  F.  D.  Maurice  (1805- 
72),  leader  of  the  Broad  Church  Party, 
who  concerned  himself  not  only  with 
books  but  with  the  practical  interests 
of  English  workingmen.  In  his  liberal 
views  on  religious  matters  Tennyson 
had  much  in  common  with  Maurice^ 


NOTES. 


703 


whose  essays  ana  sermons  involved 
him  in  some  fierce  controversies.  Stan- 
zas 4-7  describe  the  poet's  new  home 
near  Freshwater.  The  eighth  stanza 
touches  on  the  Crimean  War. 

iriH,  p.  183. 
First  published  with  Maud  in  1855. 
Man's  free-will  was  one  of  the  funda- 
mentals of  Tennyson's  creed.  See  pro- 
logue of  In  Meoioriam  and  CXXXI 
(p.  522). 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauieretz,  p.  183. 
First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
1864.  Written  while  the  poet  was  trav- 
elling in  the  French  Pyrenees  in  1861, 
overcome  by  reminiscences  of  other  days 
when  he  and  Arthur  Hallam  visited  this 
lovely  valley  together  in  1830.  The  mis- 
take in  writing  "  two  and  thirty  years  " 
seems  to  have  been  due  to  carelessness. 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston,  p.  184. 

First  published  in  Cabinet  edition  ol 
Tennyson's  Works,  12  vols.,  1874^-77. 
Written  at  the  home  of  Sir  John  Simeon, 
one  of  the  poet's  dearest  friends,  who 
died  in  1870.  To  Lady  Simeon  he  wrote 
(June  27,  1870),  "I  knew  none  like 
him  for  tenderness  and  generosity,  not 
to  mention  his  other  noble  qualities, 
and  he  was  the  very  Prince  of  Cour- 
tesy." The  other  two  men  were  Arthur 
Hallam  and  Henry  Lushington.  Cf.  the 
line 

"  With  a  love  that  ever  will  be  " 

with  the  last  line  of  Vastness  (p.  660). 

T?ie  Flower,  p.  184. 
First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
1864.  Described  in  Tennyson's  manu- 
script  notes  as  "  an  universal  apologue." 
One  inierpretation  was  to  the  effect 
that  the  "seed"  was  a  new  metre  of 
Tennyson's,  and  "the  flowers"  were 
the  poems  of  his  imitators.  He  wrote  a 
tetter  to  J.  B   Selkirk,  saying  that  this 


was  not  the  right  explanation  of  the 
parable.  The  poem  seems  to  be  a  met- 
rical paraphrase  of  the  quotation,  "  In 
this  world  are  few  voices  and  many 
echoes." 

Eequiescat,  p.  184. 

First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
1864.  The  stanzas  recall  Wordsworth's 
verses  on  "  Lucy,"  written  in  1799-1800. 

Tfie  Sailor  Boy,  p.  184. 

First  published  in  Victoria  Regia, 
Dec.  25,  1861;  reprinted  with  Enoch 
Arden,  1864.  The  poem  well  expresses 
youthful  love  of  adventurous  activity 
and  dislike  of  indolent  ease. 

The  Islet,  p.  185. 
First  published  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1864.  Of  the  purpose  of  the 
poem  Luce  remarks:  "Dwelling  apart 
by  ourselves,  seeking  only  our  own 
happiness,  may  be  likened  to  solitary 
existence  on  a  beautiful  island  in  the 
tropics;  when  the  real  work  of  life  is 
suspended,  where  the  only  music  is  the 
false  note  of  the  mocking-bird,  and 
where  loathsome  diseases  lurk  in  every 
profusion  of  loveliness.  Like  '  The  Voy- 
age,' this  slighter  poem  is  an  occasion 
for  vivid  sketches  of   far-off  isle  and 


The  City  Child,  p.  185. 

This  and  the  companion  poem  (125) 
were  first  published  in  St.  Nicholas 
(February,  1880)  ;  reprinted  in  the  col- 
lected edition  of  Tennyson's  Works,  1886. 
These  "child-songs"  and  many  other 
lyrics  of  Tennyson's  were  set  to  rausio 
by  his  wife. 

Minnie  and  Winnie,  p.  180. 

First  published  in  >S*.  Nicholas,  New 
York  (February,  1880) .  The  same  maga- 
zine for  February  and  March  contains 
Mrs.  Tennyson's  settings  of  the  two 
poems. 


704 


NOTES. 


The  Spiteful  Letter,  p.  186. 

First  published  in  Once  a  Week  (Janu- 
ary, 1868) ;  reprinted  with  alterations  in 
Library  edition  of  Tennyson's  Works, 
1871-73.  The  poet  wrote :  "  It  is  no 
particular  letter  that  I  meant.  I  have 
had  dozens  of  them  from  one  quarter  or 
another." 

Literary  Squabbles,  p.  186. 

First  printed  with  the  title  After- 
thought in  Punch,  March  7,  1846;'  re- 
published with  new  title  in  Library 
edition,  1872.  Throughout  his  long 
career  Tennyson  was  free  from  the 
petty  spites  and  jealousies  of  authors. 
Once,  in  1846,  he  deigned  to  reply  to  an 
attack  by  Bulwer,  but  he  regretted  the 
unauthorized  publication  of  his  satiri- 
cal verses  —  The  New  Timon  and  the 
Poets  (in  Punch,  March  7,  1846),  and 
in  this  second  poem  expressed  his  atti- 
tude of  indifference  and  silence. 

The  Victim,  p.  186. 

First  published  in  Good  Words,  Janu- 
ary, 1868 ;  reprinted  with  the  Holy  Grail, 
1869.    Privately  printed,  1867. 

Wages,  p.  188. 

First  printed  in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine, February,  1868,  and  republished  in 
the  Holy  Grail  volume,  1869.  The  poem 
is  an  expression  of  Tennyson's  passion- 
ate desire  for  personal  immortality.  Cf. 
Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Tears  After,  lines 
67-72  (p.  642). 

