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"  Nor  do  I  know  what  lyrics  of  any  time  are  to  be  called 
great  if  we  are  to  deny  that  title  to  these."  —  William 
Morris. 

SOME  NOTICES  BY  ENGLISH   CRITICS 

OF 

DANTE   GABRIEL    ROSSETTI'S    POEMS. 


From  the  Acadeviy.  Contribitled  by 
William  Morkis,  the  Author  of 
"  Tlie  Earthly  Paradise" 

Poems  by  Dante  Gabriel  Rosset- 
Ti.  —  Ten  years  ago,  with  the  publica- 
tion of  his  beautiful  and  scholarly  volunie 
of  translations  from  the  early  Italian 
poets,  Mr.  Kossetti  announced  the  prep- 
aration of  a  volume  of  original  poems. 
This  book,  so  eagerly  looked  for  by  those 
who  knew  the  author  by  his  great  works 
in  painting,  has  now  been  given  to  the 
public  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  exagger.-ite  the 
value  and  importance  of  that  gift,  for 
the  book  is  complete  and  satisfactory 
from  end  to  end ;  and  in  spite  of  the 
intimate  connection  between  one  art 
and  another,  it  is  certainly  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  a  master  in  the  supremely 
difficult  art  of  painting  should  have  qual- 
ities which  enable  him  to  deal  with  the 
other  sujiremely  difficult  one  of  poetry  ; 
and  to  do  this,  not  only  with  the  utmost 
depth  of  feeling  and  thought,  but  also 
with  the  most  complete  and  unfaltering 
mastery  over  its  material  ;  that  he  should 
find  in  its  limitations  and  special  condi- 
tions, not  stumbling-blocks  or  fetters, 
but  just  so  many  pleasures,  so  much 
whetting  of  invention  and  imagination. 

In  no  poems  is  the  spontaneous  and 
habitual  interpretation  of  matter  and 
manner,  which  is  the  essence  of  poetry, 
more  complete  than  in  these.  An  orig- 
inal and  subtile  beauty  of  execution  ex- 
presses the  deep  mysticism  of  thought 
which  in  some  form  and  degree  is  not 
wanting  certainly  to  any  poets  of  the 
modern  school,  but  which  in  Mr.  Ros- 
setti's  w.ork  is  both  great  in  degree  and 
passionate  in  kind  ;  nor  in  him  has  it 
any  tendency  to  lose  itself  amid  allegory 


or  abstractions  ;  indeed,  instead  of  turn- 
ing human  life  into  symbols  of  things 
vague  and  not  understood,  it  rather  gives 
to  the  very  symbols  the  personal  life 
and  variety  of  mankind.  No  poem  in 
this  book  is  without  the  circle  of  this 
realizing  mysticism,  which  deals  wonder- 
ingly  with  all  real  things  that  can  have 
poetic  life  given  them  by  passion,  and 
refuses  to  have  to  do  with  any  invisible 
things  that  in  the  wide  scope  of  its 
imagination  cannot  be  made  perfectly 
distinct  and  poetically  real.  Of  all  turns 
of  mind  this  must  be  the  fittest  to  give 
the  concentration  and  intensity  necessary 
for  lyrical  works,  and  the  corresponding 
patience  and  untiring  energy  to  carry 
them  out :  nothing  but  this  could  have 
given  us  the  magnificent  collection  of 
stmnets  at  the  end  of  this  volume,  which, 
though  there  are  some  among  upwards 
of  eighty  that  are  not  free  from  obscurity, 
the  besetting  vice  of  sonnets,  are  never- 
theless unexampled  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, since  Shakspeare's,  for  depth  of 
thought,  and  skill  and  felicity  of  execu- 
tion. A  mediocre  sonnet  is  more  hateful 
to  gods  and  men  than  any  other  versified 
mediocrity,  a  crabbed  one  is  harder  to 
read  than  any  other  form  of  crabbed 
verse  ;  and  complete  success  is  not 
common  even  when  the  thought  is  not 
over-deep  ;  but  to  express  some  deep 
piece  of  thought  or  feeling  completely 
and  with  beauty  in  the  narrow  limits 
of  fourteen  lines,  and  in  such  a  way  that 
no  line  should  be  useless  or  barren  ot 
some  reflex  of  the  main  idea  ;  to  leave 
the  due  impression  of  the  whole  thought 
on  the  mind  by  the  weight  and  beauty 
of  the  ending  ;  and  to  do  all  this  without 
losing  simplicity,  without  affectation  of 
any  kind,  and  with  exquisite  choiceiiess 


of  diction  and  rliynie,  is  as  surely  a  very 
great  acliievenient,  and  among  the  lliin,i;s 
most  worth  doing,  as  it  is  exceedingly 
rare   to   find   done.      But  few  of  these 
sonnets  fall  short  of  this  highest  stand- 
ard ;    and   they   seem   withal   the   most 
natural   and   purest   expression    of  the 
peculiar    mysticism    spoken    of  above. 
Two  poems  are  to  be  named  here,  as 
having  in  them   much  of  the  feeling  of 
the  strongest   of   the    sonnets,   with    a 
sweetness  and  simplicity  of  their  own, 
"A  Little  While,"  and  "  The  .Sea  Lim- 
its ;  "  the  completeness  with  which  the 
thought  is  grasjied,  amid  its  delicate  flux 
and  relhix  from  stanza  to  stanza,  is  very 
characteristic    of    Mr.    Rossetti's    best 
work.      "  Love's  Nocturn  "  classes  it- 
self with  these  and  the  sonnets  also.     It 
is  a  very  beautiful  and  finished  piece  of 
work,   and   full   of  subtle   melody,   but 
sometimes  obscure  with  more  than  the 
obscurity   of   the   dreamy   subject,   and 
sometimes  with  a  certain  sense  of  over- 
labor in  it.     Both  these  faults  may  be 
predicated  also  of  a  poem  of  the  same 
class,   "  The   Stream's   Secret,"   which 
nevertheless  is  wonderfully  finished,  and 
has  very  high   musical  qualities,  and  a 
certain  stateliness  of  movement  about  it 
which,  coming  among  its  real  and  deep 
feeling,  makes  it  very  tender  and   im- 
pressive. 

Among  pieces  where  the  mystical  feel- 
ing is  by  necessity  of  subject  most  simple 
and  most  on  the  surface,  "  The  Blessed 
Daniozel"  should  be  noticed,  a  poem  in 
which  wild  longing,  and  the  shame  of 
life,  and  despair  of  separation,  and  the 
worship  of  love,  are  wrought  into  a  pal- 
pable dream,  in  which  the  heaven  that 
exists  as  if  for  the  sake  of  the  beloved 
is  as  real  as  the  earthly  things  about  the 
lover,  while  these  are  scarcely  less  strange 
or  less  pervaded  with  a  sense  of  his  pas- 
sion than  the  things  his  imagination  has 
made.  The  poem  is  as  profoundly  sweet 
and  touching  and  natural  as  any  in  the 
book  ;  that  is  to  say,  as  any  in  the  whole 
range  of  modern  poetry.  At  first  sight 
the  leap  from  this  poem  to  the  "Jenny" 
may  seem  very  great,  but  there  is,  in 
fact,  no  break  in  the  unity  of  the  mind 
that  imagined  both  these  poems  ;  rather 
one  is  the  necessary  complement  to  the 
other.  The  subject  is  difficult  for  a 
modem  poet  to  deal  with,  but  necessary 
for  a  man  to  think  of:  it  is  thought  of 
here  with  the  utmost  depths  of  feeling, 


pity,  and  insight,  with  no  mawkishness 
on  the  one  hand,  no  coarseness  on  the 
other,    and    carried    out    with     perfect 
simplicity  and  beauty.     It  is  so  strong, 
unforced,  and  full  of  nature,  that  I  think 
it  the   poem   of  the   whole   book    that 
would  be  most  missed  if  it  were  away. 
\yith   all  this,  its   very  simplicity   and 
directness  make   it   hard   to   say  much 
.about  it ;  but  it  may  be  noticed,  as  lead- 
ing to  the  consideration  of  one  side  of 
Mr.  Rossetti's  powers,  how  perfectly  the 
draviaiic  character  of  the  soliloquizer  is 
kept  ;    his  pity,  his  protest  against  the 
hardness  of  nature   and  chance,  never 
make  him  didactic,  or  more  or  less  than 
a  man  of  the  world,  any  more  than  his 
"  Shame  of  his  own  shame  "  makes  him 
brutal,  though  in  the  inevitable  flux  and 
reflux  of  feeling  and  habit  and  pleasure  he 
is  always  seeming  on  the  verge  of  touch- 
mg  one  or  other  of  these  extremes.    How 
admirably,  too,  the  conclusion  is  managed 
with  that  dramatic  breaking  of  day,  and 
the  effect  that  it  gives  to  the  chilling  of 
enthusiasm  and  remorse,  which  it  half 
produces  and  is  half  typical  of;  coming 
after  the  grand  passage  about  lust  that 
brings  to  a  climax  the  musings  over  so 
much  beauty  and  so  many  good  things 
apparently  throwii  away  causelessly  ! 

The  dramatic  quality  of  Mr.  Rossetti's 
work  has  just  been  mentioned  ;  which 
brings  one  to  saying  tliat,  though  it 
seemed  necessary  to  dwell  so  strongly 
on  the  m.ystical  and  intensely  IjTical  side 
of  his  poems,  they  bear  with  them  signs 
of  the  highest  dramatic  power,  whatever 
its  future  application  may  be.  This  is 
shown  not  merely  in  the  vivid  picturing 
of  external  scenes,  —  as  that  of  the  re- 
turn of  the  humbled  exiles  to  Florence, 
in  the  noble  poem  of  "Dante  at  Ve- 
rona,"—  but  more  conclusively  still  m 
the  steady  purpose  running  through  all 
those  poems  in  which  character  or  action, 
however  lyrical,  is  dealt  with ;  in  ripe- 
ness of  plan,  and  in  the  congruity  of 
detail  with  which  they  are  wrought  out ; 
all  this,  of  course,  in  addition  to  their 
imaginative  qualities.  This  is  well  seen 
in  "  Sister  Helen,"  which  is,  in  fact,  a 
ballad  (the  form  of^poem  of  all  others  in 
which,  when  it  is  complete,  the  lyrical 
and  dramatic  sides  of  art  are  most  closely 
connected),  and  in  which  the  wild  and 
picturesque  surroundings,  and  the  grow- 
ing force  of  the  tremendous  burden, 
work   up  surely  and  most  impressively 


to  the  expected  but  still  startling  end, 
the  effect  of  which,  as  almost  always  in 
Mr.  Rossetti's  poems,  is  not  injured  by  a 
word  too  much.  As  widely  different  as 
it  may  be  in  character  of  execution  to 
this,  there  is  the  same  dramatic  force 
amidst  the  magnificent  verses  of  "  Eden 
Bower,"  where  the  strangest  and  remot- 
est of  subjects  is  wonderfully  re- 
alized by  the  strength  and  truth  of  its 
passion,  though  the  actors  in  it  add  su- 
pernatural characteristics  to  the  human 
qualities  that  make  it  a  fit  subject  for 
poetry. 

The  "  Last  Confession,"  whose  sub- 
ject connects  itself  somewhat  with  these 
two  last,  is  the  poem  in  the  book  whose 
form  is  the  least  characteristic  of  Mr. 
Rossetti's  work,  the  most  like  what  is 
expected  of  a  poet  with  strong  dramatic 
tendencies :  it  is,  however,  most  com- 
plete and  satisfactory,  and  the  character 
of  the  man  is  admirably  imagined  and 
developed,  so  as  both  to  make  the  catas- 
trophe likely,  and  to  prevent  it  from 
becoining  unpoetical,  and  just  merely 
shocking ;  a  character,  elevated  and 
tender  and  sensitive,'  but  brooding,  and 
made  narrow  both  naturally  and  by  the 
force  of  the  continual  tragedy  of  op- 
pression surrounding  his  life ;  wrought 
upon  by  the  necessary  but  unreasonable 
sense  of  wrong  that  his  unretunied  love 
brings  liim,  till  despair  and  madness, 
but  never  hate,  comes  from  it.  Well 
befitting  such  a  ch.iracter,  but  also  indi- 
cating the  inevitable  mystical  tendency 
of  the  author,  as  small  as  the  indication 
may  be,  is  the  omen  of  the  broken  toy 
v(  Love  that  sheds  the  first  blood,  and 
that  other  typical  incident  of  the  altars 
of  the  two  Sladonnas. 

In  speaking  of  a  book  where  the  poems 
are  so  singularly  equal  in  merit  as  this, 
it  has  been  scarcely  possible  to  do  more 
than  name  the  most  important,  and 
several  even  must  remain  unnained  ;  but 
it  is  something  of  a  satisfaction  to  finish 
with  mentioning  the  "  Song  of  the 
Bower,"  so  full  of  passion  and  melody, 
and  more  like  a  song  to  be  sung  than 
any  modem  piece  I  know.  To  conclude, 
I  think  these  lyrics,  with  all  their  other 
merits,  the  most  complete  of  their  time  : 
no  difficulty  is  avoided  in  them,  no  sub- 
ject is  treated  vaguely,  languidly,  or 
heartlessly  ;  as  there  is  no  commonplace 
or  sccoiid-liand  thought  left  in  them  to 
be  atoned  for  by  beauty  of  execution,  so 


no  thought  is  allowed  to  overshadow 
that  beauty  of  art  which  compels  a  real 
poet  to  speak  in  verse,  and  not  in  prose. 
Nor  do  I  know  what  lyrics  of  any  time 
are  to  be  called  great  if  we  are  to  deny 
that  title  to  these. 

From  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 
Here  is  a  volume  of  poetry  upon 
which  to  congratulate  the  public  and 
the  author  ;  one  of  those  volumes,  com 
ing  so  seldom  and  so  welcome  to  the 
cultivated  reader,  that  are  found  at  a 
first  glance  to  promise  the  delight  of  a 
new  poetical  experience.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  savor  of  a  book  of  strong 
and  new  poetry  of  a  really  high  kind 
no  confounding  it  with  the  milder  eftlu- 
ence  that  greets  us  from  a  hundred  cur- 
rent books  of  poetry,  in  various  degrees 
praiseworthy,  or  hopeful,  or  accom- 
plished ;  and  we  may  say  at  once  that 
it  is  the  former  and  rarer  savor  that  is 
assuredly  in  the  present  case  to  be  dis- 
cerned. 

From  the  AthencEum. 
To  the  public  in  general  this  volume 
will  announce  a  new  poet.  To  a  small 
but  influential  circle  of  thinkers  its  pub- 
lication will  be  only  the  formal  evidence 
of  powers    and    accomplishments    long 

since  recognized We  shall  have 

written  to  little  purpose  if  there  be  any 
poem  in  the  volume  to  which  our  read- 
ers will  not  eagerly  resort." 

From  the  Fortnightly  Revieiu. 

There  are  no  poems  of  the  class  in 
English  —  I  doubt  if  there  be  any  even 
in  Dante's  Italian  —  so  rich  at  once  and 
pure.  Their  golden  affluence  of  images 
and  jewel-colored  words  never  once  dis- 
guises the  firm  outline,  the  justice  and 
chastity  of  form.  No  nakedness  could 
be  more  harmonious,  more  consummate 
in  its  fleshly  sculpture,  than  the  imperial 
array  and  ornament  of  this  august  poetry. 
....  There  has  been  no  work  of  the 
same  pitch  attempted  since  Dante  sealed 
up  his  youth  in  the  sacred  leaves  of  the 
"Vita  Nuova  ;  "  and  this  poem  of  his 
name-child  and  translator  is  a  more  va- 
rious and  mature  work  of  kindred  genius 
and  spirit. 

The  whole  work  [Jenny]  is  worthy  to 
fill  its  place  for  ever  as  one  of  the  most 
perfect  and  memorable  poems  of  an  age 
or  generation.     It  deals  with  deep  and 


common  things ;  with  the  jiresent  liour 
and  with  all  time  ;  with  that  which  is  of 
the  instant  among  us  and  that  which 
has  a  message  for  all  souls  of  men. 
There  is  just  the  same  life-blood  and 
breath  of  poetic  interest  in  this  episode 
of  a  London  street  and  lodging,  as  in  the 
song  of  "  Troy  Town,"  and  the  song  of 
"  Eden  Bower ;  "  just  as  much  and  no 
jot  more.  These  two  songs  are  the 
master-pieces  of  Mr.  Rossetti's  magnifi- 
cent lyric  faculty. 


From  the  Globe. 
In  all  [the  Poems]  the  same  qualities 
are  apparent.  They  have  in  high  meas- 
ure each  highest  gift  of  which  lyric  poetry 
is  capable.  Passion,  imagination,  crea- 
tive power,  tenderness,  and  pathos  are 
all  apparent,  and  are  accompanied  by 
exquisite  sense  of  melody,  unexampled 
beauty  of  form,  splendid  color,  and,  if 
we  may  use  such  a  term,  by  absolute 
fragrance. 


POEMS  BY  CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI.     With  4  designs 
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"  Two  of  the  best  of  the  younger  poets  of  this  generation  are  women,  —  Jean 

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"Johti  G.  Saxe. 

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ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


X 


POEMS 


BY 


DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

1870. 


Aitthor's  Edition. 

PR 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRESS   OF  JOHN    WILSON    AND   SON. 


4 


TO 

WILLIAM   MICHAEL   ROSSETTI, 

TO    so    MANY    OF    WHICH,    SO    MANY    YEARS     BACK,    HE    GAVE    THE     FIRST 
BROTHERLY    HEARING,    ARE   NOW   AT    LAST    DEDICATED. 


\_Matty  poems  in  this  volume  were  written  between  1847 
and  1853.  Others  are  of  recent  date,  and  a  few  belong  to 
the  intervening  period.  It  has  been  thought  tinnecessary  to 
specify  the  earlier  work,  as  nothing  is  included  which  the 
author  believes  to  be  immaturei\ 


CONTENTS. 


Poems. 

PAGE 

The  Blessed  Damozel i 

Lo\t;'s  Nocturn 8 

Troy  Town i6 

The  Burden  of  Nineveh 21 

Eden  Bower 31 

Ave ....  41 

The  Staff  and  Scrip 47 

A  Last  Confession 58 

Dante  at  Verona 84 

Jenny 109 

The  Portrait 127 

Sister  Helen 133 

Stratton  Water 145 

The  Stream's  Secret 154 

The  Card-Dealer 166 

My  Sister's  Sleep 169 

AsPECTA  Medusa 172 

A  New  Year's  Burden 173 

Even  so 174 

An  Old  Song  ended 175 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Three  Translations  from  Francois  Villon  : 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies 176 

To  Death,  of  his  Lady 177 

His  Mother's  Service  to  our  Lady 17S 

John  of  Tours 180 

My  Father's  Close 1S2 

One  Girl 1S4 


Sotitiets  and  Sotigs,  ioivards  a  xvork  fo  be  called 
'  T/ie  House  of  Life.' 

Sonnets. 

I.  Bridal  Birth 187 

IL  Love's  Redemption iSS 

III.  LovEsiGHT 1S9 

IV.  The  Kiss 190 

V.  Nuptial  Sleep 191 

VI.  Supreme  Surrender 193 

VII.  Love's  Lovers 193 

VIII.  Passion  and  Worship 194 

IX.  The  Portrait 195 

X.  The  Love  Letter 196 

XI.  Tjie  Birth-Bond 197 

XII.  A  Day  of  Love 198 

XIII.  Love  Sweetness 199 

XIV.  Love's  Baubles 200 

XV.  Winged  Hours 201 

XVI.  Life-in-Lo've 202 

XVII.  The  Love-Moon 203 

XVIII.  The  Morrow's  Message 204 

XIX.  Sleepless  Dreams 205 

XX.  Secret  Parting 206 

XXI.  Parted  Love 207 

XXII.  Broken  Music 20S 

XXIII.  Death-in-Love 209 


CONTENTS.  Vn 

PAGE 

XXIV.-VII.  Willow-wood 210-13 

XXVIII.  Stillborn  Love 214 

XXIX.  Ikclusiveness 215 

XXX.  Known  in  Vain 216 

XXXI.  The  Landmark     .     .     .     ^ 217 

XXXII.  A  Dark  Day 21S 

XXXIII.  The  Hill  Summit 219 

XXXIV.  Barren  Spring 220 

XXXV.-VII.  The  Choice  .     ; 221-3 

XXXVIII.  Hoarded  Joy 224 

XXXIX.  Vain  Virtues 225 

XL.  Lost  Days 226 

XLI.  Death's  Songsters 227 

XLII.  'Retro  Me,  Sathana!' 22S 

XLIII.  Lost  on  Both  Sides 229 

XLIV.  The  Sun's  Shame 230 

XLV,  The  Vase  of  Life 231 

XLVI.  A  Superscription 232 

XLVII.  He  and  I 233 

XLVIII.-IX.  Newborn  Death 234,  235 

L.  The  One  Hope 236 


I.  Love  Lily 237 

II.  First  Love  Remembered 239 

III.  Plighted  Promise 240 

IV.  Sudden  Light 242 

V.  A  Little  While 243 

VI.  The  Song  of  the  Bower 245 

VII.  Penumbra 247 

VIII.  The  Woodspurge 249 

IX.  The  Honeysuckle 250 

X.  A  Young  Fir- wood 251 

XI.  The  Sea  Limits 252 


Vm  CONTENTS. 


Sonnets  for  pictures,  anti  ©tijcr  Sonnets. 

PAGE 

For  '  Our  Lady  of  the   Rocks,'   by  Leonardo   da 

ViKci 257 

For  a  Venetian  Pastoral,  by  Giorgione   ....  25S 
For  an  Allegorical  Dance  of  Women,  by  Andrea 

Maxtegna 259 

For  '  Ruggiero  and  Angelica,'  by  Ingres  .     .     260,  261 
For    "  The    Wine  of   Circe,"    by  Edward    Burne 

Jones 262 

RL\ry's  Girlhood 263 

The  Passover  in  the  Holy  Family 264 

Mary  Magdalene  at  the  door  of  Simon  the  Phar- 
isee        265 

Saint  Luke  the  Painter 266 

LiLiTH 267 

Sibylla  Palmifera 268 

Venus 269 

Cassandra 270,  271 

Pandora 272 

On  Refusal  of  Aid  between  Nations 273 

On  the  'Vita  Nuova'  of  Dante 274 

Dantis  Tenebr^e 275 

Beauty  and  the  Bird 276 

A  Match  with  the  Moon 277 

Autumn  Idleness 27S 

Farewell  to  the  Glen 279 

The  Monochord 280 


POEMS. 


THE  BLESSED   DAMOZEL. 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift. 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 
One  of  God's  choristers ; 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 
From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 

Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 
Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing  :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL.  3 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 

Amid  their  loving  games 
Spake  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names  ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  muse  have  made  S 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  thejixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce^ 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze  still  strove 
^Within  the  gulf  to  p^rce  _  ] 

Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke^s  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon  , 

Was  like  a  little  feather  i  <  o 

Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 
She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air. 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 

'  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 
*Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pi"ay'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

'  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
We  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sigfht. 

*  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 
Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 
With  prayer  sent  up  to  God  ; 

And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

'  We  two  will  He  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be. 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

'  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so. 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause. 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know.' 


'fc> 


(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee .'') 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

'  We  two,'  she  said,  '  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

'  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread. 

To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them    \ 

\ 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead.       ■ 

*  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb  : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  s^Deak. 

*  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand. 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnuiiiBered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

'  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  :  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he.' 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  niildjj — 

'All  this  is  when  he  comes.'     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  fiice  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


8 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Master  of  the  murmuring  courts 

Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene  !  — 

Lo  !  my  spirit  here  exhorts 
All  the  powers  of  thy  demesne 
For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen. 

What  reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen  ? 

Vaporous,  unaccountable, 

Dreamland  lies  forlorn  of  lisfht. 

Hollow  like  a  breathing  shell. 

Ah  !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 
Choose  one  dream  and  guide  its  flight ! 

I  know  well 
What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes : 

Some  whose  buoyance  waits  not  sleep, 
Deep  within  the  August  woods  ; 

Some  that  hum  while  rest  may  steep 

Weary  labor  laid  a-heap  ; 
Interludes, 

Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poets'  fancies  all  are  there  : 

There  the  elf-girls  flood  with  wings 
Valleys  full  of  plaintive  air ; 

There  breathe  perfumes  ;  there  in  rings 

Whirl  the  foam-bewildered  springs  ; 
Siren  there 

Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  bridal  unison, 
Less  than  waking  ecstasy  ; 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 

In  the  house  of  birth  alone  ; 
And  what  we 

At  death's  wicket  see,  unknown. 


lo  LOVE'S  NO C TURN. 

But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 
In  one  gracious  form's  control, 

Fair  with  honorable  eyes. 

Lamps  of  an  auspicious  soul : 
O  their  glance  is  loftiest  dole, 

Sweet  and  wise. 
Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft  of  her,  my  dreams  are  all 
Clammy  trance  that  fears  the  sky : 

Changing  footpaths  shift  and  flxll ; 
From  polluted  coverts  nigh. 
Miserable  phantoms  sigh  ; 
Qiiakes  the  pall. 
And  the  funeral  goes  by. 

Master,  is  it  soothly  said 

That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 

Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made. 
So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 
Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach,  — 

Shape  or  shade 
In  those  halls  joortrayed  of  each  ? 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN.  II 

Ah !  might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 

Grophig  in  the  windy  stair, 
(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 

Like  loud  waters  everywhere), 

Meeting  mine  own  image  there 
Face  to  face, 

Send  it  from  that  place  to  her ! 

Nay,  not  I ;  but  oh  !  do  thou, 

Master,  from  thy  shadow  kind 
Call  my  body's  phantom  now : 

Bid  it  bear  its  face  declin'd 

Till  its  flight  her  slumbers  find. 
And  her  brow 

Feel  its  presence  bow  like  wind. 

Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,  with  mute  orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun. 
Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,  bid  it  sing  and  moan. 


12  LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Song  shall  tell  how  glad  and  strong 
Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway  ; 

Moan  shall  grieve  with  that  parched  tongue 
Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day  : 
Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they, 

Moan  and  song, 
While  the  chill  months  long  for  May. 

Not  the  prayers  which  with  all  leave 

The  world's  fluent  woes  prefer,  — 
Not  the  praise  the  world  doth  give. 

Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer  ;  — 

Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her, 
And  achieve 

Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 

Wheresoe'er  my  dreams  befall, 
Both  at  night-watch,  (let  it  say). 

And  where  round  the  sun-dial 
The  reluctant  hours  of  day, 
Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 

Rest  and  call ;  — 
There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN.  13 

Suddenly  her  face  is  there  : 

So  do  mounting  vapors  wreathe 
Subtle-scented  transports  where 

The  black  fir-wood  sets  its  teeth. 

Part  the  boughs  and  look  beneath,  — 
Lilies  share 

Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe. 

Master,  bid  my  shadow  bend 

Whispering  thus  till  birth  of  light, 
Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 

Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight ;  — 

Master,  master  of  the  night, 
Bid  it  spend 

Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,  ah  me  !  if  at  her  head 

There  another  phantom  lean 
Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed,  — 

Ah  !  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 

Smile  those  alien  words  between,  — 
Ah !  poor  shade  ! 

Shall  it  strive,  or  fade  unseen  ? 


14  LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

How  should  love's  own  messenger 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe  ? 
Master,  nay !     If  thus,  in  her, 

Sleep  a  wedded  heart  should  show,  — 

Silent  let  mine  image  go. 
Its  old  share 

Of  thy  sunken  air  to  know. 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass  ; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute. 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass  ; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine. 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  da}', 
Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they :  — 
Be  they  thine. 

And  to  dreamland  pine  away. 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN.  IS 

Yet  from  old  time,  life,  not  death, 

Master,  in  thy  rule  is  rife  : 
Lo  !  through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 

Adam  woke  beside  his  wife. 

O  Love  bring  me  so,  for  strife, 
Force  and  faith, 

Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life  ! 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  pour'd 

This  frail  song  of  hope  and  fear. 
Thou  art  Love,  of  one  accord 

With  kind  Sleep  to  bring  her  near. 

Still-eyed,  deep-eyed,  ah  how  dear ! 
Master,  Lord, 

In  her  name  implor'd,  O  hear  ! 


l6 


TROY    TOWN. 

Heavenborn  Helen,  Sparta's  queen, 

{O  Troy  Town  I) 
Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen. 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 
((9  Troy's  down^ 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I ) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 

(  O  Troy  Town  1 ) 

Saying,  '  A  little  gift  is  mine, 

A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 

Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign ! 
(  O  Troy's  doxvn^ 
Tall  Troys  on  Jire  1 ) 


TROY  TOWN.  17 

*  Look,  I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup  ; 
(O  Troy  Town!) 

See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up,  — 

Shaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire, 

Fit  to  fill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 
(  O  Troys  doxun^ 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  !  ) 

'  It  was  moulded  like  my  breast ; 
(O  Troy  Toxujz!) 

He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest, 

Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 

O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest ! 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  oti  jire  I ) 

'  See  my  breast,  how  like  it  is  ; 
(  O  Troy  Town  I ) 

See  it  bare  for  the  air  to  kiss ! 

Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire  .'* 

O  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his ! 
(  O  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  o?z  Jire  !  ) 
2 


i8  TROY  TOWN. 

*  Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue ; 
(  O  Troy  7c>W7z  / ) 

Thou  must  give  it  where  'tis  due, 

Give  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 

Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to? 
(  O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I ) 

'  Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet ! 

(  O  Troy  Tozv?i !  ) 
Once  an  apple  stirred  the  beat 
Of  thy  heart  with  the  heart's  desire :  — - 
Say,  who  brought  it  then  to  thy  feet? 
(  O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I ) 

'  They  that  claimed  it  then  were  three  : 
(  O  Troy  Town  I ) 

For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 

Make  forlorn  of  the  heart's  desire. 

Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee  ! 
(  O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  I  ) 


TROY  TOWN.  19 

'  Mine  arc  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

(O  Troy  Towii!) 
Grown  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth, 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire  : 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth  ! ' 
(  O  Troy's  down. 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  I  ) 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  gift, 

(  O  Troy  Tozvn ! ) 
Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift. 
Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire  :  — 
'  There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  lift ! ' 
(6>  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troys  on  fire  !  ) 

Venus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 

Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place. 

And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire ; 

Laughed  and  said,  '  Thy  gift  hath  grace  ! ' 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  I ) 


20  TROY  TOWN. 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 
(  O  Troy  To'iV7i ! ) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest, 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire,  — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I ) 

Cujjid  took  another  dart, 

(O  Troy  Town!) 

Fledged  it  for  another  heart, 

Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire. 