The  Higher  Pantheism,  p.  188. 
First  published  in  the  Holy  Grail  vol- 
ume, 1869.  The  poem  was  read  at  the 
first  meeting  of  the  Metaphysical  Society 
(June  2,  1869).  Mrs.  Tennyson's  jour- 
nal for  1867  contains  this  entry  (dated 
Dec.  1st.) :  "  A.  is  reading  Hebrew  {Job 
and  the  Song  of  Solomon  and  Genesis) : 
he  talked  much  about  his  Hebrew,  and 
about  all-pervading  Spirit  being  more 
inderstandable  by  him  than  solid  mat- 


ter. He  brought  down  to  me  his  psalm- 
like  poem,  '  Higher  Pantheism.' "  See 
Memoir,  I.,  p.  514  (Reminiscences  by 
AUingham). 

The  Voice  and  the  Peak,  p.  188. 
First  published  in  Cabinet  edition,  1874. 
According  to  Luce  this  poem  "  is  another 
attempt  to  find  a  voice  for  the  ineffable, 
and  to  apprehend  the  infinite."  Line  i 
describes  a  torrent  in  Val  d'Anzasca  in 
the  Alps,  which  Tennyson  visited  in 
September,  1873. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  p.  188. 
First  published  in  Holy  Grail  volume, 
1869.  The  meaning  of  these  verses, 
which  show  Tennyson's  interest  in  philo- 
sophical problems,  is  illustrated  by 
Goethe's  lines :  — 

"  Wouldst  know  the  whole?  then  scan 
the  parts ;  for  all 
That  moulds  the  great  lies  mirrored 
in  the  small." 

Says  Leibnitz :  "  He  who  should  know 
perfectly  one  monad  would  in  it  know 
the  world,  whose  mirror  it  is." 

A  Dedication,  p.  189. 
First  published  in  Enoch  Arden  vol- 
ume, 1864.  A  tribute  to  his  wife,  who 
was  the  presiding  genius  of  the  Tenny- 
son household  for  more  than  forty  years. 
Edith,  in  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years 
After,  is  doubtless  another  name  for 
Lady  Tennyson.  She  is  also  praised  In 
June  Bracken  and  Heather  (l?,9i) .  In 
his  mother  and  in  his  wife  Tennyson 
found  his  high  ideal  'of  womanhood 
realized. 

Boadicea,  p.  190. 

First  published  with  Enoch  Arden, 
1864.  An  experiment  in  a  new  metrical 
form,  "an  echo  of  the  metre  in  the 
'Atys'  of  Catullus,"  written  in  1859, 
The  poet  "  wanted  some  one  to  annotate 
it  musically  so  that  people  could  under- 
stand the   rhythm."      Queen  Boadicea 


NOTES. 


705 


(d.  62   A.D.)   headed    an    unsuccessful 
revolt  agaiust  the  Romans  in  Britain. 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters, 
p.  192. 

First  printed  in  Cornhill  Mac/azlne, 
December,  1863,  but  not  republished  in 
1864  -with  the  following  experiments  in 
classic  metres  (136  and  137) ;  restored  in 
collected  editions  of  later  years.  Cf .  Ar- 
nold's Lectures  on  Translating  Homer. 

Milton,  p.  192. 
Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863),  and  later  in  the  Enoch  Arden  vol- 
ume, 1864.  See  notes  of  Tennyson's 
talk  on  Paradise  Lost,  in  Memoir,  II., 
pp.  518-23. 

Hendecasyllahics,  p.  192. 
Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863),  and  later  in  the  Enoch  Arden 
volume,  1864.  A  skilful  handling  of 
"  the  dainty  metre  "  of  Catullus  in  Eng- 
lish. Tennyson  expressed  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  graceful  Roman  singer  in 
Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  (p.  636). 

Specimen  of  Translation  of 
Homer's  Iliad,  p.  192. 

Printed  in  the  Cornhill  (December, 
1863) ,  and  later  with  Enoch  Arden,  1864. 
An  admirable  rendering  of  this  oft- 
quoted  passage.  "He's  a  wonderful 
man  for  dovetailing  words  together," 
said  Carlyle  of  Tennyson,  whom  he 
begged  to  translate  Sophocles. 

The  Window,  p.  193. 

Privately  printed  in  1867,  and  pub- 
lished with  alterations  in  1870;  after- 
ward republished  in  collected  editions  of 
Tennyson's  Works.  The  Window  Songs 
call  for  no  special  comment.  A  phrase 
in  the  preliminary  note  (dated  Decem- 
ber, 1870)  needs  explanation.  Mrs. 
Xennybon  writes  in  her  journal  for  No- 


vember 4:  "A.  did  not  like  publishing 
songs  that  were  so  trivial  at  such  a  grave 
crisis  of  affairs  in  Europe,"  because  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  War;  hence  the 
words  — "in  the  dark  shadow  of  these 
days." 

Idylls  of  the  King,  p,  197. 

About  the  time  of  the  publication  of 
The  Holy  Grail  (1869)  Tennyson  said:' 
"At  twenty-four  I  meant  to  write  an 
epic  or  a  drama  of  King  ArthuB ;  and  I 
thought  that  1  should  take  twenty  years 
about  the  work.  Now  they  will  say  I 
have  been  forty  years  about  it."  The 
Morte.d' Arthur  of  the  1842  volumes  was 
a  fragment  of  the  proposed  epic.  The 
earliest  of  his  published  Arthurian  poems 
was  The  Lady  of  Shalott  (1832),  de- 
scribed as  "  another  version  of  the  story 
of  Lancelot  and  Elaine." 