Drew  the  string  and  said,  '  Depart ! ' 
(  O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I ) 

Paris  turned  upon  his  bed, 

\0  Troy  Town  I) 
Turned  upon  his  bed  and  said. 
Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire,  — 
'  O  to  clasp  her  golden  head  ! ' 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  Jire  I  ) 


21 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

In  our  Museum  galleries 
To-day  I  lingered  o'er  the  prize 
Dead  Greece  vouchsafes  to  living  eyes,  - 
Her  Art  for  ever  in  fresh  wise 

From  hour  to  hour  rejoicing  me. 
Sighing  I  turned  at  last  to  vv^in 
Once  more  the  London  dirt  and  din ; 
And  as  I  made  the  swing-door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 

A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before. 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er. 
'Twas  bull,  'twas  mitred  Minotaur, 
A  dead  disbowelled  mystery  ; 


22  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe, 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe, — 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 
The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 

The  print  of  its  first  rush-wrapping, 
Wound  ere  it  dried,  still  ribbed  the  thing. 
What  song  did  the  brown  maidens  sing, 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 

When  that  was  woven  languidly.'' 
What  vows,  what  rites,  what  prayers  preferr'd, 
What  songs  has  the  strange  image  heard  } 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 
Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  } 

Oh  when  upon  each  sculptured  court. 
Where  even  the  wind  might  not  resort,  — 
O'er  which  Time  passed,  of  like  import 
With  the  wild  Arab  boys  at  sport,  — 

A  living  face  looked  in  to  see  :  — 
Oh  seemed  it  not  —  the  spell  once  broke  — 
As  thousfh  the  carven  warriors  woke, 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  23 

As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook, 
The  cymbals  clashed,  the  chariots  shook, 
And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh? 

On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recovered  shadow  threw. 
(No  shade  that  plague  of  dai^kness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea.) 
Lo  thou  !  could  all  thy  priests  have  shown 
Such  proof  to  make  thy  godhead  known  } 
From  their  dead  Past  thou  liv'st  alone  ; 
And  still  thy  shadow  is  thine  own 

Even  as  of  yore  in  Nineveh. 

That  day  whereof  we  keep  record. 
When  near  thy  city-gates  the  Lord 
Sheltered  his  Jonah  with  a  gourd. 
This  sun,  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 

Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon,  —  from  lamps  which  came 
For  prayer,  —  from  fifteen  da^^s  of  flame, 
The  last,  while  smouldered  to  a  name 

Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 


24  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 
Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones : 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

Of  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee. 
In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid :  .  .  .  . 
Ay,  and  who  else  ?  .  .  .  .  till  'neath  thy  shade 
Within  his  trenches  newly  made 
Last  year  the  Christian  knelt  and  pray'd  — 

Not  to  thy  strength  —  in  Nineveh.* 

Now,  thou  jDOor  god,  within  this  hall 
Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal, 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be  : 
While  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  holiday,  three  files  compact, 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract  : 

'  Rome,  —  Babylon  and  Nineveh.' 

*  During  the  excavations,  the  Tijari  workmen  held  their 
services  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  bulls.  {Layard's  '  Nine- 
veh,'' ch.  ix.) 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  25 

Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshippers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 

Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome,  —  did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 

Should  house  with  him,  from  Nineveh? 

Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pygmy  pile  has  grown, 
Unto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  thy  vast  temples,  court  and  cone, 

Rose  far  in  desert  history  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awakened  eye? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  can  testify 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 

Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 


26  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home, 
An  alien.     Nay,  but  were  not  some 

Of  these  thine  own  '  antiquity'? 
And  now,  —  they  and  their  gods  and  thou 
All  relics  here  together,  —  now 
Whose  profit  ?  whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how, 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found. 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground, 
Winged  teraphim  and  creatures  crown'd 
When  air  and  daylight  filled  the  mound, 

Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship,  —  even  as  these, — 
So,  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase, 
Her  glory  mouldered  and  did  cease 

From  immemorial  Nineveh. 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 
Stood  firmly  'stablished  without  fault. 
Made  proud  with  pillars  of  basalt. 
With  sardonyx  and  porphyry. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  27 

The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 
To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 
A  brackish  lake  lay  in  his  road, 
Where  erst  Pride  fixed  her  sure  abode, 
As  then  in  royal  Nineveh. 

The  day  when  he,  Pride's  lord  and  Man's, 
Showed  all  the  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  wiiose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance. 

And  said.  Fall  down  and  worship  me  :  — 
'Mid  all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look, 
Then  stirred  there,  haply,  some  rebuke. 
Where  to  the  wind  the  salt  pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook. 

That  knew  thee  not,  O  Nineveh ! 

Delicate  harlot !    On  thy  throne 

Thou  with  a  world  beneath  thee  prone 

In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone  ; 

And  needs  were  years  and  lustres  flown 

Ere  strength  of  man  could  vanquish  thee : 
Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring, 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 


28  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

As  with  doves'  voices,  laboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  inito  the  King,  — 
A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh  ! 

.  .  .  Here  woke  my  thought.     The  wind's  slow  sway 
Had  waxed  ;  and  like  the  human  play 
Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 
The  sunshine  shivered  olF  the  day  : 

The  callous  wind,  it  seemed  to  me. 
Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground  : 
And  pale  as  whom  the  Fates  astound. 
The  god  forlorn  stood  winged  and  crowu'd  : 
Within  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 

And  as  I  turned,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshalled  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  followed  forms  which  had  been  erst ; 
To  j^ass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first. 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  29 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  the  burial-clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny  :  — 
So  may  he  stand  again  ;  till  now. 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plough 
Bear  him  afar,  —  a  relic  now 

Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh ! 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, — 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten,  — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  than  later  times  may  be  : 
Who,  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 
That  walked  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways, 
But  bowed  its  pride  and  vowed  its  praise 

Unto  the  god  of  Nineveh. 

The  smile  rose  first,  —  anon  drew  nigh 

The  thought :   .   .   .  Those  heavy  wings  spread  high 


30  THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

So  sure  of  fliglit,  which  do  not  fly  ; 
That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sky  ; 

Those  scriptured  flunks  it  cannot  see ; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  phinted  feet  which  trust  the  sod  :   .   .   . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod  :) 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God, — 

Thine  also, 'mighty  Nineveh? 


31 


EDEN  BOWER. 

It  was  Lilith  the  wife  of  Adam  : 

{Eden  bower'' s  in  Jloxuer.) 
Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  hke  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

LiHth  stood  on  the  skirts  of  Eden  ; 

{A7td  O  the  bower  and  the  hotir !) 
She  was  the  first  that  thence  was  driven ; 
With  her  was  hell  and  with  Eve  was  heaven. 

In  the  ear  of  the  Snake  said  Lilith  :  — 

{Eden  bower's  in  Jloxuer.) 
'  To  thee  I  come  when  the  rest  is  over ; 
A  snake  was  I  when  tliou  wast  my  lover. 

'  I  was  the  fairest  snake  in  Eden  : 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hotcr!) 
By  the  earth's  will,  new  form  and  feature 
Made  me  a  wife  for  the  eartli's  new  creature. 


32  EDEN  BOWER. 

'  Take  me  thou  as  I  come  from  xVdam  : 

i^Eden  bo'iVer  s  in  Jloxver.) 
Once  again  shall  my  love  subdue  thee ; 
The  past  is  past  and  I  am  come  to  thee. 

'  O  but  Adam  was  thrall  to  Lilith  ! 

(And  O  the  bovver  and  the  hourly 
All  the  threads  of  my  hair  are  golden, 
And  there  in  a  net  his  heart  was  holdcn. 

'  O  and  Lilith  was  queen  of  Adam  ! 

(Eden  bower's  i?i  Jloxuer.) 
All  the  day  and  the  night  together 
My  breath  could  shake  his  soul  like  a  feather. 

'  What  great  joys  had  Adam  and  Lilith  !  — 

(And  O  the  bozver  and  the  hour  I) 
Sweet  close  rings  of  the  serpent's  twining, 
As  heart  in  heart  lay  sighing  and  pining. 

'What  bright  babes  had  Lilith  and  Adam  !  — 

(EdeJi  bower's  in  Jlower.) 
Shapes  that  coiled  in  the  woods  and  waters. 
Glittering  sons  and  radiant  daughters. 


EDEN  BOWER.  33 

*  O  thou  god,  the  Lord  God  of  Eden  ! 

(And  O  the  boxvcr  ajid  the  hour!) 

Say,  was  this  fair  body  for  no  man. 

That  of  Adam's  flesh  thou  mak'st  him  a  woman? 

'  O  thou  Snake,  the  King-snake  of  Eden  ! 

(Edeji  boxvcr' s  Injiower.) 
God's  strong  will  our  necks  are  under, 
But  thou  and  I  may  cleave  it  in  sunder. 

'  Help,  sweet  Snake,  sweet  lover  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  O  the  boivcr  a7td  the  hour  l) 
And  let  God  learn  how  I  loved  and  hated 
Man  in  the  image  of  God  created. 

'  Help  me  once  against  Eve  and  Adam  ! 

(Eden  bozuer^s  znjiower.) 
Help  me  once  for  this  one  endeavor, 
And  then  my  love  shall  be  thine  for  ever ! 

'  Sti-ong  is  God,  the  fell  foe  of  Lilith  : 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  I) 
Nought  in  heaven  or  earth  may  affright  him  ; 
But  join  thou  with  me  and  we  will  smite  him. 

3 


\ 


34  EDEN  BOVVER. 

'  Strong  IS  God,  the  great  God  of  Eden : 

{Eden  bower's  znjlower.) 
Over  all  He  made  Hehath  power; 
But  lend  me  thou  thy  shape  for  an  hour ! 

'  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  love  of  Lilith  ! 

{And  O  the  boxver  and  the  hourly 
Look,  my  mouth  and  my  cheek  are  ruddy, 
And  thou  art  cold,  and  fire  is  my  body. 

'  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  hate  of  Adam  ! 

{Eden  bower's  injiower.^ 
That  he  may  wail  my  joy  that  forsook  him, 
And  curse  the  day  when  the  bride-sleep  took  him. 

'  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  shame  of  Eden  ! 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hourly 
Is  not  the  foe-God  weak  as  the  foeman 
When  love  grows  hate  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  ? 

' Would' st  thou  know  the  heart's  hope  of  Lilith? 

{Eden  bower's  znjlower.) 
Then  bring  thou  close  thine  head  till  it  glisten 
Along  my  breast,  and  lip  me  and  listen. 


EDEN  BOWER.  35 

'  Am  I  sweet,  O  sweet  Snake  of  Etlcn  ? 

{Aiid  O  the  boxver  and  the  hourly 
Then  ope  thine  ear  to  my  warm  mouth's  cooing 
And  learn  what  deed  remains  for  our  doing. 

'  TJiou  didst  hear  when  God  said  to  Adam  :  — 

(^EdcJt  bower's  in  Jlowc)'.) 
"  Of  all  this  wealth  I  have  made  thee  warden  ; 
Thou'rt  free  to  eat  of  the  trees  of  the  garden  : 

' "  Only  of  one  tree  eat  not  in  Eden  ; 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hozir!) 
All  save  one  I  give  to  thy  freewill,  — 
The  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil." 

'  O  my  love,  come  nearer  to  Lilith  ! 

{Eden  bower's  inJlowcrJ) 
In  thy  sweet  folds  bind  me  and  bend  me, 
And  let  me  feel  the  shape  thou  shalt  lend  me ! 

'  In  thy  shape  I'll  go  back  to  Eden  ; 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 
In  these  coils  that  Tree  will  I  grapple, 
And  stretch  this  crowned  head  forth  by  the  apple. 


36  EDEN  BOWER. 

'  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  breath  of  Lilitl;  ! 

(^Edcn  bower's  in  Jlovjcr.') 
O  how  then  shall  my  heart  desire 
All  her  blood  as  food  to  its  fire  ! 

'  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  words  of  Lilith  !  — 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
"Nay,  this  Tree's  fruit,  —  why  should  ye  hate  it, 
Or  Death  be  born  the  day  that  ye  ate  it? 

'  "  Nay,  but  on  that  great  day  in  Eden, 

i^Eden  bower's  in  Jlower^ 
By  the  help  that  in  this  wise  Tree  is, 
God  knows  well  ye  shall  be  as  He  is." 

'  Then  Eve  shall  eat  and  give  unto  Adam  ; 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hourly 
And  then  they  both  shall  know  they  are  naked. 
And  their  hearts  ache  as  my  heart  hath  ached. 

'  Aye,  let  them  hide  in  the  trees  of  Eden, 

{Eden  bower's  i?t  Jlozver.') 
As  in  the  cool  of  the  day  in  the  garden 
God  shall  walk  without  pity  or  pardon. 


EDEN  BOWER.  37 

'  Hear,  thou  Eve,  the  man's  heart  in  Adam  ! 

{And  O  the  bozucr  and  the  hour  I) 
Of  his  brave  words  harlv  to  the  bravest :  — 
"  This  the  woman  gave  that  thou  gavest." 

« 
'Hear  Eve  speak,  yea,  list  to  her,  LiHth  ! 

{Eden  botver^s  znjiower.) 
Feast  thine  heart  with  words  that  shall  sate  it  — 
"  This  the  serpent  gave  and  I  ate  it." 

'O  proud  Eve,  cling  close  to  thine  Adam, 

{And  O  the  ho%ver  and  the  hourly 
Driven  forth  as  the  beasts  of  his  naming 
By  the  sword  that  for  ever  is  flaming. 

'  Know,  thy  path  is  known  unto  Lilith  ! 

{Eden  bower'' s  injlower.^ 
While  the  blithe  birds  sang  at  thy  wedding. 
There  her  tears  grew  thorns  for  thy  treading. 

'  O  my  love,  thou  Love-snake  of  Eden  ! 

{A?id  O  the  bozuer  and  the  hourly 
O  to-day  and  the  day  to  come  after ! 
Loose  me,  love,  — give  breath  to  my  laughter  ! 


38  EDEN  BOWER. 

'  O  blight  Snake,  tlic  Deuth-wonn  of  Adam  ! 

{^Edcn  boxucr's  i)i  Jiozucr.) 
Wreathe  tliy  neck  with  my  hair's  brii^ht  tether, 
And  wear  my  gold  and  thy  gold  together ! 

'On  tiiat  day  on  tlie  skirts  of  Eden, 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
In  thy  shape  shall  I  glide  back  to  thee, 
And  in  my  shape  for  an  instant  view  thee. 

'  But  when  thou'rt  thou  and  Lilith  is  Lilith, 

{Eden  bozvcr's  injloxver.) 
In  what  bliss  past  hearing  or  seeing 
Shall  each  one  drink  of  the  other's  beinsf ! 


'& 


'With  cries  of  "Eve  !"  and  "  Eden  !  "  and  "Adam  !  " 
(And  O  the  bower  a?id  the  hour  !) 
How  shall  we  mingle  our  love's  caresses, 
I  in  thy  coils,  and  thou  in  my  tresses ! 

'  With  those  names,  ye  echoes  of  Eden^ 

{Eden  bower's  in  Jlozver.) 
Fire  shall  cry  from  my  heart  that  burneth,  — 
"  Dust  he  is  and  to  dust  returneth  !  " 


EDEN  BOWER.  39 

'  Yet  to-day,  thou  master  of  Lilitli,  — 

{^And  O  the  boxvcr  and  the  ho2cr  !^ 
Wrap  me  round  in  the  form  I'll  borrow 
And  let  me  tell  thee  of  sweet  to-morrow. 

'In  the  planted  garden  eastward  in  Eden, 

{Edc/i  bozvers  in  Jlozvei'.) 
Where  the  river  goes  forth  to  water  the  garden, 
The  springs  shall  dry  and  the  soil  shall  harden. 

'Yea,  where  the  bride-sleep  fell  upon  Adam, 

(And  O  the  bozuer  and  the  hour .') 
None  shall  hear  when  the  storm-wind  whistles 
Through  roses  choked  among  thorns  and  thistles. 

'  Yea,  beside  the  east-gate  of  Eden, 

{Rden  bower's  in  Jlozver.) 
Where  God  joined  them  and  none  might  sever. 
The  sword  turns  this  way  and  that  for  ever. 

'  What  of  Adam  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour !) 
Lo  !  with  care  like  a  shadow  shaken, 
He  tills  the  hard  earth  whence  he  was  taken. 


40  EDEN  BOVVER. 

'  What  of  Eve  too,  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(^Eden  bovje>'''s  iu  Jloxuer.) 
Nay,  but  she,  the  bride  of  God's  giving, 
Must  yet  be  mother  of  all  men  living. 

'  Lo,  God's  grace,  by  the  grace  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  O  the  boxver  and  the  hour  !) 
To  Eve's  womb,  from  our  sweet  to-morrow, 
God  shall  greatly  multiply  sorrow. 

'  Fold  me  fast,  O  God-snake  of  Eden  ! 

{JSden  boxue/s  in  Jioxuer.) 
What  more  prize  than  love  to  impel  thee? 
Grip  and  lip  my  limbs  as  I  tell  thee  ! 

'  Lo  !  two  babes  for  Eve  and  for  Adam  ! 

{And  O  the  bozuer  and  the  hourly 
Lo  !  sweet  Snake,  the  travail  and  treasure,  — 
Two  men-children  born  for  their  pleasure  ! 

'  The  first  is  Cain  and  the  second  Abel : 

(^Eden  boxver's  in  Jloxvei'.) 
The  soul  of  one  shall  be  made  thy  brother, 
And  thy  tongue  shall  lap  the  blood  of  the  other.' 

{And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  I) 


41 


AVE. 

Mother  of  the  Fair  Delight, 
Thou  handmaid  perfect  in  God's  sight, 
Now  sitting  fourth  beside  the  Three, 
Thyself  a  woman-Trinity,  — 
Being  a  daughter  borne  to  God, 
Mother  of  Christ  from  stall  to  rood, 
And  wife  unto  the  Holy  Ghost :  — 
Oh  when  our  need  is  uttermost. 
Think  that  to  such  as  death  may  strike 
Thou  once  wert  sister  sistcrlike  ! 
Thou  headstone  of  humanity, 
Groundstone  of  the  great  Mystery, 
Fashioned  like  us,  yet  more  than  we  ! 

Mind' St  thou  not  (when  June's  heavy  breath 
Warmed  the  long  days  in  Nazareth,) 


42  A  VE. 

That  eve  thou  didst  go  forth  to  give 

Thy  flowers  some  drink  that  they  miglit  hve 

One  faint  night  more  amid  the  sands? 

Far  oft'  the  trees  were  as  pale  wands 

Against  the  fervid  sky  :  the  sea 

Sighed  further  oft'  eternally 

As  human  sorrow  sighs  jn  sleep. 

Then  suddenly  the  awe  grew  deep, 

As  of  a  day  to  which  all  days 

Were  footsteps  in  God's  secret  ways  : 

Until  a  folding  sense,  like  praj-er, 

Which  is,  as  God  is,  everywhere. 

Gathered  about  thee  ;  and  a  voice 

Spake  to  thee  without  any  noise. 

Being  of  the  silence  :  — '  Hail,'  it  said, 

'  Thou  that  art  highly  favored  ; 

The  Lord  is  with  tliee  here  and  now ; 

Blessed  among  all  women  thou.' 


Ah  !  knew'st  thou  of  the  end,  when  first 
That  Babe  was  on  thy  bosom  nurs'd  ?  — 
Or  when  He  tottered  round  thy  knee 
Did  thy  great  sorrow  dawn  on  thee  ?  — 


A  VE.  43 

And  through  His  boyhood,  year  by  year 

Eathis:  with  Ilim  the  Passover, 

Didst  thou  discern  confusedly 

That  hoHer  sacrament,  when  He, 

The  bitter  cup  about  to  quaff', 

Should  break  the  bread  and  eat  thereof?  — 

Or  came  not  yet  the  knowledge,  even 

Till  on  some  day  forecast  in  Heaven 

His  feet  passed  through  thy  door  to  press 

Upon  His  Father's  business?  — 

Or  still  was  God's  high  secret  kept? 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 
Like  growth  through  childhood.     Work  and  pkay, 
Things  common  to  the  course  of  day. 
Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfiU'd  ; 
And  all  through  girlhood,  something  still'd 
Thy  senses  like  the  birth  of  light. 
When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 
Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream  ; 
To  whose  white  bed  had  come  the  dream 
That  He  was  thine  and  thou  wast  His 
Who  feeds  among  the  field-lilies. 
O  solemn  shadow  of  the  end 


44  A  VE. 

In  that  wise  spirit  long  contain'd  ! 
O  awful  end  I  and  those  unsaid 
Long  years  when  It  was  Finished  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  the  twilight  gone 
Left  dai'kness  in  the  house  of  John,) 
Between  the  naked  window-bars 
That  spacious  vigil  of  the  stars?  — 
For  thou,  a  watcher  even  as  they, 
Wouldst  rise  from  where  throughout  the  day 
Thou  wroughtest  raiment  for  His  poor ; 
And,  finding  the  fixed  terms  endure 
Of  day  and  night  which  ne^'er  brought 
Sounds  of  His  coming  chariot, 
Wouldst  lift  through  cloud-waste  unexplor'd 
Those  eyes  which  said,  '  How  long,  O  Lord?' 
Then  that  disciple  whom  He  loved. 
Well  heeding,  haply  would  be  moved 
To  ask  thy  blessing  in  His  name  ; 
And  that  one  thought  in  both,  the  same 
Though  silent,  then  would  clasp  ye  round 
To  weep  together,  —  tears  long  bound, 
Sick  tears  of  patience,  dumb  and  slow. 
Yet,  '  Surely  I  come  quickly,'  —  so 


A  VE.  45 

He  said,  from  life  and  death  gone  home. 
Amen  :  even  so,  Lord  Jesus,  come  ! 

But  oh  !  what  human  tongue  can  speak 
That  day  when  death  was  sent  to  break 
From  the  tir'd  spirit,  like  a  veil, 
Its  covenant  with  Gabriel 
Endured  at  length  unto  the  end  ? 
What  human  thought  can  apprehend 
That  mystery  of  motherhood 
When  thy  Beloved  at  length  renew'd 
The  svv'eet  communion  severed, — 
His  left  hand  underneath  thine  head 
And  His  right  hand  embracing  tliee?  — 
Lo !  He  w^as  thine,  and  this  is  He  ! 

Soul,  is  it  Faith,  or  Love,  or  Hope, 
That  lets  me  see  her  standing  up 
Where  the  light  of  the  Throne  is  bright? 
Unto  the  left,  unto  the  right. 
The  cherubim,  arrayed,  conjoint. 
Float  inward  to  a  golden  point, 
And  from  between  the  seraphim 
The  glory  issues  for  a  hymn. 


46  A  VE. 

O  Mary  Mother,  be  not  loth 

To  listen,  —  thou  whom  the  stars  clothe, 

Who  seest  and  mayst  not  be  seen  ! 

Hear  us  at  last,  O  Mary  Queen ! 

Into  our  shadow  bend  thy  face, 

Bowing  thee  from  the  secret  place, 

O  Mary  Virgin,  full  of  grace ! 


47 


THE   STAFF  AND   SCRIP. 

'Who  owns  these  lands?'  the  Pilgnm  said. 

'  Stranger,  Qiieen  Blanchelys.' 
'And  who  has  thus  harried  them?  '  he  said. 

'  It  was  Duke  Luke  did  this  : 
God's  ban  be  his  ! ' 

The  Pilgrim  said  :  'Where  is  your  house? 

I'll  rest  there,  with  your  will.' 
'You've  but  to  climb  these  blackened  boughs 

And  you'll  see  it  over  the  hill, 
For  it  burns  still.' 

'Which  road,  to  seek  your  Qiicen?'  said  he. 

'  Nay,  nay,  but  witli  some  wound 
You'll  fly  back  hither,  it  may  be, 

And  by  your  blood  i'  the  ground 
My  place  be  found.' 


48  THE  STAFF  AND   SCRIP. 

'  Friend,  stay  in  peace.     God  keep  your  head, 

And  mine,  where  I  will  go  ; 
For  lie  is  here  and  there,'  he  said. 

He  passed  the  hill-side,  slow, 
And  stood  below. 

The  Qiieen  sat  idle  by  her  loom  : 

She  heard  the  arras  stir. 
And  looked  up  sadly :  through  the  room 

The  sweetness  sickened  her 
Of  musk  and  myrrh. 

Her  women,  standing  two  and  two, 

In  silence  combed  the  fleece. 
The  pilgrim  said,  '  Peace  be  with  you, 

Lady  ; '  and  bent  his  knees. 
She  answered, '  Peace.' 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  wave  within  ; 

Like  water-reeds  the  poise 
Of  her  soft  body,  dainty  thin  ; 

And  like  the  water's  noise 
Her  plaintive  voice. 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  49 

For  him,  the  stream  had  never  well'd 

In  desert  tracts  mahgn 
So  sweet ;  nor  had  he  ever  felt 

So  faint  in  the  sunshine 
Of  Palestine. 

Right  so,  he  knew  that  he  saw  weep 

Each  night  through  every  dream 
The  Queen's  own  face,  confused  in  sleep 

With  visages  supreme 
Not  known  to  him. 


'  Lady,'  he  said,  '  your  lands  lie  burnt 

And  waste  :  to  meet  your  foe 
All  fear :  this  I  have  seen  and  learnt. 

Say  that  it  shall  be  so. 
And  I  will  go.' 

She  gazed  at  him.     '  Your  cause  is  just, 

For  I  have  heard  the  same  : ' 
He  said  :  '  God's  strength  shall  be  my  trust. 
Fall  it  to  good  or  grame, 
'Tis  in  His  name.' 
4 


so  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

'  Sir,  you  are  thanked.     My  cause  is  dead 
Why  should  you  toil  to  break 

A  grave,  and  fall  therein  ? '  she  said. 
He  did  not  pause  but  spake  : 
'  For  my  vow's  sake.' 

'  Can  such  vows  be,  Sir  —  to  God's  ear, 
Not  to  God's  will?'  'My  vow 

Remains  :  God  heard  me  there  as  here,' 
He  said  with  reverent  brow, 
'  Both  then  and  now.' 


They  gazed  together,  he  and  she, 

The  minute  while  he  spoke  ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  she  suddenly 

Looked  round  upon  her  folk 
As  though  she  woke. 

'  Fight,  Sir,'  she  said  :  '  my  prayers  in  pain 

Shall  be  your  fellowship.' 
He  whispered  one  among  her  train,  — 

'  To-morrow  bid  her  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip.' 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  51 

She  sent  him  a  sharp  sword,  whose  belt 

About  his  body  there 
As  sweet  as  her  own  arms  he  felt. 

He  kissed  its  blade,  all  bare, 
Instead  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a  green  banner  wrought 

With  one  white  lily  stem, 
To  bind  his  lance  with  when  he  fought. 

He  writ  upon  the  same 
And  kissed  her  name. 

She  sent  him  a  white  shield,  whereon 

She  bade  that  he  should  trace 
His  will.     He  blent  foir  hues  that  shone, 

And  in  a  golden  space 
He  kissed  her  face. 

Right  so,  the  sunset  skies  unseal'd, 

Like  lands  he  never  knew, 
Beyond  to-morrow's  battle-field 

Lay  open  out  of  view 
To  ride  into. 


52  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

Next  day  till  dark  the  women  pray'd  : 

Nor  any  might  know  there 
How  the  fight  went :  the  Qiicen  has  bade 

That  there  do  come  to  her 
No  messenger. 


Weak  now  to  them  the  voice  o'  the  priest 

As  any  trance  affords  ; 
And  when  each  anthem  failed  and  ceas'd, 

It  seemed  that  the  last  chords 
Still  sang  the  words. 

'  Oh  what  is  the  light  that  shines  so  red  ? 

'Tis  long  since  the  sun  set ; ' 
Qiioth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid  : 

'  'Twas  dim  but  now,  and  yet 
The  light  is  great.' 

Quoth  the  other  :  '  'Tis  our  sight  is  dazed 

That  we  see  flame  i'  the  air.' 
But  the  Qvieen  held  her  brows  and  gazed, 

And  said,  '  It  is  the  glare 
Of  torches  there' 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  53 

'  Oh  what  are  the  sounds  that  rise  and  spread  ? 

All  day  it  was  so  still ; ' 
Qiioth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid  : 
'  Unto  the  furthest  hill 
The  air  they  fill.' 

Qiioth  the  other :  '  'Tis  our  sense  is  blurr'd 

With  all  the  chants  gone  by.' 
But  the  Qiieen  held  her  breath  and  heard, 

And  said,  '  It  is  the  cry 
Of  Victory.' 

The  first  of  all  the  rout  was  sound, 

The  next  were  dust  and  flame, 
And  then  the  horses  shook  the  ground : 

And  in  the  thick  of  them 
A  still  band  came. 

'  Oh  what  do  ye  bring  out  of  the  fight. 

Thus  hid  beneath  these  boughs?' 
'  One  that  shall  be  thy  guest  to-night. 

And  yet  shall  not  carouse, 
Qiieen,  in  thy  house.' 


54  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

'  Uncover  ye  his  face,'  she  said. 

'  O  changed  in  little  space  ! ' 
She  cried,  '  O  pale  that  was  so  red  ! 

O  God,  O  God  of  grace  ! 
Cover  his  face.' 


His  sword  was  broken  in  his  hand 
Where  he  had  kissed  the  blade. 

'  O  soft  steel  that  could  not  withstand  ! 
O  my  hard  heart  unstayed, 
That  prayed  and  prayed  ! ' 


His  bloodied  banner  crossed  his  mouth 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  name. 

'  O  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south, 
Fair  flew  my  web,  for  shame, 
To  guide  Death's  aim  ! ' 


t5' 


The  tints  were  shredded  from  his  shield 
Where  he  had  kissed  her  f^ice. 

'  Oh,  of  all  gifts  that  I  could  yield, 
Death  only  keeps  its  place, 
My  gift  and  grace  ! ' 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  55 

Then  stepped  a  damsel  to  her  side, 
And  spoke,  and  needs  must  weep  : 

'For  his  sake,  lady,  if  he  died, 
He  2^rayed  of  thee  to  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip,' 

That  night  they  hung  above  her  bed. 

Till  morning  wet  with  tears. 
Year  after  year  above  her  head 

Her  bed  his  token  wears. 
Five  years,  ten  years. 

That  night  the  passion  of  her  grief 

Shook  them  as  there  they  hung. 
Each  year  the  wind  that  shed  the  leaf 

Shook  them  and  in  its  tonsfue 
A  message  flung. 

And  once  she  woke  with  a  clear  mind 

That  letters  writ  to  cahii 
Her  soul  lay  in  the  scrip  ;  to  find 

Only  a  torpid  balm 
And  dust  of  palm. 


56  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

They  shook  far  off  with  palace  sport 
When  joust  and  dance  were  rife  ; 

And  the  hunt  sliook  them  from  the  court ; 
For  hers,  in  peace  or  strife, 
Was  a  Qiiccn's  hfe. 


A  Qiieen's  death  now :  as  now  they  shake 

To  gusts  in  chapel  dim,  — 
Hung  where  she  sleeps,  not  seen  to  wake, 

(Carved  lovely  white  and  slim). 
With  them  by  him. 

Stand  up  to-day,  still  armed,  with  her, 
Good  knight,  before  His  brow 
Who  then  as  now  was  here  and  there. 
Who  had  in  mind  thy  vow 
Then  even  as  now. 

The  lists  are  set  in  Heaven  to-day. 

The  bright  pavilions  shine  ; 
Fair  hangs  thy  shield,  and  none  gainsay  ; 

The  trumpets  sound  in  sign 
That  she  is  thine. 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  57 

Not  tithed  with  days'  and  yeaiV  decease 

He  pays  thy  wage  He  owed, 
But  with  imperishable  peace 

Here  in  His  own  abode, 
Thy  jealous  God. 