Tennyson  was  familiar  with  the  history 
of  Arthur  through  the  books  of  Geoffrey 
and  Malory.  He  seems  to  have  got 
some  details  from  Ellis's  Metrical  Ro- 
mances. He  made  no  exhaustive  study 
of  the  sources  of  the  Arthur  legend. 
Had  he  read  the  tales  in  the  Old  French 
of  Chrestien  de  Troyes,  the  Thornton 
Morte  Arthure,  Sir  Gawayne,  and  other 
Middle-English  romances,  he  would  have 
formed  a  different  conception  of  ' '  the 
blameless  king,"  of  Gawain,  and  other 
knights  of  the  Table  Round.  Besides  the 
old  chronicles  and  romances,  he  found 
more  or  less  material  in  Celtic  myths 
and  traditions,  especially  the  stories  of 
the  Mabinogion,  translated  by  Char- 
lotte Guest.  He  depended  lor  much  upon 
his  own  imagination.  Says  Hutton :  "  In 
taking  his  subject  from  the  great  medi- 
eval myth  of  English  chivalry,  it  was 
of  course  open  to  Mr.  Tennyson  to  adopt 
any  treatment  of  it  which  would  really 
incorporate  the  higher  and  grander  as- 
pects of  the  theme,  and  also  find  an  ideal 
unity  for  a  number  of  legends  in  which 
of  unity  there  was  none." 

For  many  years  not  much  progress 
was  made  in  the  composition  of  Tenny- 


106 


-NOTES. 


son's  epic,  probably  because  of  Hallam's 
death  and  other  circumstances.  After 
Maui  was  off  his  hands,  he  resumed 
work  on  the  subject  that  had  haunted 
him  and  wrote  Vimen  and  Enid  in  1856. 
In  the  summer  of  1857  these  two  idylls 
■were  privately  printed,  with  the  title: 
Enii,  and  Nimue ;  or.  The  True  and  the 
■  JFalse.  It  is  said  that  of  the  six  original 
copies  only  one  is  now  in  existence,  that 
in  the  British  Museum.  There  is  an 
interesting  record  in  Mrs.  Tennyson's 
journal  of  this  year:  "  A.  has  brought 
me  as  a  birthday  present  the  first  two 
lines  that  he  has  made  of  'Guinevere,' 
■which  might  be  the  nucleus  of  a  great 
poem.  Arthur  is  parting  from  Guine- 
vere, and  says :  — 

" '  But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 
Never  lie  by  thy  side ;  see  thee  no  more ; 
Farewell! '" 

In  the  winter  of  1858  Guinevere  was 
completed.  Then  Elaine  was  written, 
and  in  1859  these  four  Arthurian  stories 
appeared  with  the  title:  Idylls  of  the 
King.  They  were  arranged  in  this 
order:  Enid,  Vivien, Elaine,  Guinevere. 

Then  preparation  for  other  idylls  was 
begun,  but  the  undertaking  was  inter- 
rupted for  several  years.  The  poet  was 
urged  to  write  on  the  Sangreal,  but  was 
not  "  in  the  mood  for  it."  In  1868  The 
Holy  Grail  was  written ;  it  "  came  sud- 
denly as  if  by  a  breath  of  inspiration." 
Others  followed,  and  in  1869  another 
instalment  of  four  idylls  was  published: 
The  Holy  Grail,  The  Coming  of  Arthur, 
Felleas  and  Ettarre,  and  The  Passing  of 
Arthur.  Afterward  The  Last  Tourna- 
ment was  printed  in  the  Contemporary 
Review  (December,  1871)  asd  repub- 
lished in  1872  with  Gareth  and  Lynette. 
A  little  later  Balin  and  Balan  was  writ- 
ten, though  not  published  until  1885  in 
the  Tiresias  volume. 

Of  the  innumerable  changes  in  the 
text,  Prof  essor  Jones  has  made  thorough 
study  in  his  Growth  of  the  Idylls  of  the 
King,  1895.    The  poet's  last  correction 


was  made  in  1891,  when  he  inserted  the 
line — 

"  Ideal  manhood  closed  in  real  man  "  — 

in  the  Epilogue  after  the  line — 

"  New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 
with  Soul." 

The  most  important  addition,  lines  6-146 
of  Merlin  and  Vivien,  appeared  first  inj 
1874,  with  a  few  variations  from  the 
present  reading.  In  1888  Geraint  and 
Enid  was  divided  into  two  idylls,  with 
the  titles :  The  Marriage  of  Geraint  and 
Geraint  and  Enid.  The  later  editions 
of  Idylls  of  the  King  have  ten  tales  in 
the  Round  Table,  or  "twelve  books," 
including  the  introductory  and  closing 
idyls. 

The  Princess,  p.  381. 

While  at  Eastbourne,  in  the  summer 
of  1845,  Tennyson  was  engaged  on  The 
Princess,  but  the  poem  was  mostly 
written  in  London.  Come  down,  O  maid 
(p.  435),  was  composed  among  the  Alps 
in  1846,  and  was  "  descriptive  of  the 
waste  Alpine  heights  and  gorges,  and  of 
the  sweet,  rich  valleys  below."  The 
poet  told  Aubrey  de  Vere  that  the 
Bugle  Song  (p.  404)  was  written  at  Kil- 
larney,  and  0  Swallow,  Swallow  (p.  406) 
was  first  composed  in  rhyme.  Con- 
cerning one  of  his  most  characteristic 
and  successful  strains,  that  wonderful 
"  blank-verse  lyric  "  —  Tears,  idle  tears 
(p.  405),  he  said:  "The  passion  of  the 
past,  the  abiding  in  the  transient,  was 
expressiid  in  'Tears,  idle  tears,'  which 
was  written  in  the  yellowing  autumn- 
tide  at  Tintern  Abbey,  full  for  me  of  its 
bygone  memories."  In  the  manuscript 
the  first  line  originally  stood :  — 

"  Ah  foolish  tears,  \  know  not  what  thesr 
mean." 

The  hand  of  the  artist  made  a  happy 
change  to   "Tears,   idle   tears." 

Possibly  the  first  hint  of  the  plot  was 
suggested  by  jDhnsou's  Rasselas,  Chap. 


NOTES. 


70J 


XLIX.  However,  the  main  structure  of 
the  poem  was  essentially  original  with 
Tennyson.  Collins  pointed  out  a  num- 
ber ol  phrases  and  similes  that  sound 
like  oi'hoes  of  older  singers.  Dawson 
calls  the  Princess  "  a  transfusion  of  the 
Greek  spirit  into  modern  life." 

The  first  edition  of  The  Princess  was 
a  very  different  poem  from  that  of  1853, 
which  has  remained  unchanged.  The 
dedication  to  Henry  Lushington,!  in  the 
second  edition,  was  dated  January,  1848 ; 
but  few  alterations  were  made  in  the 
text  of  the  poem.  A  number  of  addi- 
tions and  omissions  were  made  in  the 
third  edition  (1850) ;  the  intercalary 
songs  were  inserted,  and  the  Prologue 
and  conclusion  were  revised.  In  the 
fourth  edition  (1851)  "  the  passages  re- 
lating to  the  weird  seizures  of  the 
Prince"  were  inserted.  The  fifth  edi- 
tion (1853)  contains  many  new  read- 
ings, also  lines  35-49  of  the  Prologue ; 
this  is  the  final  text  of  the  poem. 

Maud,  p.  440. 

The  nameless  stanzas,  0  that  'twere 
possible,  written  in  1834  and  printed  in 
the  Tribute  (1837),  later  became  the 
foundation  of  Maud.  As  the  poet  wrote : 
"  Sir  John  Simeon  years  after  begged  me 
to  weave  a  story  round  this  poem  and 
so  'Maud'  came  Into  being."  It  was 
thus  written  backward,  the  work  being 
chiefly  done  In  1854  and  1855.  In  the 
early  proofs  of  the  poem  the  title  was 
Maud;  or  the  Madness.  The  laureate 
remarked,  "  This  poem  is  a  little  '  Ham- 
let.' "  The  lyrics  in  it  which  he  liked 
best  were :  I  have  led  her  home ;  Cour- 
ofje,  poor  heart  of  stone;  and  O  that 
'twere  possible.  He  was  vexed  at  the 
hostile  reception  of  the  poem  on  the 
part  of  the  critics,  and  was  grateful  for 
the  defence  of  Dr.  Mann  and  for  the 
fine  commentary  of  Brimley.  With  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  of  Maud  he  bought 

1  Park  House,  home  of  the  Lushingtons, 
near  Maidstone,  is  Vivian  Place  (referred  to  in 
the  Prologue). 


(1856)    Farringford,   which   had    been 
leased  in  1853.^ 

The  second  edition  of  Maud  (1856) 
contained  "considerable  additions,  ex- 
tending to  some  ten  pages."  The  poem 
was  afterward  divided  into  two  parts, 
and  ultimately  into  three  parts.  01 
section  IV.  (pp.  457-59),  contributed  to 
the  Tribute,  Luce  remarks:  "The  stan- 
zas, as  they  originally  appeared,  formed 
a  poem  of  strange  and  pathetic  beauty. 
A  portion  of  them,  with  certain  altera- 
tions, now  constitute  the  fourth  section 
of  the  second  part  of  '  Maud.' " 

Enoch  Arden,  p.  463. 

First  published  in  1864  in  the  volume 
entitled  Idylls  of  the  Hearth.  The  poem 
was  first  called  the  9W  Fisherman.  It 
was  written  in  the  summer  of  1862,  and 
occupied  him  only  about  two  weeks  when 
once  started,  though  he  had  brooded 
on  the  subject  a  long  while.  Teunyson 
got  the  incident  from  the  sculptor 
Thomas  Woolner.  Similar  stories  had 
been  told  in  Suffolk,  Brittany,  and  other 
places.  Here  was  a  theme  well  suited 
to  his  powers,  one  that  took  him  into  a. 
different  world  from  that  of  the  Arthu- 
rian idyUs.  He  was  so  much  at  home 
in  the  society  of  humble  fisher-folk  that 

'  A  writer  in  Oood  Words  (October,  1892> 
refers  to  the  beautiful  word-plclures  In  Maud 
of  the  sea  and  sky  as  observed  at  Farringford 
in  the  Isle  of  Wight :  "  If  one  would  wish  to 
see  the  Influence  which  the  island  has  had  on. 
the  great  minstrel,  let  him  read  '  Maud,'  where 
its  magic  has  been  most  profusely  translated 
into  speech.  .  .  .  Here,  too,  surely  is  the 
'  little  grove '  where  he  sits  while 

'A  million  emeralds   break  from  the  ruby- 
budded  lime ; ' 

and  here  in  a  gap  of  the  trees  one  catches  a 

gleam  of  white,  where 

'  The  far-ofl'  sail  Is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a 

softer  clime. 
Half-lost  In  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent 

of  sea. 
The  silent  sapphte-spangled  marriage  ring  <a 
the  land.' " 


t08 


NOTES. 


he  fairly  won  the  title  bestowed  upon 
him,  "  The  poet  of  the  people." 

Tennyson's  treatment  of  the  subject 
is  considerably  different  from  that  of 
Adelaide  Procter's  Homeward  Bound, 
£rst  published  in  her  Legends  and  Lyr- 
ics (1858).  A  few  passages  in  Enoch 
Arden  bear  a  striking  resemblance  to 
certain  stanzas  of  Miss  Procter's  touch- 
ing poem,  which  is  the  brief  narrative 
of  a  seaman  wrecked  on  the  Barbary 
coast  and  kept  in  bondage  ten  long 
years  in  Algiers,  who  is  freed  and  re- 
turns to  his  old  English  home  to  find 
his  wife  married  to  his  "ancient  com- 
rade." 