58 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 
{^Regno  Lombardo-Veneto^  1S48.) 


Our  Lombard  country-girls  along  the  coast 
Wear  daggers  in  their  garters  ;  for  they  know 
That  they  might  hate  another  girl  to  death 
Or  meet  a  German  lover.     Such  a  knife 
I  bought  her,  with  a  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl. 

Father,  you  cannot  know  of  all  my  thoughts 
That  day  in  going  to  meet  her,  —  that  last  day 
For  the  last  time,  she  said  ;  — of  all  the  love 
And  all  the  hopeless  hope  that  she  might  change 
And  go  back  with  me.     Ah  !  and  everywhere, 
At  places  we  both  knew  along  the  road, 
Some  fresh  shape  of  herself  as  once  she  was 
Grew  present  at  my  side  ;  until  it  seemed  — 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  $9 

So  close  they  gathered  round  me  —  they  would  all 

Be  with  me  when  I  reached  the  spot  at  last, 

To  plead  my  cause  with  her  against  herself 

So  changed.     O  Father,  if  you  knew  all  this 

You  cannot  know,  then  you  would  know  too,  Fathei 

And  only  then,  if  God  can  pardon  me. 

What  can  be  told  I'll  tell,  if  you  will  hear. 

I  passed  a  village-fair  upon  my  road, 
And  thought,  being  empty-handed,  I  would  take 
Some  little  present :  such  might  prove,  I  said, 
Either  a  pledge  between  us,  or  (God  help  me  !) 
A  parting  gift.     And  there  it  was  I  bought 
The  knife  I  spoke  of,  such  as  women  wear. 

That  day,  some  three  hours  afterwards,  I  found 
For  certain,  it  must  be  a  parting  gift. 
And,  standing  silent  now  at  last,  I  looked 
Into  her  scornful  face ;  and  heard  the  sea 
Still  trying  hard  to  din  into  my  ears 
Some  speech  it  knew  which  still  might  change  her  heart 
If  only  it  could  make  me  understand. 
One  moment  thus.     Another,  and  her  face 
Seemed  further  off  than  the  last  line  of  sea. 


6o  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

So  that  I  thonglit,  if  now  she  were  to  speak 
I  could  not  hear  her.     Then  again  I  knew 
All,  as  we  stood  together  on  the  sand 
At  Iglio,  in  the  first  thin  shade  o' the  hills. 

'  Take  it,'  I  said,  and  held  it  out  to  her. 
While  the  hilt  glanced  within  my  trembling  hold  ; 
'  Take  it  and  keep  it  for  my  sake,'  I  said. 
Her  neck  unbent  not,  neither  did  her  eyes 
Move,  nor  her  foot  left  beating  of  the  sand  ; 
Only  she  put  it  by  from  her  and  laughed. 

Father,  you  hear  my  speech  and  not  her  laugh  ; 
But  God  heard  that.     Will  God  remember  all } 

It  was  another  laugh  than  the  sweet  sound 
Which  rose  from  her  sweet  childish  heart,  that  day 
Eleven  years  before,  when  first  I  found  her 
Alone  upon  the  hill-side ;  and  her  curls 
Shook  down  in  the  warm  grass  as  she  looked  up 
Out  of  her  curls  in  my  eyes  bent  to  hers. 
She  might  have  served  a  painter  to  portray 
That  heavenly  child  which  in  the  latter  days 
Shall  walk  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb. 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  6i 

I  had  been  for  nights  in  hiding,  worn  and  sick 

And  hardly  fed  ;  and  so  her  words  at  first 

Seemed  fitful  like  the  talking  of  the  trees 

And  voices  in  the  air  that  knew  my  name. 

And  I  remember  that  I  sat  me  down 

Upon  the  slope  with  her,  and  thought  the  world 

Must  be  all  over  or  had  never  been, 

We  seemed  there  so  alone.     And  soon  she  told  me 

Her  parents  both  were  gone  away  from  her. 

I  thought  perhaps  she  meant  that  they  had  died  ; 

But  when  I  asked  her  this,  she  looked  again 

Into  my  face,  and  said  that  yestereve 

They  kissed  her  long,  and  wept  and  made  her  weep. 

And  gave  her  all  the  bread  they  had  with  them. 

And  then  had  gone  together  up  the  hill 

Where  we  were  sitting  now,  and  had  walked  on 

Into  the  great  red  light ;  '  and  so,'  she  said, 

'  I  have  come  up  here  too  ;  and  when  this  evening 

They  step  out  of  the  light  as  they  stepped  in, 

I  shall  be  here  to  kiss  them.'     And  she  laughed. 

Then  I  bethought  me  suddenly  of  the  famine  ; 
And  how  the  church-steps  throughout  all  the  town, 
When  last  I  had  been  there  a  month  ago, 


62  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Swarmed  with  starved  folk ;  and  how  the  bread  was 

weighed 
By  Austrians  armed  ;  and  women  that  I  knew 
For  wives  and  mothers  walked  the  public  street, 
Saying  aloud  that  if  their  husbands  feared 
To  snatch  the  children's  food,  themselves  would  stay 
Till  they  had  earned  it  there.     So  then  this  child 
Was  piteous  to  mc  ;  for  all  told  me  then 
Her  parents  must  have  left  her  to  God's  chance, 
To  man's  or  to  the  Church's  charity, 
Because  of  the  great  famine,  rather  than 
To  watch  her  growing  thin  between  their  knees. 
With  that,  God  took  my  mother's  voice  and  spoke, 
And  sights  and  sounds  came  back  and  things  long 

since, 
And  all  my  childhood  found  me  on  the  hills  ; 
And  so  I  took  her  with  me. 

I  was  young, 
Scarce  man  then.  Father ;  but  the  cause  which  gave 
The  wounds  I  die  of  now  had  brought  me  then 
Some  wounds  already ;  and  I  lived  alone. 
As  any  hiding  hunted  man  must  live. 
It  was  no  easy  thing  to  keep  a  child 
In  safety  ;  for  herself  it  was  not  safe. 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  6^ 

And  doubled  my  own  danger  ;  but  I  knew 
That  God  would  heljD  me. 

Yet  a  little  while 
Pardon  me,  Father,  if  I  pause.     I  think 
I  have  been  speaking  to  you  of  some  matters 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  of,  have  I  not? 
You  do  not  know  how  clearly  those  things  stood 
Within  my  mind,  which  I  have  spoken  of. 
Nor  how  they  strove  for  utterance.     Life  all  past 
Is  like  the  sky  when  the  sun  sets  in  it, 
Clearest  where  furthest  off. 

I  told  you  how 
She  scorned  my  parting  gift  and  laughed.     And  yet 
A  woman's  laugh's  another  thing  sometimes : 
I  think  they  laugh  in  Heaven.     I  know  last  night 
I  dreamed  I  saw  into  the  garden  of  God, 
Where  women  walked  whose  painted  images 
I  have  seen  with  candles  round  them  in  the  church. 
They  bent  this  way  and  that,  one  to  another, 
Playing  :  and  over  the  long  golden  hair 
Of  each  there  floated  like  a  ring  of  fire  [she  rose 

Which  when  she  stooped  stooped  with  her,  and  when 
Rose  with  her.     Then  a  breeze  flew  in  among  them, 


64  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

As  if  a  window  had  been  opened  in  heaven 

For  God  to  give  his  blessing  from,  before 

This  world  of  ours  should  set;   (for  in  my  dream 

I  thought  our  world  was  setting,  and  the  sun 

Flared,  a  spent  taper ;)   and  beneath  that  gust 

The  rings  of  light  quivered  like  forest-leaves. 

Then  all  the  blessed  maidens  who  were  there 

Stood  up  together,  as  it  were  a  voice 

That  called  them  ;  and  they  threw  their  tresses  back, 

And  smote  their  palms,  and  all  laughed  up  at  once. 

For  the  strong  heavenly  joy  they  had  in  them 

To  hear  God  bless  the  world.     Wherewith  I  woke  : 

And  looking  round,  I  saw  as  usual 

That  she  was  standing  there  with  her  long;  locks 

Pressed  to  her  side  ;  and  her  laugh  ended  theirs. 

For  always  when  I  see  her  now,  she  laughs. 
And  yet  her  childish  laughter  haunts  me  too. 
The  life  of  this  dead  terror ;  as  in  days 
When  she,  a  child,  dwelt  with  me.     I  must  tell 
Something  of  those  days  yet  before  the  end. 

I  brought  her  from  the  city  —  one  such  day 
When  she  was  still  a  merry,  loving.child,  — 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  65 

The  earliest  gift  I  mind  my  giving  her ; 
A  little  image  of  a  flying  Love 
Made  of  our  colored  glass-ware,  in  his  hands 
A  dart  of  gilded  metal  and  a  torch. 
And  him  she  kissed  and  me,  and  fain  would  know 
Why  \\cre  his  poor  eyes  blindfold,  why  the  wings 
And  why  the  arrow.     What  I  knew  I  told 
Of  Venus  and  of  Cupid,  —  strange  old  tales. 
And  when  she  heard  that  he  could  rule  the  loves 
Of  men  and  women,  still  she  shook  her  head 
And  wondered  ;  and,  '  Naj^,  nay,'  she  murmured  still, 
'  So  strong,  and  he  a  younger  child  than  I ! ' 
And  then  she'd  have  me  fix  him  on  the  wall 
Fronting  her  little  bed  ;  and  then  again 
She  needs  must  fix  him  there  herself,  because 
I  gave  him  to  her  and  she  loved  him  so, 
And  he  shoidd  make  her  love  me  better  yet. 
If  women  loved  the  more,  the  more  they  grew. 
But  the  fit  place  upon  the  wall  was  high 
For  her,  antl  so  I  held  her  in  my  arms : 
And  each  time  that  the  heavy  pruning-hook 
I  gave  her  for  a  hammer  slipped  away 
As  it  would  often,  still  she  laughed  and  laughed 
And  kissed  and  kissed  me.     But  amid  her  mirth, 

5 


66  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Just  as  she  hung  the  image  on  the  nail, 
It  slipped  and  all  its  fragments  strewed  the  ground 
And  as  it  fell  she  screamed,  for  in  her  hand 
The  dart  had  entered  deeply  and  drawn  blood. 
And  so  her  laughter  turned  to  tears  :  and  '  Oh  ! ' 
I  said,  the  while  I  bandaged  the  small  hand,  — 
'  That  I  should  be  the  first  to  make  you  bleed. 
Who  love  and  love  and  love  you  ! '  —  kissing  still 
The  fingers  till  I  got  her  safe  to  bed. 
And  still  she  sobbed,  — '  not  for  the  pain  at  all,' 
She  said,  '  but  for  the  Love,  the  poor  good  Love 
You  gave  me.'     So  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

Another  later  thing  comes  back  to  me. 
'Twas  in  those  hardest  foulest  days  of  all. 
When  still  from  his  shut  palace,  sitting  clean 
Above  the  splash  of  blood,  old  Metternich 
(May  his  soul  die,  and  never-dying  worms 
Feast  on  its  pain  for  ever !)  used  to  thin 
His  year's  doomed  hundreds  daintily,  each  montli 
Thirties  and  fifties.     This  time,  as  I  think. 
Was  when  his  thrift  forbade  the  poor  to  take 
That  evil  brackish  salt  which  the  dry  rocks 
Keep  all  through  winter  when  the  sea  draws  in. 


A   LAST  COIVFESSION.  67 

The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  a  chance  shot 
In  the  street  here  and  there,  and  on  the  stones 
A  stumbhng  clatter  as  of  horse  hemmed  round. 
Then,  when  she  saw  me  hurry  out  of  doors, 
My  gun  shmg  at  my  shoulder  and  my  knife 
Stuck  in  my  girdle,  she  smoothed  down  my  hair 
And  laughed  to  see  me  look  so  brave,  and  leaped 
Up  to  my  neck  and  kissed  me.     She  was  still 
A  child  ;  and  yet  that  kiss  was  on  my  lips 
So  hot  all  day  where  the  smoke  shut  us  in. 

For  now,  being  always  with  her,  the  first  love 
I  had — the  father's,  brother's  love  —  was  changed, 
I  think,  in  somewise  ;  like  a  holy  thought 
Which  is  a  prayer  before  one  knows  of  it. 
The  first  time  I  perceived  this,  I  remember, 
Was  once  when  after  hunting  I  came  home 
Weary,  and  she  brought  food  and  fruit  for  me, 
And  sat  down  at  my  feet  upon  the  floor 
Leaning  against  my  side.     But  when  I  felt 
Her  sweet  head  reach  from  that  low  seat  of  hers 
So  high  as  to  be  laid  upon  my  heart, 
I  turned  and  looked  upon  my  darling  there 
And  marked  for  the  first  time  how  tall  she  was ; 


68  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

And  my  heart  beat  with  so  much  violence 

Under  her  cheek,  I  thought  she  could  not  choose 

But  wonder  at  it  soon  and  ask  me  why ; 

And  so  I  bade  her  rise  and  eat  with  me. 

And  when,  remembering  all  and  counting  back 

The  time,  I  made  out  fourteen  years  for  her 

And  told  her  so,  she  gazed  at  me  with  eyes 

As  of  the  sky  and  sea  on  a  gray  day,  [me 

And  drew  her  long  hands  through  her  hair,  and  asked 

If  she  was  not  a  woman  ;  and  then  laughed : 

And  as  she  stooped  in  laughing,  I  could  see 

Beneath  the  growing  throat  the  breasts  half  globed 

Like  folded  lilies  deepset  in  the  stream. 

Yes,  let  me  think  of  her  as  then ;  for  so 
Her  image.  Father,  is  not  like  the  sights 
Which  come  when  you  are  gone.     She  had  a  mouth 
Made  to  bring  death  to  life,  —  the  underlip 
Sucked  in,  as  if  it  strove  to  kiss  itself. 
Her  face  was  ever  pale,  as  when  one  stoops 
Over  wan  water ;  and  the  dark  crisped  hair 
And  the  hair's  shadow  made  it  paler  still :  — 
Deep-serried  locks,  the  darkness  of  the  cloud 
Where  the  moon's  gaze  is  set  in  eddying  gloom. 


A   LAST  COIVFESSION.  69 

Her  body  bore  her  neck  as  the  tree's  stem 

Bears  the  top  branch  ;  and  as  the  branch  sustains 

The  flower  of  the  year's  pride,  her  high  neck  bore 

That  face  made  wonderful  with  night  and  day. 

Her  voice  was  swift,  yet  ever  the  last  words 

Fell  lingeringly  ;  and  rounded  finger-tips 

She  had,  that  clung  a  little  where  they  touched 

And  then  were  gone  o'  the  instant.     Her  great  eyes, 

That  sometimes  turned  half  dizzily  beneath 

The  passionate  lids,  as  faint,  when  she  would  speak, 

Had  also  in  them  hidden  springs  of  mirth. 

Which  under  the  dark  lashes  evermore 

Shook  to  her  laugh,  as  when  a  bird  flies  low 

Between  the  water  and  the  willow-leaves. 

And  the  shade  quivers  till  he  wins  the  light. 


I  was  a  moody  comrade  to  her  then. 
For  all  the  love  I  bore  her.     Italy, 
The  weeping  desolate  mother,  long  has  claimed 
Her  son's  strong  arms  to  lean  on,  and  their  hands 
To  lop  the  poisonous  thicket  from  her  path. 
Cleaving  her  way  to  light.     And  from  her  need 
Had  grown  the  fashion  of,  my  whole  poor  life 


70  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Which  I  was  proud  to  yield  her,  as  my  father 

Had  yielded  his.     And  this  had  come  to  be 

A  game  to  play,  a  love  to  clasp,  a  hate 

To  wreak,  all  things  together  that  a  man 

Needs  for  his  blood  to  ripen  :  till  at  times 

All  else  seemed  shadows,  and  I  wondered  still 

To  see  such  life  pass  muster  and  be  deemed 

Time's  bodily  substance.     In  those  hours,  no  doubt, 

To  the  young  girl  my  eyes  were  like  my  soul,  — 

Dark  wells  of  death-in-life  that  yearned  for  day. 

And  though  she  ruled  me  always,  I  remember 

That  once  when  I  was  thus  and  she  still  kept 

Leaping  about  the  place  and  laughing,  I 

Did  almost  chide  her  ;  whereupon  she  knelt 

And  putting  her  two  hands  into  iny  breast 

Sang  me  a  song.     Are  these  tears  in  my  eyes .'' 

'Tis  long  since  I  have  wept  for  anything. 

I  thought  that  song  forgotten  out  of  mind, 

And  now,  just  as  I  spoke  of  it,  it  came 

All  back.     It  is  but  a  rude  thing,  ill  rhymed, 

Such  as  a  blind  man  chaunts  and  his  dog  hears 

Holding  the  platter,  when  the  children  run 

To  merrier  sport  and  leave  him.     Thus  it  goes :  — 


A   LAST  CONFESSION. 


7x 


La  bella  donna  * 
Piangendo  disse : 
'  Come  son  fisse 
Le  stelle  in  cielo  ! 
Quel  fiato  anelo 
Dello  stance  sole, 
Quanto  m'  assonna ! 
E  la  liina,  macchiata 


*  She  wept,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  weeping : 
'  What  spell  is  keeping 
The  stars  so  steady  ? 
Why  does  the  power 
Of  the  sun's  noon-hour 
To  sleep  so  move  me  ? 
And  the  moon  in  heaven, 
Stained  where  she  passes 
As  a  worn-out  glass  is,  — 
Wearily  driven, 
Why  walks  she  above  me? 

'  Stars,  moon,  and  sun  too, 
I'm  tired  of  either 
And  all  together  1 
Whom  speak  they  unto 
That  I  should  listen? 
for  very  surely, 
Though  my  arras  and  shoulders 
Dazzle  beholders, 
And  my  eyes  glisten, 
All's  nothing  purely  1 
What  are  words  said  for 
At  all  about  them. 
If  he  they  are  made  for 
Can  do  without  them  ? ' 

She  laughed,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  laughing: 
'  His  hand  clings  half  in 


My  own  already  I 
Oh  !  do  5'ou  love  me? 
Oh  !  speak  of  passion 
In  no  new  fashion. 
No  loud  inveighings. 
But  the  old  sayings 
You  once  said  of  me. 

'  You  said  :  "  As  summer. 
Through  boughs  grown  brittle. 
Comes  back  a  little 
Ere  frosts  benumb  her,  — 
So  bring'st  thou  to  me 
All  leaves  and  flowers. 
Though  autumn's  gloomy 
To-day  in  the  bowers." 

'  Oh !  does  he  love  me, 
When  my  voice  teaches 
The  very  speeches 
He  then  spoke  of  me  ? 
Alas  !  what  flavor 
Still  with  me  lingers?  * 
(But  she  laughed  as  my  kisses 
Glowed  in  her  fingers 
With  love's  old  blisses.) 
'  Oh  !  what  one  favor 
Remains  to  woo  him, 
Whose  whole  poor  savor 
Belongs  not  to  him.' 


72  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Come  uno  specchio 
Logoro  e  vecchio,  — 
Faccia  affannata, 
Che  cosa  vuole  ? 

*  Ch&  stelle,  luna,  e  sole, 
Ciascun  m'  annoja 
E  m'  annojano  insieme  ; 
Non  me  ne  preme 
Ne  ci  prendo  gioja. 
E  veramente, 
Che  le  spalle  sien  franche 
E  le  braccia  bianche 
E  il  seno  caldo  e  tondo, 
Non  mi  fa  niente. 
Ch&  cosa  al  mondo 
Posso  piu  far  di  questi 
Se  non  piacciono  a  te,  come  dicesti  ? ' 

La  donna  rise 

E  riprese  ridendo  :  — 

'  Questa  mano  che  prendo 

E  dunque  mia  ? 

Tu  m'  ami  dunque  ? 

Dimmelo  ancora, 

Non  in  modo  qualunque, 

Ma  le  parole 

Belle  e  precise 

Che  dicesti  pria. 

'  Siccome  suole 
La  state  talora 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  73 

(Dicesti)  un  qualche  istante 
Tornaf'e  miianzi  itiverno, 
Cosl  Ui  fai  c/i'  to  scerno 
Le  foglie  tutte  qiiante, 
Ben  ch^  to  certo  tenessi 
Per  passato  V  auttmno. 

'  Eccolo  il  mio  alunno  ! 
lo  debbo  insegnargli 
Quei  cari  detti  istessi 
Ch'  ei  mi  disse  una  volta  ! 
Oim^ !     Che  cosa  dargli,' 
(Ma  ridea  piano  piano 
Dei  baci  in  sulla  mano,) 
'  Ch'  ei  non  m'  abbia  da  lungo  tempo  tolta  ? ' 

That  I  should  shig  upon  this  bed  I  — with  you 
To  Hsten,  and  such  words  still  left  to  say ! 
Yet  was  it  I  that  sang?     The  voice  seemed  hers, 
As  on  the  very  day  she  sang  to  me  ; 
When,  having  done,  she  took  out  of  my  hand 
Something  that  I  had  played  with  all  the  while 
And  laid  it  down  beyond  my  reach  ;  and  so 
Turning  my  face  round  till  it  fronted  hers,  — 
'  Weeping  or  laughing,  which  was  best?'  she  said. 

But  these  are  foolish  tales.     How  should  I  show 

The  heart  that  glowed  then  with  love's  heat,  each  day 


74  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

More  and  more  brightly?  —  when  for  long  years  now 
The  very  flame  that  flew  about  the  heart, 
And  gave  it  fiery  wings,  has  come  to  be 
The  lap^iing  blaze  of  hell's  environment 
Whose  tongues  all  bid  the  molten  heart  despair. 

Yet  one  more  thing  comes  back  on  me  to-night 
Which  I  may  tell  you  :  for  it  bore  my  soul 
Dread  fii'stlings  of  the  brood  that  rend  it  now. 
It  chanced  that  in  our  last  year's  wanderings 
We  dwelt  at  Monza,  far  away  from  home. 
If  home  we  had  :  and  in  the  Duomo  there 
I  sometimes  entered  with  her  when  she  prayed. 
An  image  of  Our  Lady  stands  there,  wrought 
In  marble  by  some  great  Italian  hand 
In  the  great  days  when  she  and  Italy 
Sat  on  one  throne  together :  and  to  her 
And  to  none  else  my  loved  one  told  her  heart. 
She  was  a  woman  then ;  and  as  she  knelt,  — 
Her  sweet  brow  in  the  sweet  brow's  shadow  there,  — 
They  seemed  two  kindred  forms  whereby  our  land 
(Whose  work  still  serves  the  world  for  miracle) 
Made  manifest  herself  in  womanhood. 
Father,  the  day  I  speak  of  was  the  first 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  75 

For  weeks  that  I  had  borne  her  company 

Into  the  Duomo ;  and  those  weeks  had  been 

Much  troubled,  for  then  first  the  glimpses  came 

Of  some  impenetrable  restlessness 

Growing  in  her  to  make  her  changed  and  cold. 

And  as  we  entered  there  that  day,  I  bent 

My  eyes  on  the  fair  Image,  and  I  said 

Within  my  heart,  'Oh  turn  her  heart  to  me  !' 

And  so  I  left  her  to  her  prayers,  and  went 

To  gaze  upon  the  pride  of  Monza's  shrine, 

Where  in  the  sacristy  the  light  still  foils 

Upon  the  Iron  Crown  of  Italy, 

On  whose  crowned  heads  the  day  has  closed,  nor  yet 

The  daybreak  gilds  another  head  to  crown. 

But  coming  back,  I  wondered  when  I  saw 

That  the  sweet  Lady  of  her  prayers  now  stood 

Alone  without  her  ;  until  further  off. 

Before  some  new  Madonna  gayly  decked, 

Tinselled  and  gewgawed,  a  slight  German  toy, 

I  saw  her  kneel,  still  praying.     At  my  step 

She  rose,  and  side  by  side  we  left  the  church. 

I  was  much  moved,  and  sharply  questioned  her 

Of  her  transferred  devotion  ;  but  she  seemed 

Stubborn  and  heedless ;  till  she  lightly  laughed 


^6  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

And  said  :  '  The  old  Madonna?     Aye  indeed, 

She  had  my  old  thoughts, — this  one  has  my  new.* 

Then  silent  to  the  soul  I  held  my  way : 

And  from  the  fountains  of  the  public  place 

Unto  the  pigeon-haunted  pinnacles, 

Bright  wings  and  water  winnowed  the  bright  air  ; 

And  stately  with  her  laugh's  subsiding  smile 

She  went,  with  clear-swayed  waist  and  towering  neck 

And  hands  held  light  befoi'e  her ;  and  the  face 

Which  long  had  made  a  day  in  my  life's  night 

Was  night  in  day  to  me  ;  as  all  men's  eyes 

Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  she  seemed  to  tread 

Beyond  my  heart  to  the  world  made  for  her. 

Ah  there  !  my  wounds  will  snatch  my  sense  again : 
The  pain  comes  billowing  on  like  a  full  cloud 
Of  thunder,  and  the  flash  that  breaks  from  it 
Leaves  my  brain  burning.     That's  the  wound  he  gave, 
The  Austi-ian  whose  white  coat  I  still  made  match 
With  his  white  face,  only  the  two  were  red 
As  suits  his  trade.     The  devil  makes  them  wear 
White  for  a  livery,  that  the  blood  may  show 
Braver  that  brings  them  to  him.     So  he  looks 
Sheer  o'er  the  field  and  knows  his  own  at  once. 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  77 

Give  me  a  draught  of  water  in  that  cup  ; 
My  voice  feels  thick  ;  perhaps  you  do  not  hear  ; 
But  you  mzisi  hear.     If  you  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  I  am  sure  tiae  blessing 
Will  burn  my  soul.     If  you  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  Father,  the  great  sin 
Is  yours,  not  mine  :  mark  this  :  your  soul  shall  burn 
With  mine  for  it.     I  have  seen  pictures  where 
Souls  burned  with  Latin  shriekings  in  their  mouths  : 
Shall  my  end  be  as  theirs  ^     Nay,  but  I  know 
'  Tis  you  shall  shriek  in  Latin.     Some  bell  rings, 
Rings  through  my  brain  :  it  strikes  the  hour  in  hell. 


You  see  I  cannot.  Father ;  I  have  tried, 
But  cannot,  as  you  see.     These  twenty  times 
Beginning,  I  have  come  to  the  same  point 
And  stopped.     Beyond,  there  are  but  broken  words 
Which  will  not  let  you  understand  my  tale. 
It  is  that  then  we  have  her  with  us  here, 
As  when  she  wrung  her  hair  out  in  my  dream 
To-night,  till  all  the  darkness  reeked  of  it. 
Her  hair  is  always  wet,  for  she  has  kept 
Its  tresses  wrapped  about  her  side  for  years  ; 


78  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

And  when  she  wrung  them  round  over  the  floor, 
I  heard  the  blood  between  her  fingers  hiss  ; 
So  that  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and  sci'eamed 
Once  and  again  ;  and  once  to  once,  she  laughed. 
Look  that  you  turn  not  now,  —  she's  at  your  back 
Gather  your  rope  up,  Father,  and  keejD  close, 
Or  she'll  sit  down  on  it  and  send  you  mad. 


At  Iglio  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills 
The  sand  is  black  and  red.     The  black  was  black 
When  what  was  spilt  that  day  sank  into  it. 
And  the  red  scarcely  darkened.     There  I  stood 
This  night  with  her,  and  saw  the  sand  the  same. 


What  would  you  have  me  tell  you  }     Father,  father. 
How  shall  I  make  you  know.''     You  have  not  known 
The  dreadful  soul  of  woman,  who  one  day 
Forgets  the  old  and  takes  the  new  to  heart. 
Forgets  what  man  remembers,  and  therewith 
Forgets  the  man.     Nor  can  I  clearly  tell 
How  the  change  happened  between  her  and  me. 
Her  eyes  looked  on  me  from  an  emptied  heart 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  79 

When  most  my  heart  was  full  of  her ;  and  still 

In  every  corner  of  myself  I  sousfht 

To  find  what  service  failed  her ;  and  no  less 

TIkui  in  the  good  time  past,  there  all  was  hers. 

\\'hat  do  you  love  ?    Your  Heaven  ?    Conceive  it  spread 

For  one  first  year  of  all  eternity 

All  round  you  with  all  joys  and  gifts  of  God  ; 

And  then  when  most  your  soul  is  blent  with  it 

And  all  yields  song  together,  —  then  it  stands 

O'  the  sudden  like  a  pool  that  once  gave  back 

Your  image,  but  now  drowns  it  and  is  clear 

Again,  —  or  like  a  sun  bewitched,  that  burns 

Your  shadow  from  you,  and  still  shines  in  sight. 

How  could  you  bear  it?     Would  you  not  cry  out, 

Among  those  eyes  grown  blind  to  you,  those  ears 

That  hear  no  more  your  voice  you  hear  the  same,  — 

'God  !  what  is  left  but  hell  for  company, 

But  hell,  hell,  hell.?' — until  the  name  so  breathed 

W^hirled  with  hot  wind  and  sucked  you  down  in  fire  } 

Even  so  I  stood  the  day  her  empty  heart 

Left  Iier  place  empt}'  in  our  home,  while  yet 

1  knew  not  why  she  went  nor  where  she  went 

Nor  how  to  reach  her :  so  I  stood  the  day 

When  to  my  prayers  at  last  one  sight  of  her 


8o  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

Was  granted,  and  I  looked  on  heaven  made  pale 
With  scorn,  and  heard  heaven  mock  mc  in  that  laugh. 

O  sweet,  long  sweet !     Was  that  some  ghost  of  you 
Even  as  your  ghost  that  haunts  me  now,  —  twin  shapes 
Of  fear  and  hatred  ?     May  I  find  you  yet 
Mine  when  death  wakes  ?     Ah  !  be  it  even  in  flame, 
We  may  have  sweetness  yet,  if  you  but  say 
As  once  in  childish  sorrow  :  '  Not  my  pain, 
My  pain  was  nothing :  oh  your  poor  poor  love, 
Your  broken  love  ! ' 

My  Father,  have  I  not 
Yet  told  you  the  last  things  of  that  last  day 
On  which  I  went  to  meet  her  by  the  sea  ? 

0  God,  O  God  !  but  I  must  tell  you  all. 

Midway  upon  my  journey,  when  I  stopped 
To  buy  the  dagger  at  the  village  fair, 

1  saw  two  cursed  rats  about  the  place 

I  knew  for  spies  —  blood-sellers  both.     That  day 
Was  not  yet  over  ;  for  three  hours  to  come 
I  prized  my  life :  and  so  I  looked  aroimd 
For  safety.     A  poor  painted  mountebank 
Was  playing  tricks  and  shouting  in  a  crowd. 


A   LAST  CONFESSION.  8i 

I  knew  he  must  have  heard  my  name,  so  I 

Pushed  past  and  whispered  to  him  who  I  was, 

And  of  my  danger.     Straight  he  hustled  me 

Into  his  booth,  as  it  were  in  the  trick, 

And  brought  me  out  next  minute  with  my  face 

All  smeared  in  patches  and  a  zany's  gown  ; 

And  there  I  handed  him  his  cups  and  balls 

And  swung  the  sand-bags  round  to  clear  the  ring 

For  half  an  hour.     The  spies  came  once  and  looked  ; 

And  while  they  stopped,  and  made  all  sights  and  sounds 

Sharp  to  my  startled  senses,  I  remember 

A  woman  laughed  above  me.     I  looked  up 

And  saw  where  a  brown-shouldered  harlot  leaned 

Half  through  a  tavern  window  thick  with  vine. 

Some  man  had  come  behind  her  in  the  room 

And  caught  her  by  her  arms,  and  she  had  turned 

With  that  coarse  empty  laugh  on  him,  as  now 

He  munched  her  neck  with  kisses,  while  the  vine 

Crawled  in  her  back. 

And  three  hours  aftei*wards. 
When  she  that  I  had  run  all  risks  to  meet 
Laughed  as  I  told  you,  my  life  burned  to  death 
Within  me,  for  I  thought  it  like  the  laugh 
Heard  at  the  fair.     She  had  not  left  me  long ; 

6 


82  A   LAST  CONFESSION. 

But  all  she  might  have  changed  to,  or  might  change  to, 
(I  know  not  since  —  she  never  speaks  a  word — ) 
Seemed  in  that  laugh.     Have  I  not  told  you  yet, 
Not  told  you  all  this  time  what  happened,  Father, 
When  I  had  offered  her  the  little  knife, 
And  bade  her  keep  it  for  my  sake  that  loved  her. 
And  she  had  laughed?     Have  I  not  told  you  yet? 

'  Take  It,'  I  said  to  her  the  second  time, 
'  Take  it  and  keep  it.'     And  then  came  a  fire 
That  burnt  my  hand  ;  and  then  the  fire  was  blood. 
And  sea  and  sky  were  blood  and  fire,  and  all 
The  day  was  one  red  blindness  ;  till  it  seemed 
Within  the  whirling  brain's  entanglement 
That  she  or  I  or  all  things  bled  to  death. 
And  then  I  found  her  lying  at  my  feet 
And  knew  that  I  had  stabbed  her,  and  saw  still 
The  look  she  gave  me  when  she  took  the  knife 
Deep  in  her  heart,  even  as  I  bade  her  then. 
And  fell,  and  her  stiff  bodice  scooped  the  sand 
Into  her  bosom. 

And  she  keeps  it,  see. 
Do  you  not  see  she  keeps  it  ?  —  there,  beneath 
Wet  fingers  and  wet  tresses,  in  her  heart. 


A   LAST  COJVFESSION.  83 

For  look  you,  when  she  stirs  her  hand,  it  shows 
The  Httle  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl,  —  even  such 
A  dasrsfer  as  our  women  of  the  coast 
Twist  in  their  garters. 

Father,  I  have  done : 
And  from  her  side  now  she  unwinds  the  thick 
Dark  hair ;  all  round  her  side  it  is  wet  through, 
But  like  the  sand  at  Iglio  does  not  change. 
Now  you  may  see  the  dagger  clearly.     Father, 
I  have  told  all :  tell  me  at  once  what  hope 
Can  reach  me  still.     For  now  she  draws  it  out 
Slowly,  and  only  smiles  as  yet :  look.  Father, 
She  scarcely  smiles :  but  I  shall  hear  her  laugh 
Soon,  when  she  shows  the  crimson  blade  to  God. 


84 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

'Yea,  thou  shalt  learn  how  salt  his  food  who  fares 

Upon  another's  bread,  —  how  steep  his  path 
Who  treadeth  up  and  down  another's  stairs.' 

(^Div.  Com.  Parad.  xvii.) 
'Behold,  even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

{Div.  Com.  Purg.  xxx.) 

Of  Florence  and  of  Beatrice 
Servant  and  singer  from  of  old, 
O'er  Dante's  heart  in  youth  had  toll'd 

The  knell  that  gave  his  Lady  peace  ; 
And  now  in  manhood  flew  the  dart 
Wherewith  his  City  pierced  his  heart. 

Yet  if  his  Lady's  home  above 

Was  Heaven,  on  eaith  she  filled  his  soul ; 

And  if  his  City  held  control 
To  cast  the  body  forth  to  rove. 

The  soul  could  soar  from  earth's  vain  throng, 

And  Heaven  and  Hell  fulfil  the  song. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  85 

Follow  his  feet's  appointed  way  ;  — 

But  little  light  we  find  that  clears 

The  darkness  of  the  exiled  years. 
Follow  his  spirit's  journey  :  —  nay, 

What  fires  are  blent,  what  winds  are  blown 

On  paths  his  feet  may  tread  alone  ? 

Yet  of  the  twofold  life  he  led 

In  chainless  thought  and  fettered  will 
Some  glimpses  reach  us,  —  somewhat  still 

Of  the  steep  stairs  and  bitter  bread,  — 
Of  the  soul's  quest  whose  stern  avow 
For  years  had  made  him  haggard  now. 

Alas !  the  Sacred  Song  whereto 

Both  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hand 

Not  only  at  Fame's  gate  did  stand 
Knocking  to  claim  the  passage  through. 

But  toiled  to  ope  that  heavier  door 

Which  Florence  shut  for  evermore. 

Shall  not  his  birth's  baptismal  Town 
One  last  high  presage  yet  fulfil. 
And  at  that  font  in  Florence  still 


86  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

His  forehead  take  the  laurel-crown  ? 
O  God !  or  shall  dead  souls  deny 
The  undying  soul  its  projihecy  ? 

Aye,  'tis  their  hour.     Not  yet  forgot 
The  bitter  words  he  spoke  that  day 
When  for  some  great  charge  far  away 

Her  rulers  his  acceptance  sought. 
'  And  if  I  go,  who  stays  ? '  —  so  rose 
His  scorn  :  — '  And  if  I  stay,  who  goes  ? ' 

'  Lo  !  thou  art  gone  now,  and  we  stay  : ' 
(The  curled  lips  mutter)  :  '  and  no  star 
Is  from  thy  mortal  path  so  far 

As  streets  where  childhood  knew  the  way. 
To  Heaven  and  Hell  thy  feet  may  win, 
But  thine  own  house  they  come  not  in.' 

Therefore,  the  loftier  rose  the  song 
To  touch  the  secret  things  of  God, 
The  deeper  pierced  the  hate  that  trod 

On  base  men's  track  who  wrought  the  wrong , 
Till  the  soul's  effluence  came  to  be 
Its  own  exceeding  agony. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  87 

Arriving  only  to  depart, 

From  court  to  court,  from  land  to  land. 

Like  flame  within  the  naked  hand 
His  body  bore  his  burning  heart 

That  still  on  Florence  strove  to  bring 

God's  fire  for  a  burnt  offering. 

Even  such  was  Dante's  mood,  when  now, 

Mocked  for  long  years  with  Fortune's  sport, 

He  dwelt  at  yet  another  court. 
There  where  Verona's  knee  did  bow 

And  her  voice  hailed  with  all  acclaim 

Can  Grande  della  Scala's  name. 

As  that  lord's  kingly  guest  awhile 
His  life  we  follow  ;  through  the  days 
Which  walked  in  exile's  barren  ways,  — 

The  nights  which  still  beneath  one  smile 

Heard  through  all  spheres  one  song  increase,  — 
'  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt. 
Due  reverence  did  his  steps  attend ; 
The  ushers  on  his  path  would  bend 


88  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

At  ingoing  as  at  going  out ; 
The  penmen  waited  on  his  call 
At  council-board,  the  grooms  in  hall. 

And  pages  hushed  their  laughter  down, 
And  gay  squii^es  stilled  the  merry  stir, 
When  he  passed  up  the  dais-chamber 

With  set  brows  lordlier  than  a  frown  ; 
And  tire-maids  hidden  among  these 
Drew  close  their  loosened  bodices. 

Perhaps  the  priests,  (exact  to  span 

All  God's  circumference,)  if  at  whiles 
They  found  him  wandering  in  their  aisles. 

Grudged  ghostly  greeting  to  the  man 
By  whom,  though  not  of  ghostly  guild, 
With  Heaven  and  Hell  men's  hearts  were  fill'd. 

And  the  court-poets  (he,  forsooth, 

A  whole  world's  poet  strayed  to  court !) 
Had  for  his  scorn  their  hate's  retort. 

He'd  meet  them  flushed  with  easy  youth, 
Hot  on  their  errands.  Like  noon-flies 
They  vexed  him  in  the  ears  and  eyes. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  89 

But  at  this  court,  peace  still  must  wrench 

Her  chaplet  from  the  teeth  of  war  : 

By  day  they  held  high  watch  afar, 
At  night  they  cried  across  the  trench  ; 

And  still,  in  Dante's  path,  the  fierce 

Gaunt  soldiers  wrangled  o'er  their  spears. 

But  vain  seemed  all  the  sti'ength  to  him, 
As  golden  convoys  sunk  at  sea 
Whose  wealth  might  root  out  penury : 

Because  it  was  not,  limb  with  limb, 

Knit  like  his  heart-strings  round  the  wall 
Of  Florence,  that  ill  pride  might  fall. 

Yet  in  the  tiltyard,  when  the  dust 

Cleared  from  the  sundered  press  of  knights 
Ere  yet  again  it  swoops  and  smites, 

He  almost  deemed  his  longing  must 
Find  force  to  wield  that  multitude 
And  hurl  that  strength  the  way  he  would. 

How  should  he  move  them,  —  fame  and  gain 
On  all  hands  calling  them  at  strife  ? 
He  still  might  find  but  his  one  life 


90  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

To  give,  by  Florence  counted  vain  ; 

One  heart  the  false  hearts  made  her  doubt ; 
One  voice  she  heard  once  and  cast  out. 

Oh  !  if  his  Florence  could  but  come, 

A  lily-sceptred  damsel  fair, 

As  her  own  Giotto  painted  her 
On  many  shields  and  gates  at  home,  — 

A  lady  crowned,  at  a  soft  pace 

Ridins:  the  lists  round  to  the  dais : 


o 


Till  where  Can  Grande  rules  the  lists, 
As  young  as  Truth,  as  calm  as  Force, 
She  draws  her  rein  now,  while  her  horse 

Bows  at  the  turn  of  the  white  wrists  ; 
And  when  each  knight  within  his  stall 
Gives  ear,  she  speaks  and  tells  them  all : 

All  the  foul  tale,  —  truth  sworn  untrue 
And  falsehood's  triumph.     All  the  tale? 
Great  God  !  and  must  she  not  prevail 

To  fire  them  ere  they  heard  it  through,  — 
And  hand  achieve  ere  heart  could  rest 
That  high  adventure  of  her  quest  ? 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  91 

How  would  his  Florence  lead  them  forth, 

Her  bridle  ringing  as  she  went ; 

And  at  the  last  within  her  tent, 
'Neath  golden  lilies  worship-worth, 

How  queenly  would  she  bend  the  while 

And  thank  the  victors  with  her  smile  ! 

Also  her  lips  should  turn  his  way 

And  murmur :   '  O  tliou  tried  and  true. 
With  whom  I  wept  the  long  years  through  ! 

What  shall  it  profit  if  I  say, 

Thee  I  remember?     Nay,  through  thee 
All  ages  shall  remember  me.' 

Peace,  Dante,  peace  !     The  task  is  long, 
The  time  wears  short  to  compass  it. 
Within  thine  heart  such  hopes  may  flit 

And  find  a  voice  in  deathless  song  : 
But  lo  !  as  children  of  man's  earth, 
Those  hopes  are  dead  before  their  birth. 

Fame  tells  us  that  Verona's  court 

Was  a  fair  place.     The  feet  miglit  still 
Wander  for  ever  at  their  will 


92  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

In  many  ways  of  sweet  resort ; 
And  still  in  many  a  heart  around 
The  Poet's  name  due  honor  found. 

Watch  we  his  steps.     He  comes  upon 
The  women  at  their  pahn-playing. 
The  conduits  round  the  gardens  sing 

And  meet  in  scoops  of  milk-white  stone, 
Where  wearied  damsels  rest  and  hold 
Their  hands  in  the  wet  spurt  of  gold. 

One  of  whom,  knowing  well  that  he, 

By  some  found  stern,  was  mild  with  them, 
Would  run  and  pluck  his  garment's  hem, 

Saying,  '  Messer  Dante,  pardon  me,'  — 
Praying  that  they  might  hear  the  song 
Which  first  of  all  he  made,  when  young. 

'  Donne  che  avete '  *  .  .  .  Thereunto 
Thus  would  he  murmur,  having  first 
Drawn  near  the  fountain,  while  she  nurs'd 


*  'Donne  che  avete  intelletto  d' amore  : '  —  the  first  can- 
zone of  the  '  Vita  Nuova.' 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  93 

His  hand  against  her  side  :  a  few 

Sweet  words,  and  scarcely  those,  Iialf  said  : 
Then  turned,  and  changed,  and  bowed  his  head. 

For  then  the  voice  said  in  his  heart, 

'  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice  ; ' 

And  his  whole  life  would  3'earn  to  cease : 
Till  having  reached  his  room,  apart 

Beyond  vast  lengths  of  palace-floor, 

He  drew  the  arras  round  his  door. 

At  such  times,  Dante,  thou  hast  set 

Thy  forehead  to  the  painted  pane 

Full  oft,  I  know ;  and  if  the  rain 
Smote  it  outside,  her  fingers  met 

Thy  brow  ;  and  if  the  sun  fell  there, 

Her  breath  was  on  thy  face  and  hair. 

Then,  weeping,  I  think  certainly 

Thou  hast  beheld,  past  sight  of  eyne,  — 

Within  another  room  of  thine 
Where  now  thy  body  may  not  be 

But  where  in  thought  thou  still  rcmain'st,  — 

A  window  often  wept  against : 


94  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

The  window  thou,  a  youth,  hast  sought, 
Flushed  in  the  limpid  eventime, 
Ending  with  da3'light  the  day's  rhyme 

Of  her  ;  where  oftenwhiles  her  thought 
Held  thee  —  the  lamp  untrimmcd  to  write 
In  joy  through  the  blue  lapse  of  night. 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt. 

Guests  seldom  wept.     It  was  brave  s2:)ort. 
No  doubt,  at  Can  La  Scala's  court, 

Within  the  palace  and  without ; 
Where  music,  set  to  madrigals, 
Loitered  all  day  through  groves  and  halls. 

Because  Can  Grande  of  his  life 
Had  not  had  six-and-twenty  years 
As  yet.     And  when  the  chroniclers 

Tell  you  of  that  Vicenza  strife 

And  of  strifes  elsewhere,  —  you  must  not 
Conceive  for  church-sooth  he  had  got 


t>" 


Just  nothing  in  his  wits  but  war  : 

Though  doubtless  't  was  the  young  man's  joy 
(Grown  with  his  growth  from  a  mere  boy,) 


DANTE  AT  VERONA.  95 

To  mark  his  '  Viva  Cane  ! '  scare 

The  foe's  shut  front,  till  it  would  reel 
All  blind  with  shaken  points  of  steel. 


But  there  were  places — held  too  sweet 
For  eves  that  had  not  the  due  veil 
Of  lashes  and  clear  lids  —  as  well 

In  favor  as  his  saddle-seat : 

Breath  of  low  speech  he  scorned  not  there 
Nor  lio'ht  cool  finders  in  his  hair. 


Yet  if  the  child  whom  the  sire's  plan 
Made  free  of  a  deep  treasure-chest 
Scotled  it  with  ill-condit.ioned  jest, — 

We  may  be  sure  too  that  the  man 
Was  not  mere  thews,  nor  all  content 
With  lev^dness  swathed  in  sentiment. 


So  you  may  read  and  marvel  not 
That  such  a  man  as  Dante  —  one 
Who,  while  Can  Grande's  deeds  were  done, 

Had  drawn  his  robe  round  him  and  thought  — 


96  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Now  at  the  same  guest-table  fard 
Where  keen  Uguccio  wiped  his  beard.* 

Through  leaves  and  trellis-work  the  sun 
Left  the  wine  cool  within  the  glass,  — 
They  feasting  where  no  sun  could  pass  : 

And  when  the  women,  all  as  one. 

Rose  up  with  brightened  cheeks  to  go, 
It  was  a  comely  thing,  we  know. 

But  Dante  recked  not  of  the  wine  ; 

Whether  the  women  stayed  or  went, 

His  visage  held  one  stern  intent : 
And  when  the  music  had  its  sign 

To  breathe  upon  them  for  more  ease, 

Sometimes  he  turned  and  bade  it  cease. 

And  as  he  spared  not  to  rebuke 

The  mirth,  so  oft  in  council  he 

To  bitter  truth  bore  testimony  : 
And  when  the  crafty  balance  shook 

Well  jDoised  to  make  the  wrong  prevail, 

Then  Dante's  hand  would  turn  the  scale. 

*  Uguccione    della  Faggiuola,  Dante's  former  protector, 
was  now  his  fellow-guest  at  Verona. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  97 

And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 

Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 

For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 
Fawned  on  its  lord,  '  the  Mars  of  war, 

Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death,'  — 

Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  breath. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 

These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance  : 

His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful ;  and  such  have  many  ways. 

There  was  a  Jester,  a  foul  lout 

Whom  the  court  loved  for  graceless  arts  ; 

Sworn  scholiast  of  the  bestial  parts 
Of  speech  ;  a  ribald  mouth  to  shout 

In  Folly's  horny  tympanum 

Such  things  as  make  the  wise  man  dumb. 

Much  loved,  him  Dante  loathed.     And  so, 
One  day  when  Dante  felt  perplex'd 
If  any  day  that  could  come  next 

.7 


98  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

Were  worth  the  waithig  for  or  no, 
And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din,  — 
Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 

Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth. 
Lords  mouthed  approval ;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.     Can  Gi'ande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  i'  the  air. 

Then,  facing  on  his  guest,  he  cried,  — 

'  Say,  Messer  Dante,  how  it  is 

I  get  out  of  a  clown  like  this 
More  than  your  wisdom  can  provide.' 

And  Dante  :  '  'Tis  man's  ancient  whim 

That  still  his  like  seems  gfood  to  him.' 


to" 


Also  a  tale  is  told,  how  once. 

At  clearing  tables  after  meat, 

Piled  for  a  jest  at  Dante's  feet 
Were  found  the  dinner's  well-picked  bones  ; 

So  laid,  to  please  the  banquet's  lord, 

By  one  who  crouched  beneath  the  board. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  99 

Then  smiled  Can  Grande  to  the  rest :  — 
'  Our  Dante's  tuneful  mouth  indeed 
Lacks  not  the  gift  on  flesh  to  feed  ! ' 

'  Fair  host  of  mine,'  replied  the  guest, 
'  So  many  bones  you'd  not  descry 
If  so  it  chanced  the  dog  were  I.'  * 

But  wherefore  should  we  turn  the  grout 
In  a  drained  cup,  or  be  at  strife 
From  the  worn  garment  of  a  life 

To  rip  the  twisted  ravel  out? 

Good  needs  expounding  ;  but  of  ill 
Each  hath  enough  to  guess  his  fill. 

They  named  him  Justicer-at-Law  : 
Each  month  to  bear  the  tale  in  mind 
Of  hues  a  wench  might  wear  unfin'd 

And  of  the  load  an  ox  might  draw  ; 
To  cavil  in  the  weight  of  bread 
And  to  see  purse-thieves  gibbeted. 

*  '  Messere,  voinon  vedreste  tant  'ossa  se  cane  iofossi.^  The 
point  of  the  reproach  is  difficult  to  render,  depending  as  it  docs 
on  the  literal  meaning  of  the  name  Cane. 


100  DANTE  AT   VERONA.    • 

And  when  his  spirit  wove  the  spell 
(From  under  even  to  over-noon 
In  converse  with  itself  alone,) 

As  high  as  Heaven,  as  low  as  Hell,  — 
He  would  be  summoned  and  must  go  : 
For  had  not  Gian  stabbed  Giacomo  ? 

Therefore  the  bread  he  had  to  eat 

Seemed  brackish,  less  like  corn  than  tares ; 
And  the  rush-strown  accustomed  stairs 

Each  day  were  steeper  to  his  feet ; 
And  when  the  night-vigil  was  done, 
His  brows  would  ache  to  feel  the  sun. 

Nevertheless,  when  from  his  kin 
There  came  the  tidings  how  at  last 
In  Florence  a  decree  was  pass'd 

Whereby  all  banished  folk  might  win 
Free  pardon,  so  a  fine  were  paid 
And  act  of  public  penance  made,  — 

This  Dante  writ  in  answer  thus. 

Words  such  as  these  :  '  That  clearly  they 
In  Florence  must  not  have  to  say,  — 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  loi 

The  man  abode  aloof  from  us 

Nigh  fifteen  years,  yet  lastly  skulk'd 
Hither  to  candleshrift  and  mulct. 

'  That  he  was  one  the  Heavens  forbid 

To  traffic  in  God's  justice  sold 

By  market-weight  of  earthly  gold, 
Or  to  bow  down  over  the  lid 

Of  steaming  censers,  and  so  be 

Made  clean  of  manhood's  obloquy. 

'  That  since  no  gate  led,  by  God's  will. 
To  Florence,  but  the  one  whereat 
The  priests  and  money-changers  sat. 

He  still  would  wander  ;  for  that  still. 
Even  through  the  body's  prison-bars. 
His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars.' 

Such  were  his  words.     It  is  indeed 

For  ever  well  our  singers  should 

Utter  good  words  and  know  them  good 
Not  through  song  only  ;  with  close  heed 

Lest,  having  spent  for  the  work's  sake 

Six  days,  the  man  be  left  to  make. 


I02  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Months  o'er  Verona,  till  the  feast 

Was  come  for  Florence  the  Free  Town  : 
And  at  the  shrine  of  Baptist  John 

The  exiles,  girt  with  many  a  priest 
And  carrying  candles  as  they  went, 
Were  held  to  mercy  of  the  saint. 

On  the  high  seats  in  sober  state,  — 

Gold  neck-chains  range  o'er  range  below 
Gold  screen-work  where  the  lilies  grow,  - 

The  Heads  of  the  Republic  sate, 
Marking  the  humbled  face  go  by 
Each  one  of  his  house-enemy. 

And  as  each  prescript  rose  and  stood 
From  kneeling  in  the  ashen  dust 
On  the  shrine-steps,  some  magnate  thrust 

A  beard  into  the  velvet  hood 

Of  his  front  colleague's  gown,  to  see 
The  cinders  stuck  in  the  bare  knee. 

Tosinghi  passed,  Manelli  passed, 
Rinucci  passed,  each  in  his  place 
But  not  an  Alighieri's  face 


DANTE  AT   VERONA,  103 

Went  by  that  clay  from  first  to  last 
In  the  Republic's  triumph  ;  nor 
A  foot  came  home  to  Dante's  door. 

(Respublica  —  a  public  thing: 
A  shameful  shameless  prostitute, 
Whose  lust  with  one  lord  may  not  suit, 

So  takes  by  turns  its  revelling 

A  night  with  each,  till  he  at  morn 
Is  stripped  and  beaten  forth  forlorn, 

And  leaves  her,  cursing  her.     If  she. 

Indeed,  have  not  some  spice-draught,  hid 
In  scent  under  a  silver  lid, 

To  drench  his  open  throat  with  —  he 
Once  hard  asleep  ;  and  thrust  him  not 
At  dawn  beneath  the  boards  to  rot.) 

Years  filled  out  their  twelve  moons,  and  ceased 

One  in  another  ;  and  alway 

There  were  the  whole  twelve  hours  each  day 
And  each  night  as  the  years  increased  ; 

And  rising  moon  and  setting  sun 

Beheld  that  Dante's  work  was  done. 


104  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

What  of  his  work  for  Florence  ?     Well 
It  was,  he  knew,  and  well  must  be. 
Yet  evermore  her  hate's  decree 

Dwelt  in  his  thought  intolerable  :  — 
His  body  to  be  burned,*  —  his  soul 
To  beat  its  wings  at  hope's  vain  goal. 

What  of  his  work  for  Beatrice  "i 

Now  well-nigh  was  the  third  song  writ,  — 
The  stars  a  third  time  sealing  it 

With  sudden  music  of  pure  peace  : 
For  echoing  thrice  the  threefold  song. 
The  unnumbered  stars  the  tone  prolong.f 

Each  hour,  as  then  the  Vision  pass'd, 

He  heard  the  vitter  harmony 

Of  the  nine  trembling  spheres,  till  she 
Bowed  her  eyes  towards  him  in  the  last, 

So  that  all  ended  with  her  eyes. 

Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise. 

*  Such  was  the  last  sentence  passed  by  Florence  against 
Dante,  as  a  recalcitrant  exile. 

t  '  E  quindi  uscimmo  a  riveder  le  stelle.^    Inferno. 

'  Puro  e  disposto  a  salire  alle  stclle.''    Purgatorio. 

'  L'amor  che  muove  il  sole  e  I'altre  sidle.'     Paradiso. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  105 

'  It  is  my  trust,  as  the  years  fall, 
To  write  more  worthily  of  her 
Who  now,  being  made  God's  minister. 

Looks  on  His  visage  and  knows  all.' 
Such  was  the  hope  that  love  did  blend 
'With  grief's  slow  fires,  to  make  an  end 

Of  the  '  New  Life,'  his  youth's  dear  book  : 

Adding  thereunto  :  '  In  such  trust 

I  labor,  and  believe  I  must 
Accomplish  this  which  my  soul  took 

In  charge,  if  God,  my  Lord  and  hers, 

Leave  my  life  with  me  a  few  years.' 

The  trust  which  he  had  borne  in  youth 

Was  all  at  length  accomplished.     He 

At  length  had  written  worthily  — 
Yea  even  of  her ;  no  rhymes  uncouth 

'Twixt  tongue  and  tongue  ;  but  by  God's  aid 

The  first  words  Italy  had  said. 

Ah !  haply  now  the  heavenly  guide 
Was  not  the  last  form  seen  by  him  : 
But  there  that  Beatrice  stood  slim 

And  bowed  in  passing  at  his  side, 


lo6  DANTE  AT   VERONA. 

For  whom  in  youth  his  heart  made  moan 
Then  when  the  city  sat  alone.* 

Clearly  herself;  the  same  whom  he 

Met,  not  past  girlhood,  in  the  street. 

Low-bosomed  and  with  hidden  feet ; 
And  then  as  woman  perfectly, 

In  years  that  followed,  many  an  once,  — 

And  now  at  last  among  the  suns 

In  that  high  vision.     But  indeed 

It  may  be  memory  did  recall 

Last  to  him  then  the  first  of  all,  — 
The  child  his  boyhood  bore  in  heed 

Nine  years.   At  length  the  voice  brought  peace, — 

'  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice.' 

All  this,  being  there,  we  had  not  seen. 
Seen  only  was  the  shadow  wrought 
On  the  strong  features  bound  in  thought ; 

The  vagueness  gaining  gait  and  mien  ; 
The  white  streaks  gathering  clear  to  view 
In  the  burnt  beard  the  women  knew. 

*  '  ^uotnodo  sedet  sola  civitas ! '  —  the  words  quoted  bj  Dante 
in  the  '  Vita  Nuova '  when  he  speaks  of  the  death  of  Beatrice. 


DANTE  AT   VERONA.  107 

For  a  tale  tells  that  on  his  track, 

As  through  Verona's  streets  he  went, 
This  saying  certain  women  sent :  — 

*  Lo,  he  that  strolls  to  Hell  and  back 
At  will !     Behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  beard  and  singed  his  cheek.' 

'  Whereat '  (Boccaccio's  words)  '  he  smil'd 

For  pride  in  fame.'     It  might  be  so  : 

Nevertheless  we  cannot  know 
If  haply  he  were  not  beguil'd 

To  bitterer  mirth,  who  scarce  could  tell 

If  he  indeed  were  back  from  Hell. 

So  the  day  came,  after  a  space. 

When  Dante  felt  assured  that  there 

The  sunshine  must  lie  sicklier 
Even  than  in  any  other  place. 

Save  only  Florence.     When  that  day 

Had  come,  he  rose  and  went  his  way. 

He  went  and  turned  not.     From  his  shoes 
It  may  be  that  he  shook  the  dust, 
As  every  righteous  dealer  must 


io8  DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

Once  and  again  ere  life  can  close  : 
And  unaccomplished  destiny 
Struck  cold  his  forehead,  it  may  be. 

No  book  keeps  record  how  the  Pi-ince 
Sunned  himself  out  of  Dante's  reach, 
Nor  how  the  Jester  stank  in  speech  ; 

While  courtiers,  used  to  smile  and  wince, 
Poets  and  harlots,  all  the  throng. 
Let  loose  their  scandal  and  their  song. 

No  book  keeps  record  if  the  seat 

Which  Dante  held  at  his  host's  board 
Were  sat  in  next  by  clerk  or  lord,  — 

If  leman  lolled  with  dainty  feet 
At  ease,  or  hostage  brooded  there. 
Or  priest  lacked  silence  for  his  prayer. 

Eat  and  wash  hands.  Can  Grande  ;  —  scarce 
We  know  their  deeds  now :  hands  which  fed 
Our  Dante  with  that  bitter  bread ; 

And  thou  the  watch-dog  of  those  stairs 
Which,  of  all  paths  his  feet  knew  well, 
Were  steeper  found  than  Heaven  or  Hell. 


log 


JENNY. 

"  Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case !     Fie  on  her !    Never  name  her, 
child !  "  —  {Mrs.  Quickly.) 

Lazy,  laughing,  languid  Jenny, 

Fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea, 

Whose  head  upon  my  knee  to-night 

Rests  for  a  while,  as  if  grown  light 

With  all  our  dances  and  the  sound 

To  which  the  wild  tunes  spun  you  round : 

Fair  Jenny  mine,  the  thoughtless  queen 

Of  kisses  which  the  blush  between 

Could  hardly  make  much  daintier  ; 

Whose  eyes  are  as  blue  skies,  whose  hair 

Is  countless  gold  incomparable  : 

Fresh  flower,  scarce  touched  with  signs  that  tell 

Of  Love's  exuberant  hotbed  :  —  Nay, 

Poor  flower  left  torn  since  yesterday 

Until  to-morrow  leave  you  bare  ; 

Poor  handful  of  bright  spring-water 

Flung  in  the  whirlpool's  shrieking  face ; 


no  JENNY. 

Poor  shameful  Jenny,  full  of  grace 
Thus  with  your  head  upon  iny  knee  ;  — 
Whose  person  or  whose  purse  may  be 
The  lodestar  of  your  reverie  ? 

This  room  of  yours,  my  Jenny,  looks 
A  change  from  mine  so  full  of  books, 
Whose  serried  ranks  hold  fast,  forsooth, 
So  many  captive  hours  of  youth,  — 
The  hours  they  thieve  from  day  and  night 
To  make  one's  cherished  work  come  right, 
And  leave  it  wrong  for  all  their  theft. 
Even  as  to-night  my  work  was  left : 
Until  I  vowed  that  since  my  brain 
And  eyes  of  dancing  seemed  so  fain, 
My  feet  should  have  some  dancing  too  :  — 
And  thus  it  was  I  met  with  you. 
Well,  I  suppose  'twas  hard  to  part. 
For  hei'e  I  am.     And  now,  sweetheart, 
You  seem  too  tired  to  get  to  bed. 