He  took  pains  to  be  accurate  in  de- 
picting the  ways  of  fishermen  and  in 
matters  of  local  color.  Mrs.  Tennyson 
■wrote  to  Edward  Fitzgerald,  asking  a 
number  of  fishing  questions  for  Alfred's 
benefit.  In  his  diary  the  poet  speaks  of 
meeting  the  eminent  botanist,  Joseph 
Hooker,  "  who  told  me  my  tropical 
island  (in  '  Enoch ')  was  all  right ;  but 

X in  his  illustrations  has  made  it 

all  wrong,  putting  a  herd  of  antelopes 
upon  it,  which  never  occur  in  Poly- 
nesia." 

When  the  poet  and  his  son  were  cruis- 
ing around  the  coast  of  Wales  in  the 
summer  of  1887,  they  "landed  at  Clo- 
velly,  and  he  thought  it  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  places  he  had  seen.  It  re- 
minded him  of  Enoch  Arden's  village, 
although  '  iong  lines  of  cliff  breaking 
had  left  a,  chasm'  was  not  true  of  Clo-" 
velly ;  he  did  not  think  of  any  particu- 
lar village  when  writing  the  poem." 

On  the  coast  of  Cornwall  is  sometimes 
heard  that  strange  atmospherical  phe- 
nomenon, "tbe  calling  of  the  sea"  (men- 
tioned in  the  closing  lines  of  Enoch 
Arden).  "  A  murmuring  or  a  roaring 
noise,  proceeding  from  the  shore,  is 
sometimes  heard  at  the  distance  of  sev- 
eral miles  inland,  whereas  at  other 
times,  although  the  atmosphere  may 
appear  equally  favorable  for  transmit- 
ting sounds,  no  sound  whatever  from 


the  shore  can  be  heard  at  the  twen- 
tieth part  of  that  distance."  (Edmunds, 
Laud's  End  District,  1862,  p.  142.) 

In  Memoriam,  p.  480. 

The  few  lines  ' '  which  proved  to  be  the 
germ  of  '  In  Memoriam '  "  were  written 
late  in  the  year  1833,  a  few  months 
after  the  death  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam.i 
Sections  IX.,  XXX.,  XXXI.,  LXXXV 
and  XXVIII.  were  evidently  jotted  down 
in  December  of  this  year.  These  manu- 
script poems  circulated  among  Tenny- 
son's friends  and  were  much  admired. 

Professor  Edmund  Lushington  (the 
"  true  in  word  and  tried  in  deed  "  of 
LXXXV.) ,  who  was  with  the  Tennysons 
at  Boxley  during  the  holidays  of  1841, 
writes  that  "the  number  of  memorial 
poems  had  rapidly  increased "  in  the 
autumn  of  that  year.  In  the  summer  of 
1845  he  visited  the  poet,  who  showed  him 
the  epithalamium  celebrating  the  mar- 
riage of  the  professor  and  Cecilia  Tenny- 
son in  1842  (pp.  522-23). 

In  November,  1845,  Tennyson  wrote  to 
Moxon,  his  publisher :  "  I  want  you  to 
get  me  a  book  which  I  see  advertised  in 
the  Examiner ;  it  seems  to  contain  many 
speculations  with  which  I  have  been 
familiar  for  years,  and  on  which  I  have 
written  more  than  one  poem.  The  book 
is  called  '  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  His- 
tory of  Creation.'  "  Commenting  on  this 
passage,  the  son  says  (Vol.  I.,  p.  223)  that 
the  evolutionary  sections  of  In  Memo- 
riam, referred  to  here  by  the  poet,  had 
been  written  years  before  Chambers' 
book  was  published  in  1844.  Possi- 
bly the  sections  meant  are  LIV.-LVI. 
(pp.  496-7),  and  CXVIII.  (p.  519). 

In  1891  the  poet  explained  the  allusions 
in  the  first  stanza  of  I., 

"  I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  with  divers  tones," 

as  referring  to  Goethe,  whom  he  "  placed 

1  Alfred,  Lord  Teniiyfion  :  A  Memoir  bj 
bis  son,  1897,  Vol.  I.,  p.  107. 


NOTES. 


709 


foremoBt  among  the  moderns  as  a  lyrical 
poet,"  because  '•  consummate  in  so  many 
diilerent  styles."  The  sentiment  in  the 
dft-quoted  lines, 

■'  That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things," 

occurs  in  the  West-Easterly  Divan, 

"  Die  to  the  old ;  live  to  the  new ; 
Grow  strong  with  each  to-morrow," 

and  in  other  works  of  Goethe's. 

It  was  not  until  1848  that  Tennyson 
made  up  his  mind  to  print  the  Elegies, 
as  he  called  the  cantos  of  In  Memoriam. 
He  thought  of  entitling  the  new  poem 
Fragments  of  an  Elegy,  and  sometimes 
called  it  The  Way  of  the  Soul.  Three 
sections  (printed  in  the  Memoir,  I., 
pp.  30G-7)  were  omitted  as  redundant. 
LIX.  was  inserted  in  1851,  and  XXXIX. 
in  1869  (in  the  Pocket- Volume  edition 
of  Tennyson's  Works) . 

The  lirst  Christmas  Eve,  mentioned  in 
XXVIII.,  was  December  25,  1833;  the 
second  (in  LXXVIII.)  in  1834,  and  the 
one  referred  to  in  CV.  was  in  1837. 
The  date  of  CVI.,  Ring  out,  wild  bells, 
is  likely  about  December  31,  1837;  and 
CXV.  probably  describes  the  spring  of 
1838.  XCVIII.  was  suggested  by  the 
wedding-trip  of  Charles  Tennyson  Tur- 
ner in  the  summer  of  1836  ;  this  much- 
loved  brother  is  the  "noble  heart"  of 
LXXIX.  The  anniversary  of  Hallam's 
death  (September  15,  1833)  is  spoken  of 
in  LXXII.  and  XCIX.,  and  his  birthday 
is  remembered  in  CVII.  (February  1, 
1838).  The  dates  of  some  other  sec- 
tions may  be  conjectured,  but  not  with 
certainty.  As  to  the  metre  of  Jn  Memo- 
riam, the  poet  supposed  himself  to  be 
the  originator  of  it. 