It  was  a  careless  life  I  led 
When  rooms  like  this  were  scai'ce  so  strange 
Not  long  ago.     What  breeds  the  change, — 


JENNY.  Ill 

The  many  aims  or  the  few  years? 
Because  to-night  it  all  appears 
Something  I  do  not  know  again. 

The  cloud's  not  danced  out  of  my  brain,  — 
The  cloud  that  made  it  turn  and  swim 
While  hour  by  hour  the  books  grew  dim. 
Why,  Jenny,  as  I  watch  you  there,  — 
For  all  your  wealth  of  loosened  hair. 
Your  silk  ungirdled  and  unlac'd 
And  warm  sweets  open  to  the  waist. 
All  golden  in  the  lamplight's  gleam,  — 
You  know  not  what  a  book  you  seem. 
Half-read  by  lightning  in  a  dream  ! 
How  should  you  know,  my  Jenny  ?     Nay, 
And  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  :  — 
Poor  beauty,  so  well  worth  a  kiss  ! 
But  while  my  thought  runs  on  like  this 
With  wasteful  whims  more  than  enough, 
I  wonder  what  you're  thinking  of. 

If  of  myself  you  think  at  all. 
What  is  the  thought?  —  conjectural 
On  sorry  matters  best  unsolved  ?  — 


ri2  JENNY. 

Or  inly  is  each  grace  revolved 
To  fit  me  with  a  lure  ?  —  or  (sad 
To  think  !)  perhaps  you're  merely  glad 
That  I'm  not  drunk  or  ruffianly 
And  let  you  rest  upon  my  knee. 

For  sometimes,  v^^ere  the  truth  confcss'd, 
You're  thankful  for  a  little  rest,  — 
Glad  from  the  crush  to  rest  v^^ithin. 
From  the  heart-sickness  and  the  din 
Where  envy's  voice  at  virtue's  pitch 
Mocks  you  because  your  gow^n  is  rich  ; 
And  from  the  pale  girl's  dumb  rebuke, 
Whose  ill-clad  grace  and  toil-worn  look 
Proclaim  the  strength  that  keeps  her  weak 
And  other  nights  than  yours  bes^Deak  ; 
And  from  the  wise  unchildish  elf, 
To  schoolmate  lesser  than  himself 
Pointing  you  out,  what  thing  you  are  :  — 
Yes,  from  the  daily  jeer  and  jar, 
From  shame  and  shame's  outbraving  too, 
Is  rest  not  sometimes  sweet  to  you  ?  — 
But  most  from  the  hatefulness  of  man 
Who  spares  not  to  end  what  he  began, 


JENNY.  113 

Whose  acts  are  ill  and  his  speech  ill, 
Who,  having  used  you  at  his  will, 
Thrusts  you  aside,  as  when  I  dine 
I  sei"ve  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 

Well,  handsome  Jenny  mine,  sit  up, 
I've  filled  our  glasses,  let  us  sup, 
And  do  not  let  me  think  of  you. 
Lest  shame  of  youi's  suffice  for  two. 
What,  still  so  tired?     Well,  well  then,  keep 
Your  head  there,  so  you  do  not  sleep  ; 
But  that  the  weariness  may  pass 
And  leave  you  meny,  take  this  glass. 
Ah  !  lazy  lily  hand,  more  bless'd 
If  ne'er  in  rings  it  had  been  dress'd 
Nor  ever  by  a  glove  conceal'd ! 

Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
They  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin  ; 
(So  doth  the  ancient  text  begin,  — 
Not  of  such  rest  as  one  of  these 
Can  share.)     Another  rest  and  ease 
Along  each  summer-sated  path 
From  its  new  lord  the  garden  hath, 

8 


114  JENNY. 

Than  that  whose  sprhig  in  blessings  ran 
Which  praised  the  bounteous  husbandman, 
Ere  yet,  in  days  of  hankering  breath, 
The  liHes  sickened  unto  death. 

What,  Jenny,  are  your  lilies  dead  ?    . 
Aye,  and  the  snow-white  leaves  are  spread 
Like  winter  on  the  garden-bed. 
But  you  had  roses  left  in  May,  — 
They  were  not  gone  too.    Jenny,  nay, 
But  must  your  roses  die,  and  those 
Their  purfled  buds  that  should  unclose  ? 
Even  so  ;  the  leaves  are  curled  apart. 
Still  red  as  from  the  broken  heart, 
And  here's  the  naked  stem  of  thorns. 

Nay,  nay,  mere  words.     Here  nothing  warns 
As  yet  of  winter.     Sickness  here 
Or  want  alone  could  waken  fear,  — 
Nothing  but  passion  wrings  a  tear. 
Except  when  there  may  rise  unsought 
Haply  at  times  a  passing  thought 
Of  the  old  days  which  seem  to  be 
Much  older  than  any  history 


JENNY.  115 

That  is  written  in  any  book  ; 

When  she  would  lie  in  fields  and  look 

Along  the  ground  through  the  blown  grass, 

And  wonder  where  the  city  was, 

Far  out  of  sight,  whose  broil  and  bale 

They  told  her  then  for  a  child's  tale. 

Jenny,  you  know  the  city  now. 
A  child  can  tell  the  tale  there,  how 
Some  things  which  are  not  yet  enroll'd 
In  market-lists  are  bought  and  sold 
Even  till  the  early  Sunday  light, 
When  Saturday  night  is  market-night 

i. 

Everywhere,  be  it  dr}^  or  wet, 

And  market-night  in  the  Haymarket. 

Our  learned  London  children  know, 

Poor  Jenny,  all  your  mirth  and  woe  ; 

Have  seen  your  lifted  silken  skirt 

Advertise  dainties  through  the  dirt ; 

Have  seen  your  coach-wheels  splash  rebuke 

On  virtue  ;  and  have  learned  your  look 

When,  wealth  and  health  slipped  past,  you  stare 

Along  the  streets  alone,  and  there, 

Round  the  long  park,  across  the  bridge. 


ii6  JENNY. 

The  cold  lamps  at  the  pavement's  edge 
Wind  on  together  and  apart, 
A  fiery  serpent  for  your  heart. 

Let  the  thoughts  pass,  an  empty  cloud  ! 
Suppose  I  were  to  think  aloud,  — 
What  if  to  her  all  this  were  said  ? 
Why,  as  a  volume  seldom  read 
Being  opened  halfway  shuts  again. 
So  might  the  pages  of  her  brain 
Be  parted  at  such  words,  and  thence 
Close  back  upon  the  dusty  sense. 
For  is  there  hue  or  shape  defin'd 
In  Jenny's  desecrated  mind. 
Where  all  contagious  currents  meet, 
A  Lethe  of  the  middle  street .? 
Nay,  it  reflects  not  any  face, 
Nor  sound  is  in  its  sluggish  pace. 
But  as  they  coil  those  eddies  clot. 
And  night  and  day  remember  not. 

Why,  Jenny,  you're  asleep  at  last !  — 
Asleep,  poor  Jenny,  hard  and  fast,  — 
So  young  and  soft  and  tired  ;  so  fair, 


JENNY.  117 

With  chin  thus  nestled  in  your  hair, 

Mouth  quiet,  eyelids  almost  blue 

As  if  some  sky  of  dreams  shone  through  ! 

Just  as  another  woman  sleejDS  ! 
Enough  to  throw  one's  thoughts  in  heaps 
Of  doubt  and  horror, — what  to  say 
Or  think,  —  this  awful  secret  sway. 
The  potter's  power  over  the  clay  ! 
Of  the  same  lump  (it  has  been  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made. 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  fun, 
And  fond  of  dress,  and  change,  and  praise. 
So  mere  a  woman  in  her  ways : 
And  if  her  sweet  eyes  rich  in  youth 
Are  like  her  lips  that  tell  the  truth, 
My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  love. 
And  she's  the  girl  I'm  pi'oudest  of. 
Who  does  not  prize  her,  guard  her  well .'' 
The  love  of  change,  in  cousin  Nell, 
Shall  find  the  best  and  hold  it  dear : 
The  unconquered  mirth  turn  quieter 


Ii8  JENNY. 

Not  through  her  own,  through  others'  woe  : 

The  conscious  pride  of  beauty  glow 

Beside  another's  pride  in  her, 

One  little  part  of  all  they  share. 

For  Love  himself  shall  ripen  these 

In  a  kind  soil  to  just  increase 

Through  years  of  fertilizing  peace. 

Of  the  same  lump  (as  it  is  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made. 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

It  makes  a  goblin  of  the  sun. 

So  pure,  —  so  ftill'n  !     How  dare  to  think 
Of  the  first  common  kindred  link .'' 
Yet,  Jenny,  till  the  world  shall  burn 
It  seems  that  all  things  take  their  turn  ; 
And  who  shall  say  but  this  fair  tree 
May  need,  in  changes  that  may  be, 
Your  children's  children's  charity.^ 
Scorned  then,  no  doubt,  as  you  are  scorn'd  I 
Shall  no  man  hold  his  pride  forewarn'd 
Till  in  the  end,  the  Day  of  Days, 


JENNY.  1 19 

At  Judgment,  one  of  his  own  race, 
As  frail  and  lost  as  you,  shall  rise,  — 
His  daughter,  with  his  mother's  eyes  ? 

How  Jenny's  clock  ticks  on  the  shelf! 
Might  not  the  dial  scorn  itself 
That  has  such  hours  to  register? 
Yet  as  to  me,  even  so  to  her 
Are  golden  sun  and  silver  moon, 
In  daily  largesse  of  earth's  boon, 
Counted  for  life-coins  to  one  tune. 
And  if,  as  blindfold  fates  are  toss'd, 
Through  some  one  man  this  life  be  lost, 
Shall  soul  not  somehow  pay  for  soul  ? 

Fair  shines  the  gilded  aureole 
In  which  our  highest  painters  place 
Some  living  woman's  simple  face. 
And  the  stilled  features  thus  descried 
As  Jenny's  long  throat  droops  aside,  — 
The  shadows  where  the  cheeks  are  thin, 
And  pure  wide  cui"ve  from  ear  to  chin,  — 
With  Raflael's  or  Da  Vinci's  hand 
To  show  them  to  men's  souls,  might  stand, 


120  JENNY. 

Whole  ages  long,  the  whole  world  through, 
For  preachings  of  what  God  can  do. 
What  has  man  done  here  ?     How  atone. 
Great  God,  for  this  which  man  has  done  ? 
And  for  the  body  and  soul  which  by- 
Man's  pitiless  doom  must  now  comply 
With  lifelong  hell,  what  lullaby 
Of  sweet  forgetful  second  birth 
Remains  ?     All  dark.     No  sign  on  earth 
What  measure  of  God's  rest  endows 
The  many  mansions  of  his  house. 

If  but  a  woman's  heart  might  see 
Such  erring  heart  unerringly 
For  once  !  But  that  can  never  be. 

Like  a  rose  shut  in  a  book 
In  which  pure  women  may  not  look, 
For  its  base  pages  claim  control 
To  crush  the  flower  within  the  soul ; 
Where  through  each  dead  rose-leaf  that  clings. 
Pale  as  transparent  psyche-wings, 
To  the  vile  text,  are  traced  such  things 
As  might  make  lady's  cheek  indeed 


JENNY.  121 

Moi-e  than  a  living  rose  to  read  ; 

So  nought  save  foolish  foulness  may 

Watch  with  hard  eyes  the  sure  decay ; 

And  so  the  life-blood  of  this  rose, 

Puddled  with  shameful  knowledge,  flows 

Through  leaves  no  chaste  hand  may  unclose  ; 

Yet  still  it  keeps  such  faded  show 

Of  when  'twas  gathered  long  ago, 

That  the  crushed  petals'  lovely  grain, 

The  sweetness  of  the  sanguine  stain, 

Seen  of  a  woman's  eyes,  must  make 

Her  pitiful  heart,  so  prone  to  ache. 

Love  roses  better  for  its  sake  :  — 

Only  that  this  can  never  be  :  — 

Even  so  unto  her  sex  is  she. 

Yet,  Jenny,  looking  long  at  you, 
The  woman  almost  fades  from  view. 
A  cipher  of  man's  changeless  sum 
Of  lust,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
Is  left.     A  riddle  that  one  shrinks 
To  challenge  from  the  scornful  sphinx. 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone 
Seated  while  Time  crumbles  on  ; 


122  JENNY. 

Which  sits  tliere  since  the  earth  was  curs'd 

For  Man's  transgression  at  the  first ; 

Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 

Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise  ; 

Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed, 

The  earth's  whole  summers  have  not  warmed  ; 

Which  always  —  whitherso  the  stone 

Be  flung  —  sits  there,  deaf,  blind,  alone  ;  — 

Aye,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 

Till  that  which  shuts  him  round  about 

Break  at  the  very  Master's  stroke. 

And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke, 

And  the  seed  of  Man  vanish  as  dust :  — 

Even  so  within  this  world  is  Lust. 

Come,  come,  what  use  in  thoughts  like  this  ? 
Poor  little  Jenny,  good  to  kiss,  — 
You'd  not, believe  by  what  strange  roads 
Thought  travels,  when  your  beauty  goads. 
A  man  to-night  to  think  of  toads ! 
Jenny,  wake  up.  .  .  .  Why,  there's  the  dawn ! 

And  there's  an  early  waggon  drawn 
To  market,  and  some  sheep  that  jog 


JEiYNY.  123 

Bleating  before  a  barking  dog  ; 
And  the  old  streets  come  peering  through 
Anotlier  night  that  London  knew  ; 
And  all  as  ghostlike  as  the  lamps. 

So  on  the  wings  of  day  decamps 
My  last  night's  frolic.     Glooms  begin 
To  shiver  off  as  lights  creep  in 
Past  the  gauze  curtains  half  drawn-to. 
And  the  lamp's  doubled  shade  grows  blue,  — 
Your  lamp,  my  Jenny,  kept  alight. 
Like  a  wise  virgin's,  all  one  night ! 
And  in  the  alcove  coolly  spread 
Glimmers  with  dawn  your  empty  bed  ; 
And  yonder  yovu'  fair  face  I  see 
Reflected  lying  on  my  knee. 
Where  teems  with  first  foreshadowings 
Your  pier-glass  scrawled  with  diamond  rings. 

And  now  without,  as  if  some  word 
Had  called  upon  them  that  they  heard, 
The  London  sparrows  far  and  nigh 
Clamor  together  suddenly ; 
And  Jenny's  cage-bird  grown  awake 


124  JENNY. 

Here  in  their  song  his  part  must  take, 
Because  here  too  the  day  doth  break. 

And  somehow  in  mj'self  the  dawn 
Among  stirred  clouds  and  veils  withdrawn 
Strikes  grayly  on  her.     Let  her  sleep. 
But  will  it  wake  her  if  I  heap 
These  cushions  thus  beneath  her  head 
Where  my  knee  was?    No,  —  there's  your  bed. 
My  Jenny,  while  you  dream.     And  there 
I  lay  among  your  golden  hair 
Perhaps  the  subject  of  your  dreams. 
These  golden  coins. 

For  still  one  deems 
That  Jenny's  flattering  sleep  confers 
New  magic  on  the  magic  purse,  — 
Grim  web,  how  clogged  with  shrivelled  flies ! 
Between  the  threads  fine  fumes  arise 
And  shape  their  pictures  in  the  brain. 
There  roll  no  streets  in  glare  and  rain. 
Nor  flagrant  man-swine  whets  his  tusk ; 
But  delicately  sighs  in  musk 
The  homage  of  the  dim  boudoir  ; 
Or  like  a  palpitating  star 


JENNY.  125 

Thrilled  into  song,  the  opera-night 

Breathes  faint  in  the  quick  pulse  of  light ; 

Or  at  the  caiTiage-window  shine 

Rich  wares  for  choice  ;  or,  free  to  dine, 

Whirls  through  its  hour  of  health  (divine 

For  her)  the  concourse  of  the  Park. 

And  though  in  the  discounted  dark 

Her  functions  there  and  here  are  one, 

Beneath  the  lamps  and  in  the  sun 

There  reigns  at  least  the  acknowledged  belle 

Apparelled  beyond  parallel. 

Ah,  Jenny,  yes,  we  know  your  dreams. 

For  even  the  Paphian  Venus  seems 
A  goddess  o'er  the  realms  of  love, 
When  silver-shrined  in  shadowy  grove  : 
Aye,  or  let  offerings  nicely  placed 
But  hide  Priapus  to  the  waist, 
And  whoso  looks  on  him  shall  see 
An  eligible  deity. 

Why,  Jenny,  waking  here  alone 
Alay  help  you  to  remember  one. 
Though  all  the  memory's  long  outworn 


T.26'  JENNY. 

Of  many  a  double-pillowed  morn. 
I  think  I  see  you  when  you  wake, 
And  rub  your  eyes  for  me,  and  shake 
My  gold,  in  rising,  from  your  hair, 
A  Danae  for  a  moment  there. 

Jenny,  my  love  rang  true  !  for  still 
Love  at  first  sight  is  vague,  until 
That  tinkling  makes  him  audible. 

And  must  I  mock  you  to  the  last, 
Ashamed  of  my  own  shame,  —  aghast 
Because  some  thoughts  not  born  amiss 
Rose  at  a  poor  fair  face  like  this.'' 

Well,  of  such  thoughts  so  much  I  know : 
In  my  life,  as  in  hers,  they  show. 
By  a  far  gleam  which  I  may  near, 
A  dark  path  I  can  strive  to  clear. 

Only  one  kiss.     Good-bye,  my  dear. 


127 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Tins  is  her  picture  as  she  was : 

It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 
As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 
I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 
Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 

To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart  :- 
And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Alas !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That  makes  the  prison-depths  more  rude, 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 

Yet  this,  of  all  love's  perfect  prize, 

Remains  ;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 


128  THE   PORTRAIT. 

Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 
Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 


In  painting  her  I  shrined  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  foils  in 

Hardly  at  all ;  a  covert  place 

Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 

A  deep  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day  :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands 

And  such  the  pure  line's  gracious  flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

'Tis  she  :  though  of  herself,  alas  ! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  erass 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 


THE  PORTRAIT.  129 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she 

One  with  the  other  all  alone ; 
And  we  were  blithe  ;  yet  memory 

Saddens  those  hours,  as  when  the  moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stooped  to  drink  the  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang  ; 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang,  — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But  when  that  hour  my  soul  won  strength 

For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and  kills, 
Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 

Thundered  the  heat  within  the  hills. 
That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 
Beside  the  pelted  window-pane  ; 

And  there  she  hearkened  what  I  said, 

With  under-glances  that  surveyed 
The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things, 

Like  leaves  through  which  a  bird  has  flown, 

Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings  ; 
Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 

9 


130  THE   PORTRAIT. 

And  paint  this  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 

Of  talk  and  sweet  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 
At  windows  of  a  summer  room. 

To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 
And  all  around  was  fragrant  airj 

In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 

It  seemed  each  sun-thrilled  blossom  there 

Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 

O  heart  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 
In  that  one  darkness  lying  still, 
What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will 

Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves .'' 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those  days,  —  nought  left  to  see  or  hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time  these  things  reach  mine  ear, 
When  the  leaf-shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath, 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide. 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  death. 


THE   PORTRAIT.  131 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept, 

And  yet  delayed  my  sleep  till  dawn, 
Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept : 

For  unawares  I  came  upon 
Those  glades  where  once  she  walked  with  me : 
And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly. 

All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 

Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 
Yearned  loud  the  iron-bosomed  sea. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and  hears 

The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast,  — 
Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 

All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest,  — 
How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed. 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns. 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God ! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it. 
Eyes  of  the  spirif  s  Palestine, 


132  THE   PORTRAIT. 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer  : 
While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side, 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 
About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


133 


/• 


SISTER  HELEN. 

'  Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen? 
To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began.' 
'  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother^  Mary  Mother^ 
Three  days  to-day^  betiveeti  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might.' 
'  Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother^ 
Third  night,  to-night,  betivecn  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


134  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen ; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well.' 
'Even  so,  —  nay,  peace  !  you  cannot  tell, 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother,  Alary  Mother, 
O  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

'  Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen  ; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away !  * 

'  Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say. 

Little  brother?' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  of  the  dead,  betweeii  Hell  and  Heaven  ?) 

*  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 

Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood  ! ' 

'  Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood, 

Litde  brother.?' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaveiz !) 


SISTER  HELEN.  135 

'  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick  and  sore, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door.' 
'  Aye,  let  me  rest,  —  I'll  lie  on  the  floor. 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother.,  Alary  Mother., 
What  rest  to-night.,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

'  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me.' 
'  Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see. 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
What  sight  to-night.,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

*  Outside  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake, 

Sister  Helen ; 
In  the  shaken  trees  tlie  chill  stars  shake.' 
'  Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake. 

Little  brother.?' 
(  O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
WJiat  sound  to-night.,  between  Hell  a?id  Heaven  ?) 


136  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly.' 
'  Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three. 

Little  brother?' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  come,  between  Hell  and  Heaveti  P) 

'  They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar.' 
'  Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are, 

Little  brother  ? ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  P) 

*  Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast.' 
'  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


SISTER  HELEN.  137 

'  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo  ! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with  you.' 
'  Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
Why  laughs  she  thus.,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

'  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die.' 
'  And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  T) 

'  For  three  days  now  he  has  lain  abed, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead.' 
'  The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  praj-ed, 

Little  brodier ! ' 
(  O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
If  he  have  grayed.,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !) 


138  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away.' 
'  My  prayer  was  heard,  —  he  need  but  pray, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(O  Mother^  Mary  Mother, 
Shall  God  not  hear,  betiveen  Hell  and  Heaven  P) 

'  But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban. 

Sister  Helen, 
His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can.' 
'  Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man. 

Little  brother.?' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother^ 
A  living'  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame.' 
'  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same. 

Little  brother.' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


SISTER  HELEN.  139 

'  Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast.' 
'  The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  P) 

'  He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse. 

Sister  Helen  ; 
But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's  course.' 
'  Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
A  word  ill  heard,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !) 

'  Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die.' 
'  He  sees  me  in  earth,  in  moon  and  sky. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Earth,  moon  and  sky,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !) 


140  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne.' 
'  What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother  ?  * 
{O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother, 
Oh,  7iever  more.,  betiveeti  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

'  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain. 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain.' 
'  What  else  he  took  w^ill  he  give  again, 

Little  brother?' 
{O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother, 
JVo  more  again,  between  Hell  aiid  Heaven  !) 

'  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 

Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  vv^eep  to  see.' 
'  Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love  tur7ied  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


SISTER  HELEN.  141 

'  Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast.' 
'  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother ! ' 
{O  Mother,  Mary  Mother., 
Will  soon  be  past.,  between  Hell  a?zd  Heaven !) 

'  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  oh  !  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak  ! ' 
'  What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek, 

Little  brother?' 
(O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother., 
Is  this  the  end.,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?^ 

'  Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive. 

Sister  Helen, 
The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live.' 
'  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(O  Mother.,  Mary  Mother, 
As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven .') 


142  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive.' 
'  Nay,  flame  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven !) 

'  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road. 

Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God  ! ' 
'  The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode, 

Little  brother.' 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  tvay  is  long;  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 

'  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell. 

Sister  Helen ! 
More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell.' 
'  No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  aitd  Heaven  !) 


SISTER  HELEN.  143 

'  Alas  !  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?' 
'  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 

Little  brother?' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  P) 

'  They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee. 

Sister  Helen, 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily.' 
'  More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  7taked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

'  Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill.' 
'  But  Keith  of  Ewern's  sadder  still. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !) 


144  SISTER  HELEN. 

'  See,  see,  the  wax  has  chopped  from  its  place, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace  ! ' 

'  Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I) 

'  Ah  !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

Ah  !  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?' 

*  A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost. 

Little  brother ! ' 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  betxveen  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 


H5 


.    STRATTON  WATER. 

'  O  HAVE  you  seen  the  Stratton  flood 
That's  great  with  rain  to  day  ? 

It  runs  beneath  your  wall,  Lord  Sands, 
Full  of  the  new-mown  hay. 

'  I  led  your  hounds  to  Hutton  bank 

To  bathe  at  early  morn  : 
They  got  their  bath  by  Borrowbrake 

Above  the  standinsr  corn.' 


e> 


Out  from  the  castle-stair  Lord  Sands 
Looked  up  the  westei^n  Ida: ; 

The  rook  was  grieving  on  her  nest, 
The  flood  was  round  her  tree. 

Over  the  castle-wall  Lord  Sands 
Looked  down  the  eastern  hill : 

The  stakes  swam  free  among  the  boats, 
The  flood  was  rising  still. 

ID 


146  STRATTON  WATER, 

'  What's  yonder  far  below  that  lies 

So  white  against  the  slope  ? ' 
•  O  it's  a  sail  o'  your  bonny  barks 

The  waters  have  washed  up.' 

'  But  I  have  never  a  sail  so  white, 

And  the  water's  not  yet  there.' 
'  O  if  s  the  swans  o'  your  bonny  lake 

The  rising  flood  doth  scare.' 

'  The  swans  they  would  not  hold  so  still, 

So  high  they  would  not  win. 
'  O  it's  Joyce  my  wife  has  spread  her  smock 

And  fears  to  fetch  it  in.' 

'  Nay,  knave,  it's  neither  sail  nor  swans. 

Nor  aught  that  you  can  say  ; 
For  though  your  wife  might  leave  her  smock. 

Herself  she'd  bring  away.' 

Lord  Sands  has  passed  the  turret-stair, 

The  court,  and  yard,  and  all ; 
The  kine  were  in  the  byre  that  day, 

The  nags  were  in  the  stall. 


STRATTON  WATER.  i47 

Lord  Sands  has  won  the  weltering  slope 

Whereon  the  white  shape  lay  : 
The  clouds  were  still  above  the  hill, 

And  the  shape  was  still  as  they. 

Oh  pleasant  is  the  gaze  of  life 

And  sad  is  death's  blind  head  ; 
But  awful  are  the  living  eyes 

In  the  fiice  of  one  thought  dead ! 

'  In  God's  name,  Janet,  is  it  me 

Thy  ghost  has  come  to  seek  ? ' 
'  Nay,  wait  another  hour,  Lord  Sands,  — 

Be  sure  my  ghost  shall  speak.' 

A  moment  stood  he  as  a  stone, 

Then  grovelled  to  his  knee. 
'  O  Janet,  O  my  love,  my  love, 

Rise  up  and  come  with  me  ! ' 
'  O  once  before  you  bade  me  come. 

And  it's  here  you  have  brought  me ! 

*  O  many's  the  sweet  word.  Lord  Sands, 

YouVe  spoken  oft  to  me  ; 
But  all  that  I  have  from  you  to-day 

Is  the  rain  on  my  body. 


148  STRATTON  WATER. 

'  And  many's  the  good  gift,  Lord  Sands, 

You've  promised  oft  to  me  ; 
But  the  gift  of  yours  I  keep  to-day 

Is  the  babe  in  my  body. 

'  O  it's  not  in  any  earthly  bed 

That  first  my  babe  I'll  see  ; 
For  I  have  brought  my  body  here 

That  the  flood  may  cover  me.' 

His  face  was  close  against  her  face, 

His  hands  of  hers  were  fain  : 
O  her  wet  cheeks  were  hot  with  tears, 

Her  wet  hands  cold  with  rain. 

'  They  told  me  you  were  dead,  Janet,  — 

How  could  I  guess  the  lie .'' ' 
'  They  told  me  you  were  false,  Lord  Sands, 

What  could  I  do  but  die  } ' 

'  Now  keep  you  well,  my  brother  Giles,  — 
Through  you  I  deemed  her  dead  ! 

As  wan  as  your  towers  be  to-day, 
To-morrow  they'll  be  red. 


STRATTON  WATER.  149 

'  Look  down,  look  down,  my  false  modier. 

That  bade  me  not  to  grieve  : 
You'll  look  up  when  our  marriage  fires 

Are  lit  to-morrow  eve. 

'  O  more  than  one  and  more  than  two 

The  sorrow  of  this  shall  see  : 
But  if  s  to-morrow,  love,  for  them,  — 

To-day's  for  thee  and  me.' 

'  He's  drawn  her  face  between  his  hands 

And  her  pale  mouth  to  his  : 
No  bird  that  was  so  still  that  day 

Chirps  sweeter  than  his  kiss. 

The  flood  was  creeping  round  their  feet. 

'  O  Janet,  come  away  ! 
The  hall  is  warm  for  the  marriage-rite, 

The  bed  for  the  birthday.' 

'  Nay,  but  I  hear  your  mother  cry, 

"  Go  bring  this  bride  to  bed  ! 
And  would  she  christen  her  babe  unborn, 

So  wet  she  comes  to  wed  ? " 


ISO  STRATTON  WATER. 

'  I'll  be  your  wife  to  cross  your  door 
And  meet  your  mother's  e'e. 

We  plighted  troth  to  wed  i'  the  kirk, 
And  it's  there  I'll  wed  with  ye.' 

He's  ta'en  her  by  the  short  girdle 
And  by  the  dripping  sleeve  : 

'  Go  fetch  Sir  Jock  my  mother's  priest,  — 
You'll  ask  of  him  no  leave. 

'  O  it's  one  half-hour  to  reach  the  kirk 
And  one  for  the  marriage-rite  ; 

And  kirk  and  castle  and  castle-lands 
Shall  be  our  babe's  to-night.' 

'  The  flood's  in  the  kirkyard,  Lord  Sands, 

And  round  the  belfry-stair.' 
'  I  bade  ye  fetch  the  priest,'  he  said, 

'  Myself  shall  bring  him  there. 

'  It's  for  the  lilt  of  wedding  bells 
We'll  have  the  hail  to  pour. 

And  for  the  clink  of  bridle-reins 
The  plashing  of  the  oar.' 


STRATTON  WATER.  151 

Beneath  them  on  the  nether  hill 

A  boat  was  floating  wide  : 
Lord  .Sands  swam  out  and  caught  the  oars 

And  rowed  to  the  hill-side. 

He's  wrapjjed  her  in  a  green  mantle 

And  set  her  softly  in  ; 

Her  hair  was  wet  upon  her  face, 
■> 
Her  face  was  gray  and  thin ; 

And  '  Oh  ! '  she  said,  '  lie  still,  my  babe, 

It's  out  you  must  not  win  ! ' 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John  ! 

As  hard  as  he  might  pray, 
There  seemed  no  help  but  Noah's  ark 

Or  Jonah's  fish  that  day. 

The  first  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

Were  over  the  broad  leas  ; 
The  next  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

They  pushed  beneath  the  trees  ; 

The  last  stroke  that  the  oars  struck, 

The  good  boat's  head  was  met, 
And  there  the  gate  of  the  kirkyard 

Stood  like  a  ferry-gate. 


152  STRATTON  WATER. 

He's  set  his  hand  upon  the  bar 

And  lightly  leaped  within  : 
He's  lifted  her  to  his  left  shoulder, 

Her  knees  beside  his  chin. 

The  graves  lay  deep  beneath  the  flood 

Under  the  rain  alone  ; 
And  when  the  foot-stone  made  him  sHj>, 

He  held  by  the  head-stone. 

The  empty  boat  thrawed  i'  the  wind, 

Against  the  postern  tied. 
'  Hold  still,  you've  brought  my  love  with  me, 

You  shall  take  back  my  bride.' 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John 
And  the  saints  he  clamored  to  ! 

There's  never  a  saint  but  Christopher 
Might  hale  such  buttocks  through  ! 

And  '  Oh  ! '  she  said,  '  on  men's  shoulders 

I  well  had  thought  to  wend, 
And  well  to  travel  with  a  priest. 

But  not  to  have  cared  or  ken'd 


STRATTON  WATER.  153 

'And  oh  ! '  she  said,  '  it's  well  this  way 

That  I  thought  to  have  fared, — 
Not  to  have  lighted  at  the  kirk 

But  stopped  in  the  kirkyard, 

'  For  it's  oh  and  oh  I  prayed  to  God, 

Whose  rest  I  hoped  to  win, 
That  when  to-night  at  your  board-head 

You'd  bid  the  feast  begin. 
This  water  past  your  window-sill 

Might  bear  my  body  in.' 

Now  make  the  white  bed  warm  and  soft 

And  greet  the  merry  morn. 
The  night  the  mother  should  have  died 

The  young  son  shall  be  born. 


154 


THE   STREAM'S   SECRET. 

What  thing  unto  mine  ear 
Wouldst  thou  convey,  —  what  secret  thing, 
O  wandering  water  ever  whispering  ? 

Surely  thy  speech  shall  be  of  her. 
Thou  water,  O  thou  whispering  wanderer, 
What  message  dost  thou  bring  ? 

Say,  hath  not  Love  leaned  low 
This  hour  beside  thy  far  well-head. 
And  there  through  jealous  hollowed  fingers  said 

The  thing  that  most  I  long  to  know,  — 
Murmuring  with  curls  all  dabbled  in  thy  flow 
And  washed  lips  rosy  red  ? 

He  told  it  to  thee  there 
Where  thy  voice  hath  a  louder  tone ; 
But  where  it  welters  to  this  little  moan 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  155 

His  will  decrees  that  I  should  hear. 
Now  speak :  for  with  the  silence  is  no  fear, 
And  I  am  all  alone. 

Shall  Time  not  still  endow 
One  hour  with  life,  and  I  and  she 
Slake  on  love's  lips  the  thirst  of  memory? 
Say,  stream  ;  lest  Love  should  disavow 
Thy  service,  and  the  bird  upon  the  bough 
Sing  first  to  tell  it  me. 

What  whisperest  thou  ?     Nay,  why 
Name  the  dead  hours?    I  mind  them  well : 
Their  ghosts  in  many  darkened  doorways  dwell 

With  desolate  eyes  to  know  them  by.  ' 
That  hour  m.ust  still  be  born  ere  it  can  die  : 
Of  that  I'd  have  thee  tell. 

But  hear,  before  thou  speak  ! 
Withhold,  I  pray,  the  vain  behest 
That  while  the  maze  hath  still  its  bower  for  quest 

My  burning  heart  should  cease  to  seek. 
Be  sure  that  Love  ordained  for  souls  more  meek 
His  roadside  dells  of  rest. 


156  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET 

Stream,  when  this  silver  thread 
In  flood-time  is  a  torrent  brown, 
May  any  bulwark  bind  thy  foaming  crown  ? 

Shall  not  the  waters  surge  and  spread 
And  to  the  crannied  boulders  of  their  bed 
Still  shoot  the  dead  leaves  down  ? 

Let  no  rebuke  find  place 
In  speech  of  thine  :  or  it  shall  prove 
That  thou  dost  ill  expound  the  words  of  Love, 

Even  as  thine  eddy's  rippling  race 
Would  blur  the  perfect  image  of  his  face. 
I  will  have  none  thereof. 

O  learn  and  understand 
That  'gainst  the  wrongs  himself  did  wreak 
Love  sought  her  aid  ;  until  her  shadowy  cheek 

And  eyes  beseeching  gave  command  ; 
And  compassed  in  her  close  compassionate  hand 
My  heart  must  burn  and  speak. 

For  then  at  last  we  spoke 
What  eyes  so  oft  had  told  to  eyes 
Through  that  long-lingering  silence  whose  half-sighs 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  157 

Alone  the  buried  secret  broke, 
Which  with  snatched  hands  and  lips'  reverberate  stroke 
Then  from  the  heart  did  rise. 

But  she  is  far  away 
Now  ;  nor  the  hours  of  night  grown  hoar 
Bring  yet  to  me,  long  gazing  from  the  door, 

The  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  gray 
And  rose-crown  of  the  hour  that  leads  the  dajr 
When  we  shall  meet  once  more. 

Dark  as  thy  blinded  wave 
When  brimming  midnight  floods  the  glen,  — 
Bright  as  the  laughter  of  thy  runnels  when 
The  dawn  yields  all  the  light  they  crave  ; 
Even  so  these  hours  to  wound  and  that  to  save 
Are  sisters  in  Love's  ken. 

Oh  sweet  her  bending  grace 
Then  when  I  kneel  beside  her  feet ; 
And  sweet  her  eyes'  o'erhanging  heaven  ;  and  sweet 

The  gathering  folds  of  her  embrace  ; 
And  her  fall'n  hair  at  last  shed  round  my  ftxce 
When  breaths  and  tears  shall  meet. 


158  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Beneath  her  sheltering  hair, 
In  the  warm  silence  near  her  breast, 
Our  kisses  and  our  sobs  shall  sink  to  rest ; 

As  in  some  still  trance  made  aware 
That  day  and  night  have  wrought  to  fulness  there 
And  Love  has  built  our  nest. 

And  as  in  the  dim  grove, 
When  the  rains  cease  that  hushed  them  long, 
'Mid  glistening  boughs  the  song-birds  wake  to  song,' 

So  from  our  hearts  deep-shrined  in  love. 
While  the  leaves  throb  beneath,  around,  above. 
The  quivering  notes  shall  throng. 

Till  tenderest  words  found  vain 
Draw  back  to  wonder  mute  and  deep. 
And  closed  lips  in  closed  arms  a  silence  keep. 

Subdued  by  memory's  circling  strain, — 
The  wind-rapt  sound  that  the  wind  brings  again 
While  all  the  willows  weep. 

Then  by  her  summoning  art 
Shall  memory  conjure  back  the  sere 
Autumnal  Springs,  from  many  a  dying  year 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  159 

Born  dead  ;  and,  bitter  to  the  heart, 
The  very  ways  where  now  we  walk  apart 
Who  then  shall  cling  so  near. 

And  with  each  thought  new-grown, 
Some  sweet  caress  or  some  sweet  name 
Low-bi-eathed  shall  let  me  know  her  thought  the  same  ; 

Making  me  rich  with  every  tone 
And  touch  of  the  dear  heaven  so  long  unknown 
That  filled  my  dreams  with  flame. 

Pity  and  love  shall  burn 
In  her  pressed  cheek  and  cherishing  hands  ; 
And  from  the  living  spirit  of  love  that  stands 

Between  her  lips  to  soothe  and  yearn, 
Each  separate  breath  shall  clasp  me  round  in  turn 
And  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

Oh  passing  sweet  and  dear. 
Then  when  the  worshipped  form  and  face 
Are  felt  at  length  in  darkling  close  embrace  ; 

Round  which  so  oft  the  sun  shone  clear, 
With  mocking  light  and  pitiless  atmosphere, 
In  many  an  hour  and  place. 


IDO  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Ah  me  !  with  what  proud  growth 
Shall  that  hour's  thirsting  race  be  run  ; 
While,  for  each  several  sweetness  still  begun 

Afresh,  endures  love's  endless  drouth  : 
Sweet  hands,  sweet  hair,  sweet  cheeks,  sweet  eyes,  sweet 
Each  singly  wooed  and  won.  [mouth. 

Yet  most  with  the  sweet  soul 
Shall  love's  espousals  then  be  knit ; 
What  time  the  governing  cloud  sheds  peace  from  it 

O'er  tremulous  wings  that  touch  the  goal, 
And  on  the  unmeasured  height  of  Love's  control 
The  lustral  fires  are  lit. 

Therefore,  when  breast  and  cheek 
Now  part,  from  long  embraces  free,  — 
Each  on  the  other  gazing  shall  but  see 

A  self  that  has  no  need  to  speak : 
All  things  unsought,  yet  nothing  more  to  seek,  — 
One  love  in  unity. 

O  water  wandering  past,  — 
Albeit  to  thee  I  speak  this  thing, 
O  water,  thou  that  wanderest  whispering. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  i6i 

Thou  keep'st  thy  counsel  to  the  last. 
What  spell  upon  thy  bosom  should  Love  cast, 
Its  secret  thence  to  wring? 

Nay,  must  thou  hear  the  tale 
Of  the  past  days,  —  the  heavy  debt 
Of  life  that  obdurate  time  withholds,  —  ere  yet 

To  win  thine  ear  these  prayers  prevail. 
And  by  thy  voice  Love's  self  with  high  All-hail 
Yield  up  the  amulet? 

How  should  all  this  be  told  ?  — 
All  the  sad  sum  of  wayworn  days ;  — 
Heart's  anguish  in  the  impenetrable  maze  ; 

And  on  the  waste  uncolored  wold 
The  visible  burthen  of  the  sun  srrown  cold 
And  the  moon's  laborinij  eaze  ? 


'&  b' 


Alas  !  shall  hope  be  nurs'd 
On  life's  all-succoring  breast  in  vain, 
And  made  so  perfect  only  to  be  slain  ? 
Or  shall  not  rather  the  sweet  thirst 
Even  yet  rejoice  the  heart  with  warmth  dispers'd 
And  strength  grown  fair  again  ? 
II 


l62  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Stands  it  not  by  the  door  — 
Love's  Hour  —  till  she  and  I  shall  meet; 
With  bodiless  form  and  unapparent  feet 

That  cast  no  shadow  yet  before, 
Though  round  its  head  the  dawn  begins  to  pour 
The  breath  that  makes  day  sweet  ? 

Its  eyes  invisible 
Watch  till  the  dial's  thin-thrown  shade 
Be  born,  —  yea,  till  the  journeying  line  be  laid 

Upon  the  point  that  wakes  the  spell, 
And  there  in  lovelier  light  than  tongue  can  tell 
Its  presence  stand  array'd. 

Its  soul  remembers  yet 
Those  sunless  hours  that  passed  it  by  ; 
And  still  it  hears  the  night's  disconsolate  cry, 

And  feels  the  branches  wringing  wet 
Cast  on  its  brow,  that  may  not  once  forget. 
Dumb  tears  from  the  blind  sky. 

But  oh  !  when  now  her  foot 
Draws  near,  for  whose  sake  night  and  day 
Were  long  in  weary  longing  sighed  away,  — 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  163 

The  hour  of  Love,  'mid  airs  grown  mute, 
Shall  sing  beside  the  door,  and  Love's  own  lute 
Thrill  to  the  passionate  lay. 

Thou  know'st,  for  Love  has  told 
Within  thine  ear,  O  stream,  how  soon 
That  song  shall  lift  its  sweet  appointed  tune. 

O  tell  me,  for  my  lips  are  cold. 
And  in  my  veins  the  blood  is  waxing  old 
Even  while  I  beg  the  boon. 

So,  in  that  hour  of  sighs 
Assuaged,  shall  we  beside  this  stone 
Yield  thanks  for  grace  ;  while  in  thy  mirror  shown 

The  twofold  image  softly  lies, 
Until  we  kiss,  and  each  in  other's  eyes 
Is  imaged  all  alone. 

Still  silent?     Can  no  art 
Of  Love's  then  move  thy  pity  }     Nay, 
To  thee  let  nothing  come  that  owns  his  sway : 

Let  happy  lovers  have  no  part 
With  thee  ;  nor  even  so  sad  and  poor  a  heart 
As  thou  hast  spurned  to-day. 


1 64  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

To-day  ?     Lo  !  night  is  here. 
The  glen  grows  heavy  with  some  veil 
Risen  from  the  earth  or  fall'n  to  make  earth  j^ale  ; 

And  all  stands  hushed  to  eye  and  ear, 
Until  the  night-wind  shake  the  shade  like  fear 
And  every  covert  quail. 

Ah  !  by  another  wave 
On  other  airs  the  hour  must  come 
Which  to  thy  heart,  my  love,  shall  call  me  home. 

Between  the  lips  of  the  low  cave 
Against  that  night  the  lapping  waters  lave. 
And  the  dark  lips  are  dumb. 

But  there  Love's  self  doth  stand, 
And  with  Life's  weary  wings  far  flown, 
And  with  Death's  eyes  that  make  the  water  moan, 

Gathers  the  water  in  his  hand : 
And  they  that  drink  know  nought  of  sky  or  land 
But  only  love  alone. 

O  soul-seqviestered  face 
Far  off,  —  O  were  that  night  but  now  ! 
So  even  beside  that  stream  even  I  and  thou 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  165 

Through  thh-sthig  lips  should  draw  Love's  grace, 
And  in  the  zone  of  that  supreme  embrace 
Bind  aching  breast  and  brow. 

O  water  whispering 
Still  through  the  dark  into  mine  ears,  — 
As  with  mine  eyes,  is  it  not  now  with  hers  ?  — 

Mine  eyes  that  add  to  thy  cold  spring. 
Wan  water,  wandering  water  weltering, 
This  hidden  tide  of  tears. 


1 66 


THE    CARD-DEALER. 

Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet  though  its  splendor  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coiled  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that's  heaped  beside  her  hand, 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were  ; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her  brows 

With  magic  stillness  there  ; 
And  he  were  rich  who  should  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sits,  the  dance 
Now  breathes  its  eager  heat ; 


THE   CARD-DEALER.  167 

And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 

Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 
Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board 

As  'twere  an  heart  that  beat. 


Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through, 

Smooth  polished  silent  things ; 
And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 

In  swift  light-shadowings, 
Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue. 

The  great  eyes  of  her  rings.  '" 

Whom  plays  she  with  ?     With  thee,  who  lov'st 

Those  gems  upon  her  hand  ; 
With  me,  who  search  her  secret  brows  ; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd. 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  a  vain  strange  land : 

A  land  without  any  order,  — 

Day  even  as  night,  (one  saith,)  — 

Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 
Nor  the  sleeper  awakeneth  ; 


1 68.  THE   CARD-DEALER. 

A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 
And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

What  be  her  cards,  you  ask  ?     Even  these  :  — 

The  heart,  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed  ;  the  diamond, 

Skilled  to  make  base  seem  brave  ; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark ; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

« 
And  do  you  ask  what  game  she  plays .'' 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won  ; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still ;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun  ; 
But  'tis  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o'  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls,  —  she  knows 

The  card  that  followeth  : 
Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  called  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath  : 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou'lt  learn  her  tongue 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death. 


i6g 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.* 

She  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve  : 
At  length  the;' long-ungranted  shade 
Of  weary  eyelids  overweigh'd 

The  pain  nought  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time,        ■^ 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work-table  was  spread 
With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

*  This  little  poem,  written  in  1847,  '^^^^  printed  in  a  peri- 
odical at  the  outset  of  1850.  The  metre,  which  is  used  by 
several  old  English  writers,  became  celebrated  a  month  or 
two  later  on  the  publication  of  '  In  Mcmoriam.' 


I70  AfV  SISTER'S  SLEEP. 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  up, 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  tliin  ; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  mghts,       __^ 
And  my  tii'ed  mind  felt  weak  and  l)lank  ; 
Like  a- sharp  strengthening  wine  it  drank 

The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Twelve  struck.     That  sound,  b}'  dwindling  years. 

Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  oft';  and  then 

The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 
Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat : 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down. 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled  :  no  other  noise  than  that. 


AfV  S/STEH'S  SLEEP.  171 

*  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born  ! ' 

So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say ; 

Because  we  were  in  Christmas  Day, 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn. 

J'ust  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs. 
As  some  who  had  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hour,  and  rose. 

With  anxious  softly-stepping  haste 

Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay. 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'erhead —  should  they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest ! 

She  stooped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned  ; 

But  suddenly  turned  back  again  ; 

And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spoke  no  word  : 
There  was  none  spoken  ;  but  I  heard 

The  silence  for  a  little  space. 


172  ASPECT  A   MEDUSA. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept : 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said, 
'  God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead.' 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling,  upon  Christmas  morn 
A  little  after  twelve  o'clock 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

'  Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born  ! ' 


ASPECTA  MEDUSA. 

Andromeda,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's  head 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely  seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself,  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill :  but  be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 


173 


A  NEW  YEAR'S   BURDEN. 

Along  the  grass  sweet  airs  are  blown 

Our  way  this  day  in  Spring. 
Of  all  the  songs  that  we  have  known 
Now  which  one  shall  we  sing? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  !  — 
Not  this,  my  love  ?  why,  so  !  — 
Yet  both  were  ours,  but  hours  will  come  and  go. 

The  grove  is  all  a  pale  frail  mist, 

The  new  year  sucks  the  sun. 
Of  all  the  kisses  that  we  kissed 
Now  which  shall  be  the  one  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  !  — 
Not  this,  my  love  ?  —  heigh-ho 
For  all  the  sweets  that  all  the  winds  can  blow ! 

The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net : 
And  whaf  s  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget.'* 

Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no,  — 
Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no,  — 
The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago. 


174 


EVEN  SO. 

So  it  is,  my  dear. 
All  such  things  touch  secret  strings 
For  heavy  hearts  to  hear. 
So  it  is,  my  dear. 

Very  like  indeed  : 
Sea  and  sky,  afar,  on  high. 
Sand  and  strewn  seaweed,  — 

Very  like  indeed. 

But  the  sea  stands  spread 
As  one  wall  with  the  flat  skies. 
Where  the  lean  black  craft  like  flies 

Seem  well-nigh  stagnated, 

Soon  to  drop  off"  dead. 

Seemed  it  so  to  us 
When  I  was  thine  and  thou  wast  mine, 
And  all  these  things  were  thus, 
But  all  our  world  in  us  ? 

Could  we  be  so  now .'' 
Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou. 
Could  we  be  so  now ! 


i 


175 


AN   OLD   SONG   ENDED. 

'  Ho-v  sho2ild  I  your  true  love  k?iow 

Fro7n  another  o?teP' 
'  By  his  cockle-hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandal-shoojt.^ 

'  And  what  signs  have  told  you  now 
That  he  hastens  home  ? ' 

'  Lo  !  the  Spring  is  nearly  gone, 
He  is  nearly  come.' 

'  For  a  token  is  there  nought, 
Say,  that  he  should  bring.?' 

*  He  will  bear  a  rinsf  I  srave 

And  another  rinsf.' 

'  How  may  I,  when  he  shall  ask, 
Tell  him  who  lies  there.'" 

'Nay,  but  leave  my  face  unveiled 
And  unbound  my  hair.' 

'  Can  you  say  to  me  some  word 
I  shall  say  to  him  ?  * 

*  Say  I'm  looking  in  his  eyes 

Though  my  eyes  are  dim.' 


176 


THREE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
FRANgOIS  VILLON,    1450. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  DEAD  LADIES. 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man. 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere,  — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human? 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 

(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen  !) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Qiieen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine  ? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM    VILLON.  177 

White  Qiieen  Blanche,  Hke  a  queen  of  liHes, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there,  — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then  ?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord. 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword,  — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


II. 
TO   DEATH,    OF   HIS   LADY. 

Death,  of  thee  do  I  make  iny  moan, 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me, 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 

Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own ; 

For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo  !  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee. 

Death  ? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one  ; 
Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be, 
12 


178  TRANSLATIONS  FROM   VILLON. 

Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
As  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone, 

Death ! 


III. 
HIS   MOTHER'S   SERVICE  TO   OUR  LADY. 

Lady  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 

Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell, — 
I,  thy  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call, 

Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 

Albeit  in  nought  I  be  commendable. 
But  all  mine  undesenang  may  not  rnar 
Such  mercies  as  thy  sovereign  mercies  are  ; 

Without  the  which  (as  true  words  testify) 
No  soul  can  reach  thy  Heaven  so  fair  and  far. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto  thy  Son  say  thou  that  I  am  His, 
And  to  me'^raceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss. 
Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 
Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM    VILLON.  179 

Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bouiiden  service  was. 
Oil  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby !) 
The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 

Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

A  pitiful  poor  woman,  shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd  in  letter-loi'e. 

Within  my  parish-cloister  I  behold 

A  painted  Heaven  where  harps  and  lutes  adore. 
And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  seethe  full  sore  ; 

One  bringeth  fear,  the  other  joy  to  me. 

Tliat  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be,  — 
Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I ; 

And  that  which  faith  desires,  that  let  it  see. 
For  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess  !  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter. 
Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 

And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high, 
Oflering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 
Such  as  He  is,  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare. 

And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 


i8o 


JOHN   OF  TOURS. 

{Old  French.) 

John  of  Tours  is  back  with  jDeace, 
But  he  comes  home  ill  at  ease. 

'  Good-morrow,  mother.'     '  Good-morrow,  son  ; 
Your  wife  has  borne  you  a  little  one.' 

'  Go  now,  mother,  go  before, 
Make  me  a  bed  upon  the  floor  ; 

'  Very  low  your  foot  must  fall, 
That  my  wife  hear  not  at  all.' 

As  it  neared  the  midnight  toll, 
John  of  Tours  gave  up  his  soul. 

'  Tell  me  now,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  crying  that  I  hear  } ' 

'  Daughter,  it's  the  children  wake 
Crying  with  their  teeth  that  ache.' 


JOHN  OF  TOURS.  iSr 

'  Tell  me  though,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  tlie  knocking  that  I  hear?' 

'Daughter,  it's  the  carpenter 
Mending  planks  upon  the  stair.' 

'Tell  me  too,  my  mother  my  dear. 
What's  the  singing  that  I  hear?' 

Daughter,  it's  the  priests  in  rows 
Going  round  about  our  house.' 

'  Tell  me  then,  my  mother  my  dear. 
What's  the  dress  that  I  should  wear  ? ' 

'  Daughter,  any  reds  or  blues, 
But  the  black  is  most  in  use.' 

'  Nay,  but  say,  my  mother  my  dear, 
Why  do  you  fall  weeping  here  ? ' 

'  Oh  !  the  truth  must  be  said,  — 
It's  that  John  of  Tours  is  dead.' 

'  Mother,  let  the  sexton  know 
That  the  grave  must  be  for  two  ; 

'  Aye,  and  still  have  room  to  spare, 
For  you  must  shut  the  baby  there.' 


1 82 


MY  FATHER'S   CLOSE. 

{Old  French.) 

Inside  my  father's  close, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away !) 
Sweet  apple-blossom  blows 
So  sweet. 

Three  kings'  daughters  fair, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away !) 
They  lie  below  it  there 
So  sweet. 

'  Ah  ! '  says  the  eldest  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
I  think  the  day's  begun 
So  sweet.' 


MV  FATHEAD'S  CLOSE.  183 

'  Ah  ! '  says  the  second  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
'  Far  off  I  hear  the  drum 
So  sweet.' 

'  Ah  ! '  says  the  youngest  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
'  It's  my  true  love,  my  own, 
So  sweet. 

'  Oh  !  if  he  fight  and  win,' 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
'  I  keep  my  love  for  him, 

So  sweet : 
Oh  !  let  him  lose  or  win. 

He  hath  it  still  complete.' 


1 84 


ONE   GIRL, 
(yl  coinbination  from  Sappho.) 

I. 

Like  the  sweet  apple  which  reddens  upon  the  topmost 
bough, 

A-top  on  the  topmost  twig,  —  which  the  phickers  for- 
got, somehow,  — 

Foi'got  it  not,  nay,  but  got  it  not,  for  none  could  get  it 
till  now. 

II. 

Like  the  wild  hyacinth  flower  which  on  the  hills  is  found. 
Which  the  passing  feet  of  the  shepherds  for  ever  tear 

and  wound, 
Until  the  purple  blossom  is  trodden  into  the  ground. 


,«" 


SONNETS     AND     SONGS, 

Towards  a  WorJi  to  be  called 
'THE     HOUSE     OF    LIFE.' 


[The  first  twenty-eight  sonnets  and  the  seven  first  songs 
treat  of  love.  These  and  the  others  would  Ijelong  to  sepa- 
rate sections  of  the  projected  work.] 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  187 


SONNET  I. 
BRIDAL    BIRTH. 

As  when  desire,  long  darkling,  dawns,  and  first 
The  mother  looks  upon  the  newborn  child, 
Even  so  my  Lady  stood  at  gaze  and  smiled 

When  her  soul  knew  at  length  the  Love  it  nursed. 

Born  with  her  life,  creature  of  poignant  thirst 
And  exquisite  hunger,  at  her  heart  Love  lay 
Quickening  in  darkness,  till  a  voice  that  day 

Cried  on  him,  and  the  bonds  of  birth  were  burst. 

Now,  shielded  in  his  wings,  our  faces  yearn 
Together,  as  his  fullgrown  feet  now  range 

The  grove,  and  his  warm  hands  our  couch  prepare 
Till  to  his  song  our  bodiless  souls  in  turn 

Be  born  his  children,  when  Death's  nuptial  change 
Leaves  us  for  light  the  halo  of  his  hair. 


1 88  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  IL 
LOVE'S    REDEMPTION. 

O  Thou  who  at  Love's  hour  ecstatically 
Unto  my  lips  dost  evermore  present 
The  body  and  blood  of  Love  in  sacrament 

Whom  I  have  neared  and  felt  thy  breath  to  be 

The  inmost  incense  of  his  sanctuary ; 

Who  without  speech  hast  owned  him,  and  intent 
Upon  his  will,  thy  life  with  mine  hast  blent, 

And  murmured  o'er  the  cup,  Remember  me  !  — 

O  what  from  thee  the  grace,  for  me  the  prize, 
And  what  to  Love  the  glory,  —  when  the  whole 
Of  the  deep  stair  thou  tread' st  to  the  dim  shoal 
And  weary  water  of  the  place  of  sighs. 
And  there  dost  work  deliverance,  as  thine  eyes 
Draw  up  my  prisoned  spirit  to  thy  soul ! 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  189 


SONNET  III. 
LOVESIGHT. 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ? 

When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 

Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known  ? 
Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 

Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 

Thy  twilight-hidden  glimm.ering  visage  lies. 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 

O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring,  — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wmg? 


igo  THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE. 


SONNET  IV. 
THE   KISS. 

What  smouldering  senses  in  death's  sick  delay 
Or  seizure  of  malign  vicissitude 
Can  rob  this  body  of  honor,  or  denude 

This  soul  of  wedding-raiment  worn  to-day? 

For  lo  !  even  now  my  lady's  lips  did  play 
With  these  my  lips  such  consonant  interlude 
As  laurelled  Orjoheus  longed  for  when  he  wooed 

The  half-drawn  hungering  face  with  that  last  lay. 

I  was  a  child  beneath  her  touch,  —  a  man 

When  breast  to  breast  we  clung,  even  I  and  she,- 
A  spirit  when  her  spirit  looked  through  me,  — 
A  god  when  all  our  life-breath  met  to  fan 
Our  life-blood,  till  love's  emulous  ardors  ran, 
Fire  within  fire,  desire  in  deity. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  igi 


SONNET  V. 
NUPTIAL    SLEEP. 

At  length  their  long  kiss  severed,  with  sweet  smart : 
And  as  the  last  slow  sudden  drops  are  shed 
From  sparkling  eaves  when  all  the  storm  has  fled, 

So  singly  flagged  the  pulses  of  each  heart. 

Their  bosoms  sundered,  with  the  opening  start 
Of  married  flowers  to  either  side  outspread 
From  the  knit  stem  ;  yet  still  their  mouths,  burnt  red, 

Fawned  on  each  other  where  they  lay  apart. 

Sleep  sank  them  lower  than  the  tide  of  dreams, 

And  their  dreams  watched  them  sink,  and  slid  away. 

Slowly  their  souls  swam,  up  again,  through  gleams 
Of  watered  light  and  dull  drowned  waifs  of  day  ; 

Till  from  some  wonder  of  new  woods  and  streams 
He  woke,  and  wondered  more :  for  there  she  lay. 


192  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  VI. 
SUPREME    SURRENDER. 

To  all  the  spirits  of  love  that  wander  by 
Along  the  love-sown  fallowfield  of  sleep 
My  lady  lies  apparent ;  and  the  deep 

Calls  to  the  deep  ;  and  no  man  sees  but  I. 

The  bliss  so  long  afar,  at  length  so  nigh,  [weep 

Rests  there  attained.     Methinks  proud  Love  must 
When  Fate's  control  doth  from  his  harvest  reap 

The  sacred  hour  for  which  the  years  did  sigh. 

First  touched,  the  hand  now  warm  around  my  neck 
Taught  memoiy  long  to  mock  desire  :  and  lo  ! 
Across  my  breast  the  abandoned  hair  doth  flow, 
Where  one  shorn  tress  long  stirred  the  longing  ache : 
And  next  the  heart  that  trembled  for  its  sake 
Lies  the  queen-heart  in  sovereign  overthrow. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  193 


SONNET   VI I. 
LOVE'S   LOVERS. 

Some  ladies  love  the  jewels  in  Love's  zone 

And  gold-tipped  darts  he  hath  for  painless  play 
In  idle  scornful  hours  he  flings  away ; 

And  some  that  listen  to  his  lute's  soft  tone 

Do  love  to  deem  the  silver  praise  their  own  ; 

Some  prize  his  blindfold  sight ;  and  there  be  they 
Who  kissed  his  wings  which  brought  him  yesterday 

And  thank  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is  flown. 

My  lady  only  loves  the  heart  of  Love  : 

Therefore  Love's  heart,  my  lady,  hath  for  thee 
His  bower  of  unimagined  flower  and  tree  : 
There  kneels  he  now,  and  all-anhungered  of 
Thine  eyes  gray-lit  in  shadowing  hair  above, 
Seals  with  thy  mouth  his  immortality. 


13 


194  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET   VIII. 
PASSION  AND   WORSHIP. 

One  flame-winged  brovight  a  white-winged  harp-player 

Even  where  my  lady  and  I  lay  all  alone  ; 

Saying  :  '  Behold,  this  minstrel  is  unknown  ; 
Bid  him  depart,  for  I  am  minstrel  here  : 
Only  my  strains  are  to  Love's  dear  ones  dear.' 

Then  said  I :    '  Through  thine  hautboy's  rapturous 
tonie 

Unto  my  lady  still  this  harp  makes  moan, 
And  still  she  deems  the  cadence  deep  and  clear.' 

Then  said  my  lady  :  '  Thou  art  Passion  of  Love, 
And  this  Love's  Worship :  both  he  pliglits  to  me. 
Thy  mastering  music  walks  the  sunlit  sea : 
But  where  wan  water  trembles  in  the  grove 
And  the  wan  moon  is  all  the  light  thereof. 
This  harp  still  makes  my  name  its  voluntary. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  195 


SONNET  IX. 
THE  PORTRAIT. 

O  Lord  of  all  compassionate  control, 
O  Love  !  let  this  my  lady's  picture  glow 
Under  my  hand  to  praise  her  name,  and  show 

Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole  : 

That  he  who  seeks  her  beauty's  furthest  goal. 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances  throw 
And  refluent  wave  of  the  sweet  smile,  may  know 

The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 

Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above  the  long  lithe  throat 
The  mouth's  mould  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss. 
The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 
Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.     Let  all  men  note 
That  in  all  years  (O  Love,  thy  gift  is  this !) 

They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to  me. 


196  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  X. 
THE   LOVE-LETTER. 