The  Lover's  Tale,  p.  525. 
A  fragment  of  this  work  was  printed 
in  1832  (dated  1833),  and  a  few  copies 
were  distributed  among  Tennyson's 
friends  before  it  was  suppressed.  In 
1869  tie  poem  (revised)  was  again  sent 


to  press,  and  for  some  reason  it  was  with- 
drawn from  publication  for  ten  years. 
In  1879  the  three  parts,  with  a  reprint 
of  The  Golden  Supper  (published  in 
1869)  as  a  fourth  part,  appeared  in  a 
small  volume.  This  boyish  production 
contains  many  quotable  passages,  some 
of  them  similar  to  lines  in  his  later 
works,  as  "  A  morning  air,  sweet  after 
rain,"  suggesting  "  Sweet  after  show- 
ers, ambrosial  air''  {In  Memoriam, 
LXXXVI.) .  The  closing  lines  of  I.  recall 
Byron's  poem.  Written  beneath  a  Picture, 
"  'Tis  said  with  Sorrow  Time  can  cope," 
etc. 

The  First  Quarrel,  p.  552. 
The  book  of  ballads,  of  which  this  is 
the  first,  appeared  in  1880,  addressed  to 
the  poet's  first  grandson  (b.  1878) .  The 
First  Quarrel  was  founded  on  a  true 
story,  told  to  him  by  Dr.  Dabbs  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  "  A  dreary  tragic  tale," 
Carlyle  called  it. 

Bizpah,  p.  554. 

Of  this  powerful  poem,  which  is  based 
on  fact,  Swinburne  remarks:  "Never 
since  the  very  beginning  of  all  poetry 
were  the  twin  passions  of  terror  and 
pity  more  divinely  done  into  deathless 
words  or  set  to  more  perfect  and  pro- 
found magnificence  of  music."  {Miscel- 
lanies, 1886,  p.  219).  This  dramatic 
monologue  reveals  the  very  life  of  the 
rough  times  and  people  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

The  Northern  Cobbler,  p.  557. 
This  characteristic  dialect  poem  is 
founded  .on  an  incident  that  the  poet 
"heard  in  early  youth.  A  man  set  up 
a  bottle  of  gin  in  his  window  when  he 
gave  up  drinking,  in  order  to  defy  the 
drink." 

The  Revenge,  p.  559. 
The  first  line  of  The  Revenge  lay  on 
Tennyson's  desk  for  years,  then  "he 


710 


NOTES. 


finished  the  ballad  at  last  all  at  once 
in  a  day  or  two."  He  read  up  about 
Greuville  in  old  histories  and  steeped 
himself  in  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  of 
the  valiant  seamen  whose  heroic  deeds 
he  celebrated  in  ringing  verse.  The 
poem  appeared  in  the  Nineteenth  Oen- 
tury,  March,  1878 ;  reprinted  in  Ballads, 
and  Other  Poems,  1880. 

The  Sisters,  p.  562. 

The  plot  of  this  narrative-poem  is 
partly  founded  on  a  story  that  the  poet 
had  heard.  Cf.  the  lines  which  "he 
would  quote  as  his  own  belief," 

"  My  God,  I  would  not  live 
Save  that  I  think  this  gross  hard-seem- 
ing world 
Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains," 

with  the  parallel  passage  in  In  Memo- 
riain,  LVI.,  stanza  7  (p.  497).  See  also 
The  Ancient  Sage,  "And  we  the  poor 
earth's  dying  race,"  etc.  The  songs  of 
Evelyn  and  Edith  recall  the  songs  in 
Shelley's  Prometheus. 

The  Village  Wife,  p.  567. 

"  Among  his  Lincolnshire  poems," 
says  his  son,  "'The  Village  Wife'  is 
the  only  one  that  is  in  any  way  a  por- 
trait. The  rest  of  them  are  purely  im- 
aginative." 

In  the  Children's  Hospital,  p.  570. 
This  poem  was  based  on  a  true  story 
told  to  Tennyson  by  Miss  Gladstone. 
He  says:  "The  doctors  and  hospital 
are  unknown  to  me.  The  two  children 
a,re  the  only  characters,  in  this  little 
dramatic  poem,  taken  from  life." 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess 
Alice,  p.  572. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,    April,    1879.     The    Princess 


Alice  (1843-78)  was  "  the  best  loved  of 
all  the  Queen's  children." 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow,  p.  573. 

First  printed  with  Dedicatory  Poem. 
(183)  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  April, 
1879.  Professor  Jowett  suggested  to 
Tennyson  that  recent  English  history 
in  India  offered  material  for  poetry,  and 
this  ballad,  celebrating  an  incident  of 
the  mutiny  of  1857,  was  the  result. 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  p.  575. 

Lord  Cobham;  a  prominent  leader  of 
the  English  Lollards,  was  put  to  death 
(1417)  for  alleged  treason  and  heresy. 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune,  p.  583. 

In  writing  this  poem  Tennyson  util- 
ized an  old  Irish  story  translated  in 
Joyce's  Celtic  Romances,  but  most  of 
the  details  were  his  own.  Says  Collins : 
"  He  has  dealt  with  it  in  the  same  way 
as  he  has  dealt  with  Malory's  Morte  d' 
Arthur  in  such  idylls  as  The  Coming  of 
Arthur,  deriving  from  his  original  little 
more  than  the  framework  of  his  poem." 

De  Profundis,  p.  587. 

Published  in  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
May,  1880;  reprinted  in  Ballads  and 
Other  Poems,  1880.  A  brief  but  force- 
ful statement  of  Tennyson's  mystical 
philosophy. 

Prefatory  Sonnet,  p.  588. 
First  published  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, March,  1877.  This  sonnet  is  an 
expression  of  Tennyson's  characteristic 
attitude  toward  doubt,  and  of  his  open- 
minded  search  for  truth. 