Warmed  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her  hair 
As  close  she  leaned  and  poured  her  heart  through 

thee, 
Whereof  the  articulate  throbs  accompany 

The  smooth  black  stream  that  makes    thy  whiteness 
fair, — 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her  breath  aware,  — 
Oh  let  thy  silent  song  disclose  to  me 
That  soul  wherewith  her  lips  and  eyes  agree 

Like  maiTied  music  in  Love's  answering  air. 

Fain  had  I  watched  her  when,  at  some  fond  thought, 
Her  bosom  to  the  writing  closelier  press'd. 
And  her  breast's  secrets  peered  into  her  breast ; 
When,  through  eyes  raised  an  instant,  her  soul  sought 
My  soul,  and  from  the  sudden  confluence  caught 
The  words  that  made  her  love  the  loveliest. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  197 


SONNET  XI. 
-THE   BIRTH-BOND. 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 

Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-bed, 
How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond,  though  fed 

And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and  knee  ?  — 

How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall  be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill ;  but  each 
Shall  for  the  other  have,  in  silence  speech. 

And  in  a  word  complete  community ! 

Even  so,  when  first  I  saw  you,  seemed  it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  vvras  yet 

One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 

O  born  with  me  somewhere  that  men  forget, 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound  unmet, 

Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well  enough  ! 


1 98  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XII. 
A  DAY  OF   LOVE. 

Those  envied  places  which  do  know  her  well, 
And  are  so  scoi-nful  of  diis  lonely  place, 
Even  now  for  once  are  emptied  of  her  grace  : 

Nowhere  but  here  she  is :  and  while  Love's  spell 

From  his  predominant  presence  doth  compel 
All  alien  hours,  an  outworn  populace. 
The  hours  of  Love  fill  full  the  echoing  space 

With  sweet  confederate  music  favorable. 

Now  many  memories  make  solicitous 

The  delicate  love-lines  of  her  mouth,  till,  lit 
With  quivering  fire,  the  words  take  wing  from  it ; 

As  here  between  our  kisses  we  sit  thus 

Speaking  of  things  remembered,  and  so  sit 

Speechless  while  things  forgotten  call  to  us. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  199 


SONNET  XIII. 
LOVE-SWEETNESS. 

Sweet  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall 
About  thy  face  ;  her  sweet  hands  round  thy  head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded  ; 

Ilcr  tremulous  'smiles  ;  her  glances'  sweet  recall 

Of  love  ;  her  murmuring  sighs'  memorial ; 

Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses  shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 

Back  to  her  mouth  which  answers  there  for  all :  — 

What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the  thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their  sweet : 
The  confident  heart's  still  fervor  ;  the  swift  beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing, 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring, 
The  breath  of  kindred  plumes  against  its  feet? 


200  THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE. 


SONNET  XIV. 
LOVE'S   BAUBLES. 

I  STOOD  where  Love  in  brimming  armfuls  bore 
Slight  wanton  flowers  and  foohsh  toys  of  fruit : 
And  round  him  ladies  thronged  in  warm  pursuit, 

Fingered  and  lipped  and  proffered  the  strange  store : 

And  from  one  hand  the  petal  and  the  core 

Savored  of  sleep ;  and  cluster  and  curled  shoot 
Seemed  from  another  hand  like  shame's  salute,  — 

Gifts  that  I  felt  my  cheek  was  blushing  for. 

At  last  Love  bade  my  Lady  give  the  same : 
And  as  I  looked,  the  dew  was  light  thereon  ; 
And  as  I  took  them,  at  her  touch  they  shone 

With  inmost  heaven-hue  of  the  heart  of  flame. 
And  then  Love  said :  'Lo  !  when  the  hand  is  hers, 
Follies  of  love  are  love's  true  ministers.' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  201 


SONNET  XV. 
WINGED   HOURS. 

Each  houi'  until  wc  meet  is  as  a  bird 

Tliat  wings  from  far  his  gradual  way  along 
The  rustling  covert  of  my  soul,  —  his  song 

Still  loudlier  trilled  through  leaves  more  deeply  stirr'd  : 

But  at  the  hour  of  meeting,  a  clear  word 

Is  every  note  he  sings,  in  Love's  own  tongue  ; 

Yet,  Love,  thou  know'st  the   sweet   strain   suffers 

Through  our  contending  kisses  oft  unheard,      [wrong, 

What  of  that  hour  at  last,  when  for  her  sake 
No  wing  may  fly  to  me  nor  song  may  flow ; 
W^hen,  wandering  round  my  life  unleaved,  I  know 

The  bloodied  feathers  scattered  in  the  brake, 
And  think  how  she,  far  from  me,  with  like  eyes 
Sees  through  the  untuneful  bough  the  wingless  skies.'' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XVI. 
LIFE-IN-LOVE. 

Not  in  thy  body  is  thy  life  at  all 

But  in  this  lady's  lips  and  hands  and  eyes ; 
Through  these  she  yields  thee  life  that  vivifies 

What  else  were  sorrow's  servant  and  death's  thrall. 

Look  on  thyself  without  her,  and  recall 

The  waste  remembrance  and  forlorn  surmise 
That  lived  but  in  a  dead-drawn  breath  of  siehs 

O'er  vanished  hours  and  hours  eventual. 

Even  so  much  life  hath  the  poor  tress  of  hair 
Which,  stored  apart,  is  all  love  hath  to  show 
For  heart-beats  and  for  fire-heats  long  ago  ; 

Even  so  much  life  endures  unknown,  even  where, 
'Mid  change  tlie  changeless  night  environeth, 
Lies  all  that  golden  hair  undimmed  in  death. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  203 


SONNET  XVII. 
THE   LOVE-MOON. 

'  When  that  dead  face,  Lowered  in  the  furthest  years, 
Which  once  was  all  the  life  years  held  for  thee. 
Can  now  scarce  bid  the  tides  of  memory 

Cast  on  thy  soul  a  little  spray  of  tears,  — 

How  canst  thou  gaze  into  these  eyes  of  hers 
Whom  now  thy  heart  delights  in,  and  not  see 
Within  each  orb  Love's  philtred  euphrasy 

Make  them  of  buried  troth  remembrancers  ? ' 

'  Nay,  pitiful  Love,  nay,  loving  Pity  !     Well 

Thou  knowest  that  in  these  twain  I  have  confess'd 

Two  very  voices  of  thy  summoning  bell. 

Nay,  Master,  shall  not  Death  make  manifest 

In  these  the  culminant  changes  which  approve 

The  love-moon  that  must  light  my  soul  to  Love  ? ' 


204  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XVIII. 
THE  MORROW'S  MESSAGE. 

'  Thou  Ghost,'  I  said,  '  and  is  thy  name  To-day  ?  — 
Yesterday's  son,  with  such  an  abject  brow  !  — 
And  can  To-morrow  be  more  pale  than  thou  ? ' 

While  yet  I  sjDoke,  the  silence  answered  :  '  Yea, 

Henceforth  our  issue  is  all  grieved  and  gray, 
And  each  beforehand  makes  sucii  poor  avow 
As  of  old  leaves  beneath  the  budding  bough 

Or  night-drift  that  the  sundawn  shreds  away.' 


Then  cried  I :  '  Mother  of  many  malisons, 
O  Earth,  receive  me  to  thy  dusty  bed ! ' 
But  therewithal  the  tremulous  silence  said  : 
'  Lo  !  Love  yet  bids  thy  lady  greet  thee  once  :  — 
Yea,  twice,  — whereby  thy  life  is  still  the  sun's  ; 

And  thrice,  —  whereby  the  shadow  of  death  is  dead.' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  205 


SONNET  XIX. 
SLEEPLESS   DREAMS. 

Girt  in  dark  growths,  yet  glimmering  with  one  star, 

O  night  desirous  as  tlie  nights  of  youtli ! 

Why  should  my  heart  within  tliy  spell,  forsooth. 
Now  beat,  as  the  bride's  finger-pulses  are 
Qiiickened  within  the  girdling  golden  bar? 

What  wings  are  these  that  fan  my  pillow  smooth  ? 

And  why  does  Sleep,  waved  back  by  Joy  and  Ruth, 
Tread  softly  round  and  gaze  at  me  from  far  ? 

Nay,  night  deep-leaved  !     And  would  Love  feign  in 
thee 
Some  shadowy  palpitating  grove  that  bears 
Rest  for  man's  eyes  and  music  for  his  ears? 

O  lonely  night !  art  thou  not  known  to  mc, 

A  thicket  hung  with  masks  of  mockery 

And  watered  with  the  wasteful  warmth  of  tears  ? 


2o6  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XX. 
SECRET   PARTING. 

Because  our  talk  was  of  the  cloud-control 

And  moon-track  of  the  journeying  face  of  Fate, 
Her  tremulous  kisses  faltered  at  love's  gate 

And  her  eyes  dreamed  against  a  distant  goal : 

But  soon,  remembering  her  how  brief  the  whole 
Of  joy,  which  its  own  hours  annihilate, 
Her  set  gaze  gathered,  thirstier  than  of  late. 

And  as  she  kissed,  her  mouth  became  her  soul. 

Thence  in  what  ways  we  wandered,  and  how  strove 
To  build  with  fire-tried  vows  the  piteous  home 
Which    memory   haunts    and   whither    sleep    may 
roam,  — 

They  only  know  for  whom  the  roof  of  Love 

Is  the  still-seated  secret  of  the  grove. 

Nor  spire  may  rise  nor  bell  be  heard  therefrom. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  207 


SONNET  XXL 
PARTED   LOVE. 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  embattled  day 
And  armed  occupation  of  this  night 
By  all  thy  foes  beleaguered,  —  now  when  sight 

Nor  sound  denotes  the  loved  one  far  away  ? 

Of  these  thy  vanquished  hours  what  shalt  thou  say, — 
As  every  sense  to  which  she  dealt  delight 
Now  labors  lonely  o'er  the  stark  noon-height 

To  reach  the  sunset's  desolate  disarray  ? 

Stand  still,  fond  fettered  wretch !  while  Memory's  art 
Parades  the  Past  before  th)'  face,  and  lures 
Thy  spirit  to  her  passionate  portraitures : 
Till  the  tempestuous  tide-gates  flung  apart 
Flood  with  wild  will  the  hollows  of  thy  heart, 
And  thy  heart  rends  thee,  and  thy  body  endures. 


2o8  THE  HOUSE   OF  LH'E. 


SONNET  XX IT 
BROKEN  MUSIC. 

The  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she  hears 
Her  nursling's  speech  first  grow  articulate  ; 
But  breathless  with  averted  eyes  elate 

She  sits,  with  open  lips  and  open  ears. 

That  it  may  call  her  twice.     'Mid  doubts  and  fears 
Thus  oft  my  soul  has  hearkened ;  till  the  song, 
A  central  moan  for  days,  at  length  found  tongue, 

And  the  sweet  music  welled  and  the  sweet  tears. 

But  now,  whatever  while  the  soul  is  fain 
To  list  that  wonted  murmur,  as  it  were 

The  speech-bound  sea-shell's  low  importunate  strain. 
No  breath  of  song,  thy  voice  alone  is  there, 

O  bitterly  beloved  !  and  all  her  gain 
Is  but  the  pang  of  unpermitted  prayer. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  209 


SONNET  XXIII. 
DEATH-IN-LOVE. 

There  came  an  image  in  Life's  retinue 

That  liad  Love's  wings  and  bore  his  gonfolon : 
Fair  was  the  web,  and  nobly  wrouglit  tliereon, 

O  soul-sequestered  face,  thy  form  and  hue  ! 

Bewildering  sounds,  such  as  Spring  wakens  to. 

Shook  in  its  folds ;  and  through  my  heart  its  power 
Sped  trackless  as  the  immemorable  hour 

When  birth's  dark  portal  groaned  and  all  was  new. 

But  a  veiled  woman  followed,  and  she  caught 
The  banner  round  its  staft",  to  furl  and  cling, — 
Then  plucked  a  feather  from  the  bearer's  wing, 

And  held  it  to  his  lips  that  stirred  it  not. 

And  said  to  me,  '  Behold,  there  is  no  breath : 
I  and  this  Love  are  one,  and  I  am  Death.' 


14 


2IO  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNETS  XXIV.,  XXV.,  XXVI,  XXVII 
WILLOWWOOD. 


I  SAT  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well, 

Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he  ; 

Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me, 
But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 
The  certain  seci'et  thing  he  had  to  tell : 

Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently 

In  the  low  wave  ;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 
Tiie  passionate  voice  I  knew ;  and  my  tears  fell. 

And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew  hers  ; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 

He  swept  the  spring  that  watered  my  heart's  drouth. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair, 
And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there 

Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth. 


THE  HOUSE   OE  LIFE.  211 


II. 

And  now  Love  sang :  but  his  was  such  a  song, 
So  meshed  with  half-remembrance  hard  to  free, 
As  souls  disused  in  death's  sterility 

May  sing  when  the  new  birthday  tarries  long. 

And  I  was  made  aware  of  a  dumb  throng 
That  stood  aloof,  one  form  by  every  tree, 
All  mournful  forms,  for  each  was  I  or  she. 

The  shades  of  those  our  days  that  had  no  tongue. 

They  looked  on  us,  and  knew  us  and  were  known  ; 
While  fast  together,  alive  from  the  abyss. 
Clung  the  soul-wrung  implacable  close  kiss  ; 
And  pity  of  self  through  all  made  broken  moan 
Which  said,  '  For  once,  for  once,  for  once  alone  ! ' 
And  still  Love  sang,  and  what  he  sang  was  this  : 


212  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


III. 


'  O  ye,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood, 

That  walk  with  hollow  faces  burning  white  ; 
What  fathom-depth  of  soul-struck  widowhood, 

What  long,  what  longer  hours,  one  lifelong  night, 
Ere  ye  again,  who  so  in  vain  have  wooed 

Your  last  hope  lost,  who  so  in  vain  invite 
Your  lips  to  that  their  unforgotten  food, 

Ere  ye,  ere  ye  again  shall  see  the  light ! 

Alas  !  the  bitter  banks  in  Willowwood, 

With  tear-spurge  wan,  with  blood-wort  burning  red 
Alas  !  if  ever  such  a  pillow  could 

Steep  deep  the  soul  in  sleep  till  she  were  dead,  — 
Better  all  life  forget  her  than  this  thing, 
That  Willowwood  should  hold  her  wandering ! ' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  213 


IV. 


So  sang  he  :  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose 
Together  cling  through  the  wind's  wellaway 
Nor  change  at  once,  yet  near  the  end  of  day 

The  leaves  drop  loosened  where  the  heart-stain  glows,- 

So  when  the  song  died  did  the  kiss  unclose  ; 

And  her  foce  fell  back  drowned,  and  was  as  gray 
As  its  gray  eyes  ;  and  if  it  ever  may 

Meet  mine  again  I  know  not  if  Love  knows. 

Only  I  know  that  I  leaned  low  and  drank 

A  long  draught  from  the  water  where  she  sank, 

Her  breath  and  all  her  tears  and  all  her  soul : 
And  as  I  leaned,  I  know  I  felt  Love's  face 
Pressed  on  my  neck  with  moan  of  pity  and  grace, 

Till  both  our  heads  were  in  his  aureole. 


214  THE  HOUSE   OE  LIFE. 


S  ONNE  T  XX  VHI. 
STILLBORN    LOVE. 

The  hour  which  might  have  been  yet  might  not  be,  ■ 
Which  man's  and  woman's  heart  conceived  and  Ijore 
Yet  whereof  hfe  was  barren,  —  on  what  shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea? 

Bondchild  of  all  consummate  joys  set  free, 

It  somewhere  sighs  and  serves,  and  mute  before 
The  house  of  Love,  hears  through  the  echoing  door 

His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 

But  lo  !  what  wedded  souls  now  hand  in  hand 
Together  tread  at  last  the  immortal  strand 

With  eyes  where  burning  memory  lights  love  home  ? 
Lo !  how  the  little  outcast  hour  has  turned 
And  leaped  to  them  and  in  their  faces  yearned  :  — 

'  I  am  your  child  :  O  parents,  ye  have  come  ! ' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  215 


SONNET  XXIX. 

INCLUSIVENESS. 

The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  diircrent  mood, 
Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise  : 
And  every  life  among  them  in  likewise 

Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 

What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to  brood 
How  that  fiice  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it  lies?  — 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his  eyes, 

Of  what  her  kiss  was  when  his  father  wooed? 

Ma}'  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sit'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 

Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life  spent  well ; 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain. 

Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 


2i6  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XXX. 
KNOWN    IN    VAIN. 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening  scope, 
Knows  suddenly,  with  music  high  and  soft, 
The  Holy  of  holies ;  who  because  they  scoff 'd 

Are  now  amazed  with  shame,  nor  dare  to  cope 

With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven  should  ope  ; 
Yet,  at  their  meetings,  laugh  not  as  they  laugh'd 
In  speech  ;  nor  speak,  at  length  ;  but  sitting  oft 

Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 

For  hours  are  silent :  —  So  it  happeneth 

When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 

After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their  breath. 

Ah  I  who  shall  dare  to  search  through  what  sad  maze 
Thenceforth  their  incommunicable  ways 

Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death .'' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  217 


SONNET  XXXI. 
THE   LANDMARK. 

Was  that  the  landmark  ?  What,  —  the  foolish  well 
Whose  wave,  low  down,  I  did  not  stoop  to  drink, 
But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its  brink 

In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell, 

(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted  well !)  — 
Was  that  my  point  of  turning  ?  —  I  had  thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  unsought, 

As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadel. 

But  lo  !  the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go  back, 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach  the  spring 

Which  once  I  stained,  which  since  may  have  grown 
black. 
Yet  though  no  light  be  left  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hastening, 

That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track. 


& 


2i8  THE.  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XXXII. 
A  DARK  DAY. 

The  gloom  that  breathes  upon  me  with  these  airs 
Is  like  the  drops  which  strike  the  traveller's  brow 
Who  knows  not,  darkling,  if  they  bring  him  nov/ 

Fresh  storm,  or  be  old  rain  the  covert  bears. 

Ah !  bodes  this  hour  some  harvest  of  new  tares, 
Or  hath  but  memory  of  the  day  whose  plough 
Sowed   hunger   once,  —  the  night  at  length  when 
thou, 

O  prayer  found  vain,  didst  fall  from  out  my  prayers  ? 

How  prickly  were  the  growths  which  yet  how  smooth, 
Along  the  hedgerows  of  this  journey  shed, 

Lie  by  Time's  grace  till  night  and  sleep  may  soothe  ! 
Even  as  the  thistledown  from  pathsides  dead 

Gleaned  by  a  gii'l  in  autumns  of  her  youth. 

Which  one  new  year  makes  soft  her  marriage-bed. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  219 


SONNET  XXXIII. 
THE   HILL  SUMMIT. 

Tins  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 

In  the  broad  west  has  blazed  for  vesper-son<j ; 
And  I  have  loitered  in  the  vale  too  long 

And  gaze  now  a  belated  worshipper. 

Yet  may  I  not  forget  that  I  was  'ware, 
So  journeying,  of  his  face  at  intervals 
Transfigured  where  the  fringed  horizon  falls,  —     ~ 

A  fiery  bush  with  coruscating  hair. 

And  now  that  I  have  climbed  and  won  this  height, 
I  must  tread  downward  through  the  sloping  shade 

And  travel  the  bewildered  tracks  till  night. 
Yet  for  this  hour  I  still  may  here  be  stayed 
And  see  the  gold  air  and  the  silver  fade 

And  the  last  bird  fly  into  tlie  last  light. 


220  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XXXIV. 

BARREN  SPRING. 

So  now  the  changed  year's  turning  wheel  returns  : 
And  as  a  girl  sails  balanced  in  the  wind, 
And  now  before  and  now  again  behind 

Stoops   as    it   swoops,   with    cheek   that   laughs    and 
burns,  — 

So  Spring  comes  merry  towards  me  now,  but  earns 
No  answering  smile  from  me,  whose  life  is  twin'd 
With  the  dead  boughs  that  winter  still  must  bind, 

And  whom  to-day  the  Spring  no  more  concerns. 

Behold,  this  crocus  is  a  withering  flame  ; 

This  snowdrop,  snow  ;  this  apple-blossom's  part 
To  breed  the  fruit  that  breeds  the  serpent's  art. 

Nay,  for  these  Spring-flowers,  turn  thy  face  from  them, 

Nor  gaze  till  on  the  year's  last  lily-stem 

The  white  cup  shrivels  round  the  golden  heart. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  22i 


SONNETS  XXXV.,  XXXVI.,  XXXVII. 
THE   CHOICE. 

I. 

Eat  thou  and  drink ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Surely  the  earth,  that's  wise  being  very  old, 

Needs  not  our  help.     Then  loose  me,  love,  and  hold 
Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face  ;  that  I 
May  pour  for  thee  this  yellow  wine,  brim-high. 

Till  round  the  glass  thy  fingers  glow  like  gold. 

We'll  drown  all  hours :    thy  song,  while  hours  are 
toll'd. 
Shall  leap,  as  fountains  veil  the  changing  sky. 

Now  kiss,  and  think  that  there  are  really  those, 
My  own  high-bosomed  beauty,  who  increase 

Vain  gold,  vain  lore,  and  yet  might  choose  our 

way! 
Through  many  days  they  toil ;  then  comes  a  day 
They  die  not,  —  never  having  lived,  —  but  cease  ; 
And  round  their  narrow  lips  the  mould  falls  close. 


222  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


II. 

Watch  thou  and  fear  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Or  art  thou  sure  thou  shalt  have  time  for  death  ? 

Is  not  the  day  which  God's  word  promiseth 
To  come  man  knows  not  when  ?     In  yonder  sl^cy, 
Now  while  we  speak,  the  sun  speeds  forth  :  can  I 

Or  thou  assure  him  of  his  goal?    God's  breath 

Even  at  the  moment  haply  quickeneth 
The  air  to  a  flame  ;  till  spirits,  always  nigh 
Though  screened  and  hid,  shall  walk  the  daylight  here. 

And  dost  thou  prate  of  all  that  man  shall  do  ? 

Canst  thou,  who  hast  but  plagues,  presume  to  be 
Glad  in  his  gladness  that  comes  after  thee? 

Will  his  strength  slay  thy  worm  in  Hell  ?    Go  to  : 
Cover  thy  countenance,  and  watch,  and  fear. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  223 


III. 

Think  thou  and  act ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 
Outstretched  in  the  sun's  warmth  upon  tlie  shore, 
Thou  say'st :  'Man's  measured  path  is  all  gone  o'er: 

Up  all  his  years,  steeply,  with  strain  and  sigh, 

Man  clomb  until  he  touched  the  truth ;   and  I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it  was  destined  for.' 
How  should  this  be  }     Art  thou  then  so  much  more 

Than  they  who  sowed,  that  thou  shouldst  reap  thereby.? 

Nay,  come  up  hither.     From  this  wave-washed  mound 
Unto  the  furthest  flood-brim  look  with  me ; 

Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be  drown'd. 
Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  gray  line  be. 

And  though  thy  soul  sail  leagues  and  leagues  beyond, — 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues j  there  is  more  sea. 


224  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XXXVIII. 
HOARDED   JOY. 

I  SAID  :  '  Nay,  pluck  not,  —  let  the  first  fruit  be : 
Even  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  sweet  and  red, 
But  let  it  ripen  still.     The  tree's  bent  head 

Sees  in  the  stream  its  own  fecundity 

And  bides  the  day  of  fulness.     Shall  not  we 
At  the  sun's  hour  that  day  possess  the  shade. 
And  claim  our  fruit  before  its  ripeness  fade. 

And  eat  it  from  the  branch  and  praise  the  tree } ' 

I  say  :  '  Alas  !  our  fruit  hath  wooed  the  sun 
,Too  long,  —  'tis  fallen  and  floats  adown  the  sti'eam. 

Lo,  the  last  clusters !     Pluck  them  every  one. 
And  let  us  sup  with  summer ;  ere  the  gleam 

Of  autumn  set  the  year's  pent  sorrow  free. 

And  the  woods  wail  like  echoes  from  the  sea.' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  225 


SONNET  XXXIX. 
VAIN    VIRTUES. 

What  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell  ? 
None  of  the  sins,  —  but  this  and  that  fair  deed 
Which  a  soul's  sin  at  length  could  sujDcrsede. 

These  yet  are  virgins,  whom  death's  timely  knell 

Might  once  have  sainted  ;  whom  the  fiends  compel 
Together  now,  in  snake-bound  shuddering  sheaves 
Of  anguish,  while  the  scorching  bridegroom  leaves 

Their  refuse  maidenhood  abominable. 

Night  Slicks  them  down,  the  garbage  of  the  pit, 
Whose  names,  half  entered  in  the  book  of  Life, 
Were  God's  desire  at  noon.     And  as  their  hair 
And  eyes  sink  last,  the  Torturer  deigns  no  whit 
To  gaze,  but,  yearning,  waits  his  woithieu  wife, 
The  Sin  still  blithe  on  earth  that  sent  them  there. 


15 


226  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XL. 
LOST    DAYS. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 

Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet? 
Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 

The  throats  of  men  in  Hell,  who  thirst  alway? 

I  do  not  see  them  here ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
'  I  am  thyself,  —  what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ? 

*  And  I  —  and  I  —  thyself,'  (lo  !  each  one  saith,) 
'  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  ! ' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  227 


SONNET  XLI. 
DEATH'S    SONGSTERS. 

When  first  that  horse,  within  whose  populous  womb 
The  birth  was  death,  o'crshadowed  Troy  with  fate, 
Her  elders,  dubious  of  its  Grecian  freight, 

Brought  Helen  there  to  sing  the  songs  of  home : 

She  whispered,  '  Friends,  I  am  alone  ;  come,  come  ! ' 
Then,  crouched  within,  Ulysses  waxed  afraid, 
And  on  his  comrades'  quivering  mouths  he  laid 

His  hands,  and  held  them  till  the  voice  was  dumb. 

The  same  was  he  who,  lashed  to  his  own  mast, 

There  where  the  sea-flowers  screen  the  charnel-caves, 

Beside  the  sirens'  singing  island  pass'd 

Till  sweetness  failed  along  the  inveterate  waves.  .  . 

Say,  soul,  —  are  songs  of  Death  no  heaven  to  thee, 

Nor  shames  her  lip  the  cheek  of  Victory  ? 


228  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XLII. 

'RETRO    ME,   SATHANA! 

Get  thee  behind  me.     Even  as,  heavy-curled, 
Stooping  against  the  vv^ind,  a  charioteer 
Is  snatched  from  out  his  chariot  by  the  hair, 
So  shall  Time  be  ;  and  as  the  void  car,  hurled 
Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the  world  : 
Yea,  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 
It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  anyw^here. 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.     Oft  unfurled, 
Thy  perilous  wings  can  beat  and  break  like  lath 
Much  mightiness  of  men  to  win  thee  praise. 
Leave  these  weak  feet  to  tread  in  narrow  ways. 
Thou  still,  upon  the  broad  vine-sheltered  path, 
Mayst  wait  the  turning  of  the  phials  of  wrath 
For  certain  years,  for  certain  months  and  days. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  229 


SONNET  XLIII. 
LOST  ON  BOTH   SIDES. 

As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman  well, 

Each  hating  each,  through  Love's  and  Death's  deceit ; 

Since  not  for  either  this  stark  marriasfc-shcet 
And  the  long  pauses  of  this  wedding-bell ; 
Yet  o'er  her  grave  the  night  and  day  dispel 

At  last  their  feud  forlorn,  with  cold  and  heat ; 

Nor  other  than  dear  friends  to  death  may  fleet 
The  two  lives  left  that  most  of  her  can  tell :  — 

So  separate  hopes,  which  in  a  soul  had  wooed 
The  one  same  Peace,  strove  with  each  other  lonsr. 
And  Peace  before  their  foces  perished  since  : 
So  through  that  soul,  in  restless  brotherhood. 
They  roam  together  now,  and  wind  among 
Its  bye-streets,  knocking  at  the  dusty  inns. 


no  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  XLIV. 
THE   SUN'S   SHAME. 

Beholding  youth  and  hope  in  mockery  caught 
From  Hfe  ;  and  mocking  pulses  that  remain 
When  the  soul's  death  of  bodily  death  is  fain  ; 

Honor  unknown,  and  honor  known  unsought ; 

And  penury's  sedulous  self-torturing  thought 

On  gold,  whose  master  therewith  buys  his  bane  ; 
And  longed-for  woman  longing  all  in  vain 

For  lonely  man  with  love's  desire  distraught ; 

And  wealth,  and  strength,  and  power,  and  pleasantness, 
Given  unto  bodies  of  whose  souls  men  say. 
None  poor  and  weak,  slavish  and  foul,  as  they :  — 

Beholding  these  things,  I  behold  no  less 

The  blushing  morn  and  blushing  eve  confess 
The  shame  that  loads  the  intolerable  day. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  231 


SONNET  XLV. 
THE   VASE   OF   LIFE. 

Around  the  vase  of  Life  at  your  slow  pace 

He  has  not  crept,  but  turned  it  with  his  hands, 

And  all  its  sides  already  understands. 
There,  girt,  one  breathes  alert  for  some  great  race  ; 
Whose  road  runs  far  by  sands  and  fruitful  space  ; 

Who  laughs,  yet  through  the  jolly  throng  has  pass'd  ; 

Who  weeps,  nor  stays  for  weeping ;  who  at  last, 
A  youth,  stands  somewhere  crowned,  with  silent  foce. 

And  he  has  filled  this  vase  with  wine  for  blood, 
With  blood  for  tears,  with  spice  for  burning  vow, 
With  watered  flowers  for  buried  love  most  fit ; 
x\nd  would  have  cast  it  shattered  to  the  flood, 

Yet  in  Fate's  name  has  kept  it  whole  ;  which  now 
Stands  empty  till  his  ashes  fall  in  it. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE. 


SONNET  XL  VI. 

A  SUPERSCRIPTION. 

Look  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between  ; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !     But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  tln-ough  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  brcatli  of 
sighs,  — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 

Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  233 


SONNET  XL  VI I. 
HE  AND   I. 

Whence  came  his  feet  into  my  field,  and  why? 

How  is  it  that  he  sees  it  all  so  drear? 

How  do  I  see  his  seeing,  and  how  hear 
The  name  his  bitter  silence  knows  it  by? 
This  was  the  little  fold  of  separate  sky 

Whose  pasturing  clouds  in  the  soul's  atmosphere 

Drew  living  light  from  one  continual  year : 
How  should  he  find  it  lifeless  ?     He,  or  I  ? 

Lo  !  this  new  Self  now  wanders  round  my  field, 
With  plaints  for  every  flower,  and  for  each  tree 
A  moan,  the  sighing  wind's  auxiliary  : 
And  o'er  sweet  waters  of  my  life,  that  yield 
Unto  his  lips  no  draught  but  tears  unseal'd, 
Even  in  my  place  he  weeps.     Even  I,  not  he. 


234  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNETS  XLVin.,   XL  IX. 
NEWBORN   DEATH. 


I. 


To-day  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child 
Which  her  worn  mother  Life  upon  my  knee 
Has  set  to  grow  my  friend  and  play  with  me  ; 

If  haply  so  my  heart  might  be  beguil'd 

To  find  no  terrors  in  a  face  so  mild, — 
If  haply  so  my  weary  heart  might  be 
Unto  the  newborn  milky  eyes  of  thee, 

O  Death,  before  resentment  reconcii'd. 

How  long,  O  Death  ?     And  shall  thy  feet  depart 
•     Still  a  young  child's  with  mine,  or  wilt  thou  stand 
Fullgrown  the  helpful  daughter  of  my  heart. 

What  time  with  thee  indeed  I  reach  the  strand 
Of  the  pale  wave  which  knows  thee  what  thou  art, 

And  drink  it  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  ? 


THE  HOUSE    OF  LIFE. 


II. 

And  thou,  O  Life,  the  lady  of  all  bliss. 

With  whom,  when  our  first  heart  beat  full  and  fast, 
I  wandered  till  the  haunts  of  men  were  pass'd, 

And  in  fair  places  found  all  bowers  amiss 

Till  only  woods  and  waves  might  hear  our  kiss. 

While  to  the  winds  all  thought  of  Death  wc  cast :  — 
Ah,  Life  !  and  must  I  have  from  thee  at  last 

No  smile  to  greet  me  and  no  babe  but  this  ? 

Lo  !  Love,  the  child  once  ours ;  and  Song,  whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame  and  blossomed  like  a  wreath  ; 

And  Art,  whose  eyes  were  worlds  by  God  found  fair ; 
These  o'er  the  book  of  Nature  mixed  their  breath 

With  neck-twined  arms,  as  oft  we  watched  them  there  : 
And  did  these  die  that  thou  mightst  bear  me  Death  ? 


236  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONNET  L. 
THE   ONE   HOPE. 

When  all  desire  at  last  and  all  regret 

Go  hand  in  hand  .to  death,  and  all  is  vain, 
What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 

And  teach  the  unforgetful  to  forget? 

Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long  unmet,  — 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life-fountain 

And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering  amulet? 

Ah  !  when  th.e  wan  soul  in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown 
Peers  breathless  for  the  gift  of  grace  unknown,  — 
Ah  !  let  none  other  written  spell  soe'er 
But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there,  — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 


J 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  237 


SONG  I. 
LOVE-LILY. 

Between  the  hands,  between  the  brows, 

Between  the  lips  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  whose  birth  endows 

My  blood  with  fire  to  burn  through  me  ; 
Who  breathes  upon  my  gazing  eyes, 

Who  houghs  and  murmurs  in  mine  ear, 
At  whose  least  touch  my  color  flies. 

And  whom  my  life  grows  faint  to  hear. 

Within  the  voice,  within  the  heart. 

Within  the  mind  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  who  lifts  apart 

His  tremulous  wings  and  looks  at  me ; 
Who  on  my  mouth  his  finger  lays, 

And  shows,  while  whispering  lutes  confer, 
That  Eden  of  Love's  watered  ways 

Whose  winds  and  spirits  worship  her. 


238  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

Brows,  hands,  and  lips,  heart,  mind,  and  voice, 

Kisses  and  words  of  Love-Lily,  — 
Oh  !  bid  me  with  3'our  joy  rejoice 

Till  riotous  longing  rest  in  me  ! 
Ah  !  let  not  hope  be  still  distraught, 

But  find  in  her  its  gracious  goal. 
Whose  speech  Truth  knows  not  from  her  thought 

Nor  Love  her  body  from  her  soul. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  239 


SONG  II. 
FIRST  LOVE   REMEMBERED. 

Peace  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place  : 
The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such  grace 

As  morning  meadows  wear. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 

A  maid's  who  dreams  alone, 
As  from  her  orchard-gate  the  moon 

Its  ceiling  showed  at  night : 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense 

As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 

To  married  innocence : 

There  still  the  thanks  unheard  await 
The  unconscious  gift  bequeathed  ; 

For  there  my  soul  this  hour  has  breathed 
An  air  inviolate. 


240  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONG  HI. 
PLIGHTED   PROMISE. 

In  a  soft-complexioned  sky, 
Fleeting  rose  and  kindling  gray 

Have  you  seen  Aurora  fly 
At  the  break  of  day  ? 

So  my  maiden,  so  my  plighted  may 
Blushing  cheek  and  gleaming  eye 
Lifts  to  look  my  way. 

Where  the  inmost  leaf  is  stirred 
With  the  heart-beat  of  the  grove, 

Have  you  heard  a  hidden  bird 
Cast  her  note  above  ? 

So  my  lady,  so  my  lovely  love, 
Echoing  Cupid's  prompted  word. 
Makes  a  tune  thereof. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  241 

Have  you  seen,  at  heaven's  mid-heiglit, 
In  the  moon-rack's  ebb  and  tide, 

Venus  leap  forth  burning  v^diitc, 
Dian  pale  and  hide  ? 
So  my  bright  breast-jewel,  so  my  bride, 

One  sweet  night,  when  fear  takes  flight, 
Shall  leap  against  my  side. 


16 


242  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 


SONG  IV. 
SUDDEN  LIGHT. 

I  HAVE  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell : 

I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 
The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before,  — 

How  long  ago  I  may  not  know : 
But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 
Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall,  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

.   Then,  now,  —  perchance  again  !  .  .  . 
O  round  mine  eyes  your  tresses  shake  ! 
Shall  we  not  lie  as  we  have  lain 
Thus  for  Love's  sake. 
And  sleep,  and  wake,  yet  never  break  the  chain? 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  243 


SONG    V. 
A  LITTLE   WHILE. 

A  LITTLE  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone  ; 

And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 
Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 

Nor  quite  unlcaved  our  songless  grove. 

Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 

We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 

And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 


244  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumli 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet : 

I'll  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  conic, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


THE  HOUSE    OE  LH'^E.  245 


SONG    VI. 
THE   SONG   OF   THE   BOVVER. 

Say,  is  it  day,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  bower, 

Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me  ? 
Oh  !  be  it  light,  be  it  night,  'tis  Love's  hour, 

Love's  that  is  fettered  as  Love's  that  is  free. 
Free  Love  has  leaped  to  that  innermost  chamber, 

Oh  !  the  last  time,  and  the  hundred  before  : 
Fettered  Love,  motionless,  can  but  remember, 

Yet  something  that  sighs  from  him  passes  the  door. 

Nay,  but  my  heart  when  it  flies  to  thy  bower, 

What  does  it  find  there  that  knows  it  again  } 
There  it  must  droop  like  a  shower-beaten  flower, 

Red  at  the  rent  core  and  dark  with  the  rain. 
Ah  !  yet  what  shelter  is  still  shed  above  it, — 

WlKit  waters  still  image  its  leaves  torn  apart? 
Thy  soul  is  the  shade  that  clings  round  it  to  love  it. 

And  tears  are  its  mirror  deep  down  in  thy  heart. 

What  were  my  prize,  could  I  enter  thy  bower, 
This  dav,  to-morrow,  at  eve  or  at  morn? 


246  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

Large  lovely  arms  and  a  neck  like  a  tower, 
Bosom  then  heaving  that  now  lies  forlorn. 

Kindled  with  love-breath,  (the  sun's  kiss  is  colder!)     . 
Thy  sweetness  all  near  me,  so  distant  to-day ; 

My  hand  round  thy  neck  and  thy  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
My  mouth  to  thy  mouth  as  the  world  melts  away 

What  is  it  keeps  me  afar  from  thy  bower,  — 

My  spirit,  my  body,  so  fain  to  be  there  ? 
Waters  engulfing  or  fires  that  devour  ?  — 

Earth  heaped  against  me  or  death  in  the  air? 
Nay,  but  in  day-di'eams,  for  terror,  for  pity, 

The  trees  wave  their  heads  with  an  omen  to  tell : 
Nay,  but  in  night-dreams,  throughout  the  dark  city, 

The  hours,  clashed  together,  lose  count  in  the  bell. 

Shall  I  not  one  day  remember  thy  bower, 

One  day  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me  '^.  — 
Thinking,  'I  stii'red  not,  and  yet  had  the  power,' 

Yearning,  '  Ah  God,  if  again  it  might  be  ! ' 
Peace,  peace  !  such  a  small  lamp  illumes,  on  this  high- 
way. 

So  dimly  so  few  steps  in  front  of  my  feet, — 
Yet  shows  me  that  her  way  is  parted  from  ni}'  way.  .  .  . 

Out  of  sight,  beyond  light,  at  what  goal  may  we 
meet .'' 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  247 


SONG    VII. 
PENUMBRA. 

I  DID  not  look  upon  her  eyes, 
(Though  scarcely  seen,  with  no  surprise, 
'Mid  many  eyes  a  single  look,) 
Because  they  should  not  gaze  rebuke. 
Thenceforth,  from  stars  in  sky  and  brook. 

I  did  not  take  her  by  the  hand, 

(Though  little  was  to  understand 

From  touch  of  hand  all  friends  might  take,) 

Because  it  should  not  prove  a  flake 

Burnt  in  my  palm  to  boil  and  ache. 

I  did  not  listen  to  her  voice, 
(Though  none  had  noted,  where  at  choice 
All  might  rejoice  in  listening,) 
Because  no  such  a  thing  sfiould  cling 
In  the  wood's  moan  at  evening. 


248  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE. 

I  did  not  cross  her  shadow  once, 
(Though  from  the  hollow  west  the  sun's 
Last  shadow  runs  along  so  far,) 
Because  in  June  it  should  not  bar 
My  wa^'s,  at  noon  ^vhen  fevers  are. 

They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day. 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  soothsay. 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register?) 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

So  shall  the  tongues  of  the  sea's  foam 
(Though  many  voices  therewith  come 
From  drowned  hope's  home  to  cry  to  me,) 
Bewail  one  hour  the  more,  when  sea 
And  wind  are  one  with  memory. 


THE  HOUSE   OE  UEE.  249 


SONG    VIII. 
THE    WOODSPURGE. 

The  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was,  — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas  ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon  ; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  mc,  — 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 


250  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 


SONG  IX. 
THE    HONEYSUCKLE. 

I  PLUCKED  a  honeysuckle  where 

The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  witli  thorn, 
And  cHmbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  my  feet  in  quag-water ; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinn'd, 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came, 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse. 
The  honeysuckles  sprang  by  scores, 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem, 
All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  my  hand  that  first  I  threw, 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  UFE.  251 


SONG  X. 
A  YOUNG    FIR-WOOD. 

These  little  firs  to-day  are  things 

To  clasp  into  a  giant's  cap, 

Or  fans  to  suit  his  lady's  lap. 
From  many  winters  many  springs 

Shall  cherish  them  in  strength  and  sap, 

Till  they  be  marked  upon  the  map, 
A  wood  for  the  wind's  wanderings. 

All  seed  is  in  the  sower's  hands  : 

And  what  at  first  was  trained  to  spread 
Its  shelter  for  some  single  head,  — 

Yea,  even  such  fellowship  of  wands,  — 
May  hide  the  sunset,  and  the  shade 
Of  its  great  multitude  be  laid 

Upon  the  earth  and  elder  sands. 


iS2  THE  HOUSE   OF  LIJ'K. 


SONG  XI. 
THE    SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  slicll. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end  :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's.  —  it  hath 
The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 
Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands. 

Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods  ; 


THE  HOUSE   OF  LIFE.  253 

Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  ti'ee. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 

And  listen  at;  its  lips :  they  sigh 

The  same  desire  and  mystery, 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  siDeech. 

And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 

Not  anything  but  what  thou  art  : 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 


SONNETS     FOR     PICTURES, 


AND    OTHER    SONNETS. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  257 


FOR 


'OUR  LADY  OF   THE   ROCKS.' 
By  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Mother,  is  this  the  darkness  of  the  end, 

The  Shadow  of  Death  ?  and  is  tliat  outer  sea 
Infinite  imminent  Eternity? 

And  does  the  death-pang  b}^  man's  seed  sustain'd 

In  Time's  each  instant  cause  tliy  face  to  bend 
Its  silent  prayer  upon  the  Son,  while  he 
Blesses  the  dead  with  his  hand  silently 

To  his  long  day  which  hours  no  more  offend? 

Mother  of  grace,  the  pass  is  difficult, 

Keen  as  these  rocks,  and  the  bewildei'cd  souls 

Throng  it  like  echoes,  blindly  shuddering  thi-ough. 
Thy  name,  O  Lord,  each  spirit's  voice  extols. 
Whose  peace  abides  in  the  dark  avenue 
Amid  the  bitterness  of  things  occult. 

17 


258  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


FOR 

A  VENETIAN  PASTORiVL. 

By  Giorgioxe. 

(^In  the  Louvre.') 

Water,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice  :  —  nay, 
But  dip  the  vessel  slowly,  —  nay,  but  lean 
And  hark  how  at  its  verge  the  wave  sighs  in 

Reluctant.     Hush  !     Beyond  all  depth  away 

The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day  : 
Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to  sing, 

Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.     Whither  stray 

Her  eyes  now,  from  whose  mouth  the  slim  pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadowed  grass 
Is  cool  against  her  naked  side  }     Let  be  :  — 

Say  nothing  now  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 
Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was,  — 
Life  touching  lips  with  Immortality. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  259 


FOR 

AN  ALLEGORICAL  DANCE   OF  WOMEN. 

By  Andrea  Mantegna. 

{^In  the  Louvre.) 

ScARCELV,  I  think  ;  yet  it  indeed  may  be 

The  meaning  reached  him,  when  this  music  rang 
Clear  through  his  frame,  a  sweet  possessive  pang, 

And  lie  beheld  these  rocks  and  that  ridged  sea. 

But  I  believe  that,  leaning  tow'rds  them,  he 
Just  felt  their  hair  carried  across  his  face 
As  each  girl  passed  him  ;  nor  gave  ear  to  trace 

How  many  feet ;  nor  bent  assuredly 

His  eyes  from  the  blind  fixedness  of  thought 
To  know  the  dancers.     It  is  bitter  glad 
Even  unto  tears.     Its  meaning  filleth  it, 
A  secret  of  the  wells  of  Life  :  to  wit :  — 
The  heart's  each  pulse  shall  keep  the  sense  it  had 

With  all,  though  the  mind's  labor  run  to  nought. 


26o  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


FOR 

'RUGGIERO   AND  ANGELICA.' 

By  Ingres. 

{Tivo  Sonnets.) 

I. 

A  REMOTE  sky,  prolonged  to  the  sea's  brim  : 
One  rock-point  standing  buffeted  alone, 
Vexed  at  its  base  with  a  foul  beast  unknown, 

Hell-birth  of  geomaunt  and  teraphim  : 

A  knight,  and  a  winged  creature  bearing  him, 
Reared  at  the  rock  :  a  woman  fettered  there, 
Leaning  into  the  hollow  with  loose  hair 

And  throat  let  back  and  heartsick  trail  of  limlj. 

The  sky  is  harsh,  and  the  sea  shrewd  and  salt : 
Under  his  lord  the  griffin-horse  ramps  blind 

With  rigid  wings  and  tail.    The  sj^ear's  lithe  stem 
Thrills  in  the  roaring  of  those  jaws  :  behind, 
That  evil  length  of  body  chafes  at  fault. 

She  doth  not  hear  nor  see  —  she  knows  of  them. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICT  (/RES.  261 


II. 

Clench  thine  eyes  now,  —  'tis  the  last  instant,  girl : 
Draw  in  thy  senses,  set  thy  knees,  and  take 
One  breath  for  all  :   thv  life  is  keen  awake,  — 

Thou  mayst  not  swoon.     Was  that  the  scattered  whirl 

Of  its  foam  drenched  thee  .^  —  or  the  waves  that  curl 
And  split,  bleak  spray  wherein  thy  temples  ache.'' 
Or  was  it  his  the  champion's  blood  to  flake 

Thy  flesh.''  —  or  thine  own  blood's  anointing,  girl.' 

Now,  silence  :  for  the  sea's  is  such  a  sound 
As  irks  not  silence  ;  and  except  the  sea, 

All  now  is  still.     Now  the  dead  thing  doth  cease 
To  writhe,  and  drifts.     He  turns  to  her  :  and  she. 
Cast  from  the  jaws  of  Death,  remains  there,  bound, 
Again  a  woman  in  her  nakedness. 


262  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


FOR 

"THE   WINE   OF  CIRCE" 

BY    EDWARD    BURNE  JONES. 

Dusk-haired  and  gold-robed  o'er  the  golden  wine 
She  stoops,. wherein,  distilled  of  death  and  shame, 
Sink  the  black  drops  ;  while,  lit  with  fragrant  flame. 

Round  her  spread  board  the  golden  sunflowers  shine. 

Doth  Helios  here  with  Hecate  combine 

(O  Circe,  thou  their  votaress!)  to  proclaim 
For  these  thy  guests  all  rapture  in  Love's  name. 

Till  pitiless  Night  give  Day  the  countersign  ? 

Lords  of  their  hour,  they  come.     And  by  her  knee 
Those  cowering  beasts,  their  equals  heretofore. 

Wait ;  who  with  them  in  new  equality 

To-night  shall  echo  back  the  unchanging  roar 
Which  sounds  for  ever  from  the  tide-sti'own  shore 

Where  the  dishevelled  seaweed  hates  the  sea. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  263 


MARY'S   GIRLHOOD. 
(^I^or  a  Picture.^ 

This  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 

God's  Virgin.     Gone  is  a  great  while,  and  she 
Dwelt  young  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 

Unto  God's  will  she  brought  devout  respect. 

Profound  simplicity  of  intellect, 

And  supreme  patience.     From  her  mother's  knee 
Faitliful  and  hopeful ;  wise  in  charity  ; 

Strong  in  grave  peace  ;  in  pity  circumspect. 

So  held  she  through  her  girlhood  ;  as  it  were 
An  angel-watered  lily,  that  near  God 

Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till,  one  dawn  at  home. 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 
At  all,  —  yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt  awed: 
Because  the  fulness  of  the  time  was  come. 


264  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


THE   PASSOVER  IN  THE   HOLY   FAMILY. 
(^I^or  a  Drawing:*) 

Here  meet  together  the  prefiguring  day 

And  day  prefigured.     '  Eating,  thou  shalt  stand, 
Feet  shod,  loins  girt,  thy  road-staft'  in  thine  hand, 

With  blood-stained  door  and  lintel,'  —  did  God  say 

By  Moses'  mouth  in  ages  passed  away. 

And  now,  where  this  poor  household  doth  comprise 
At  Paschal-Feast  two  kindred  famiHes, — 

Lo !  the  slain  lamb  confronts  the  Lamb  to  slay. 

The  pyre  is  piled.     What  agony's  crown  attained, 
What  shadow  of  death  the  Boy's  fair  brow  subdues 

Who  holds  that  blood  wherewith  the  porch  is  stained 
By  Zachary  the  priest.^    John  binds  the  shoes 
He  deemed  himself  not  worthy  to  unloose  ; 

And  Mary  culls  the  bitter  herbs  ordained. 

*  The  scene  is  in  the  house-porch,  where  Christ  holds  a 
bowl  of  blood  from  which  Zacharias  is  sprinkling  tlie  posts 
and  lintel.  Joseph  has  brought  the  lamb  and  Elisabeth  lights 
the  pjre.  The  shoes  which  John  fastens  and  the  bitter  lierbs 
which  Mary  is  gathering  form  part  of  the  ritual. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  265 

MARY  MAGDALENE. 

AT    THE   DOOR   OF    SIMON   THE    PHARISEE. 

{I^or  a  Draivmg.*') 

'Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair.? 

Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose,  —  wreath,  lips,  and  cheek. 

Nay,  not  this  house,  —  that  banquet-house  we  seek  ; 
See  how  they  kiss  and  enter ;  come  thou  there. 
This  delicate  day  of  love  we  two  will  shai^e 

Till  at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night  shall  speak. 

What,  sweet   one,  —  hold'st   thou    still   the   foolish 
freak  } 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they'll  leave  the  stair.' 

'  Oh  loose  me  !     See'st  thou  not  my  Bridegroom's  face 
That  draws  me  to  Him.?     For  His  feet  my  kiss, 
My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day  :  —  and  oh  ! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and  place 

Shall  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained  feet  of  His.? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me :  let  mc  go  !  ' 

*  In  the  drawincf  Mary  has  left  a  festal  procession,  and  is 
ascending  by  a  sudden  impulse  the  steps  of  the  house  where 
she  sees  Christ.  Her  lover  has  followed  her  and  is  trying  to 
turn  her  back. 


266  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


SAINT   LUKE  THE  PAINTER. 
i^JFor  a  Draivhig.^ 

Give  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 

Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 

Of  devious  symbols :  but  soon  iiaving  wist 

How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way, 

She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God's  priest 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 
And  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-reflections  of  man's  skill,  — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again, 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  267 


LILITH. 
{I^or  a  Picture.) 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 

That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old. 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  net  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  fliowers ;  for  where 
Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snai^e  ? 
Lo  !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck 
bent, 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 


268  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


SIBYLLA  PALMIFERA. 
(^JFor  a  Picture^ 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simjjly  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still,  —  long  known  to 
thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem,  —  the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet. 
How  passionately  and  irretrievabl}'. 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days ! 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  269 


VENUS. 
{Por  a  Pictzire.) 

Shk  hath  the  apple  in  her  hand  for  thee, 
Yet  ahiiost  in  her  heart  would  hold  it  back  ; 
She  muses,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  track 

Of  that  which  in  thy  spirit  they  can  see. 

Haply,  '  Behold,  he  is  at  peace,'  saith  she  ; 
'  Alas  !  the  apple  for  his  lips,  —  the  dart 
That  follows  its  brief  sweetness  to  his  heart,  — 

The  wandering  of  his  feet  perpetually  ! ' 

A  little  space  her  glance  is  still  and  coy ; 

But  if  she  give  the  fruit  that  works  her  sjDell, 
Those  eyes  shall  flame  as  for  her  Phiygian  boy. 

Then  shall  her  bird's  strained  throat  the  woe  fore- 
tell. 

And  her  far  seas  moan  as  a  single  shell, 
And  her  grove  glow  with  love-lit  fires  of  Tro}'. 


270  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


CASSANDRA. 

{JFor  a  Drawing'.*) 

I. 

Rend,  rend  thine  hair,  Cassandra  :  he  will  go. 

Yea,  rend  thy  garments,  wring  thine  hands,  and  cry 
From  Troy  still  towered  to  the  unreddened  sky. 

See,  all  but  she  that  bore  thee  mock  thy  woe  :  — 

He  most  whom  that  fair  woman  arms,  with  show 
Of  wrath  on  her  bent  brows  ;  for  in  this  place 
This  hour  thou  bad'st  all  men  in  Helen's  face 

The  ravished  ravishing  prize  of  Death  to  know. 

What  ej'es,  what  ears  hath  sweet  Andromache, 
Save  for  her  Hector's  form  and  step ;  as  tear 
On  tear  make  salt  the  warm  last  kiss  he  gave  } 
He  goes.     Cassandra's  words  beat  heavily 
Like  crows  above  his  crest,  and  at  his  ear 
Ring  hollow  in  the  shield  that  shall  not  save. 

*  The  subject  shows  Cassandra  prophesying  among  lier 
kindred,  as  Hector  leaves  them  for  his  last  battle.  They  are 
on  the  platform  of  a  fortress,  from  which  the  Trojan  troops 
are  marching  out.  Helen  is  arming  Paris;  Priam  soothes 
Hecuba;  and  Andromache  holds  the  child  to  her  bosom. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  271 


II. 

'  O  Hector,  gone,  gone,  gone  !  O  Hector,  thee 

Two  chariots  wait,  in  Troy  long  bless'd  and  curs'd  ; 

And  Grecian  spear  and  Plirygian  sand  athirst 
Crave  from  thy  veins  tlie  blood  of  victory. 
Lo  !  long  upon  our  hearth  the  brand  had  w^e, 

Lit  for  the  roof-tree's  ruin  :  and  to-day 

The  ground-stone  quits  the  wall,  —  the  wind  hath 
way,  — 
And  higher  and  higher  the  wings  of  fire  are  free. 

O  Paris,  Paris  !  O  thou  burning  brand, 

Thou  beacon  of  the  sea  whence  Venus  rose, 

Ligliting  thy  race  to  shipwreck !     Even  that  hand 
Wherewith  she  took  thine  apple  let  her  close 
Within  thy  curls  at  last,  and  while  Troy  glows 

Lift  thee  her  tropliy  to  the  sea  and  land.' 


272  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


PANDORA. 

(^For  a  Picture.^ 

What  of  the  end,  Pandora  ?  Was  it  thine, 
The  deed  that  set  these  fiery  pinions  free  ? 
Ah  !  whei-efore  did  the  Olympian  consistory 

In  its  own  likeness  make  thee  half  divine  ? 

Was  it  that  Juno's  brow  might  stand  a  sign 
For  ever?  and  the  mien  of  Pallas  be 
A  deadly  thing?  and  that  all  men  might  see 

In  Venus'  eyes  the  gaze  of  Proserpine  ? 

What  of  the  end  ?     These  beat  their  wings  at  will, 
The  ill-born  things,  the  good  things  turned  to  ill,  — 

Powers  of  the  impassioned  hours  prohibited. 
Aye,  hug  the  casket  now  !     Whither  they  go 
Thou  mayst  not  dare  to  think :  nor  canst  thou  know 

If  Hope  still  pent  there  be  alive  or  dead. 


SONNETS.  273 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN  NATIONS. 

Not  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  my  God  ! 
Nor  that  the  ser.sons  totter  in  their  walk,  — 
Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 

Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod, — 

Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 

Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world  ;  thougli  now 
Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 

So  many  kings  :  —  not  therefore,  O  my  God  !  — 

But  because  Man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
Even  thus ;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow. 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  '  I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  strike  ; '  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 
'  He  is  he,  I  am  L'     By  this  we  know 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  beinc:  old. 


18 


274  SONNETS. 


ON    THE    'VITA    NUOVA'    OF    DANTE. 

As  he  that  loves  oft  looks  on  the  dear  form 
And  guesses  how  it  grew  to  womanhood, 
And  gladly  would  have  watched  the  beauties  bud 

And  the  mild  fire  of  precious  life  wax  warm  :  — 

So  I,  long  bound  within  the  threefold  charm 
Of  Dante's  love  sublimed  to  heavenly  mood, 
Had  marvelled,  touching  his  Beatitude, 

How  grew  such  presence  from  man's  shameful  swarm. 

At  length  within  this  book  I  found  portrayed 

Newborn  that  Paradisal  Love  of  his. 
And  simple  like  a  child  ;  with  whose  clear  aid 

I  understood.     To  such  a  child  as  this, 
Christ,  charging  well  his  chosen  ones,  forbade 

Offence  :  '  for  lo  !  of  such  my  kingdom  is.' 


SONNETS.  275 


DANTIS    TENEBR^. 
(/«  Memory  of  my  leather.) 

And  did'st  thou  know  indeed,  when  at  the  font 
Together  with  thy  name  thou  gav'st  me  his, 
That  also  on  thy  son  must  Beatrice 

Decline  her  eyes  according  to  her  wont, 

Accepting  me  to  be  of  those  that  haunt 
The  vale  of  magical  dark- mysteries 
Where  to  the  hills  her  poet's  foot-track  lies 

And  wisdom's  living  fountain  to  his  chaunt 

Trembles  in  music?     This  is  that  steep  land 
Where  he  that  holds  his  journey  stands  at  gaze 
Tow'rd  sunset,  when  the  clouds  like  a  new  height 

Seem  piled  to  climb.     These  things  I  understand  : 
For  here,  where  day  still  soothes  my  lifted  face, 
On  thy  bowed  head,  my  father,  fell  the  niglit. 


276  SONNETS. 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    BIRD. 

She  fluted  with  her  mouth  as  when  one  sips, 
And  gently  waved  her  golden  head,  inclin'd 
Outside  his  cage  close  to  the  window-blind  ; 

Till  her  fond  bird,  with  little  turns  and  dips, 

Piped  low  to  her  of  sweet  companionships. 

And  when  he  made  an  end,  some  seed  took  she 
And  fed  him  from  her  tongue,  which  rosily 

Peeped  as  a  piercing  bud  between  her  lips. 

And  like  the  child  in  Chaucer,  on  whose  tongue 
The  Blessed  Mary  laid,  when  he  was  dead, 

A  grain,  —  who  straightway  praised  her  name  in  song ; 
Even  so,  when  she,  a  little  lightly  red. 

Now  turned  on  me  and  laughed,  I  heard  the  throng 
Of  inner  voices  praise  her  golden  head. 


SONNETS.  277 


■     A  MATCH  WITH   THE   MOON. 

Weary  already,  weary  miles  to-night 

I  walked  for  bed :  and  so,  to  get  some  ease, 
1  dogged  the  flying  moon  with  similes. 
And  like  a  wisp  she  doubled  on  my  sight 
In  ponds  ;  and  caught  in  tree-tops  like  a  kite  ; 
And  in  a  globe  of  film  all  vaporish 
vSwam  full-faced  like  a  silly  silyer  fish  ;  — 
Last  like  a  bubble  shot  the  welkin's  height 
Where  my  road  turned,  and  got  behind  me,  and  sent 
My  wizened  shadow  craning  round  at  me. 
And    jeered,    '  So,    step    the   measure,  —  one    two 
three  !  '  — 
And  if  I  faced  on  her,  looked  innocent. 
But  just  at  parting,  halfway  down  a  dell, 
She  kissed  me  for  good-night.     So  you'll  not  tcU. 


278  SONNETS. 


AUTUMN  IDLENESS. 

Tms  sunlight  shames  November  where  he  grieves 
In  dead  red  leaves,  and  will  not  let  him  shun 
The  day,  though  bough  with  bough  be  over-run . 

But  with  a  blessing  eveiy  glade  receives 

High  salutation  ;  while  from  hillock-eaves 

The  deer  gaze  calling,  dappled  white  and  dun, 
As  if,  being  foresters  of  old,  the  sun 

Had  marked  them  with  the  shade  of  forest-leaves. 

Here  dawn  to-day  unveiled  her  magic  glass ; 

Here  noon  now  gives  the  thirst  and  takes  the  dew ; 
Till  eve  bring  rest  when  other  good  things  pass. 

And  here  the  lost  hours  the  lost  hours  renew 
While  I  still  lead  my  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 

Nor  know,  for  longing,  that  which  I  should  do. 


SONNETS. 


279 


FAREWELL  TO   THE   GLEN. 

Sweet  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  '  farewell '  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever  smooth 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read  no  ruth  ? 

Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  '  farewell '  to  me, 

W^ho  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 

Than  erst  was  mine  where  otlicr  shade  might  soothe 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant  youth 

The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 

And  yet,  farewell !     For  better  shalt  thou  fare 
When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy  flow 

And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadows  thei^e 
In  hours  to  come,  than  when  an  hour  asro 

Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to  bear 
And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared  to  know. 


28o  SONNETS. 


THE  MONOCHORD. 
(  Written  during  Music.) 

Is  it  the  moved  air  or  the  moving  sound 

That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 

Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crown'd. 
That  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labor  in  the  ground? 

Oh  I  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  flame  turned  cloud,  the  cloud  returned  to  flame, 

The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ?  — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay? 


Cambridge :  Press  of  John  Wilson  and  Son. 


bi^Dli^G  L:;t.  MR  1  ibod 


PR 

52^0 

E70 


Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 
Poems 


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