To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  p.  S88. 
Published  in  the  Memoir  of  Brookfield, 
1875.  William  Henry  Brookfield  (1809- 
74),  one  of  the  poet's  intimate  friends  at 
Cambridge,  was  a  noted  preacher  and 
educator. 


NOTES. 


711 


Montenegro,  p.  588. 
First  published  in  tlie  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, May,  1877.  This  fine  sonnet,  liiie 
that  on  Poland,  written  in  his  youth, 
shows  Tennyson's  interest  in  the  cause 
of  freedom. 

To  Victor  Hugo,  p.  589. 

First  printed  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, June,  1877. 

Achilles  over  the  Trench,  p.  591. 
This    blank-verse    translation    of    a 
spirited  passage  of  the  Iliad  appeared  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century,  August,  1877. 

To  E.  Fitzgerald,  p.  593. 
The  prefatory  lines  of  Tiresias,  and 
Other  Poems,  1885,  were  addressed  to 
the  poet's  lifelong  friend,  the  scholarly 
translator  of  the  Rubdiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam.  Edward  Fitzgerald  died  in 
1883,  before  the  poem  was  published, 
and  his  death  called  forth  the  passion- 
ate cry  for  immortality  in  the  closing 
lines  of  the  poem  (p.  597) .  Tiresias,  the 
lilind  Theban  seer,  who  lived  before 
Homer's  time,  is  celebrated  in  Greek 
legend. 

Despair,  p.  601. 

Published  in  Nineteenth  Century, 
November,  1881 ;  reprinted  in  the  Tii-e- 
sias  volume,  1885.  The  poem  is  a  pro- 
test at  once  against  extreme  Calvinism 
and  Atheism. 

The  Ancient  Sage,  p.  605. 

The  introspective  poet  of  The  Two 
Voices  has  grown  to  fuller  intellectual 
stature  in  The  Ancient  Sage,  which  con- 
tains a  number  of  personal  touches. 
According  to  the  poet  himself,  "  '  The 
Ancient  Sage  '■  is  not  the  philosophy  of 
the  Chinese  philosopher,  Laot-ze,  but  it 
was  written  after  reading  his  life  and 
maxims."  Says  Tyndall,  "The  poem 
is,  throughout,  a  discussion  between  a 


believer  in  immortality  and  one  who  is 
unable  to  believe."  The  point  of  view 
is  that  of  intuitional  idealism.  Cf.  the 
passage  describing  the  state  of  trance- 
consciousness  :  — 

"  for  more  than  once  when  I 
Sat  all  alone,"  etc., 
with  ire  Memoriam,  XCV.,  stanzas  9-12. 
The  poet  finds  the  remedy  for  scepticism  i 
in  well-doing,  beneficent  activity  dull- 
ing the  edge  of  doubt.  ' 

Balin  and  Balan,  p.  619. 

A  prose-sketch  of  this  idyll,  dictated 
to  James  Knowles,  appeared  in  Nine- 
teenth Century,  January,  1893.  The 
purpose  of  the  poem  seems  to  be  to  show 
the  gradual  development  of  the  powers 
of  evil  at  Arthur's  court,  working  ill 
and  bringing  the  king's  fair  hopes  to 
ruin.  The  time  is  the  eighth  year  of 
Arthur's  reign  of  twelve  years. 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley,  p.  630. 

In  the  opening  lines  of  this  poem 
Tennyson  pictures  Aldworth,  his  sum- 
mer home  on  Blackdown  Heath,  in 
Sussex.  Says  Church,  "The  prospect 
from  the  terrace  of  the  house  is  one  of 
the  finest  to  be  found  in  the  south  of 
England." 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade 
at  Balaclava,  p.  631. 

First  published  in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine, March,  1882 ;  reprinted  with  Tire- 
sias in  1885. 

To  Virgil,  p.  633. 

First  published  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, September,  1882;  reprinted  with 
Tiresias,  1885.  There  is  an  excellent 
chapter  in  CoUins's  Illustrations  of  Ten- 
nyson comparing  Tennyson  and  Virgil. 
The  two  bards  have  much  in  common. 

Early  Spring,  p.  635. 
First  published  in  ths  Youth's  Com 


712 


NOTES. 


pardon,  1884;  reprinted  with   Tiresias, 
1885. 

Prefatory  Poem  to  w,y  Brother's 

Sonnets,  p.  636. 

First  printed  in  Collected  Sonnets,  Old 

and  New,  by  C.  T.   Turner,  1884.    A 

touching  tribute  to  this  brother,  who 

was  for  many  years  vicar  of  Grasby. 

"  FraterAve  atque  Vale,"  p.  636. 
First  published  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  March,  1883.  These  lines  on 
Catullus  were  composed  while  the  poet 
and  his  son  were  visiting  Italy  in  1880. 
They  passed  a  delightful  day,  exploring 
the  groves  and  ruins  of  Sirmio,  the  home 
of  the  graceful  Roman  singer,  which  re- 
called to  memory  that  plaintive  strain : 

Accipe  fraterno  multum  manantia  fletu, 
Atque  in  perpetuum,  Irater,  ave  atque 
vale! 

Helen's  Tower,  p.  637. 

Lines  written  for  Lord  Dufferin  in 
1861,  and  afterward  printed  in  Good 
Words,  1884. 

Hands  all  round,  p.  637. 

Contributed  to  the  Examiner,  Febru- 
ary 7,  1852. 

Freedom,  p.  638. 

Published  In  Macmillan's  Magazine, 
December,  1884,  also  in  the  New  York 
Independent  for  1884;  reprinted  with 
Tiresias,  1885. 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After, 
p.  640. 

Published  in  1886,  with  several  short 
poems  and  The  Promise  of  May.  Says 
H.  S.  Salt ;  "  In  politics,  Lord  Tenny- 
son's principles  are  distinctly  reaction- 
ary ;  the  best  that  can  be  said  of  them 
is  that,  having  begun  as  a  sham  Liberal, 
he  at  least  ended  as  a  real  and  undis- 
guised Tory."    {Temiyson  as  a  Thinker, 


1893,  p.  28.)  There  is  some  foundation 
for  this  criticism.  As  Wilson  remarks, 
"The  eager  impulse  to  advance  is  lost 
within  a  growing  gloom,  as  the  wise  old 
poet  contemplates  a  nation  fallen  on 
evil  days."     ('Tis  Sixty    Years  Sincey 

1894,  p.  26.)  Other  eminent  English- 
men shared  this  distrust  of  Liberalism 
On  the  other  hand,  many  public  met? 
of  England  welcomed  the  change  to 
sell-government  on  the  part  of  the 
masses  of  the  workingmen,  who  wer& 
given  the  ballot  in  1885. 

The  Fleet,  p.  648. 
Contributed  to  the  London  Times, 
April  23, 1886.  The  verses  are  in  keep- 
ing with  other  utterances  of  Tennyson's, 
by  which  he  is  rightly  called  the  "  poet 
of  imperialism." 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and 
Ava,  p.  649. 

Published  in  Demeter,  and  Other 
Poems,  1889.  These  stanzas,  in  the 
metre  of  In  Memoriam,  were  addressed 
to  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  in  apprecia- 
tion of  his  kindnesses  to  Lionel  Tenny- 
son, the  poet's  youngest  son,  who  died 
of  jungle-fever  contracted  in  India  in 
1886. 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria^ 
p.  650. 

Published  in  Macmillan's  Magazine, 
April,  1887;  reprinted  in  the  Demeter 
volume,  1889.  Written  to  celebrate  thft 
fiftieth  year  of  the  Queen's  reign. 

Demeter  and  Persephone,  p.  652. 
First  published  in   1889.    In  dealing^ 
with  this  old  classic  legend,  Tennysoti 
fully   equalled   the   beautiful   antique- 
poems  of  his  early  years. 

Yastness,  p.  658, 
First  published  in  Macmillan's  Maga^ 
zine,  November,  1885;  reprinted  in  the 


NOTES. 


713 


Deneter  rolume,  1889.  A  poem  that  re- 
peats the  lyrical  triumphs  of  Tennyson's 
palmiest  days. 

The  Ring,  p.  660. 
First  pnblished  in  1889.  To  an  Ameri- 
can, J.  R.  Lowell,  the  poet  was  indebted 
for  the  strange  tale  related  in  this  dra- 
matic sketch,  which  recalls  the  story  of 
The  Sisters  (p.  562).  The  poem  shows 
the  drift  of  his  thinking  on  mystical 
subjects. 

To  Ulysses,  p.  675. 
First  published  in  1889.    Addressed  to 
William  Gifford  Palgrave  (1826-88),  a 
well-known  missionary  and  diplomatist, 
who  lived  many  years  in  the  East. 

The  Progress  of  Spring,  p.  677. 

Of  this  poem  Waugh  writes :  "It  must 
have  been  about  the  time  of  leaving 
Somersby  that  Alfred  Tennyson  wrote 
the  'Progress  of  Spring,'  a  poem  laid 
aside  and  forgotten  by  the  writer,  till 
it  turned  up  again  in  1888,  to  be  printed 
in  the  '  Demeter '  volume  in  the  follow- 
ing year."  (Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson, 
1893,  pp.  74,  75.) 

Merlin  and  The  Gleam,  p.  679. 
The  poem  is  an  allegory,  containing 
in  brief  the  poet's  literary  biography. 
His  son  says,  "From  his  boyhood  he 
had  felt  the  magic  of  Merlin  — that 
spirit  of  poetry— which  bade  him  know 
his  power  and  follow  throughout  his 
work  a  pure  and  high  ideal." 

Eomney's  Remorse,  p.  681. 

The  poem  is  based  on  some  episodes 
in  the  domestic  life  of  the  renowned 
English  painter,  George  Romney  (1734- 
1802).  After  his  marriage  to  Mary 
Abbott  at  Kendal  (1756),  he  was  sepa- 
rated from  her  nearly  all  his  life  (except 
the  last  two  years). 

In  old  age  the  poet  found  intense  de- 


light in  playing  with  his  grandchildren ; 
and  when  eighty  "wrote  the  lullaby  in 
'  Romney 's  Remorse,'  partly  for  his  little 
grandson  Lionel." 

By  an  Evolutionist,  p.  685. 
This  poem  and  Parnassus,  as  well  as. 
other  pieces  ('published  in  1892),  indi- 
cate Tennyson's  partial  acceptance  of 
the  evolutionary  theory.  See  closing 
stanzas  of  In  Memoriam  and  Maud,  Ft. 
I.,  IV.,  stanzas  4  and  6. 

The  Throstle,  p.  687. 
Published  in  the  New  Review,  Octo- 
ber, 1889;  also  printed  in  a  number  of 
American  newspapers  the  same  year. 

Crossing  the  Bar,  p.  687. 
Of  this  beautiful  hymn,  that  has  sung 
its  way  into  the  hearts  of  thousands,  a 
fine  interpretation  is  given  by  R.  S.  Ber- 
ries in  the  London  Times  (Oct.  31, 1892) : 
"  The  goal  to  which  the  poet  wishes  to 
attain  is  obviously  the  open  sea  of  Eter- 
nal Life  after  crossing  the  bar  of  Death. 
The  poet  embarks  at  night,  the  night  of 
death,  following  on  the  day  of  life  on 
earth.  During  the  darkness  the  poet 
sleeps,  while  the  Pilot,  as  yet  unseen  by 
him,  watches  over  the  safety  of  the  ship 
and  conducts  it  safely  across  the  bar." 
Of.  In  Memoriam,  CXXXI,,  st.  3;  also 
epilogue,  St.  31. 


m.  m